Here Comes a Candle, page 20
He didn’t know how many times he read it through, sitting there on the edge of the bed, still with his hat on.
“Yours, Ellie.” She could have been, if he hadn’t wanted other things worse—or thought that he wanted them worse.
For the first time in hours he remembered that he had decided to destroy this letter without opening it.
Might as well, now. There was only one thing to do—to forget Ellie. He couldn’t find her if he wanted to. Well, now he could bum the letter and the note that had been on the door and that would be that. He walked over to the dresser and tore both the letter and the note into little pieces into the ash tray and touched a match to them. It made a bigger fire than he had anticipated but only for a moment and then there were only black ashes and gray ashes and that was that. Except that he could have repeated both the note and the letter almost word for word even now that they were burned.
It was half past ten. Maybe he could sleep for an hour or so; he didn’t feel either sleepy or tired now, just dull and miserable. But he took off most of his clothes and lay down on the bed to see if he could at least doze. He couldn’t.
At eleven he gave up. He got dressed again. When he tied his tic he found himself looking at himself in the mirror as though he expected his own face to look different, somehow. But it didn’t. Even his eyes looked clear and straight out of the mirror back into his eyes. They shouldn’t have. He remembered the phrase Ray had used to him once a week or two ago and tried it on himself softly. “Two-bit gangster.” Ray had apologized in the same breath he’d said it in. Joe Bailey, didn’t. But the Joe Bailey in the mirror didn’t bat an eye; he didn’t even look ashamed of himself.
He went downstairs and outside.
It was still cool but getting a little warmer and beginning to cloud up a trifle. He wondered if it was going to rain. It wasn’t. (Increasing cloudiness and slightly warmer Friday night; Saturday partly cloudy and—but Saturday doesn’t matter. This is the last day, remember?)
22
He had himself fairly well straightened out mentally by half past two when he dropped in the tavern on Clybourn.
At the moment, there weren’t any paying customers in the place. The beat cop was there, talking to Krasno, and a glass of whiskey stood between them on the bar. Joe knew the cop wouldn’t drink the whiskey while he was being watched, so he went on through to the can and stayed there a minute; when he came out the whiskey was gone and so was the cop. All cops are crooks, he thought, only they haven’t got the nerve to do anything crookeder than being cops.
He sat down on a stool at the bar.
Krasno asked, “A beer, kid?” and Joe nodded.
Krasno drew one and put it on the bar. “Mitch was in earlier. He’s coming back, though. Going to meet someone here. A dame.”
“Francy?”
“I guess that was the name. How you doing, Joe?”
“Fine,” Joe said.
“Look to me like you’re worrying about something. Kid, is Mitch getting you in over your head?”
“I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.”
Krasno leaned on the bar. “Kid, you’re making a mistake. You aren’t cut out for what you’re going in for. Know why?”
Joe looked down into his beer and didn’t answer.
Krasno said, “You got too much conscience, Joe. You’re too good a kid. Everything you do wrong is going to worry you. Look, you don’t want me to talk like this to you; you wish I’d shut up and mind my own business. But you got too much consideration to tell me to go to hell, haven’t you? You feel sorry for me because I’m just an old geezer that hasn’t sense enough to mind my own business and you think I don’t know what I’m talking about, but you’re too nice a guy to tell me to go to hell. I don’t know what Mitch and this Dixie are getting you into, Joe—but you’re too nice a guy for it. You’re not tough like they are. You think you are, but you aren’t. You want to be but you never will be. I can prove it to you.”
“How?”
“Let’s hear you tell me to shut up. I don’t mean just ‘Lay off of me, Krazzy.’ I mean let’s hear you say ‘Shut up, you old son-of-a-bitch.’ And mean it.”
“All right, so I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings. So what?”
“Think I could talk to Mitch like this? Or Dixie? Not and keep either my teeth or my job. Not that I care a hell of a lot about the job. Trouble is with you, Joe, you’re fundamentally a decent guy. Not that that’s a trouble unless you try to force yourself to be something you aren’t.”
Joe moved his glass in slow circles on the bar. He said, “What about this atomic blowup you always talk about? If that’s going to happen, what does anything I do matter?”
“Hell kid, are you happy now? Sure, I think war’s coming and that—well, to put it mildly, it’s going to change our way of living plenty. But I could be wrong. I have been, once or twice in my life. And even if I’m right, it might be years off. And how about those years? You’ll never be happy as a criminal, kid; you’re not the type. You’re too decent. You’ll hate yourself all the time.”
Joe thought of looking at himself in a mirror and saying “Two-bit gangster” that very morning.
He wished Krazzy would shut up. He said, “Lay off me, will you? I know what I’m doing. I’m all right.”
“Okay, Joe. I’ll lay off of you in a minute. But you’ll never lay off of yourself. You’ll never have a minute’s peace as long as you let Mitch lead you around by the nose. If you haven’t got guts enough to break with him otherwise, get the hell out of Milwaukee. Go somewhere and get yourself an honest job—or if you’re too damn lazy to work, go somewhere the heat’s not on and go back to selling numbers tickets. That’s just as hard work as anything else you’re likely to do, but you probably don’t think so. And get yourself a decent girl—not one of these bitches like Mitch runs around with—and get yourself straightened out.”
Joe said, “Krazzy, you’re a good guy, but I don’t want—”
He happened to look up then and stopped. Krasno was looking at the back door, the one that led back to the toilets and the private room. Krasno’s face was suddenly pale, almost sick with fear.
Joe turned and saw that Mitch was standing there. He’d come in the back way and they hadn’t heard him. Joe wondered how long he’d been standing there listening. Long enough, from his face.
He said “Get out!” to Krasno.
Krasno took the bar apron off and Joe saw his hands were shaking a little. He had to pass within a yard of Mitch to get his coat and get out from behind the bar.
Joe thought, God, I hope he has sense enough to keep his mouth shut and not say a word; may be then Mitch won’t touch him. If Mitch does—
But he didn’t dare carry out that thought. Mitch was big, twice his size. Mitch could twist him into a pretzel.
He almost held his breath as Krasno passed Mitch. He could feel Krasno’s fear. He didn’t turn his head as Krasno walked behind him toward the door. He was afraid if he turned to watch or if he said a word, Krasno might say something to him. And he knew that if Krasno said another word, even “So long, Joe,” it might be too much. Mitch would come after Krasno, even though he was now safely past the biggest point of danger and throw him out bodily. Krasno must have known that, too. He went out without saying a word. He even closed the door very quietly behind him.
Mitch said, “The God damn punk.” Not to Joe, just to himself. He didn’t say a word to Joe. He walked to the phone and dialed a number.
“Harry?” he said. “Mitch talking. Can you come in early today, right away, and work through? … Yeah, I just fired Krasno…. Huh? None of your God damn business. Do you want the extra hours at double time, or not? … Sure, I’ll pay double between now and seven if you come down right away And I’ll have another day man by tomorrow. Okay, Harry.”
He put down the receiver and said quietly, “Go latch the front door, Joe. I don’t want any customers in here till Harry gets down. He says he can make it in fifteen minutes.”
While Joe was throwing the latch, Mitch went back of the bar and made two stiff drinks. He came around the end of the bar carrying them and headed for one of the booths.
He said, “Come on, Joe. We got some talking to do.” His voice was quiet, but Joe didn’t like the tone of it. But the drinks were a good sign.
He sat down in the booth across from Mitch and for seconds Mitch just looked at him. Joe realized that he himself hadn’t said a word since Mitch had come in. Unless Mitch had—But no, he hadn’t said anything to Krasno that Mitch could be angry about; he’d told Krasno to lay off; that was all. He hadn’t agreed—out loud—with a single thing Krasno had said.
Mitch said, “Joe.”
“Yeah?” He had to clear his throat to get it out.
“What was the idea of sitting there letting Krasno fill you with stuff like that? Why didn’t you tell him to shut his God damn yap?”
Because Krasno was right, he wanted to say. He said, “I wasn’t agreeing with him. What’d it matter what he said?”
“I’m wondering something, Joe. Maybe you’re too damn soft. If you haven’t even got the guts to tell off a mug like him, how can you—Listen, Joe.” His hand came across the table suddenly and clamped on Joe’s shoulder; his fingers dug in. They hurt.
“Listen, Joe. You’re in too deep now to rat on us. You aren’t thinking of taking Krasno’s advice, are you?”
Joe took a deep breath. He said, “No. But take your hand off of me, Mitch.”
Mitch laughed and pulled back his hand. He said, “Attaboy, Joe. I just wanted to be sure you had the moxie to say that or do something. You’ll be all right, kid. Just don’t get soft-hearted about punks like Krasno. Say—” His eyes narrowed. “How’d he know as much as he did? You haven’t told him anything, have you?”
“Hell, no. He was just guessing. He knows the numbers game is off, and what with Dixie and me still hanging around, he’d have had to be pretty dumb not to guess something, Mitch.”
Mitch nodded slowly. “Guess I was dumb to keep the old bastard around. Should’ve fired him long time ago. Well, he’ll never show his face around here again, He better not.”
Mitch leaned back and picked up his glass. “To crime, Joe.”
“To crime,” Joe said.
The drink was too strong; Joe didn’t like it at all, but then he never cared much for whiskey and water. Mitch had downed half of his at a gulp, but Joe took only a sip.
Mitch said, “Gus is coming up from Chi today. He’s going to stay up here this time. We’re getting into action next week, Joe.”
Joe nodded.
Mitch said, “Want to play a little poker late this evening, Joe? Gus and Dixie are coming over this evening—to the flat on Prospect; I’ve closed the Fox Point place for the year. We got some talking to do—and you’re not in on this first conference, Joe, but if you do all right next week you’ll be in on the other ones. But later, around eleven, I’ve asked some other guys around to make up a game. If you’re not doing anything, drop around and take a hand.”
Joe said, “I’d better wait till I’m a little more in the chips, Mitch. Your poker’s kind of steep for me until then—even if I was lucky last time.”
“Suit yourself, kid. If you change your mind, drop in. It’s stag this time. Even Francy won’t be there. She’s going out of town overnight.” He looked at his watch. “Francy ought to be along pretty soon. She’s going to pick up the car from me here. Which reminds me; you haven’t got any plans for the next half hour or so, have you?”
“No, Mitch.”
“I think before Francy gets the car, I’m going to take a run downtown and see if I can pick up a day man for the bar. You wait here, Joe, and let Harry in when he comes. And when Francy comes, tell her I’ll be back in half an hour or so. Give her a drink.”
“Sure, Mitch.”
Mitch walked to the door and opened it. He said, “Latch it behind me, Joe, and don’t open up till Harry gets here—unless Francy gets here first and you let her in. Better tell Harry to check the register before he starts.”
“Sure, Mitch.”
Joe latched the door and, through the glass, watched Mitch get into the convertible and drive off.
He went back to the booth and sat down again, but this time on the side Mitch had been sitting so he could face the door. His shoulder hurt and he rubbed it with his hand. He put his hand out in front of him, a few inches above the top of the table. It was shaking a little.
It had been a close thing with Mitch.
He wondered what he’d have done if Mitch had hurt Krasno. Oh, Mitch wouldn’t really have hurt him; he was too smart to get in trouble doing something like that. But he might have slapped him around a little, using the flat of his hand so he wouldn’t mark him. As mad as Mitch had been, it was a wonder that he hadn’t touched Krasno.
And if he had—? Well, he hadn’t, so why worry about that?
What could he have done? Mitch was built like an ox. And Krasno had stepped out of line. You couldn’t blame Mitch for firing him, under the circumstances, if you saw it from Mitch’s point of view.
Only, damn it, so much of what Krasno had told him was right. He, Joe, wasn’t tough like Mitch. Whether you called it decent or soft it was the same thing. Was he really cut out for—
A taxi was stopping in front and Francy was getting out of it.
Joe had the door unlatched and open by the time she got there. She said, “Hi, Joe. You look better than the last time I saw you.”
Joe flushed a little; the last time Francy had seen him he’d been passed out cold, and he wasn’t proud of that. He said lightly, “For that crack, I’m going to lock you in.”
Francy watched him throw the latch. She said, “Oh,. Goody. You’re going to rape me.”
“Not here and now. Mitch will be back any minute. But I’ll make you a drink instead. Whiskey sour or Tom Collins? Those are the only two I can make.”
He walked around behind the bar and Francy perched on a stool in front of it. He looked at her for an answer as to what drink she wanted and she was frowning at him with mock seriousness. “Joe, all I taught you to make was a Tom. Who taught you to make a whiskey sour? Have you been cheating on me?”
He grinned. “Why, Francy, I’m surprised you’d think that. My mother taught me how to make a whiskey sour.” The funny thing was that that was strictly true. A whiskey sour had been Flo Bailey’s favorite drink; she had taught him how to make it.
“I’ll forgive you, then. All right, make it a sour, Joe. It’s getting a little cool for Toms.”
When he was almost finished with the drinks, she walked across to a booth and sat there. He brought the drinks over and sat down on the opposite side of the booth.
She sipped hers. “Nice sour. You do know how to make them. How have you been, Joe?”
“Fine, Francy.” He grinned. “At least better than I was the last time you saw me, out cold.”
“Joe, why did you do that? Afraid of me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Partly, then.” That was flippant, but her voice suddenly was serious. “Joe—”
“Yes, Francy?”
He looked at her and it was back again, his wanting her. Back as strongly as ever.
And why not? Wasn’t this the way to get over thinking about Ellie? Francy he might have someday; Ellie never. Why not let himself think about Francy and want her? Why not concentrate on wanting her until it drove all the conflietings things out of his mind? Francy was the goal at the end of the path he had chosen—and chosen irrevocably. By thinking about Francy—
She still hadn’t answered his “Yes, Francy?” He said it again.
She put her hand on his. “Joe—I don’t like Mitch any more. I never did, really. I’m going to break with him pretty soon.”
“That’s—I’m glad, Francy.”
“Joe, are you afraid of Mitch?”
He couldn’t lie outright; he hedged. “Well—he’s bigger than I am, Francy. He could knock my ears off, whether I’m afraid of him or not. I’d be dumb not to recognize that, wouldn’t I?”
She sounded disappointed. “I suppose you would.”
He glanced toward the door; their hands were not in line of vision from it. He put his hand on top of hers. He said, “But Francy, listen, you want me to have money, don’t you?”
“That’s a silly question. Of course.”
“Then I can’t break with Mitch. Not for a while, whether I’m afraid of him or not. And listen, I don’t like Mitch either. I thought I did, once, but I’ve found out I don’t. But if I’m going to get into the money, and soon, I’ve got to stick with him for a while. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Joe. But—you do like me, don’t you?”
“I’m crazy about you, Francy. I want you so bad I can’t see straight. But what good’s that going to do me if I’m broke?”
She started to pull her hand back but he held it between his. She said, “Do you think you’ve got to buy me, Joe Bailey?”
“I don’t mean that. But damn it, Francy, I want you all the way. I want to be able to give you everything you want.” Her hand didn’t try to pull loose any more. “I see what you mean, Joe. Yes, I want you to have money. We—we could go places, Joe.”
“We’re going to. Francy, you can break with Mitch—when you’re ready—so everything will be okay, can’t you? I mean, so he won’t care what we do after that—if he doesn’t guess that we’d planned before to do it.”
She laughed a little. “Any woman could do that. Don’t worry; he’ll think the decision is his.”
“That’s wonderful, Francy. It’s terrible waiting, but—”
“Is it, Joe?”
She leaned forward; her knees were pressing against his under the table. Her lips were slightly parted; her eyes invited him. “Is it terrible waiting? I’m glad. I want you too, Joe.”
“My God, Francy. But—”
“Mitch gave me walking papers for tonight. He’s having a conference and then a poker game. Told me to take the convertible and go amuse myself so I’d be out of the way. I’m going to drive down to Lake Geneva for overnight. Does that give you any idea, Joe?”
