The Fabulous Clipjoint Read online

  I said, “You don’t have to wear glasses, do you?”

  He said, “Kid, Madge and Gardie are what they are. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “It’s not all Mom’s fault,” I said. “I guess she just can’t help the way she is.”

  “It’s never all anybody’s fault, kid. You’ll learn that. That goes for Wally. It goes for you. It isn’t your fault you’re what you are.”

  “What am I?”

  “You’re bitter. Black bitter. Not just because of Wally, either. I think it was before that. Kid, go over and take a look out of that window a minute.”

  His room was on the south side of the hotel. I went over and looked out. It was still foggy, gray. But you could see south to the squat, monstrous Merchandise Mart Building, and between the Wacker and it the ugly west near-north side. Mostly ugly old brick buildings hiding ugly lives.

  “It’s a hell of a view,” I told him.

  “That’s what I meant, kid. When you look out of a window, when you look at anything, you know what you’re seeing? Yourself. A thing can look beautiful or romantic or inspiring only if the beauty or romance or inspiration is inside you. What you see in inside your head.”

  I said, “You talk like a poet, not a carney.”

  He chuckled. “I read a book once,” he said. “Look, kid, don’t try to label things. Words fool you. You call a guy a printer or a lush or a pansy or a truck driver and you think you’ve pasted a label on him. People are complicated; you can’t label ’em with a word.”

  I was still standing at the window, but I’d turned around to face him. He got up off the bed and came over by me. He turned me around to look out the window again and stood there by me with his hand on my shoulder.

  He said, “Look down there, kid. I want to show you another way of looking at it. The way that’ll do you some good right now.”

  We stood there looking down out of the open window into the steaming streets.

  He said, “Yeah, I read a book once. You’ve read this too, but maybe you never really looked at things the way they are, even if you know. That looks like something down there, doesn’t it? Solid stuff, each chunk of it separate from the next one and air in between them.

  “It isn’t. It’s just a mess of atoms whirling around and the atoms are just made up of electric charges, electrons, whirling around too, and there’s space between them like there’s space between the stars. It’s a big mess of almost nothing, that’s all. And there’s no sharp line where the air stops and a building begins; you just think there is. The atoms get a little less far apart.

  “And besides whirling, they vibrate back and forth, too. You think you hear noise, but it’s just those awful-far-apart atoms wiggling a little faster.

  “Look, there’s a guy walking down Clark Street. Well, he isn’t anything, either. He’s just a part of the dance of the atoms, and he blends in with the sidewalk below him and the air around him.”

  He went back and sat down on the bed. He said, “Keep looking, kid. Get the picture. What you think you see is just bally, a front with the gimmicks all hidden if there are any gimmicks.

  “A continuous mess of almost nothing, that’s what’s really there. Space between molecules. Enough solid, actual matter, if any, to make a chunk about the size of a — a soccer ball.”

  He chuckled. “Kid,” he said. “You going to let a soccer ball kick you around?”

  I kept standing there looking for another minute or so. When I turned around he was laughing at me, and I found myself grinning.

  “Okay,” I said. “Shall we go down and kick Clark Street around for a change?”

  “Chicago Avenue. A spot near Orleans. We’re going to scare hell out of a guy named Kaufman.”

  I said, “He’s run bar in a tough neighborhood for a lot of years. What kind of threat would scare a guy like that?”

  “None. We’re not going to threaten a damn thing. That’s what’ll scare him stiff. It’s the one thing that will.”

  “I don’t get it,” I told him. “Maybe I’m dumb, but I don’t get it?”

  “Come on,” he said.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Nothing. Not a damn thing. Just sit in his place.”

  I still didn’t get it, but I could wait. We went down in the elevator.

  As we crossed the lobby, he asked, “Can you use a new suit, Ed?”

  “Sure, but I’d better not buy one now. I’m losing time off work.”

  “It’s on me. You need a dark-blue, pin-stripe cut so it’ll make you look older. You need the right kind of a hat. It’s part of the job, kid, so don’t squawk. You got to look like a gun punk.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But I’ll owe you for it. Someday I’ll pay you.”

  We got the suit, and it cost forty bucks. That was nearly twice what I’d paid for my last one. Uncle Ambrose was particular about the style; we looked at quite a few before he found the one he wanted.

  He told me, “That isn’t too good a suit; it won’t last very long. But while it’s brand new, before it gets dry-cleaned, it looks like an expensive suit. Come on, we get a hat.”

  We got a hat, a dilly of a snap-brim. He wanted to buy me shoes, but I talked him into settling for a shine; the ones I had were nearly new and looked good once they were shined. We got a rayon shirt that looked like silk, and a snazzy tie.

  Back at the hotel, I changed into the new stuff and took a gander at myself in the mirror on the bathroom door.

  Uncle Ambrose said, “Wipe off that grin, you dope. It makes you look sweet sixteen.”

  I straightened out my face. “How’s the hat look?”

  “Swell. Where’d you get it?”

  “Huh? Herzfeld’s.”

  “Try again and think harder. You got it in Lake Geneva the last time I took you up there. We were a little hot then, or we thought we were. We holed out a week till Blane wired us the heat was off. Remember the hat-check girl at the roadhouse?”

  “The little brunette?”

  He nodded. “Coming back to you now, huh? Sure, she bought you that hat after yours blew out of the car that night. Why shouldn’t she? You spent about three hundred bucks on her that week. Hell, you wanted to bring her back to Chi with you.”

  I said, “I still think I should have. Why didn’t I?”

  “I told you not to, see? And I’m the boss; get that through your head and keep it there. Kid, you’d have friend two years ago if I didn’t look out for you. I keep you from getting too big for your pants. Sure, I — Goddam it, get that grin off your mug.”

  “Yeah, Chief. What would I have friend for?”

  “The Burton Bank job for one thing. You’re always too quick on the trigger. When that teller reached for the button, you could’ve shot his arm as easy as killing him; you were only a few feet away.”

  I said, “The bastard shouldn’t have reached.”

  “And the time I had you take care of Swann when he got out of line. What’d you do? Just plug him? No, you had to get fancy about it. Remember that?”

  “He got funny. He asked for it.”

  He looked at me and shook his head. His voice changed. He said, “It ain’t bad, Ed. But you’re too relaxed. I want you stiff, jumpy. You’ve got a heater in that shoulder holster, and it’s loaded. The weight of it there won’t let you forget it. Keep that heater on your mind, every minute.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “And your eyes. Ever watched a guy’s eyes after he’s had about two reefers? And before he’s smoked more than that?”

  I nodded slowly.

  He said, “Then you know what I mean. He’s the king of the universe, and he’s hot as a G string. But he’s like a coiled spring, tied down by a thin thread. He c
an sit still with a kind of unholy calm, and still make you afraid to touch him with a ten-foot pole.”

  “I think I got it,” I told him.

  “Keep your eyes like that. When you look at a guy, you don’t glare at him like you want to kill him. That’s ham stuff. You just look through him like he wasn’t there, like you don’t give a damn whether you shoot him or not. Look at him like he was a telegraph pole.”

  “How about tone of voice?” I asked.

  “Nuts to tone of voice. Keep your trap shut. Don’t even talk to me, unless I ask you something. I’ll do the talking and it won’t be much.”

  He looked at his watch and got up off the bed. He said, “It’s five o’clock, shank of the morning for this neighborhood. Let’s go.”

  “Will this take all evening?”

  “Maybe longer.”

  I said, “I want to use your phone, then. It’s kind of private. Will you go on down and wait for me in the lobby?”

  He said, “Sure, kid,” and went on out.

  I called home. If Mom answered I’d have hung up. I didn’t want to talk to Mom before I found out what Gardie had told her.

  But it was Gardie’s voice.

  I said, “This is Ed, Gardie. Is Mom around, or can you talk?”

  “She went to the store. Oh, Eddie — did I — make an awful fool of myself?”

  It was going to be all right.

  I said, “Kind of, but let’s forget it. You got tight, that’s all. But no more, savvy? You try that again and I’ll take a hairbrush to you.”

  She giggled a little. Or it might have been a giggle.

  I said, “Does Mom know you drank that whiskey?”

  “No, Eddie. I woke up first. I felt like hell — I still don’t feel so good. But I managed not to show it — Mom woke up feeling awful herself, so she didn’t notice. I told her I had a headache.”

  “What happened to that bright idea about teaching her a lesson?”

  “I forgot, Eddie, I clean forgot. I felt so lousy all I thought about was keeping out of Mom’s way. I just couldn’t have stood her bawling me out, or crying, or whatever she’d’ve done.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So forget the idea permanently. Both ideas, if you know what I mean. You remember what you did when you were drunk?”

  “N-not exactly, Eddie. What did I do?”

  “Don’t kid me,” I said. “You remember all right.”

  Unmistakably, this time, it was a giggle.

  I gave up. I said, “Listen, tell Mom I won’t be home till late, probably, but not to worry. I’ll be with Uncle Am. I might even stay with him over night. So long.”

  I hung up before she could ask any questions.

  Going down in the elevator, I tried to get my mind back in the groove. Uncle Ambrose had been right in picking the clothes and the hat. I looked twenty-two or twenty-three in the elevator mirror, and I looked like I’d been around.

  I stiffened up, and made my eyes hard.

  My uncle nodded approvingly as I walked across the lobby toward him.

  He said, “You’ll do, kid. Damn if I’m not a little leary of you myself.”

  We walked north to Chicago Avenue and turned west. We went past the police station. I kept my eyes straight in front.

  As we crossed diagonally over at Chicago and Orleans, heading for the Topaz beer sign, my uncle said, “All I want you to do is this, Ed. Don’t talk. Watch Kaufman. Follow my leads.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  We went into the tavern. Kaufman was drawing beers for two men at the bar. There was a man and woman sitting in a booth at the side; they looked married. The two men at the bar looked a little drunk in a sleepy sort of way, like they’d been drinking beer all afternoon. They were together, but weren’t talking.

  Uncle Ambrose headed for a table at the back, sitting so he could face the bar. I pulled a chair to one side of the table, so I could face the same way.

  I watched Kaufman.

  He wasn’t, I thought, particularly pleasant to look at. He was short and heavy-set, with long arms that looked powerful. He looked about forty or forty-five. He wore a clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his arms were hairy as a monkey’s. His hair was slicked back and glossy, but he needed a shave. He still wore the thick-lensed glasses.

  He rang up twenty cents on the register for the two beers he’d just drawn and then came around the end of the bar and approached our table.

  I kept my eyes on him, studying him, weighing him.

  He looked tough, like a guy able to handle himself in trouble. But then most bartenders in this part of town look like that; or they wouldn’t be bartenders here.

  He said, “What’s it, gents?”

  His eyes happened to fall on mine, and I locked them there. I remembered orders. I didn’t move a muscle, not even a muscle of my face. But I thought, “You son of a bitch, I’d just as soon kill you as not.”

  Uncle Ambrose was saying, “White soda. Two glasses of plain white soda.”

  His eyes slid off mine and looked at my uncle. He looked doubtful, not knowing whether to take it for a joke and laugh, or not.

  Uncle Ambrose didn’t laugh. He said, “Two glasses of white soda.”

  He dropped a bill on the table.

  Kaufman managed somehow to seem to shrug his shoulders without really doing it. He took the bill and went behind the bar. He came back with the two glasses and change.

  “Anything for a wash?” he wanted to know.

  Uncle Ambrose deadpanned him. He said, “When we want something else, we’ll let you know.”

  Kaufman went back of the bar again.

  We sat there and didn’t do anything and didn’t talk. Once in a long while Uncle Ambrose took a sip of his white soda.

  The two men at the bar went out and another group, three this time, came in. We didn’t pay any attention to them. We watched Kaufman; I don’t mean we didn’t take our eyes off him for a second, but in general we just sat there watching him.

  You could see, after awhile, that it began to puzzle him, and that he didn’t like it a damn bit.

  Two more men came in, and the couple sitting in the booth left.

  At seven o’clock a bartender came on duty. A tall, skinny man who smiled a lot and showed a lot of gold teeth when he did. When he went behind the bar, Kaufman came over to our table.

  “Two more white sodas,” my uncle said.

  Kaufman looked at him a moment, then he picked up the change my uncle put on the table and went behind the bar to refill our glasses. He came back and put them down without a word. Then he took off his apron, hung it on a hook and went out the back door of the tavern.

  “Think he’s going for the cops?”

  My uncle shook his head. “He isn’t that worried yet. He’s going out to eat. Think that’s a good idea?”

  “Good Lord,” I said. I just remembered that this was another day I’d practically gone without eating. Now that I thought of it, I was hungry enough to eat a cow.

  We waited a few minutes longer and then went out the front way. We walked over to Clark Street and ate at the little chili joint a block south of Chicago. They make the best chili there of any place in town.

  We took our time about eating. While we were drinking coffee, I asked, “We going back there tonight?”

  “Sure. We’ll get back by nine and stay till about twelve. He’ll be getting jittery by then.”

  “Then what?”

  “We help him jitter.”

  “Look,” I said. “What if he does call copper? Yeah, there’s nothing illegal about sitting a few hours over white soda, but if the cops get called, they’ll want to ask questions.”

  “The cops are squared. Bassett’s talked
to the looie who’d get the call at the Chicago station. He’ll tip off whatever coppers he sends in answer to the call, if he sends any.”

  I said, “Oh.” I began to see about the hundred bucks. This was the first dividend, unless you counted that Bassett had said he’d canvass the buildings that had back porches on the alley. Maybe he’d have done that anyway, but squaring something like this was definitely in the line of extra service.

  After we ate, we went to a quiet little place off Clark Street on Ontario and had a beer apiece and a lot of conversation.

  We talked about Pop mostly.

  “He was a funny kid, Ed,” Uncle Ambrose told me. “He was two years younger than me, you know. He was wild as a colt. Well, I had itchy feet, too. I still have; that’s why I’m a carney. You like to travel, Ed?”

  “I think I would,” I said. “I never had much chance up to now.”

  “Up to now? Hell, you’re just a pup. But about Wally. He ran away from home when he was sixteen. That was the year our dad got a stroke and died suddenly; our mother had died three years before.

  “I knew Wally’d write sooner or later, so I stuck around St. Paul until I got a letter from him, addressed to both me and Dad. He was in Petaluma, California. He owned a little newspaper there; he’d won it in a poker game.”

  “He never told me about that,” I said.

  My uncle chuckled. “He didn’t have it long. He was gone by the time my wire went out in answer to his letter. I’d told him I was coming, but when I got there he was wanted by the police. Oh, nothing too serious; just a hell of a swell criminal libel action. He was too honest to run a newspaper. He’d come out with the flat, unvarnished truth about one of Petaluma’s leading citizens. Probably just for the hell of it; anyway, that’s what he told me later and I believed him.”

  He grinned at me. “It was a swell excuse for me to go on the road awhile, to look for him. I knew he’d head out of California, because the libel business wasn’t something they were going to extradite him for, but he’d get out of the state. I picked up his trail in Phoenix, and I was just behind him several places before I ran into him in a gambling joint across the border from El Paso, in Juarez. Juarez was a wild and woolly spot in those days, kid. You should have seen it.”