BUtterfield 8 (20 page)

“I just want to get out,” said Gloria.

“Listen, officer—”

“Out of the way, wise guy,” said the cop, and in some manner which Liggett did not understand the cop put his hand inside Liggett’s coat and held him by the vest high up. He could not move. They let Gloria out and the cop still held Liggett.

“Wuddle we do with him, Joe?” said the cop. “You know him?”

“I never seen him before. Who are you, anyway?”

“I can identify myself.”

“Well, identify yourself,” said the cop.

“If you let me, I will,” said Liggett.

“Stand in back of him, Joe, just in case.”

“Oh, I won’t do anything.”

“Huh, you’re telling me. You picked the wrong spot to try anything, fellow, didn’t he, Joe?”

“Just leave him try something, he’ll find out.”

“I happen to be a very good friend of Pat Casey, if you’re interested,” said Liggett.

“A friend of Pat Casey’s,” said the cop. “He says he’s a friend of Pat Casey’s, Joe.”

“Wuddia know about that,” said Joe.

Whereupon the cop slapped Liggett back and forth on the face with the palm and the back of his hand. “A friend . . . of Pat . . . Casey. Don’t give me that, you son of a bitch. I don’t care if you’re a friend of the Pope of Rome, any . . . son . . . of a bitch . . . that tries to . . . skeer me . . . with who he knows. Now get outa here. Pat Casey!”

“Go on. Get out,” said Joe.

Liggett could hardly see. There were tears in his eyes from the cop’s slaps on his nose. “Like hell I will,” he said, ready to fight. The cop reached out and pushed him hard and quick, and he went down on his back. Joe, who had been standing in back of him, had knelt down back of his legs and all the cop had to do was push and down he went. He fell outside the speakeasy on the stair landing, and the two men began kicking him and kicked him until he crawled away and went down the stairs.

He had no hat, he could hardly see, his clothes were a mess of dirt and phlegmy spit that he had picked up on the floor, he was badly shaken by hitting his coccyx when the cop pushed him, his nose was bleeding, his body was full of sharp pains where they had kicked him.

To be deprived of the right to fight back when you have nothing left to lose is awful, and that made Liggett feel weak. They had beaten him in a few minutes worse than he ever had been beaten before, and he knew he could have gone on fighting now till they killed him, but they would not give him the chance, the bastards. Outside the world was disinterested or perhaps even friendly, but there was no fighting outside. It was inside, upstairs, where there was fighting, and he wanted to go back and fight those two; no rules, but kick and punch and swing and butt and bite. The only thing was, he was facing the street now, and it was too damn much trouble to turn around, and inside of him he knew he did not have the strength to climb the stairs. If he could be transported up the stairs and inside he could fight, but the stairs were too much. He heard the door upstairs being opened, then closing as his hat landed at his feet. He reached down painfully and picked it up and put it on his aching head, and walked out to the street. He stumbled along into a taxi. The driver didn’t want him to get in, but was afraid to take a chance on crossing him. Then as the driver said: “Where to?” Gloria opened the door of the cab.

“It’s all right, I know him,” she said.

“Okay, Miss Wandrous,” said the driver.

“Out. Get out. Get outa my tax’ cab,” said Liggett.

“Go to 274 Horatio Street,” Gloria told the driver.

“Okay,” said the driver, and reached back to close the door, which had clicked only once.

Liggett got up and opened the door, mumbling: “I’m not going anywhere with you.” She tried to stop him but not very hard. It wasn’t much use trying and the streets were full of people, little people coming up from the fur center to pile into the southernmost entrance to the Times Square subway station. She saw Liggett get into another cab.

“Will I folly him?” said her driver.

“Yes, will you please?” she said.

Her taxi followed his to within a block of his home. She stopped and watched him get out, saw the doorman at his apartment pay the cab driver. “Go to the Horatio Street number,” she said.

Eddie did not answer his bell, though she rang for five minutes. She left a note for him and went home.

You could still read a newspaper in the street when Nancy and Paul Farley arrived at the Liggetts’. Nancy was wearing a printed chiffon frock, Farley was wearing a dinner jacket with shawl collar, a soft shirt, a cummerbund instead of a waistcoat, and pumps. The pumps were old and a little cracked, and in his hand he had a gray felt hat that certainly did not look new. Emily wondered where she had got the idea Farley would be dressed like something out of the theater programs. Where? From Weston, of course. Where, where was Weston? What had happened in Philadelphia?

“Good evening, Mrs. Farley, Mr. Farley. Let’s go in here, I think it’s cooler.”

“It is cool, isn’t it?” said Nancy.

“Bobbie did this building,” said Paul.

“A friend of ours,” Nancy explained. “Robert Scott? The architect? Do you know him, by any chance?”

“No, I don’t believe I do,” said Emily. “All right, Mary. The cocktail things. Mr. Farley, do you mind if I pass that job on to you? My husband hasn’t arrived! He went to Philadelphia this morning and I expected him home at four, but I could have been mistaken. Perhaps he meant the four o’clock train, which arrives at six I think. He may have stopped at the office on the way uptown. It must be important, because it isn’t a bit like him not to phone.”

“Well, one thing, it isn’t his health,” said Paul. “I mean lack of it. When I saw him on Sunday I said to Nancy how well he looked.”

“Yes, I only got a fleeting glimpse of him but I noticed too how well he looked,” said Nancy. “He always gives the impression of strength.”

“Yes, not like most men that were athletes in college,” said Paul. “They usually . . .” He made a gesture of big-belly.

“Oh, he
was
an athlete?” said Nancy.

“He was on the Yale crew,” said Emily. “I think he keeps well. He played some court tennis this past winter.”

“Oh, really?” said Paul. “That must be a swell game. I’ve never played it. I’ve gone back and forth from squash to squash rackets and this winter I played a little handball, but never court tennis.”

“I never know one from the other,” said Nancy.

“Neither do I,” said Emily. “Mr. Farley, would you like to mix a cocktail? If you have anything in mind. There’s gin and French and Italian vermouth, but we could just as easily have something else.”

“I like a Martini and so does Nancy.”

“I think a Martini,” said Emily.

“Tell Mrs. Liggett what you told me about shaking Martinis,” said Nancy.

“Oh, yes,” said Farley. “You know, like everyone else, I suppose, I’ve been going for years on the theory that a Martini ought to be stirred and not shaken?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve always heard,” said Emily.

“Well, in London last year I talked with an English bartender who told me that theory’s all wrong. American, he said.”

“Scornfully,” said Nancy.

“Very scornfully,” said Paul.

“I can imagine very scornfully,” said Emily.

“Well, we’ve always been taught that if you shake a Martini you bruise the cocktail. I’ve always taken a holy delight in not bruising a poor little cocktail until this English barkeep explained the right way, or his way, and I must say it sounds plausible. He told me a Martini ought to be shaken very hard, briskly, a few vigorous shakes up and down, so that the gin and vermouth would be cracked into a proper
foamy
mixture. He said Americans, especially in these dark ages—I mean Prohibition, not the depression. We have a tendency to drink a cocktail in two gulps, for the effect, whereas if you shake the cocktail the various ingredients go into solution more completely, and the result is a foamy drink—not very noticeably foamy, but more foamy than not—and you have a cocktail that you can sip, almost like champagne.”

“Oh, I never heard that,” said Emily. “It does sound like a plausible theory, as you say.”

“You see, our cocktails, stirred, are syrupy and very strong. Two Martinis out of a stirred batch have much more effect than two shaken ones. Stirred cocktails are little more than straight gin and vermouth. So we’ve followed his advice and I must say I think he’s right.”

“Let’s do it that way, then. I’ll get the other shaker. This one has only the stirring kind of top.”

“Oh, no, not if it means—”

“Not at all,” said Emily. “I want to try your way.” She went to the dining-room and came back with a shaker.

“I noticed you have new cocktail shakers too,” said Nancy. “You know, we have newer cocktail shakers and things like that than a cousin of Paul’s. She was married five years ago, and by actual count she was given twenty-two cocktail shakers for wedding presents. All sorts. And those she kept look positively obsolete compared with ours. Ours are all new, within the last two years.”

“When Weston and I were married no one would have thought of giving a cocktail shaker.”

“We didn’t get a single one,” said Nancy.

“There,” said Paul. “I hope you like this after all my build-up, Mrs. Liggett.”

She tasted her cocktail. “Oh, yes, by all means. Oh, even I can see the difference right away.”

“Isn’t it a lot better?” said Nancy.

“Yes. Weston will like it too, I know. His favorite drink is whiskey and soda. He’d almost rather not drink cocktails for that reason, that they’re too syrupy. This ought to be the solution of the cocktail problem for him. Speaking of Weston, I think we’ll wait five more minutes and if he hasn’t arrived we’ll begin without him. He’s usually so punctual about meals, and I know he was especially anxious to be on time for the Farleys. I hate being late for the theater, so we’ll give him five more minutes. I’m so glad you hadn’t seen ‘Tomorrow and Tomorrow.’ Herbert Marshall has
such
charm, don’t you think so, Mrs. Farley?”

“Just about the most charming man I know. Not that I know him. I did meet him.”

“I don’t see how he gets around with that leg of his,” said Paul.

“I can’t even tell which one it is, and I watch every time,” said Nancy.

“He lost it in the war, didn’t he?” said Emily.

“I believe so,” said Nancy.

“Yes, he did. He was in the British Army,” said Paul.

“Not
in the Austrian Army, dear?” said Nancy.

Everyone laughed politely. “As a matter of fact he was in the Austrian Army,” said Paul. “He was a spy.”

“No, no. That’s not getting out of it,” said Nancy. “Besides, that’s not original. Who was it said that first? You read it in
The
New Yorker.”

“What was that?” asked Emily.

“Oh, you must have seen it. I think it was in the Talk of the Town column. George S. Kaufman, you know, he wrote ‘Once In a Lifetime’ and a hundred other plays.”

“Yes,” said Emily.

“Well, he and some of the Algonquin literati were together one night and there was a stranger in their midst who kept bragging about his ancestry, and finally Kaufman, who is a Jew, spoke up and said: ‘I had an ancestor a Crusader.’ The stranger looked askance and Kaufman went on: ‘Yes, his name was Sir Reginald Kaufman. He was a spy.’”

“All right, except that it was Sir Roderick Kaufman,” said Nancy.

Emily laughed. In one more minute she would have taken her guests in to dinner, but before the minute was up the doorbell rang and then the door was opened and Liggett came in, supported by the elevator operator and the doorman, who Emily noticed first was trying to take off his cap.

“Oh, God,” said Emily.

“Good Lord,” said Paul.

Nancy sucked in her breath.

“What in God’s name happened, darling?” said Emily, going to him.

“I’ll take this arm,” said Paul to the doorman.

“Please let me walk by myself,” said Liggett, and shook off his helpers. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Farley, but you’ll have to excuse me tonight.”

“Oh, well, of course,” said Nancy.

“Can’t I give you a hand, old man?” said Paul.

“No, thanks,” said Liggett. “Emily—will you—I think Mrs. Farley, Mr. Farley.”

“Let me help you to your room,” said Farley. “I think I ought to do this, Mrs. Liggett.”

“I’d rather you didn’t, Farley. Thanks just the same, but I’d really rather you didn’t,” said Liggett. “Apologize to you, Emily, before the Farleys.”

“Oh, they understand I’m sure,” said Emily. “Mrs. Farley, Mr. Farley, you will excuse us I know?”

“Of course,” said Farley. “If you want me to do anything?”

“No, thank you. I’ll manage. I’m sorry.”

“Come on, darling,” said Nancy. “Anything at all, Mrs. Liggett. Please call us.”

“Thank you both,” said Emily.

The Farleys left. Nancy could hardly wait till they got inside a taxi where only Paul could see her crying. “Oh, what a terrible thing. What an awful sight.” She put her arms around Paul and wept. “That poor unhappy woman. To have that happen to her. Ugh. Disgusting beast. No wonder, no wonder she has such sad eyes.”

“Yes, and the son of a bitch was no more in Philadelphia than I was. I saw him getting tanked up at the Yale Club at lunch time. He didn’t see me, but I saw him.” He waited. “But it’s nothing for you to be upset about, darling. They aren’t even close friends of ours.”

“I’ll stop,” said Nancy.

“We’ll go to Longchamps.”

“No, let’s go where we can drink,” said Nancy.

 • • • 

When Gloria came home in time for dinner her uncle told her he would like to have a talk with her before dinner, or after dinner, if there wasn’t time before dinner. She said they might as well talk now, before dinner.

“Well,” he began, “I don’t think you’ve been looking at all well lately. I think you ought to get out of New York for a month or two. I really do, Gloria.”

Yes, she had been thinking that too, but she wondered how often he had had a chance to see her to decide she wasn’t looking well. “I haven’t saved anything out of my allowance,” she said, “and as for work—well, you know.”

“This would be a birthday present. It’s a little early for a birthday present, but does it make any difference what time of the year it is when you get your present? I’ll send you a penny postcard when your birthday comes, and remind you that you’ve had your present. That is, providing you want to take a trip.”

“But can you afford it?”

“Yes, I can afford it. We don’t live on our income any more, Baby”—he often called her that—”we’ve been selling bonds and preferred stocks, your mother and I.”

“Oh. On account of me? Do I cost that much?”

He laughed. “No-ho-ho. You don’t seem to realize. Don’t you know what’s been going on in this country, Baby? We’re in the midst of a
depression.
The worst depression in history. You know something about the stock market situation, don’t you?”

“I looked up your Bethlehem Steel this morning or yesterday. I forget when it was.”

“Oh, that’s all gone, long since, my Steel. And it was U. S. Steel, not Bethlehem.”

“Oh, then I was wrong.”

“I’m glad you took an interest. No, what I’ve been doing, I’ve been getting rid of everything I can and do you know what I’ve been doing? Buying gold.”

“Gold? You mean real gold, the what do they call it—bullion?”

“The real article. Coins, when I can get them, and gold bars, and a few gold certificates, but I haven’t much faith in
them.
You know, I don’t like to frighten you, but it’s going to be a lot worse before it’s any better, as the fellow says.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. A man I know slightly, he was one of the smartest traders in Wall Street. You wouldn’t know his name, because I don’t think I ever had occasion to mention it except perhaps to your mother and it wouldn’t have interested you. He was a
real
plunger, that fellow. The stories they told downtown about this man, they were sensational. A Jew, naturally. Why, say, that fellow
couldn’t
lose.
And,
he was shrewd, the way all Jews are. Well, as I say, he’s always been a pretty smart trader. They say he was the only one that called the turn in 1929. He got out of the market in August 1929, at the peak. Everybody told him, why, you’re crazy, they all said. Passing up millions. Millions, they told him. Sure, he said. Well, I’m willing to pass them up and keep what I have, he told them, and of course they all laughed when he told them he was going to retire and sit back and watch the ticker from a café in Paris. Retire and only thirty-eight years of age? Huh. They never heard such talk, the wisenheimers downtown. Him retire? No. It was in his blood, they said. He’d be back. He’d go to France and make a little whoopee, but he’d be back and in the market just as deeply as ever. But he fooled them. He went to France, all right, and I suppose he made whoopee because I happen to know he has quite a reputation that way. And they were right saying he’d be back, but not the way they thought. He came back first week in November, two years ago, right after the crash. Know what he did? He bought a Rolls-Royce Phantom that originally cost over eighteen thousand dollars, he bought that for a thousand-dollar bill. He bought a big place out on Long Island. I don’t know exactly what he paid for it, but one fellow told me he got it for not a cent more than the owner paid for one of those big indoor tennis courts they have out there. For that he got the whole estate, the land, the house proper, stables, garages, everything. Yacht landing. Oh, almost forgot. A hundred-and-eighty-foot yacht for eighteen thousand dollars. That figure I do know because I remember hearing he said a hundred dollars a foot was enough for any yacht. And mind you, the estate was with all the furniture. And all because he got out in time and had the cash. Everything he had was cash. Wouldn’t lend a cent. Not one red cent, for any kind of interest. Not even a hundred per cent interest. Just wasn’t interested, he said. Buy, yes. He bought cars, houses, big estates, yachts, paintings worth their weight in radium, practically. But lend money? No. He said it was his way of getting even with the wisenheimers that laughed at him the summer before when he said he was going to retire.”

“Uncle, did you say you
knew
this man?” said Gloria.

“Oh, yes. Used to see him around.
I
knew him to say
hello
to.”