Living Room (24 page)

Where the hell was Shirley? It was what, eight minutes after six, had she changed her mind? Not without calling. Perhaps stuck for a few minutes at work. Oh no, not another!

The second bum, red-veined eyes squinting to focus out of a dirt-embedded face, held out his hind wordlessly. The fingernails were black.

If you live in Calcutta,
thought Al,
you learn to ignore. Why the pang of guilt still? The Salvation Army fed mouths, did it save souls? The point is they fed mouths. The religious trappings were for the givers not the receivers.

The bum pumped his palm at Al.

All he wants to eat is booze.

Al pointed to the first cadger halfway down the block. “Just gave that fellow two bucks. See if he won’t split it with you.”

The bum spit into the palm of his own hand. Al turned away, went into the building. The self-contempt of the bum niggled more than the guilt.
Prize yourself, you’ll be able to deal with others.

Like Shirley?

Al checked the building directory, went for the elevators. Thirty-one floors condensed in his ears.

Armon, Caiden, Crouch Advertising. The beaver-toothed receptionist beneath the sign was stuffing papers into the desk drawer, pulled a cover over the typewriter. “Yes?” she asked irritably.

“Shirley Hartman, please.”

The receptionist dialed a number on the intercom once. No answer. Dialed again. “Come on Shirley baby, I’m leaving town for the weekend, have to catch a train.”

No answer.

“Would you mind just going through there, down the hall, turn right, second door, ask anyone if you get lost, I’ve got to go.”

Al went as directed, found Shirley passing papers to Twitchy, each with a hurried verbal instruction, file, give to X, ask Y, throw away, type up Monday.

“Oh,” said Shirley, stabbing a glance at her watch. “I’m really late. Sorry. Al, this is Twitchy. Twitchy, Al Chunin.”

Twitchy appraised him, top to bottom.

“Just finished,” said Shirley, giving the last batch of papers to Twitchy. “Ready to go.”

The entranceway was empty. “Receptionist gone?” Shirley asked.

“For the weekend. Great hurry.”

“Sorry I was late.”

“Sorry to barge in. I found myself the mark for two bums, paid the first, escaped the second.”

He pushed the elevator button again.

“Oh, I know the type,” Shirley said. “It costs me a quarter at least once a week. Maybe same fellow.”

“Had a story about just getting out of prison.”

“Same one. How much?”

“Two bucks. His story was good.”

“What did you give the second one?”

“Nothing. He didn’t have a spiel.”

Shirley laughed. “It’s a good thing you’re not in charge of Social Security. You’d pay the performers and let the others starve.”

“It’s easier to give than to avoid.”
Like love,
Al thought.

“The world,” said Shirley, “consists of the thieves and the naives, the suckers and the sucked.”

They stepped into the empty elevator. Shirley pushed “G.” The doors closed, the elevator started its descent. There was a sudden grinding noise from both sides of the shaft, then dead stop, the car shimmying, silence.

Punishment,
thought Al.
Should have given the other bum a quarter.
“This happen often?” he asked.

“Never to me.” She pushed the ground-floor button again. Nothing happened. Al tried pushing other floor buttons. Nothing.

“Christ!” said Al, pushed the alarm button. They heard a very distant bell ringing. He held his finger on the button, then relented.

Nothing.

The second time he held his finger on the alarm button, wondering whom he was bothering, and if they would be bothered back by a sudden release of the elevator, plunging them what, they must be twenty-nine, thirty floors to the basement.

“Help,” said Shirley quietly.

Al laughed. “Thanks.”

Then a pounding on metal coming from somewhere above. Al released the alarm button. A voice, Slavic accent, said, “You hear me?”

“Yes,” shouted Al, making a megaphone out of his cupped hands.

“Calling service. You hear?”

“Can you get us out of here?” Al’s voice reverberated in the elevator shaft, mimicking him.

“Stuck.”

“I know it’s stuck. We want out.”

“Between floors, mister.”

“What about the roof hatch?” yelled Al, scanning the ceiling.

“Dangerous. How many you?”

“Two.”

“I call service.”

Al, glad not to be shouting, turned to Shirley and said, “Happy birthday. Welcome to our space vehicle in the Manhattan orbit. We expect to touch back to earth in”—he looked at his watch—“days.”

“Listen,” said Shirley, “if this takes time we can always take Jack and Mary out to a restaurant, I mean if dinner’s spoiled.”

“I’d invite you to sit down, but there’s only the floor.”

“I can stand. I’ve been sitting all day.”

“What was that load of papers you were shoveling at your secretary as I came by?”

“Horseshit. The higher up you go, the more time you spend on forms, reports, corporate crap, nonwork work. Also self-defense.”

“Fighting wolves?”

“Fighting pigs who try to walk over you because you’re a woman or because you’re twenty-eight…”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Thanks. Go to hell.”

“Maybe they bother you just because you’re there. Like Everest.”

“I’ll think about that.”

Think about fucking standing up in an elevator,
thought Al. She was looking
at him in a way that seemed so personal.

“How much time,” said Al, “do people in your business spend usefully?”

“Not much. Ever talk to Jack Wood about doctors?”
Of course he had.
“Most of their time is spent doing what a paramedic could do. Or a clerk.”

“Same in law,” said Al. “Lots of W.P.A. make-work work, diddling over points their clients could settle in a minute.”

She was still looking at him that way.

“They write briefs,” she said, “that should be called longs.”

“I suspect that’s why a lot of lawyers end up doing other kinds of work.”

“Honest work, like politics.”

Al laughed. “A man plows a field is not wasting time. A man makes a pair of shoes, he’s not wasting time. The more so-called civilization we get, the fewer farmers and shoemakers and the more paper shufflers. We’re going backward.”

“We’re standing still,” said Shirley. Then, “Don’t you ever waste time?”

“Thinking down a blind alley. Maybe it’s not a waste. You don’t know it’s a blind alley till you get there.”
Like marriage,
thought Al. “Like marriage,” he said aloud.

“When are they going to get us the hell out of this?”

“No point in getting jumpy. They’re trying to get a crew here now, but the traffic’s probably heavy.”

“How come you’re so damn reasonable?”

“I wasn’t reasonable the other night. That private-eye thing blew a fuse in me.”

“You don’t look like you have fuses.”

“I’ve even got a self-destruct button. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’d feel ridiculous sitting in an elevator.”

“Hell,” Al said, “it’s the beginning of a weekend.” Then, “Could you occupy yourself full time doing just the part of the job you like to do?”

“All the other things are part of the mix.”

“Not necessarily.”

“That one of your commandments?”

“I guess I’ll have to explain that project to you someday.”

“Let me guess. You’re making a sign that says ‘My horse does not shit.’”

“Something like that.” They heard a sound, metal on metal. “Hey, we’re being rescued!”

“It took them a half-hour to get here. We ought to sue.”

“For lost time?”

“For reckless endangerment. I like that phrase.” She thought Al was going to touch her.

“The other night,” said Al, as the clanging started above them again, “on the way home I—”

“Let’s forget the other night.”

“Well, it relates to what I’ve been working on. Theft, as usually defined, is what you get caught taking, or what the government or your conscience excuses taking. I’d broaden that. If business ethics allows you to put someone on an employee’s tail, that’s theft of privacy. It’s as real as stealing money.”

“Not bad,” she said. “You trying to supplant Confucius.”

“Not finished. The true definition of theft, says Al Chunin, is in the mind of the victim. If there is no victim, there is no theft.”

He was a smart man, smarter than she thought she would ever meet, and there was every likelihood he was going to get away.
The great trappers of history were not the woodsmen, women trapped themselves.

Al glanced at his watch, shouted up at their rescuers. “How long is this going to take?” They heard him but not what he said. The clanging stopped. He repeated, “How…long…this…going…to…take?”

“Could be twenty minutes. Could be hour and a half. Bolts are rusted in.”

God,
Al thought,
how the hell do bolts get rusty indoors? Must be the moisture that collects from humidity.

“Any way of telephoning someone?” he shouted.

“Use the phone inside.”

“Inside where?” Then he noticed the gray panel, pulled the knob. Over the phone it said, “For emergency use only.” He took it off the hook. It rang for the longest time, then a man answered. “We’re working on it,” the man’s voice said.

“We’re expected somewhere,” Al said. “It’s important. Can you call them and tell them we’re stuck in an elevator?”

“You want to call your lawyer?”

“No, no, just the people who are expecting us for dinner.”

“Gimme the number.”

He gave them Jack and Mary’s number, thanked the man, and hung up. There was a sudden thump as if a weight had hit the roof of the car.

“It’s okay,” said a strange voice, “it’s me.”

“Who’s me?” said Al.

“The mechanic,” the voice shouted. “I’m on top of the car.”

“I thought you’d have to fix this from the basement.”

“The emergency stop claws got bent. This’ll take time.”

*

It took nearly two hours longer. The temperature inside the cab had gotten hot, they were soaked, their nerves shrill. A ladder had to be lowered to them, and they had to climb out onto the top of the cab, black with dirt, and then step up—Shirley had to be lifted by the man from on top and Al from underneath—onto the ledge of the open doorway on the floor above. Al was afraid the cab would suddenly descend.

Shirley was up. An extended hand helped Al.

Shirley and Al inspected each other. Their hands were black with grease. Shirley had a smear across her face. The jacket of Al’s suit had a small rip.

“What’s your name?” Shirley asked the man who seemed in
charge. “I’m going to put in a bill for all this.”

The man refused to give his name.

The bathroom on the floor was locked.

“We could take another elevator up to my office floor and wash there. I’ve got a key. Or we could just go.”

“We’ll wash up at Mary’s.”

Al touched the elevator button.

“Let’s use the stairs,” said Shirley.

“It’s thirty floors.”

“I don’t care.”

“You going to walk up on Monday?”

“Monday is Monday. I may get over it by then. Or maybe I ought to join Max Caiden. His offices are on the third floor.” They went down the stairs, quietly at first, then faster like schoolchildren, until they arrived, gasping and winded on the ground floor. A fireman there took their names.

Outside, they flagged a cab, got in. Al dabbed at Shirley’s face with a clean handkerchief, then gave it to her for her hands. It didn’t help much.

On the way Shirley told Al about Max Caiden, the nine-hundred-dollar present, and Caiden’s background with Crouch.

“I don’t like to give advice,” said Al.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t think you and Caiden would last very long. More than Crouch he’d need a way to control you.”

“There’s another possibility.”

“Such as?”

“I could starve to death.”

Al seemed lost in thought.

“Where are you?”

“I was thinking that if it hadn’t been for my father’s insurance mania, I wouldn’t have been able to do things my own way, but that’s wrong. I found out the hard part is not the money. It’s the self-discipline. Somebody with ability can always pick up a few extra bucks for
the necessities.”