Plexus (26 page)

The day came. I picked six bright boys, gave them explicit instructions, and sent them on their way.

Toward evening they came filing back, each one with a full valise. Not a box had been sold. Not one. I couldn't believe my eyes. I paid the boys off—a considerable sum!—and sat down on the floor with the valises all about me.

The letters, which I had attached to the candy boxes with rubber bands, were intact. I picked them up one by one and shook my head over each one. “Incredible, incredible!” I kept repeating. Finally I came to the two addressed to Hymie Laubscher and Steve Romero. I held the envelopes in my two hands for a while, unable to
comprehend the situation. If I couldn't depend on two old pals like Hymie and Steve, who then could I depend on?

Unwittingly I had opened the envelope addressed to Steve Romero. Something was written across the top of the letterhead. Before reading a word I already felt relieved. At least he had given an explanation.

“Spivak intercepted your boy in the vice-president's office. Notified all hands to refuse the candy. Sorry. Steve.”

I opened Hymie's envelope. Same message. I open Costigan's envelope.
Ditto
. By this time I was raging. “That bastard Spivak! So that was his way of getting back at me!” I swore I would strangle him, right on the street, next time I ran into him.

I sat there with Costigan's note in my hand. Costigan the knuckle-duster. It was ages since I had seen or heard from him. What a treat it would be for him to teach Spivak a little lesson! All he needed to do was to lure the latter uptown some evening, trap him in a dark street near the river and give him the works. The trouble that stinker had gone to! Telephoning each and every office in Brooklyn, Manhattan and the Bronx! I was surprised that Hymie hadn't dispatched a messenger to tip me off; it would have saved me a lot of jack. But he had probably been shorthanded, as usual.

I got to thinking of all the goofy guys I knew who were always ready to do me a good turn. There was the nightclerk in the 14th Street office who gambled incessantly; his boss was a eunuch who had been trying for years to induce the president to use carrier pigeons to deliver the telegrams. Never was there a more heartless, soulless individual than this
hombre
from Greenpoint; he would do anything for a few more dollars to place on the horses. There was the hunchback over in the fish market. An out and out fiend, a sort of Jack the Ripper in mufti. And that night-messenger, Arthur Wilmington. Once a minister of the Gospel, he was now a filthy human wreck who made caca in his pants. There was sly little Jimmy Falzone, with the
face of an angel and the instincts of a thug. There was the ratfaced lad from Harlem who peddled dope and falsified checks. There was the drunken giant from Cuba, Lopez, who could crack a man's ribs with one gentle hug. There was Kovalski, the demented Pole, who had three wives and fourteen children: he would do anything short of murder—for a dollar.

For that matter I didn't even have to think of such riffraff. There was Gus, the policeman, who escorted Mona from place to place in the Village whenever she was in the mood for it. Gus was one of those faithful dogs who would club a man to death if a woman merely hinted that she had been insulted by a strange man. And what about our good Catholic friend Buckley, the detective, who when drunk would take out his black crucifix and ask us to kiss it? Hadn't we done him a good turn one night by hiding his revolver when he was on a rampage?

When Mona arrived I was still seated on the floor, still in a reverie. The news didn't upset her greatly. She had expected something of the sort to happen. She was actually glad it had turned out so; perhaps it would cure me once and for all of my impracticable schemes. She was the only one who knew how to raise money and she did it without creating a fuss. When would I begin to put complete confidence in her?

“Let's quit all this,” I said. “If Cromwell comes across with that hundred bucks a week we ought to be able to manage, don't you think?”

She wasn't sure. The hundred a week would take care of
us
, but what about the alimony, what about her mother and brothers, what about this and that?

“Did you ever raise that mortgage money your mother was asking for?” I inquired.

Yes, she had—weeks ago. She didn't want to go into that just now, it was too painful. She merely remarked that no matter how much money came in it just flew. There was
only one solution, and that was to make a big haul. The real-estate game appealed to her more and more.

“Let's stop the candy business anyway,” I urged. “We'll go to dinner with our patron and we'll break the news to him gently. I'm sick of selling things… and I don't want you to be selling things either. It's disgusting.”

She appeared to agree with me. Suddenly, while creaming her face, she said: “Why don't we call Ulric up and go out to dinner together? You haven't seen him for ages, you know.”

I thought it a good idea. It was rather late but I decided to phone and see. I put my things on and dashed out.

An hour or so later the three of us were sitting in a restaurant down near the City Hall. An Italian place. Ulric was delighted to see us again. Had been wondering what we were up to all this time. While waiting for the minestrone we had a couple of drinks. Ulric had been working like a dog on some soap campaign and was glad of the opportunity to relax. He was in a mellow mood.

Mona was giving him an earful about the candy business—just the highlights. Ulric always listened to her tales with a sort of bemused wonder. He waited to hear my side of it before passing any comment. If I seemed in a corroborative mood he would then listen with both ears, quite as if he were hearing it all for the first time.

“What a life!” he chuckled. “I wish I had the guts to venture out a little more. But then those things never happen to me. So you peddled candies in the Café Royal? I'll be damned.” He wagged his head and chuckled some more.

“And is O'Mara still with you?” he asked.

“Yes, but he's leaving soon now. He wants to go South. Has a hunch he can clean up down there.”

“I suppose you won't miss him too much, what?”

“But I
will,”
I said. “I like O'Mara, despite his faults.”

To this Ulric nodded his head, as if to say that I was overindulgent but it was a good trait.

“And that Osiecki fella… what's happened to
him?”

“In Canada now. His two friends—you remember them—are looking after his girl.”

“I see,” said Ulric, rubbing his tongue back and forth over his ripe red lips. “Chivalrous lads, what?” and he chuckled some more.

“By the way,” he said, turning to Mona, “doesn't it seem to you that the Village is getting rather seedy these days? I made the mistake of taking some of my Virginia friends down there the other night. We got out in a hurry, I can tell you. All I could see were dives and joints. Maybe we didn't have enough under our belts.… There was one spot, a restaurant, I think, over on Sheridan Square. Quite a place, I don't mind saying.”

Mona laughed. “You mean Minnie Douchebag's hangout?”

“Minnie Douchebag?”

“Yes, that crazy fairy who sings and plays the piano… and wears women's clothes. Wasn't he there?”

“Of course!” said Ulric. “I didn't know that was his name. I must say it fits him. A real zany, by God. I thought at one point he'd climb the chandeliers. What a vile, stinking tongue he has too!” He turned to me. “Henry, things have changed some since our time. Try to picture me sitting there with two staid, conservative Virginians. To tell the truth, they hardly understood a word he said.”

The dives and joints, as Ulric called them, were of course the places we had been haunting. Though I pretended to make fun of Ulric's squeamishness, I shared his opinion of these places. The Village had indeed deteriorated. There were nothing but dives and joints, nothing but pederasts, Lesbians, pimps, tarts, fakes and phonies of all description. I didn't see the point of telling Ulric about it, but the last time we were at Paul and Joe's the place was entirely dominated by homos in sailors' uniforms. Some lascivious little bitch had tried to bite off a piece of Mona's right breast—right in the dining room. Coming
away from the place we had stumbled over two “sailors” writhing on the floor of the balcony, their pants down and grunting and squealing like stuck pigs. Even for Greenwich Village that was going pretty far, it seemed to me. As I say, I saw no point in relaying these incidents to Ulric—they were too incredible for him to swallow. What he liked to hear were Mona's tales about the clients she shook down, those queer birds, as he called them, from Weehawken, Milwaukee, Washington, Puerto Rico, the Sorbonne, and so on. It was plausible but mystifying to him that men of good standing should prove so vulnerable. He could understand shaking them down once, but not again and again.

“How does she ever manage to hold them off?” he blurted out, then made as if he were biting his tongue.

Suddenly he switched. “You know, Henry, that man McFarland has been asking for you repeatedly. Ned, of course, doesn't understand how you could turn down a good offer like that. He keeps telling McFarland you will turn up one day. You must have made a tremendous impression on the old boy. I suppose you have other plans,
but
—if you ever change your mind I think you could get most anything you want of McFarland. He told Ned confidentially that he would sack the whole office in order to keep a man like you. Thought I ought to tell you this. You never know.…”

Mona quickly diverted the talk to another trend. Soon we had drifted to the subject of burlesque. Ulric had a diabolical memory for names. He could not only recall the names of the comedians, the soubrettes, the hoochee-koochee dancers of the last twenty years, he could also give the names of the theaters where he had seen them, the songs they sang, whether it was winter or spring, and who had accompanied him on each occasion. From burlesque he drifted to musical comedies and thence to the various Quat'z'Arts Balls.

These powwows, when the three of us got together, were
always rambling, hectic, diffuse. Mona, who was never able to concentrate on anything for long, had a way of listening which would drive any man crazy. Always, just when you had reached the most interesting part of your story, she was suddenly reminded of something, and it had to be communicated at once. It made no difference whether we were talking of Cimabue, Sigmund Freud or the Fratellini brothers: the things she thought so important to tell us were as remote as the asteroids. Only a woman could make such outlandish connections. Nor was she one of those who could have her say and then let you have yours. To get back to the point was like trying to reach the shore directly opposite by fording a swift stream. One always had to allow for drift.

Ulric had grown somewhat accustomed to this form of conversation, much against the grain. It was a pity to subject him to it, though, for when given free play he could rival the Irish harp. That photographic eye of his, those soft palps with which he touched things, particularly the things he loved, his nostalgic memory which was inexhaustible, his mania for detail, certitude, exactitude (time, place, rhythm, ambience, magnitude, temperature) gave to his talk a quality such as the old masters achieved in pigment. Indeed, often when listening to him I had the impression that I was actually in the company of an old master. Many of my friends referred to him as quaint—“charming and quaint.” Which meant, “old-fashioned.” Yet he was neither a scholar, a recluse, nor a crank. He was simply of another time. When he spoke of the men he loved—the painters—he was one with them. Not only had he the gift of surrendering himself, he had also the art of identifying himself with those whom he revered.

He used to say that my talk could send him home drunk. He pretended that in my presence he could never say things the way he wanted to, the way he meant. He seemed to think it only natural that I should be a better storyteller than he, because I was a writer. The truth is, it was just
the other way round. Except for rare moments when I was touched off, when I went haywire, when I blew my top, I was a stuttering gawk by comparison.

What really roused Ulric's admiration and devotion was the raw content of my life, its underlying chaos. He could never reconcile himself to the fact that, though we had sprung from the same milieu, had been reared in the same stupid German-American atmosphere, we had developed into such different beings, had gone in such totally opposite directions. He exaggerated this divergence, of course. And I did little to correct it, knowing the pleasure it gave him to magnify my eccentricities. One has to be generous sometimes, even if it makes one blush.

“Sometimes,” said Ulric, “when I talk about you to my friends it sounds fabulous, even to me. In the short time since we've known each other again it seems to me you've already led a dozen lives. I hardly know anything about that period in between—when you were living with the widow and her son, for example. When you had those rich sessions with Lou Jacobs—wasn't that his name? That must have been a rewarding period, even if a trying one. No wonder that man McFarland sensed something different in you. I know I'm treading on dangerous ground in opening that subject again”—he gave a quick, appealing glance at Mona—“but really, Henry, this life of adventure and movement which you crave… excuse me, I don't mean to put it crudely… I know you're a man of contemplation too.…” Here he sort of gave up, chuckled, snorted, rolled his tongue over his lips, swallowed a few drops of cognac, slapped his thighs, looked from one to the other of us, and let out a good long belly laugh. “Damn it, you know what I mean!” he blurted out. “I'm stuttering like a schoolboy. I think what I intended to say is just this—you need a larger scope to your life. You need to meet men who are more near your own stature. You should be able to travel, have money in your pocket, explore, investigate. In short—bigger adventures, bigger exploits.”