The Box (17 page)

“You got it wrong,” he said to Cipolla. “You don’t know what you’re junking here, what part’s good and what part’s bad.”

“But you know, huh?”

“Yes,” said Quinn, and then the rest came out as smoothly as if he had practiced this kind of thing for a very long time. “I can give you the details some other time, but the no good part in the set-up isn’t that big.”

“How big?”

“Whitfield here. That’s all.”

Whitfield gaped. He sat up in his chair as if he hadn’t heard right and then he started to stutter something, but Quinn was not looking at him. Quinn was looking at Cipolla to see if the right impression was made.

“Quinn,” Whitfield got out, “what did I ever do to you?”

Quinn did not answer. He kept looking at Cipolla and then he said, “Well? You going to go hog wild on this thing or am I going back with you and set this thing straight?”

Cipolla put the cigar back into his pocket and got up. “Okay,” he said. “We’re leaving after dark.”

Chapter 17

They all seemed to be leaving the room alone because nobody looked at anyone else or talked. Quinn stopped on the landing and lit a cigarette and then walked down the stairs slowly. No rush now, and feeling a little bit tired. But it had worked. He was getting in, right on top of Remal, and the little panic of losing this thing was now almost forgotten. When Quinn got downstairs the Sicilian had gone and Remal was walking out the front door with Beatrice. She looked back at Quinn and then away again. Her face had not changed while she had looked at him but Quinn had not seen too clearly, or had not cared too much. He watched the two walk down the street but he actually saw only Remal. Then he walked through the arch to the bar.

Whitfield was there and when he saw Quinn he quickly tossed down his drink and started to leave.

“Hey.” said Quinn. “Listen a minute.”

Whitfield stayed where he was because very quickly he felt too indifferent to argue.

“You know there was nothing personal in that, you know that, Whitfield. Buy you a drink?”

Whitfield pulled his empty glass towards himself and said very slowly, “Damn your bleeding eyes, Quinn, I have never seen anything more contemptible in my life. And I hope you get yours.”

“What?”

“You won’t get it from me, because I’m not the man or the type and don’t understand any of this anyway, but let me make clear to you, Quinn, I despise you.”

“Now listen…”

“I cannot say that I dislike you. That would involve some sort of activity on my part, and any sort of activity on my part is of course rare. But I despise you. I would go so far as to spit. Thank you, I’ll buy my own drink,” and Whitfield waved at the waiter.

The two men did not talk while the waiter first made a gin drink for Whitfield and then poured Scotch over ice for Quinn. After that Quinn had to haul himself out of a deep, heavy dullness in order to say something or other to Whitfield. He wished the other man would understand him.

“Whitfield, look here. Maybe you’ve heard about business. I know you’ll have nothing to do with it but you must have heard of it.”

“Spare me,” said Whitfield and looked away.

“Don’t you know I have nothing against you?”

Whitfield looked back at Quinn and said, “That’s what makes it so surprising.”

“Look. When I get over there and talk to whoever runs that end of the line, I’m going to make it my business…”

“Stop saying business to me.”

“I’ll see to it they don’t get the wrong impression about you. Only reason I used you for the goat up there in the room was to keep that idiot, what’s his name…”

“Cipolla. It might interest you to know that’s Italian for onion, and perhaps you shouldn’t bite into that one too hard.”

“I know his type from way back, Whitfield. Don’t worry.”

“But I
am
worried!” Whitfield took a hasty drink and then he talked with more animation than Quinn had ever seen in the man. “You know his type from way back,” said Whitfield, “and you’ll be sure to use that type very properly too. And any other types which you may meet around here and which may prove handy. See here, Quinn. In this half-blown-over town we all lead a fine useless life. All the people I know lead a most useless life. And we are bastards, and we cheat, and there’s all manner of laxness and laziness for all of which you have one highly developed nose. And now I will even tell you what’s going to happen and since I never do anything about these things which I know ahead of time, they therefore usually happen. Here’s all this no-good worthlessness which I’ve been describing to you. Very well. Not much harm done. But you, Quinn, you’re going to organize all of that! You’re just apt to take advantage of all the worst in us and
organize
it, you rotten—rotten something or other from a box!”

Quinn felt surprised and angered and agitated by Whitfield’s long talk. He felt like saying a great number of things himself, about how right Whitfield was and how wrong Whitfield was, but he felt unsure and said nothing. He thought, the only thing he’s left out is some preachment about Remal not being such a bad sort, as Whitfield would put it, and why don’t I lay off Remal? Because I got sucked in and I’ve had it. Simple answer.

Whitfield finished his glass and then he finished his speech. “And that’s why I much prefer to remain drunk because then I’ll
never
be organized. Good night, Sir,” and he left.

When Quinn got outside he saw Whitfield standing with Bea. Then Whitfield started to walk again and waved his arms once or twice, which seemed to have something to do with finishing the conversation.

First he, now she, thought Quinn. Naturally, she’ll wave this way in a moment and then it’s either of one or the other: let’s go to bed, or, what kind of a bastard are you anyway, Quinn.

Quinn fumbled for a cigarette and found that he had none. He then discovered that he had only stood fumbling there to give Bea a chance to look up and see him before he, Quinn, would turn away. Why not, he thought, I’ve got nothing else to do until evening.

She waved at him from the distance and he waved back. Then he stood by the steps and waited for her, watching her walk.

“What’s gotten into you, Quinn?”

Yeah, yeah, sure, he thought, and to hell with it, this is all about what a bastard I am.

“You know I
like
Whitfield?” she said, and stopped in front of him.

“You got a cigarette?” he said. It did not sound tough or off-handed and was not meant that way, but he did not know what else to say at that moment so he said the prepared thing.

It surprised him when she said, yes, and nothing else and he waited while she felt around inside the big pocket on her skirt and then pulled out—this habit she had—just the one cigarette.

“This will surprise you, Quinn,” she said, “but I like you too. Only you make it hard for me to show it.”

“Oh hell,” he said, and threw his cigarette away.

She gave a yank on his arm which made him stop and she had stopped too. “Look at me Quinn. Not down the street. You’re like that thin dog running there except you want to run and be fat.”

He nodded, not knowing why. He knew he felt a direction when talking to Whitfield, or to that bum from Sicily or to Remal or anyone else, but not with her. Not with Bea, no direction with her, but he did not want to leave.

“I don’t know why you’re running or what got you into that box because you never mention either one or the other,” she said, “but then again maybe you never had to mention a thing but made it clear just the same. Just by doing all the things you’ve been doing. Whatever got you here, you never made that too clear, Quinn. But somehow, when you came out of that box, you looked like you were well out of it.” She took a breath in between, without talking, as if she might shout next, or as if she might just sigh the rest away. Either would fit. But then she just talked again, though it sounded as if she did not like this ending. “And now,” she said, “you’re going right back into that box.”

When she let go of his arm the change startled him. She had told him something and had now left him alone with something which felt harsh enough to remind him of the truth. He took a deep breath, the way she had done a short while before, but he did it to brace himself.

“Don’t ever say that to me again.” He was surprised to hear that his voice was hoarse.

“Quinn,” she said, and started to put her hand out to him. Then she dropped it when she saw how he moved back. “Quinn,” she said again, “please don’t run from me and please don’t jump on me.”

“All I said…”

“But you were listening to me this time, weren’t you?”

He looked away, down the street, and this meant yes both to him and to her.

“You remember how you came out of that box, and never used to look away:

He looked back at her and then down, as if thinking about what to say, or how to say it.

“Bea, listen. When all this is over—” Then he thought some more.

“When?” she said.

“I was just thinking when.”

“Any time, Quinn.”

“Just a minute, just a minute,” he said. “Don’t screw me up now. Any time what?”

“Anything.”

“You thinking about yourself or me?”

“It doesn’t make any difference, the way I was thinking, Quinn.” Then she said, “I would like to leave with you, Quinn.”

He looked down at her and then put his hand to the side of her face because now she was turning away. There was a great deal of warmth in his hand and he felt she must feel this.

“You know,” he said, “you say this to me and you still call me Quinn.”

“That doesn’t matter to me. It can be strange and it can be right all at the same time.”

He put his hand down and said, “I can’t leave because I don’t have any papers.”

The remark was as asinine as it was correct and he wished that he hadn’t made it, because of everything it left out.

“You know I saw Remal before,” she said. He was glad she was talking, but now he did not want to listen.

“Where is he?” Quinn said.

“I was just going to tell you. He’s phoning. He’s making all kinds of calls…”

“Like, maybe Sicily?”

“Sicily?” she said. “Your consulate. I don’t know about Sicily.”

Now Quinn tapped himself for a cigarette again and she held one out to him. He took it without looking.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure that’s one way of trying to get ahead of me,” and he did not see her hold out the lighter to him. “Where is he?” he said again.

“I was to tell you he’d like to see you in the hotel a little later.”

He looked at her now and saw her hold the lighter but ignored it.

“You came running down here just to tell me that?”

“No, Quinn!”

“Am I supposed to be stupid?”

“Yes you are! I did not come down here because he sent me. He didn’t send me, Quinn. Please!”

“But if you just should happen to run into me, is that it, you should give me this kindly message to show up at the hotel and get the good word from Remal himself about all the preparations he’s made about keeping me here in the country, with the help of consul and what not, and then, that failing, what preparations he’s made for my Sicilian reception, once I get over there.”

“Oh my God,” she said and turned away.

She walked back up the street, toward the hotel, and he followed her, walking next to her. They did not say another word. They went into the hotel; he went to the bar and stopped. She did not stop but kept walking to the back of the big room; she sat down at the round table where he had seen her that first time. He looked at her once from the bar. She did not look like the first time to him, or like any other time. In fact, he hardly saw her at all, only something sitting there. He looked away and hated her guts. He was not done with his first Scotch when Remal walked in and that was just fine with Quinn, that was just fine and as expected.

“I’m glad you waited for me, Mister Quinn,” Remal said as he stepped up to the bar.

“Your messenger got to me just in time. Just as I was walking out of here to do something dangerous and heroic, she came running and begged me to wait for you instead. To lie down under a table here and wait for you. You’d come over to the table and give me a soft little nudge with your soft little slipper and then I’d know it was you, come to talk to me.”

“Are you very drunk, Mister Quinn?”

Quinn, in fact, did feel drunk, but knew no reason why he should be, on two widely-spaced Scotches.

“I would like us to sit down,” said Remal. “I have some good news for you.”

I can’t tell whether or not he’s hopeful or worried, thought Quinn. Maybe he’s neither. And I’ll take another Scotch, on him, and might as well catch up drinking to the way I feel drunk.

He ordered the drink and sat down at a table nearby and Remal did the same. Remal looked back and forth from this table to the one in back where Bea sat alone, but said nothing. I bet he’s puzzled as all hell, thought Quinn, and can’t understand how anyone can take offense at a woman for any reason at all. Such a gentleman, this one, and with good news yet.

Quinn picked up his fresh glass and Remal said, “I would like to tell you and discuss the news before…”

“Before I get any drunker?” said Quinn, and then he took a good swallow from his glass.

Remal said nothing while Quinn finished. When Quinn had put down his glass Remal said, “If this was meant to offend me, Mister Quinn, you cannot offend me.”

“Like you wouldn’t be offended at a dog that pissed on your rug because that would be just too foolish, to think of the brute as if it were a human being.”

Remal sucked air through his nose. It’s just like he’s sniffing this whole thing out, thought Quinn.

“It’s precisely this kind of remark, Mister Quinn, which keeps me from understanding you. I’ve been wondering whether or not you do it on purpose.

“What’s the good news?” said Quinn.

“Yes. It is better to talk about that.” He smoothed his skirt affair and then he looked up. “I have been on the phone, Mister Quinn, to inform myself and to expedite.”

“Yes, yes?” said Quinn, and thought of the Arab who stank so much and had a donkey face.