“But a good worker,” said my bookkeeper man. “A real flash with the Payables.”
“All your stuff here, that’s Receivables?”
“Payables, same as his.”
I didn’t say ‘oh’ again and I didn’t ask any more, because it would all come out the same. The place had never worked so hard catching up with the Payables.
For old times’ sake I took the elevator to the fourth floor and there was one familiar sight, anyway. Herbie at the desk, and what he said was familiar, too.
“Oo-man!” he said.
“Not again.”
“No. This one’s different. But oo-man!”
“Can she sing?”
“Ask Conrad.”
I went through to the messy room with the racks and the cables and one of the agents was there, talking to Conrad. They both looked at me and Conrad said, “You did it this time, Jack!” And the agent said, “But too bad you didn’t have her signed.”
On the other side of the window, doing phrasing with an arranger, was Hough and Daly’s own Doris, who could also sing.
“She come looking for you,” said Conrad. “First few times.”
“But you didn’t show,” said the agent.
“So you showed her.”
“But you didn’t have her signed, Jack.”
“That’s right. Just personal.”
“That’s what she said.”
I looked at her through the window but I couldn’t hear a thing.
“Is she good?” I asked Conrad.
“Would I take her?” said the agent.
“For three-dozen reasons.”
“No,” said Conrad. “She’s good.”
I looked at her through the window but she didn’t see me. She was singing, and why shouldn’t she be good. Then I left.
I passed the restaurant downstairs and felt a little bit hungry, but that was just a reflex and it didn’t last. I got the car out of the lot and drove back to Lippit’s. I remember lighting a cigarette when I got into the car, same with another one when I stopped for a light, and then again in the apartment-house lobby. I went up six flights, rang the right bell, and heard somebody coming. Pat opened the door.
“Jack,” she said.
“Hi. Jack what?”
“Your cigarette’s out,” she said. Then she went ahead of me.
When I came into the living room Lippit came in from the other end. He looked across and nodded. “Jack,” he said.
“Hi. Jack what?”
“Jack-of-all-trades, maybe,” and he came toward me. Then he said, “Your cigarette’s out.”
“So give me a light.”
“I will give you better,” he said, “you son of a bitch,” and he hauled it up from somewhere, fast and hard. I jackknifed to the floor before it started to hurt.
It hurt plenty then, all the way from the chin to the top of the head, whether I held still where I was or whether I moved, just ever so slightly.
His feet were still close to me but then they walked away.
“You can get up,” he said. “Get up if you want.”
I didn’t want to get up and I didn’t want to stay down and what if I had stopped in the restaurant, wouldn’t that have made a difference? Crazy, I thought, and when I looked up I saw Lippit standing there and-he’s crazy, not me. One crazy bastard…
He must have seen my face as I thought that one over because just when I was ready to jump he was ahead of me, and his foot hit me in the ribs.
That was a much more sudden pain. It crashed open. It didn’t stay where it started but was worst in that spot. I fell over and stayed that way for a while.
Lippit stood there just like before with his face the same as when he had said, “Jack,” and the rest, afterwards.
Pat was by a wall and had her lip in her teeth. She had one fist in front of her face and I saw mostly her eyes.
Pat didn’t move, nor Lippit, but there was the sound.
The door to the back opened and when he came through he left it open. And he had on a new leather jacket. Otherwise Folsom hadn’t changed.
“Don’t you think, Mister Lippit,” he said, “that we should ask the lady…”
“All right, beat it,” said Lippit. “Don’t you have any sense?”
Pat left, walking quickly, and she still had her fist near her face. I could see that and her short hair dipping up and down when she walked. When she went into the room in back she squeezed to one side in the door. The other one came out, the big one, the one Lippit had beaten up the other time.
But this was a new time. This was very different I even learned the big one’s name. It was Franklin.
“Franklin,” said Lippit, “you can stay over there. No. By the chair. Sit.”
“But if he gets up…”
“He doesn’t want to get up,” said Lippit.
“I think he’s ashamed,” said Folsom.
I almost threw up.
“Stop talking crap,” said Lippit, and then, “you hear me, St. Louis?”
“I hear you.”
“So why don’t you look up?”
“I think he’s…”
“Folsom,” said Lippit. “Just shut up.”
They had a fine slave-and-master relationship. Which was normal. Nothing else was, though.
“So why don’t you look up?” Lippit said again.
“I’m waiting for you to put your foot in my neck and then stand there like that to make a proclamation.”
“You want me to make…”
Something crashed against the wall next to Franklin where Lippit had missed with the cocktail glass. I straightened up with some effort-what was keeping me down was some muscle midway down which I had not even known existed before this-and I gave the scene a look. It was painful, all around. There was big Franklin, smart Folsom, and Walter Lippit. The new working relationship. It worked in a disgusting way.
“I need a drink,” I said.
Nobody moved. Franklin looked at the broken glass next to his chair and Folsom looked up at the ceiling. Folsom was lighting himself a cigarette.
“If nobody will take offense,” I said, “I’ll try and get it myself.”
It was unpleasant going but then I had to get it myself. Nobody moved and nobody answered. I got up, got to the liquor chest, got a bottle. I was now more mad than puzzled.
“Mud in your faces,” I said. “And with glass in it.” Then I had a pull at the bottle.
“Take it away from him,” said Lippit.
Franklin came over, all muscled eagerness. I held the bottle out to him and let it drop on his foot.
“Never mind,” yelled Lippit. “Get back to your chair.” Franklin limped back and I reached down for a fresh bottle.
“Leave it,” said Lippit. “Leave it sit, St. Louis.”
I kept it in my hand but didn’t open the bottle. “I won’t throw it,” I said. “I just need a drink.”
