“How will I get it back?”
“When I get my job.”
“You’re getting a job?”
“Today, if the thing is on schedule.”
The exchange left Whitfield a little limp and he had no idea what it was all about.
“Why do you need money?”
“Because I got a date.”
Which is, of course, Whitfield thought, how we started. And better avoid confusion and not ask how come a date at this hour in the morning.
Quinn was toweling his face and Whitfield closed his eyes. There was too much activity. When he opened his eyes again he saw Quinn stand by the bed.
“You look terribly awake,” said Whitfield, feeling threatened.
“You going to lend me that money? Five bucks or so.”
Whitfield sighed and closed his eyes again. “I’d rather not,” he said, “though it seems I might, any moment.”
“You’ll get it back, Whitfield. Really.”
“I point out to you that you are not permitted to hold a job in this country, not with your status, and I point out to you that it is barely daylight and no time for a date at all, and if it’s Bea, then of course you actually don’t need any money at all. This exhausts my arguments. I am exhausted.”
“I haven’t got a date this early in the morning but maybe I haven’t got time to ask for the money later. And don’t tell me about legalities. You know they don’t mean a thing around here.”
“All right,” said Whitfield, “all right,” and then he got out of bed. He gave Quinn some bills which actually came to about three dollars and then said he was not too interested in discussing legalities, not with an active-type crook such as Quinn, he himself being a passive-type crook only, and that there was a great deal of difference. He, Whitfield, did not enjoy the activity as such but only the rewards, and that was quite different from Quinn’s situation. And would Quinn please leave now, so that he, Whitfield, might wake up in peace.
“Be seeing you,” said Quinn, and left.
Whitfield thought about the way Quinn had grinned, and about this disturbing electric quality which the man could muster at this hour of the morning. And I’ll not be seeing you, not today, if I can help it.
But Whitfield felt apprehensive from that point on without bothering to try and explain this to himself. He knew that he could always find explanations for anything, several explanations for anything, and that it did not help him one bit. He went apprehensively through the entire forenoon, consoling himself with the thought of his siesta.
He was reasonably busy with bills of lading, and at eleven the cutter came in. The cutter had tear streaks of rust down its sides and looked to be built about fifty years ago. Which was true, except for the engine. This was the cutter from Sicily and eleven o’clock was a very nice time of arrival-the cutter did not always come in on schedule- but eleven was fine with Whitfield because by eleven-thirty he could start his siesta. With this thought Whitfield forgot his apprehension for a while and watched how the cutter sidled up to the pier.
Then Whitfield saw the Sicilian. The man stood, arms akimbo, where the gangway would come down from the ship’s side and Whitfield went back into apprehension. Oh no, he thought. First I lose five dollars, while still in bed, and now this has to happen. That man there never comes along on a trip unless there is trouble, or at any rate, hardly ever unless there is trouble, and of course there is trouble today. I feel it. I know my siesta is shot all to hell. Why did I have to be in such an exciting business like shipping in Okar.
The Sicilian was the first off the gangway and came across the bright pier to the warehouse door where Whitfield was standing. Let him walk all the way over, thought Whitfield, I am used to apprehension and besides, that one loves to walk.
This seemed to be true. The Sicilian walked as if preceding an army. He also reminded one of a bantam, except that his face was a monkey face. He wore an Italian suit, the jacket leaving some of the rear exposed in fairly tight pants, and the shoulders flared out as if there were epaulettes. He walked, flashing his shoes. Where an American buys a showy car, Whitfield thought to himself, a Sicilian buys that kind of shoes.
“Whitfield?” said the Sicilian, as if he did not know whom he was talking to.
“How are you, Cipolla,” and Whitfield smiled, hoping that this might influence fate.
“You got troubles, Whitfield. Come on.”
Cipolla talked English whenever he could. He did not talk English, according to Whitfield, but a type of American. Cipolla had learned the language during his few years in New York, before he had been shipped back for illegal entry.
Since the Sicilian went to the warehouse without saying another word, Whitfield had to follow. When he got to his office, Cipolla was sitting in the only chair.
“What kinda monkeyshines goes on here?” said Cipolla.
It would be useless to try to answer that, so Whitfield said, “I beg your pardon?”
“And don’t hand me that Boston accent. You know what you done?”
“No, and you are here to tell me. What I done,” said Whitfield.
“That shipment of alcohol-you know what shipment of alcohol?”
“Yes,” said Whitfield and rubbed his forehead. “The one without tires on the wheels, I’m sure.”
“Che dice?”
“Never mind, and you needn’t give me any of your Sicilian accent, please. It affects me similarly as my…”
“I’m gonna tell you your troubles, Whitfield. That alcohol, friend, was just like water!”
Thank God, thought Whitfield, no alcohol is just like water, and let us soon be done with this dismal day. “In fact,” Cipolla yelled suddenly, “it was water!”
“It was?”
“And besides, it still is water!”
“Oh no,” said Whitfield. “I knew it-”
“You knew it?”
“ Will you stop crowing at me!” and Whitfield got up from the window sill.
For a moment he felt pleased for having known that of course something bad would soon happen. How could one ignore the signs, being of average intelligence: the five dollars lost while still asleep in bed, the truck without tires, the creature from the box, the bad run of siestas. And now it had all come true. Whitfield knew well that there was trouble, but before he could get depressed he thought of a bathtub and became indifferent.
“Come on,” he said. “Might as well see Remal.”
Quinn had just one highball, even though he had to sit with it for almost an hour. He did not want to feel dull, or feel happy, or indifferent. He wanted to sit there for whatever time it would take and feel sharp like this, nervous like this.
When Bea walked into the hotel he seemed glad enough to see her come up to his table, and he gave her a quick smile.
It was too quick, she thought, but then I’m too apprehensive. She sat down, looking at him, wishing he would look at her too so that she could tell how he felt.
“Buy you a drink?” he said.
“Thank you. Is yours Scotch?”
Quinn did not answer but waved at the waiter and called Scotch across the room.
“Quinn?”
“Huh?”
“I wanted to say something to you about this morning.”
“There’s Whitfield,” said Quinn and pointed out to the lobby. “Who’s that with him?”
“I don’t know. He’s a Sicilian. Quinn?”
“I guess they’re not coming in for a drink,” said Quinn. He folded his arms on the table and looked at the woman. “You were saying something?”
He even smiled, but she did not feel that the smile was for her, not for anyone even, it was that kind of a smile. She took a deep breath and said, “I wish it were morning again.”
