The Main

David butts in. “How to steal, naturally. Theft for fun and profit. Theft and the Polish Question.”

“Why don’t you shut up for a while?” Moishe suggests. “Your mouth could use the rest.”

David spreads his face in offended innocence and draws back, then he winks at LaPointe. He has been riding Moishe all night, piquing him here and there, ridiculing his play, when he knew perfectly well that all the cards were against him. But he is a little surprised when his gentle partner snaps back like this.

“So?” Moishe asks Guttmann. “What did you study?”

Guttmann shrugs off the value of his studies, a little embarrassed about them in the presence of LaPointe. “Oh, a little sociology, some psychology as related to the criminal and criminal motives—that sort of thing.”

“No literature? No theology?”

“Some literature, sure. No theology. Would you pass the mustard, please?”

“Here you are. You know, it’s interesting you should have studied criminal motives and all this. Just lately I have been thinking about crime and sin… the relationships, the differences.”

“Oh boy,” David puts in. “Here we go again! Listen! About crime it’s all right to think. It’s a citizen’s duty. But about sin? Moishe, my old friend, AK’s like us shouldn’t think about sin. It’s too late. Our chances have passed us by.”

Guttmann laughs. “No, I’m afraid I never think about things like that, Mr. Rappaport.”

“You don’t?” Moishe asks gloomily, his hopes for a good talk crumbling. “That’s strange. When I was a young man thinking was a popular pastime.”

“Things change,” David says.

“Does that mean they improve?” Moishe asks.

Guttmann glances at his watch. “Hey, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to be going. I have a date, and I’m already late.”

“A date?” David asks. “It’s after eleven. What can you do so late?”

“We’ll think of something.” As soon as he makes this adolescent single-entendre remark, Guttmann feels he has been disloyal to his girl.

Moishe rises. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“That isn’t necessary, sir.”

“You’re already late for your date. And you’re not familiar with the streets around here. So don’t argue. Get your coat.”

As they leave, Moishe has already begun with “…when you stop to think about it, the differences between sin and crime are greater than the similarities. Take, for instance, the matter of guilt…”

As the door closes behind them, David looks at LaPointe and shakes his head. “Oh, that Moishe. Sin, crime, love, duty, the law, the good, the bad… he’s interested in everything that’s so big it doesn’t really matter. A scholar! But in practical things…” His lips flap with a puff of air. “That reminds me of something I wanted to talk to you about, Claude. A matter of law.”

“I’m not a lawyer.”

“I know, I know. But you know something about the law. This may come as a surprise to you, but I am not immortal. I could die. At my age, you have to think about such things. So tell me. What do I have to do to make sure the business goes to Moishe if he should, cholilleh, outlive me?”

LaPointe shrugs. “I don’t know. Isn’t all that handled in your partnership agreement?”

“Well… that’s the problem. Actually, Moishe and I aren’t partners. In the legal sense, I mean. And I have a nephew. I’d hate to see him come along and screw Moishe out of the business. And, believe me, he’s capable of it. Of working for a living, he’s not capable. But of screwing someone out of something? Of that he is capable.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean, you and Moishe aren’t partners? I thought he started the business, then later took you on as a partner.”

“That’s right. But you know Moishe. He’s not interested in the business end of business. A beautiful person, but in business a luftmensh. So over the years, he sold out to me so that he wouldn’t have to be bothered with taxes and records and all that.”

“And you’re afraid that if you die—”

“—cholilleh—”

“—he might not get the business? Well, David, I told you I’m no lawyer. But it seems to me that all you have to do is make out a will.”

David sighs deeply. “Yes, I was afraid of that. I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. I’m not a superstitious man, don’t get me wrong. But in my opinion a man is just asking for it, if he makes out his will while he’s still alive. It’s like saying to God, Okay. I’m ready whenever you are. And speaking personally for myself, I’m not ready. If a truck should run over me—okay, that’s that. But I’m not going to stand in the middle of the street shouting, Hey! Truck-drivers! I’m ready!”

As LaPointe steps out onto the blustery street, turning up the collar of his overcoat, he meets Moishe, returning from seeing Guttmann to his car. They fall into step and walk along together, as they usually do after games.

“That’s a nice young man, Claude.”

“He’s all right, I suppose. What did you talk about?”

“You.”

LaPointe laughs. “Me as a crime? Or me as a sin?”

“Neither one, exactly. We talked about his university studies; how much the things he learned turned out to reflect the real world.”

“How did I fit into that?”

“You were the classic example of how the things he learned were not like it is in the real world. The things you do and believe are the opposite of everything he wants to do with his life, of everything he believes in. But, oddly enough, he admires you.”

“Hm-m! I didn’t think he liked me all that much.”

“I didn’t say he likes you. He admires you. He thinks you’re the best of your kind.”

“But he can live without the kind.”

“That’s about it.”

They have reached the corner where they usually part with a handshake. But tonight Moishe asks, “Are you in a hurry to go home, Claude?”

LaPointe realizes that Moishe is still hungry for talk; the short walk with Guttmann couldn’t have made up for his usual ramblings with Father Martin. For himself, LaPointe has no desire to get to his apartment. He has known all day what he will find there.

“How about a glass of tea?” Moishe suggests.

“Sure.”

They go across the street to a Russian cafe where tea is served in glasses set in metal holders. Their table is by the window, and they watch late passers-by in the comfortable silence of old friends who no longer have to talk to impress one another, or to define themselves.

“You know,” Moishe says idly, “I’m afraid I frightened him off, your young colleague. With a young girl on his mind, the last thing in the world he needed was a long-winded talk about sin and crime.” He smiles and shakes his head at himself. “Being a bore is bad enough. Knowing you’re boring but going ahead anyway, that’s worse.”

“Hm-m. I could see you had something stored up.”

Moishe fixes his friend with a sidelong look. “What do you mean, I had something stored up?”

“Oh, you know. All through the game you were sending out little feelers; but Father Martin wasn’t there to take you up. You know, I sometimes think you work out what you’re going to say during the day, while you’re cutting away on your fabric. Then you drop these ideas casually during the pinochle game, like they just popped into your head. And poor Martin is fishing around for his first thoughts, while you have everything carefully thought out.”

“Guilty! And being guilty I don’t mind so much as being transparent!” He laughs. “What chance does the