Infamous

“Here’s to Oklahoma Gas and Electric,” Urschel said.

More nervous laughter, and someone said, “It’s just a fuse. Don’t worry.”

The conversation soon steadied, and Urschel’s eyes adjusted in the dark, but his breathing had become a bit squirrelly, and he didn’t feel like touching any of the food. “Are you okay, Charles?” Berenice asked from his left.

And he nodded.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, excusing himself and taking a candle from the kitchen. He mounted the great staircase in bounds of two and three steps, cupping the flame in his hand, until he found his bedroom door and then the walk-in closet, seeking out his shotgun from under some old hats and winter scarves. The shells were found in his hunting coat, and he loaded the barrels and crept to the window, finding the entire street had gone dark. The houses down Eighteenth were blackened in both directions, the streetlights extinguished.

He breathed, and moved over the soft carpet, slipping the weapon behind some tall, thick drapery. The room smelled of Berenice’s Parisian perfume and his old cigars, and he had to wipe the oil from his fingers, not knowing if it was from the gun or the quail.

Charlie walked down the steps, the candle’s flame sputtering out, as he heard the laughter and dinner chatter, the glow of the dining room giving him light enough to see. When he reached the landing, he found he was nearly out of breath and a bit dizzy, and he held on to a post fashioned in the shape of a pineapple. Tom Slick had said pineapples brought wealth or meant wealth.

Charlie Urschel was quite dizzy.

He breathed, and righted himself, just before the young federal agent walked onto the landing with his annoying clacking shoes. “Sir?”

Charlie looked up at him and studied a face filled with concern.

“They treated me like a dog,” Charles Urschel said, mouth completely parched. “Kept me on a three-foot lead.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man said. His name escaped Charlie. “I know.”

“You must find them,” Charlie said. “A man can’t live like this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you do, I want to be notified immediately,” Charles Urschel said. “I want a chance to speak with them privately.”

The young man just studied him, and Urschel turned back toward the kitchen, all of a sudden wanting all these people out of his home, most of them he didn’t even know. Society women, garden club members, and members of the club who thought they’d earned a ticket to see the show. He was tired of all the concern and well-wishes and Berenice’s pity as she lay next to him in the one o’clock hour, Charlie hearing the chimes but unable to move from the sweaty sheets, arms in spasm, as he lay on his back in complete failure.

Five policemen turned to him in wonder when he walked onto his own sunporch.

Two men guarded the walkway from his house, holding guns and asking if they might walk with him.

Three more policemen sat in the kitchen, listening to the radio with the colored help, the power back on, all of ’em laughing at Amos ’n’ Andy, while Big Louise finished up setting the ambrosia on a silver platter.

“Mr. Charlie?” she asked with a smile that dropped when she saw his face.

He could only compose himself in the guest bath, and, even after a few minutes, there was knocking to see if it was occupied. He set the lock, turned on the faucet, and ran cool water in the darkness, splashing it on his face. When the lights flashed on, he was still sitting on a closed toilet, gripping a brass handrail, his feet pressing against the wall before him.

With the illumination, his legs dropped, one and two, to the tile. He splashed more water on his eyes and returned to the head of the table, saying he’d been a bit ill but please continue with dessert. Berenice wore a curious expression, and he reassured her with a smile, his shaky hand dropping his linen napkin to the floor.

When he reached under the table, he noted Miss Betty Slick’s hand groping that young federal agent right between his legs as if she were kneading bread. Charlie righted himself in his large chair, and added some sugar to his coffee, slowly stirring. “Well now, son. Tell us, how did you come into the employ of Mr. Hoover?”

THEY WERE FINE, FAT, ROSY-CHEEKED PEOPLE FILLED WITH pep and life. The wife was the kind of woman who kept the Lane Bryant catalog by her freshly scrubbed toilet, checking out the latest fashions for portly women, while her old man read Abercrombie & Fitch over a morning bowl of Shredded Wheat, fancying himself the outdoors type, priding himself on crapping regular. They lived in a contented newish bungalow, not far off the streetcar line in Cleveland Heights. And the old man, Mr. K. R. Quigley, probably gave Mrs. Quigley and their precocious-if not annoying-daughter a peck on the cheek before doffing the old hat and rambling down to the automobile dealership, where he’d now sold Mr. R. G. Shannon, prosperous farmer out of Paradise, Texas, two brand-new Cadillacs.

“I have to say I was a bit surprised to see you two, again,” Mr. Quigley said. “I figured that custom sixteen- cylinder job would last you some time.”

Mrs. R. G. Shannon-Ora, if you please-knew why the son of a bitch was really surprised to see the Shannons again and it had nothing to do with the performance of the machine. Mrs. Quigley had called them out at a sit-down restaurant in June as a couple of four-flushers, raising her eyebrows at a couple hicks financing the top-of-the-line Cadillac and doubting that a nice farmer’s wife from Texas could even recognize a Hattie Carnegie gown-bought in New York City-black and long, with silver buttons from the top center down to the bottom of the skirt, and done in a very fine wool crepe.

But, my God, what was Mrs. Shannon wearing tonight, along with some quite attractive new baubles? What is that, you fatty old bag? Oh, yes, that’s nothing, just a little trinket made of fifty-five diamonds and a square-cut emerald solitaire ring. Nothing, really. Had you not noticed them before, you wretched housewife with mannish hands and bad posture? I don’t care if your closets are filled with husky-catalog fashions and your kitchen shelves with Bisquick, Swans Down Cake Flour, and rows and rows of Campbell’s soup.

“May I get you more coconut cake?” Mrs. Quigley asked. “The secret really is Baker’s. The triple-sealed package keeps it tender and nut sweet. Not to mention sanitary.”

“I am quite all right.” Kathryn dabbed the corners of her mouth. “A bit rich for me.”

“But I followed the recipe,” she said. “I’m so very sorry.”

“It was quite tasty,” Kathryn said. “Quite sweet. But a woman must watch her figure.”

The couples sat in a family room with a large window facing a perfect lawn shadowed in maple and elm. The radio had warmed up and broadcast the national news out of New York, and although Kathryn wasn’t paying much mind she heard damn well nothing of Charlie Urschel. Apparently there was some trouble with those banana eaters down in Cuba, and they’d gone and overthrown their dictator or some type of mess. There were more NRA parades and Blue Eagle mumbo jumbo, news from the World’s Fair, where the station would be live tomorrow, broadcasting Buddy Barnes, from the Pabst Blue Ribbon Casino.

“Was the engine too much, Mr. Shannon?” Mr. Quigley asked, setting down the plate scraped clean of icing. “She can devour some oil.”

“Call me Boss,” George said, getting all corny and full of himself. He wore a new navy suit and new oxblood shoes, a new pair of rimless glasses fashioned in an octagonal shape. He’d been told they’d give the angles of his face a new dimension. “No. It wasn’t the engine. The little wife here just had her heart set on that sweet little number when she saw it in McCall’s.”

“Redbook,” Kathryn said, giving the old stink eye to Mrs. Quigley’s fat ass, waddling under the apron’s bow, as she picked up their plates and headed into her kitchen domain.

“Redbook,” George said, working on his third piece of coconut cake, a cigarette burning on the edge of the plate. “When she saw that little coupe, she said, ‘Hot damn. Now, that’s a peach.’ ”

“Didn’t expect you to pay the entire balance in cash,” Mr. Quigley said. “I don’t think I ever had that happen.”

“If George doesn’t drop his pin money somewhere, he’ll burn a hole in his pants,” Kathryn said, crossing her legs and taking up a smoke, finding great delight when fat little Mrs. Quigley rushed back into the room to flick open a lighter. Must’ve been some commission.