Gay Place (28 page)

The girl leaned toward him, on the edge of her seat.

“Listen,” she said. “It’s early yet. Take it easy. You’ve got hours.”

“Are you honest, Georgia?”

She leaned back in the chair, smiling.

“You mean like Ophelia?”

Roy was vastly pleased. He said: “You amaze me sometimes, love. No … I mean honest like good and bad, right from wrong. Are you
virtuous
that way?”

The girl kept looking in back of her, toward the bar. Finally, she stood and collected empty glasses. She stacked them. One on top of another. She tilted her head, thinking.

“I don’t know,” she said. “As much as anyone else, maybe.”

“Well you work at it,” he said. “You work at it. It’s a damn precious commodity.”

The girl smiled at him and said she would. “Take it easy,” she said, pointing to a clock hung from the trees. She turned to go.

Roy sat alone, drinking his beer, moving his lips,
oom-ah ooh-am,
to the sounds of the music. The garden began to fill with people. Occasionally, someone would come over and speak to him, Roy nodding and smiling, struggling to his feet to pump hands. A familiar face floated toward him. He attempted to identify the young man, but failed. A hand was extended. Roy took it, clutched it.

“I wanted to apologize, Mr. Sherwood,” the boy named Jobie said. “I hope you don’t think I hung up on you yesterday. We must’ve been cut off. I tried to find your number so I could call back and explain, but it wasn’t listed.”

“That’s all right, that’s all right,” Roy said. He flashed a winning smile. “It’s nothing.”

Jobie nodded his head eagerly, jerking it up and down. He began to talk rapidly about how he
knew
Roy would understand — he was obviously a cut above these other political types; he was a man with whom a lasting
rapprochement
could be established. Roy shook the boy’s hand, nodding back, saying
yes … yes … yes.

Ellen Streeter, Harris Huggins, and some of the others appeared. They came across the garden in convoy, fending off torpedo stares by their sheer number. They noticed Roy, yelled a greeting, flapping their arms. They encircled him, dragging chairs round the table, banging their shins on the bare wood. Ellen sat next to him and clutched his arm.

“You
came
!” she said. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Not even for the Jelly Roll Morton.”

“I came,” Roy said, nodding his head, acknowledging the fact. He belched softly, putting his hand to his mouth. Ellen smiled her love at him, herself a part of the love object. The others talked a stream of incoherence, words raging back and forth across the table. Roy got to his feet and asked Ellen to dance. They walked arm in arm to the concrete space and moved around easily, close together, until they both began to perspire a little in the heat. They stood apart, looking at one another, listening for the sounds of the next song. A wisp of blond hair was stuck to her forehead; her lips were slightly parted, and she seemed, in that instant, all that anyone could desire. Roy noticed Willie and Cathryn coming through the doors, taking a table some distance away from the others. Amazing conduct. They had not even looked around to see who was there. Roy took Ellen by the hand and went to Willie’s table.

“Hah yew?”

“Ah’m fahn. Hah yew?”

They sat across from them. Willie was grinning. He had his arm looped round the back of Cathryn’s chair. He picked at her bare shoulders unconsciously.

“You write your story?” Roy said.

Willie nodded. He reached in his pocket and brought out a folded copy of the newspaper. The stories about Rinemiller, Giffen, the lobbyist and Fenstemaker were spread across the front page. Roy looked them over carefully. Ellen glanced at the paper, looked away and then stared back again. “Rinemiller?” she said. “Is this Alfred he’s talking about? Taking a bribe?” She stared at the smudged printing. Roy said yes and looked up at Willie.

“Any repercussions?”

“There were supposed to be,” Willie said. “But they never seemed to repercuss.”

“Really? What happened?”

“I felt I ought to tell Alfred. I left him a copy yesterday, and he came around later, furious, threatening me with everything but the rack. He said he was calling a board of directors meeting and was having me discharged. He said he had an alibi, and it sounded like a good one. It had something to do with Earle Fielding — I’ll tell you about
that
later. Anyhow, I couldn’t get in touch with Earle so I went ahead and printed the paper. This evening the board met to consider Rinemiller’s charges. No Rinemiller. He just never showed. We waited two hours. Nothing. I called Earle Fielding and talked to Ouida and she said that Rinemiller didn’t have an alibi after all. So … we just sat around and waited another hour and then we left. Those board members were bewildered. They’d driven in from all over at Rinemiller’s request, and he never showed.”

Roy sat there grinning, trying to keep his balance in the chair. “That right …?” he was saying. “That so …?”

“Couple of them raised hell about writing the story even if Alfred
was
guilty. Said we had no business getting our own people into trouble — that they weren’t paying good money to defeat themselves. One of the others suggested we at least wait and see if there’s a grand jury indictment …”

“And you prevailed,” Roy said.

“Mostly,” Willie said. “They decided to hold off, ride it out. Or try to. They don’t like it, but I think I convinced them it was better the story came from us instead of someone else.”

“Clean up our own house,” Roy said.

The waitress came over, carrying Roy’s half-finished pitcher of beer. “You want this?” she said. “You don’t take it, those others at your table will.” Roy said yes he would take it. The girl set the pitcher down and said hello to Willie.

Roy got up abruptly and said he was going to the men’s room. Willie ordered dinner and followed Roy inside. “He’s been here for hours,” the waitress said to Cathryn.

“Alone all that time?” Cathryn said. “That’s a bad sign.”

“There was another fellow with him at first,” the waitress said. “They came in together, but the other one left.”

“Who was it?”

“One of that bunch,” the waitress said. “One of the politicians.”

Roy and Willie returned. Roy put dimes in the jukebox and danced with Ellen until Harris came across to the slab and cut in. Roy lurked round the edges of the crowd, watching the others. He put some more coins in the machine, concentrating, studying the music, making a conscious effort to pick the songs he liked least of all. Huggins came over and stood next to him. They gazed inside the record machine, watching the colors change, reds and greens and citrine yellows. Huggins told him all about Willie and Rinemiller and the lobbyist. Roy stood open-mouthed, gasping his amazement. “You mean you hadn’t
heard
?” Huggins said. “It’s all over
town
this evening.” They discussed what these revelations would mean for their own futures.

Huggins leaned against the jukebox, talking, while Roy pushed coins inside. Suddenly, Huggins straightened up, his eyes widening, staring toward the front.

“Jesus!” he said. “Guess who’s comin’ in with Giffen.”

Roy squinted through the colored glass, studying the record mechanism. He did not look up. “Fenstemaker,” he said.

“Old Arthur Fenstemaker,” Huggins said. “Jesus. He goin’ to sit here and drink on a Sunday evening? He’ll lose the drys next election.”

Fenstemaker and Giffen came across the big room. Some of the men at the bar turned and gazed in astonishment. One of them yelled hello to the Governor. Fenstemaker stopped, swung round, and gripped the fellow’s hand. He moved round the bar, a victim of his habit, shaking hands, clutching arms, bending his head sideways and a little forward, talking into ears, blowing into faces. He worked his way across the room, coming near the jukebox. When he saw Roy, he brightened visibly and walked directly over to them.

“Hello Roy … Mr. Huggins …”

They said hello to the Governor.

“I want to thank you, Frank, I want to …” The Governor spun his magic. Huggins showed his gold teeth, stretching his lips, his mouth an uncapped jar of amber jelly. “You and Roy here did a wonderful job last Thursday. Not just for me. For the people, for the folks …”

Huggins started to say something, but Fenstemaker had him by the arm and hand, manipulating the appendage like a pump handle, propelling him along the side of the wall toward George Giffen. “George,” he said, stroking the two of them, “you and Frank here — I understand they call you Pancho, Mr. Huggins — George, you and Pancho get us a table out there under the trees. We’ll be with you in just a minute.”

Huggins and Giffen backed off, heads dipping, gesturing toward a bank of unoccupied tables. Fenstemaker waved at them and then turned to Roy. He smoked a borrowed cigarette and took a deep, happy breath.

“You’ve been a busy man,” the Governor said.

“Not so busy,” Roy said. He stuck another dime in the phonograph. The music clacked in their ears.

“The blind man smells a feelin’,” Fenstemaker said. “Besides, I had my agents out lookin’ at thangs.”

“Samson was blind,” Roy said.

Fenstemaker’s voice rose an octave; his eyes began to go out of focus. “How come the heathen rage and the people imagine a vain King?” he said.

“How come?” Roy said. “Tell me how come.”

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” Fenstemaker rumbled. “You tryin’ to play Superman or somethin’? What the goddam hell you say to Rinemiller to make him run for cover like that?”

Roy sat down at an empty table near the record machine. His dry tongue felt enormous, swelling inside his mouth. Fenstemaker signaled to a waitress and sat down next to Roy, waiting for the beer.

“What the hell you do?” he repeated.

“Nothin’. Just talked.”

“You scared him. You made him run, goddammit.”

“I saw him catch that cab,” Roy said in wonder.

“You
called
the goddam cab. Hoot Gibson
saw
you do it.”

“You told me once,” Roy said, “that all your princes were rebels … and companions of thieves … How
is
Hoot Gibson, anyway? I noticed him sitting at the table here this evening.”

“Smarter than he looks,” Fenstemaker said. “Lot smarter. At least he does what I tell him. And he don’t go round tryin’ to play God.”

“All you ever told me was get off my ass. I may not have that just right, but —”

“Destruction upon destruction …” Fenstemaker mumbled under his breath. “… the whole land is spoiled … Everyone loves a bribe — yea — and runs after gifts. Goddam and hell, Roy. I was surprised you just didn’t go out there with him and
put
him on the blasted plane. You make the reservation?”

Roy spread his palms, making a gesture of innocence, of helplessness. “It was one I had,” he said, “an old one …”

“He leave everything behind?”

“I packed a little bag for him. I made him promise to write.”

“God
dammit,
Roy …”

“It was his doctors,” Roy said, “recommended a long trip. A sea voyage, preferably. But you know how it is booking passage this time of year.”

“All right, now, okay. You made him run when I thought he was gonna get off free. Practically an admission of guilt. Where’s he gone? When’s he comin’ back? What’d you say to him?”

Roy was silent. Cymbals clashed, male choruses moaned, all the glamorous people in the beer garden clomped their feet. Roy shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on the music. Fenstemaker’s presence in the garden seemed to give the place an illusion of permanence. Roy said: “He’ll be back. He’s not such a bad guy. Not much of a thief at heart, you know. I tried to tell him that. How he’d have to come back ’cause he’s got no place else to go.”

“I was workin’ all afternoon on this,” the Governor said. “I badgered that goddam lobbyist for three hours, tryin’ to get him to talk about Giffen. All he’d say was he never heard of him. There was George right in front of him, and Hoot Gibson swearin’ he’d seen the two of them together and Giffen
himself
more than happy to say the fellow had offered him a little proposition. And the lobbyist just looked at George as if he was a total stranger.”

Roy opened his eyes. Cathryn walked past, heading toward the ladies’ room. She smiled, and Roy smiled, and Fenstemaker never ceased to smile, showing his marvelous teeth like a sideshow saint, some leering Buddha, and across the old beer garden Huggins and Harris and Ellen and the others could be seen crowding round Willie and George Giffen, just now arrived, all of them smiling insanely.

“How you know he’s comin’ back?” Fenstemaker said.

“He’ll just be back,” Roy said.

Earlier in the evening (Was it an hour? Hours? He couldn’t recall), there had been the last words with Alfred, the two of them haranguing one another on the long distance. Alfred had placed the call to him collect at the beer garden to advise that he had changed his mind, that he was coming home to begin the fight all over again.

— Where are you? (Roy had said) Didn’t you catch that plane?

— Monterey. I got off. I don’t know anybody in Mexico City. Why should I want to go to Mexico City?

— Your idea. Not mine.

— Man ain’t got no fuckin’ chance in Mexico City. What could I do there? I’m comin’ home — I’m up for Speaker next year.

— You’ll be up for more than that if you aren’t careful.

— I can beat this thing. They’ve got no case. You sold me on this defeatist stuff when I was agitated. When I was disturbed. I know better now. I’m comin’ back … I got witnesses … I’m supposed to be there for that meeting … to get my favorite newspaper editor sacked.

— Come on, then, and quit breakin’ so much goddam wind about it. If you’re so sure of yourself. But I’ll tell you one thing. It’s even worse now than when you left.
Both
your famous witnesses have copped out on you now. I had a little talk with Earle. And your lobbyist friend is already under arrest. And you’re not going to sack Willie — even if I have to haul a tape recorder into that meeting and enlighten those blind-bastard stockholders. And take a deposition from Earle. And maybe bring Ouida with me if necessary and make her tell
all her
story …