Juice (18 page)

“Oh, I think I understand,” Davis said. “But us pragmatic Americans always ask one question: will it work?”

10

Arthur Rhein had survived the noon hour by passing through alternate moods of bewilderment and fury. From his library, or command post, he had called Davis and (to use his own unspoken phrase) rapped out crisp orders. Davis had been appeasing and deferent; Rhein was clever enough to suspect him of irony.

Rhein was ultimately capable of understanding Joe Harrison's action, but total understanding would require that he discard the impedimenta of the century, the world, into which he had been born. It was the century of Thoreau and Lincoln; it was also the century of Mark Hanna and McKinley; and while Rhein's traditions were heterodox, his affinities were obvious. To him Harrison was sapping a universe—a damn fool who probably read foreign books.

He was not consciously aware that he might be in trouble himself; but he was uneasy. His digestion, thank heaven, remained good. But he was afraid to contemplate disapproval, and he knew that disapproval was the least mark of his peers' disfavor that he could expect if private manipulation became public scandal. He was, in a sense, the agent of those peers; but their gratitude depended on his success and not on his intentions. Which fact was in his favor: he could trust them for aid and comfort until he had failed.

Well, he would not fail. He went to the telephone and dialed Frank Farrow's number for the third time, and now Farrow answered.

“We're in a jam, Frank,” Rhein said. Farrow commiserated respectfully, and Rhein continued. “It worked out very well. We just about had it thrown out of court.” Farrow interrupted. “No,” Rhein said, “not the cop. Harrison. Harrison himself. Maybe we should have told him what we were doing. He just refused. Made a big scene. Davis did his best, got a continuance, and Harrison walked out. There was a small uproar.”

“Reporters?” Farrow asked.

“Yes. Half a dozen. P.A.N. is all right. The others may jump on us.”

“We have a choice,” Farrow said. “We can drop it right now, pull out, release the witnesses, or we can go further. I never thought we'd have to fight Harrison.”

“He's out of his head,” Rhein said. “He's upset. The whole thing was a great shock. I don't think he knows what he's doing.”

“What are your plans?”

Rhein sighed. “I want to get him out of circulation, first. Quiet him down. We're too soon after the accident; he has no perspective. If we can talk him into a temporary collapse and then spend the time reasoning with him we may get somewhere. Meanwhile keep a close check on the witnesses; don't want them scared out, can't have them changing their minds.”

“Will Harrison stand for it?”

“I don't know.”

“No chance of dropping it, I suppose. Letting nature take its course.”

“None.” Rhein was decisive. “No telling how much is at stake. A thing like this could affect the whole organization. It's bad enough when he takes his annual vacation; we come to a standstill. I've got his life insured for a hundred thousand dollars. You didn't know that.”

“I didn't know that,” Farrow said deferentially. “Where can we keep him?”

“Depends on him,” Rhein said. “If he's at all amenable, he can rest up at home. If he's stubborn we'll have to work something out I'll get hold of him today and have a talk with him and Davis. If there's trouble I'll call you back.”

“Good,” Farrow said. “You can count on me. I'll be here until about six. After that the Ukrainian League until nine or so.”

“Fine. You'll hear from me.” Rhein hung up and wiped his palm with a Belfast linen kerchief. Thank God for the Farrows, he was thinking. I trust Farrow more than I do Davis. Farrow is no cynic, no philosopher. I can do things for Farrow.

Davis had not called back. Rhein became aware of the books surrounding him; they were no help. They were oppressive, rows of them, static, inflexible, inanimate; they said what they had to say and no more. They were not dusty. Robert saw to that. Davis had not called back.

Glumly he contemplated chaos. He was annoyed particularly by a contradiction: Harrison was able, conscientious, loyal, yet now he had reneged, now he was letting them down. What could change him so? The accident, of course, but it went deeper. Harrison had ideas; Harrison had a notion. Rhein was not sure what it was, but he suspected an impractical abstraction, a surrender to purely theoretical considerations. And he knew that those bold surrenders were perhaps noble but always misguided; it was almost incredible that Harrison should go back on all his experience of life for the sake of an intellectual caprice.

He shook his head. With three thousand years of history behind them, with traditions and rules, wisdom and law, men remained stubborn and unpredictable. And Harrison, of all people.

He gave up and called Davis.

“No,” Davis said. “I haven't been able to get hold of him. I don't know where he is. No, not at home, not at the office, not anywhere.”

Rhein made a decision. “I'm coming over. Yes, to your place. What? Well, for God's sake call me back by three.”

Rhein hung up. He took a short cut through colonial America to his bedroom. He changed his shirt and tie. He furnished himself with four cigars and a handful of cellophane-wrapped sourballs. He was nervous. Action was the answer. But there was no place to go. There was nothing to do.

11

Harrison opened the front door and glowered at Davis and said, “All right. Welcome to the seventh circle.” Then he glowered at Mrs. Newbery, who defeated his frown altogether.

“Don't be aggressive,” Davis said. “Say hello to Aphrodite, invite us in, and pour us a drink. I distrust the pure intelligence, and I think you'll be more reliable when your senses are involved. Mrs. Newbery, Mr. Harrison.”

Mrs. Newbery smiled, evoking a smile from Joe. “How do you do,” he said. “Please come in.” He closed the door behind them. My God, he thought, and groped for a compliment; finding none, he followed them to the living room, where Davis was introducing the ladies. Harrison was more aware than most of his contemporaries that higher civilization hangs by the thin thread of crisp conversation, but at this moment he could think of nothing to say; he was also aware that civilization as a whole depended on far more earthy values, and ultimately far more respectable values, and certainly far more agreeable values, and in the presence of both his wife and Mrs. Newbery, those values asserted themselves. He gawked politely.

“It's lovely,” Helen was saying. “Blue is perfect for you, and I can't wear it at all.”

“But you can wear tans and beiges,” Mrs. Newbery said.

“No one has noticed my shirt,” Davis announced.

“Marvelous,” Helen said. “Electric blue.”

“Thank you,” Davis said. “Now if I can have a drink I'll assume the responsibilities of a guest and cease talking about myself.”

“For God's sake,” Joe said. “Stop it.” They saw that he was a touch pale, and for an instant there was awkward silence.

“Sorry,” Davis said softly. “Get us a drink and we'll be good.”

“Yes,” Joe said, suddenly ashamed. “I didn't mean to be melodramatic.” Helen came to him and hugged him, and he smiled. “Whisky? Beer?”

“Scotch and water for us,” Davis said.

Joe went to the dining room. Helen had filled the ice bucket. Lovely Helen, he thought. Who else would think to fill the ice bucket? Any number of wives, he answered. He poured. Lovely Helen just the same, he thought. Davis was waltzing through a string of cadences; Joe nodded in time to them: daa-aa dum, daa-aa dum, daa-aa dum. The piano was still; Joe heard laughter. He set the drinks on a tray and joined the revels.

Like a wake, he thought. Helen laughed at something Davis had said. Davis seemed nervous but pleased. What could he do here? And why bring the lady? What was Rhein doing now?

They were silent, and they were looking at him. “Of course you've told Mrs. Harrison about this morning,” Davis said.

“Of course.”

Davis turned to Helen. “And your opinion?”

“It was the only thing he could do,” Helen said.

“Yes, of course,” Davis said. “But he missed the best part of it. The judge, almost in tears; no midnight wedding, no parking ticket, had ever shaken him so. The assistant D.A. in a state of terror, not knowing what forces had been set loose in the world. And do you know who was most affected by your little
faux pas?
Not Winkelmann; not I, notoriously impressionable; not even the reporters, notoriously sentimental. No. It was a cop named Pearson. His level, earnest, shining gaze followed you to the door. I couldn't tell whether he wanted to kiss your hand and call you
padrone,
or shoot you in the back of the neck. He has ample grounds for either. He approves of you now, I'm sure, but he knows that you know that he let himself be pressured—you guessed that, of course—and then you showed him up. Unforgivable.”

“He'll live,” Joe said.

“Yes. What do you plan to do now?”

“Nothing,” Joe said. “Be at the courthouse tomorrow morning at eleven. Plead guilty.”

They were all silent. Davis shook his head and sighed. “You haven't really begun to know what it can be like. So far all you feel is the righteousness, the nobility of it. But a month from now you'll want to drive downtown for a case of liquor, and when you remember that your license is gone, it will be quite simply a petty annoyance. And if you ever get your license back, nobody'll insure you. I speak of minor matters only, of course. If you wind up in pokey for a year—”

“We've thought of all that,” Joe said. “Where do you stand?”

“Stand? Stand? How can I tell? I don't even know exactly what lies behind this egregious honesty of yours. And it's obvious that you don't know how much has been done for you, how much you rejected this morning.”

“I'd like to know,” Joe said.

“You know part of it,” Davis said.

“Somebody must have talked to those people, the witnesses. I hope no money changed hands.”

“If I knew, I wouldn't tell. I'm a member of the bar and cannot be a party to low intrigues. But I wouldn't be at all surprised. It's worse with the money, of course. But any way, it's bad.”

“Why did they bother?” Joe was hunched forward.

Davis laughed.

“Your boss, I imagine. I think he panicked. He went to too much trouble telling me you weren't indispensable.”

Helen smiled and looked up at Mrs. Newbery.

“It wasn't so much a compliment to you,” Davis went on, “as the habit of buying. Of putting in the fix. Of exchanging money and favors for peace and quiet.”

“He had no right,” Joe said.

“Right!” He turned to the two women. “I appeal to you, ladies. Were ever words perverted to a meaner use? It has nothing to do with right,” he went on to Joe. “And remember, he would cheerfully have paid a lot more to bring Storch back to life. He isn't interested in justice and injustice. He's interested in measure and proportion and order and harmony, and you dropped a trout into the milk, and he's trying to fish it out the only way he knows.”

“I still don't know where you stand,” Joe said.

“I do,” Mrs. Newbery said, and Helen smiled again.

“You do not,” Davis said coldly. “You all forget, Rhein hired me. He hired me to get this imbecile off. I'm famous for that. Now, ethically I can't betray Rhein. Professionally I don't want to betray myself, my reputation. Personally I'm still not sure why you've behaved this way. But you want me on your side.”

“Yes,” Joe said.

“I don't know,” Davis said heavily. “I don't know. I can do it. I suppose I can do almost anything in a courtroom. But there has to be some
point d' appui
—a knob to grab, a button to push. I remember I once got a star off, big name, great lady, when she was caught in fragrant delight in the back seat of a Hispano-Suiza. Do you know what the knob was, the button? The Hispano-Suiza. If it had been a Ford I'd have lost the case. But this time I don't know. It's all upside down.”

“I appreciate your hesitation,” Harrison said dryly. “I know how troublesome truth can be. Keeps rubbing off on people.”

“Ah, no.” Davis groaned. “Mrs. Harrison, would you fill this glass for me? Liquor is my only defense against mystical philosophers. Right; and now truth. You insist on the privilege of being responsible for your own actions. Well, so do I. So leave me alone. You can be your own kind of damn fool, but don't involve me in your righteousness.”

“Joe?” Helen was collecting their glasses; Joe nodded, and she took his.

“A splendid woman,” Davis said when she had left. “I take it she approves of what you're doing.”

“Not altogether,” Joe said. “She's a mother, too, you know. She's afraid they'll put me away; afraid it would hurt the kids.”

“Of course,” Davis said.

“I'm afraid it will hurt them the other way,” Joe said. “I wouldn't like them to realize five years from now that Daddy had cut a few sharp corners in his time. Do you have children, Mrs. Newbery?”

“No,” she said. “But I can't help thinking you're right.”

“Another one,” Davis said, with an angry glance. “God and Davis take care of the village idiots.”

“Someone has to,” Joe said mildly. “And Rhein will make it worth your while.”

Davis laughed. “Up to a hundred thousand, he will.”

“Why that?”

“Because that's what Mrs. Storch could get from Pacific American Insurance if you were guilty. Have you thought of that? That P.A.I., or Arthur Rhein in his underwriting avatar, would be taking the rap for you? Picking up the tab for you?”

“Yes,” Joe said. Helen set down the glasses. “I've thought of that. It even gave me an idea.”