Juice (21 page)

“I hope the ladies are all right,” Joe said. He liked his club chair; he liked the dark paneling; he liked the floor lamps.

“Here's to them,” Davis said, raising his glass. “All right? Hope they're all right? They're in heaven. Helen's all over that television business, and they're sitting at the kitchen table right now, devouring hamburgers and chopping us into small pieces. ‘Joe's all right, you know, but he does make funny noises in the morning.'” They laughed. “I dread to think what milady's saying about me.”

“Does she have a first name?”

“Yes, oddly enough. Althea. Can you imagine? Althea. It was a shock. As a name it's no worse than any other; but to be interested in a woman who has received—must have, inescapably—several hundred scrawled, more or less elegantly, copies of a fair but hackneyed tribute by Richard Lovelace—the mind boggles. So I call her Skinny, or You There.”

“You love her.” It was hardly a question.

“Yes,” Davis said, “whatever that means.”

“That's an adolescent evasion,” Joe said. “You know what it means; you must. You're afraid of it, aren't you?”

“I suppose I am,” Davis said slowly. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not Davis more.”

“Every man has to wrestle with that.” The feeling had come back to Joe, strongly, that he knew something now about Davis.

“Does he? Nonsense! Most men don't even know the problem exists. Aha! Hold everything. Saved by the bell.” He grinned frankly. “You were making me uncomfortable, you know. Here's Rhein. I'm glad. I've been talking too much anyway. Nervous.”

Joe Harrison looked across the room and saw the chairman of the board approaching. Joe did not lower his eyes until Rhein had reached him; warily, then, the two men shook hands. “Well,” Rhein said.

“Hello, Arthur,” Joe said. “Thanks for asking us down here.”

“You're welcome,” Rhein said dryly. “Sorry I'm late. I had a call to make and didn't get through to him until the last minute. Hello there, Davis.” He and the lawyer shook hands. “Flamboyant sort of shirt,” Rhein said. “Good-looking. Club needs more of that.”

Davis grinned in spite of himself. “Thanks. They serve a flamboyant Scotch here, so we're even.”

The waiter hovered. “Good evening, Mr. Rhein.” He pushed a third chair forward.

“Good evening, Carl,” Rhein said. “The usual. But fill the glass.” Carl turned, and Rhein sat down in the third chair. “I won't talk about it until I've had my drink,” he said. “What's new otherwise?”

Davis loosed peals of happy laughter. Even Joe laughed. Rhein looked from one to the other. “What is it?” he said. “What have I done now?”

Davis caught his breath. “I'm sorry,” he said, and laughed again. Recovering, he went on, “It's just that for forty-eight hours there's been nothing else for either of us—nothing, nothing at all, but this mess. And ‘what's new otherwise?' was a little too much.”

“Oh. I see.” Rhein smiled. “Still, life goes on. Work goes on. I hope you don't mind, Joe, but I had that girl route some of your incoming stuff to me today.”

“I don't mind,” Joe said. “What girl?”

“Dumont. Miss Dumont, the French girl. Rather pretty.”

“Yes,” Joe said.

“I noticed—ah, thank you, Carl.” Carl had set down an Old-Fashioned glass full of what seemed to be ice water.

“What's that?” Davis asked.

“Dry vermouth,” Rhein said. “The best thing—except champagne—before a meal with wine. And I thought champagne would not be appropriate.”

“It was a considerate thought,” Joe said, mildly astonished. “Thank you.”

Rhein waved negligently. “I was about to say—pardon me. Your health.” He sipped. His countenance relaxed; he smiled. “Damned good,” he said. “Dry as it comes. Anyway there was a memo from Schmidt today. He seems to have correlated newsprint prices and circulation and distribution costs. He had the circulation up fifteen thousand for September. What's it all about?”

“The drivers and the loaders want more money. The contracts come up for renewal. This happens every time. And we're badly squeezed already on the retail price. Here.” Joe drew a pencil from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Who's got a piece of paper?”

“Here,” Davis said. “Back of an envelope?”

“Fine. Roughly speaking, the newspaper nickel breaks down this way.” He noted figures. Rhein leaned forward. “About a cent and three quarters has to cover distribution. Platform men, loaders, drivers. When circulation rises we get a little leeway; the same distribution, but more nickels. If we have to pay out more, we need a jump in circulation, or else we take a loss on the distribution, or else we charge more for the paper.”

“Charge the retailer a fifth of a penny more,” Rhein said.

“No,” Joe said. “They've got a living to make, and if we squeeze them out of it, it hurts us in the end. I haven't seen Schmidt's figures, but if newsprint goes up, we'll probably have to jack the paper to seven cents.”

“Will it hurt us?”

Joe shrugged. “It always hurts. Hurts the other fellow, too. They'll all have to follow suit. They all buy the same newsprint and maintain the same plants and deal with the same unions. Ask Mort Weinstein about this sometime. He can take these figures and weave a whole novel around them.”

“He's a good man, isn't he?” Rhein said.

“The best,” Joe said.

“A touch, ah, unpresentable, though.”

Joe laughed. “A slob.” Davis saw that his face was bright, animated, and realized abruptly that he had never known the everyday Joe Harrison. “I don't think he ever paid thirty bucks for a suit in his life. But he loves what he does, and he's a good eater. You'd appreciate that. He's like you, Arthur; he can go at top speed all day and still digest a keg of nails.” Davis was fascinated; Harrison had strength; he could gesture, laugh, pound a table, make his world move and keep it moving. Davis had seen none of this. “Look here,” Harrison was saying, “who's this fellow Womack in the wire service?”

“Recommended by Stanley Barrow, back east.”

Joe's eyebrows went up. “Barrow's all right, isn't he? Good man, I thought.”

“Yes. Why? Womack a lemon?”

“A little trouble,” Joe said. “He's competent all right. I think he lets personal feelings get in his way. Is it all right if I have to fire him?”

“Now you look here,” Rhein said. “I've never once interfered with your personnel policies. You have to work with them; you have the responsibility; you hire and fire as you please. Is that clear? If I had a son and he worked for you, you'd still be boss.”

“Thanks,” Joe said. “I hope I can avoid it. I'll talk to him first. Now I could use another drink.” He reached for his glass and saw Davis; he frowned slightly—it was almost a wince—and then he said, “Oh, hell.”

“Yes,” Davis said. “Yes, indeed. You were forgetting, weren't you? Maybe Womack will take your place.”

Harrison snorted. “Not likely.”

“Joe,” Rhein said, “let's have the other drink inside. I've got a date—that is, a business appointment—at nine-thirty.”

“Oh, sure,” Joe said. “Of course.”

“Might even dispense with it,” Davis said as they rose. “Take wine instead.”

“Good idea,” Rhein nodded. He signaled to Carl, who scurried toward them. “I want the little table in the bay window behind the green column,” Rhein said. “I spoke to Otto about it.”

“It should be ready,” Carl said. “I'll see.”

The three men waited outside the dining room. Otto, the gentleman in white tie, came smiling toward them. Carl bowed slightly and left them. “This way, Mr. Rhein, gentlemen,” Otto said. He preceded them to the table Rhein had described. The bay window and the column formed almost a private room. Outside, the sky was darker; a star was visible, hanging low above the city. The three men sat down. “Another drink?” Otto asked.

“I think not,” Rhein said. “Ask Morris if we can order right way, would you?”

“Of course.” And Otto was replaced by Morris, a younger man, in a white jacket, who said, “Good evening, Mr. Rhein. Gentlemen,” and waited.

“You order, Arthur,” Joe said. “I don't believe Davis would mind.”

“Davis would not mind,” Davis said.

“Good,” Rhein said. “A simple meal, Morris. The mussels remoulade, with a Chablis or a Vouvray; and a Châteaubriant, rare, for three, with two bottles of your finest claret.”

“Immediately,” Morris said.

“All right,” Rhein said. “I've had my drink. Now what about all this?”

Davis looked at Joe, who shrugged and said, “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know,” Rhein said, “if it can be explained to an old idiot like me, why you insist on making trouble for you, me, Davis, Judge Winkelmann, several other fairly important people, and P.A.N., by refusing to settle this thing simply. That's all. Just tell me that.”

Joe sighed heavily, tried to smile at Davis, and failed. “I just can't do it, Arthur. I can't let the organization work for me—outside the law—when the poor bastard who hasn't got an organization would have to take what was coming to him.”

Rhein spread his hands. “And why can't you? No. No. Wait. Never mind that. Tell me this: what do you hope to accomplish? What will be done this way that wouldn't be done the other way?”

“I'm afraid that has nothing to do with it,” Joe said. “It's like so many other things that seem stupid—lost causes, or whatever you want to call them. You do something on principle even if it accomplishes nothing, because you've thought for years that you were a principled man, and discovering, when the chips are down, that you weren't would be too much of a blow. Maybe that's understandable: that I don't think I'd ever be as good again—to myself or you or anybody—if I did this the easy way.”

“And you think you'll be all right if you do it the hard way.”

“I don't know,” Joe said. “I hope so. Anyway, I have to.”

“A '52 Vouvray,” Morris said. “I took the liberty of bringing a decanter. If you want to leave early you probably won't want a full bottle.” He set down the decanter, served the mussels and stepped away when Rhein had nodded approvingly.

“And you don't think,” Rhein said, “that your years of service with P.A.N. entitle you to a little help?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “To cheaper insurance with P.A.I., to a small share in the profits, eventually to a good-sized pension. Otherwise, no. I suppose I'm getting stuffy: government by law is the only government I can stand now. Davis will object; he likes to make his own laws, or at least bend existing laws into a shape he likes. An anarchist.”

“An anarchist?” Rhein's mouth was full of mussels; he barely got the words out, but his astonishment was clear.

“Mr. Harrison is spoofing,” Davis murmured. “Let's say, a man who prefers to go his own way whenever possible.”

“Oh,” Rhein said. “I see. Well, about this government by law, it isn't as though we were tearing up the Constitution.”

“I'm afraid it is,” Harrison said.

Rhein's astonishment returned, but did not prevent him from sipping respectfully at the wine. “Excellent,” he said. “The wine. Not you, Joe. You're a fool. I've moved heaven and earth to see to it that you didn't suffer. Anything may happen. Some little technicality in the law, and there you are in jail. For heaven's sake, man, what about your wife, your children, your future? For an absolutely futile gesture that won't help anybody?”

Rhein's voice had risen; Davis glanced sharply at him.

“I've talked to Helen,” Joe said. “I've even said something about it to the kids. In a way it's because of them that I have to do it.”

“All right,” Rhein said. “Do what? Be specific.”

Joe sighed again and took a little wine before he spoke. “Go up there tomorrow and tell them how I think it happened, and let them put my story against the other stories, and if they think it was my fault, that's how it has to be.”

“Good God,” Rhein said. “Suppose you impeach three witnesses. Suppose they get them for perjury? Will that make you feel better?”

“I wouldn't have that for the world,” Joe said. “Maybe they were mistaken.”

“Mistaken!” Rhein bent to his mussels, leaving words unspoken. “Then what?” he said. “You accept the court's decision, is that it? Whom does that help? The dead man?”

The dead man. Here I sit, Joe thought, eating little crustaceans. “It helps his wife,” he said. “Let me ask you a couple now. If I was drunk, P.A.I. is still liable, right?”

“Right,” Rhein said. “So you'll let them pay for your mistake. Is that what you call honor, or government by law, or whatever?”

“It's a little more complicated,” Joe said. “As I understand it, this part of the case is the criminal proceeding. The civil proceeding is when the widow sues me. Right?”

“Right,” Rhein said hesitantly. He had finished his mussels and had mopped the sauce wth a crust of bread; his plate gleamed. He poured himself another drop of wine, made certain that his guests lacked nothing, and drank.

“If I accepted a discharge—is that right, Counselor?”

“Technically, a finding that there is no basis of probable cause. Insufficient evidence to warrant prosecution. Therefore, no vehicular homicide—only accidental manslaughter. On the other hand,
lex est quod notamus
.” Davis nodded amiably.

“What's that?” Rhein asked.

“The law is what we set down. Figuratively, the law is what we make it. Then again,
dura lex, sed lex
. The law is hard, but it's the law. I could continue. Latin is a magnificent language; what distresses me most about my profession is that we mispronounce most of its jargon. Please go on. You were saying?”