King Cole (4 page)

“Now who’s been telling you that? And who is Mirabeau? Oh, yes. French Revolution.”

“Well, their name is the same. Riquetti.”

“Well, my name’s Cole but that doesn’t mean I’m a direct descendant of Old King Cole.”

Jean laughed.

“Anyway, I’m dying to meet him. They say he’s so handsome and has all the women running after him… just like his brother.”

Read said nothing.

“The women not only ran after him,” said Jean, smiling; “I guess they caught him. Eileen’s ex, I mean. I guess he was dreadful.”

“Don’t talk like a damn fool,” said Read, suddenly irritated. “The sooner you get married, the better. You’re getting silly ideas. Wanting to run after some dago because he’s got a reputation as a pushover with the women. Most men are pushovers. We don’t have to import any.”

“Oh, all right, High Street, if you must be so provincial.” She put her nose in the air.

Read burst out laughing, and turned away. She ran after him.

“Daddy, I didn’t mean it. I was joking. I don’t like foreigners either… much.”

Eileen Bradley was about thirty years old. She had been places and seen things, as her father, who rather disapproved of her, said. She was tall and slender and was considered to be the best-dressed woman in Midland City. Socially, being the daughter of Major Bradley, she was the peak, and she had had her picture in the papers so much that her face was as familiar to the people of Midland City as Babe Ruth’s or Charlie Chaplin’s. She had gone to Europe to live and had come back Countess Riquetti, minus the Count. Since then she had slipped a little. She was not considered quite nice and many Midland Cityites told wild but unsubstantiated stories about her.

She had dark hair and large, slightly oblique dark eyes; she seemed nervous and on a strain most of the time, but her face was composed. In New York or Hollywood she would have passed unnoticed; in Midland City she was an exotic.

Sitting on a huge divan in young Lamont Jones’ gameroom with a tall drink in his hand, Read watched Eileen, who was standing by a window, smoking. She was the last word in elegance to him. Essentially unsophisticated himself, she puzzled him very much; half the things she said he didn’t understand. Her social ease made him envious, for he had so little of it himself. He was an outsider and knew it. These people merely put up with him because he was the Republican Governor of Ohio. They knew that he had waited table and that his father (poor old Dad!) had been a clerk in the gas company, controlled by the Jones family. Fundamentally, he was a nobody.

Young Lamont Jones and Blair Meadows were playing ping-pong. Read watched them, marveling at their murderous assaults upon the poor little white ball. He did not play himself, considered it a sissy game; but he knew that this was a mere prejudice. Once it had been a sissy game; now it was fast and furious; too fast and furious for him.

The people around him talked about ping-pong while Jones and Meadows played. He heard them discussing their “backhands” and their “forehands”; one thought topspin was the most effective offense, another said not. “All the same,” Henry Freytag cried, very red in the face, “chop is the basis of defense. If you haven’t got a chop, why, then you’re not playing ping-pong at all. Sure, topspin is best for offense. I haven’t got any topspin at all but I’ve got plenty chop and I’ll take care of your topspin as fast as you give it to me. Anybody want to play a game for five bucks?”

Read studied Henry Freytag. He was a red-faced young man of thirty and was already getting fat. His German ancestry showed in his almost backless head and his peculiar blue eyes. Officially, he was Henry Freytag III and the heir to a huge fortune built up by his grandfather, a pioneer banker. But he hardly ever used the numeral anymore because some irreverent Midland Cityites had begun to give it a strangely vulgar pronunciation.

Read could see that young Freytag was really excited over the ping-pong argument. Was that all he had to get excited about? Read remembered the pompous words of old Eagle Beak:

“This is the twilight of the Rich. They have, like the French Aristocrats, outlived their usefulness and must eventually be liquidated.”

Old Eagle Beak was quite right, in a way. Twilight was apparent, and all that the rich Henry Freytag III seemed to think about was the wonderful effectiveness of a chop in ping-pong. Read got up, put his empty glass on a table, then went over to Eileen, who was standing alone now watching the ping-pong game.

“I wish I could play,” she said, “but I’m all thumbs.”

“I used to play on the dining-room table,” said Read, feeling a little awkward as he almost always did with her.

“Be careful. You’ll be telling your age.”

Read laughed, but could think of nothing to say. The little white ball flew through the air, accompanied by the plick-plack of the bats. The young men perspired and quietly cursed their luck when their opponent won a point on a lucky net shot or a corner-of-the-table shot. Read turned.

Jean was coming in with Fred Martin, two strange women, and a tall, thin, very handsome man with a black mustache: the descendant of Mirabeau, no doubt.

Eileen stiffened slightly and did not smile during the introductions. The two Baylor girls gushed and chattered and told Read at great length how delighted they were to meet “our wonderful Governor.” He knew they didn’t mean a word of it, thought him an outsider, and would probably tell their friends in Cleveland that the Bradleys and the Joneses weren’t what they used to be, running around with a politician.

Vincent Riquetti stood quite still; his handsome face very sad and apathetic. Eileen shook hands with him.

“Hello, Vincent.”

“Hello, Doll.”

“Please.”

“Oh, yes. Poor Enrico! I’m sorry I forgot, Eileen.”

“Are you here for long?”

“Only a little while. I’m going to California in December. Where are you going this winter?”

“I don’t know yet. Have you met Governor Cole?”

“No. Such a pleasure.” His hand was cold and moist; Read withdrew his own hand quickly. “You must be the father of this charming girl, here.”

Read bowed slightly. He was irritated. He did wish that Jean wouldn’t simper so at this slick foreigner. Poor Fred! Read saw him scowling. He was such a jealous and impulsive young man and it was apparent that Jean was unduly impressed by Vincent Riquetti.

“These midwestern girls,” said Riquetti; “so different from the girls anywhere else. Now, Eileen, of course; she’s almost European. But Miss Cole, now, or the lovely Baylor girls. Really, nothing like it; such innocent charm.” Riquetti’s face was still apathetic. All this talk was just an act, Read told himself; and an act which annoyed him very much. Jean was drinking it all in and Fred was still scowling.

“Almost European,” said Eileen with a slight smile. “That’s almost a compliment, I believe.”

Riquetti winced faintly.

“Don’t misunderstand, Eileen,” he said. “You know I don’t speak the language very well. Did I say something?”

“I think not,” said Read, meaning to be offensive, but speaking mildly.

Fred’s smile warmed Read’s heart; he’d caught on. Riquetti ran his eyes quickly over Read’s face, then he bowed slightly.

“I’m very happy there is no offense.”

Eileen smiled at Read and when Riquetti, young Martin and the girls had moved on, she said:

“Thanks, Read.”

“Maybe he didn’t mean anything, but I wasn’t taking any chances.”

“He always means something.”

After a while, Jean and Riquetti played doubles against Fred and one of the Baylor girls. It was an exciting match to the spectators, who cheered and applauded from time to time. Read flushed with pleasure at the sight of Jean’s expertness and when she put over a smash, he shouted with the rest.

Riquetti played a skillful, quiet game. Fred banged wildly at the ball, trying to make Riquetti look bad. Finally Jean and Riquetti won. In her excitement Jean flung her arms around Riquetti; who stared at her, then drew back and bowed, smiling.

Read flushed and looked at the others; he was afraid his daughter had made a social blunder; but no one paid the least attention, except Fred whose face was stony.

On the way home in the limousine, Eileen said: “Jean is a little impulsive, isn’t she? Vince is not a very good man to be impulsive with.”

“I don’t think he thought anything of it.”

“Read, you’re much too innocent. All Vince thinks of is seducing somebody. That’s what he lives for.”

“Oh, well. Jean is pretty sensible and she’s got that Martin boy watching her like a hawk.”

“Nice boy, Fred Martin. That’s the kind of boy I should have married. Home town boy.”

“Did you have such a terrible time, Eileen?”

She said nothing; then to Read’s utter astonishment she put her head down and began to cry. He patted her shoulder awkwardly. Eileen Bradley crying? Impossible!

“Don’t pay any attention,” she said, finally. “It was just seeing Vince; that’s all. Did you hear him call me Doll?”

“Yes.”

“It’s what they used to call me. They seemed like such nice boys then.”

“Are they so awful?”

“Read, you’re just a nice Ohio man. You have no idea.”

Read sat staring at the frosted glare of the headlights on the road; he was worried. Jean was such a scatterbrained little egg!

When they drew up in front of the Bradley house, Eileen said:

“Come in for a drink?”

“Whatever you say. Are you feeling all right?”

“Well... I’m…”

“Never mind.” Read got out and walked up to the door with her. “Goodnight, Eileen. Thanks for going along.”

She gave a little laugh.

“I’d be a mummy here without you, Read. People don’t quite approve of me anymore.”

“That’s silly. When are we getting married?”

“Are you trying to be chivalrous? No, of course you’re not. Don’t pay any attention to me. Only seeing Vince like that… After the election, the Major says. In the spring, I think, if I haven’t shot myself meanwhile.”

“Don’t talk like that. Are you really so unhappy?’’

‘‘Sometimes. Read, let’s get drunk some night. Let’s go some place and get stinko.”

Read laughed.

“I’m afraid that will have to wait till after the election, too. I’m the champion of the stuffed shirts. Suppose I got arrested for drunkenness or was seen drunk. Wouldn’t you like to see the headline in the
Independent?”

“They tell me Gregg Upham gives lovely parties. Take me.”

“No. You wouldn’t like them at all. Bohemians, or think they are.”

“You’re much too moral, Read.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’re much too wholesome for a person like me. Why, you’ve never even tried to sleep with me.” Read was shocked and started back a step, then he laughed.

“I haven’t had any encouragement.”

“What do you mean by encouragement? I haven’t exactly held you at arm’s length.”

“Oh, well. I guess I don’t understand such things.” There was a short silence. Read shifted uneasily. He knew that Eileen was very much upset about something; he decided that he’d pay no attention to what she had said.

“I’m glad you don’t. I was clowning, Read. You know that. Come over here in the shadows and kiss me goodnight. I think the Trevors across the way get out their opera glasses as soon as they see me drive up. I’m the wicked Countess.”

Read held on to himself with difficulty; Eileen kissed him more warmly and much more insistently than ever before. Finally she drew away from him and went in quickly, shutting the door without turning.

Read was unpleasantly excited. His hands were trembling and he began to swear softly. Shrugging, he turned up his coat collar, then he took out a cigar and lit it. His Irish chauffeur, O’Leary, opened the car door for him.

“I’ll sit up in front, Barney,” he said.

On the way home he sat smoking in silence, seeing nothing. What about Eileen after all?

Read woke with a peculiar feeling of expectancy
the next morning; a feeling he tried hard to account for. All the time he was shaving he searched his mind, and it was only at breakfast that it came to him. The check-girl! He had had a vague dream about her; she had wanted him to do something for her, pardon somebody or use his influence in some way; he never made out just what it was. But she herself had been plain as day in a red dress which set off her plump figure beautifully; her white teeth shone, her dark hair was curly and lustrous.

Boyle was speaking to him. He turned. The Negro was looking at him in a rather peculiar way. Had he been thinking out loud? He cleared his throat.

“Oatmeal or breakfast food, Governor?”

“Either. I don’t care. Is Jean up?”

“Yes, sir. Will be right down. I’ll bring the oatmeal, then?”

“Yes.”

The Negro went out. Read turned and sat staring out the tall dining-room windows. It was a gray November day; sparse white snowflakes were falling slowly down from the low clouds. The trees and lawns were bare. Beyond the iron fence, Read saw the morning traffic of East Broad Street. He glanced at his watch: quarter till nine.

Boyle came in with the oatmeal, but paused. There was a commotion of some kind on the front porch. Read heard angry voices and scuffling.

“See what that is.”

The Negro put down the tray and went out into the hall, passing Jean, who dashed into the dining room, kissed her father, then sat down and began banging her plate with a spoon.

“Food!” she cried. “I’m starving.”

“Be quiet, baby,” said Read, smiling. “If you’re not a case of arrested development, I…”

But he was interrupted. A dirty little man in a ragged coat burst in from the hallway, eluding Boyle and Barney O’Leary, who rushed in behind him and collared him.

“Here you!” said Barney, his Irish up, and his fist all ready for a blow.

The little man was gasping and sputtering.

“Hit me!” he cried. “That’s right. Hit me!”

Jean stared with her full-lipped, babyish mouth slightly open. The Governor said:

“Wait a minute, Barney.” Then he looked at the ragged man. “What do you want?”