Love's Lovely Counterfeit (12 page)

"O.K., now—pick out a table."

"Well,
that
one. What do we make out of it?"

"Baseball."

"How?"

"I'll show you."

Taking off his coat, Mr. Roberts went over to a chest that stood in one corner, opened it, and took out a hammer and screw driver, then selected a number of metal clips from little compartments inside that were arranged like printers' type cases. These he dropped into a paper bag. Then he took the table Ben had pointed out, upended it, and screwed legs into it. Then he stood it rightside up, and for a moment inspected its metal fittings, its gleaming pins, springs, and bells. Then he motioned at the legend LUCKY BALL WIN 50—100—250—$1, which rose over one end. "You understand, that comes off and the new one goes on: Baseball, the National Game, Play One Whole Inning for Five Cents—"

"Yeah, I understand about that part."

"O.K., then. Watch."

Deftly, Mr. Roberts began unscrewing tags that labeled each hole with numbers from 0 to 1,000. Soon Ben interrupted: "All right, I've doped this out. The batter can get a strike, or a ball, or he can single, double, triple, or pole one over the fence, or he can sacrifice, or maybe a couple of other things. Not over fifteen, though. That's top. Well there's exactly twenty holes on that table. What then?"

Without answering, Mr. Roberts began screwing new tags in front of the holes. They bore legends, in neat red letters, of "Strike," "Ball," "Out on Fly," etc., just as Ben had anticipated, but when all of them had been screwed into place there were still four unlabeled holes. Mr. Roberts smiled.

"Now, then, here's where we equalize."

So saying, he screwed on four tags. Ben, peering, saw that two of them read: "Out on foul," and two others, "Hit into Double." On the last two, Mr. Roberts dropped loose metal covers. "Those holes are dead till there's a man on base. Can't have a double play without anybody on. Same way with a sacrifice. But don't you get it? If there's too many holes we equalize by having a few of those holes read the same thing—that doubles the chances for foul balls, maybe, but who says this ain't fast pitching we got? If there's not enough holes, we knock? out sacrifice bunt, advance on error, whatever we want. Look: they play the game you got, not the game you wish you had. You get it?"

"Well, gee, it's simple, isn't it?"

"O.K., you be the Gi'nts, I'll be the Dodgers."

"You mean that's all? We can play
now?"

"I like pinball. Buck on the side?"

"McPhail, show what you got."

"I've singled, big boy."

The midsummer twilight was fading as Ben entered his living room and lit it, not with the wall brackets, which were harsh, but with the floor lamps, which were soft. He checked the contents of a tray which had arrived a few minutes before: shaker, evidently full; two glasses, bottoms up, in a bowl of ice; a saucer of cherries, with fork; a dish of tiny canapes, six anchovies, six eggs, six cheese; two napkins, folded. The buzzer sounded, and he hastened to the door with the springy stride that seemed never to desert him.

June came in, nodded, and sat down, pulling off her gloves. She too had changed since that night a few months ago when she had made the speech at the high school auditorium, and a man had made a note in a little red book. The neat, school-teacherish blue silk had given way to a smart black polka-dot, with belt, bag, and shoes of coral alligator skin, hat of red straw, and stockings of powdery sheer that set off an exciting pair of legs. It all combined beautifully with her dark, creamy good looks, and it seemed that perhaps she knew it. She came in with languid hauteur, or at least the imitation of languid hauteur; it might be recent, but it was innocent.

Ben, however, seemed neither surprised nor unduly upset. He righted the glasses, flipped a cherry in each, and poured the Manhattans. Setting one beside her, he said, "Here's how," took a sip of his own, put it down. Then he took an envelope from the inner pocket of his coat and handed it to her. "Your share."

"...Of what?"

"Of what we're doing."

"Oh, thanks. I'd forgotten."

"You'd better count it."

She opened the envelope, started in spite of herself when she saw the thick mat of $20's, $10's, and $5's that it contained. Her voice shook a little as she said: "Well—that's very nice."

He suddenly remembered something he had meant to tell her: about a suite that would be vacant next week, at the hotel. It seemed she was living here now, in a suite on the third floor, but the one to be vacated would give her a better view, at the same price. She said something about her apartment, which she had under lease until January 1, and hadn't been able to rent. He made no comment, and she returned to the envelope, actually counting the money this time. Then she counted it again, and drew a trembling breath. Then she lapsed into a long, moody silence. He asked, "How's social service?"

"All right, thank you."

"Plenty of milk for the anemic kids?"

"Not as much as we want, but—"

"That can be fixed. Or helped, anyway."

"Any help will be welcome."

"I told you before, the main kick I get out of having a little dough is to be able to help on a few things where help counts. Tomorrow, I'll send a little check, and it's a promise."

"It'll be quite welcome."

"Speaking of milk, how's Jansen?"

"Very well, the last time I saw him."

"When was that?"

"Does it concern you?"

"Yeah, a little."

"...It was last night."

"And he was very well, you say?"

"So far as I could see."

"Great work he's doing here. Cleaning the town up—"

"Suppose we leave Mayor Jansen out of this."

"Well—if so, why?"

"This talk about cleaning the town up makes me a little sick to the stomach, I find, especially in view of this dirty money you've handed me."

"What do you mean, dirty?"

"I mean it's gambling money, and from children's gambling, at that. Their nickels and dimes, that they got to buy ice cream with, or earned from their paper routes, or whatever way they got it—about the cleanest money there is, so long as
they
have it. But when we get it, it's dirty, just about the
dirtiest
money there is and I don't want any more talk about the town's being clean."

"Listen, we're operating legitimate enterprises, and—"

"Ben, I know exactly how legitimate our enterprises are, because I patronized one the other day, and stayed with it to the bitter end, to see how it worked. It was a golf game, and it took me an hour to make a hole in one, but finally I did, and received my certificate, with my name written on it in the druggist's flowing script. Then I took it to Room 518 of the Coolidge Building where I had heard that such a certificate can be redeemed for $1. I faced Lefty over a glass-top desk, and he knew who I was and I knew who he was, but we didn't speak. I took the silver dollar he gave me, and went out, and I knew that the legitimacy of our enterprises is so slight that it probably can't be found by any test known to science. It's dirty money. So let's say no more about it."

"I notice you take it."

"I take it because I happen to have a sister who makes me a great deal of trouble and costs me a great deal of money. I pretend to be romantically interested in a man that's finer, that's worth more, than you and I will ever be, taken together or separately. Because he happens to believe in me he does a great many things that I ask him to do, as Mayor of this city. Because of that, you're able to do things, to operate enterprises, that pay. I take my share, because I have to. I hate it. I hate myself. I hate you, if you must know the truth. And don't let's have any pretense that what we're doing is any different from what it really is."

"How is she, by the way?"

"Who?"

"Your sister. Dorothy."

"She's fine. She's working in a summer camp, it may interest you to know. That money you lent me, that money I had to send the college authorities to cover what she stole, I made up my mind she had to pay it back. I saw to it that she got a job in a summer camp waiting on tables. It's hard work, and she hasn't much time to get into mischief. And she's paying me back. She's paying me back at the rate of $5 a week."

"Aren't you the skinflint."

"There's a principle involved, and she can learn it."

"Can
anybody learn how to be honest?"

"If not, she can wait on tables in a summer camp."

"That money, by the way, is deducted."

"You mean I get all this in addition to what—to that two hundred and some that you put up on account of Dorothy?"

"Everything in the envelope is clear."

"My, my."

"—And dirty."

"I—asked you not to talk about that."

"Now suppose you get out."

"...
What?"

"We're not going to dinner. You and I are through."

"Oh. I see."

"So beat it."

"Very well, then...May I ask
why?"

"For
you
being dishonest. With
me."

"...I still don't—"

"Oh, that's all right. Just go."

She was standing by now, wholly bewildered, every inch the amateur at love who had wooed him so avidly before. He sat on the sofa coldly staring at her. He was suddenly the man who had faced Cantrell. But since then he had faced a great many people, had taken part in countless bullying scenes. It was impossible to tell where reality began in him, and where playacting ended; everything, in a sense, had become a colossal bluff, and apparently something of the sort figured here. He watched her as she started for the door, made no sign as she stopped and came marching back, her bottom switching quickly, angrily, absurdly. "So you're throwing me out, is that it?"

"Yes."

"That's what you think. Mr. Benjamin Grace, you have just about three seconds to take back what you've said to me and apologize for it. If you don't, I'm going straight to Mr. Jansen, who, as you probably know, is Mayor of this town. I'm going to tell him everything you've done, everything you're doing, and there, I think, will go your perfectly legitimate enterprises, and the thousands you hope to make out of them, and—"

"Get out."

Her mouth twitched as her little flurry crumpled, and once more she started for the door. This time when she stopped and turned, tears were running down her cheeks; and she was cravenly contrite. "Ben, what have I done? Why are you doing this to me?"

"That's more like it. Keep on talking."

"I don't understand—"

"Keep talking!"

"What—do you want me to say?"

He got up, yanked off her hat, sent it skimming into a chair. He cuffed the back of her head so her hair went tumbling over her face. With a quick hip movement, reminiscent of football, he sent her spinning to the sofa. Then he stood over her. "Get this: you can go to Jansen any time you want. If you want to go now, you can go now, and I'll help you out that door with a kick."

"Ben, I don't understand you. I—"

"Then I'll make it plain. In the first place, don't try to tell me you're hooked up with me on account of that bum, Dorothy. She's all paid up, and you've got a grand in that envelope, and so far as she's concerned you got no obligation whatever. You know why you're doing it?"

"It's Dorothy! I've told you, she's been—"

"It's not Dorothy. You know who it is?"

"...Yes."

"Then who is it?"

"You."

"That's right."

He stood away from her, lit a cigarette, while she broke down and cried, great tears squirting out of her eyes and streaming down her face. "That's right, it's me. And from now on suppose you don't forget it."

"I've heard of men like you."

"What do you mean, men like me?"

"Men that pretend to love a girl, and then make her go out and—love other men for the money they bring back, and—"

"Are you loving Jansen?"

"Almost."

"That word is important."

"I don't see that it is."

"It is to me."

"Ben, why do you treat me like this?"

"Didn't you hear me? If you want to go, you can."

"I don't want to. I can't."

"Now we got that straight at last."

He sat at the other end of the sofa, squashed his cigarette, looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes, said, "Now we can talk about love." She had doubled over into a tiny knot, her face i on her knees, and there ensued an interval in which she sobbed, and twisted her handkerchief, and seemed to go through some sort of inner struggle. Then she threw herself on him, held her \ mouth against his, twisted his hair with her fingers, and gave? way to tremulous, half-sobbing little laughs.

Lefty, dropping in at Ben's apartment, looked exactly as he had looked the day of the Castleton robbery; the elegant surroundings, indeed, only accentuated his ill-fitting suit, his bandy-legged walk, his air of bucolic simplicity. He came in with a friendly hello, marched vacantly around for a few moments, then stood at the window, taking in the view from the high tower of the hotel. The whole city was visible, and in the distance the lake looked blue under the haze of approaching autumn. Something caught his ear. He looked, and a smile spread over his face. "Did you hear it, Ben? There's nothing like it, I swear there isn't—that sound of a shoe on a football. I knew it, soon as I heard it, and sure enough, there they are down there, kicking it around. Don't you love it?"

"Not noticeably."

Surprised, Lefty turned around. Ben seemed dejected. He sat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, and stared at his feet. They were turned inwards, with a juvenile, ineffectual, pigeon-toed effect that enhanced the suggestion of smallness that hung over everything that he did. Lefty blinked, then laughed. "Oh—I forgot."

"You expect me to love football you'll be disappointed."

"How long did you play, Ben?"

"I played grammar school, my last two years, then four years high school. I played three years college, then two more years college, under a phony name, until a place up the line found out who I was and I had to quit. Then I played two years pro. I played so many games I can't remember them all, and them that I can remember, I generally don't if I can help it."