Plexus (21 page)

Mona took the loss of the letters tragically. She looked upon the incident as a bad omen. (Years later, when I read what happened to Balzac in connection with the beloved Madame Hanska's letters, I relived this episode vividly.)

The day after our visit to the dumps I received a most unexpected call from a police lieutenant in our precinct. He had come in search of Mona who fortunately was not home. After a few politenesses I asked what the trouble might be. No trouble, he assured me. Merely wanted to ask a few questions. Being the husband, I wondered aloud if I couldn't answer them for her. He seemed reluctant to comply with this polite suggestion. “When do you expect her back?” he asked. I told him I couldn't say. Was she at work, he ventured to ask. “You mean does she have a job?” said I. He ignored this. “And you don't know where she went?” He was boring in, obviously. I replied that I hadn't the slightest idea. The more questions he asked the more tight-lipped I became. I still had no inkling of what was on his mind.

Finally, however, I caught a clue. It was when he asked if she were an artist perchance that I began to get the drift. “In a way,” I said, waiting for the next question. “Well,” said he, extracting a
Mezzotint
from his pocket and laying
it before me, “maybe you can tell me something about this.”

Vastly relieved, I said—“Certainly! What would you like to know?”

“Well,” he began, settling back to enjoy a lengthy palaver, “just what is this?
What's the racket
, I mean?”

I smiled. “There's no racket. We sell them.”

“To whom?”

“Anybody. Everybody. Anything wrong with that?”

He paused to scratch his poll.

“Have you read this one yourself?” he asked, as if firing point-blank.

“Of course I have. I wrote it.”

“What's that?
You
wrote it? I thought
she
was the writer?”

“We're both writers.”

“But her name's signed to it.”

“That's true. We have our own reason for that.”

“So that's it?” He twiddled his thumbs, trying to think hard.

I waited for him to spring the big surprise.

“And you make a living selling these… uh, these pieces of paper?”

“We try to.…”

At this point who should burst in but Mona. I introduced her to the lieutenant who, by the way, was not in uniform.

To my amazement she exclaimed:
“How do I know he's Lieutenant Morgan?”
Not a very tactful way to start off.

The lieutenant, however, was not at all put out; in fact, he behaved as if he thought it smart of her to explain the nature of his call. He did it with tact and civility.

“Now, young lady,” he said, ignoring what I had volunteered, “would you mind telling me just why you wrote this little article?”

Here we both spoke up at once. “I told you I wrote it!” I exclaimed. And Mona, paying no heed to my words: “I see no reason why I should explain that to the police.”

“Did you write this, Miss… or rather Mrs. Miller?”

“I did.”

“She did not,” said I.

“Now which is it?” said the lieutenant in a fatherly way. “Or did you write it together?”

“He had nothing to do with it,” said Mona.

“She's trying to protect me,” I protested. “Don't believe a word she tells you.”

“Maybe you're trying to protect
her!”
said the lieutenant.

Mona couldn't contain herself.
“Protect?”
she cried. “What are you getting at? What's wrong with this…
this
…?” She was stumped what to call the incriminating piece of evidence.

“I didn't say that you had committed a crime. I'm merely trying to find out what impelled you to write it.”

I looked at Mona and then at Lieutenant Morgan. “Let
me
explain, won't you? I'm the one who wrote it. I wrote it because I was angry, because I hate to see an injustice done. I want people to know about it. Does that answer the question?”

“So, then you didn't write this?” said Lieutenant Morgan, addressing Mona. “I'm glad to know that. I couldn't imagine a fine looking young lady like you saying such things.”

Again Mona was stumped. She had expected quite another response.

“Mr. Miller,” he continued, with a slight change of tone, “we've been having complaints about this diatribe of yours, if I may call it that. People don't like the tone of it. It's inflammatory. You sound like a radical. I know you're not, of course, or you wouldn't be living in a place like this. I know this apartment very well. I used to play cards here with the Judge and his friends.”

I began to relax. I knew now that it would end with a pleasant little piece of advice about not becoming an agitator.

“Why don't you offer the Lieutenant a drink?” I said to Mona. “You don't mind having a drink with us, do you, lieutenant? I take it you're off duty.”

“I wouldn't mind at all,” he responded, “now that I know the sort of people you are. We have to look into these things, you know. Routine. This is a sedate old neighborhood.”

I smiled as though to say I understood perfectly. Then, like a flash, I thought of that officer of the law before whom I had been hauled when I was a mere shaver. The recollection of this incident gave me an inspiration. Downing a glass of sherry, I took a good look at Lieutenant Morgan and was off like a mud lark.

“I'm from the old 14th Ward,” I began, beaming at him in mellow fashion. “Perhaps you know Captain Short and Lieutenant Oakley? Or Jimmy Dunne? Surely you remember Pat McCarren?”

Bull's eyes! “I come from Greenpoint,” he said, putting out his hand.

“Well, well, what do you know!” We were in the clear.

“By the way,” I said, “would you have rather had whisky? I never thought to ask you.” (We had no whisky but I knew he would refuse.) “Mona, where's that Scotch we had around here?”

“No, no!” he protested. “I wouldn't think of it. This is just fine.”

“So you're from the old 14th Ward… and you're a writer? Tell me, what do you write besides these… uh… these…? Any books?”

“A few,” I said. “I'll send you the latest one as soon as it's off the press.”

“That would be kind of you. And send me something of your wife's too, won't you? You picked a clever little lady, I must say that. She certainly knows how to defend you.”

We chatted awhile about the old days and then Lieutenant Morgan decided he had better go.

“We'll just file this under… what did you say you call these things?”

“Mezzotints,”
said Mona.

“Good. Under M, then. Good-bye, and good luck with
the writing! If you're ever in trouble you know where to find me.”

We shook hands on that and gently closed the door after him.

“Whew!” I said, flopping into a chair.

“The next time any one asks for me,” said Mona, “remember that
I
write the
Mezzotints
. It's lucky I came when I did. You don't know how to deal with such people.”

“I thought I did pretty well,” I said.

“You should never be truthful with the police,” she said.

“It all depends,” I said. “You've got to use discrimination.”

“They're not to be trusted,” she retorted. “You can't afford to be decent with them.… I'm glad O'Mara wasn't here. He's a worse fool than you in such matters.”

“I'm damned if I can see what you're complaining about.”

“He wasted our time. You shouldn't have offered him a drink, either.”

“Listen, you're going off on a tangent. The police are human, too, aren't they? They're not all brutes.”

“If they had any intelligence they wouldn't be on the police force. They're none of them any good.”

“O.K. Let's drop it.”

“You think it's ended—because he was nice to you. That's their way of taking you in. We're on the books now. The next thing you know we'll be asked to move.”

“Oh, come, come!”

“All right, you'll see.…
The pig
, he almost finished the bottle!”

The next disturbing incident took place a few days later. I had been going to the dentist the last few weeks, to a friend named Doc Zabriskie whom I had met through Arthur Raymond. One could spend years sitting in his waiting room. Zabriskie believed in doing only a little work at a time. The truth was, he loved to talk. You'd sit with mouth open and jaws aching while he chewed your ear off.
His brother Boris occupied an adjoining niche where he made bridges and sets of false teeth. They were great chess players, the two of them, and often I had to sit down and play a bit of chess before I could get any work done on my teeth.

Among other things Doc Zabriskie was crazy about boxing and wrestling. He attended all the bouts of any importance. Like so many Jews in the professional world, he was also fond of music and literature. But the best thing about him was that he never pressed you to pay. He was especially lenient with artists, for whom he had a weakness.

One day I brought him a manuscript I had just written. It was a glorification, in the most extravagant prose, of that little Hercules, Jim Londos.
^*
Zabriskie read it through while I sat in the chair, mouth wide open and jaws aching like mad. He went into ecstasies over the script: had to show it immediately to brother Boris, then telephone Arthur Raymond about it. “I didn't know you could write like that,” he said. He then intimated that we ought to get better acquainted. Wondered if we couldn't meet somewhere of an evening and go into things more thoroughly.

We fixed a date and agreed to meet at the Café Royal after dinner. Arthur Raymond came, and Kronski and O'Mara. We were soon joined by friends of Zabriskie. We were just about to adjourn to the Roumanian Restaurant, down the street, when a bearded old man came up to our table peddling matches and shoelaces. I don't know what possessed me, but before I could check myself I was making sport of the poor devil, baiting him with questions which he couldn't answer, examining the shoelaces minutely, stuffing a cigar in his mouth, and in general behaving like a cad and an idiot. Everyone looked at me in amazement, and finally with stern disapproval. The old man was in tears. I tried to laugh it off, saying that he probably had a fortune hidden away in an old valise. A dead and stony
silence ensued. Suddenly O'Mara grabbed me by the arm. “Let's get out of here,” he mumbled, “you're making a fool of yourself.” He turned to the others and explained that I must be drunk, said he'd walk me around the block. On the way out he stuffed some money in the old man's hand. The latter raised his fist and cursed me.

We had hardly reached the corner when we ran full tilt into Sheldon, Crazy Sheldon.

“Mister
Miller!”
he cried, holding out both hands and smiling with a full set of gold teeth. “Mister
O'Mara
!” You would think we were his long-lost brothers.

We got on either side of him, locked arms, and started walking towards the river. Sheldon was bubbling over with joy. He had been searching all over town for me, he confided. Was doing well now. Had an office not far from his home.

“And what are
you
doing, Mister
Miller?”

I told him I was writing a book.

With this he disengaged himself and took up a position in front of us, his arms folded over his chest, his expression ludicrously serious. His eyes were almost shut, his mouth pursed. Any moment now I expected that peanut whistle of his to issue like steam through the tight lips.

“Mister
Miller,”
he began slowly and sententiously, as if he were summoning the whole world to listen in. “I always wanted you to write a book. Sheldon understands. Yes indeed.” He said this raspingly, his lower lip thrust out, his head jerking back and forth in violent approval.

“He's writing about the Klondike,” said O'Mara, always ready to work Sheldon up to a lather.

“No, No!” said Sheldon, fixing us with a cunning smile, at the same time waving his index finger back and forth under our noses. “Mister
Miller
is writing a
great
book. Sheldon knows.” Suddenly he grasped us by the forearm, relaxed his grip and put his index finger to his lips. “Sh—h—h—!” He looked round as if to make sure we were out of earshot. Then he started walking backwards, his finger
still raised. He moved it back and forth, like a metronome.

“Wait,” he whispered, “I know a place…. Sh—h—h!”

“We want to walk,” said O'Mara brusquely, shoving him aside as he pulled me along. “He's drunk, can't you see that?”

Sheldon looked positively horrified. “Oh no!” he cried, “No, not Mr.
Miller!”
He bent over to look up into my face. “No,” he repeated, “Mr.
Miller
would never get drunk.” He was forced to trot now, his legs still crooked, his index finger still wagging. O'Mara walked faster and faster. Finally Sheldon stood stockstill, allowing us to get quite a distance ahead of him. He stood there with arms folded over his chest, immobile. Then, all of a sudden, he broke into a run.

“Be careful,” he whispered, as he caught up with us. “Polacks around here. Shhhhh!”

O'Mara laughed in his face.

“Don't laugh!” begged Sheldon.

“You're crazy!” sneered O'Mara.

Sheldon marched beside us, briskly and gingerly, as if walking with bare feet on broken glass. He was silent for a few moments. Suddenly he stopped, opened overcoat and sack coat, and quickly, furtively buttoned his inside pockets, then the outer buttons of his sack coat, then his overcoat. He thrust his lower lip forward, narrowed his gimlet-like eyes to two slits, pulled his hat well down over his eyes, and pushed onward. All this rigmarole to the tune of absolute silence. Still silent, he put forth one hand and significantly gave his gleaming rings a half turn. Then he pushed both hands deep down into his overcoat pockets. “Quiet!” he whispered, treading even more gingerly now.