Tales From Gavagan's Bar (40 page)

             
Beyond the curtain there were four or five rows of folding chairs, and at the back of the room a low dais, one step up. On this was a table, and on the table a crystal ball about six inches in diameter. The only light in the room came from beneath this ball and shone through it up the face of a man who stood over it. He was quite tall, a light-skinned Negro, made to appear taller by the dais, the light, and the fact that he was wearing a turban.

             
He screwed up his eyes as Mr. Washington came in and pronounced with an accent that I would describe as solemn: "Brother, have you brought another brother to the sacred light?"

             
Mr. Washington's directness was admirable. He said: "This ain't no sucker, Bokar. This is Mr. Leaf, the great big lawyer. He's going to fix things up with that Carnuto for us, only he's got to have a demonstration."

             
"What kind of demonstration?" said the tall man, and sat down.

             
It was already apparent to me that this so-called church was a cover for an illegal fortunetelling activity, a fact of which I took mental cognizance for possible future use. I suggested that it would be very convincing to me if Mr. Jackson could predict the action the court would take in the case of
Chase
vs.
Bascom Corp.,
which I then had pending on appeal.

             
"No, sir," said Mr. Jackson. "This here ball won't show me nothing but figures. Got to be something with figures in it."

             
"Very well," I said. "What will be the stock exchange quotation on Republic Oil next Friday?"

             
Mr. Jackson seated himself before the ball and gazed into it intently. After a minute or two, still gazing, he said: "It's gonna be
44.375."

             
I made a note of this figure and then suggested that to convince Mr. Carnuto, it might be as well if I were also furnished with the numbers that would win the game on that day. They were readily furnished, and we left.

             
In the car, I asked Mr. Washington about the ball, which to me resembled a type that is made commercially by a firm in Pittsburgh. He said that Mr. Jackson had secured it in India, where he had gone as a sailor during the war, and at the same time he had changed his name. When I inquired further as to how so valuable an object had been released, Mr. Washington again became evasive, and shortly afterward we reached the place where he dropped me off.

             
Gentlemen, I am an officer of the court, and accustomed to weighing evidence. I admit that it is only surmise on my
part that Mr. Jackson had deserted his ship in India, passed himself off as a Hindu, and stolen the ball. Some knowledge of something like this is required to account for the fact that Mr. Washington had a hold over him, over and above the obvious psychological dominance.

             
The question of whether a series of numbers could be correctly predicted, however, admitted of evidential proof. The evidence already at hand indicated that Mr. Washington was producing deleterious effects on Mr. Carnuto's business. I was now in a position to complete the chain.

             
I accordingly wrote out the numbers Mr. Jackson had given me, sealed the paper in an envelope, and left it with Mr. Carnuto, asking him not to open it until Friday. I informed him of Mr. Jackson's possession of the ball, advised him to consider what would have been the result had I wagered an important sum of money on these numbers instead of the small amounts Mr. Washington had clearly been placing through intermediaries. I suggested that in the event these proved to be the winning numbers, it might be advisable to accede to Mr. Washington's request for a division of territory.

             
I fear that in so doing, I applied the wrong type of stimulus to a man of Mr. Carnuto's somewhat forthright disposition. He agreed. When Friday arrived and with it the exact predicted figures both as to Republic Oil and the numbers, I accordingly telephoned Mr. Washington to tell him his proposition would be accepted. There was no answer, nor was there during the succeeding days. In fact, the next time Mr. Washington came to my attention, it was by way of an item in the newspapers. Some boys swimming in the Freeport River discovered that the unfortunate gentleman had apparently stepped into a tub of fresh concrete on the bank of the stream and then fallen into the water.

             
Upon this discovery, I went around to the Church of the Living Light but found the premises occupied by a grocery store, whose occupants denied all knowledge of Mr. Jackson or his establishment. In view of Mr. Carnuto's attitude, I hardly thought it advisable to pursue matters further. In fact, I heard no more of any phase of the matter until very
recently, when I received a message from Mr. Jackson. He was in jail, having been arrested on a charge of espionage, and desired me to defend him.

             
To say that I was astonished would be putting it mildly. But I am not the type of lawyer who refuses a case because a client is poor and friendless and the charges against him serious. I hurried to the house of detention, and as soon as I was allowed to interview Mr. Jackson, informed him that I would be glad to take his case.

             
"As your attorney, I shall of course assume your essential innocence," I told him. "But I think it would be wise to tell me exactly what happened."

             
"It was that Washington," he said. "He was a bad one. I told him we were going to have trouble if he told anybody where he got the numbers from, but he must of told that Carnuto. Somebody did."

             
I did not think it well to pursue this subject, so I told him to proceed with the detail of why he had been arrested.

             
"I was just trying to get my ball back, that's all, and those dumb soldiers pinch me."

             
I asked him to give the circumstances. He said: "A couple days after you was in my place, one of the boys called me up and said this Carnuto found out about me and my ball and he was coming to get the ball. People like that know too many people. I figured there wasn't any good place I could hide out around, and I sure didn't want them to get that ball. So I remember that out at old Fort Osterhaus, where they got the park, there's a whole lot of piles of cannon balls from the Civil War or something, and I painted my ball all over black and took it out there and put it in one of the piles instead of one of the balls was there. It fitted just like the skin on a frog, and I dumped the regular cannon ball into the river. Then I went away to New Orleans for a while, and when I read in the paper how this Carnuto got hisself killed, I come back. But when I went out there to Fort Osterhaus to get my ball, there was a lot of soldiers around, and they throwed me in jail. All I want is my ball."

             
I am sure, gentlemen, that you are aware of an item of
news which was evidently overlooked by Mr. Jackson in New Orleans—that in the interval between the disappearance of Mr. Washington and the date when Mr. Carnuto was assassinated by some of his associates, Fort Osterhaus had been taken over by the Atomic Energy Commission for the installation of one of their most secret projects. I can understand how the guards would take a rather strict view of Mr. Jackson's nocturnal presence, especially when he explained that he was looking for a crystal ball in one of the piles of cannon balls. It must have seemed a singularly transparent excuse. However, I do not anticipate any difficulty in clearing him; there is no real evidence against him for anything but a simple trespass.

#
★
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There was a momentary silence. Brenner said: "But what's the bowling ball got to do with it?"

             
"Why," said Madison Leaf, "I am now on my way to Fort Osterhaus to offer it to the commandant there in exchange for Mr. Jackson's ball, if that object can
be found. It will not unduly disturb the decorative scheme."

             
"Why don't you wait until you get him out of jail and take him along to show you where it is?"

             
Madison Leaf looked dignified. "That might result in his putting in a claim for what is really abandoned property," he said. "If the ball cannot be found after he is released, the legal aspect will be much simplified. And after all, I am handling the case without fee; I believe myself entitled to some slight compensation." He downed the last of his Rob Roy and picked up the bowling ball. "Good evening, gentlemen."

             
Gross gazed after him. "If my wife's cousin August could get hold of something like that—" he began.

             
"He'd turn out to be one of those guys who get so excited that he couldn't use what he saw, most likely," said Brenner. "Mr. Cohan, I want another Scotch and Soda."

-

             
Young Mr. Keating from the library joined the group at the bar, ordered his usual Rum and Coke, and settled himself to listen to Mr. Gross's account of how his uncle Moritz got arrested for keeping a live eel in his bathtub in a hotel in Columbus. He had just reached the point where room service was refusing to send up a box of earthworms for the eel when the narration was interrupted by a sound which caused everyone to turn toward the rear. A pair of female shoulders in a neat print dress was shaken, and the sound repeated itself as an unmistakable sob.

             
"Crying jag?" suggested Mr. Jeffers.

             
"Not that she got here," said Mr. Cohan. "I wouldn't be giving her more than one Alexander now, and her as decent a lady as I ever saw. But this Gavagan will not have; it's bad for the trade."

             
He walked firmly but gloomily around the end of the bar and placed both hands on the mourner's table. "Begging your pardon, ma'm—" he began.

             
As she half turned her head, fishing in her purse for a handkerchief, Keating started. "Why, it's Dotty Eichman!" he said and took a step toward her.

             
"Better not," said Mr. Willison. "Women cry because they enjoy it, and you'll get no thanks for spoiling one of the finest pleasures in her life."

             
"Oh, come on over and meet her," said Keating. "She's a nice
kid, and maybe we can keep her from bawling."

             
Dotty Eichman had her face under control. She was a brunette and pretty. Keating said: "Hello, Dotty. May I present Mr. Willison?"

             
"How do you do?" She extended a rather limp hand. "Won't you sit down?"

             
"You're sure you don't—" began Keating.

             
"Oh, I was just being silly. I'll feel better if I can talk to somebody about it. Have Mr. Cohan bring over your drinks, and I'll have another Alexander."

             
Keating and Willison accepted the preferred chairs. The former said: "What's the matter, Dotty? Feuding with your in-laws?"

             
"No, with Tom." She managed a wan smile in the direction of Willison. "My husband."