The Crossroads (9 page)

“Mark, I keep thinking about what will happen to that poor old man. I mean it seems like …”

She backed up suddenly as Mark Brodey came swiftly off the cot, his face pale and set. As she cringed away he slapped her heavily on the side of the face. It knocked her down and dazed her. She began to cry.

“I want this to get through to you, baby. I’ve figured this thing out my way. You’re going to do it my way. I told you about the punk and told you how to get him on the hook. The old man is going to get a bump on the head. And you and me are going to be rich. Stop blubbering, for God’s sake. All you do is blubber. I taught you the lines. They’ll work. You’ll do it if I have to beat on you until my hands are sore. Now date that punk fast and give him the whole picture, just like I told you. I get Thursday off next week. You be here by three, and you have the message that he’s ready to roll, or you’re going to be a sorry kid. I’ve put a lot of thought into setting this up. And you aren’t going to goof me.”

He took her hand and helped her up.

His voice changed to silky persuasion. “Baby, this thing can’t miss. You know I checked it out complete. Lawrenz is nervy enough to go for it. He just needs bait. You and the money. That’s the bait he needs. I sized him up six months ago when he first went to work there. Nobody gets hurt. A lot of money changes hands. Then you and me, we’ll take off. I won’t bat you around any more after that. Honest.”

“I don’t know how I got into such a terrible mess. I didn’t want to be in a terrible mess like this.”

“Don’t you worry. Let me figure things out. You just do like I’ve taught you, baby. You better run along now. It’s a little after six.”

After the car drove out he stretched out on the cot, his hands behind his head. He wondered how much the old man had in that box. Everybody knew about it. But nobody had figured out a good way to take it away from him, except Mark Twain Brodey. And he was the boy to do it without a bit of risk. Too bad the Droveks would never find out who was behind it. It would be enough, have to be enough, to know he had gotten even.

By six-thirty on that misty blue Friday evening the traffic flow was lighter. The Midland and the Motor Hotel were full up. There was a short waiting line at the Crossroads Pantry. The Starlight Club was busy. A baby spot shone upon a girl with tan shoulders and long coppery hair, dressed in a gray sheath, sitting at a small piano on a small platform to the left of the bar, playing show tunes above the constant jumble of conversation. The Truck Haven lot was crowded with big rigs. Walter Merris was cursing his Betsy in a low deadly voice. Pete wheeled his latest Corvette into his drive, saw the light on in the bedroom and thought with tolerant, condescending affection of his solid little Sylvia. Papa Drovek sat on his front porch with a cheap and violent cigar and watched the familiar flow of the lights of the traffic, up and down 71, back and forth on 82, and around the eight curvings of the cloverleaf interchange. He wondered how the new automobile place would look at night. He wondered what Martha would say if he could show all this to her. He wondered if she knew about it. He wished she could see Nancy. She’d stayed over an hour. They had a nice visit. She was a nice little girl, and so much like Martha. Jeana Louise Portoni closed the gift shop at quarter to seven and walked slowly home through the soft night, thinking of Chip. Clara Drovek ate two small pieces of the steak they had sent over from the restaurant. She clumped unsteadily out into the kitchen, humming to herself, scraped the rest of the meal into
the Disposall and made herself a fresh drink and carried it back to the television set. Leo Drovek, waiting for Betty to announce that dinner was ready, looked with love, but with a certain dissatisfaction, at his three small children. He wished they were all a little less pallid and scrawny, and that they were not chronic victims of post-nasal drip.

Chip Drovek, seated behind his desk in the quiet office, at the time of day when he could plow through routine work without interruption, handed the letter he had just answered to Gloria Quinn and said, “Just two more. I always feel guilty about keeping you hanging around here.”

“And you always mention it. Thanks, boss.” She grinned at him. She was a trim, tailored woman with a broad ruddy face, graying hair in soft waves.

“It must mess up your social life though.”

“Social shmocial. Andy’s on the two-to-ten shift again.”

“Can I arrange a ride home for you?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got the little gray beast outside.”

“I didn’t notice it. I thought you came to work with Myra today.”

“I did. I loaned the beast to Jeana Portoni yesterday. I had a ride home with Myra and she had to go into town. The darn buses get more infrequent every day. She’s thinking of buying a V.W. She’s a nice gal, boss.”

Chip glanced at her, wondering if there was any special inference or significance in the remark. But Gloria looked utterly bland.

“Let’s see. I think we can give this one to Leo. An AAA survey.”

“I thought you might do that.”

“Gloria, when you’re relatively sure, buck the stuff to him yourself, as if it came from me. When we can keep him busy compiling stuff …”

“I know.”

“So we’re down to one. Make it Dear Dave. I’ve discussed your suggestion with Mr. Joseph Varadi, our Director of Purchasing, and also with the Paris Realty Corporation. Paragraph. They agree that the idea has
possibilities, but wish to take more time to study it. Paragraph. I’ll be in touch with you in a week or two at which time we will arrange a meeting so we can talk it over in detail. Better make it cordially. Now I’ll unlock your chains.”

“I can come in tomorrow and …”

“Nothing that urgent here, Gloria. Monday is good enough.”

“There’s quite a batch. They’ll be done by about eleven-thirty, Monday.”

“Time enough.” He leaned back. “Any little foul-ups I haven’t heard about yet?”

It was their, accustomed procedure. Gloria never volunteered information about sand in the gears until Chip asked her, except, of course, in an emergency situation.

“Joe and Walter Merris are feuding. Remember that retired doctor who died in the Motor Hotel two weeks ago? According to the records it was his seventh stay with us. Walter took it on himself to wire flowers to the home address in his own name. He didn’t check with Joe. Joe thinks it should have gone across his desk. He doesn’t want to approve it for the business account.”

“How much?”

“Six dollars and something total.”

“Both good men. They have a chemical reaction to each other. They’ll waste a hundred dollars’ worth of time and energy bickering about it. Tell Joe to pass it. I’ll chew Walter a little. Remind me to make an executive memo to all managers clarifying policy on gifts to customers.”

Gloria scribbled in her book. She looked at the ceiling and pursed her lips. “Nothing else right now, boss.”

“Good. Take off. I’ll lock up. Thanks, Gloria.”

A little later he heard the V.W. start up and drive away. He sat at his desk for a few more minutes, knowing that he was going to have to find John Clear and talk to him, looking forward to it without pleasure. He wondered if Pete was back yet.

Ten minutes later he walked into the Motor Hotel
Restaurant, noting that in a very few minutes there would be waiting for all tables. The cashier told him she had seen Mr. Clear walking toward the kitchens a few minutes ago. He went out through the dining room, and into the main kitchen. White fluorescence, stainless steel, unending clatter, whir of exhaust fans, churning sound of the big dishwasher, rich steamy odors of food on the big ranges, high white hats on the corps of chefs, busy brisk steps of the waitresses from the swinging doors to the “ready” tables and the order spindles, bus boys carrying loaded trays to the dishwasher station. To the uninitiated it was a shifting scene of vast confusions. But Chip knew how well it was running.

John Clear was standing by one of the ranges, talking to one of the chefs, looking, as always, like a Balkan diplomat, his rather heavy white face impassive, small dark eyes restless and alert. He had the European—dawn to exhaustion—attitude toward his work. As with all managers and submanagers he received a share of the net profits of his particular operation in the form of a quarterly bonus. It was excellent pay, but during the past year John had dropped a few small hints about the possibility of a stock interest in the corporation. Walter Merris had parroted the same idea. Chip suspected that something of that kind might have to be initiated, might in fact have considerable validity. It was something for the tax attorneys to work out in co-operation with the accounting firm, Kimball and Kimball.

When John spotted Chip, Chip motioned to him. They went over to the far corner of the main kitchen to a place of relative quiet next to the largest cooler. “Nancy wants to be a counter girl at the Haven this summer, John. Start Monday on the early shift. No favors. She made a deal. She’ll stick it out all summer. Can do?”

Clear thought for a moment. “Certainly. She isn’t sixteen. So we won’t put her through on the regular payroll. You pay her yourself, as an allowance. All right?”

“Cuts your costs, John.”

“Provided she pulls her weight. Yes. I think she might. She’s a nice girl, Chip.”

“Thanks. Another thing. You better find somebody to run the Pantry.”

The quick flick of surprise disappeared into his normal impassivity. “So? Well, there is someone there right now who could …”

“No, John. Not anybody there now. Do you understand?”

“Not completely. No.”

“Whoever you have in mind has let the place go to hell in the past week. Perhaps, let’s say, as a political move. With a little indirect encouragement from you. I’ll let you pressure me. You have. Because you are right this time. But I won’t take it from somebody there. You see?”

John Clear looked uncomfortable. “Yes. I understand.”

“So bring somebody in. I think, under these circumstances, it would be better all around not to make any transfer inside the organization.”

“It’s hard to find …”

“I know. So handle it yourself until you get somebody we both like. All right?”

John Clear smiled a small smile. “I win a little and lose a little, eh?”

“Something like that. Thanks for covering as long as you did.”

“A strange boy, Chip. There should be something …”

“I know. Try to find it. That’s the problem. If he’s back, I’ll talk to him tonight.”

“I heard he came back this evening.”

“Sometime you’ll have to tell me all about your listening posts. How is Vernon making out as head bartender?”

“Doing an excellent job.”

Chip chugged home on the Vespa. Nancy had left a note for him on the kitchen table. “I am living a mad gay life while I have the chance. Gone skating in Walterburg with the gang. Home by one this time. Love.”

He looked into the living room. Clara was watching television. She turned her head slowly and looked at him. He smiled, went over and turned the deafening sound down for a moment.

“Get your dinner all right?”

She frowned. “Steak. It was steak. I … ate every bit.”

“That’s a good girl. I’m going to walk down and talk to Pete for a little while.”

“Oh.”

“Did you go out in the yard at all today?”

“What? No.”

“It was a beautiful day. Some sun would do you good.”

He saw the little shift of obstinacy on her face. He turned the sound back up and went out. He walked by Leo’s house. He saw them in there, having dinner. Of all the Droveks, Leo made least use of the restaurants. He felt that the family should eat together, at home.

From the drive he could see into Joan’s living room. He saw her standing in the living-room doorway in a robe, her hair turbaned in a towel, laughing. Big, rangy Jack Paris, brown as a saddle, was imitating a grotesque golf swing, using one of the fireplace tools. Sometimes Joan seemed perfectly content with Jack. She carefully maintained the fiction that he was essential to the functioning of the Paris Realty Corporation, that all his golf and tennis and fishing and hunting and handball and bridge and poker clubs made invaluable contacts for the firm. Jack could talk sincerely and at length about how necessary those contacts were. But he was just a forty-year-old kid, in love with games, proud of his reflexes. And, fortunately, as much in love with Joan as she was with him. He was an example of one of the burdens a family corporation must carry, the likable drone. Maybe Pete was another. Chip was not yet convinced. Once he was, a suitable niche would have to be found for Pete, where he could do no harm, and not feel entirely worthless. Vice-president in charge of paper cups and roller towels.

He went to the back door of Pete’s house. Pete was in the kitchen standing by the sink, drinking beer out of a can and looking troubled.

“Hi, Brother Chip. Beer?”

“No, thanks. How was Richmond?”

“Full of mad hilarity.”

“You don’t look so hilarious.”

Pete pointed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction
of the bedroom and lowered his voice slightly. “I’m dog-housed and I don’t know why. She’s in there bawling.”

“Could be she doesn’t like to be left alone.”

“Hasn’t bothered her before. Okay, I’m a selfish husband. I go and spin madly around in circles where she doesn’t fit so well. She’s a good little cooky, Chipper, but let’s say she isn’t … in her league with some of my buddies. This is different. Anything happen to her while I was gone?”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“How do you feel about adoption?”

Chip changed his mind, went to the refrigerator, took out a can of beer and opened it. He took three deep swallows before he answered. “In her case, I think it’s a fine idea.
If
you’re absolutely certain you want to stay married to her. You don’t love her.”

“What’s love, Big Brother? Draw me a chart.”

“Something you haven’t got and you might run into all of a sudden. Maybe it’s something you’re looking for without knowing it.”

Pete looked dryly amused. “Psychology yet.” He hoisted himself up onto the kitchen counter by the stove and said, “Tell me more.”