The Man With the Golden Arm (42 page)

Indeed your query room is your only house of true worship, for it is here that men are brought to their deepest confessions. The more false and farfetched their lies, the deeper and truer the final passion of their admission.

It was here that the truth, so calmly concealed from priest, mother, lawyer, doctor, friend and judge – from their very selves indeed – rose with such revealing fury at last to the tongue. It was here that certain couples, after sleeping beside each other for a decade, came to know one another at last: here the hardened tissue of lies was slit to expose the secret disease. Here the confession which salvages whatever love may remain was brought forth.

As well as the one word spoken too late. Sometimes penitently, sometimes triumphantly, sometimes shamefaced or feigning cynicism, the one word was spoken within this gutter-colored gloom. Too late.

That could, but for pride or fear, have been spoken in daylight and ease only a few hours before.

It was also the place to which they brought those for whom all was over and done, the final hope wrung out like last year’s dishrag and washed down the Drainage Canal. Out to where the walleyed sturgeons roll.

Here too guilt was fashioned, like a homemade church-bazaar cross, out of those materials handiest to the law: a pack of greasy cards, a shopping bag with its bottom ripped out; or a little brown drugstore bottle.

It was here they brought Sparrow Saltskin, a baseball cap clutched in his hand, to sit in a cell by himself and think with a pang: ‘I’m in for it now.’

All day long the voices of women came down to him.
Sisters, sweet-hearts, mothers and wives bringing packages and messages, arguments and pleas. Money and tears and light, forced laughter.

Or just hope wrapped in an old comic strip.

The packages had to be left at the desk but fresh hope could be carried all the way down to the very last cell. Where some poor mutt of a cabbie, his tongue still burdened by a dying jag, kept boasting that his Gracie had actually come to see him. Just as if Solly Saltskin had ever said she wouldn’t.

‘Gracie came. Like she said she would. They wouldn’t let her past the desk but she hollered down at me, “Still wit’ you, DeWitt!”’ – all his worries solved because some dowdy old doll with a double chin and hair cascading down to her ears had hollered down to him through the concrete, the steel and the stone. He could face one to fourteen now with a splitting headache and a double-crossing lawyer because some Gracie or other had called some nonsense to him. Hope, tears and nonsense.

Borne on the FM waves of the heart.

There was neither sister, mother, wife nor any Gracie at all to call nonsense down to Solly Saltskin. Only Pokey, one button off his fly and one button on, pouring fuel oil from a rusty little tin can about the legs of the stool where he would keep an all-night vigil. The oil kept the bugs from crawling up his legs and the stool kept his elephantine bottom off the floor.

Only some muttonheaded Pokey. And Record Head Bednar.

The captain kept the punk waiting for him in the query room so long that, when he entered at last he saw, with an inner gratification, that the punk started to his feet – then changed his mind merely to sit looking bleakly anxious.

With the light from some long-dead December filtering down from that one window so far above that even
the tireless last leap of the evening shadows could not reach it.

It was always December in the query room.

‘Cards on the table, Steerer,’ Record Head told Sparrow right off, with no intention of revealing his own hand at all. The punk sat with his cap in his hand as if he’d just dropped in for a bit of a chat and would take off as soon as Bednar began to bore him. ‘We got a jacket for you that’ll fit as close as nineteen does to twenty,’ Bednar told him. ‘This ain’t malicious mischief or tampering, that you can get cut down to thirty days, Solly. We can call it the Harrison Act this time. Then it’s the government holdin’ the hammer.’

‘Don’t start the heavy stuff till you feed me,’ Sparrow protested. ‘I was the oney one in the block didn’t get coffee this morning.’

‘It’s the new way we have of doin’ things these days,’ Record Head explained. ‘First you answer the questions, then you eat. You know how long you’re going to fall this time?’

‘I was under the influence of a dramshop, somethin’ legal like that, I didn’t know what I was doin’,’ was the best the punk had for reply. ‘Anyhow you’re s’pposed to feed me just like anybody. I was the oney one in the block didn’t get coffee this morning.’

‘If you didn’t know what you were doing you were out of your mind ’n we’ll put you away in a room of your own. Is that what you’re drivin’ at, Solly?’

‘What I’m drivin’ at is somethin’ to eat.’

‘In the booby house you eat every day.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ Sparrow answered earnestly. ‘You’re not allowed to do that because I just ain’t that crazy. I don’t have all my marbles so I ain’t responsible for no Harrison Act. But I got too many marbles to get put away. I was the oney one in the block this morning––’

‘I don’t want to hear about your diet. I want to know about them marbles.’

‘Well, if a guy got twenny-one he’s all there, so you can give him time.’ N if a guy got only eleven you can put him in the booby house. But I’m right in between, I got nineteen, it’s not enough to give me time ’n too many for the loony roost. It puts you on the spot, Captain, you can’t do nuttin’ wit’out two sikology doctors ’n they’ll never get together on me, it’ll end in a draw like the other time. They’ll be up there testifyin’ against each other about what is it goes on in my ubconshus till they testify me right back onto the street –’ n the first thing I’m gonna do when I get there is to walk right into a hamburger stand ’n get somethin’ to eat.’

‘Don’t stop,’ the captain urged Sparrow to let his tongue run on a bit more. ‘I want to hear it all.’

‘You just heard it all,’ Sparrow acknowledged weakly. ‘I’m not a
legal
goof, I’m just a
street
goof, you got to find a guy like that a guard-yun ’n turn him loose. We eat real soon, Captain?’

‘Maybe never,’ the captain cheered him, ‘your logic is too much on the side of what the courts call “ten-you-us.” It means you been walkin’ the same hairline too long ’n now we’re yankin’ it out from under you like an old rag carpet.’

Sparrow sat with the cap dangling uselessly from his fingers: his hands felt as useless as a paralytic’s. They’d made so much trouble for everyone he hoped they wouldn’t make any more.

‘Sure we give you the breaks because you’re a little retarded,’ the captain went on. ‘You hand the boys a laugh so they go easy. But all the time we know you really ain’t that retarded. We know it’s just your act. But it’s a good act, it’s different, and we don’t get many good acts around here any more.’ He paused to imply that the old days were gone for everyone. ‘Now you’ve worked the act straight into the
ground. It was all right for dog stealin’ ’n drunk ’n disorderly ’n Prospector got you off light for that cowboy caper at Gold’s – who wants to rap a punk for a caper as goofy as
that?
But now you’ve pulled Uncle Sam’s whiskers ’n Uncle ain’t gonna care whether you talk goofy ’r straight. When you pull Uncle’s whiskers, you go.’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘No, and I don’t want to send you. What good would that do
me?
What good would it do me to add up a man’s convictions ’n then have to tell him, “Now you’re a habitual. Good-by”?’

‘I ain’t,’ Sparrow corrected Bednar.

‘This one’ll make just enough,’ Bednar assured him.

‘This one don’t count toward the habitch act,’ Sparrow spoke up confidently. ‘This is a G offense, you just got t’rough sayin’ it yourself. It got to be state ’n it got to be a crime of the same nature for you to call me habitual. What’s more, usin’ that stuff in the bottle is a misdemeanor the first time, that’s all. Don’t you figure I know
anythin
’, Captain?’

‘You weren’t using. You were peddling,’ the captain pointed out.

‘Well,’ Sparrow reflected aloud, ‘everybody’s a habitual in his heart. I’m no worse’n anyone else.’

The captain put both his elbows upon the table, leaned heavily upon them and studied Sparrow through fingers crossed before his eyes. Sparrow thought for one second that Bednar was smiling at him behind those great hands and a kind of panic took him to get this thing over one way or another, any way at all and the faster the better. When Bednar looked up there was no trace of a smile on his lips: he wore a certain fixed look. ‘Now it’s comin’,’ Sparrow thought shakily, trying to hold that heavy gaze.

‘You should of been a lawyer, Solly,’ the captain told him at last. ‘You know somethin’ all right. The dealer knows
somethin’ too. You know who slugged Fomorowski and he knows who left him holdin’ the bag at Nieboldt’s.
There’s
your crime of the same nature, Solly. You try beatin’ Gold’s ’n come right back tryin’ Nieboldt’s.’

‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Frankie says you was. Frankie says it was your idea. Frankie says he done one stretch for you, now it’s your turn to do one for him.’

Sparrow stretched his narrow neck in his oversized collar. The cap dropped to the floor. He didn’t feel it drop. Bednar waited.

‘When did Frankie say it?’

‘He ain’t said it yet, Solly. He won’t say it till we pick him up ’n ask him. What do
you
think he’d say, sittin’ where you are? It’s your skin or his, Solly.’

‘I don’t know who slugged Fomorowski.’

The captain sighed heavily. It was all to do again. He’d almost had it driven home into that narrow forehead; then somehow it had slipped off the skull.

‘Look at it this way, Solly. You got two felonies against you – both state offenses so it works automatic: you’re busted for life ’n no parole. You know the habitch act as well as myself. You can take that and we’ll still get your buddy, sooner or later, for manslaughter. But we’d rather get him sooner. Later on it doesn’t do anybody any good. Right now it helps some people a lot to get that Fomorowski thing cleaned up. So we give you a chance. You help us and you don’t even get booked for peddling, you get booked for nothin’ except maybe creatin’ a public nuisance, just somethin’ to cover the deal. Then you’re back on the street ’n you’ve learned your lesson.’

‘Where’s Frankie when I’m back on the street?’

‘He’ll be back on the street with you in eighteen months, you can take my word. The longer it takes to bust him the
tougher we’re going to make it on him – you’ll be doin’ him the biggest favor of his life by coming clean.’ But he seemed to be looking over Sparrow’s head. The punk sensed that that was going to be a mighty long eighteen months.

‘I don’t want to do Frankie no favors,’ he told Bednar, ‘he’s mad at me for somethin’.’

‘Then this is your big chance to patch things up with him. Who got Louie’s roll, Solly?’

‘They said Louie died from a hit on the head,’ Sparrow answered foggily. ‘Can I have a cup of coffee now, Captain?’

‘You didn’t have to have nobody tell you, Solly. You were there.’

‘I was by Schwiefka’s that’s where
I
was. I went out fer coffee ’n that’s when it must of happened, when I was stirrin’ the spoon. Why don’t you talk to Schwiefka, Captain?’

‘Schwiefka’s clean ’n you know it. Tell us how Louie got it ’n walk out of here clean too. I’ll see you go back to work by Zero’s. A deal is a deal.’

‘The blood ain’t on
my
paws,’ Sparrow said ever so quietly.

‘You got no idea how bad unsolved murder looks on the books in an election year,’ the captain began from a new flank, feeling he was hitting the proper tone at last: one of confidential reasonableness between two practical politicians. ‘The Republican precinct captains are handin’ out handbills rappin’ the super – they’re tellin’ the people if it wasn’t one of Super’s boys done it why don’t he put a finger on who really done it then? Louie owed too much, Solly. His connections were too good. That’s where the pressure’s on Super ’n that’s where I put it on you. Louie owed more dough than you ’n me could count if we set here together countin’ all night. Who got the roll, Solly?’

Sparrow looked at his hands, saw his cap was gone but
his eyes didn’t seek for it. Instead they stayed fixed on his hands, as though unsure whether he might not yet find a spot of somebody’s blood there.

‘They’re pointin’ your way, Solly. Louie had a roll on him that wasn’t his own. Who got it?’

‘They ain’t pointin’ me, Captain.’

‘I didn’t say they was pointin’ you. I said they’re pointin’ your direction. You were there, Steerer.’ The captain rose, came behind Sparrow’s chair and put both hands on the punk’s thin shoulders to steady him. ‘You go along with me ’n Super,’ Sparrow heard that confident voice so low and reassuring, ‘’n you’ll be runnin’ a game of your own. Some nice quiet back room ’n no trouble at all ’cause you’ll have me ’n Super givin’ you the protection. You could live by Kosciusko Hotel in a room of your own, when you want a girl you just pick up the phone ’n they send up two, you should take your pick. You don’t even bother goin’ out to eat, you just pick up the phone ’n tell ’em to send up an order of
shashlyk
.
’

‘Don’t like
shashlyk
.
’

The captain didn’t press the point. He watched the punk wipe sweat off his glasses. The punk looked sick to death. He felt the shoulders tremble under his hands and took his hands away – the captain didn’t like the feel of a trembling man.

Then looked at the punk just as at some sort of thing, and his tone came as hard as newly forged manacles. ‘Pick up your cap. Either you’ll play ball or I’ll give you to Mr Schnackenberg. I’ll be in court myself to make it stick.’

Just outside the room someone was trying to strike a bargain with a couple arresting officers. ‘You let me alone ’n I’ll let you alone.’ In that moment the captain saw the punk more clearly than he had ever seen him before: a sharp little alley terrier driven to the wall, trying to understand, out of cunning and unmixed fright, what his pursuer’s next move would be.

‘You’re nailin’ me to the cross, Captain,’ Sparrow pleaded.