Time Enough for Love (74 page)

In his spare time he kept the landaulet shining, took care of its upkeep himself, and drove it for pleasure. He also worked slowly, carefully, and very privately on a tailoring job: making a chamois-skin vest that was nothing but pockets, each to hold one $20 gold piece. When completed and filled and pockets sewed shut, he planned to cover it, inside and out, with a suit vest he had used as a pattern. It would be much too warm, but a money belt was not enough for that much gold—and money that clinked instead of rustling was the only sort he was certain he could use outside the country in wartime. Besides, when filled it would be almost a bulletproof vest—one never knew what lay around the next corner, and those Latin-American countries were volatile.

Each Saturday afternoon he took conversational Spanish from a Westport High School teacher who lived nearby. All in all he kept pleasantly busy and on schedule.

*

That evening after locking his Ford landaulet into the shed back of the pawnshop, Lazarus glanced into a bierstube adjoining it, thinking that his grandfather might have a stein of Muehlebach there before going home. The problem of how to meet his first family easily and naturally had occupied his mind from time to time all winter. He wanted to be accepted as a friend in their (his!) home, but he could not walk up the front steps, twist the doorbell, and announce himself as a long-lost cousin—nor even as a friend of a friend from Paducah. He had
no
connections with which to swing it, and if he tried a complex lie, he was certain his grandfather would spot it.

Thus he had decided on a pianissimo double approach: the church attended by his family (except his grandfather) and the hangout his grandfather used when he wanted to get away from his daughter’s family.

Lazarus was sure of the church—and his memory was confirmed the first Sunday he had gone there, with a shock that had upset him even more than the shock of learning that he was three years early.

He saw his mother and had momentarily mistaken her for one of his twin sisters.

But almost instantly he realized why: Maureen Johnson Smith was the genetic mother of his identicals as certainly as she was his own mother. Nevertheless, it had shaken him, and he was glad to have several hymns and a long sermon in which to calm down. He avoided looking at her and spent the time trying to sort out his brothers and sisters.

Twice since then he had seen his mother at church and now could look at her without flinching and could even see that this pretty young matron was compatible with his faded image of what his mother ought to look like. But he still felt that he would never have recognized her had it not been for his sharp recollection of Lapis Lazuli and Lorelei Lee. He had illogically expected a much older woman, more as she had been when he left home.

Attending church had not resulted in his meeting her, or his siblings, although the pastor had introduced him to other parishioners. But he continued to drive his automobile to church against the day when it might be polite to offer her and his siblings a ride home—six blocks over on Benton Boulevard; the spring weather would not always be dry.

He had not been as certain of his grandfather’s hangout. He was sure that this was where “Gramp” used to go ten or twelve years later—but did he go here when Woodie Smith was (is) not yet five?

Having checked the German beer parlor—and noted that it had suddenly changed its name to “The Swiss Garden”—he went into the pool hall. Pool tables were all in use; he went back to the rear, where there was one billiard table, a card table, and one for chess or checkers; no pool game being available, it seemed a good time to practice some “mistakes” at three-cushion.

Gramp!
His grandfather was alone at the chess table; Lazarus recognized him at once.

Lazarus did not break stride. He went on toward the cue rack, hesitated as he was about to pass the chess table, looked down at the array. Ira Johnson looked up—seemed to recognize Lazarus, seemed about to speak and then to think better of it.

“Excuse me,” said Lazarus. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No harm,” said the old man. (How old? To Lazarus he seemed both older and younger than he ought to be. And smaller. When was he born? Almost ten years before the Civil War.) “Just fiddling with a chess problem.”

“How many moves to mate?”

“You play?”

“Some.” Lazarus added, “My grandfather taught me. But I haven’t played lately.”

“Care for a game?”

“If you want to put up with a rusty player.”

Ira Johnson picked up a white pawn and a black, put them behind his back, brought them out in his fists. Lazarus pointed, found that he had chosen the black.

Gramp started setting up pieces. “My name is Johnson,” he offered.

“I’m Ted Bronson, sir.”

They shook hands; Ira Johnson advanced his king’s pawn to four; Lazarus answered in kind.

They played silently. By the sixth move Lazarus suspected that his grandfather was re-creating one of Steinitz’s master games; by the ninth he was sure of it. Should he use the escape Dora had discovered? No, that would feel like cheating—of course a computer could play better chess than a man. He concentrated on playing as well as possible without attempting Dora’s subtle variation.

Lazarus was checkmated on white’s twenty-ninth move, and it seemed to him that the master game had been perfectly reproduced—Wilhelm Steinitz against some Russian, what was his name? Must ask Dora. He waved to a marker, started to pay for the game; his grandfather pushed his coin aside, insisted on paying for the use of the table, and added to the marker, “Son, fetch us two sarsaparillas. That suit you, Mr. Bronson? Or the boy can fetch you a beer from those Huns next door.”

“Sarsaparilla is fine, thank you.”

“Ready for revenge?”

“After I catch my breath. You play a tough game, Mr. Johnson.”

“Mrrrmph!
You
said you were rusty.”

“I am. But my grandfather taught me when I was very young, then played me every day for years.”

“Do tell. I’ve a grandson I play. Tyke isn’t in school yet, but I spot him only a horse.”

“Maybe he would play me. Even.”

“Mrrmph. You’ll allow him a knight, same as I do,” Mr. Johnson paid for the drinks, tipped the boy a nickel. “What business are you in, Mr. Bronson?—if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all. In business for myself. Buy things, sell things. Make a little, lose a little.”

“So? When are you going to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge?”

“Sorry, sir, I unloaded that last week. But I can offer you a bargain in Spanish Prisoners.”

Mr. Johnson smiled sourly. “Guess that’ll teach me.”

“But, Mr. Johnson, if I told you I was a pool-hall hustler, you wouldn’t let me play chess with your grandson.”

“Might, might not. Shall we get set up? Your turn for white.”

With the first move allowing him to control the pace. Lazarus made a slow, careful buildup of his attack. His grandfather was equally careful, left no openings in his defense. They were so evenly matched that it took Lazarus forty-one moves and much skull sweat to turn his first-move advantage into a mate.

“Play off the tie?”

Ira Johnson shook his head. “Two games a night is my limit. Two like that is over my limit. Thank you, sir; you play a fine game. For a man who is ‘rusty.’” He pushed back his chair. “Time for me to head for the stable.”

“It’s raining.”

“So I noticed. I’ll stand in the doorway and watch for the Thirty-first Street trolley.”

“I have my automobile here. I’d be honored to run you home.”

“Eh? No need to. Only a block from the car line at the other end, and if I get a little damp, I’ll be home and can get dry.”

(More like four blocks and you’ll be soaked, Gramp.) “Mr. Johnson, I’m going to crank up that flivver anyhow, to go home myself. It’s no trouble to drop you anywhere; I like to drive. In about three minutes I’ll pull up in front and honk. If you’re there, fine. If you aren’t, I’ll assume that you prefer not to accept rides from strangers and will take no offense.”

“Don’t be touchy. Where’s your automobile? I’ll come with you.”

“No, please. No need for us both to go out in the rain for a one-man job. I’ll slide out the back through the alley, then I’ll be at the curb almost before you reach the front door.” (Lazarus decided to be stubborn; Gramp could smell a mouse farther than a cat could—and would wonder why “Ted Bronson” kept a garage at hand when he claimed to live a driving distance away. Bad. How are you going to handle this, Bub? You’ve
got
to tell Gramp a passel of lies or you’ll never get inside that house—your own home!—to meet the rest of your family. But complexity is contrary to the basic principle of successful lying, and Gramp is the very man who taught you that. Yet the truth could not serve and keeping silent was just as useless. How are you going to solve this? When Gramp is as suspicious as you are and twice as shrewd.)

Ira Johnson stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Bronson; I’ll be at the front door.”

By the time Lazarus had his landaulet cranked, he had settled on tactics and outlined a long-range policy: (a) Drive around the block; this wagon should be wet; (b) don’t use this shed again; better to have this puddle jumper stolen than to leave a hole in your cover story; (c) when you surrender the shed, see if “Uncle” Dattelbaum has an old set of chessmen; (d) make your lies fit what you’ve said, including that too-hasty truth about who taught you to play chess; (e) tell as much truth as possible even if it doesn’t sound good—but, damn it, you should be a foundling…and that doesn’t fit having a grandfather, unless you invent complexities, any one of which might snap back and catch you out.

When Lazarus sounded the klaxon, Ira Johnson darted out and scrambled in. “Where now?” asked Lazarus.

His grandfather explained how to reach his daughter’s home and added, “Pretty ritzy rig to call a ‘flivver.’”

“I got a good price for the Brooklyn Bridge. Should I swing up to Linwood or follow the car tracks?”

“Suit yourself. Since you’ve unloaded the bridge, you might tell me about these ‘Spanish Prisoners.’ Good investment?”

Lazarus concentrated a while on getting his vehicle headed down the tracks while avoiding the tracks themselves. “Mr. Johnson, I evaded your question about what I do for a living.”

“Your business.”

“I really have hustled pool.”

“Again, your business.”

“And I ran out and let you pay the table fee a second time, as well as letting you pay for the pop. I did not intend to.”

“So? Thirty cents, plus a nickel tip. Knock off five cents the streetcar would have cost me. That makes your half fifteen cents. If it worries you, drop it in his cup the next time you pass a blind man. I’m getting a chauffeured ride on a wet night. Cheap. This is hardly a jitney bus.”

“Very well, sir. I wanted to get straight with you…because I enjoyed the games and hope to play you again.”

“The pleasure was mutual. I enjoy a game where a man makes me work.”

“Thank you. Now to answer your question properly: Yes, I’ve hustled pool—in the past. It’s not what I do now. I’m in business for myself. Buying things, selling things—but not the Brooklyn Bridge. As for the ‘Spanish Prisoner’ con, I’ve had it tried on me. I deal in the commodities market, grain futures and such. I do the same with stock margins. But I won’t try to sell you anything, I’m neither a broker nor a bucket-shop operator; instead I deal through established brokers. Oh, yes, one more thing—I don’t peddle tips. Give a man what seems to me a good tip—and he loses his shirt and blames me. So I don’t.”

“Mr. Bronson, I had no call to ask about your business. That was nosy of me. But it was meant to be a friendly inquiry.”

“I took it as friendly, so I wanted to give it a proper answer.”

“Nosy, just the same. I don’t need to know your background.”

“That’s just it, Mr. Johnson, I don’t have a background. Pool hustler.”

“Not much wrong with that. Pool is an open game, like chess. Difficult to cheat.”

“Well… I do something that you might regard as cheating.”

“Look, son—if you need a father confessor, I can tell you where to find one. I am not one.”

“Sorry.”

“Didn’t meant to be blunt. But you do have something on your mind.”

“Uh, nothing much perhaps. It has to do with having no background. None. So I go to church—to meet people. To meet nice people. Respectable people. People a man with no background otherwise could never meet.”

“Mr. Bronson, everybody has
some
background.”

Lazarus turned down Benton Boulevard before answering. “Not me, sir. Oh, I was born—somewhere. Thanks to the man who let me call him ‘Grandfather’—and his wife—I had a pretty good childhood. But they’re long gone and—shucks, I don’t even know that my name is ‘Ted Bronson.’”

“Happens. You’re an orphan?”

“I suppose so. And a bastard, probably. Is this the house?” Lazarus stopped one house short of his-their home.

“Next one, with the porch light on.”

Lazarus eased the car forward, stopped again. “Been nice meeting you, Mr. Johnson.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. These people—Bronson?—who took care of you. Where was this?”

“‘Bronson’ is a name I picked off a calendar. I thought it sounded better than ‘Ted Jones’ or ‘Ted Smith.’ I was probably born in the southern part of the state. But I can’t prove even that.”

“So? I practiced medicine down that way at one time. What county?”

(I know you did, Gramp—so let’s be careful with this one.) “Greene County. I don’t mean I was born there; I just mean I was told I came from an orphanage in Springfield”

“Then I probably didn’t deliver you; my practice was farther north. Mrrph. But we might be kinfolk.”

“Huh? I mean ‘Excuse me, Dr. Johnson?’”

“Don’t call me ‘Doctor,’ Ted; I dropped that title when I quit delivering babies. What I mean is this: When I first saw you, you startled me. Because you are the spit’n’image of my older brother, Edward…who was an engineer on the St. Looie and San Francisco…till he lost his air brakes and that ended his triflin’ ways. He had sweethearts in Fort Scott, St. Looie, Wichita, and Memphis; I’ve no reason to think he neglected Springfield. Could be.”