Strange Fugitive Page 12

  He met O’Reilly out at the Sunnyside Palladium one night in January. O’Reilly waved to Andy Collins, alderman in Ward Three, sitting with Harry, Jimmie, and Mike Regan, the lawyer. Jimmie had known Collins for years. Regan was afraid of Collins. Collins waved to O’Reilly and went over to his table, and then he came back with O’Reilly. “You men should know each other,” Collins said.

  They shook hands all around, and O’Reilly sat down to have a drink. He was friendly. He told some jokes, but Harry watched him alertly. Everybody in town knew O’Reilly. All the policemen liked him. Police-court interpreters liked him very much, he was so good-natured and employed so many foreigners. After the second round of drinks O’Reilly said, “So long,” cheerfully and left them.

  Harry said quietly to Jim: “I don’t like that guy.”

  “That’s one bird you got to like,” Jimmie said.

  “I don’t like him anyway.”

  “Why, he was nice wasn’t he?”

  “Maybe so, but I’d like to push his fat face.”

  “We’re going to be damn nice to him,” Jimmie said emphatically. “For a while anyway.”

  “All right, I got nothing against him, I guess.”

  He didn’t understand his dislike for O’Reilly. He had resented the respectful way Collins spoke of O’Reilly. He didn’t like the way everybody shook hands with him. “I guess I want the centre of the stage myself,” he thought, shrugging his shoulders.

  They were making money though it was awkward using the apartment for so much business. Harry agreed they ought to have some kind of a small place for the sake of respectability, and Jimmie suggested a store downtown. He agreed, knowing Jimmie had for years wanted to own a bookstore.

  Well-dressed, they interviewed publishers and agents, talking with easy assurance, commanding credit, assistance and good will. After an interview they walked along the street, talking rapidly, laughing, each insisting his manner had more impressed the publishers. They finally selected a store downtown on Adelaide, just a block away from Yonge Street.

  The windows in the back of the store faced a lane and the stage-door entrance of the Olympia Burlesque Show. Standing at the windows at half-past one in the afternoon, Harry could see chorus girls walking up the lane to the door. These windows became office windows. A mahogany desk, many pens, an imitation oriental rug, a swivel chair and three plain chairs gave the office distinction. He got as much pleasure from furnishing the office as Jimmie got from the bookstore, done in orange and black, prints on the wall, etchings, watercolours, bric-a-brac on tabarets, gifts on small tables. In the evening he sat in the swivel chair in the office, his feet on the desk, fine and pleasant thoughts amusing him, till he got up and went into the store to look at Jimmie, one leg over the corner of a table, reading attentively.

  “I’m getting used to that office,” Harry grinned.

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course it isn’t so much right now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But when I get more money I’ll get different woodwork, see?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really swell woodwork, eh?”

  “Don’t bother me, do you hear.”

  Jimmie swung his arm, the corner of the book grazed Harry’s forehead. Ducking, Harry grinned, and sliding in, thumped him on the ribs lightly.

  “Cut it out,” Jimmie said.

  “Go on, read your damn book then.”

  He went back to the office. Jimmie was happy, not that he was expecting to sell many books, but rows of shelves made him feel good.

  They hired a girl to look after the store in the daytime. They hired five girls in two weeks before getting one who was satisfactory to Jimmie. Eva Lawson was slight and dark, wore her clothes well and had a surprising way of twisting a knot of hair on the back of her neck. She was twenty-three, and liked books and pictures, and after she had worked in the place three days Jimmie took her out to dinner. They became friendly and seemed fond of each other and sometimes worked together in the evening. Harry liked Eva and was disappointed when Anna, who met her at a dance out at the Palladium, had some nasty remarks for her. He didn’t quarrel with Anna over it. Anna didn’t like women anyway. He simply shrugged his shoulders, pinched Anna’s waist, and said: “Good old Anna.” He told her very practically that Jimmie liked Eva and had talked of marrying her later on, and so she would simply have to be friendly with her.

  In the office at the back of the store they kept their accounts, records of sales and of prospects. They kept the accounts carefully and the business steadily improved and they decided it was foolish to risk arrest driving a truck. They hired a returned soldier, Joe Atkins, a lean man with a wife and two children. They offered him a salary of fifty dollars a week. He understood his work and became reliable. He talked frequently of his wife and children. Fifty dollars a week made him happy.

  A week after hiring Joe, Harry heard that Julie Roberts had actually married Augustus. He saw their pictures in the paper, and a note on Augustus and his well-known skill with the violin. He looked at the pictures a long time and thought of going to see Julie at once, simply to show contempt for Augustus, but got sore, and threw the paper away.

  2

  At lunch time, feet up on the desk, he yawned, tilted back in his office chair, just a block away from an armchair lunch place at the corner. And there was no reason why his easy chair shouldn’t become a wheelchair, well-cushioned and comfortable, to eliminate the necessity of moving even for lunch, when Joe Atkins could simply wheel him out of the store, across the road to the armchair lunch, call for him later, and wheel him back to the office. It would be necessary to have a movable arm on the chair to hold the lunch. He grinned and yawned, very lazy. In the old days he had to get up at half-past five to be at work in the yard by seven o’clock, and now whole days slipped by unnoticed or without recollection of having done anything. In the afternoons he looked forward to evenings with lively parties that were usually successful, though one Thursday night, in the apartment, he had a crying jag and Jimmie, Eva Lawson and Alderman Collins had to promise to take him to Vera before he would lie down. It was unfortunate because he was enjoying himself immensely at this party, and it had become a big crap game with the women winning, and this man O’Reilly, who had good-naturedly come to the party, was ugly-tempered because he was losing. This same O’Reilly tried to change his luck by singing a bit of a hymn just before rolling the bones, and since it didn’t help he might have got sore, only the song interested him, and they all stood up and sang. There were more songs, the best one was:

  Von Tromp was an admiral brave and bold.

  The Dutchman’s pride was heeeee—

  And he cried, ‘I’ll reign on the rolling main [very rapidly]

  As I do on the Zeider Zee. As I do on the Zeider Zeeeeee.’ [slowly now]

  And Von Tromp had a broom at the mast. [Their voices blended well on that.]

  ‘I’ve a broom at the mast,’ said heeeee,

  ‘That the world may know, where’er I go

  I sweep the mighty sea.’

  They were dealing with Blake, the English admiral, who had a whip at the mast, their arms linked, chins lifted, then their heads lowered gradually to take the low notes. They shook hands at the end of the song and were delighted till Jimmie said: “What a simple pair of admirals! They had no dignity. One wants to fight with brooms and the other with a whip, just like a couple of stable hands.” There was some truth in what he said, they agreed, though Alderman Collins, who was talking vaguely, suddenly said the remark wasn’t in good taste, and there might have been an argument, but Harry insisted on telling them about his little wife. He was very sad, and wanted their sympathy so they promised to take him to her while he retained some dignity.

  Next morning he was ashamed, and assured himself he would never again mention her name when with other people. He left the house without eating breakfast, wandering aimlessly downtown, walking miles without getting tired. For the first time he won
dered why he had left Vera, and the thought of the whole business of bootlegging and the parties discouraged him. He walked along the street, realizing only vaguely that he had left her and had been away for some time, and his life of the last few months seemed to have absolutely no reality. He crossed a street corner, disregarding traffic lights, so restless and uncertain of himself he wanted to run and feel himself lurching along, his feet thudding, going on, further away from all thoughts that had bothered him. But instead, stopping on the opposite corner, he leaned against a post, suddenly tired and hungry and unimportant, so that his thoughts seemed trivial. He had lost all identity, nothing he did was of any consequence; he had shoes on his feet, his left shoulder was itching, he scratched it slowly, then sucked in his lips and went into Bowles Lunch to have a chopped steak sandwich and a cup of coffee. The coffee warmed him. He felt like a fool to have been wondering about other days when he was now alone, unrestricted, with no one to bother him.

  But the next morning he was restless again and got up hastily to walk downtown, simply to keep moving. It was Sunday morning and he walked by the Labour Temple, opposite the cathedral that had had a big fire the week before. He was walking slowly, eyes on the charred beams, all that remained of the cathedral roof. The walls were still coated with ice from the water that had streamed over them. Then he stood still, slightly confused, for carillon bells were ringing. He looked up at the tower and saw smoke coming from the windows, and guessed the carilloneur was up there with a stove, keeping the bells ringing in spite of the fire. The sound of the bells had surprised and aroused him again, and, walking up the street his thoughts flowed rapidly, the old thoughts of Vera he had been trying to avoid.

  He went home to dinner and forced himself to be cheerful with Anna. He didn’t think of Vera all next day and by the middle of the week he wondered why he had been so uneasy about a few old thoughts.

  The weather was bitter cold, the streets covered by a heavy snowfall, when he bought a coon-skin coat. He wore the coat whenever possible and in the office took it off solemnly, exposing the lining, hanging it up slowly. At the time he got the coat they hired two more men. Sam Martin, an army man, hard-boiled, was an old friend of Joe Atkins, who had tried for years to get reestablished in civilian life. He explained he hadn’t worked steadily because he had been gassed at Ypres; the gas came back on him when he lifted heavy loads. And Atkins hired Eddie Thomas, a sentimental fat man, a perfect shot with a gun. Both were awkwardly out of place the first time coming into the store. Harry talked about an appearance of respectability, and in a few days they got used to the shelves and looked like decent customers. They were paid every Saturday though merely helping Atkins make deliveries on the truck.

  In the daytime Eddie Thomas loafed around the store. He had a sleepy stupid expression in his eyes, but was alert. He had long black hair falling over his eyes. He got used to hanging around the store and grinned at Eva Lawson. She told Harry and he asked Eddie to be in the office after the store closed. Then he told Eddie to keep away from Eva, and when Eddie grinned stupidly he hit him three times, twice on the jaw, once just above the belt. When it was over, Harry was nice to Eddie, explaining he should be sensible enough to realize he was getting more money working for him than he could get from anyone else. Eddie had simply made a mistake and was sorry, insisting he would rather work for Harry than for anyone else on earth.

  Three weeks after hiring Sam and Eddie he got the car, and Anna moved into the apartment. The car and the apartment and Anna made him feel comfortable, at times so comfortable he wondered if he was getting soft, and he wanted to test his strength. Down in the store one night he challenged Jimmie to weight-lifting contests and danced around him, shadow-boxing, but only occasionally did Jimmie respond sufficiently to interest him. They danced around each other till Jimmie got tired of it. Harry wanted to keep it up and took off his coat but Jimmie impatiently insisted they had come down to the store to talk business. They hadn’t touched the hotel trade. They hadn’t even touched the big money.

  Most hotels in the city sold beer over counters, getting it straight from the breweries, and bars were crowded and hotel men getting rich. Jimmie said if they had their own chain of places they could get rid of hotel opposition for a time at least merely by informing, or paying policemen more than hotel-keepers paid. “You’ve got to work fast and stick up for yourself,” he said. Harry agreed they were marking time, not getting anywhere in particular mainly from lack of money.

  They sat in the office and argued about the possibility of doing an exporting business. Jimmie insisted they didn’t have enough money to offer any serious opposition to O’Reilly, the biggest exporter in the city. They checked up accounts. Some small bootleggers were behind in payment. Harry damned them and smoked a cigar and kept asking Jimmie if those guys thought it was a charity bazaar. “We got to work, don’t we? We got to take turns running across the border and phoning in orders and getting stuff from breweries, don’t we?” He was all for having their own places in different sections of the city. Waving his hand, he developed the idea further, talking eagerly. Eight or nine trucks getting liquor from breweries, and at least sixteen houses in different sections of the city. They could pay salaries to men managing houses and still sell cheaper than anyone else in town. All the cops on the beats would have to be fixed, a big salary list, but worth it.

  “You don’t think other guys are going to let us get away with that?” Jimmie asked.

  “All right, what’s stoppin’ us?”

  “They’ll do their damndest, won’t they?”

  “So’ll we do our damndest, won’t we?”

  “Don’t forget Cosantino. Angelina was telling us about him.”

  “Oh, that little squire don’t amount to nothing anyway.”

  “Well, he lost a good customer in Angelina.”

  “But he don’t amount to anything, I tell ya.”

  “And he told her he was good and sore.”

  “Aw hell, I’m sore too.”

  “Have it your way then.”

  “Listen kid, let’s hire a taxi and take a round trip and look over some places right now.”

  “It’s too dark.”

  “It’s not too dark. We won’t want to inspect the plumbing or anything like that. Just look at places from the outside.”

  “Have you got the price of the taxi”

  “I guess so.”

  “’Cause I haven’t.”

  “All right, come on then.”

  Jimmie waited while Harry put on the heavy coonskin coat. He took a long time with the coat, then asked Jimmie to hold a sleeve. They put out the lights, went out and walked over to the corner and got a taxi. Harry told the man to drive up University Avenue slowly. They sat back in the car. “Some of the places should be just joints, and others swell places for a high-class trade,” he said to Jimmie. They didn’t have the money to make the plan a reality, but they drove along side streets in the western section of the city behind the Arcadia dance-hall and up through the good apartment-house district just west of the University, driving for an hour and a half. Afterward they stood under the street light in front of Harry’s place and Jimmie talked about a Christmas present he was buying for Eva. It was three days before Christmas.

  3

  The night before Christmas he was lonely and drank wine with Anna in the apartment till she became so good-humoured she stretched out lazily on a sofa and was agreeable when he said he’d take a long walk by himself in the cold air. He put on his burburry coat and overshoes and walked along St. Clair for five car-stops, then took a car downtown.

  He got off near the city hall. The store was just a few blocks away, but he walked west along Queen Street. A soft snow was lightly falling and he looked into stores, the snow falling lazily across windows, and remembered how, years ago, he had always felt there would be snow for Christmas. The city hall clock was striking; one, two, he counted, looking at foreign faces passing in the street, and counting clock strokes.
He walked along Queen past the heavy iron fence, snow-capped, and the Law School grounds lonely and snow-covered. At the corner of York, he hesitated, confused and losing track of the strokes, and he turned, looking up at the clock. Ten o’clock. He walked down York — unlighted stores, second-hand shops, pawn shops, money lenders — his head down, following a single line of footprints in the snow. The footprints turned round the corner on Richmond, and he kept on, alone on the street.

  Away from lights and hearing only heavy overshoes swishing in soft snow on the pavement he was more contented to be alone, but inside him was the old unsatisfied feeling and he was trying to walk away from it. “Why don’t I go out and see Vera if I want to?” he thought, but the uncertainty the meeting suggested terrified him and he was sure it would be better to let the evening pass in the old way. He kept on walking south and crossed King Street, passing a policeman on the corner, a daub of white snow on the peak of his fur hat. He looked down the street, glad no one was in sight, not wanting anyone to intrude on his loneliness, or hear even the sound of someone walking. He turned west on Wellington, the street dark in shadows of unlighted warehouses and no one in sight for blocks. He put his hands deep in his pockets, trying to see clearly in his own mind the life of the last few months, wondering vaguely at the cause of his separation from Vera, her image in his mind while he deliberately thought of other things — the store, Eva Lawson, Al Cosantino and all the conversations about him. The night he had met Cosantino in Angelina’s, they had shaken hands and Cosantino had mildly asked how was business. He had grinned at Cosantino, shaking hands vigorously, but had felt that he was bigger than he, could never be touched by him, a small man with a wife and two children, a fruit store, many relatives, barrels of fruit, a fat father — all of it making him grin at Cosantino. They had talked a good deal about Cosantino, who was not as strong as O’Reilly but more important than Asche or Weinreb and making big deliveries all over the city. He had held Cosantino’s hand and grinned at him, feeling he would have no trouble with him, a little Italian, nearly bald, rubbing the bald spot gently with the palm of his hand, a worried expression on his face.