Strange Fugitive Page 21

  “Yeah, but this is different. It’s got to happen sometime. Trouble is in this racket, we all go the same way home. I’m worrying about Vera, I am.”

  “Listen Harry, let’s go right ahead and give Asche and Weinreb the works. I don’t like those guys. Then O’Reilly’ll come down to earth. We can’t lose anything by socking Asche and Weinreb, eh?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I had this bad feeling this morning.”

  “Lord man, shut up, stop thinking about it.”

  “All right, I’ll stop.”

  “Now how about Asche and Weinreb?”

  “The bastards,” Harry said, feeling better. He swallowed the hot coffee, at the moment wanting to slug Asche. The old feeling was inside him.

  “We’re crazy to even bother about them,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Anyway, neither one of us is going for a car-ride. We’re sure of that, so we got as good a chance as O’Reilly, eh?”

  “Sure, but if they get you then I’ll get out of the country quick with Eva and I’ll be fixed, too.”

  “But they won’t get me, the bastards. They won’t get me.”

  “They won’t get me with my boots off, that’s settled.”

  “Listen, Jimmie, we’ll get right to work on O’Reilly tomorrow. He’s the guy we want to nail. Who in hell is that guy anyway? I don’t like him. Those other guys simply don’t count.”

  “Come on back to the office.”

  “Come on then.”

  They walked back to the office.

  “I’m going to take Eva home,” Jimmie said.

  “I’ll sit in the office. I don’t want to go home.”

  Sam and Eddie went out to eat and Harry sat in the office. He heard Jimmie talking to Eva, then she came into the office to get her coat. “It won’t do any harm to close the place a few minutes early,” Jimmie suggested.

  “I guess not, I don’t care anyway.”

  “Listen, Harry, phone me before you go out tonight, eh?”

  “All right.”

  “So long.”

  “Goodnight, Harry.”

  “Goodnight, Eva.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He was alone in the office and Eva was locking the door. No sounds in the lane, the store quiet. “Eva’s a peach of a little girl,” he thought, miles ahead of Anna whom he didn’t want to see again, nor the apartment either while she was there. He wouldn’t even think of her. That was over.

  Something, getting him all mixed up, slipped away and leaning forward on the desk, his head on his arms, thoughts came easily along old channels, little thoughts of a few years ago. He was looking at Vera, but not talking to her. She had on a ball-dress with a red flower, and was walking toward him. Then she had on a light brown dress and tan shoes and stockings. He was depressed, his head heavy, and aware of being so practical, it was an effort to think of her, making pictures of her in his head when he merely wanted to talk to her. He had many words ready but no interesting thoughts. He began to feel lonely, wondering why he had left her. Tomorrow he would go and see her, but inside him was a feeling that he would not see her. He looked at the telephone, the number coming into his mind quickly, as it used to when working in the yard and calling her in the afternoon. Hesitating, he took up the receiver and called the number. He steadied himself, ready to talk quickly but the number was ringing a long time and no one answered the phone. The steady relentless ringing in his ear was irritating and his heart was beating too loudly, and he might not be able to talk to her. At the moment he wanted to talk to her more than he had ever wanted to talk to anyone. He had to get out of the room, he thought. At last it had become necessary to move rapidly, leave the store quickly, take a taxi. But the uneasy feeling returned. He couldn’t go alone, not until Sam and Eddie came back, then he might go out and see her. The restive, uneasy feeling got between him and the notion for speed and all the eager thoughts, making it impossible to think clearly, waiting for someone to answer the phone. He looked out of the window to the lane. The window was streaked with rain and dust.

  Someone answered the phone, Vera’s voice.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello,” he said carefully, so she would recognize his voice. He cleared his throat, repeating, “Hello.”

  “Who do you want?”

  “Hello, Vera,” he said eagerly.

  “Harry.”

  “How are you, Vera?” he asked casually.

  “Fine. How are you?” she repeated just as casually. He was steering the conversation the wrong way. He looked at the perforated mouthpiece, slightly puzzled, wanting to start over again but she was saying something mechanically, and he shouted in the phone: “Vera, Vera, I want to see you.” She answered very practically: “Is that so?”

  “Vera, dear, please, Vera, don’t talk like that, what’s the use of talking like that? Listen, Vera, let me go on talking to you, anyway. It’s important, it really is important. For a long time I’ve wanted to talk to you.”

  He heard her say, “Well, you might have, you know.”

  She said it so practically, with so much finality, he became almost inarticulate. He shook the receiver. He glared at the mouthpiece. He said only: “Listen, listen, Vera.”

  “You could have phoned me before,” she was saying.

  “I know I could’ve, only I couldn’t,” he said emphatically.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind that now, I simply got to see you sometime. I simply got to make things right with you. Do you hear, Vera? It’s all right, isn’t it, Vera. You want to meet me too, don’t you, Vera. Listen, Vera. I’ve always thought of you and I’ve got to fix it now if you’ll only let me. There wasn’t a day I wasn’t thinking of you.” Eagerly he squeezed the receiver against his ear but she was silent. He thought she was getting ready to ask what he had been doing all winter.

  “Why did you go away?” she asked softly.

  “I don’t know, Vera. Honest to God I don’t.”

  He heard her crying. He heard her say something then choke over the words. She tried again to speak and he knew she was turning away from the mouthpiece. Once before, two years ago, he had heard her cry over the telephone. When she cried like that and he couldn’t see her, he was bewildered, unable to find satisfying words. There was a clear picture of her in his head and because he could not see, his thoughts ran loose, distorting the image, and he was entirely miserable.

  “Vera, for Christ sake, don’t Vera.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t go on crying. There’s no use crying.”

  “All right.”

  “Let’s talk now. You’re feeling better, so let’s talk.”

  “Go on.”

  He had nothing whatever to say. The main thing had been to get talking, to feel they were going along the same road in the old way and had become one again. Now he felt that he had got to that point, things were clearing away. He was happier but words he might use were of absolutely no importance. In the old days when they were happy they never used to bother to talk much or say anything really important, and now it was soothing to listen to her.

  “Where are you?” she asked very agreeably.

  “Downtown,” he said, sure of himself again.

  “Come up and see me.”

  “I want to see you, Vera, I’d rather be near you than any place on earth but I can’t go right now. A little later maybe, but not right now. Tomorrow anyway.”

  “Harry?”

  “What?”

  Now that uncertainty had left her he knew she would become curious. He didn’t want to give any explanations. He wasn’t ready for explanations. Explanations had nothing whatever to do with his reason for phoning her. Satisfied in his own mind, he felt better. He was sad but not so lonely.

  “I got to go right now,” he said. “Tell you all about it later. I’ll be up later,” he added wildly, finding himself getting indignant at the thought of not being able to see her. “I’ll
be up later,” he repeated. “Goodbye, dear.”

  “Goodbye,” she said, her voice expressionless.

  He hung up the receiver quickly and groped in his pocket for a handkerchief. He swallowed hard. He rubbed his forehead with the handkerchief.

  7

  He got up and walked the length of the office. He rubbed the palms of his hands together. He sat down again, looking around the room, slowly becoming aware of every object in the room. He noticed the desk, its size, glass pen-container, four pens in it, big blotting-paper, mahogany chairs, carpet, the pattern. He was alone in the room and each one of these objects had assumed an identity of being for him. He became so conscious of them he felt he couldn’t be really alone while they were in the room. Looking at the objects he was unable to think clearly. He got up and walked into the store and stood looking at the pictures on the wall. “I think I’ll go out,” he thought, but knew he wouldn’t for any consideration go out before Sam and Eddie came back. If he did go out, where would he go? His thoughts hadn’t got to the point of actually seeing Vera. At the moment, his world was the store, the office, books, pictures, carpets. Anything outside was beyond him. He walked over to a shelf and picked out a book. The small book had a leather back but that was all he noticed. He opened the book, saw the printed page, but was aware only that the small book had a leather binding. He picked up three or four books in succession and opened them but the binding alone interested him. “We must have some good books here,” he thought. He walked the length of the store to look out on the street. No one walking along the street. A man washing the flower-store window across the street. He was glad to see the man on the street washing the window. He looked at his watch, half-past six. Sam and Eddie ought to be along any minute. He expected to get a good feeling thinking of Sam and Eddie coming back but remained depressed. He went back to the office and sat down, elbows on the table, chin in his hands.

  There was a thought in his head he could touch only gropingly. “The whole thing would come to an end.” Sooner or later they would get him. O’Reilly would try and get him anyway. He was sitting in the office because it was safe. He explained to himself why he was sitting there. He jumped up suddenly. “Not by a damn sight,” he said aloud. “Not by a damn sight.” He stood still, looking out of the window to the lane and down the lane and over the top of a small building to the sky which had cleared up. A patch of blue sky. He turned eagerly toward the mirror hanging on the wall near the door and regarded himself, sucking in his lips, his hands on his hips. He felt strong, he looked strong and wanted to get his hands working, smashing, swinging. He shook his head a little, longing to feel the impact of his fist against flesh. A dandy feeling. He held it, but moments passed and he lost it. Again he looked into the mirror, with a new feeling of exhaustion and laziness. He sat down and slumped aback on the chair. “I won’t go out for a while,” he thought, and the finality of the decision pleased him.

  He heard someone at the store door. He hurried out and through the window saw Eddie and Sam. He opened the door. He grinned at Sam who came in first. “How goes it?” he asked.

  “Eddie’s got a bad headache.”

  “What’s the matter, Eddie?”

  “I don’t know, I got a hell of a head.”

  “Go on over to the drugstore and get a powder or something.”

  “I guess I’d better, maybe.”

  “Go on, Eddie.”

  Harry and Sam went back to the office. Sam had his hat on. He needed a shave. He seemed quite happy.

  “Anything bothering you, Sam?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “I’ll bet a dollar you were never bothered about anything, eh?”

  “I been bothered in my time as well as anybody else. I was bothered when the missus had bronchitis in the winter and was on her back for a few months afterward. Sure I been bothered.”

  “Eddie’s the guy to get bothered, eh?”

  “Like hell he is.”

  “Didn’t Cosantino bother him?”

  “The wop, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not Eddie. Look at the funeral Cosantino had, a duke wouldn’t get such a funeral. Not many guys can ever hope for a funeral like that.”

  Eddie rapped on the front door and Sam let him in. Harry wondered why he had asked the men to come back to the store when he had no place to go. “I’m going to see Vera,” he thought mechanically. The thought didn’t impress him. He didn’t expect to see Vera tonight.

  He took his hat from the peg. He tapped his hip pocket and an inside pocket. Eddie looked at him curiously. He hesitated, thinking of phoning Jimmie. “What’s the use,” he thought. He turned out the office light and they went into the store and he turned off the store lights. He unlocked the door and they went out. He turned around and locked the door. The air on the street felt cool after the rain. He buttoned up his spring coat. He walked west, between Sam and Eddie. The sidewalks were dry but water ran along the gutters to the sewers. They walked as far as the newsstand on the corner. They were alone on the street, except for an automobile coming along behind them. Harry heard the car coming. He turned, hardly able to get his breath, and ducked, his hand swinging to his hip. Six men were in the automobile and they fired rapidly, using sawed-off shotguns. A bullet hit Harry in the shoulder. He sat down slowly, one leg buckling under him, and he tried to crawl into an entrance, but could feel only a cement wall. The newsstand dealer ran out, turned, ducked back into the stand. Eddie and Sam were on the pavement. Sam had his gun and was firing but the car had gone by. A policeman’s whistle sounded. The car turned at the corner and came back. Harry saw the car coming back and got out his gun, a pulse pounding on the side of his head. He looked at Eddie lying stiff on the pavement and wanted to stand up and scream wildly, but the car was passing and he fired and Sam fired and one of the man in the car yelled and jumped up, throwing his gun out on the road. The men in the car fired. Sam grunted. Harry dropped his gun, hit in the neck, his head dropping down slowly till his forehead rubbed against the pavement. He saw the wheels of the car going round and round, and the car got bigger. The wheels went round slowly and he was dead.

  Endnote

  A Letter from William Carlos Williams to Maxwell Perkins: 1928

  There’s much of the starkness of the tragic drama in Callaghan’s book. It might be Greek, it may be Racine, it might be Ibsen. It is not Shakespeare, for in Shakespeare there is less hewing to a line; as much corollary as principle, the body is less clearly defined, the mind less pared, more provincial, gayer — even at the death. “Good night, ladies, good night, good night!” There’s nothing of that in Callaghan. In Hemingway, whom Callaghan superficially but slightly resembles, there’s no tragedy and little of the humor that it sometimes inspires.

  At the head stands Vera, the truth at the core for Harry, a strange fugitive. Between them unfolds the unfailing story . . . And the success of it is that toward the end there is tragedy and not just a logical conclusion.

  Realism? What of it? Experiments with language in order to reach through the obscurations brought on by the mold, even the fungi of accidental connotations, that is the work of Joyce, even of Stein. These are things Callaghan does not find himself concerned with. But writing —

  There is a truth or a principle which governs this book. I have intimated that it is the tragic principle of classic drama. The book is a play of studied moves. It does not grow, it is made by terrifying rules from which the characters do not escape, but they do live. Thus the truth of the writing outside the story.

  I don’t want to write this way.

  I like to speak of a modern writer as an experimentalist, someone working with the language, trying for effects, colors, new lines and arrangements, someone trying to embody his day with tentative insights, perhaps gaiety. But Callaghan won’t have that.

  I don’t know; the thing frightens me. There’s some mystery outside the book I cannot see, something working at the moment that may be working at other th
ings later and out of the mystery, stark as letters, these characters come to us, with a bare — one might almost say theological — force. It governs Callaghan’s technique, his selections of character. It holds him in one social plane, more from desire for simplicity of the requirements than anything else. In other words the problem would be the same no matter what the factors involved, high or low. He seems to prove by laying his tale among bootleggers and whores that the tragic principle holds as good with ignoble metal as with noble, as good here as with the mythological kings of Attica.

  My own interest is in asking, What is this thing? It is the Vera of the story. Harry wavers around it like a moth. Its failure in Harry is his death, his inherent inability to realize it and to hold it under any circumstances is his tragedy. Harry is, in a way, an appealing figure — because of his bewildered circling around the flame of his love for Vera. Or so it seems to me.

  There is a dryness in the story which goes with this logic, something which at times makes the characters a little less than human beings — which Shakespeare’s characters, we’ll say, are always. But the types are accurate and they move convincingly even when they seem a trifle still, even automatic.

  As for the story, it’s as good as may be found. Like the newspapers, it gives the sense of something quite improbable actually having happened, something grotesque, of no particular consequence — a relative or someone we’ve never seen having shot his wife or somebody or other; it doesn’t matter . . . The thing is that under the story is a design, bare, harsh, terrifying. I confess I wouldn’t quite like to say what it is, if I could . . .

  W.C. Williams

  P.S. This is most haphazard, sadly. incomplete . . . use it as you may.

  Bill

  James Dubro has been a well-known crime writer, documentarian and author for the past three decades. He has published five best-selling books, including Mob Rule, King of the Mob: Rocco Perri and the Women Who Ran His Rackets, and Dragons of Crime, and he helped to produce many major television documentaries, including the award-winning CBC television Connections series on organized crime. He co-authored the definition of organized crime for the Canadian Encyclopedia. He is the past President of the Crime Writers of Canada, recipient of the CWC’s Arthur Ellis Award in 2002, and a contributor to magazines as diverse as Canadian Business, Hamilton Magazine, Xtra, Toronto Life, and Eighteenth-Century Life. He has a BA from Boston University, an MA from Columbia University, and has taught biography and eighteenth-century literature at Victoria College at the University of Toronto.