Then one day the police investigation began to have results. A Miss Curley, who had been one of the late Miss Devlin’s intimates, admitted to the police that Miss Devlin had telephoned her the night of the murder. Miss Devlin had been annoyed by her former husband, one Scatelli, who had made threats against her life, according to Miss Curley. The night of the murder Miss Devlin had said over the telephone to Miss Curley: “Joe’s around again, damn him, and he wants me to go back and I told him nuts. He’s coming up tonight.” Miss Curley explained that she had not spoken earlier in the case because Scatelli was a gangster and she was afraid of him. Scatelli was arrested in Bridgeport, Connecticut.
Mr. Harrisburg appeared before the Grand Jury, and it was after his appearance, when he was leaving the Grand Jury room with an assistant district attorney, that he first suspected that his news value had suffered as a result of Miss Curley’s disclosures. For when he read the next day’s newspapers he found only the barest mention of his name in one lone newspaper. Miss Curley, on the other hand, was all over the papers. Not only were there photographs of the young lady as she appeared after giving testimony, but the drama departments had resurrected several pictures which showed Miss Curley holding a piece of black velvet in front of her fair white form, and several others in which she was draped in feathers. Scatelli’s rogues’ gallery likenesses received some space.
The baseball season had become interesting, and Mr. Harrisburg could not help noticing that at luncheon the following day his colleagues’ sole comment on the Devlin murder was that they saw where the police got that guy that did it. The remainder of the conversation was devoted to satirical remarks about the Brooklyns. In the afternoon, after hours, Mr. Harrisburg waited for Mr. Adams’ secretary, but she left with Mr. Adams. Miss Gold walked past him without so much as a how-do-you-do, the little slut. Passed him up cold.
Mr. Harrisburg did not feel that this state of affairs could continue, and when the case came to trial he was smartly clad and nodded a friendly nod to the cameramen. Their faces were blank in response, but Mr. Harrisburg knew that they would come around at the proper time. However, when he gave his testimony the attorney for the defendant caused mild laughter with his tripping up Mr. Harrisburg. Mr. Harrisburg, describing the finding of the body, declared that Miss Devlin’s chest was like marble, it was so cold; and that he had taken away his hand and found warm sticky blood on his fingers. The defense attorney suggested that Mr. Harrisburg was of more importance as a poet than as a witness, a suggestion with which the assistant district attorney secretly concurred. Getting down from the witness stand Mr. Harrisburg looked hesitantly at the photographers, but they did not ask him to remain.
Mr. Harrisburg’s press the following morning did not total more than forty agate lines, and of pictures of him there were none. There was something wrong, surely, and he was lost in pondering this phenomenon when he was summoned to Mr. Adams’ office.
“Now listen, Harrisburg,” said Mr. Adams. “I think we’ve been pretty generous about time off, considering the depression and all that. So I just wanted to remind you, this murder case is all through as far as you’re concerned, and the less we hear about it from now on, why, the better. We have to get some work done around here, and I understand the men are getting pretty tired of hearing you talk and talk and talk about this all the time. I’ve even had complaints from some of the stenographers, so a word to the wise.”
Mr. Harrisburg was stunned. He stopped to talk to Mr. Adams’ secretary, but all she had to say was: “I’m busy, Seymour. But I want to tell you this: You want to watch your step.” She refused to meet him that afternoon, and by her tone she seemed to imply “any other afternoon.” At luncheon Mr. Harrisburg was still so amazed that one of his colleagues said: “What’s the matter, can’t you talk about anything but that murder, Seymour? You ain’t said a word.”
Nor was there an improvement in the days that followed. Even one impertinent office boy told Mr. Harrisburg pointedly that he was glad Scatelli was going to get the chair, because he was sick of hearing about the case. Mr. Harrisburg began to feel that the whole office staff was against him, and this so upset him that he made a mistake which cost the company two thousand dollars. “I’m sorry, Harrisburg,” said Mr. Adams. “I know it’s tough to get another job in times like these, but you’re just no good to us since that murder, so you’ll have to go.”
It was the next day, after he had passed the morning looking for another job, and the afternoon at a Broadway burlesque show, that Mr. Harrisburg came home and found a note tucked in his bankbook. The bankbook indicated that Mrs. Harrisburg had withdrawn all but ten dollars from their account, and the note told him that she had departed with a man whom she frequently entertained of an afternoon. “I should of done this four years ago,” wrote Mrs. Harrisburg. Mr. Harrisburg went to the kitchen, and found that she had not even left him any gin.
(1935)
SPORTMANSHIP
Jerry straightened his tie and brushed the sleeves of his coat, and went down the stairway where it said “The Subway Arcade.” The sign was misleading only to strangers to that neighborhood; there was no subway anywhere near, and it was no arcade.
It was early in the afternoon and there were not many people in the place. Jerry walked over to where a man with glasses, and a cigar in an imitation amber holder, was sitting quietly with a thin man, who also had a cigar.
“Hyuh, Frank,” said Jerry.
“Hyuh,” said the man with glasses.
“Well, how’s every little thing?” said Jerry.
Frank looked around the place, a little too carefully and slowly. “Why,” he said finally, “it looks like every little thing is fine. How about it, Tom? Would you say every little thing was O.K.?”
“Me?” said Tom. “Yes, I guess so. I guess every little thing is—No. No. I think I smell sumpn. Do you smell sumpn, Frank? I think I do.”
“Aw, you guys. I get it,” said Jerry. “Still sore. I don’t blame you.”
“Who? Me? Me sore?” said Frank. “Why, no. Would you say I was sore, Tom? This stranger here says I’m sore. Oh, no, stranger. That’s my usual way of looking. Of course you wouldn’t have no way of knowing that, being a stranger. It’s funny, though, speaking of looks. You look the dead spit of a guy I used to know, to my sorrow. A rat by the name of Jerry. Jerry—Jerry, uh, Daley. You remember that Jerry Daley rat I told you about one time? Remember him, Tom?”
“Oh, yes. Come to think of it,” said Tom, “I recall now I did hear you speak of a heel by that name. I recall it now. I would of forgot all about the rat if you wouldn’t of reminded me. What ever did happen to him? I heard he was drowned out City Island.”
“Oh, no,” said Frank. “They sent him to Riker’s Island, the party I mean.”
“All right. I get it. Still sore. Well, if that’s the way you feel about it,” said Jerry. He lit a cigarette and turned away. “I only come back to tell you, Frank, I wanted to tell you I’d be satisfied to work out the dough I owe you if you leave me have a job.”
“Hmm,” said Frank, taking the cigar out of his mouth. “Hear that, Tom? The stranger is looking for work. Wants a job.”
“Well, waddia know about that? Wants a job. What doing, I wonder,” said Tom.
“Yeah. What doing? Cashier?” said Frank.
“Aw, what the hell’s the use trying to talk to you guys? I came here with the best intention, but if that’s your attitude, so long.”
“Guess he’s not satisfied with the salary you offered, Frank,” said Tom.
Jerry was back on the stairway when Frank called him. “Wait a minute.” Jerry returned. “What’s your proposition?” said Frank. Tom looked surprised.
“Give me the job as house man. Twenty-five a week. Take out ten a week for what I owe you. I’ll come here in the mornings and clean up, and practice up my game, and then when I get my eye back, I’ll shoot for the hous
e—”
“Using house money, of course,” said Tom.
“Let him talk, Tom,” said Frank.
“Using house money. What else? And the house and I split what I make.” Jerry finished his proposition and his cigarette.
“How long id take you to get shooting good again?” said Frank.
“That’s pretty hard to say. Two weeks at least,” said Jerry.
Frank thought a minute while Tom watched him incredulously. Then he said, “Well, I might take a chance on you, Daley. Tell you what I’ll do. You’re on the nut. All right. Here’s my proposition: the next two weeks, you can sleep here and I’ll give you money to eat on, but no pay. You practice up, and in two weeks I’ll play you, say, a hundred points. If you’re any good, I’ll give you thirty bucks cash and credit you with twenty bucks against what you’re in me for. Then you can use your thirty to play with. That oughta be enough to start on, if you’re any good. I seen you go into many a game when you were shooting on your nerve and come out the winner, so thirty bucks oughta be plenty. But if you’re no good at the end of two weeks, then I’ll have to leave you go. I’ll charge up twenty bucks against what you owe me, and you can go out in the wide, wide world and look for adventure, the way you did once before. Is that a deal?”
“Sure. What can I lose?” said Jerry.
“Sure, what can you lose? How long since you ate last?”
In two weeks Jerry had lost the tan color of his face, and his hands were almost white again, but he looked healthier. Eating regularly was more important than the sun. The regulars who had known Jerry before he stole the hundred and forty dollars from Frank were glad to see him and made no cracks. They may have figured Frank for a real sucker, some of them, but some of the others said there were a lot of angles in a thing like that; nobody knew the whole story in a thing of that kind, and besides, Frank was no dope. It didn’t look like it. Jerry was brushing off the tables, putting the cues in their right bins—the twenty-ounce cues into bins marked 20, the nineteen-ouncers in the 19 bins, and so on—and retipping cues, and cleaning garboons and filling them with water, and dusting everywhere. He caught on soon about the new regulars, who wanted what table, and what they usually played. For instance, every afternoon at three o’clock two guys in Tuxedos would come in and play two fifty-point games, and the rest of the afternoon, before they had to go and play in an orchestra, they would play rotation. Well, you had to keep an eye on them. They paid by the hour, of course, but if you didn’t watch them, they would use the ivory cue ball to break with in the games of rotation, instead of using the composition ball, which did not cost as much as the ivory ball and stood the hard usage better. The ivory ball cost Frank around twenty bucks, and you can’t afford to have an ivory ball slammed around on the break in a game of rotation. Things like that, little things—that was where an experienced house man like Jerry could save Frank money.
Meanwhile he practiced up and his game came back to him, so that at the end of the two weeks he could even do massé shots almost to his own satisfaction. He hardly ever left except to go out to a place, a Coffee Pot on Fordham Road, for his meals. Frank gave him a “sayfitty” razor and a tube of no-brush-needed cream. He slept on the leather couch in front of the cigar counter.
He also observed that Frank was shooting just about the same kind of game he always shot—no better, and no worse. Jerry therefore was confident of beating Frank, and when the day came that ended the two weeks agreed upon, he reminded Frank of the date, and Frank said he would be in at noon the next day to play the hundred points.
Next day, Frank arrived a little after twelve. “I brought my own referee,” said Frank. “Shake hands with Jerry Daley,” he said, and did not add the name of the burly man, who might have been Italian, or even an octoroon. The man was dressed quietly, except for a fancy plaid cap. Frank addressed him as Doc, Jerry first thought, but then he realized that Frank, who was originally from Worcester, Massachusetts, was calling the man Dark.
Dark sat down on one of the high benches, and did not seem much interested in the game. He sat there smoking cigarettes, wetting them almost halfway down their length with his thick lips. He hardly looked at the game, and with two players like Frank and Jerry there wasn’t much use for a referee. Jerry had Frank forty-four to twenty before Dark even looked up at the marker. “Geez,” he said. “Forty-four to twenty. This kid’s good, eh?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Frank. “I told you one of us was gonna get a good beating.”
“Maybe the both of you, huh?” said Dark, and showed that he could laugh. Then Jerry knew there was something wrong. He missed the next two times up, on purpose. “There they are, Frank,” said Dark. Frank ran six or seven. “Got a mistake in the score, there,” said Dark. He got up and took a twenty-two-ounce cue out of the bin, and reached up and slid the markers over so that the score was even.
“Hey,” said Jerry. “What is it?”
“That’s the right score, ain’t it?” said Dark. “Frank just run twenty-four balls. I seen him, and I’m the referee. Neutral referee.”
“What is it, Frank? The works or something?” said Jerry.
“He’s the referee,” said Frank. “Gotta abide by his decision in all matters. Specially the scoring. You have to abide by the referee, specially on matters of scoring. You know that.”
“So it’s the works,” said Jerry. “O.K. I get it. Pick up the marbles.” He laid down his cue. “What a sap I been. I thought this was on the up-and-up.”
“I hereby declare this game is forfeited. Frank wins the match. Congratulate the winner, why don’t you, kid?”
“This means I’m out, I guess, eh, Frank?” said Jerry.
“Well, you know our agreement,” said Frank. “We gotta abide by the decision of the referee, and he says you forfeited, so I guess you don’t work here any more.”
“Congratulate the winner,” said Dark. “Where’s your sportmanship, huh? Where’s your sportmanship?”
“Don’t look like he has any,” said Frank, very sadly. “Well, that’s the way it goes.”
“Maybe we better teach him a little sportmanship,” said Dark.
“All right by me,” said Frank. “One thing I thought about Mr. Daley, I thought he’d be a good loser, but it don’t look that way. It don’t look that way one bit so maybe you better teach him a little sportmanship. Only a little, though. Just give him a little bit of a lesson.”
Jerry reached for the cue that he had laid on the table, but as he did, Dark brought his own cue down on Jerry’s hands. “Shouldn’t do that,” said Dark. “You oughtn’t to scream, either. Cops might hear you, and you don’t want any cops. You don’t want any part of the cops, wise guy.”
“You broke me hands, you broke me hands!” Jerry screamed. The pain was awful, and he was crying.
“Keep them out of other people’s pockets,” said Frank. “Beat it.”
(1934)
THE SUN-DODGERS
Back in the long nighttime of the Twenties and Thirties, when so many of the people I knew had jobs that made them sun-dodgers, Jack Pyne was known derisively as a mystery man. He was even called the mystery man, but it was not said in a way that would make you want to meet him or to inquire into the reason for calling him that. We all have our secrets, and Jack Pyne undoubtedly had his, but when he was referred to as a mystery man it was a term of contempt. In our set it was universally known that Jack Pyne made his living by peddling gossip to the Broadway columnists. They paid him no money, but Jack Pyne always had some chorus girls or bit players who paid him twenty-five dollars a week to get their names in the papers. The chatter writers would mention his clients in return for his acting as a spy or a messenger boy or procurer. You would be surprised to learn the names of some of the girls who once were clients of Jack Pyne. You might even be shocked and incredulous.
When business was good Jack Pyne sometimes had thr
ee or four clients, some of them paying him more than twenty-five dollars a week, and when business was exceptionally good Jack Pyne might have four individual clients, a second-rate night club, and a Broadway show. The night club seldom paid him any cash, but he was on the cuff there for meals and, within reason, free drinks for newspaper men. There were occasional periods when Jack Pyne probably had an income of close to two hundred dollars a week from the chorus girls and a hundred and fifty dollars a week as press agent for a musical comedy, in addition to the food and liquor he got free from the night clubs. It was in that way that he got the nickname of mystery man. “Who’s Jack Pyne hustling for a buck now? The mystery man,” someone once said. “Jack Pyne, the man of mystery.”
We had favorite joints and favorite tables in the joints, and in the course of a single night, any night, we would move from a favorite table in one joint to a favorite table in one or two other joints, more or less according to a schedule. Jack Pyne always knew where we could be found at any hour between eleven P.M. and six o’clock in the morning. In our group there were, among the regulars, four or five newspaper men, a Broadway doctor, a Broadway attorney, one or two lyric-writers, a playwright, two or three press agents, a bookmaker, a detective from the Broadway Squad, sometimes a Catholic priest, a vaudeville actor turned sketch writer, a salesman for a meat packer, a minor poet, a real estate speculator, a radio announcer. At no time were all these men together at the same table, but they were the regulars of our group. There were other groups: the mobster group, the song-writing and music-publishing group, the gamblers, the minor hoods, and in the course of a night we might be visited briefly by members of the other groups, with the exception of the minor hoods. They kept to themselves because they did not want to go anywhere near a newspaper man; they did not want to be seen talking to a newspaper man. As a group, a class, they were the cruelest, stupidest, most evil men I have ever known, and I was afraid of them. I was not afraid of the big shots; they, with their new importance and power, generally behaved themselves in public, but the smallies, as we called the minor hoods, were unpredictable, reckless, and we knew the stories about them and their savagery. They were not all young men; some of them were in their forties and fifties, and I had a theory that the reason the older ones survived was that they had been out of circulation, in prison, and thus invulnerable to the high mortality rate among smallies. It was not only a theory I had; some of them had been in prison before Prohibition went into effect and came out to find that highjacking and gang warfare paid better than armed robbery and felonious assault, and not only paid better but were safer in that prosecution had become more difficult and the mobs retained clever attorneys. A man who had gone to prison for homicide in 1916 and was released in ten years would discover that in his absence an almost ideal situation had been created. If he could make a connection with an established mob he might easily make a living on a standby basis, with nothing to do but remain on call until the mob had some punishment to dole out. And if the punishment involved murdering a member of an opposition mob, the legal authorities often could not or would not make an arrest. The smallies were killing each other off in private mob warfare, and if you noticed that one of the familiar faces was missing from the smallies’ table, you could usually guess why. But you had to guess, most of the time. I didn’t know many of them by name, although I knew them by sight, and even when their bodies were found in Bushwick or in Dutchess County, the newspaper photographs did not identify them for me. One man with half his face shot away and curled up in the back of a sedan looks much the same as another man who died in the same circumstances. A man who had been soaked with gasoline as well as stabbed or shot might be the missing face from the smallies’ table, but I could only guess.