Touch and Go (11 page)

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Authors: Studs Terkel

BOOK: Touch and Go
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Ben is all business. “Kid,” he says, “it's time we visited Orleans Street.” He speaks glowingly of a girl named Laura. She's not too pretty but, he emphasizes, she's very understanding. Especially with novitiates. I have no idea what he's talking about, I tell him. All I want, as a young hotelier, is the avoidance of trouble. Ben insists on
singing Laura's virtues. Who is Laura, I wonder, what is she, that all the swains commend her? Domestic tranquility is all I seek. Peace on the premises.
 
 
SOLLY WARD, the Dutch comic, is at the Star & Garter. It is one of our better burlesque houses. Was it 1926? '27? A sketch. He knocks on the door. The talking lady says, “Come in.” She singsongs it. Solly enters. They embrace. Another knock on the door. “My husband!” she cries. Solly hides in the clothes closet. A man enters. He and the talking lady embrace. Another knock on the door. “My husband!” she cries. The man hides under the bed. Husband enters, a gun in his hand. “Where is he?” demands the outraged spouse. He discovers the man under the bed. They fire at one another. The talking lady screams. Blackout. Lights come on. Silence. The talking lady, as Fay Wray does in
King Kong
, trembles. Slowly, the door of the clothes closet opens. Solly Ward emerges. He sees the two dead men. He sees the terrified beauty. He studies the scene. At last, he says, “Iss ze var over? Goot. Now ve vill haff a little peace.” Hands outstretched, he moves toward the talking lady. Blackout.
 
 
LUCILLE HENRY is laughing, too, as she makes the beds. My mother hired her six months ago. She and Bob Warner and Horace Bane and Ben are always laughing about something. I can guess. She's singing that dirty blues again.
What is it smell like gravy
Good if you really wanna know
Well it ain't no puddin' an' it ain't no pie
It ain't nothin' you don't have to buy . . .
Lucille descends the staircase and approaches the clerk's cage in which I sit. I pretend she's not there.
“Honey dripper.”
Why does she call me that? She knows my name. As though I haven't troubles enough. I had rejected Ben's invitation. I shall never know what Laura looks like, let alone her charm. I court Lady Five Fingers rather than run the risk of Spanish ring. And now Lucille's laughter. Is there no right to privacy in these matters? They don't even have a warrant. Whatever happened to the Fourth Amendment of the Bill of Rights?
“She wants you to fix her radiator.”
“Who?” As if I didn't know.
“The cute li'l girl. She says it's too hot.”
“Why doesn't she turn it off?”
“Can't. Needs a wrench. Said for me to tell you to come up right away. She's meltin'.”
I reach into the drawer and fumble for the proper tool. There is no need to hurry. I deliberately dawdle, determined not to be bullied by a chambermaid. Or a troublesome guest. Or Ben or Bob Warner or Horace Bane. I suspect they're all in on it. A conspiracy.
I tap on the door ever so lightly.
“Come in.” Hers is the singsong of the talking lady at the Star & Garter. Am I Solly Ward?
She is in the middle of the double bed. Her knees are scrunched up against her chin. Her hands clasp her ankles, much in the manner of a little girl. She is smiling at me. I knew there'd be trouble the moment Glenn and Betty Stauffer mounted those stairs.
“Lucille said something about your radiator.”
“Won't you turn it off for me? Please.”
I turn off the radiator. There's no need for a wrench. A baby could do it. I show her. “It turns easily. See?”
As I walk toward the door, she shifts her position. Her legs are stretched out toward the edge of the bed. Her stockings are sheer, flesh-colored. There is a slave bracelet on her left ankle. There flashes through my mind the whispered innuendoes of Joe the Barber concerning women who wear slave bracelets. Ow! The wrench is cutting into the flesh of my hand. I'm gripping it too hard.
“Is this bandage too tight?”
She runs her hand down toward her right ankle, where a piece of adhesive tape is visible.
“Did you sprain it?” My voice is of a lower register than usual. Rather this than the high squeak, which might be forthcoming, considering the dryness of my throat. Oh, for a Dr Pepper. She nods.
“Feel it.”
I move one small step toward her. I stretch out my hand, but I cannot quite reach her ankle. She pulls me toward her. The awkwardness of my position causes me to drop the wrench and tumble onto the bed. She slowly runs my hand against her injured ankle and up toward her thigh.
I abruptly draw my hand away and lean backward. In so doing, I lose my balance and topple heavily onto the floor. Ow! I have fallen onto the open jaws of the wrench. I spring up, fumble my way toward the door. I shout at it. “Radiator's shut off.”
I slam the door behind me and stumble down the murky corridor. In the Mazda brightness of the staircase, I gently massage my wretched buttock.
In any case, I have retained my Parsifalian purity, but my wound, my wound, the indelicate imprint of the monkey wrench remains. The grail that Parsifal could not find is on my left buttock.
That night, I notice a wild strawberry, a flaming red, to which I apply an ointment. It lasts about a week, as scarlet as the letter
she
deserves. To think that poor, gentle Hester Prynne had sinned so little and suffered so much. Would Hester have enticed an innocent sixteen-year-old boy onto her bed or under the elm? A boy so burdened with the troubles of the world? Yet, why do
I
bear the mark, and in so unlikely a place, rather than this wanton daughter of Eve? God is so perverse at times. Which side is he really on?
My wrestling with angel and devil is doing little good for my cribbage game and less for my sleep. If I did the right thing, why am I not sleeping the sleep of the righteous? The puritan in me is having a hard time of it. For that matter, so is the pimp in me. And so is the Cherubino. As I struggle for peace of mind, the truth appears out of the blue.
It is Glenn Stauffer whom I've done it for. That's it, of course. Our hotel is his home. It is his castle. Man's castle is not a steer's barn. If Glenn Stauffer is to wear horns, let it be elsewhere. Oh, joy, I am liberated.
On a Saturday afternoon, two large men lumber up the stairs. They wear fedoras. One is silent. The other speaks in a flat voice. “Let's see the register, son.”
I hesitate. The spokesman flashes an open wallet at me. I see a police badge.
“We're from headquarters.”
I push the long black book across the counter. The man shoves a yellow sheet of paper at me. “Came over the wire last night.”
I read it: “George Simmons, using the alias Glenn Stauffer. Bank robbery. Kansas City. With woman. Brunette. Information leads us to believe Chicago. Near North. May be armed. Caution advised.”
“Anyone here by that name?” I nod.
“Is he in?”
Again, I nod. I had seen him go upstairs about half an hour earlier, with the Saturday
Three-Star
tucked under his arm. After paying his rent, he'd made a brief comment on the weather. Yes, she is upstairs too. The brunette.
“Got a key?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lead the way, son.”
I take the ring of keys off the hook. The men are close behind me as I mount the stairs and walk down the corridor toward the room. I am fingering the passkey. We pause in front of the door. We have arrived soundlessly. I hear a faint conversation inside. The crackle of a fresh newspaper being turned. Sounds of domesticity. Man's castle.
Shall I knock? My knuckles are poised. One of the men shakes his head, his fingers to his lips. He points to the keys in my hand. Very carefully, very slowly, soundlessly, I insert the key in the lock, turn the knob, and let the door float open. The men rush in.
Glenn Stauffer is reclining comfortably on the bed. He is in his
polka-dot shorts. The
Three-Star
is spread out about him. The comics section is still in his hands as he is lifted off the bed by one of the men. He is held high, as a baby hoisted by a father. Like those of a frightened child, Glenn Stauffer's lips pucker, as though he is about to cry. How tiny and helpless he looks. The other man quickly frisks the bed, flipping away the punched-in pillow and turning over the mattress. Betty Stauffer, against the wall, covers her face.
Glenn Stauffer, in stocking feet and polka-dot shorts, is shoved against the bedstead by the other, who towers over him.
“You George Simmons?”
“My name is Glenn Stauffer.”
His voice quavers. The other speaks softly now.
“Make it easy on yourself, George. Get dressed.”
She rushes toward him. She is sobbing. He gently embraces her. The three of us look on—the three of us, for I am one of
them
. They are blubbering incoherently at one another. Betty is half a head taller than Glenn when he is fully dressed. Now, they both appear to be lost little orphans. He is blurting out brokenly.
“She don't know nothin' about this, honest. I picked her up—we met in a taxi dance hall. K. C. I been workin' here in the auto plant, Ford. Honest. You can check with my boss.” He looks toward me. He is in tears. “Have I given you any trouble?”
I shake my head. I feel funny. A hard knot in my stomach. A cramp. My throat hurts. Do I have a fever? I'm in a cold sweat.
She is mumbling at him, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Her wet cheek is pressed hard against his. One of the others gently suggests she let him get dressed.
I ask if I might be excused. There is nobody downstairs minding the place.
“Sure,” says one of the men. “Thanks, son. You're good. You opened the door so quick, you almost caught
us
with our pants down.” He chuckles appreciatively. Obviously, I've done well. I race down the stairs, hang the keys back on the hook, and rush blindly toward the toilet. I make sure the door is bolted. I try to throw up. I am unsuccessful.
I am back in the clerk's cage. Too soon. The two men and Glenn Stauffer or George Simmons are at the landing. He waves at me. So-long. I wave back. We are both embarrassed. I mumble something about good luck, but he doesn't hear me.
It being Saturday, the lobby is busy. Cards played; racing forms studied; politics and religion argued; women discussed, pro and con. All is silence as I enter. They have an idea. Horace Bane is staring out the window. I look toward him. He doesn't see me. I study the calendar hanging crookedly on the wall. Its artwork:
September Morn
. It doesn't matter.
If a man's home is his castle—and surely that was the raison d'être of my behavior in the Stauffer affair, or so I convinced myself—why didn't I knock? There was that moment of uncertainty, outside the door. Why did I pause, with my knuckles poised, instead of doing the most natural thing: knocking on the door of a guest? Of course, the detective would say, Shhh, don't know. That's his job. But I am not a detective. I am not a cop. I'm a hotelier. And as I have told myself, not once but thousands of times, a man's home is his castle. Oh, boy. In that moment, at the age of sweet sixteen, I had behaved as a precocious advocate of the no-knock law.
George Simmons, alias Glenn Stauffer, was a bank robber. Perhaps he had a gun. Perhaps. The hard fact is: I knew Glenn Stauffer, not George Simmons. When I heard the
Three-Star
's crackle outside his door, I envisioned Glenn on the bed, for I could tell from whence the sound came. I envisioned him in his shorts, for on past occasions I had seen him thus. The hard fact is:
I wasn't worried about any violence on his part
. I was thinking of pleasing the detectives. Quite obviously, I succeeded.
Because of my righteous behavior, I still see a small man in polka-dot shorts, in the presence of his sweetheart, hoisted high, an absurd and helpless baby. In his home that is his castle. Talk about humiliation. I can't speak for Glenn Stauffer. I can only speak for myself.
That was 1928. I was the Good Citizen and I still feel guilty. Perhaps that mark on my buttock should have remained.
Part II
8
Seeking Work
I
was twenty-two when I graduated from law school, and like most students during the Depression, I was worried about getting work. We all looked in the
Civil Service News
to find available civil service jobs. Though it was 1934, the panic of '29 had taken hold and the country was still in shock.
The Civil Service entrance examination, modeled after British Career Service exams, lasted three or four days and asked about history, arithmetic, current events, everything. I was among those who passed, and I applied for a job as fingerprint classifier for the FBI. I didn't give much thought to the FBI aspect of it. I was thinking “fingerprint classifier,” I was thinking about the
job
—the FBI had the most openings.
My first test was to appear before the bureau chief in Chicago, Melvin Purvis. Hoover attacked Purvis because he'd become nationally known for setting up the killing of Public Enemy Number One, John Dillinger, and Hoover was feeling eclipsed. Purvis was a Southerner, soft-spoken and polite when he interviewed me. Mostly, he wanted to know what books I read. I remember mentioning Thomas Wolfe's
Look Homeward, Angel
and Ring Lardner's
You Know Me,Al
. He passed me.
I discovered this years later, after requesting my FBI dossier, in which I found a memorandum from Hoover to his comptroller:
“Put Louis Terkel on the payroll at $1420 a year as fingerprint classifier.” I was in. It was a University of Chicago professor, his name blacked out, who said: “I remember him. Slovenly, didn't care much, a low-class Jew. He is not one of our type of boys.” The next note is another from Hoover to his comptroller: “Take Louis Terkel off the payroll.” I was out. Today I wonder how I was not “one of our type of boys.” (Here's a fantasy: Mr. Hoover re-hires me for reasons I cannot fathom. It may be the end of Public Enemy Number One, Dillinger, at the hands of Melvin Purvis and he wants credit for capturing the New Public Enemy Number One. This is by far more dangerous. Nobody knows who he looks like, nobody has ever seen his face. He is absolutely elusive. I was hired as a fingerprint classifier, which called for precision; but I become my other self: Inspector Clouseau, the hapless, fumbling detective, Pete Sellers' film creation. He has been my role model—or have I been his? In any event, my unique approach has come through. I have found my man. Only I have seen his face. My immediate supervisors are elated. They call a national conference—all radio and TV stations are alerted. As multi-millions hold their breath, I slowly, ever so carefully peel off the seal and there is the face and name—
posilutely
and
absotively
—of John Edgar Hoover.)

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