You Play the Black & the Red Comes Up Up (7 page)

"Why do you stay here then?" Mamie asked.

"Ah, that's it," he said. "Those who are mad think they are sane. And I'd rather have my insane belief in my sanity than a sane recognition of my insanity. And then, too, I like the money they pay me for being mad. We all like money. That's what we all want. You want money. Jira wants money. Richard wants money.

"I don't," I said. And I didn't. I wanted to get rid of what I had.

"What do you want in California then?" Jira asked me.

"I want my son," I said. I let it out just like that.

Mamie didn't quite catch it. "You want a what?" she said.

"A son," Jira said. She had her lips back and her teeth showed, tight together. "That is right. You should have a son. It is a big and fine and brave idea. You are big and strong. You are very strong. You should have a son."

"I would like to have one, too," Mamie said. She looked as if she was frightened of something.

"Indeed?" Jira said. "Then why don't you?"

"They are not truly married," Patsy said. I saw that look coming into her eyes. "No union can prosper without the sanction of God's blessing. It is evil. I see evil lying before them. It can only be removed by lawful wedlock of man and woman."

"Pipe down, Patsy," I said. "Who are you to talk?"

"Wait, I've got an idea," Genter yelled in a whisper. "We'll have a wedding. Dick and Mamie shall be married right tonight. It shall be at my home. We'll have the biggest party I ever had. The elite of Hollywood shall attend. The celebration shall last for days."

He kept raving on, talking so much I couldn't hear anything he said. I tried to think, but I couldn't. I kept saying to myself that Genter knew I was married to Lois down in San Diego, and he couldn't have forgotten it. Yet he was all for me marrying Mamie.

Then I looked at Mamie, and I got to feeling sorry. She was looking at me like
she'd cry any moment, and watch
ing me to see what I'd say.

So I thought,
If you do marry her you'll never be able to get away when the money’s gone.
Then I thought,
But it won't be a real marriage because you're married already. And so you can leave her when the money's gone just like you've figured out, because you won't be deserting a wife because she won t really be your wife.

Maybe that is cock-eyed thinking, but that's what I was thinking. And anyhow, things were moving fast and I got so rattled I couldn't have told shavings from wild honey.

I don't know. Maybe it is just as Genter was saying—that something in the climate makes everyone in California ready to cut out paper dolls. Anyhow, I was trying to find somebody to explain it to, but everyone was so busy fixing the wedding nobody paid any attention to me. I was only the guy getting married.

Genter was so excited he like to bust a nut. He had a telephone plugged in at the table and called people up. I don't know how he did it, but around midnight he had everything fixed up, and we were at his home and I was signing papers and a bird was reading the wedding ceremony over me and Mamie and he said he pronounced us man and wife. And by that time Genter's place was full of people- some of them movie stars you've seen on the screen. And Mamie got to crying right as soon as we were married, and everyone started yelling and laughing. She did look funny at that, crying there and looking different from all the rest of the dolls, but I didn't like them laughing. Mamie was only being herself.

There we were married, in Genter's garden with the lights all colored and shin
ing on the fountains with every
one laughing fit to die
and Genter yelling, "More cham
pagne. More champagne!" And everyone whooping and yelling and laughing, and we all got more and more oiled and Jira kept saying, "I want to give him advice on married life—I demand
le droit de senora"

And everyone started laughing up there with the air all soft and warm and smelling of orange blossoms from the garden, the smell coming right up, warm, from the grass, and the grass smelling of night. There was Jira falling into the swimming-pool and a bunch all going in after her with their clothes on, and then staying in but taking their clothes off and swimming wound and yelling drunk.

I stood there and smelled the smell of water. I could smell even that, all mixed in with the grass and the sweetness of the orange trees all in blossom. And I stood there, drunk and wishing I could die.

That's how I came to marry Mamie.

COP SCARE

F
irst thing you know the money was gone. I couldn't tell you where it went to, but it was all gone. There had been a thousand to Patsy's Party, and five hundred for the Bugatti, and we'd lived plenty high for two months. We'd bought ourselves new outfits. I had some trick suits and Mamie had a white fur coat which she couldn't wear because it never got cool enough except late at night, and then no one could see it.

The Bugatti was gone. I never rode in it once. I sold it to the young fellow at the garage I'd got it from. I got four hundred for it, and that four hundred was gone, too.

We were broke.

"Don't you fret about it, big boy," Mamie said. "When we had it, we dished it out. It was a good time while it lasted. We've just got to cut down, that's all. We can be like we used to and get along on my alimony."

I didn't know she was still getting that.

"Oh, yes?" I said. "How come you're still getting that when you're married to me?"

"Well, Block doesn't know about me being married. I just haven't told him yet."

"Well, that's sweet of you," I said. "If you think I'm going to live off another man's money you're nuts."

She started to get teary then. "I only did it for you, big boy," she said. "I just wanted us to go on living comfortable together."

"Well, I won't be a pimp," I told her. "I've done lots of things in my time, but that's one thing I won't do."

"Well what do you think you're going to do, then?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "But I'll do something."

"I know what you're thinking of," she said. "I know— you're planning to ditch me. That's what you're planning."

"Oh, you're nuts," I said. "No such plan ever came into my head."

"Well, it had better not ever come into your head," she said.

"Why not?" I asked her.

"Never mind why not."

"And why shouldn't I?"

"Never mind why shouldn't you."

"And supposing I do, then what?"

"Never mind then what; you'd find out."

"And what would I find out?"

"Never mind what you'd find out. You'd find out all right."

She kept on saying that, just as if she knew something. But she wouldn't let on if she did. She just kept saying I'd better not try it. All of a sudden I got a scare, and I felt sure Mamie knew all about me and Gottstein.

I walked off and left her and sat down on the beach, right about the place I sat that day when Gottstein offered me the ten-spot to hold him up. I hadn't been thinking of leaving Mamie. I had begun to forget all about wanting to go. But the way she had talked got me to thinking about it again.

But then I kept wondering if Mamie did know anything. She'd kept hinting as if she did.

It got late and I dec
ided to go back and have a show
down. Mamie wasn't in when I got there. I sat there about an hour, playing solitaire and trying to make up my mind what to do. And then Mamie walked in with the cops.

I just sat there and stared,
looking at the two cops, watch
ing them, and waiting for a break. They both had their guns strapped outside their coats. I just sat there, waiting. Then Mamie started laughing.

"Gees, don't look like you was a murderer, big boy. These boys are friends of mine. We just met down in the Nude Eel, and I asked them up to have a drink of real liquor."

Then I saw all three of them were fairly well loaded.

"This is my husband," Mamie said. "And this one is Sam and the big handsome boy is Eddie. And they're both nice boys."

They were both big enough. They took their belts and guns and coats off and Mamie got a bottle of Scotch and we sat there drinking. We started a penny ante game. I played right along, listening to them gab. The one named Sam was a big windbag. He kept saying:

"How long since we went into action, Eddie?"

Then Eddie would say, "You haven't shot a man in two months, Sam."

"I'll be getting all out of practice. I'll have to get into action soon or I'll be all rusty," Sam kept blowing.

This Sam, who was Irish, was getting plenty oiled. Finally he couldn't even hold his cards. And he kept letting his hand fall on the floor. We quit playing, and Eddie started kidding him. He got Sam to tell about the shotgun he kept under his bed in case enemies attacked him, and how he always slept with two guns under his pillow.

They were both windbags, but this Sam was yellow, too. You could see that. He was afraid day and night that somebody would get him. He was a big bag of wind.

After they'd gone I sat there thinking.

"What's the matter, big boy?" Mamie said, "Jealous?"

I was thinking that maybe it was just chance Mamie had picked up with the two cops. But then maybe she did know something. If she did, she had picked a good way to get me identified by police, so's they'd know me.

"No," I said, "I don't mind you having a good time any way you want. But personally I'd sooner go round with a coyote than a cop."

"What are you afraid of cops for?" she asked me.

"I never said I was afraid of them," I said. "I just don't like lice round my house."

"Well, anyone would think you were afraid of them—that you'd committed a crime or something and was afraid they'd find out."

"Say, I've never committed any crime," I said.

"I didn't say you had, did I? I only said you acted like you had. Gosh, what are you getting so flustered about?"

"I'm not flustered," I said.

Then I figured I'd better stop
talking. If I had kept on talk
ing two more minutes I'd have spilled the beans to Mamie.

Then I got thinking she acted like she knew all about it anyhow. I kept going back over what she'd said and remembering her words. And one time it would sound sure as if she knew everything, and the next time I could prove to myself that she'd said nothing that wasn't just an innocent remark. And that's the way it went, back and forth. I could prove either way I wanted: that she had to know all about me to say and do the things she'd done, and the next minute proving she could have done and said everything by chance.

That's the way I sat there, not saying anything, and Mamie sitting there in her new dressing-gown, brushing her hair and smiling. Then that got me to worrying over whether her smiling meant that she had me cornered or that it was just an innocent smile meaning she wanted to be pleasant and make up again.

That's the way it was.

SHOOT-THE-SHOOT

I
was down on the amusement pier riding on the shoot- the-shoot when the tur
ntable motor went off. The turn
table is up at the top. The gondolas come up the ramp on an endless chain which puts them on the turntable. Then the bird at the top throws the le
ver and the table turns the gon
dola round so it points head-first. Then he pulls another lever and the table tilts and slides the gondola down to the water plunge.

When the motor kicked dead, we were on the turntable. The bird started pulling the
lever and fussing until the peo
ple
began to get leery.

A girl started to get out, but the fellow said, "Retain your seats, please. Do not climb from the car."

He said it like he was a talking machine or a kid saying something he'd learned.

Another fellow ran up the ramp, and said the same thing. He said, "Retain your seats, please."

But the girl started to get out. She was scared. Then the man said, "You will descend by the staircase, please. Your money will be refunded at the ticket office."

They are always polite like that in California.

I got out and watched the fellow fiddling with the motor. He was pulling on the lead wires as if they were loose. You could see they were bolted in all right. It was just a simple motor, about twenty-horse.

I said, "Let me get there."

All it was, was dirt on the carbons. I shut off the switch and fixed it in two minutes. Then I threw on the switch.

"There she goes," I said. "Put her in gear."

He slid her in gear and the gondola-table turned. Both the guys looked as pleased as if they'd invented electricity.

"Shoot her down," the boss said.

They sent her down empty.

"Gees, you know motors, feller," the man said.

"No, I'm just sort of handy round machinery," I said.

I stood there and watched the cars coming up. The boss went on down again. I just chinned with the fellow at the top. He had been a gob. His name was A1 Smith—just the same as the fellow who ran for President—you know, the brown derby man. He had been on the battle-wagons—on the
Pennsylvania.

We stood there talking all afternoon, gabbing about the service and one thing and another.

It was good up there, way high up. There was just a little sort of cabin at the top and the motor turning. The gondola would come up and he'd throw in the lever and clutch to turn the table, and then throw another lever and clutch to tilt the slides and send it off down the chute.

It was lonesome up there, he said. I guess he liked to have someone to yarn with, especially someone who'd been in the service. I don't think I'd had as good a time since I'd got to California, sitting up there and smelling the oil and the funny sort of ozone smell that an electric motor puts out. I forgot all about worrying over Mamie and

Gottstein getting croaked and whether or not Mamie knew about me being the holdup man.

I hung around there till we had no more cigarettes, not saying too much, but just wisecracking about someone who'd been in a car, or saying, "Did you ever know Johnny Reed who was on the
Pennsylvania?"
And he'd say, "The lit
tle sandheaded guy? Sure—him and me got plenty drunk in Cuba one time. He took his discharge and married a dame in Stamford, Connecticut."

We just yarned on like that until we had no cigarettes left. Then he showed me the steps to get down. He said:

"Drop up here any time, Dempsey."

"Okay, Smitty," I said.

He was the first fellow I felt really at home with in California. I got so's I would go up there afternoons. We'd sit up there, way high up above the ocean, not saying much, just smoking and sitting. Once in a while he would make a wisecrack.

This Smitty was a funny guy. He'd only pop off about once every half hour, but when he did it would be a good one. Like the time a girl grabbed her hat and almost fell over. He pushed her in and didn't say anything till the car had gone. Then he said, "That's the way they make angels, lady." It wasn't funny, maybe, just the words, but Smitty could say it and make it s
ound like you'd want to do noth
ing but sit there and wait until he pulled the next one.

Smitty said one day, "I ain't going to see you much more, Dempsey."

He always called me Dempsey right from the first because he said I was sort of built like the Champ. I got used to it.

"What you mean?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

"I got to go back to Iowa. My old man's ill. There's only my mother and my sister. I got to go run the farm."

"I don't get that," I said. "You a farmer."

"Neither do
I"
he said.

"Well, it's tough about your father. But it'll be swell for you, going home to your folks."

"No, it won't," he said. "Living on a farm is what made me join the Navy. But I got to go. And I haven't said anything yet to the boss. I was wondering how's about you."

"Here?" I said.

"Sure, you dumb lug. Here."

"Okay by me."

"Okay then, Dempsey," he said. "I'll tell them you know the racket."

And that's how come I got to working up on the top of the water-chute concession. It was something to do, and it got me away from hanging round the apartment listening to Mamie.

The way I figured it, a man ought to be out working, and there's no other way to keep things going in gear.