Humpty Dumpty in Oakland Read online

  “That’s a shame,” Julie said, with no reaction at all in her voice, no surprise or regret or concern.

  “Don’t you care?” he said.

  “I don’t see why I should,” she said.

  “I’m thinking of going back there,” he said. “To the house.”

  “Don’t forget about dinner,” she said.

  “You mean I better not. I better be here.”

  Julie said, “I’m not going to fix it for you if you’re going over there. Why should I?”

  To that he had no answer. He sat fooling with the sherry bottle.

  “Are you going to call that realtor?” she said. “That Mrs. Lane?”

  “No,” he said. “She’s a pest.”

  “She sounded very nice.”

  He said, “Tell her I’m out, if she calls again.”

  While his wife fixed dinner he sat at the table drinking sherry. Presently he began to think over the idea he had for blackmailing the big businessman, Chris Harman. He had decided that the best way was to be absolutely direct about it, to call Harman’s number on the phone, either his business number or home phone, and when he got hold of him say simply, “Listen, I know you used to make dirty records, and that’s against the law. Pay me a lot of money or I’m going to the police about it.” Although he had tried he could not think of any improvement on that approach.

  Maybe I ought to go do it now, he thought. While I’m in the mood. So he put down his glass and made his way into the living room, where the phone was. Seated at it, he turned the pages until he came to the Hs. At last he had the number of a Christian Harman, who lived in Piedmont. The address seemed right, and, taking the receiver off the hook, he began to dial.

  But after he had dialed the prefix he changed his mind; he put the Teceiver back down and returned to pondering. Probably there were well-known better techniques for doing it, known to anyone who had ever gone into the matter. Who would know? Somebody like Tootie Dolittle, perhaps. He had done a lot of various things.

  “Who are you calling?” Julie said, from the kitchen. “That realtor woman?”

  “No,” he said. Getting up, he shut the door so she could not hear. It occurred to him, too, that Harman would recognize his voice.

  When he dialed Tootie’s number a woman answered.

  “Let me speak to Tootie,” he said.

  “He not home yet,” the woman said. “Who is this, please?”

  He told her to have Tootie call him, giving his name.

  “He just come home,” the woman said. “He just walk in the door. Just a moment, please.” The phone banged in his ear; there were shufflings and murmurings, and then Tootie came on. “Hello, Al.”

  Al said, “Listen, I got something I can’t do that you can do for me. It’ll only take a second. It’s a phone call.” This was not the first time they had exchanged favors of this kind.

  “Who to?” Tootie said.

  “I’ll just give you the number,” Al said. “You ask for Chris. When he comes on, you tell him you know about the ‘Little Eva’ record.”

  “Okay,” Tootie said. “I tell him I know about the ‘Little Eva’ record. What he say?”

  Al said, “He should get upset.”

  “He get upset.”

  “Then you say, ‘But I could forget I know about the “Little Eva” record,’ or something like that. Something suggesting you want to do business with him.”

  “I forget about the ‘Little Eva’ record,” Tootie repeated.

  “Then get right off the phone. But say you’ll call again. Then get off. Don’t hang around.”

  Tootie said, “I call from a booth. That the way I work those kind of thing.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “From in front of the liquor store,” Tootie said.

  “Fine.”

  “Then I call you and say what he say.”

  “Fine,” Al said.

  “What he number? You give me that like you say.”

  He gave Tootie Harman’s phone number. Ringing off, he sat back to wait.

  Half an hour later the phone rang, and when he answered it he found himself again talking to Tootie.

  “I call him,” Tootie said. “I say, ‘Look here, man, I know about them “Little Eva.” What you going to do?’ That right?”

  “Fine,” Al said.

  “He say, ‘What.’ I say what I said again.”

  “Did he sound nervous?”

  Tootie said, “No, he not.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “He not sound at all. He ask me how many I want.”

  “What?” Al said, puzzled.

  “He say, ‘How many “Little Eva” you want?’ He intend to sell me some ‘Little Eva’ record; he in the record business. I got the name written down.” A pause. “It called Teach Records.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Al said. “He thought you were a record dealer trying to order.”

  Tootie said, “He say he sell only in boxes of twenty-five at forty percent off. An’ he say, ‘How many joke folder you want? They come free.’ ”

  “What did you say?”

  “I say I call back, an’ hung up. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Al said. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Listen,” Tootie said. “That ‘Little Eva’ have to do with colored people and their problems?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s a song. A record.”

  “My wife say,” Tootie said, “ ‘Little Eva’ a colored person.”

  He thanked Tootie again and rang off.

  Well, that had not worked out at all.

  From the kitchen, Julie appeared. “I can’t hold dinner any longer,” she said.

  “Okay,” Al said, preoccupied. As he walked into the kitchen and drew up a chair to the table, he thought, The guy certainly isn’t very nervous about his dirty records. And they aren’t a skeleton from his past; he’s still able to supply them in boxes of twenty-five.

  As he sat eating dinner he mentioned to his wife how Lydia Fergesson had thrown him out of the house. Julie’s face became inflamed.

  “God damn her,” she said, in a frenzy. “She did that? If I’d been there I’d have settled her hash. I would have.” She stared at him, so deeply gripped by her emotions that she could not speak.

  “Maybe he’ll die and leave me something,” Al said. “Maybe he’ll leave it all to me. He’s got no children.”

  “I don’t care about that!” Julie shouted. “I care about their treatment of you. First he conceals what he’s doing from you, even though your whole economic existence is bound up in that lot, and then they walk over you. God, I wish I’d been there. And she got you to drive her home. Like a chauffeur!”

  “It was my idea,” he said. “To drive her back home, so I could see how he was.”

  “It’s a closed part of your life,” she said. “Never think about that old man again; forget you ever saw him or knew him—think about the future. Don’t ever go to their house. I’m not ever going back, not after the way they patronized me.”

  “Frankly,” Al said, “I was thinking of going back tonight.”

  “Why?” She snapped out the word, quivering.

  “I don’t like to get thrown out. I think I owe it to my sense of honor and pride to go back.”

  “Go back and do what? She’ll just insult you; you can’t hold your own with either of them; you’re too weak to deal with either of them. Not weak. But—” She gestured; she had ceased eating entirely. “Unable to face the harsh realities.”

  Al said, “Now I have to go back. After you saying that.” At least that was the way he saw it. There was no other honorable way. Even my wife, he thought, looks down on me.

  “Then you better take one of those pills,” Julie said. “Those Dexymil pills you have. When you take one of those you show a little more fight.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Al said. “I will.”

  “You’re serious?” Julie said. “You want to keep batting your brains out aga
inst those people, for no gainful purpose?”

  Al said, “I’ll go over and ask what the hell he was doing in Marin County in the middle of a weekday. It makes me curious.”

  But it was really to retackle Lydia Fergesson; he felt that he had to vindicate himself. His wife had made him come to that conclusion, or at least she had speeded up the process. In a day or so, he decided, I would have gotten around to it anyhow.

  8

  Hearing a car parking at the curb outside the house, Lydia Fergesson went to the window and looked down. She said, “There is that disgusting, nauseating man again. That Al.”

  “Good,” the old man said. Propped up on the couch in the living room, he had been thinking to himself that it would be nice to have company. He was still depressed. He did not feel strong, nor able to get dressed; he had on his bathrobe, and Lydia had served him his dinner there instead of at the table.

  “I won’t let him in,” Lydia said.

  “Let him in,” he said. He could hear Al coming up the front steps. “We can have a beer. Go get out some beer. He had to go right away before.”

  The doorbell sounded.

  Lydia said, “I will not open or unlock the door. Did you know I have it locked? I have the chain in place.”

  It did not surprise him. Getting heavily to his feet he made his way step by step across the living room; she watched him as he got closer and closer to the front door. It took him a long time, but at last he made it; he unlatched the chain and turned the doorknob.

  “Hi,” Al said. “Glad to see you up.”

  “We heard you park,” the old man said, holding the door open. “Excuse me if I go sit down again.”

  Al entered the house and followed him back across the living room. Now there was no sign of Lydia; she had disappeared. The old man heard a door close somewhere, probably her bedroom door. It was just as well, seeing how she felt about Al.

  “It’s nice in here,” Al said. He seemed more tense than usual; he stood with his hands stuck in the pockets of his cloth jacket, grinning in the harsh, humorless manner that the old man knew so well. Behind his glasses his eyes gleamed.

  “Sit down,” Fergesson said. “Your wife didn’t come along. I guess she’s still sore at me.”

  Al seated himself across from him.

  “I’m buying a new garage,” the old man said.

  After a moment Al began to laugh.

  “I mean it,” the old man said.

  “I know you mean it,” Al said.

  “You surprised? You are.”

  “Sure,” Al said. “When did this happen? Today?”

  “I went up and looked at it today,” the old man said. “It’s over in Marin County. I got a hot tip so I went over there. There’s a lot of big financiers involved in it. You ever heard of Achilles Bradford? He’s the big gun behind it all. They have millions involved.”

  Al said, “Involved in what? I don’t get it.” He had lost his grin; he seemed to be bewildered.

  “In a shopping center,” the old man said. “It’s called Gardens.” For the life of him he could not remember the name; it had escaped him. “Marin Gardens,” he said. “One of those tracts. Along the highway.” He ceased. The talking had made him pant; he sat getting back his wind, rubbing his chest with his hand. Al saw the motion, the care with which he explored and touched himself. The old man moved his hand away and laid it down on the arm of the couch.

  “I’ll be darned,” Al said, in a slow voice.

  “I don’t do any work,” the old man said. “Any physical work. Only supervising.”

  Al nodded.

  “What do you think?” the old man said.

  “Sounds fine,” Al said.

  “It’s just what I’ve been looking for,” the old man said. “It’s as new as tomorrow.” That was how he thought of it; he had come across that expression, and it fitted perfecdy. “It’s part of the atomic world,” he said. “You know. Modern. Everything modern.” Again he ceased talking and merely sat.

  “Fine,” Al said.

  “I’m really on the in,” the old man said. “This is the inside. I have people working for me, in contacts. This is something nobody knows about. This opportunity. I didn’t even tell Lydia.”

  “I see,” Al said.

  “You ought to get something like this,” the old man said.

  “It takes money.”

  “Sure,” the old man said. “I have to put up something like forty-five thousand dollars.”

  Al’s face showed deep reaction; he was impressed.

  “A lot,” the old man said, smiling. “Plenty of dough. I got thirty-five thousand from the garage. Then ten I have already. In stocks and bonds. Savings account.”

  Al said, “You’re putting up everything on this? You better watch your step.”

  “I’m watching my step,” he said.

  “You have legal advice?”

  “Sure,” the old man said. “Listen, you know who’s going to deal with Bradford for me?” He had been thinking it over, and he had made up his mind. “Boris doesn’t know anything about this kind of stuff,” he said. “It takes an expert.”

  “Boris is your lawyer.”

  “That’s right.” Breathing heavily, the old man said, “Harman is going to represent me and deal with the big boys.”

  Al said, “Chris Harman? The dirty-record man?”

  “Yes,” the old man said. “He drives the ’58 Cadillac; he owns that record place, Teach Records. I told you about him.”

  “The motherfucker is a crook,” Al said.

  “No,” the old man said. “The hell.”

  “He is.”

  “What do you know? How do you know?” He felt his pulse labor. His body labored. “Listen, you don’t know him. I know him for almost six years. We’re both businessmen.”

  “He put you onto this?” Al said. “He wants your money.”

  “You don’t know,” the old man said. “What do you know? How much have you amassed? Nothing.” His voice escaped him; it shook and faded. Clearing his throat, he said, “A bunch of old wrecks.”

  “Listen,” Al said in a low voice. “That guy is a crook. I know he is. He probably owns this place, this Gardens. Everybody knows it, that he’s a crook.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Lane. The realtor.”

  The old man sat up, saying, “That colored realtor?”

  Al nodded.

  “A colored pal of yours? That’s how you know?”

  “That’s right,” Al said. “You talk to her. Call her.”

  The old man said, “When do I call a colored and ask advice.”

  “Now,” Al said. By degrees his face flushed.

  “I don’t listen to colored,” the old man said.

  “You listen to that fancy-dressed crook, because he’s got a Cadillac.”

  They were both silent, facing each other, both breathing through their mouths.

  “I don’t need your advice,” the old man said.

  “You sure do. You’re getting senile.”

  The old man could think of nothing to say.

  “You must have fallen on your head,” Al said. “On your God damn head. Call your lawyer and tell him you’re being swindled by a crook. Call the district attorney. I’ll call the district attorney, the first thing tomorrow.”

  “You keep out of it,” the old man said as loudly as he could. “Mind your own business.”

  Suddenly there was Lydia in the room. Neither of them had noticed her come in; they both turned their heads at the same moment.

  Lydia said, “What’s this about a crook swindling you out of your money?” She moved toward the old man, her eyes black and shining. “What does Mr. Miller mean? Why didn’t you say you invested your money from the garage in this place, which you don’t even know the name of?”

  “It’s my business,” the old man said. He did not look at either of them; he stared down at the floor.

  No one spoke.

  To Lydia,
Al said, “This guy’s a con man. I know he is.”

  Going to the telephone, Lydia reached down and lifted up the receiver; holding it to Al she said, “You call this man, whatever his name is, and tell him there is no intention by my husband; he does not want to go into this.”

  “Sure,” Al said. He started toward the phone. “But it wouldn’t mean anything,” he said. “What I say.”

  “Then you say,” Lydia said to the old man. “You call him and tell him now. You have nothing in writing, do you? You did not go and sign anything, did you? I know not. I know in my heart that God did not permit you to go ahead; I have that faith.”

  At last he said, “No. I didn’t.”

  “Thank God in the heavens above us,” Lydia said. “As Schiller says,” it is an ode to the joy of the heavenly father beyond the band of stars.” Her eyes sparkled with relief and happiness.

  The old man said, “I’m going to see him tomorrow.”

  “No, you are not,” she said.

  Al said, “There’s no problem; all you have to do is get hold of the district attorney and show your husband that this Harman is involved in this real-estate venture, this shopping center he wants Jim to invest in.”

  The old man said, “Of course he’s involved in it. Otherwise how would he know about it?”

  “I mean there’s a connection between him and Bradford,” Al said. “The guy who you’re going to have Harman represent you with.”

  “If there wasn’t a connection,” the old man said, “how would Harman have known about it?” Excitedly, he said, “That’s the whole point. I know he’s connected; that’s the point.”

  Al said, “I mean financially connected. This shopping center is financially his.”

  “Then he really believes in it,” the old man said. “If he’s willing to put up his own money. That proves he thinks it’s reliable. He let me in on a good investment and he invested in it himself. Of course he did; you don’t know anything. You know nothing about this thing. You keep out of it—” He waved his hands at both Al Miller and Lydia. “You keep out of it, you women and boys. This is for me. What I say goes!”

  Neither of them were smiling at him now; Al’s bitter grin was gone, and Lydia’s glassy fixed Greek smile was gone, too. Al had begun to look depressed. He scraped his shoe against the floor and fingered the edge of his jacket; he began zipping and unzipping his jacket. It seemed to the old man that Lydia had begun to draw away. Her face was blank. As if she could no longer bear the situation; it was too much for her. And, seeing that, he felt triumph; he felt the victory.