Edge of Panic Page 2

  Quigley looked out on the river. “You worried about it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like the kid says, ten thousand cash apples. In the house.”

  “Oh. No. I’m covered for that sort of thing. Ever hear of insurance?”

  “Vaguely,” Quigley said. He made a face at the cigarette, snapped it out of the window. He unfurled a cigar, spat, lit it, sat back, sighed. “No, it’s not unusual. Not unusual, at all. Lots of people like that. Especially foreigners.”

  Harry said, “Mrs. Polgar is Hungarian.”

  “Plenty of them bring you premiums, don’t they? Instead of mailing them in to the Company?”

  “Sure. That’s mainly the reason for the safe.”

  “Well, there’s lots of them that way about benefits. Her husband dies, so she’s supposed to collect ten thousand dollars. No checks, please. Checks are all right to pay a gas bill, or a book club, or a dentist. But this is ten thousand dollars, and the lady’s from the old country. She don’t fool with checks for that kind of dough. The Company is liable to fail while it’s clearing, the bank’s liable to declare a holiday, maybe there’ll be a revolution—she wants cash bucks on the line. What time does she call for it?”

  “Nine o’clock. Flanked by a couple of gigantic sons.”

  “Well, at nine o’clock she shows up with her sons. She probably never saw so much money in one lump in all her life. They cart it home and the two young guys sit up with each other all night, playing klabiash, with that heap very near them, while the old lady tosses on the mattress dreaming nightmares and going off for water and a peek at her boys every half hour. Then, in the morning, they go to a bank and get themselves a vault, and after that, all they got to worry about is earthquakes and atom bombs.”

  “And that’s usual?” Halsey said.

  “Happens every day in the week. You, Harry, don’t forget to get a receipt.”

  “Thanks, Papa.”

  Halsey rolled his window down. “It’s a wonderful day.”

  “Not to be a spoil-sport,” Quigley said, “it’s going to rain.”

  Harry said, “Rain. Why, there isn’t a cloud in the sky.”

  “I feel it in my corns. And Quigley’s corns my boy, they’re time tested.”

  Harry swung down the ramp. Alliance was at Fifty-Seventh and Eighth. Cabs cluttered the streets. Green buses lumbered. Trucks held up traffic. Quigley said, “How’s about a snifter?”

  “Not me,” Harry said.

  “Not him,” Quigley flung behind him. “Here’s a guy that used to lap up half the town—”

  “I’m a family man now.”

  “And a chaser—murder. No blonde was safe.”

  “I married a brunette.”

  “How’s about that snifter?”

  “Well—” Harry said.

  “Look, I produced for you. I could have had you come down and lug that cash up yourself, lug.”

  “Well—” Harry said.

  “I went out of my way for you.”

  “You twisted my arm,” Harry said. “Where do we park?”

  “Park anywhere. I’ll pay the ticket, if any.”

  The saloon was noisy with afternoon conferences. It was a lush bar with twinkling bottles and a canopy and dark-mirrored walls and an archway that opened into a dome-like room with a massive chandelier. Soft light spread over black tables and black leather armchairs. Why not? Harry thought. What the hell? It’s been a long time.

  “Let’s sit, huh?” Quigley said. “My corns.”

  The maître d’ said, “Gentlemen—?”

  Quigley said, “A corner table.”

  “This way, if you please.”

  The maître d’ lifted a finger for a waiter. The waiter said, “Gentlemen—?”

  “Scotch and water for me,” Quigley said. “Scotch and water for him,” pointing at Harry. “What’ll it be, Halsey?”

  “Scotch and water.”

  “Scotch and water, unanimous,” Quigley said.

  “At once,” the waiter said.

  They had Scotch and water, and told stories.

  They had more Scotch and water, and told more stories.

  They had Scotch and water, doubles, and the stories brightened.

  “… a Third Avenue bar,” Quigley told Halsey, “and Harry here with the inevitable blonde, and me with a blond friend of Harry’s inevitable blonde, and an ogre of a bartender, and a couple of tough-looking friends of the bartender, and it’s close to four o’clock in the morning, and the bartender is dishing out cracks—he sort of don’t cotton to Harry. Finally, Harry’s blonde says, ‘Why don’t you bop the guy, Harry?’ and Harry, who is very gallant this night, as when isn’t he, Harry says, ‘Bop him for what? Nobody in this stinking excuse for a saloon has insulted a lady,’ and the bartender says, ‘What lady? There ain’t a lady in the joint,’ and Harry says, ‘I take it, friend, that was ill-meant,’ and the bartender says, ‘Pay up and blow, big boy, we’re shutting up shop, and there still ain’t no lady in the house, except, maybe, you.’ So Harry goes vaulting over the bar, and what happens to that guy’s saloon shouldn’t happen to a Japanese ramshackle fighting a typhoon. The bartender and his two friends are laid out like stiffs for the embalmer, with the bartender bleeding like a stuck pig on account of having run into the broken end of a whisky bottle, and we beat it out of the joint, seconds before the cops come, and maybe an hour later, Harry, over coffee, is asking me, ‘What happened there on Third Avenue, fight or something, my right hand hurts.’”

  “I was blind,” Harry said.

  “Blind for blondes, always was.”

  “Was is correct.”

  “Blondes. I wouldn’t put it past you—right now.”

  “On which note of happy opinion and hoary reminiscence,” Harry said, “we break it up.” He pointed at a black clock on a paneled wall. “Twenty to four.”

  “One more round,” Quigley said. “On me.”

  “Sold.”

  Outside, gray clouds moved swiftly, blue was gone. Wind lashed wet at their faces. Store windows had their lights on. Taxis bore bright halos. They turned up their coat collars. Sprigs of fog dampened their mouths. Harry said, “Quigley and his corns.”

  “Time tested,” Quigley said.

  They shook hands all around.

  “Nice knowing you,” Halsey said.

  “See you,” Quigley said. “If you want me, I’m in the office till late.”

  There was no ticket on the car. Harry got in, whistling, jingling keys. The starter squealed. Gears cracked, precisely. He drove on the left of his lane, passing the taxis and the trucks and the buses. He dangled a hand out of the window, limply admonishing, speared out over the white line, rushing his motor, made a right turn at Madison. He did tricks in the traffic, brought the car to the open-air garage, stopped with a lurch. “Put her under the shed, Al, if you have room. Gonna rain, says Quigley’s corns.”

  “Feeling good, Mr. Martin?”

  “Feeling absolutely swell.”

  He had one in the Boar’s Head opposite the garage, and he had two more, quickies, in Caesar Stein’s Topaz Grotto, a two-by-four with Italian cooking, in the basement of his office building. He said, “Five,” to the elevator man, patting him, and the elevator man said, “Looks like rain, they tell me,” and Harry said, “Quigley’s corns,” and the elevator man said, “Yes, sir,” stiffly, keeping his eyes in front of him.

  He fought for his keys in front of 508, approving, in a series of benign nods, the gilt letters on the frost-glass door: H. A. Martin, and beneath that, Insurance. He opened the door, clicking the snapper to leave the door unlocked, pushed the peg for lights, smiled at the big pleasant room. On his left was a heavy wood door. He turned the glass knob, opening into a tiny anteroom which was a closet, washstand, and medicine cabinet. He hung away his hat and coat, washed his hands and face, drank cold water thirstily, considered returning to Caesar Stein’s Topaz Grotto for camaraderie and a few more fast ones. Stop
it, he thought, stop it, stop it, stop it. He went to his desk, dialed the service. Joyce Anderson had called. No one else. He opened his mail.

  Drab day hung against the windows, up-end in the rectangle of room. Rain rapped, suddenly, splashing. He got up, looked out, flicked the Venetian blinds, went back to the desk, creased his eyebrows, concentrated on the mail, watched the words blur. Rain ran on the windows, disturbing him, high windows, high wide windows with long nubby drapes hanging to the floor, gray drapes with thin red stripes, gray to match the gray of the carpet, wall to wall, red for the red morocco leather of the furnishings. There was a big red leather couch and four red leather easy chairs. There was his desk, big and cluttered, in front of the windows. There was his red leather swivel chair, and the typewriter on a narrow wheeled table beside him. There were six green filing-cabinets, three on either side of the frost-glass door. There were two hiss-water chrome tall ash trays, one at one end of the leather couch and one beside a leather chair across the room. There was a deep-framed oil painting, above the couch, of a boat, a steamship on a rough sea. His license hung in a corner behind him.

  The mail was nothing. He crumbled it into the wastebasket. He leaned back, pushed fingers through his hair. Hell, it’s been a long time. Let’s kill it. Let’s make a day of it. His tongue was dry and his stomach growled, empty, cool. His hands moved down over his face, tight, wrinkling skin, shutting off a smile. The knock was numb, part of his thinking, part of fright, part of the thin niggardly anguish. “Come in,” he heard himself say.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello,” he said.

  “The girl said four o’clock.”

  “Right on the button.”

  She was very tall, without a hat, blond hair going back from a point on her forehead, swelling to a long bob on her shoulders. Her smile was strong teeth. Her mouth was full, bright red. Her flesh was smooth around tiny cracks by slant blue eyes. She wore no rouge. Hollows were shadows beneath the high cheekbones of a triangular face. Her navy blue suit was wide at the shoulders, and narrow at the waist, and she carried a thick blue coat across her arm. She sat deep in the leather couch, her legs crossed high. “I don’t have much time. I’ve been calling you most of the day.”

  “I know.”

  “John Applegate insisted you’re the best in the business.”

  “Nice boy, Johnny. The best.”

  “It’s taken me a long time to get around to it.”

  “What?”

  “Annuities. You know how insurance is.”

  “I ought to know.”

  “It’s big, Mr. Martin. About a half a million dollars’ worth.”

  “That’s big, Miss Anderson. Joyce Anderson?”

  “Joyce Anderson. Mrs. Joyce Anderson.”

  “Uh huh,” he said.

  “I want it all laid out for me. I want it thoroughly explained. If it’s all right, I’m buying.”

  “Now?”

  “I’d love it now. But I can’t. I’m due for a fitting, overdue. Five o’clock? Say, five o’clock, at my place. Would you come over—for cocktails? Hotel Everett. Suite Eight-ten. It’s in the book.”

  “Certainly.”

  She stood up and he came out from behind the desk to meet her. She extended her hand and he took it. It was a warm hand, caressing. “See you then,” she said. “I’m abrupt, businesswise.” She smiled, a dimple near the corner of her mouth. “You’re very tall, aren’t you?”

  “Uh huh,” he said.

  “’By, now.”

  “’By.”

  Real nice business conversation, he thought, as he watched her go, walking carefully, trained, no part of her moving except the one free arm and her feet; mincing, graceful, shapely, and very tall in the form-fitting suit. He sighed, lit a cigarette, went back and called Alliance, asked for Quigley, waited, part of his thigh over a corner of the desk. “Joyce Anderson,” he said.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Harry.”

  “You polluted?”

  “No.”

  “You ought to be.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I am. And you did it.”

  “Sure I did it. Joyce Anderson.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “You ought to know. You’re in the business.”

  “What business?”

  “Insurance.”

  “What’s that got to do with her—whatever her name is?”

  “According to her, she’s interested in a half a million dollars’ worth of annuities. I’m interested in whether she can afford it, or whether she’s looking for fun.”

  “You say a half a million?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What’s the name again?”

  “Joyce Anderson.”

  “Hang on.”

  Harry blew smoke rings, his throat dry, wanting a drink. What started this? What in all hell started this?

  “Who’s kidding whom?” Quigley said.

  “Try that again, huh? Slowly.”

  “Who is kidding whom? About Joyce Anderson?”

  “I am kidding nobody.”

  “You never heard of Joyce Anderson?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “The girl that married Theus Anderson with the pictures in all the papers? Former show-girl gets hitched to ancient operator?”

  “I know all about that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Everybody’s heard about Joyce Anderson who married Theus Anderson who died two years ago. Even you—with prompting. I’m asking if she’s good for five hundred thousand dollars. In annuities. I’m asking if it’s madcap or it’s business.”

  “You mean you want to know about Theus?”

  “Mildly.”

  “You mean whether or not he really had the shekels?”

  “Approximately.”

  “Hold it again, old bean.”

  “I’m holding it.”

  Caesar Stein’s Topaz Grotto. There’s a name for you. What began this?

  “Harry?”

  “Yep?”

  “Joyce Anderson was Joyce Allen, a show-girl with a figure.”

  “Stop it, will you?”

  “She married the guy and the guy croaked five months later. Had a heart attack in a taxi on Cedar Street.”

  Wearily Harry said, “How much? I never inquired before.”

  “I inquired. Just now. Between four and five million, and it all went to her. It’s a little hard to get rid of that inside of two years. Don’t you think?”

  “I think. Thanks. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing’s the matter with me, except a half-empty bottle against my foot by my knee-hole desk.”

  “It’ll get to you, Quigley.”

  “Yes, sir, it will. Before I’m gray.”

  “Thanks, boy.”

  “Go to work, Harry. Half a million in annuities is a lot of annuities, and a lot of commissions. Don’t start making with the propriety.”

  “Go kick your bottle.” He hung up and dialed home.

  Alice said, “Hello, darl.”

  “I’ll be a little late, honey.”

  “Again?”

  “Business.”

  “Again?”

  “Got to see a lady.”

  “Lady, huh?”

  “It’s a big deal, I hope. Hold the steak, and hold the Polgars. In case I’m late.”

  “Nine o’clock? You mean you don’t expect to be home by nine?”

  “I do. But—you know how it is. Most probably, of course, I will.”

  “Harry.”

  “Yep?”

  “How—are you? Everything all right, Harry? I mean—you sound—”

  “Fine, honey.”

  “All right, Harry?”

  “Swell.”

  He heard a little gasp.

  “Baby, I’m perfectly all right. Don’t you ever stop worrying?”

  “No. I—”

  “Nine o’clock, or before. Stop w
orrying, huh?”

  “Right, lover. I’ll hold the Polgars and I’ll hold the steak. But I do wish, Harry—”

  “See you, baby.”

  He hung up and he washed his hands and face again. He started to look at his tongue and stopped it. He looked at his eyes and his eyes looked back at him. No good. No good. He opened a desk drawer, brought out a small leather zipper-case, looked at Harry A. Martin in thin gold script, smiled. He took his hat and coat, slid the cigarette butt into the tubular ash tray, snapped off the lights, pushed the button on the lock, slammed the door. He didn’t take the elevator. He ran down the stairs, all the way down, putting his coat on on one landing, holding his hat and briefcase.

  Caesar Stein’s Topaz Grotto was busy. He found a wedge in the bar, said, “Scotch, water.” He swallowed the Scotch, kicking at his throat, and pointed to the little glass. “Do it again.” The bartender did it again, smiling, leaving the bottle on the bar. Harry gulped the drink and used the water, ran a hand across his mouth. He looked toward the bartender shyly; the bartender was busy. He opened his coat, digging for money. “Say,” he said, holding up a five-dollar bill, pointing clumped fingers at the bartender. “Say—”

  “Hello, Mr. Martin.”

  “Oh, Miss Lilling.”

  Miss Lilling, the girl from down the hall, the public stenographer. Better, he thought, much better. What am I? A bum? A solitary drinker? A guy bashful with a bartender? He pushed against the man near him, said excuse me, making room for Miss Lilling.

  “That be all?” the bartender said, looking at the bill.

  “No,” said Harry with a companion, more assured, brusque almost. “What’ll it be, young lady?”

  “Well—Mr. Martin. Martini, please. Martini, dry. With a pearl.”

  “Martini with a pearl,” the bartender said. “You, sir?”

  “Same as before,” Harry said too casually. “Double. In the ball glass, huh? Touch of water.”

  The bartender poured the Scotch, went to mix the Martini. Harry exchanged the five-dollar bill for a ten, laid it on the bar, smiled at his lady.

  “Never seen you here before, Mr. Martin. Thanks for the Martini. Martin. Martini. It rhymes. Or does it? Never seen you here.”

  “Never been here, hardly.”

  “Too low-brow?”

  “You kidding?”

  “Never seen you here,” she said, singsong, pertly. “Don’t use it much.”