The Avram Davidson Treasury (34 page)

Among Mr. Mason’s tenants was a Mrs. Richards. She was quite insistent, whenever the matter was raised (though it was never raised by Mr. Mason, who was totally indifferent to such items), that “Mrs.” was no mere courtesy title. She had, indeed, been married to Mr. Richards and she had a snapshot of Mr. Richards to prove it. The wedding may have occurred in North Carolina, or perhaps in South Carolina. Nor did she recall the town or country where the happy event took place: Mr. Richards (she
did
remember that his given name was Charley) had been a traveling man. Also, it was a long time ago.

Mrs. Richards may have been a bit feeble-minded, but she possessed other qualities, such as a warm, loving, and open—very open—heart. She had two children by the evanescent Mr. Richards, and two children by two other gentlemen, with whom she had been scrupulous not to commit bigamy; and was currently awaiting the birth in about six months of her fifth child, the father of whom she thought was most probably a young man named Curtis.

Current social welfare policy held that it would be destructive to the family unit to suggest that Mrs. Richards, now or at any time, place her children in a day nursery and go out and labor for her (and their) bread. Consequently, she was supplied with a monthly check made up with city, state, and federal taxes. It cannot be said that the amount of the check was lavish, but Mrs. Richards did not demand very much and was easily satisfied. She had never been trained in any craft, trade, or profession, and if anyone was crude or unkind enough to suggest that she had enough skill required to manipulate a scrub-brush and-bucket, she would point out that when she did this her back hurt her.

The state of the floor of her “apartment,” on the day when Mr. Mason came to call, at an hour nicely calculated with reference to the mail schedule, indicated that Mrs. Richards had not risked backache lately.

After an exchange of greetings, Mr. Mason said, “If you’ve cashed your check, I’ve got the receipt made out.”

“I don’t believe it’s come,” she said placidly. This was her routine reply. It was her belief that eventually it might be believed, although it never had been; nor was it now.

“If you spend the rent money on something else,” Mr. Mason said, “I’ll have to go down to The Welfare and have them close your case.” This was his routine reply.

Curtis, in a peremptory tone, said, “Give the man his money.” The prospect of approaching fatherhood had raised in him no tender sentiment; in fact, it raised no sentiment at all other than an increasing daily restlessness and a conviction that it was time for him to move on.

Without so much as a sigh Mrs. Richards now produced an envelope from her bosom and examined it closely. “I guess maybe it might be this one,” she said. “I haven’t opened it.”

Curtis, quite tired of every routine gambit of his lady-love, now said, quite testily, “
Give
the
man
his
money!
” He wanted cigarettes and he wanted whiskey and he knew that neither of these could be had until the check was cashed. “If I got to
hit
you—”

Mrs. Richards endorsed the check with her landlord’s pen, and Mr. Mason began to count out her change. A new consideration now entered Curtis’ mind—previously occupied only by the desire for cigarettes, whiskey, and moving on; it entered with such extreme suddenness that it gave him no time to reflect on it. He observed that Mr. Mason had a revolver in a shoulder holster inside his coat and he observed that Mr. Mason’s wallet was quite engorged with money.

Curtis was not naturally malevolent, but he was naturally impulsive. He whipped Mr. Mason’s revolver from its holster, struck Mr. Mason heavily on the side of the head with it, and seized his wallet.

Mr. Mason went down, but he went down slowly. He thought he was shouting for help, but the noise coming out of his mouth was no louder than a mew. He was on his hands and knees by the time Curtis reached the door, and then he slid to one side and lay silent.

Mrs. Richards sat for a moment in her chair. New situations were things she was not well equipped to cope with. After the sound of Curtis’ feet on the stairs ceased, she continued to sit for some time, looking at Mr. Mason.

Presently a thought entered her mind. The familiar-looking piece of paper on the dirty table was a receipt for her rent. The money scattered around was the money Mr. Mason had been counting out to cash her check. His practice was to count it out twice and then deduct the amount of the rent.

Mrs. Richards slowly gathered up the money, slowly counted it, moving her lips. It was all there.

And so was the receipt.

Mrs. Richards nodded. She now had the receipt for her rent
and
the money. True, she no longer had Curtis, but, then, she knew he was bound to move along sooner or later. Men always did.

She hid the rent money in one of the holes with which the walls of the “apartment” were plentifully supplied, and then reflected on what she had better do next.

All things considered, she decided it was best to start screaming.

Curtis went down the stairs rapidly, but once in the street he had sense enough to walk at a normal pace. Running men were apt to attract the attention of the police.

Three blocks away was a saloon he favored with his trade. He entered by the back door, causing a buzzer to sound. He tried to slip quickly into the Men’s Room, but wasn’t quite quick enough to escape the attention of the bartender-proprietor, an irascible West Indian called Jumby, and no great friend of Curtis’.

“Another customer for the toilet trade,” said Jumby, so loudly that he could be heard through the closed door. “I’d make more money if I gave the drinks away free and charged admission to the water closet!”

Curtis ignored this familiar complaint, and emptied the wallet of its money, dropping the empty leather case into the trash container which stood, full of used paper towels, alongside the sink. Then he left.

Police cars sped by him, their sirens screaming.

Vague thoughts of cigarettes and whiskey still floated in Curtis’ mind, but the desire to move on was by now uppermost. It was with some relief, therefore, that he saw a young man sitting in an open convertible. The convertible was elegantly fitted out, and so was the young man. His name was William.

“You’ve been talking about going to California, William,” Curtis said.

“I have
also
been talking,” William said with precision, “about finding some con
gen
ial person with
money
to share the
expenses
of going to California.”

Curtis said, “I hit the numbers. I got money enough to take care of all the expenses. Don’t that make me congenial?”

“Very
much
so,” said William, opening the door. Curtis started to slide in, but William stopped him with a long, impeccably groomed hand, which touched him lightly. “Curtis,” he said in low but firm tones, “if you have something
on
you, I really must
insist
that you get
rid
of it first. Suppose I meet you here in an
hour?
That will also enable me to
pack.
”

“One hour,” Curtis said.

He went into another bar, obtained cigarettes and whiskey. At the bar was a man generally, if not quite popularly, known as The Rock.

“How you doing, Rock?” Curtis inquired.

The Rock said nothing.

“Got some business to talk over with you,” Curtis went on.

The Rock continued to say nothing.

“Like to take in a movie?” Curtis asked.

The Rock finished his drink, set down the glass, looked at Curtis. Curtis put down money, left the bar, The Rock behind him. He bought two tickets at the movie theater and they went in. The house was almost empty.

After a minute or two Curtis whispered, “Fifty dollars buys a gun. I got it on me.”

The Rock took out a handkerchief, spread it in his lap, counted money into it, passed it to Curtis. After a moment Curtis passed the handkerchief back. The Rock soon left, but Curtis stayed on. He still had the better part of an hour to kill.

The Rock took a bus and traveled a mile. He walked a few blocks on a side street and entered a house which, like most of its fellows, bore a sign that it has been selected for something euphemistically called “Urban Renewal,” and that further renting of rooms was illegal. Most of the windows were already marked with large X signs.

On the second floor The Rock disturbed a teenage boy and girl in close, though wordless, conversation. The boy looked up in some annoyance, but after a quick glance decided to say nothing. The girl clutched his arm until the intruder passed.

The door on the third floor was locked, but The Rock pushed hard, once, and it yielded. The room was ornately furnished, and the dressing table was crowded with perfumes and cosmetics and a large doll; but seated on the bed was a man.

“It ain’t you,” the man said. He was red-eyed drunk.

“It ain’t me,” The Rock agreed.

“It’s Humpty Slade,” said the man on the bed. “
He
don’t pay for her rent.
He
don’t buy her no clothes.
He
don’t feed her.
I
do.”

The Rock nodded his massive head.

“Everybody knows that,” The Rock said. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, laid it on the bed, opened its folds. “Seventy-five dollars,” he said.

A quick turnover and a modest profit—that was The Rock’s policy.

The boy and girl, now seated on the stairs, shrank to one side as he came down. They did not look up. It was not very comfortable there in that all but abandoned house; but it was private—as private as you can get when you have no place of your own to go.

Upstairs, on the bed, the waiting man stared at the revolver with his red, red eyes …

After a while the boy and the girl sauntered down into the street and went separate ways in search of something to eat. But after supper they met again in the same hallway.

Scarcely had they taken their places when they were disturbed. A man and woman came up, talking loudly. They paused at the sight of the younger pair in the dim light of the single bulb, and for a moment the two couples looked at one another. The older woman was handsome, flamboyantly dressed and made up. Her companion was large and on the ugly side, his looks not improved by a crooked shoulder which jutted back on one side.

“What are you kids doing here?” he demanded. “Go on, get out—”

“Oh, now, Humphrey,” the woman pleaded. “You leave them alone. They ain’t hurting nobody.”

“Okay, sugar,” the big man said submissively. They continued up the stairs. The boy and girl listened as they fumbled at the door. Then the woman’s voice went high and shrill with fear, screaming, “
No
—
no
—
no
—”

At the loud sound of the revolver the boy and girl leaped to their feet. Something fell past them, and landed below with a thud.

“You’d point a gun at
me?
” a man’s voice growled. Then there was the noise of a blow.

“
My
woman—!”

“You’d take a shot at
me?
”

The sound of fist on flesh, again and again. The boy and girl crept down the stairs.

“No, Humpty, don’t hit me any more! I’m sorry, Humpty! I didn’t mean it! I was—oh, please, Humpty!
Please?
”

“Don’t hit him any more, honey. He was drunk. Honey—”

The boy and girl stopped at the bottom floor for only a moment. Then they were gone …

Curtis paused, uncertain. He was sure that it was dangerous for him to remain on the street, but he didn’t know where to go. That little rat, William, had failed to reappear. There were planes flying, and trains and buses running, but even if he decided what to take he would still have to decide
which
airfield,
which
station,
which
terminal. The problems seemed to proliferate each time he thought about them.

He would have a drink to help him consider.

There wasn’t really any hurry.

That dirty rat, William!

The Sepoy Lords were holding an informal meeting—a caucus, as it were.

Someone has remarked that the throne of Russia was neither hereditary, nor elective, but occupative. The same might be said of office in the Sepoy Lords.

The scene was a friendly neighborhood rooftop.

“So you think you’re going to be Warlord?” a boy named Buzz demanded.

“That’s right,” said the one called Sonny.

The quorum, including several Sepoy Ladies, listened with interest.

“
I
don’t think you’re going to be Warlord,” said Buzz.

“I
know
I am,” said Sonny.

“What makes you so sure?” inquired Buzz.

“
This,
” Sonny said, simply, reaching into his pocket, and taking something out.

Sudden intakes of breath, eyes lighting up, members crowding around, loud comments of admiration. “Sonny got a
piece!” “Look
at that piece Sonny’s got!”

The President of the Sepoy Lords, one Big Arthur, who had until now remained above the battle, asked, “Where’d you get it, Son’.”

Sonny smirked, cocked his head. “
She
knows where I got it,” he said. His girl, Myra, smiled knowingly.

Buzz said only one word, but he said it weakly. He now had no case, and he knew it.

The new Warlord sighted wickedly down the revolver. “
First
thing I’m going to do,” he announced; “there’s one old cat I am going to
burn.
He said something about my old lady, and that is something I don’t take from
any
body, let alone from one of those dirty old Ermine Kings.”

Diplomatically, no one commented on the personal aspect of his grievance, all being well aware how easy it was to say something about Sonny’s old lady, and being equally aware that the old lady’s avenging offspring now held a revolver in his hand. But the general aspect of the challenge was something else.

“Those Ermine Kings better watch out, is all!” a Sepoy Lady declared. There was a murmur of assent.

Big Arthur now deemed it time to interpose his authority. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he said. “‘They better watch out!’—how come? Because we got one piece?”