Chapter VII: Book II (5)

“She sent me to sell the car; that hurt me. I went and sat around the garage with the boys. I was down and out; they had money to burn. They said, ‘Sell? nothing doing--a car like yours is capital.’ Well, I didn’t sell; I commenced going out nights. I was ashamed to be seen, but I got over that. Then I risked it in the daytime; now I flaunt my shame. I tell you! it’s a rotten world--when I had money it was a stunt to do my own repairs. When I took the crowd out joy riding, I was a good sport, but to ‘hack’ for a living is common. I’m done with that swell bunch. Maudy says they’re beneath us.”

Then he sat looking at Floyd, his eyes begging.

“Tom, you’ve solved your problem, I’m proud of you.”

Tom heaved a sigh of relief and got back to business.

“Now I suppose you want to get home.”

“I don’t know,” said Floyd, wearily.

Tom gave him a sharp look.

“What are you doing down here anyhow, seeing some capitalist off?”

“No, watching poor wretches come in. I’ve been through a lot, and I haven’t quite got my bearings.”

Tom asked no questions, but he told Maudy afterwards he was sure Garrison “had some trouble with that crazy wife of his.”

“You’d better come outside with me and get some fresh air--you don’t mind me taking a fare if it comes my way. I’ve got another car; there’s a guy in with me. I dope it out this way: he gets twenty-five per cent of the takings, I get the rest and pay for the damn gas. The car’s on instalment; when we pay it off we’ll go it equal. Fair enough, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Tom had coarsened; the veneer of wealth was gone. Floyd liked him that way.

“You’ve grown stouter, Tom; you’re the picture of health.”

Tom, slapping his chest complacently, came in collision with an enormous truck. He let out a stream of oaths, which paralyzed the physically inferior opponent. The poor devil cranked frantically and got out of his way.

“It was your fault, Tom, not his.”

“Of course it was, but that alien wouldn’t dare open his mouth to a free-born American. If he tried it on, they’d wipe him out.”

Tom spoke with a rich Irish inherited brogue, which all his college education hadn’t eradicated.

“We were talking about me, weren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve gained thirty pounds, I eat like a hog, and I’m for Prohibition every time. At first I worried myself to bones about Maudy. I was afraid to tell her I was hacking. Her family’s a hundred per cent American and she’s damn proud. When I brought home money she wouldn’t take it--‘You’re on the crook, Tom, and I’m going to leave you.’ Then I blurted it all out. I was frightened stiff--what do you think she did?”

“Haven’t any idea, Tom--abused you roundly for a piker?”

“Na--she just hugged me till I didn’t have a breath left. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘I’ve cried many a long night. I couldn’t see _you_ making a living. God is good; He wouldn’t let me go begging to my rich friends. Hacking’s a fine business, but there’s something against it--those flappers. Don’t take ’em in your car; sooner lose a fare. You’re good looking and they’ll get you.’”

Floyd laughed. Tom was the right medicine for him.

They were driving uptown--Tom’s tongue went faster than the car; he had acquired a lot of practical information. “They’re starring the crime wave now, all bunk--we’re no worse than we were. Wait till after the election, the prisons will be so empty they’ll have to turn ’em into meeting houses. What do you think of them stinking Republicans up in Washington?”

“Tom, don’t insult my inherited political party. I’ve had them handed down to me, and I must carry them.”

Tom opened his mouth, the brimstone flowed, the air was blue; then suddenly he was dazzled by two shapely legs encased in flesh-colored cobwebs, and a pair of bright eyes emitting sparks.

“Taxi, Miss?” He drew up to the curbstone, smiling at her, showing his white teeth, sprang out, opened the door, dusted off the seat, held the rug in his hand.

She was undecided. “I don’t want to go, yet....”

“Yes you do, but you don’t know it,” laughed Tom.

A gust of cold wind blew her against him. Tom glanced downward.

“Your legs are cold?”

“Oh! Warm as toast.”

“Your blood keeps them warm.”

She twisted her little mouth.

“No, my vanity.”

Clever girl. Tom lifted her bodily into the car; they were old friends now. He wrapped her in the warm rug and put a match to her cigarette.

“Who’s the melancholy Dane in front?”

“Oh! He’s a guy I’m breaking in.”

They drove to Madison Avenue. She jumped out and gave him a generous fare.

“I want to go out again tonight; call for me?”

He smiled into the pretty laughing eyes. “Awful sorry, Miss, but there’s nothing doing. I’m married.” He heaved a big sigh.

“She was nice--wasn’t she.”

Floyd slapped him on the back. “You’re a hero, Tom. It was a great temptation.” Tom beamed.

“They’ve taken it into their pretty heads to star the chauffeur. We’re the cowboys of the East. We drive and slash about, and lasso them in. Say, I’m afraid I’m going to lose my man--handsome lad, good family. There’s a little snipe baiting for him, and she’ll hook him too.”

At the garage he found a note.

Married this morning to Ida, family approve.

Tom’s sorrow was pathetic. “They’re rich brokers. They’ll put him on the street. He’ll never be able to earn an honest penny again. Where shall I find another like him? The girls fell for him every time. He was a handsome fish. You’ve got nothing to do; help me out just for today. You can run a car. It doesn’t need so much experience, and I can’t afford to let her stand idle.”

“I haven’t got the experience, Tom, but I can hand you the good looks,” said Floyd, modestly.

Tom was jubilant; he’d have to keep his mind on the wheel--and a few knocks would shake him up.

“Now I’ll give you the fruits of my experience. Before you turn a corner, blow the horn, then stop and listen. Don’t try to pass anything; let the other fellow smash you up--then you’ll get damages. The wise guy says, ‘we’ve got a third eye in the back of our heads.’ Exercise yours; it’ll work after a while. When an old woman or a cat gets in front, don’t run her down, jump off and put her on the sidewalk. Train your ears to hear the pistol in a man’s pocket. Keep your foot on the brake and a curb on your temper; a timely joke can make it a dollar more. You’ll get into tough places, so does a doctor. Your fare is your patient; save his life if you can. When it comes to a toss up, you know who gets the preference. Never argue with a crook; take whatever he gives. If it’s nothing, say thank you and get away. Don’t let pretty feet lead you astray. A man’s strength depends on his disposition, and the time of night. If you fall for it, forget it. Do what you can’t help, but--whatever you do, don’t get found out. It’s all contradiction; you do something now and you don’t do it the next time. If the same thing happens twice, it’s never the same thing. You’ve got to be not only a good chauffeur but a good actor, a good talker, a good curser, a good fighter, a good navigator, a good all-around regular feller, and then you don’t half fill the bill. Now scoot.”

“Yes sir,” said Floyd, and plunged into the depths of the night city.

His first venture in the taxi business was a personal success.

“Taxi, sir, taxi, Miss, take you anywhere--where to, Miss?” The women jumped in at once; he picked up two, going to the theatre. Would he call for them at eleven-thirty?

“With great pleasure,” answered Floyd. He helped them out, and stood with his hat in his hand. He forgot he was a chauffeur for a moment. Then he drove people uptown, downtown, all over town, guiding his car in and out of the great mass of congested traffic.

A young fellow rushed at him. “Drive for your life, my wife is dying.”

It was up in the Bronx. Floyd put on the speed. He got away from two policemen and landed at a brick house with the blinds lowered. The man dashed up the steps.

“Is she alive? Thank God!”

He threw Floyd a bill.

“You did well, my man, keep the change.”

Floyd felt like a public benefactor. Hacking was a noble profession.

He was hailed by two men who jumped in. He didn’t like them. He heard the pistol; looked into the butt of it. They gave him a street number outside the city limits.

“Drive like Hell!” He did. The men jumped out into a vacant lot. “Now cut away, and don’t squeal.”

Floyd said “Thank you,” and shot across the town. He was held up and questioned. No, he hadn’t seen anybody. He had no compunctions. He wouldn’t give the guys away; that wasn’t sport. Then he took the car back to the garage, and went home in the subway. He had thirty dollars. He put fifteen in an envelope, addressed it to Tom, and wrote on a slip of paper:

Dear Tom: Here is half the boodle. It was a great experience. Ready
to help out at any time.

Tom got back early to the garage, washed his khaki suit, hung it up to dry, cleaned his car, looked over the motor. He waited for Floyd, but he didn’t show up; he was sure the car would come back damaged. He expected that, but he hoped Garrison wouldn’t get hurt. Then he grew impatient. It didn’t matter to ‘_that guy_’ how long he stayed out--_his_ wife wasn’t waiting for him. He said good night to the man in the garage, told him to look out for a ‘green-hand,’ and showed him where the bandages were. Then for a bit of exercise he walked up to the Bronx, taking a drink now and then to ease his mind. It was two o’clock when he opened the door of the little flat. The kitchen was spotless, the blue and white oilcloth shone like marble tiles. There was a tray on the table, with cold corned beef and three large baked potatoes; the coffee was gurgling on the gas stove. He devoured everything in sight, washed up the dishes, then went into the next room and stood at the bed. Maudy was in a deep sleep, how pretty she was. She must have been very tired or she would have heard him come in. She’d been scrubbing that damn kitchen floor again. She couldn’t wait till Sunday morning; that was his job. He looked at her small hands. They were rough from the washing soda, and the nails were not manicured. He had to kiss them, he couldn’t help it. She opened her eyes, smelt the hootch.

“Tom, you’re going it; you’ll break your neck one night, and I’ll be a widow--take a bath.” The sleepy eyes closed, she dropped off again.

Tom put a roll of bills under her pillow, slipped out of his clothes and fell on the sofa. He didn’t take a bath, he’d gotten over that pastime; he had something better to do.

30

Floyd woke up the next morning, his head aching, his limbs weary. The experience had battered his body, but shook up his mind. His share of the “boodle” lay on the table--three five-dollar bills. He examined them curiously, turning them over and over--the first money he had ever earned. Was it money? No--he threw away much more than that paltry sum every day. But this was different; he had worked for it with the “sweat of his brow.” He felt the pressure of the masses, who were earning their bread. This meant money to them. He remembered how the Colonel looked at him, when he told him to sell something--they were needing more and more. “You’re destroying capital,” said the Colonel. “You should preserve it, it’s your only source of income.”

Capital! capital! He wondered if they had blown in all his father had left--blown in, where?--into the air like soap bubbles, which glittered for a moment in the sun, then burst and disappeared.

He put his hand to his head. Where could he go to pass the morning? Julie was not visible until twelve. She was lucky; the day was only half as long for her. Then that queer feeling came again; he went to see Dr. McClaren.

“How’s your wife?” said the doctor.

“Very well, as far as I can see. I want to speak to you about myself--my mind wanders--I cannot concentrate, nothing interests me; I go back always to the past; the things I have lived through haunt me.”

“You are trying too hard to forget.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t. If we wipe out memory, we throw into the dust heap of oblivion the best part of our life, experience.”

“But if that experience is unbearable?”

“We can make it bearable. We must work it the right way.”

“But I cannot see how! Father Cabello spoke about the ‘gift of forgetting.’”

The doctor smiled. “I am not for such narcotics. We shouldn’t go about hypnotizing ourselves. A man of mind should be able to deal with the complications of his nature in an intelligent manner.”

This meant nothing to Floyd; the doctor was talking “over his head.”

“I’ll try to make it clearer to you. You have got yourself tangled up. What you think so terrible one day will be precious to you in years to come. How do you stand financially?”

“I don’t know, I’m not sure--badly, I think.”

The doctor knew; he had seen the Colonel.

“I want you to try to get rich.”

Floyd had a shock. He looked sharply at the doctor; there was no glare in his eyes, but he was fingering a paper cutter--no, he wasn’t mad--but he was a mind reader. Floyd had been thinking of money--in a vague way, wondering that so many people whose names he had never heard had bobbed up as millionaires.

“The pursuit of wealth may be sordid, but if we succeed, we are compensated by a gratifying sense of self-confidence, authority, power, not speaking of the good we can do with our ‘ill gotten’ gains. As for the spiritual side being starved, well, we don’t think so; if we concentrate on the world of the spirit, it will demoralize us in our practical life, which is our end of it. We must uphold that, for the sake of bankrupt Europe.”

“Doctor, I dreamt last night that I was enormously rich.”

“Good! make it a complex. It will drive more harmful ideas out of your mind. Come and see me again. I am curious to know how my prescription’s going to work....”

Floyd found the Colonel, erect, well satisfied; he had no complexes, he wasn’t married.

“How do I stand?”

The Colonel hesitated.

“Come, out with it; I want the truth.”

“Well, you’ll have to practice strict economy to make up for your enormous expenditure of the last few years. Do you want to sell your house?”

“Economy? Sell the house? Julie!--impossible.”

“Nowadays a man can’t live on interest.”

Floyd snapped his fingers.

“Economy, bah! We’ll have to create new capital.” The Colonel opened a drawer, took out a card of the Garrison estate, kept as a physician does the history of a patient’s disease; then he placed a map on the table. It was interlaced with red lines designating the shrinkage. Floyd looked over it.

“The entire water-front is crossed off, I see.”

“Yes, the Martin Steele Corporation bought it for investment. By the way, that was a great thing young Steele did.”

“What thing?”

“He left his entire business to his employees, equal shares, and the money to keep it going. Waldbridge told me about it with tears in his eyes, the other day, at the memorial service they gave for him.”

“Memorial service?”

“Didn’t you know? I saw Mrs. Garrison there, but she was gone before I could get through the crowd.”

Julie there? She hadn’t told him. He thought he knew all her movements.

“It was wonderful; I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. They are going to screen it. It was a queer mixed crowd--artists he had saved from starvation, musicians he had sent abroad, women he had started right--they all got up and told their stories. It was like a Christian Science service. A man sang, a barber named Hippolyte, well-known on Fifth Avenue, a wonderful voice. They say an opera manager has engaged him. He sang psalms in Greek and Hebrew, wails in the minor key, just tore at your entrails. He set them all crying. One poor cripple made a scene; swore he saw the dead man’s spirit. Of course, that hypnotized the others; they all saw it. There was a tall man in a corner--the light struck him for a moment. I tell you, Garrison, I’ve got the hide of a rhinoceros, but it made my flesh creep. Now there are two left of those river shanties, we’ll pull them down and build one big office building--”

Floyd didn’t hear him; he was in the church listening to the voice of Hippolyte, the cries, the prayers for Martin--the philanthropist, the good man. He forced himself to say something.

“I knew Martin Steele all my life, but had no idea of that side of him.”

“Nor I, but most men keep the best part of them hidden.”

“Yes,” said Floyd, tracing lines on the map. “I’ll go down with you and look at those shanties. I want money and lots of it; every fool’s got it. I can be as big a fool as the next one.”

The Colonel didn’t contradict him, but he doubted if Garrison would ever be that kind of a fool.

BOOK III

Future--the hidden meanings of Past and Present, a dark picture. Imagination flashes the light of Prophecy, foretells life’s realization or disillusion, the Soul’s victory or defeat.

“Fiction, my Masters! All is Fiction!”