Youngblood hawke, p.71
Youngblood Hawke, page 71
"This bar is small and cramped, Jeanne, and the only free tables were near the piano. We ordered stingers and the pianist kept winking and beckoning to Frieda, and she wouldn't budge. He played the slow thing that he and she had made into a sort of long dirty Liebestod the night before, giving her real languorous looks. The fairies were giggling and calling encouragement to Frieda, and she just sat there looking embarrassed and cross. She hadn't enjoyed the dinner, all those wealthy zombies had snubbed her terribly, and this Negro player's manner to her was far too familiar any way you could possibly look at it.
"Well, at one point he called over to her, 'Frieda, honey, you can't do this to me. That empty piano's ruining the show.' That's when I got up and said, 'You're absolutely right. We can't let an empty piano spoil the show, can we? Let me fix that.' I picked up the piano—it wasn't terribly heavy, they must make those cabaret jobs out of aluminum or something—and I carried it outside and threw it in the canal. It made surprisingly little splash, just went down with a big bubble. I was calm, but everybody else got into an amazing uproar. You should have heard the noise in that bar. It was as though a garter snake had gotten loose in a sorority house. I came in and got Frieda. She was ready enough to go, she ran outside, but the owner of the place, a pleasant fellow ordinarily but very upset at this point, blocked my way and stamped his foot and shrieked, 'How could you throw my piano into the canal? How could you, how could you?' From here on I think I got out of line. I said, 'It wasn't hard, here's how I did it,' and I picked up the other piano, carried it out and threw it into the canal. Then I came back into the bar. By now I was feeling pretty good. The pianist was backed into a corner, he had on a purple jacket this night and he looked very frightened, but I wasn't going to do anything to him. I felt no resentment against him, and anyway with mah Kentucky accent and all, Jeanne"—Hawke thickened his accent to vaudeville—"Ah didn't want mah honest moral indignation to be mistaken fo' race prijidice. It was all these chirping and screeching faggots who annoyed me, anyway, it wasn't the pianist. Somehow it seemed to me that they had caused all the trouble. I'm afraid I went behind the bar and shoved it over on them in a great crash of Scotch sours and brandy Alexanders and crème de menthe frappés, and then, and I guess there was no excuse for this, I threw a chair at the angled mirror over the place where the pianos had been and broke it to pieces. That was all I did. I didn't wreck the place, as the papers said. I hated the mirror because the night before in that same mirror I had watched Frieda's passionate and sweaty face for an hour or so as she worked herself up.
"The rest I told you on the overseas telephone. I was really amazed, you know, to hear from you. Di Strozzi had smoothed the whole thing over with bland efficiency. I thought it had sunk without a trace, the entire little to-do, into the muddy and malodorous lagoon of the long Venetian past."
Jeanne shook her head at him, then looked down at her baby. "He's finished." She carried Jim inside and bedded him down. When she returned to the living room Hawke had on his baggy gray raincoat and was holding his cap. He said, "When do you think you'll get a chance to read Evelyn?"
"I'll do nothing else from now on till I finish it. I should get a few hours' sleep, but I'm not at all sleepy . . . That's quite a story, your Venetian adventure."
"Maybe I made it sound good in the telling. It was a squalid episode. I behaved like a college boy. The worst of it was that I thoroughly enjoyed the destruction. When I broke that mirror I broke with Frieda—I think forever. I went back to the hotel after the police court business without an emotion left in me. Frieda, who had beat it up there long before, was awake and waiting for me. I had nothing to say to her. She might have been a talkative chambermaid. She kept trying to start a conversation but I just undressed and went to sleep. I think she became frightened at the way the reporters were trying to reach me, because she left Venice on the first plane she could get in the morning. The next time I saw her was a few hours ago, in the lobby at the theatre."
Jeanne said, "You're a great one for throwing things or people around, aren't you? The first time we were ever together, in my Sixty-fifth Street apartment, you threw a man down the stairs."
"Jeanne, I've had only four or five fist fights in my life. I've won them, but I hate the feeling of hitting a man. A good heave is harmless and relieves the feelings. Why, I once threw Pierce Carmian in a swimming pool and apparently I endeared myself to him for life."
Jeanne picked up the manuscript of Evelyn Biggers and hefted it. "Feels more like a Waugh than a Hawke."
"It's short for a Hawke, but it was much the hardest yet to write."
"Why didn't you let me see any of it before?"
"You'll know when you read it."
"I'll telephone you the minute I finish it. Some time tomorrow, I'd guess."
"Good. If I'm not at the Plaza try Gus Adam's office."
Jeanne walked out to the automatic elevator with him. "What's going to be doing at Adam's office?"
"I got into a real estate deal that was based on the assumption Oblivion would be a smash hit. In view of the Times notice I think we may have to call it off."
"Oh, that shopping center in Long Island." Jeanne made a wry face. "You went ahead with that, eh?"
"That's why I flew back, Jeanne, to execute the papers."
"And where to after this?"
"I'm not sure." He grinned at her in a boorish, guilty way. "I sort of left a girl in Venice. Nothing serious, but—"
The elevator arrived and the doors rolled open. Jeanne was scowling fiercely. Hawke put on his cap. "You disapprove?"
"Not at all. From what you tell me of Venice, I should be glad to hear it's a girl."
"I'll stay in New York, Jeanie. Say the word."
"What word? Who am I? I'll call you about Evelyn. Good night." Jeanne abruptly went into her apartment and shut the door.
4
The offices of Tulking and Adam, attorneys-at-law, hung some five hundred feet above solid earth in an old tower commanding magnificent views of the city, of the thronging ships in its harbors and rivers, of its surrounding miles and miles of flat gray homes and factories, and even of a rim of green Jersey hills far to the west. The tower rose out of the money ganglion of the world, the downtown financial district, amid many other towers spiking up around it. Gus Adam's office looked toward the green Statue of Liberty, far out among the hooting ships. Adam was glad he had this office, though it was the smaller of the two executive rooms, because he could see the statue. Mr. Tulking as senior partner of course had the northern office, twice as large and with its own washroom.
Hawke had only seen Tulking two or three times: a small man with a rather hobbling gait, a mottled skin, and veiled eyes that seemed to hold behind them all the evil tired wisdom of old Egypt. Tulking was supposed to know more American tax law than anybody. Corporations worth less than twenty-five million dollars did not attempt to retain him. Tulking disapproved of Adam's troubling himself with the affairs of a person like Youngblood Hawke; he thought it a self-indulgent waste of time, like practicing golf swings during office hours. This was true though he had read Hawke's books and greatly admired them. The sums of money involved in an author's business—even of a famous and successful author—were simply not significant and did not require the attention of Tulking and Adam. Tulking regarded Adam's teaching at Columbia with more favor; that added prestige to the firm, and moreover contributed to the continuity of society and the stability of the law. The senior partner had himself taught in his younger years, before becoming one of the oracular authorities of the land on the mysteries of money.
His mottled face creased in a dry forgiving smile when he looked into Adam's office and saw the author sitting in one armchair and Scotty Hoag in another; it was as though he had caught Adam kissing a secretary. Adam sat in his shirtsleeves, in a swivel chair behind the desk, his arms clasped behind his head. Tulking said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Hawke. Gus, the El Paso people are in my office."
Adam nodded. "Can you start it rolling, Abe? I'll check in, say, in about ten minutes? The first thing is the holes in the prospectus."
"All right. I thought you would present that part, but it makes no difference." Tulking looked at Hawke, blinking his heavy eyelids. "I'm sorry to see the Times didn't like your play. I thought it was a fine play, and I want to thank you for the tickets."
Adam said, "The rest of the critics loved it. It's a success."
"I hope it is. It's just that so many people who go to the theatre read the Times." Tulking left.
The three men glanced at each other. Scotty scratched his balding pink head and laughed. "Doggone it, Gus, if I didn't think you an honest type I'd say you put your partner up to that."
Adam said, "He spoke right on cue, didn't he?"
"I dunno, I just can't believe New Yorkers are gonna be all that crazy, to pass up such a show. Why, it's the finest show I've ever seen. My wife says the same."
"Scotty, they're not passing it up," Hawke said. "The box office reports that the window sale is fair and there's a line. But these treasurers can feel the difference between a smash hit and a show that's just going to run out the season."
Hoag said, "I be goddamn if I can see how anybody can tell yet. Sometimes these things get stronger as they go along, don't they?"
Hawke looked to Adam, who glanced at his watch and began stuffing a pipe. The lawyer said, "I'm afraid we're talking in circles here. I've got to beg off in a few minutes. Let me remind you, Scotty, that Art flew here from Venice to sign the papers before the opening for the exact reason that until a show is reviewed in New York the money value of the author's royalty contract is X. It can be worth a quarter of a million dollars or more, as we were hoping, or it can be worth little or nothing. This element of the unknown made the exchange of Art's contract for your Paumanok Center stock somewhat more likely to stand up as a mutual risk deal. As you know I've always had the most serious reservations about this transaction, I think the Treasury will probably rule against it and declare Arthur liable for ordinary income taxes on all the royalties earned even though Paumanok Center Inc. now owns his contract. That, by the way, is also Tulking's opinion, offhand but extremely definite. All the same, until today I had hoped—"
Hoag broke in, "Gus, you forget we gonna be in and out of this sumbitch by January, 1953. Art'll get his money back with what I reckon right now will be a hundred and twenty percent profit before the Treasury ever gets around to his return. We been through five deals now, Art. Have I ever steered you wrong?" Hawke shook his head and Hoag continued earnestly, "Let's say the Treasury rules against Art. I don't think they gonna, not with a smart Letchworth County brain like you on his side"—Adam, lighting his pipe, merely ducked his head at the compliment—"but let's say they do. All right, the worst that can happen is that Art hands them over all the money they askin' for plus six percent interest. That's all the guv'ment charges for the use of that money, Gus, so long as there's been an honest difference of opinion, six percent. That's goddamn cheap rates for a quarter of a million dollars' worth of investment capital on no security, no nothing. Art'll be home free with his profit, less a little interest—probably two hundred thousand dollars or more clear gain. What's wrong with that?"
Adam puffed his pipe. "That's always been your real pitch here, hasn't it, Scotty? The deal gives Art a colorable reason to put off paying a very large sum in taxes for a couple of years, and during that period of delay he turns the money over quickly for an immense speculative profit."
"Now I wouldn't call it a pitch, Gus, I haven't tried to sell Art nothing. We made a deal, Gus, a complicated deal, a deal we been working on for months, and it don't make binness sense to call it off because some old lady on the New York Times didn't enjoy Art's show."
Hawke was looking intently from one man to the other. Now he said, "Scotty, we had an understanding that the deal could be called off if the notices weren't good enough."
"But they great, Art. You guys both in a sumbitchin' panic, why you talk like goddamn New Yorkers, just blow sky high if everything isn't all roses."
Adam sat up with a squeak of his chair. His face was dark red. "I don't like to be talked to like a child or an idiot, Scotty. You claim you'll have Paumanok Plaza finished and sold fourteen months from now. That's going like greased lightning in construction, nowadays, and you know it. Bad weather alone can hold you up six months to a year. If you strike water digging the foundations there's no foreseeing how much time you can lose and how your costs can shoot up. There are several competitive centers being built or planned. I have far less confidence than you in a tremendously profitable sale. The collapsible corporation provision presents many hazards, and I'm not sure you can get around them without waiting three full years before selling out. This transaction has always been a risky one. I gave my reluctant consent on your word that if the show was anything but a smash we'd call it off. If you hold Art to the contract now you'll be acting in bad faith and corruptly."
Hawke expected Adam's harsh language and rough manner to bring an explosive reaction from Hoag. He was surprised by Hoag's placid nodding and by the kindly injured tone he took. "I don't think you being reasonable, Gus. I don't think you sayin' what Art really wants. Art still wants to convert royalty dollars, ghost dollars that don't mean a goddamn thing, into real money he can hang on to. He's an artist and if he has to keep bothering his head about money some important American literature isn't going to get written. I think you ignoring my record. Art's trusted me five times and he's made a pile out of it."
"He's never gone in on this scale, with this kind of liability," said the lawyer. "When the show seemed a sure smash it appeared worth while—though I freely expressed my doubts—to divert the royalties to a quick turn on the real estate wheel instead of handing them over in taxes. Now the deal is absolutely out of the question."
Hoag turned to the author, who sat sunk in a deep leather armchair, pale and weary. "Art, this thing is good as gold. That show of yours isn't closing tomorrow, it's a hit. You gonna own half of Paumanok Plaza without putting up a cent of cash. Hell, if the unexpected happens and the show closes a little early, I'm not goin' to press you for cash. I just don't see panicking out of a deal that's great for both of us. I've made a lot of commitments for building materials. The bulldozers will be on the land next Monday. I think it's a hell of a note to put me to financing the thing all over. I think it's ridiculous."
The telephone rang. Adam picked it up, and in a moment said to Hawke, "Frieda Winter's office is asking for you." Hawke shook his head. Adam said, "They say it's extremely urgent, and do we know any place that you can be reached?" Hawke once more shook his head, compressing his lips. Adam said, "Sally, tell them we just don't know where he is."
Hawke said to Hoag, "Scotty, I think we'd better act on facts and not on hopes. I'm sorry to pull out, but Gus is right. I have to."
Scotty Hoag shrugged, and spread his arms. "I'll do my best. It's like trying to stop an express train going a hundred miles an hour, but I'll do it if it's humanly possible."
Adam said, "That's no answer at all. The deal is off and we're going to liquidate the corporation at once and distribute the royalty contract back to Arthur. Do you agree?"
Scotty laughed. "Gus, ole Art has his lawyer with him in this room. I haven't. To me contracts are just pieces of paper, I've always operated on a word and a handshake, and if Art's taking back his word and handshake, I have to tell Urban Webber to get going on the paper work, that's all. But gosh, Art, you better take time and reconsider. This sumbitch can set you up for life, Art, it's real security."
Adam glanced at his watch and stood. "I'll expect to hear from Webber some time today on the liquidation. Is that correct?"
"I reckon so, if I can track him down. Today or tomorrow. What's doing in El Paso, Gus? Oil business?"
"A utility bond issue," Adam said, straightening his tie and putting on his jacket.
"Big stuff, hey?"
"Well, it's a large issue. There are a lot of wrinkles in Federal and Texas law to work out, Scotty, that's the main problem." Adam's manner suddenly became quite pleasant and conversational. He and Hoag were like two boxers chatting after a bloody round. Scotty urged Adam and Hawke to have dinner with him; accepted a promise that Hawke would call him in a day or two, and left. Adam closed the door of the office on Hoag and went straight to the telephone. "Sally, ask Abe if I can have five minutes more here . . . very good." He dropped back into his swivel chair, puffed on his pipe, and regarded Hawke amiably. "Arthur, do you have any of the documents in your mother's lawsuit against Scott Hoag?"
"Christ, no. Why?"
"Have you ever looked into the facts of the suit?"
"Yes. It's a nutty fantasy of my mother's, quite harmless. It's given her a chronic grievance, which she seems to need for her health."
"How does it stand now? Is it all over?"
"No. I think she's appealing for a new trial. Why do you ask?"
Adam said thoughtfully, "I'm not sure yet whether your friend Scott Hoag is a slob or a bad boy. It may be he's just a slob. Either way it might pay you to look into that lawsuit. As I understood your mother, it involved a couple of million dollars."
"Gus, she got tossed out of court on a summary judgment. Her claim is utterly silly."
The lawyer said, "If she's asking for a new trial there may be a defect in the summary judgment."
"What bothers you about Scotty?"
"His evasiveness. And his folksiness. Watch out for jolly good fellows in business deals."
"Scott agreed to call the thing off."
"Did he? If we had a tape recording of that conversation you could play it a dozen times and I don't think you could figure out what he actually did or didn't agree to." He picked up the ringing telephone. "Yes? Of course, put her on. Hello, Jeanie." The lawyer's ruddy face relaxed in an affectionate beam. "How are you? How's our friend Jim? Yes, I guess I do hear him. Why don't you feed the child sometime?" He laughed. "Just a moment. Art, are you available for Jeanne Fry?"
