A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

Clip-Joint

The taxi-driver slowed down invitingly, reached behind him, and threw the door accommodatingly open almost before the man’s arm had gone up to hail him. He said, “Yessir! Good evening!”, a courtesy he wasn’t in the habit of addressing to every customer. Skip Rogers ducked his head and got in. He took a tuck in each trouser just below the knee, leaned back against the upholstery, and sighed expansively. The uncommonly polite driver reached around a second time and closed the door for him. You wouldn’t have thought it was New York at all but for the serial number on the cab’s license plates.

He was well-dressed, Skip was; maybe that had something to do with it. The taxi-driver had already had his eye on him from as far away as the corner. He had noted him as a possibility. A man as well-dressed as that wouldn’t be very likely to walk when he wanted to go some place — and this man seemed to want to go some place, to want to go some place badly, without knowing just where. Which was just the way the driver liked them to be. In Skip’s case it was more than a mere matter of clothes. He had an air about him; he knew how to carry them. On someone else the dark blue chesterfield, the white piqué scarf, the slanted derby would have been just so many articles of wearing apparel; on him they were badges of distinction, insignia of swank. That clothes make the man has been said often enough, but that the man sometimes makes his clothes seem what they are is equally true. It was in Skip’s case. The driver considered himself a good judge of character. Here was someone for whom the best was none too good; here was someone who wanted a party, money no object, but didn’t quite know how to connect with one. In other words, here was someone who was just what the driver was looking for, made to order.

The taxi-driver turned around in his seat, willingness to oblige written all over his weasel-like face, and said: “Yessir, boss! Where to?” Skip hadn’t given him any address yet. If he had, of course, it would have been a different story.

Skip wrinkled his brow in perplexity.

“Suppose you help me out?” he said. “I used to know someone who lived in that house you saw me standing in front of, but — no soap. Guess Annie doesn’t live there any more. Now I’m all dressed up and no place to go. Eleven o’clock’s too early to go home. Maybe you know of some place where I can get a drink — in the right company?” Then he added quickly: “Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean what you think. I mean just what I say: a couple of drinks, a lot of laughs, and somebody not too hard on the eyes sitting across the table from me. Oh, I know there’s plenty of places like that in town, but just when you want to remember the addresses, you can’t.”

The driver had a hard time keeping a straight face. Was this a pushover? Asking for it, mind you! Coming right out and asking for it! Didn’t even have to waste time building it up to him. Who said there wasn’t a Santa Claus? However, he decided it wouldn’t pay to seem too eager, liable to frighten a good thing off that way and spoil everything. He would go about this carefully.

For a minute he pretended to be at a loss himself. He scratched the back of his head in cleverly simulated cogitation as if he were racking his brains. Then finally he drawled, as his machine moved slowly along and his meter moved quickly upwards, “Let’s see, I ought to know of a place like that—” He was, he told himself meanwhile, getting real good at this sort of thing; maybe he should have been an actor. Still, he didn’t want to overdo it; keep the guy waiting too long, the sucker might cool off, change his mind. So he took one hand from the wheel and snapped his fingers triumphantly as if it had just then occurred to him. “I got it now!” he said. “I know a real nice place up on Seventy-second. Come to think of it, I took a fellow there only last night.”

“What’s it like?” the man in back of him wanted to know.

“It’s sort of private, know what I mean? But that’s all right; I can take you up and introduce you. It’s not a loose joint or anything like that — it’s just a sort of little club. They don’t like too many people to go there at one time because there ain’t room enough for them, but outside of that everything’s on the up and up. If you don’t like to sit by yourself, why they’ll introduce you to one of their little hostesses — everything perfectly proper and the way it should be.” He paused. Then, just to show how immaterial the whole thing was to him one way or the other, he added: “At least so they tell me. I’m a working man myself, don’t get much time to relax.” With a superb negligence he questioned: “What d’ye say? Want to go up there?”

“Sure, why not?” his passenger acquiesced. But there was a happy ring to his voice that showed how eager he had become to visit this paradise the driver had described to him.

“I’ve sold him,” thought the man at the wheel. “Sold him out!”

When they had arrived, by means of a roundabout route that gave the meter a thorough work-out, the driver hopped out and held the door open just as if he were a private chauffeur.

“Sorry I took you out of your way like that,” he apologized insincerely, “but I wasn’t sure of the number myself until we got here just now.” Skip however paid him without demur and even threw in a tip for good measure. He was, the driver told himself, getting to be a good picker, a very good picker. “It’s on the second floor,” he said. “I’ll go up with you. I’ll tell ’em you’re a friend of mine.”

It was a rather run-down looking apartment house they had stopped in front of, of pre-war vintage. It boasted an elevator, however, and orange electric lights in the lobby. It had undoubtedly seen better days. The driver ushered Skip in, and the latter missed seeing the knowing look that was exchanged between his guide and the sleepy colored youth who ran the elevator. It was a look that plainly said, “You know and I know but he doesn’t know.”

They got off at the second floor and went toward the back along a cheap musty corridor paved with white mosaics, most of which had become loosened and rattled as one stepped on them. The taxi-driver stopped in front of a door numbered 2– and rang the bell. He gave two short rings and one long one, then whistled a little.

A chain rattled on the other side of the door, a bolt was thrown back, and the door was opened just an inch, no more. “It’s Marty,” said the taxi-driver in a low voice, whereupon the door opened the rest of the way and revealed a pasty-faced individual in what is known to hoi polloi as a tuxedo. He had a look that would have turned milk sour, but the minute he saw that Marty was not alone, he put on a great show of cordiality and good- fellowship and aplomb.

“Hello, Marty, old boy,” he said, “glad to see you! Where y’been keeping yourself? Come on in and have a drink!” But his eyes were on Skip Rogers the whole time he spoke.

“No thanks,” said Marty. “I gotta get back to my cab and earn an honest living. But this is a friend of mine, I want you to treat him right. See that he has a good time.”

The orang-outang in the dinner jacket beamed. “Any friend of Marty’s is a friend of mine,” he proclaimed. “Step right in,” and motioned Skip in with a sweep of his arm. Then he attempted to close the door after him, but the taxi-driver’s foot had somehow become wedged in front of it and held it open.

“Not so fast,” the latter snarled under his breath. “How about my commission? What do you think I’m doing this for — my health?” And he held out his paw palm upward. A five-dollar bill came out of the trouser pocket of the tuxedo and found its way to the outstretched hand. The foot, however, stayed where it was. “What’re y’trying to do, hold out on me?” Marty wanted to know. “This is a real live one I brought you this time.” A murderous look passed between them, but two single dollars joined the five. After which Marty removed his foot, the door closed, and the chain and bolt went back in place with a venomous clash.

He stood still for a moment, folding and refolding his ill-gotten gains until the seven dollars had become a wedge not much bigger than a postage-stamp. He then held it to his lips for a second in what looked suspiciously like a kiss and carefully tucked it away in his clothing. “And now back to the warpath!” he grinned cheerfully, and turned away from the ominous-looking door.

When the taxi-driver got to the end of the hall, the elevator was still up, waiting for him the way it always did at times like these. The operator looked as sleepy as before, only now he was holding out a beige palm as if feeling for rain. The steerer tried to ignore it, but it followed him into the cage, and the car wouldn’t go down.

“Does I git ma usual rake-off or does I start tawking nex’ time you brings one in?” drawled the drowsy African.

“All right, all right!” snarled the steerer and unwillingly fished a fifty-cent piece out of his pocket, holding back the rest of its contents with one hand. The car went down in blissful silence after that.

By this time the companionship-seeking young man who was the innocent cause of all this high finance was already at one of the little tables for two up in 2–, and the gorgeous redhead sitting across from him in the fluffy green dress was looking trustfully up at the waiter and cooing: “—and a very weak one for me, Frank.” A wink went with the words. Then she smiled sweetly at her new acquaintance. “Just for sociability’s sake, you know. I hardly ever drink, you understand. But you go right ahead; don’t let me stop you.”

She took time off to glance appraisingly at the cut of his suit and the careless ease with which he wore it, as one to the manner born. He looked better-groomed than ever now that he held a square of green pasteboard instead of his coat, hat, and scarf. Just how expensive that bit of pasteboard was he didn’t know yet. A cute little brunette in a doll-apron, who could have pulled your teeth and made you like it, had given it to him on his way in just now and then gone off somewhere with his things. He could just as well have said good-by to them. They were already on their way out to a “fence.” The man who had opened the door had tactfully disappeared too after introducing him to “Miss Gordon.” Everything was peaches and cream; it was what you might call the lull before the storm.

He and the redhead were alone in the room except for one other couple, a blonde and her table-companion. The latter had already reached the stage of squashing his esses and dropping his t’s, as well as part of every drink he tried to pick up. The room had originally been intended for the living-room of the apartment, back when it was meant to be lived in and not used for assault, battery, and highway robbery. Some cheaply flamboyant drapes hid the exact location of the windows if there were any. A midget space had been left clear for dancing. The radio droned lullingly on, a mere blur of sound in the background, “—hands across the table, when the lights are lo-ow.” The whole set-up was an aphrodisiac, meant to awaken passion which these vultures fed on. The loose joints that Skip Rogers had so carefully stayed away from tonight were honest and upright compared to this place.

The waiter would come to the door and look in whenever the re-orders of drinks began to slow up; he seemed to give them about five minutes apiece. He didn’t have to do that very often though; the two “hostesses” were there to see to that. He was a six footer like the man who ran the place, and husky as an ape. He brought Skip and “Miss Gordon” their two drinks, the strong one and the weak one, and went away again. The redhead simpered cherubically. Rogers seemed to meet with her approval.

“Here’s looking at you!” she said gayly and picked up her glass. If he had looked closely, he would have seen that the amount that passed her lips was scarcely enough to moisten the rouge that lay on them. His tasted like benzine, only not so smooth.

“Where you from, Miss Gordon?” he asked her suddenly.

“Just call me Rose,” she begged him and moved her chair over a little closer. Before she could commence her life story, however, something going on at the other table had caught Skip’s eye and sent a chill through him. From that point on, although he seemed absorbed in what she was telling him, he actually heard not a single word she was saying. For the rather plastered middle-aged gentleman who was sitting with the blonde seemed to have gotten into difficulties of some kind. The waiter was bending over him. The individual in the tuxedo had also come in from somewhere and was standing menacingly on the other side of him. The stew kept pushing away a small slip of paper, and they kept shoving it back at him. The blonde got up and made the radio a little louder to drown out the angry voices. Rose plucked Rogers by the coat sleeve and dragged his straying attention back to herself.

“Don’t notice what’s going on over there,” she suggested tactfully. “Some people can’t hold their liquor, that’s all.” And she began to talk sweet but fast.

The next time Rogers found time to look over in that direction, there was no longer any middle-aged gentleman in the room at all, and the waiter was softly closing the door he had just passed through. It wasn’t the door by which you came in, either. From somewhere further back in the flat came the crash of a chair being overturned and a muffled cry that sounded something like “Let me out of here!” But Rose kept chattering away for all she was worth so it was hard for Skip to tell.

His face took on a stony, set look as if he was using it for a mask behind which he was doing a lot of quick thinking. The fact she wasn’t getting across penetrated to Rose presently, and she stopped her chatter.

“What’s the matter, honey?” she said caressingly, reaching for one of his hands. “Am I boring you?”

He seemed to make up his mind to something all at once. He leaned toward her across the table.

“I should say not,” he protested. “You’ve got me spellbound.” With one hand he raised her fingers lingeringly to his lips. With the other, hidden by the caress, he switched the two new drinks the waiter had brought in a minute ago. “I could go for a girl like you!” he vowed, star-gazing into her mascaraed eyes. They sipped. But now it was he who was talking fast and sweet and low. “I walked in here tonight never dreaming there’d be a number like you off the hook.” She didn’t have time to notice the shellac she was imbibing and she was only human anyway; they didn’t often come as young and good looking as this — not in her racket. She could feel Mickey Mouses running up and down her spine. “All my life I’ve wanted to meet somebody as lovely as you are—” And the radio: “Speak to me of love, Tell me the things that I’m longing to hear—”

“Oh, go wan,” she protested, but a dreamy look had come into her eyes just the same. Not for nothing was she red-headed; her own blood was double-crossing her. They sipped again. All he was getting was rancid ginger ale; she was getting the works.

“Always had more money than I knew what to do with, always had everything I wanted, but somehow I never met the right girl — until tonight!” he was going on.

She pricked up her ears at that. Money? Everything he wanted?

“On the level, who are you?” A hiccough marred the intensity of her new-found interest in him, but it was there just the same.

“You’ve heard of Robbins & Rogers, haven’t you?”

She nodded owlishly. “Sure, thass those restaurants where you put in a nickel and — plop! Out comes a sandwich.”

“Well, there you are.” He spread his hands.

She pointed an awe-stricken finger and covered her mouth with her other hand. “Then you — you must be the old guy’s son or something! Rogers’ son!”

He dropped his eyes modestly. “Why go into that? All that matters is I’m completely sold on you; nothing would be too good for you, if you’d only let me—”

He leaned entreatingly forward again and began exploring her fingertips with his lips. They tasted of nail-polish, but it was an improvement over the liquor.

She was doing a lot of quick thinking now on her own account. A millionaire’s son had fallen for her! It was the chance of a lifetime, might never happen again. If she let anything happen to him here tonight, where would she be? He’d be through with her, never look at her again. All she’d get out of it would be a lousy ten per cent commission. On the other hand, if she got him out of this jam, saved him for herself, who could tell what it might lead to? She’d be a fool not to think of herself first, and the hell with her employers!

“Wait a minute — wait a minute. I gotta think!” she said to him, and held his head in her hands.

He smiled a little out of the corner of his mouth, but she didn’t see that. He went right ahead singing his love-song close to her ear: “—diamonds and orchids and a mink coat and a penthouse way up in the air to which nobody but me would have the key. There’d be nothing too good for my baby! And at night — you’d have love!”

She rumpled her blazing hair and smote herself distractedly on the forehead.

“I gotta get you outta here! I gotta think of number one. Sh-h — not so loud, don’t let ’em hear you or we’re sunk!”

“Spoken like a lady,” he agreed humorously. “You’re — you’re just an angel in an evening gown.”

She had sobered up all at once. She glanced furtively around over her shoulder.

“Nurse your drink; make it last,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “You’re in the red enough as it is. I’ve got to think of an out for you — for both of us. You shouldn’ta come here. Do you know what this place is?”

“I knew the minute I came in,” he said calmly, “but it was too late to do anything about it by that time. What could I do?”

“Here’s the set-up,” she hissed, her shoulder touching his. “They’re going to clip you a century apiece for every drink the two of us have had. You say no to them and you get the beating of your life. They hold you in the back of the flat until your check has a chance to go through at the bank in the morning. Then they give you knock-out drops and you come to riding around in a taxi somewhere. It’s no use trying to catch up with them after you’ve come out of the repair shop; we change addresses about once a week.” She clenched her fist and brought it down on the table-top. “They’re not going to make a dent in my baby’s bankroll, not when I’ve got all those fancy trimmings coming to me! Once they find out who you really are, they’ll clip you twice as much. They won’t leave you anything but your shorts—”

“You’ve been peeking,” he observed dryly. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself, but she failed to see any humor in it.

“Tear up any cards or means of identification you’ve got on you, quick! If worse comes to worst, we can say you’re just a poor hash-slinger at one of your father’s restaurants, out on a spree; you haven’t a dime; you borrowed the clothes from a friend. But I can think of a better way still, a way that we won’t have to do any explaining.” She rose from the table. “I’m going inside and get my — my powder-puff.” She gave him a wink. “You sit tight here, keep everything under control until I get back. Don’t get into any argument because you’re no match for them. They carry blackjacks and brass knuckles.” He saluted her with two fingers, and she disappeared out the back way. Skip sat there grinning at his own thoughts, which seemed to afford him considerable amusement. “The old oil,” he remarked to himself. “The same old oil gets all of them.”

The waiter stuck his head in and glanced meaningfully at the two half-empty glasses. Skip gave him no encouragement. He sauntered over and leaned both hands heavily on the table. Skip stared up at him coldly. He may have been amused by the antics of Rose Gordon, but he didn’t seem to find this funny.

“Who sent for you?” he demanded brittlely.

“You drinkin’ any more?” rumbled the waiter.

“Who wants to know?” countered Skip, starting to breathe faster.

“Then suppose you pay off. We’re closing up—”

“Fair enough,” said Skip, dangerously calm. “How much do I owe you?”

The Caliban of a waiter didn’t bother jotting anything down. “Three hundred and fifty dollars,” he announced matter-of-factly, his pig-eyes boring into Skip’s.

Skip Rogers drew out a crumpled five-dollar bill. “Bring me four dollars change,” he ordered contemptuously, “and consider yourself damn lucky!”

The waiter didn’t waste any more time. He simply turned his head and whistled warningly over his shoulder. Instantly the man in the tuxedo appeared in the doorway. He was coatless now and rolling up his shirt-sleeves preparatory to going to work. Behind him was another gorilla, appearing on the scene now for the first time. They both made for the table, nice and slow, nice and easy, as though there was no hurry about this at all. Skip’s chair went over backwards with a bang and he was on his feet, facing the three of them. The waiter swung at him, a blow that would have felled an ox. Skip ducked it nimbly and came back like a flash with a less powerful but better aimed jab that landed on the Frankenstein’s nose. Blood spurted and he gave an animal roar of fury.

“Here I go!” thought Skip philosophically as the other two spread out fan-shape on either side of him.

Suddenly Rose Gordon’s voice rang out sharply from the doorway, harsh and strident maybe but sweeter than the song of Lorelei at such a time.

“Turn around! Get away from him, all of you! This is one guy you don’t touch! Hand over the key to the front door, Shorty, and hurry up about it!” She had her hat and coat on and she was holding a small revolver in her hand, waving it at the three of them. Her eyes were menacing slits. No one looking at her could have doubted that she would have used it without hesitation. The three of them slowly backed away from Skip Rogers, hands at shoulder-level. The one called Shorty drew out a door-key and tossed it down on the floor. “Grab that,” she ordered Skip. “I’ll hold ’em until you get the door open!”

“Ladies first,” he countered. “I’ll do the holding. You unlock and wait for me down on the street.”

She passed the gun to him and slipped out, the key in her hand. “We’ll get you, baby! You’ll be sorry for this!” the erstwhile manager breathed virulently after her as she went. The sound of a most undignified but effective “raspberry” or Bronx cheer came drifting back from the hallway.

When Skip joined her on the sidewalk in front of the house five minutes later, he had somebody else with him, the unfortunate middle-aged gentleman who had been sitting with the blonde earlier in the evening. His collar was torn, he had a black eye, and he was almost dazed by his sudden release. Skip shoved him into a taxicab, then hailed another for his rescuer and himself.

“I’m going home with you tonight,” he told her matter-of-factly. “They may try to come after you and — well, I owe you that much anyway.”

If his words were strangely un-loverlike, she didn’t seem to notice. She snuggled down contentedly against his shoulder and sighed. She was visioning herself in a bathtubful of eau de Cologne in a penthouse twenty stories above the street, with him pacing impatiently back and forth outside her boudoir.

When she woke up in the morning, he was gone and it seemed hard to believe that he had ever been in the dingy furnished room with her. She looked around it, and she knew she was getting out right then. Not only because there were better things in store for her but also because it was dangerous to stay there alone; her former employers were liable to look her up at any moment. She packed the few things she had and told her landlady with an air of noblesse oblige that she could keep the balance of the week’s rent.

“I’m moving to Park Avenue,” she said. “I don’t know the exact location yet, but it’ll be somewhere along there, don’t worry!” Skip hadn’t left any note for her but that didn’t matter; she knew where to find him. It didn’t even occur to her that there was anything strange about it. He’d gone home to change his clothes, that was all; you couldn’t expect a rich man’s son like him to stay in the same rumpled clothes after being out all night.

She reached the main Robbins & Rogers restaurant, a few blocks from where she had formerly lived, just a little after the breakfast-rush was over. She marched in, suitcase in hand. She was being very tactful about this; it wouldn’t have been ladylike to march right up to where he lived — at least not that early in the morning. Besides, for all she knew he mightn’t be exactly anxious to have his people know anything about her; she’d been around enough to know how those things worked. Also she wanted to give him time enough to make the arrangements for the penthouse; he would have to sign the lease for it and so forth. The rest of the shopping — for the car, mink coat, furniture, et cetera — they could do together later on. So she had lots of time. Meanwhile she would tie on the feed-bag at his old man’s expense, here in this place. He didn’t know it yet, but she was practically his daughter-in-law already.

She set her suitcase down beside an empty table in spite of the sign that warned Not Responsible for Personal Property. Then she stalked, swaggered you might say, over to the steam counter and ran a contemplative eye along its display of dishes as though she already owned it. “Fry two, sunny side up,” she commanded across the counter. “Two, bottoms up,” echoed the counterman to the short-order cook. “You can bring them to me,” she added haughtily, “over to that table, there.” If she was going to have a penthouse and a dinge to manicure her dogs, she might as well get used to being waited on right now. Huh! The owner’s son’s sweetie should carry her own food to the table? Not by a long sight!

“Sorry, lady, gotta pick ’em up yourself, this is self-service—” the counterman started to remonstrate. She didn’t stand there arguing about it. He didn’t know who she was, that was all.

“See that you don’t keep me waiting!” was all she said, and she turned, went back to her table, sat down, and began to fan herself indolently with a paper napkin.

“These yours?” At the sound of his voice she whirled around on her chair as though she had been bitten.

“Skip!” she started to exclaim joyously, and then stopped short. Her mouth dropped open and stayed that way. She just sat and stared up at him. He was holding her platter of eggs all right, and he was wearing a soiled, crummy white jacket — the same service-jacket all the helpers and bus-boys wore in the Robbins & Rogers restaurants.

“I saw you come in,” he said. “I’m not supposed to do this. If they catch me at it, they’ll fire me, but you wanted table-service and it’s table-service you’re getting.”

“Wha — what’re you doing — dressed up like a hash-slinger?” she gulped. She just slumped down in her chair and stared up at him like a fish gasping for air.

“Funny,” he observed, “but that was what you wanted me to tell them last night, wasn’t it? Well, it so happens that I am. They wouldn’t have believed you, but it would have been the truth. I was dressed up in somebody else’s clothes and was shooting a whole month’s wages on a one-night spree. Is it my fault I look like a million bucks every time I put on a clean shirt?”

Her voice rose hysterically. “But you told me—” she shrieked furiously. “You made me believe — you promised me—!”

He looked at her sorrowfully but with an undertone of humor. “Is that all you cared about — what I promised you, what you thought you could get out of me? Or was it me, myself, you liked? Because I haven’t changed. I’m the same guy who whispered in your ear last night. But I’m glad I found out if that’s the kind you are.”

She was nearly choking on her rage. “Why, you small-time, petty-larceny, no-account— Do you think I’d waste five minutes of my time—”

He sighed, but whether with regret or relief is problematical. “Well,” he assured her, “I can’t treat you to a mink coat or a penthouse on my wages but I can do this much for you — have these on me; it’s my treat!” He put down the platter of eggs at an angle and the yolks splashed out in all directions.

“Show this lady out,” he remarked to the other employees who came running up, “and don’t spare the shoving.”

When she had gone, howling imprecations, and her suitcase had been sent flying after her, Skip Rogers started to unbutton his white service-jacket. He turned to the manager, standing beside him wringing his hands, and said:

“Here you are; give this back to whoever I borrowed it from. And whatever you do, don’t mention this little masquerade to Dad. He might think I really want to go to work here!”