The Box

Chapter 20

Motta held the wine in his mouth and then he swallowed it. While doing this he dipped the end of his cigar into the wineglass, just the tip of it ever so gently, and when he swallowed the wine he immediately put the cigar into his mouth. And now, Quinn thought to himself, something else about new taste sensation.

“So tell me, Quinn,” and Motta took the cigar out again. “Our set-up on the other side, what’s it look like to you?”

“Lousy.”

“It’s making a lot of money for us, Quinn.”

“If I can shake it up…”

“Did you?” said Motta.

“Well,” said Quinn, “just a little tilt. Enough for you to sit here with me and talk about it.”

“That’s true,” said Motta. “That’s true.”

“I’m not here to shake anything up for you,” Quinn said very slowly. My own Santa Claus voice, he thought. Listen to the kindly rumble. “But I am here, Motta, to tell you that the other end of your operation can slide right out from under you, make less money, you know, instead of more.”

“You think it can?”

“Make more?”

“Slide out from under me.”

“Motta, look. I was over there for a few days and saw enough and did enough to start up a take-over, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Motta sighed, stretched, and stroked his vest as if he were stroking a baby. Then he patted it some.

“What I’m asking, Quinn, do you think we can do a job together?”

“I don’t know,” said Quinn. “I can’t answer that because I don’t know enough about your operation.”

“ Right answer!” said Motta. “Very good, boy. Very good.”

Cipolla spat on the floor next to his chair and stepped on it. Quinn lit a cigarette.

“Now I,” said Motta, “got naturally an idea of the set-up, me having made the set-up, but before we go into that, and before you make suggestions-you got suggestions about the other side, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Before any of that, Quinn, let me ask you a question.”

“Go right ahead,” said Quinn, feeling hopped up from all the delay.

“This is about how well you covered your tracks. You got dumped by an independent tramper, didn’t you?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

“That’s what I was told. You know the name of that captain?”

“No. I was…”

“Name of the tub?”

“Why do you ask? I don’t know the name, but why do you ask?”

“Simple reason. By rights, that captain has to report what happened, back home.”

Quinn sighed and then he said yes, he had thought about that too. He didn’t think the matter important. He wanted to start talking business. He wanted that more than anything in the world so as to be done with waiting, and doubting.

“And what did you do about it?”

“Not much. Just some questions. Upshot was, I didn’t think it very likely that the captain would report back the whole irregularity, just for his own sake.”

“Makes sense,” said Motta. “That makes sense.” He nodded his head and sipped a little wine. This time he did not keep it in his mouth but started to talk again right away. “Reason I bring this up, Quinn-what if you start operating out of Okar and then your friends from way back move in on you, not the operation, I mean, but on you?”

“Should that happen,” said Quinn, “I expect to be set up by then in such a way-there are ways-that no outsider can do very much to rock my boat. Speaking of the set-up on the African side, what I’d like to discuss…”

“Later,” said Motta.

Then he waved at the waiter and ordered a meal. Quinn had no idea what was being ordered and did not care. He sat smoking and looking around while Motta went through a long ritual, as if this dump, Quinn thought, was Maxim’s or Antoine’s, unless Antoine’s is a hairdresser’s and I got the names mixed up.

When Motta was done ordering he threw his cigar into the fireplace behind him and folded his hands on his belly. He smiled at Quinn and stroked the belly twice.

“I know you got ways,” he said, as if nothing had interrupted the conversation, “but on the other hand, Quinn, couldn’t any of this interfere with our operation on this side?”

Quinn thought for a moment and then he explained that he did not think so. He thought, first of all, that no one from the States would come looking for him, second, that he could take care of any eventualities, and third, that none of this would interfere with the business, Motta’s business, Quinn’s business, any business. Quinn sighed when he was through, feeling like a schoolboy who had gone through a recitation. And when a schoolboy recites, the teacher always knows everything ahead of time, so this whole talk was sham and useless. Quinn lit another cigarette and felt he smoked too much.

Motta, he was sure, had something entirely different on his mind. I’ll just have to wait, even if I bust.

“I was thinking this,” said Motta, and poured more wine. “I was thinking this because I know the whole operation, of course, and maybe once you do, you’d see it the same way I do, but I’ll explain the details some other time. Antipasto,” he said, and watched the waiter come with the big plate.

Quinn did not wait for the waiter to get done.

“I didn’t understand a word you said,” he told Motta. “Maybe because I don’t know the whole operation?”

Motta laughed and put a pickled cauliflower in his mouth. He kept it there and sucked.

“Ever taste it the way it tastes when you suck?” he mumbled.

No, said Quinn, he had never tasted it the way it tastes when you suck, and what exactly was Motta talking about before. Quinn rubbed his nose because it had started to itch nervously.

Motta swallowed-Quinn had not seen him chew-and talked again. “I was thinking this,” he said to the ceiling. Then he looked at Quinn. “I think I can use you on this side better than on the other. Maybe Cipolla told you, but I can drop that Remal character any time, and ship out of other ports.”

“Work with you here?” said Quinn. “It’s a proposition. Tell me more.”

Quinn reached over to the antipasto plate and picked something up which looked green and wrinkled. He chewed it and did not like the sourness. He himself felt prickly.

“And I tell you,” said Motta. “If I were you, Quinn, you know I’d just keep worrying and worrying about that captain floating around some place, and who knows what he’ll do about this queer business with the undeclared box.”

Motta talked more, always between mouthfuls, and by the time the pasta and meat sauce came, Quinn was worried. Santa Claus has a strange effect, he thought. Like a snake charmer.

During the veal the talk shifted to Remal, and who knows what a foreigner like that is up to, and what would the reception be, if Quinn were to go back. Ever think of that yet?

And maybe, thought Quinn, no longer tasting his food, maybe there’s an entirely different reason behind all of Motta’s pink-cheeked advice. Maybe all of this has to do with his wish to keep Quinn nearby, to keep Quinn under close check. He doesn’t act like Ryder, and he doesn’t act like Remal, but who knows Motta, except that he likes moist cigars?

The greens were served separately from everything else and Quinn now had to eat a plate full of greens. They were not very hot, they were warmish, and very slippery with oil.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Motta. He burped behind his napkin and explained that this green stuff always made him burp, but how healthy the green stuff really was.

“I’ll give Whitfield a call,” said Motta, “with the shortwave, and find out from him where that tramper has his ports of call.”

“I know that already. Tel Aviv, Alexandria, and then down to Madagascar. From there, home. I don’t know if he goes around the Cape or how, but I remember those ports.”

“Well,” said Motta, “I think Whitfield will remember better. It’s business.” He sucked his teeth and spat something out, all done discreetly behind the napkin. “That is, if you want me to, Quinn.”

“I don’t know what good it would do.”

“If that captain is still in the Mediterranean basin, I can maybe get in touch with him. I got friends here and there, and with a bottle of something or other, maybe we can get it out of him if he’s reported about you in that box, if he intends to do so, and we could even explain to him he should better not report anything, just like you were figuring.”

Quinn nudged his plate away and wondered why Motta was so interested in all this.

“The reason I’m worrying, besides from being a worrier,” Motta said, “is because I’d like to be sure the guy I work with is gonna be as safe as me, seeing he and I, what I mean is, you and I, will be sort of hitched up with each other. Which is true if you work on the African end or here. Right?”

Yes, answered Quinn, he could see that point of view, and he agreed with Motta so he would drop the matter. It was not business.

“Cipolla,” said Motta, “you’ve eaten enough.”

“Huh?”

“You get on this right away, Cipolla, and see if you can raise Whitfield this time of evening and we get this thing rolling. Okay, Quinn?”

It was now okay with Quinn. Cipolla seemed to be used to this kind of treatment, as who wouldn’t be, with Motta pink-cheeked and smiling-a retired hood who likes to be friends.

Cipolla left. Motta ate the next thing, which seemed to be something from the sea, and Quinn sat in the dim room, angry at having to wait through a revolting meal.

“How long will all this take?” Quinn asked.

“If he’s still in the Mediterranean, Quinn, maybe just a few days, you know?” Motta looked up and smiled, to give reassurance. “My guess is we can still catch him. Those tramps are slow. And besides,” he said, with the next piece of gray-looking stuff on his fork, “the next run out of here isn’t for five days anyway, so you’ll be stuck here till then whether you decide to take Okar on or whether you decide to team up on this side.” Motta nodded and said, “I still wanna talk business with you, you know. A few days, you and me, and we might do each other some good.”

Then he ate.

The next morning Quinn was surprised to find that the sun was shining, as if sunshine did not belong here and it was a mistake. There was finally business talk with Motta, and that went very well. When Motta talked business he talked only business, he did not insist, the way Cipolla did, that he, the speaker, was the big thing in the talk. The smuggling setup, Quinn found out, was extremely well organized, and the reason Motta had allowed Remal his own slipshod methods was because there was no point, at the Africa end, to be any more careful. However, should Quinn take over there, they could make much more money. Quinn worked on plans as if studying for an examination.

The captain had not been located.

On the second day Quinn slept until late in the morning. There was no point in getting up early, but there was a point in staying asleep. The subject of the captain and what his reporting might do to Quinn had become a bothersome worry.

On that day the sun turned watery by noon and Quinn sat in the cafe and missed Bea. This surprised him, and by late afternoon Quinn was drunk.

At ten that evening, at the end of Motta’s meal, Cipolla came into the restaurant and reported that the captain was tied up in Alexandria.

On the third day Quinn woke up very early because the captain was now an insistent preoccupation.

Motta was reassuring. They discussed where Quinn should work. Quinn wanted Okar. Motta thought Sicily better. He said he liked Quinn and his hustling ways.

That evening, in bed, Quinn thought of the box for the first time with any feeling. He lay sleepless for a very long time, with the window open and the light turned on.

I had not thought about the box, it came to him, because for a while that matter was really finished. I am thinking of the box now because for the first time it’s clear now, clear and true, the way Bea explained it, that I’m not out of it.

But that no longer matters. In this business, I know my way. I’m not bucking anyone and I know my way. He said this like counting sheep and fell asleep. He fell asleep the way a body falls off a cliff.

On the fourth day Quinn saw in the mirror how his collar was loose around his neck. The sleeplessness, he said to his face. The goddamn sleeplessness of lying in bed with thoughts and without any feelings. This eats me up.

At noon that day Cipolla had a talk with Motta in the cafe, and when Quinn walked in Motta waved to indicate Quinn should wait just a moment. Then Cipolla left and Motta waved again, Quinn should come over.

“Good news,” he said. “I got a friend talking to the captain in Alexandria, you know, friend talk with a bottle, and the captain says he hasn’t reported the stowaway thing and he’s got no intention of reporting it, that it’s too much trouble.” Motta grinned and folded his little hands on his belly. “What do you think of that?”

Quinn felt weak. “Am I relieved!”

Motta laughed and slapped Quinn on the back, causing a pain like a cramp on one side.

“You’re free!” said Motta. “Just think of it!” Motta’s laugh went stab, stab, stab inside Quinn’s car.

Then Motta bought Quinn a cognac and left.

Quinn did not get drunk that afternoon but had only one more cognac which he charged to Motta. He charged it to Motta because he had no more money. And because he, Quinn, felt that Motta would not mind. He is a Santa Claus after all and if I drink more I shall cry At four in the afternoon the sun came out, surprising Quinn. He sat where he had been sitting because Motta had sent word he was busy.

The threat of the captain reporting the box, that was gone. But Quinn felt on edge, as ever.

I must decide about here or Okar. Makes no difference to Motta. Fine. Does it make any difference to me? Now that Remal is out anyway, the way Motta described it On the fifth day Quinn woke up, having decided. He would run the Okar end of the business. It was underdeveloped, and there was more sun.

By four in the afternoon, Quinn had still not been able to discuss things with Motta. Santa Claus was out of town.

Nerves, thought Quinn. I’m beginning to imagine a plot. He had decided on Okar, but-it struck him-he felt as jumpy as before.

Half an hour before the boat was to leave, Quinn stood on the pier. The fog was there as expected. Nobody else was.

Then a car rushed down. Motta, with hat and cane, leaped out and hurried onto the pier.

“Quinn boy, I’m sorry. This other thing couldn’t wait. Now look, we went through all the details, all about this end and the other end, and if you wanna stay here…”

“I want the Okar end. You don’t need me here.”

“Now boy, I wouldn’t say that.”

“We talked about how I can build it up.”

“Right. And about your friend the mayor?”

“I’ll not only take my chances, but I’ll take your advice.”

“What was that, boy?”

“I like people, you said. I’m going to tell Remal I like him, or else. He’s going to like me or I move the operation to the town of Tagen.”

“The one we talked about, yes.”

“Okay?”

“Quinn, I like how you work. Best to you over there.” Cipolla came running up but Motta waved him off.

“I’m talking,” he said. And then, “Quinn, lemme ask you something personal. You mind?”

“No, I don’t mind.” Quinn felt nervous about getting away.

“Lemme ask you, may I, Quinn?”

“Yes, sure, sure, go ahead.”

“Have you got a woman over there? I haven’t seen you looking at any women over here and the way you been acting like a young un and rubbing your nose and not talking much, I mean not very much after all the business detail talk we been through…”

“No,” said Quinn. “No, its not that.”

And I’m a liar, he thought, for leaving out Bea, this one woman over there who knew what I went for. The one who knows how it feels to build a box and that the worst things that happen are the things you do to yourself. And if you have to-she knows this-and if you have to go and take it like a sentence, then I have respect for you, that’s what she might have said. Respect for you because you know how you’re under a sentence, your own, which is the worst. And I respect you for knowing what you do, and I won’t interfere because, she might have said, I don’t know right or wrong any better than you do. Bea never said all of this but she did all of this. And I’ll be here, she might have said, if you come out of it.

“Time to go,” said Cipolla.

Motta held out his hand and smiled. “I like to see a man with a serious interest, and that’s you, Quinn. Hate to lose you. Goodbye,” and Motta walked off to his car.

Now that was a queer thing to say, thought Quinn, but then there had also been the smile and the shrug and the nice pat on the arm, touch of tolerance, good old Santa papa, and to hell with you, too.

Why so irritable, having decided everything?

“Let’s go,” he said to Cipolla, and the two men went to the end of the pier and the boat.