The New Black Mask (No 5)

Irvin Faust Action at Vicksburg

Irvin Faust has written six novels, including Newsreel. His most recent book is The Year of the Hot Jock and Other Stories. Mr. Faust’s work is admired for its accuracy of speech and detail, and he is an acknowledged maker of the New York prose style. He ranks “Action at Vicksburg’ as one of his most successful stories. The guidance head at a Long Island high school, Irvin Faust lives in Manhattan and pays attention.

That gentleman, Mr. Nagoya Ito, is from the small but vital town of Matsumae, on the northern island of Hokkaido, in the country that his hosts often refer to as Nippon. He has been in America for fifteen days, city-hopping from west to east and traveling single-oh, which is by far the most effective way to proceed. He has moved with speed but with excellent care so that with two days remaining, he has achieved the sensational megalopolis of the famous northeastern corridor. And so there he stands. Aiming his good, but not outrageous, camera, clicking, and briefly smiling. For his good, but not outrageous, telephoto lens has caught the first frame of what is surely the contradictory essence of this great and frustrating nation. Caught it at the perfect setting: the tomb of the most contradictory and essential general, United States Grant.

Click.

In those two shots Mr. Ito has caught the splendid combination of place and symbol, and no one, least of all the all-knowing expert, Mr. Kenzi Hayoko, who works beside him in the linen factory, can gainsay that fact. Mr. Ito has, indeed, in those shots, juxtaposed a magnificent and solemn resting place, containing a certifiable hero, beside a restless counterpoint that is known variably as Gotham, Baghdad-on-the-Subway, or most accurately, the greatest of Apples.

And something else…

As if to add an exclamation point to the proceedings, there we have a neat little plus. There, just on the top step of the Tomb. A small, sharp-boned Negro, who has cut himself out of the hallowed interior and is gazing at the roughness, the toughness, the coolness of the Apple.

Indeed, as luck, or Mr. Ito’s pictorial instinct would have it, the symbolic little chap is lounging quite innocently, in fact with a prototype nonchalance, beneath the beautiful words of the general: “LET US HAVE PEACE.” And hard by the rather bitter exclamation: “CRASH/SLASH/SMASH!”

To be quite blunt about it, the scene is delightfully heavy.

As he presses the camera button, Mr. Ito catches himself. “Negro,” or even “colored man,” as denoted within the Tomb, is out of fashion today; the chap in the doorway is a black man, or, simply, a black, and he must bear that in mind. For the excellent lens has zoomed up and is doing its work as well as ever, and from this careful distance on the wide approach, Mr. Ito can make out every carved-in line of the sad, dignified face, and that includes a scar that runs from beneath the left eye down to the firm but vulnerable chops.

Having recorded that map of wounded history, Mr. Ito moves to the other side of the walkway. He squints at his subject, who has turned and is gazing back to the dark mustiness of his liberating war. At that moment Mr. Ito’s lengthy and careful research in Matsumae and Sapporo floods into his head: Mr. Catton’s depictions of the struggle; the novels of C. Van Vechten who never met a “negro” he did not like; the recordings of Satchelmouth, of Cab, of the King, the Duke, the Count, and more recently the Prince; the lives of J. Johnson, J. Louis, and Ali the Great. All of that and much more run and gambol about the magnetic black, and as they do, there is another click, an internal one. For a name has entered the receptive head of the photographer-who-has-prepared.

Mr. Ito smiles to himself, quickly removes the smile. But within his head, where research and practical experience interconnect, he continues to smile. Why not? The name born of that splendidly cool interconnection is perfect. As perfect as the face, the history, and the attitude of the little symbol.

Sugar.

Or, in moments of formality, Sugar Man.

It is an all-encompassing name. A proud and linking name. Reaching back to the stand-up geniuses of the prize ring, the double Sugars, Robinson and Leonard. But also a name that comments on itself, emerging as it does out of the native preoccupation with sweeteners, real and phony, and a name that captures another preoccupation, which quite frankly is money. As in bread, as in dough. As in Sugar. Click.

Mr. Ito (casually) swivels away. One must not be too obvious. There are other scenes that should flesh out the series, that can give it existential pizzazz. Thus he frames and snaps the Hudson as it rushes down to the sea, the very waters that carried Sugar’s forebears here in the infamous middle passage, the very waters that carried here the forebears of the general who saved him. He also snaps tall, stiff New Jersey, gazing wistfully at pulsating Gotham. He moves slowly back to the walkway and focuses on a chunky man in a yellow and blue polo shirt. There is chunkiness all over, but it is especially pronounced in the lower gut, where it bulges out like a basketball. Another research click: the man is the. perfect incarnation of the Cab Calloway chap, the one who measures five feet in all directions, or quite simply, one of those big, fat, solid boys, solid avoirdupois.

There is something else about the man. He wears a face of smiling weariness. Mr. Ito has seen a great deal of that face, as if its owner were hugely annoyed with his lot but has decided after many years of experience to treat it with a rueful disdain. The face, the corpus, are worth three pictures.

And then the camera swings to Sugar.

He is walking down the steps of the general’s tomb. Ah. Once again, the sharp edge of interconnecting delight. This is turning into the best day since the morning in San Antonio when the Chicano lad smashed a bottle of beer against the Alamo.

Sugar is not merely walking; he is limping. Mr. Ito, not wishing in any way to embarrass his splendid subject, drops the camera to his right hip, glances expertly down, and snaps three versions of the limp. As he does, his busy and well-stocked mind zooms back to the little chap’s early years. Hard, grinding years. Years, however, when he strode about strongly and smoothly. He had to, for he was one of twelve to fourteen children working the cotton fields of Alabama. Alongside sister B. McQueen; brother S. Life, who was constantly in difficulty with overseer B. Connor; and cousin K. Fish, who talked big but rarely acted. Sugar was a good worker, a hard worker, and he toiled behind his mask of pain from dawn until dark. But behind that neutral face lurked a brain, and in time that brain reached a dead-end conclusion. It decided that there was no future, no fulfillment, in such work. A parallel conclusion, by the way, to the one reached by Mr. Ito's grandfather in the copper mines of Wakkanai. All reached a climax on the day that the Northern Express came through and whistled, as it often did. However, this time the whistle was direct and quite personal, like the tales of Uncle Remus. Sugar looked up. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah. He found himself running. He found himself climbing. He found himself in a car with six other boys who introduced themselves as Scott. And they, and he, were on their way to a new world and a new life. Yes, a hard one, it is true, in the stone fields of the city, but one that gave you a chance to come smiling through. The way that Grandfather came through on leaving the mines. The way that the mighty Brown Bomber came through when he fled north to forge a new life against the anvil of the city of Mr. Ford, Mr. Chrysler, Mr. T. R. Cobb.

The scene has been inscribed. Mr. Ito leaps nimbly back to the present. He and his lens, still at his hip, track Sugar as he hobbles past the man who measures no more from head to toe than he does from side to side. Some ten feet beyond, Sugar stops. His powerful face is plunged into thought. Slowly he turns. Slowly he limps back to the man, stops. Well, now. They know each other. Right hands meet in the raised, slapping handshake. The greeting is recorded twice, now with the camera pressed against an eager cheekbone. The two men speak, and it is clear, even from a distance, that they are easy with each other. The jive spills out smoothly: change in the weather, change in the scene; difficulties with my wheels; worse difficulties with my chicks; R. Jackson unable to purchase a hit. And the raised hands keep slapping.

Mr. Ito pauses to reload, and as he does he considers. These two seem overly friendly. Even for Americans. Even for Rotarians. Even for a Van Vechten white exhibiting his rapport with a black. They really should not be this friendly.

Unless…

The film is inserted. Six shots ripple away beneath a happy finger. Mr. Hayoko had insisted that it was all Chinese propaganda, but here it is. All wool and many yards wide.

A transaction.

Clickclickclickclick.

With that fourth shot, Mr. Ito knows with a dead certainty who the fat man is. That is, given the circumstances that have brought the two of them here, who he must be. There are reels and pages of evidence: the Scarface, the Little Caesar, the Godfather. Lucky, Lepke, Baby Face, Mad Dog. Kid Twist, Bugsy, the French Connection. The round little fellow can be but one person: The Dutchman.

Dutch, to his friends.

No, not Arthur Flegenheimer, Mr. Ito is not that naive (for the King of Policy long ago bought the bloody bullet in that chophouse in Newark, New Jersey). Nor is he concerned any longer with numbers; times change and so does the big dough. This Dutch is playing the deadliest game in town, the Olympics of the Rackets. And playing it with the man who has been suckered from one misery to another. He is playing it with Sugar. A sigh, a click.

Mr. Ito thinks back to the lecture in Sapporo. The one that did not tell him anything startling but that made the scene a bit more graphic: “The Underculture of American Life.” He thinks specifically of the film that was quite effective. In fact he shuddered several times during the film, even as he shudders now at the memory of Reefer Madness. But the shudder has added quality and depth to itself, for the two people in his viewfinder have clearly moved far beyond the dizzying weed. The deal they are involved in doing is the big time. The goods. The stuff. The merchandise.

He circles gently, keeping a good distance, and snaps various angles of the thrusting, climactic moment. He catches the smile of the Dutchman that has widened a millimeter, he catches Sugar’s solemn mask. Catches a shake of two heads, professional nods, once more the stiffly perpendicular five. With a brief shock, Mr. Ito realizes that this is how they pass the merchandise. And he records three different perspectives of the expensive handclasp. In a short time, even the roughest and toughest frails will be kicking the gong around. Hardly a happy thought…

Dutch is looking at his hand. Still wearing the resigned smile with its touch of mirth, he is looking at his hand. Now, still with the smile in place, he is holding his hand out, palm upward. Sugar is examining the palm, like a gypsy reading fortunes. He is shrugging. Mr. Ito is pondering: open palm, shrug. Shrug. Ah. Empty palm. A palm sans merchandise. Click. The Dutchman’s smile hardens. Click. Sugar is gazing with an even defiance. Click.

Mr. Ito feels that it would be appropriate to turn away. This could be an extremely uncool moment. However, a socioeconomic problem has taken place and it must be captured if a realistic statement is to be valid. He places the problem in the center of his viewfinder and his finger descends. As it does, his active, reaching-out mind attempts to dig the ramifications…

It is quite clear that Sugar has not delivered the merchandise. Equally clear that somewhere soon the boss will be very disenchanted (Dutch, although powerful, is definitely not Mr. Big). When that chicken comes home to roost, the joint, to Sugar’s detriment, will surely start jumping.

The camera, as Mr. Ito works out the scene, continues to pump smoothly away, a silent partner to its owner’s busy, indeed teeming, brain. The camera catches Sugar talking very seriously and with great animation. No southern syrup here, no S. Fetchit, slipping and slurring. Now Sugar is pointing. The camera moves, catches the object of his intensity. The magnificent resting place of the hero general. Then it returns and catches Sugar plucking at the Dutchman’s arm. It catches a suddenly bemused smile, catches Sugar talking even faster. In his lecture in the linen factory, the camera man will call this group “Yakking His Way Out of Trouble.”

He frowns even as he takes the picture. That is most unfair. That hard-knock little man does not have to yak his way out of anything. He has paid a multitude of dues. If, on occasion, he has not always played on the straight and narrow, who has? Is the man pointing the camera so pure? Has he played flawless baseball? Mr. Ito flicks a shoulder; he is removing the image of the bosomy Rumanian woman in Beverly Hills, the evening of dice in Reno. He returns quickly to Sugar. He reaches for some more history…

There is the boy, attempting to improve himself in a school in the asphalt jungle. One can see him encountering hypocrisy, derision from his peers and, yes, from his teachers. They mock his dress, his speech, his manner. They cakewalk through the halls, dare Sambo to retaliate. He retains a firm grasp on his cool. Then on a climactic day it happens: the boy is conversing with the one person of empathic vibes, a golden-haired girl. One sees the bright face and the dark face talking with deep involvement at the top of a staircase. One sees white youths bursting into the scene, Rico, Tony, Alvin. The two are surrounded. Hard words. A blow. Another. A flaming rumble. The black lad falling heavily down the stairs, Rico giggling. The girl screaming. The boy’s leg crumples beneath his still form. The others swagger off, the girl runs for help. The boy awakens in an emergency clinic; the Kildares can only do so much. The boy will never walk normally again. Or return to school again. Or forget again…

Mr. Ito stares through his powerful lens. The two men have stopped beating their unproductive gums. They have begun to walk. They are walking side by side, Sugar with a quickstep limp, Dutch with a long, rolling gait, as if he were running rum and the boat was heaving beneath him. They are heading for the steps of the Tomb. Zoom. Snap. But this is quite confusing. When a deal falls through, the Little Caesar should be furious. At the very least, highly indignant, for a huge amount of lettuce is involved. Instead, the two are strolling calmly into the quiet building. Is it possible that they will do their expensive thing there?

Mr. Ito saunters after them. Of course he lags well behind. They mount the steps and disappear beneath “LET US HAVE PEACE.” He follows slowly, steps into the gloomy interior. Then, as if the general himself had nudged him, specific insight occurs. Sugar, quite simply, will not pass the goods under the very eyes of the man who smashed his chains! He has said this with very great emphasis so that the Dutchman cannot fail to dig the jive. He has, in addition, prevailed on his bemused partner to walk inside so that motivations will be perfectly clear. Acknowledging to himself that he may have sold Dutch a bit short, Mr. Ito mounts the steps.

In the quiet dimness the two of them are leaning over the marble rail. Sugar is pointing down. Dutch is nodding quite pleasantly. Holding his coolness at the ready, Mr. Ito strolls to the other side of the rotunda and then he also leans on the rail. However, he keeps an eye on his target: two gentlemen socializing, soaking up a bit of history.

They gaze down at the hero and his wife. The sepia member of the team is talking quietly and pointing down at the white caskets. The rise and fall of his voice is animated, but his face is especially sad. Small wonder. One has to infer that he has known only gold diggers and Minnie-the-Moochers in his checkered career. Frails who could not possibly have provided the affection and loyalty he needed, that Julia Grant gave to her better half. He has clearly struck a sensitive nerve, for Dutch is nodding heavily: he has had his own roll call of faithless molls. Mr. Ito zooms down and captures the singular devotion of the couple joined for all time. Very gently, he steps into the nearby alcove and records the long list of victories of the man who had nothing but support and encouragement in the home (he will enlarge this “fidelity” series and present it to Mrs. Ito). With a quiet sigh, he leaves the alcove.

They are gone.

They are not on the front steps.

They are not on the broad walkway.

Has Sugar flapped his excited gums in vain? Was Dutch oozing soft soap? Did he invoke the threat of the mob? Are some of the boys slinking about?

Mr. Ito quickly circles the Tomb, barely glancing at the scribbled tributes to Angel, Cheech, Batrat 80. Ah. There. Close by the iron-railed (rather insignificant) tribute to the general given by the Chinese many moons ago. He continues walking, with his tourist’s mug, to a point some thirty yards beyond the pair. Deliberately then he turns, he focuses.

They are still peppering the atmosphere with their jive. But the give and take is no longer cool and smooth. They have obviously shifted into bitterness. He presses off five shots of the bitterness; it could mean trouble in River City for Sugar, but frankly, Mr. Ito is rather pleased. The little man has held to the high ground, he is clinging to his well-earned points. In fact, he is dishing it out with panache.

Experiencing a surge of elation, Mr. Ito swings around for some background material. He locates the calmly stolid International House, soaring Riverside Church. To his left a couple with the look of young American Gothic stamped on their open faces: Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, Rocky Mountain high. He ripples off eight versions of Heartland Innocence. As he does he is aware, once more, of the voices of the “businessmen.” They have jumped beyond bitterness. Bark. Snap. Dart. Crack. Back and forth, a bit like his son and best friend after a baseball game. Dutch is surely responding to the earnest little man: So you’re on the level, so you’re giving it to me absolutely straight, so what?

Sugar tells him so what, but is now getting it back in spades. As they harshly kick it around, Mr. Ito picks out one word. Over and over that same word. No, not a word. A name. Vic. Yes, Vic. The heartland couple are posing for a stranger, and Mr. Ito ponders Vic. Could he be Mr. Big? Is he the power behind that fat little throne? His ears focus as sharply as his camera. Vic. Again. Yet again. Chiefly from Sugar. He is certainly a major factor in his life, this Vic. Here we go again. Hold it, time out. Try another entry point. But of course. Mr. Ito gently tosses a smile at the Gothics, but of course does not look at them. Our man is not Vic, he is Vicksburg. The town of Vic(k). And Sugar is digging up all the information planted long ago by the general, imparting same to Mr. Savvy. And surely throwing in some Sugar-history as an extra-added attraction. All of it adding up to the major point, and if my record is stuck in this groove, you had better believe it I cannot pull a bad scene before the Hero of Vicksburg, under the gaze, if you will, of my main man.

Mr. Ito is itching to smile broadly. But he merely points his camera at the innocent couple, and then behind them, on the wall, at the rather nasty observation that “USA SIK.”

The two men are walking again. Sugar heavily, Dutch with the smooth, rolling stride. He is also all action as he walks, arms flailing, waving away the classic siege on the Mississippi, gums flapping as if they were chomping air. No doubt he is asking the limping little man, “But what has your soldier boy done for you recently?”

Although his point has been missed by a country mile, Sugar is patient. The man brought me here, he gave me my chance. Remaining well behind, Mr. Ito clicks, nods.

They stop. Mr. Ito slides to one side, he stops. Sugar is pointing. To his feet. Cheap, worn-out canal boats. Now he points south, along the Hudson. Splendid chap. There is another river, Big Muddy. Sugar will make a pilgrimage down to Vicksburg on the banks of Big Muddy. The loyal finger jabs thrice; along the way its owner will pay some overdue respects to Orchard Knob, Lookout Mountain, The Wilderness. Mr. Ito sighs with pleasure; the Pentax clicks with pleasure.

Dutch views it from quite another angle. One can easily dig his words; the context provides the content: “How do you make it to Old Man River in the absence of dough? And where do you obtain the dough if you do not do a deal?”

It is actually a very good point. Two good points. Shrewd points. From a very shrewd apple. They seem to tip the little man galley west. But only for a moment. He is responding and one does not have to be a mind reader: “Do not let it bug you. Where there is a will, there is a payday.”

Very good. Excellent. The face of Dutch reveals that with utmost clarity. He is clearly wigged.

Sugar shrugs easily. He has a very skilled shrug. A bit like the shrug of Mr. Ito’s son, but, of course, with much more sincerity. The two men gaze at each other. The camera gazes at the two men.

A break in the silent action. Dutch. Suddenly laughing. The laughter is building, then it is doubling over. Dutch is bending down, pounding the area above the fat basketball, searching for breath. Mr. Ito, frowning, snaps “Plump Hilarity.” He remains with his subject, as finally, still gasping, he straightens up. Now that he is flying right, he points at the Tomb. He leans forward, and a word kicks out It can be but one word: Jerk.

The camera swivels. The dignified face absorbs the word, not for the first time. Sugar is surely, and patiently, replying (and not for the first time), “Oh? Why a jerk?”

Expensive Bally shoes inch closer. Mr. Ito knows the answer to that one. He would dearly like to intercept the words, but the recording realist takes the picture, he does not paint it. He does, however zoom to his closest limit for the inevitable response:

“You are a jerk, old friend, because your winner is a loser.”

The little man bears up beautifully. His words are soft, low, almost melodic. He wants to know the rationale behind that miserable jive.

The man who seems to be inflating under his cabana shirt comes back with the utmost coolness: “Because, my friend, your general was a rummy boozer.”

Sighing, Mr. Ito swings to the general’s bodyguard, his soulguard. If only he could answer as Cab Calloway would. Ah, he is answering. Oh yes, exactly like the Cab: “Hi-dee-hi-dee-hi-dee-hi!”

Dutch shakes his head sadly.

“Ho-dee-ho-dee-ho-dee-ho!” (Thank you, Cab.)

“I will say it again, old pal. He was a bottle baby.”

Sugar is absolutely ready. “As President Lincoln remarked, not inaptly, ‘Determine his brand of hooch and serve it up to my other boys.’ ” Sugar cracks a smile. “Take a quart for yourself, old pal.” Four joyful clicks.

The man who had been in charge hesitates. The Little Caesar is racking that cunning gray matter. Of course he will come back with something, the overseers always do. And, on cue, here it is, as Mr. Ito runs his sound track:

“All rights Sugar, I am heartily sick of this jive. I demand a full deck.” Mr. Ito cranes forward. “Are you really and truly telling me you refuse to do a deal?”

The head of Sugar Man: a curt nod. “You have got it, old friend.”

“All because of your hooching general?”

“Because of my general.”

The grim smile narrows. “I suppose I can place that in my pipe and smoke it?”

“That would be cool.”

“I dig… I dig…” The Pentax is jammed against its owner’s cheekbone, but the finger on the button is pressing smoothly. The receiving mind is finely tuned:

“Sugar, you are pushing hard. So pay attention and dig me good.”

Shrug.

“Hobba hobba good.”

Shrug.

“All right, come and get it. Your general, you silly chump, was a crook, a low-down, dirty crook.”

A tiny flick of the shoulder, as if the shrug is trying to fight through. Then the shoulder is quiet.

Dutch keeps going: “Well? What is your story, morning glory?”

The camera does not waver, it dare not If only the little man would reenter the ball park. Something, anything… Ah… Quietly, calmly: “President Lincoln said he was my man…”

Dutch eats that up, gobbles it up. “There is evidence, old boy, that President Lincoln did not always place both oars in the water.”

“Hey, Dutch, don’t say that.”

“No? Play this on your record machine. Your general was the worst president we ever had. Double zero.”

Suddenly, the sad, neutral face begins to sway from side to side, as if it were weaving away from tough, snapping jabs. Mr. Ito sends help, so does the camera, but the face keeps swaying, for the Dutchman is implacable:

“Look it up, check it out, shoot the liquor to me, John Boy. Your General made Warren G. Harding look like Little Bo Peep.”

The powerful face is almost doing a loop-the-loop. And it is shrinking and wrinkled and twisted to one side. This is, frankly, quite difficult to observe, even though hugely sensational. It will surely produce a bark of admiration from Mr. Hayoko, and Mr. Ito dicks off six versions of the face to be absolutely certain.

Suddenly the equation changes. Sugar does the changing, the way the Sugar Rays came off the ropes. Swinging.

Face and head calm, controlled, he steps in swiftly on his one good leg, and quite amazingly and efficiently, on the little cat feet of Mr. Sandburg. As he does so he reaches into his back pocket. Dutch stares, then blinks, a crack in the smooth dike. But like so many of his class, he is only momentarily nonplussed; the heavy side of the equation does not readily throw in the towel in his world.

With extremely impressive dexterity, Dutch slides to his left, and with the same movement darts a hand into his shirt above the bulging basketball. His hand comes out of the shirt with a small, black object firmly cradled. In the following instant Mr. Ito hears a sharp sound, like a hard clap after a concert or a home run. And now Sugar is gazing at his erstwhile associate with some measure of surprise. Now he is clutching his right shoulder.

The picture is dutifully snapped, but even as it is, Sugar flicks a hand out to Dutch. A shining hand. No, correction, something shining in the hand. And now it is Dutch’s turn. He is staring, really quite stupidly for a man with so many smarts, at his right forearm. But in all fairness, with due cause. The arm is turning as red as a New Jersey sunset, and, like the sunset, the red reaches to the ground. Ah, is dripping to the ground.

The heartland couple have received a genuine kick in the pants. They scream. They spin about and run, hunched over, across the street, toward the sheltering arms of the International House. Click.

Back to the action.

Sugar. He also spins. With surprising skill and alacrity, despite the bad leg, or because he has learned so well how to live with it, he takes an extremely exciting powder. The flap on his heels is a great help, but so is his keenly developed coping ability. While the camera records the flight, he dashes down the incline to Riverside Drive. Dashes across the Drive. Once Sugar is safely there, Mr. Ito turns with great coolness to Dutch. He raises the camera and zooms into a mug that makes L. Lepke look like Little Bo Peep. With terrific speed, emotion replaces emotion, and astonishment, disgust, bitterness possess the face that finally hardens into neutral resolve. Mr. Ito captures that decisive moment and then finds himself framing a raised, pointing arm and hand. He suddenly hears a voice: “Danger, danger, take care.” He realizes, with a tiny jolt, that it is his voice. And that it is too little, too late. For he again hears the clapping sound, and, as Sugar glances back — a basic error, for when you split, you split — as he glances back, he clutches behind the knee of his good leg. Filled with gameness, however, he turns and hobbles south on the sidewalk.

Mr. Ito is focusing on the red, dripping arm and on the neutral, unblinking face above it. The small, black rod seems to be touching his camera, but of course it is the excellent lens doing its job. Mr. Ito snaps, suddenly wises up. He ducks and darts down the incline, and as he does he hears the clap, a zinnnng over his head. Perhaps he does not have wings on his heels, but soon he, too, is across the Drive.

He straightens up, looks south. Ah, there, grasping the back of the good leg. Sugar. Run-hopping along the busy sidewalk that curves beside the Drive and swoops down into the park. Mr. Ito follows with cool quickness, weaving through the strollers and joggers who are somewhat perturbed by the excitement in their midst but do not make it a federal deal.

Sliding the camera into its case, zipping the case, Mr. Ito glances across the Drive. The Dutchman, a genuine bulldog, has started, albeit heavily, down the incline. Unzip the case, get the picture? No. When in doubt, bug out.

Excusing himself, Mr. Ito continues to weave through the natives until he reaches the steps that dip into the park. He veers to his right and starts down.

As he skims easily along the sweeping curve, he presses the camera case to his side and briefly thanks President Fukashu for requiring daily physical education in the linen factory. Breathing properly, from the diaphragm, he feels quite strong, with excellent reserves of power, which, instead of overtime, may be called into play for grimmer purposes. In and out he glides, like a jitterbug cutting a slippery rug, avoiding the stream of people who are ascending and descending in their own matinee dance. Down, down, chasing after the principled little fellow who must by now resemble Mr. L. Diamond minus the Legs.

He finds him. Sitting against a tree, near a sharply eroded hill that at its bottom runs into the busy highway. Beyond the highway, the great river laps with complete neutrality at its stone banks. Mr. Ito kneels down.

“Can you move?”

With hugely dilated eyes, Sugar Man slowly shakes his head.

“Would you care to try?”

Once again he shakes his head, slowly, heavily. Then, with equal slowness and heaviness, he opens his mouth. His throat begins to work. The process seems incredibly difficult, and it occurs to Mr. Ito that he might well be observing a bucket being kicked. Well, then, at such a time it is vital to keep the patient in touch with worldly matters.

“Would you know,” Mr. Ito says, “who is currently stomping at the Savoy?”

Sugar Man sighs. His eyes flutter. Ah, finally some reaction. Mr. Ito leans forward.

“Frip… Mama… never… Vic…”

Mr. Ito sits back on his haunches. Gently he thrusts the Savoy to one side. He considers. Yes, Sugar has kept his faith. He smiles. “Who can tell?” he says. “Perhaps one day you will get there.”

“Whafor… never… Vic…”

“At the moment it does seem difficult,” Mr. Ito agrees. “Perhaps if you attempt more optimism…”

“Ah frammit…

“Frame it?”

“Frammit…

“Of course… Are you quite certain?”

Breathing heavily, Sugar whispers, “Goddam frammit…”

“Yes, certainly.”

Mr. Ito removes the camera from its case. He rises to one knee, frames the little man against the river, focuses, snaps. Sugar smiles weakly, the camera is replaced. Mr. Ito resumes the kneeling position. Sugar’s head moves slowly, as if it were filled with lead; he gazes downriver. Is he searching for the tough guys of the Waterfront? Mr. J. Friendly, with his thick, foul cigar? No. Softly, he is rasping, “Leekum…”

“Leekum?” Mr. Ito says.

“Leekum…”

Mr. Ito ponders. “Lincoln?” he says.

Sigh. “Leekum…”

“Ah,” Mr. Ito says. “Lee come?”

Briefly, Sugar closes his eyes, then opens them halfway.

Mr. Ito touches his shoulder. “Do not fear.” He shakes his head firmly. “Lee does not come.”

Another sigh, the eyes flutter. He seems composed, but his breathing is quite shallow. “I really must assist you,” Mr. Ito says. Receiving no response, he reaches over and attempts to lift the little man. He is amazingly heavy. Mr. Ito eases him softly back to the reclining position against the tree. The eyes flutter shut. Mr. Ito feels a shock of alarm. He stands, looks about. Some forty yards to his left he sees a splash of green-topped tennis courts. Players of all shapes and colors are prancing, darting, plunging over the surface. However, beside a small brick house, near the closest court, a group is lounging, chatting, observing. “Excuse me,” Mr. Ito says and rises and runs to a point several feet from the wounded man. He jumps up and down in the classic side-straddle-hop and waves his arms.

“First aid. First aid. Sick man. Require help.”

Finally, at the sixth repetition, several in the group of four turn and observe him. He continues to jump, shout, wave. They converse with each other. They come to a decision. They walk toward Mr. Ito and Sugar Man. With a sense of accomplishment, Mr. Ito turns back to the little man who is looking extremely weary. And now the group of four joins him. A man, a woman, a teenaged boy, a girl who might be classified as an emergent adolescent. Mr. Ito points to the man on the ground.

With a sharp moan, worthy of Miss V. Mayo noting an expiring J. Cagney, the woman kneels beside Sugar. The man also kneels. He seems knowledgeable, for he feels for a pulse and checks his wristwatch. The preteen girl stares upriver. The boy bounces his racquet against the heel of his hand and says, “We'll miss our turn.”

The woman, to Mr. Ito’s great satisfaction, ignores the lad. The man, having finished with Sugar's pulse, such as it is, unwraps his belt and straps it tightly about the bleeding leg above the knee, noting that “This may hurt, old man.”

Sugar nods as if he understands, and the V. Mayo woman smiles at him. Much of her hair, Mr. Ito notices, could pass for a shade quite close to gold. He steps back, for the two of them seem to be in competent control. At that moment Sugar glances up at him and surely mouths “Vic.” Mr. Ito smiles; he nods. Very well, a change in plan, but a necessary one. Tomorrow he will board a bus and travel south. To Orchard Knob, to Lookout Mountain. To The Wilderness. To Vicksburg. And if he encounters the likes of Messrs. J. Blue Eyes, C. Lucky, or M. Dimples, he will invoke the code of omerta. Looking down, he guarantees that the canary has never been a favored bird of the Ito family. He nods again, crisply. Sugar rests his reassured eyes.

The man turns to the boy. “Go back, tell Carlos to phone the police for an ambulance.”

“Are you serious?” the boy replies. “We’ll never get a court.”

The woman is about to round on him when the man shouts, “Don't argue with me, Chip.”

Chip clearly takes the same vitamins as Mr. Ito’s son. He remains in place and shouts back with equal vigor.

Mr. Ito sighs and looks away from the group. His eyes follow the curving staircase. At the top, looking around while others stream past, is a brightly shirted figure with a straining gut. His left hand reaches across his chest and holds onto a dangling arm. Now the man takes a halting step down, as if testing the firmness of the stone. Quickly, deftly, Mr. Ito removes his Pentax from the case and reloads. He removes the telephoto lens that has performed so faithfully and screws in a wide-angle replacement. He snaps the man, who, like his namesake in the blood-soaked Palace Chophouse in Newark, New Jersey, refuses to throw in his towel, even though his companions, Mr. L. Rosenkrantz and Mr. A. Berman, have kicked a vicious bucket. The mug may not be admirable, but he is tenacious.

Someone else is tenacious. He is lying there in his green pasture. The all-important question is: Are the angels shouting “Gangway! Gangway for de Lawd God Jehovah!” Wait. His hand moves, his eyes twitch. He may be communing with de Lawd; he has not yet joined him. Mr. Ito feels quite elated; if the great Puzo himself were to pump him for information, he would come away with a pail of clams.

In the meanwhile, the group of four do their specific things: The second Miss Mayo dabs at the shoulder of Sugar with her hat. The man shouts at the boy, the boy shouts at the man. The blossoming girl gazes raptly at the George Washington Bridge.

At the same time, the tennis players, with varying degrees of skill, are swarming and lunging about the courts. Joggers skim by, in particular, a blade-thin female who is making for the steps down which the Dutchman is wobbling as he clutches the dripping arm.

Mr. Ito circles to a point at the lip of the drop-off that leads to the highway and thence the river. He sinks easily to one knee and aims his wide-angle lens at “An Urban Landscape, with Incident.”

He replaces the camera. Carefully he zips up the case. With calm strides he walks to the foot of the steps. He stops. So has the Dutchman stopped. Dutch has, by far, seen palmier days. The intent female jogger brushes past him and continues up the stairway. Others veer around the two of them; they are like an island in the sun. They look at each other. The Dutchman is swaying, as if he were listening to the Savoy in his head. His eyes are not quite focused. But a wounded lion is a twice-dangerous lion. It is absolutely essential to stall for time if Sugar’s chances are to be thicker than urine on a rock. Mr. Ito is prepared. He rifles through the research cards in his mindfile. He swiftly decides: Like the venom of a snake, he will use the Dutchman to counteract the Dutchman.

Reaching back to the mortally wounded Flegenheimer, mewling on his hospital bed, Mr. Ito firmly proclaims, “A boy has never wept nor dashed a thousand kim.”

Aha, the man before him focuses. He stares.

“Mother,” Mr. Ito assures him, “is the best bet, and do not let Satan draw you too fast.”

Well, now, he is blinking. Mr. Ito notes with pleasure that he no longer carries any heat. Mr. Ito glances past him and up. At the top of the stone steps blue uniforms are gathering, and their heat is at the ready. Obviously the heartlanders have replaced their starch; when the going got tough, their toughness got going! The blue uniforms start down.

Mr. Ito looks back over his shoulder. The wide-angle tableau remains more or less the same, except that now Miss V. Mayo is dabbing with her sock and Sugar is sporting the semblance of a smile; he may be punching with powder puffs, but he is still punching. Mr. Ito turns back to his adversary who is swaying in a long, thin circle. The Little Caesar, at such a moment, said, “Mother of God, is this the end of Rico?” Dutch merely keeps swaying and staring.

Mr. Ito grants the flash card in his mind a silent thank you. Thank you, Arthur Flegenheimer, you have been of enormous help, but you are free now to cash your own ticket. As for Mr. Dewey and Senator Kefauver, one trusts that you are not too displeased with this day’s work. However, Nagoya Ito would prefer to take it from here.

The Dutchman is beginning to sag at the knees. His eyes are fanning quite rapidly, but he is paying very careful attention as Mr. Ito thrusts out his hand and says with brusque animation.

“Well, twirl my turban, man alive, can this be Mister Five by Five?”