Detour Page 2

  “You think we look alike?” He frowned a little into the glass.

  “Oh, I don't know. I can't see a resemblance.”

  “Well,” I insisted, “you're older than me, for one thing. But take a look at my nose. See, that bump there? I broke it, riding the tail-board of an ice-wagon when I was ten. You've got that kind of a bump, too.

  “He laughed at that. “I assure you, bud, I was never on an ice-wagon in my life.”

  “No, but you've got that bump. I'll grant you we don't look like brothers, but...”

  “Well, you can have the job of posing for all my passport photographs. How about that?”

  “No, but seriously, Mr. Haskell, don't you think—”

  “I can't see it,” he cut in, getting tired of the conversation. “If you're ready, let's get going.”

  I shut up pronto. He was just in a hurry, not sore. Nevertheless, I wouldn't have blamed him much if he had been sore. I looked like the wrath of God. When I left New York I wasn't wearing the proper clothing for a trip of this kind; and noticing the expensive grey tweeds he had on, I became all the more conscious of my sweaty, dollar polo shirt and my ragged pants. Well, maybe we didn't look much alike.

  He did most of the talking during the rest of the hour we were in the cafe. I ate. He rambled on about his family who lived in Bel-Air, his kid sister he had always been so crazy about, his mother who had died the year before he ran away, his father whom he had always despised, and stuff like that. Every now and then I'd come out with a “Yes?” or an “Is that so?” but I wasn't paying much attention. That steak kept me busy. It was a little tough—I guess it wasn't cooked enough—but need I mention I enjoyed it? It tasted like the manna must have tasted to the starving Jews wandering around in the wilderness for God knows how long. I began to feel myself again with that under my belt, and the morbid pictures I'd been conjuring up in my mind for weeks suddenly went like Margaret Mitchell's book. By the time the dessert came I was in such a pleasant frame of mind that even the thought of Sue out there alone among the Hollywood wolves did not bother me.

  And, believe you me, that's saying something. Sue was—and for that matter must still be—a gal who can bother anybody under the age of seventy. Pretty as a dream, blonde and green-eyed, it is her habit to open those big eyes wide, pout that red Cupid mouth, and crawl right in under a guy's skin. That is exactly the way she crawled in under mine. But once she's there she festers and it takes plenty of time and liquor to get her out of your system. One fellow I know back in New York stayed in love with her for months after she handed him his hat. He used to walk around in a fog and get drunk every night. Once he even tried to commit suicide. That's the way Sue affects people. But let me tell you how I happened to get mixed up with her. I know it's the old story, but I like to think about it.

  I met her while I was playing first fiddle in a little club on West 57th Street, not far from Columbus Circle. I was only doing that sort of work to force my old man off the relief rolls. He wanted me to go on studying under Professor Puglesi; but I'm funny that way. I don't like people making any sacrifices for me—not even my own father. As it was, my dad almost died of shame when I came home one day and told him what I was doing and that I intended to keep it up. And the professor? Well, he damned near blew his cork.

  “A concert violinist playing jazz music in a cheap night club! Ye gods! My boy, in three—maybe even two—years I will have you making your debut. You will be the envy of everybody who can call himself a musician. Believe what I am telling you and quit this foolish job right away.”

  And nothing he could say would change my mind. I told myself that if I really had something on the ball it would come out no matter what I did. Besides, how did I know I was as good as I was cracked up to be? I had only the professor's word for it, and maybe he was dishing out a lot of hot air so he could keep getting that two bucks a lesson.

  Anyway, that's how I fell in with Sue. Only don't get the idea she was one of the club's headliners or plugged songs or sold cigarettes. She was just one of the fifteen-dollar-a-week cuties in the floor-show chorus. She was great on looks, but the dance-director used to complain to Bellman that she had two left legs. That may or may not have been true, but to me she stood out like nobody's business, making the rest of the girls look sick and sixty. Her hair was about the color of polished brass, with that same metallic shine to it; and it fell down to her shoulders, and it was straight except for the ends, which she kept curled under. It formed a perfect frame for that delicate nose and those enormous dark green eyes. But if her face and hair were lovely, her body was something special. She was of slight build, with a waist so slender every time she bent over you expected her to break. I won't go into all the details, but engineers ought to go to her for lessons in streamlining. With her looks she didn't have to know how to dance.

  It took me all of three weeks to gather up enough nerve to ask her for a date. When finally I did she said she had a date; however, the following night she let me take her home on the Fifth Avenue bus that runs up Riverside. It was quite a long ride—she lived uptown near Seaman Avenue and Dyckman Street—but in all the time it took us to get there I don't think I said ten words to her. She had me completely buffaloed, and before the bus passed 72nd Street I was in love with her. I could feel her little body against my arm and the perfume she had on was enough to make any man bite through a bar of cast-iron. It was heaven, let me tell you. I guess she must have realized how I felt, because when we reached her door she kissed me good night and said I was sweet and good night again, she'd see me tomorrow; then she kissed me again. I rode home on the downtown subway that night and passed my stop.

  All this was about three months after my father died. I was still feeling pretty low about it and the apartment seemed awfully dark and empty without him. His old Morris-chair continued to stand by the living-room window where he used to sit by the hour and stare down into the street. Right after the funeral I packed everything of his away and stored it in the basement because I didn't want to think about him any more. It only made me feel rotten. But now and then I'd run across one of his pipes or something and I'd go soft as mush. For that reason I stayed away from home as much as possible. I would have moved in a minute if the landlord would have let me break the lease.

  One night Sue and I got to drinking after the club closed and we wound up only a few blocks from where I lived. I took her up there, and to my astonishment she said she'd appreciate it if I let her stay all night. She explained she was tight and couldn't face her mother in that condition. She didn't look that tight to me, but you can bet your sweet life I didn't send her home. We slept together for the first time that night and after that we went to my house a lot.

  I was truly overboard by then. However, don't be misled and think it was one of those sexual attachments story-writers are always talking about. Of course I enjoyed staying with her, but there was something else, too. Words can't describe it, but if you've ever been in love you'll know what I mean.

  There were times when I wanted to hold her off at a distance so mat I could see her and appreciate her without my emotions being hammered to pieces; and then at other times I couldn't get close enough. I'd imagine there was a wall between us and I'd try my damnedest to break through. I felt that I was outside, and that wasn't enough. Sometimes I'd lay awake at night fighting the desire to reach out and turn on the bed-lamp so I could look at her. Once I did turn it on. It woke Sue up and she got sore, so I never tried it again. But I wanted to. Do you get what I mean? If you don't, it's the best I can do.

  Then one day her mother found out about us. Don't ask me how. I haven't the faintest idea unless Sue talked in her sleep or kept a diary. Being one of the straitlaced kind—the kind of woman who wears a corset under her nightgown—she told her daughter to get out and stay out. She wasn't fooling, either. I went around and tried to argue with Mrs. Harvey, but it was no soap. When I explained that my intentions were honorable, that I loved her daughter and inten
ded to marry her just as soon as I earned a little more money, she slammed the door in my face. So there remained nothing else but for Sue to move in with me, which she did, bag and baggage. We got along beautifully, Sue and I. True, she wasn't much of a housekeeper—being more the bohemian type—and most of the time it was I who had to do the cleaning; but she made up for that in other ways. Just her presence in that small, dreary apartment was enough to compensate for what the neighbors must have thought. Oh, they believed we were married all right; but one day they caught a glimpse of our place. They must have thought we lived like pigs. Well, we did, I suppose. What's a little dust and a few dirty dishes when you're in love?

  During this period I don't think I missed a day without asking her to marry me and make it permanent. I'd start in on it in the morning after breakfast, at lunch, at dinner between numbers at the club and in bed at night. Sue insisted she was every bit as much in love as I was, but that marriage is a serious step and people should never go into a thing like that until they were sure. I was sure all right; maybe she wasn't. Nevertheless, with all the cold water she threw on the idea, one night, after we had been living together for almost three months, she agreed to be the Mrs.

  “I'm only doing it so that I can have a little peace,” she laughed. I laughed too when I wondered which way to take that.

  It was early in the spring when I got fired for poking a customer in the jaw. I'm usually a very quiet guy, and I don't pick fights unless they're forced on me; but there were a lot of wiseacres who came into the Break O'Dawn stag, looking for whatever they could pick up. This one bird made a pass at Sue while she was on the floor doing her number. It wasn't much, really—all he did was pat her fanny—but it riled me, I saw red, hopped off the bandstand and let him have it. The management put him out, and when work was over Bellman came up and told me I was through. I expected him at least to give me two weeks' pay. All I got was the curl of his lip. That, naturally, was grounds for a beef to the Union. However, I didn't want to make trouble on account of Sue.

  I was sorry to lose that job; not that the money was much, but because it meant not being able to work with her. As things turned out, though, it wouldn't have made much difference. Less than a month later she decided to go to Hollywood, on spec. A friend of hers kept writing that she was doing fine out there and how marvelous the sunshine was and how it never rained in Southern California; that was all the encouragement Sue needed.

  “But we were supposed to get married next Monday!” I howled.

  “We'll get married when I come back, Alex, huh? Or when you come out. Say, that's an idea. Why don't you come out, too?”

  She knew very well why I couldn't come out. I had fourteen bucks left in the bank. So all I could do was kiss her good-bye and tell her to be sure to write at least once a week. She did, about a month later, enclosing a ten-dollar bill, which she said she was sure I could use. It came in very handy. She must have been a mind reader or psychic or something, because I just couldn't find work. No band seemed to be short on fiddles. I made the rounds six days a week, but summer is a bad season for everything in New York. Then one day I went to see a friend of mine who is an assistant program director at N.B.C. and he advised me to sleep mornings. I put the bee on him for twenty bucks and decided to follow Sue.

  In a way, her leaving wasn't so bad, and I began to feel much better about things. It gave me an excuse to do what I'd always dreamed of doing: striking out to the west. When we were kids it was the Indians we wanted to hunt; now it's the movies. I know I'm probably the millionth guy to start out for the film capital, hoping to connect; but why shouldn't I be able to crash the racket? I'm not Heifetz or Kreisler, but I can handle a bow a lot better than Rubinoff, for instance, and I'm only twenty-nine and not bad looking. The only cockeyed feature about me is my nose, and that shouldn't prove such a handicap. I understand they can hook enough filters, portrait-attachments and jiggers to the camera to make Madame X look like Shirley Temple.

  My only regret in starting for L.A. was my fiddle. Since the only way I could afford to cross the country was to bum it, I didn't need train or bus fare. But I'd have to eat, so into hock it went—along with the few pieces of furniture that were paid for, two suits and my working tux. That stuff I didn't mind pawning, but I'd need the violin to work. It was no Stradivarius, I'll grant you, but it could carry a tune with the best of them. As the professor always claimed, a true artist doesn't need an expensive instrument. He can get by with an old cigar-box and a couple of yards of cat-gut.

  The going wasn't so bad in the east. I didn't have any trouble catching rides—except around Philadelphia, where you can catch about everything else—and all went along smoothly until I ran into tough luck in Dallas. My money was all gone and I was thrown in the jug for swiping some fruit off a stand. I'm no thief, but, boy, three days of penny candy can make a great difference in a fellow's scruples. The cops treated me mean, slapped me around plenty, took my picture and finger-prints; then they hauled me into court. When he heard the charges against me the judge smiled kind of wistfully. He was a benign sort, that judge; he looked like an owl, with his bald head and heavy spectacles.

  “Another State v. Jean Valjean, eh?”

  Maybe he had a notion I didn't know what he was talking about, but I'd seen that picture, too. The arresting officer evidently hadn't. “You must have the wrong case, Your Honor. This man is Alexander Roth.”

  The judge didn't say anything for a moment, just sat there on the bench, peering at me through those milk-bottle lenses. Then he sighed wearily. “Thirty days,” he said. “When you get out, Roth, come back and see me. Next case.”

  I thought it was a bum rap, but when I went back to see him he wrote me a letter of reference. That was nice of him, especially since he didn't mention that I'd served time. In the letter he called me a personal friend of his, I still had the thing in my valise.

  The guy across the table from me was just finishing his dessert. I'd finished mine ten minutes before, He took a final slug of coffee and then wiped his lips with a napkin. As if that was some prearranged signal, the waiter approached, still wearing that sickly smile, and laid the check on the table, face down. I've often wondered why waiters do that. Is it because they don't want to spoil the customer's appetite?

  “All set, Detroit?”

  “Yes, sir. That certainly was grand of you to...”

  “Forget it—forget it.”

  “Oh, I can't do that. I'll bet there's not another man who'd have—”

  He shut me up with a wave of the hand and, reaching into his inside pocket, took out a big black wallet. My heart almost stopped beating when I got a flash of that thick sheaf of twenties and tens. I'd never before seen a roll like that one, not even in the clubs. The sight of so much cash really got me, and I scarcely breathed while he was thumbing through it. I tried to look away—because I was afraid if he saw me watching him he might think I was getting ideas—but I just couldn't remove my eyes.

  They say that money is nothing, that a buck is only a piece of paper crawling with germs, and that you can't buy happiness with cash. I say sour grapes. Name me one thing money can't buy. Respect? That's usually the first item people mention. Well, will you tell me who respects a guy without money? A guy that's starving, say, or on the bum? Go on the bum some time and find out how much respect you get. I know. Love? That's usually the next come-back. Brother, don't ever let anyone pull that one on you. You can win a woman a lot easier with a mink coat than with poetry and walks in the park. But what got me off on this?

  The check couldn't have been more than two and a half, but Haskell paid it with a fin.

  “Keep the change, Mac,” he told the waiter. I made up my mind that I must be riding with some kind of crook. No honest man would think of tipping a waiter like that.

  The road from Lordsburg to Phoenix—U.S. 70—winds around an awful lot through mountain passes. The scenery is really beautiful, if you like mat sort of thing. I don't. Wilderness may be O.
K. for animals and hermits, but give me cultivated lawns, buildings and people every time. When I was a young sprout I had an ambition to become a cowboy and roam the range, shooting rustlers and rescuing good-looking women. But I'm older and wiser now and I've learned there are more good-looking numbers to be had by riding around in a flashy car with a pocketful of chips.

  While we were tearing around curves the sun was going down. The sky became a dull red, gradually growing darker as if it was cooling off which, as a matter of fact, it was. Somehow I wasn't at all nervous any more and I didn't keep wondering what would happen if we blew a tire or met a truck on a bend. I just leaned back, completely at ease puffing away on the cigar Haskell treated me to. If we had run off a cliff then, I'd have died feeling happy. Funny how little it actually takes to make a man contended. Why, if it had been Sue there alongside me, there would have been nothing more I could ask of the world.

  Haskell was driving without his sunglasses and I noticed that his eyes looked sleepy. He was squinting a little and the lids drooped. The puffiness in his face had gone away, only now there were bags and pouches and his skin had a transparency about it. I could almost see clean through to his cheek-bones. The man looked unhealthy. “Want me to take over for a while, Mr. Haskell?”

  He thought it over for a few seconds. “Well... think you can handle her all right?”

  “Sure. I'll take it easy. You must be all fagged out, driving so long.”