One evening he stopped in at the Halfway House because they had a draft beer he liked and kept it at the right temperature. He gulped his first glass and then settled down to enjoy his second when he heard a drunk talking to the bartender. “You goin’ to the party?”
“What party?”
“Well,” said the drunk confidentially, “you know Doc, down in Cannery Row.”
The bartender looked up the bar and then back.
“Well,” said the drunk, “they’re givin’ him a hell of a party on his birthday.”
“Who is?”
“Everybody.”
Doc mulled this over. He did not know the drunk at all.
His reaction to the idea was not simple. He felt a great warmth that they should want to give him a party and at the same time he quaked inwardly remembering the last one they had given.
Now everything fell into place — Mack’s question and the silences when he was about. He thought of it a lot that night sitting beside his desk. He glanced about considering what things would have to be locked up. He knew the party was going to cost him plenty.
The next day he began making his own preparations for the party. His best records he carried into the back room where they could be locked away. He moved every bit of equipment that was breakable back there too. He knew how it would be — his guests would be hungry and they wouldn’t bring anything to eat. They would run out of liquor early, they always did. A little wearily he went up to the Thrift Market where there was a fine and understanding butcher. They discussed meat for some time. Doc ordered fifteen pounds of steaks, ten pounds of tomatoes, twelve heads of lettuce, six loaves of bread, a big jar of peanut butter and one of strawberry jam, five gallons of wine and four quarts of a good substantial but not distinguished whiskey. He knew he would have trouble at the bank the first of the mouth. Three or four such parties, he thought, and he would lose the laboratory.
Meanwhile on the Row the planning reached a crescendo. Doc was right, no one thought of food but there were odd pints and quarts put away all over. The collection of presents was growing and the guest list, if there had been one, was a little like a census. At the Bear Flag a constant discussion went on about what to wear. Since they would not be working, the girls did not want to wear the long beautiful dresses which were their uniforms. They decided to wear street clothes. It wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Dora insisted that a skeleton crew remain on duty to take care of the regulars. The girls divided up into shifts, some to stay until they were relieved by others. They had to flip for who would go to the party first. The first ones would see Doc’s face when they gave him the beautiful quilt. They had it on a frame in the dining room and it was nearly finished. Mrs. Malloy had put aside her bedspread for a while. She was crocheting six doilies for Doc’s beer glasses. The first excitement was gone from the Row now and its place was taken by a deadly cumulative earnestness. There were fifteen tom cats in a cage at the Palace Flophouse and their yowling made Darling a little nervous at night.
Chapter XXVIII
Sooner or later Frankie was bound to hear about the party. For Frankie drifted about like a small cloud. He was always on the edge of groups. No one noticed him or paid any attention to him. You couldn’t tell whether he was listening or not. But Frankie did hear about the party and he heard about the presents and a feeling of fullness swelled in him and a feeling of sick longing.
In the window of Jacob’s Jewelry Store was the most beautiful thing in the world, It had been there a long time. It was a black onyx clock with a gold face but on top of it was the real beauty. On top was a bronze group — St. George killing the dragon. The dragon was on his back with his claws in the air and in his breast was St. George’s spear. The Saint was in full armor with the visor raised and he rode a fat, big-buttocked horse. With his spear he pinned the dragon to the ground. But the wonderful thing was that he wore a pointed beard and he looked a little like Doc.
Frankie walked to Alvarado Street several times a week to stand in front of the window and look at this beauty. He dreamed about it too, dreamed of running his fingers over the rich, smooth bronze. He had known about it for months when he heard of the party and the presents.
Frankie stood on the sidewalk for an hour before he went inside. “Well?” said Mr. Jacobs. He had given Frankie a visual frisk as he came in and he knew there wasn’t 75 cents on him.
“How much is that?” Frankie asked huskily.
“What?”
“That.”
“You mean the clock? Fifty dollars — with the group seventy-five dollars.”
Frankie walked out without replying. He went down to the beach and crawled under an overturned rowboat and peeked out at the little waves, The bronze beauty was so strong in his head that it seemed to stand out in front of him. And a frantic trapped feeling came over him. He had to get the beauty. His eyes were fierce when he thought of it.
He stayed under the boat all day and at night he emerged and went back to Alvarado Street. While people went to the movies and came out and went to the Golden Poppy, he walked up and down the block. And he didn’t get tired or sleepy, for the beauty burned in him like fire.
At last the people thinned out and gradually disappeared from the streets and the parked cars drove away and the town settled to sleep.
A policeman looked closely at Frankie, “What you doing out?” he asked.
Frankie took to his heels and fled around the corner and hid behind a barrel in the alley. At two-thirty he crept to the door of Jacob’s and tried the knob. It was locked. Frankie went back to the alley and sat behind the barrel and thought. He saw a broken piece of concrete lying beside the barrel and he picked it up.
The policeman reported that he heard the crash and ran to it. Jacob’s window was broken. He saw the prisoner walking rapidly away and chased him. He didn’t know how the boy could run that far and that fast carrying fifty pounds of dock and bronze, but the prisoner nearly got away. If he had not blundered into a blind street he would have got away.
The chief called Doc the next day. “Come on down, will you? I want to talk to you.”
They brought Frankie in very dirty and frowzy. His eyes were red but he held his mouth firm and he even smiled a little welcome when he saw Doc.
“What’s the matter, Frankie?” Doc asked.
“He broke into Jacob’s last night,” the chief said. “Stole some stuff. We got in touch with his mother. She say it’s not her fault because he hangs around your place all the time.”
“Frankie — you shouldn’t have done it,” said Doc. The heavy stone of inevitability was on his heart. “Can’t you parole him to me?” Doc asked.
“I don’t think the judge will do it,” said the chief, “We’ve got a mental report. You know what’s wrong with him?”
“Yes,” said Doc, “I know.”
“And you know what’s likely to happen when he comes into puberty?”
“Yes,” said Doc, “I know,” and the stone weighed terribly on his heart.
“The doctor thinks we better put him away. We couldn’t before, but now he’s got a felony on him, I think we better.”
As Frankie listened the welcome died in his eyes.
“What did he take?” Doc asked.
“A great big clock and a bronze statue.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“Oh, we got it back. I don’t think the judge will hear of it. It’ll just happen again. You know that.”
“Yes,” said Doc softly, “I know. But maybe he had a reason. Frankie,” he said, “why did you take it?”