“What’s that?” Ira turned to Mr. Klein, as Mr. MacAlaney climbed up the stairs. “That fruit.”
“Mengo. Mengo,” said Mr. Klein.
“Mengo?” Ira tried to match the word with anything he had ever heard or read.
“Don’t eat it. You can puke from it. Here: a bottle Lea and Perrins. Pimentos, a jar, George Washington coffee, a jar—”
Not only Murphy and his stalwart escort came down the stairs but Quinn and Tommy too. “Hey!” he and Ira greeted each other. Tommy winked broadly, and he and Quinn followed Murphy toward the vault.
“So far, it’s not bad. One besket’s nearly full.” Mr. Klein stopped long enough from handing out groceries to look at his watch. “Only two o’clock. You’d still be in school yet.”
“Yeah, my Spanish period. I nearly forgot.”
“Forgot what? The Spanish? Here’s the last item: asparagus tips.”
Glowering, Ira tucked away the item, found subterfuge. “I forgot to bring my lunch.”
“So whose fault is that?” And after a few seconds, “You stay here.” Mr. Klein went into the aisles, brought back a box of Lorna Doones, opened them and put them under the table. Ira stuffed two at a time into his mouth. They were grainy; they made him thirsty. “Can I get a drink?”
Mr. Klein indicated the utility sink with nod of brow. “Come right beck.”
Ira opened the faucet wide to let the water rush cool, and as he reached for a paper cup, Quinn came out of the toilet next to the sink. He smelled strongly of liquor. “I gotta ask Klein somethin’,” he said, and both returned to the counter.
“Hey, Klein,” Quinn slouched, willowy. “You were in Belleau Wood, weren’t you?”
“Château-Thierry. Argonne.” Klein replied in clipped tone of voice. And to Ira: “All right. New besket.”
“I thought you were in Belleau Wood.”
“No. I had enough with Château-Thierry and Argonne.” Unsmiling, Mr. Klein signaled for Ira to give him a hand; they dragged the full basket to one side.
Quinn kept talking: “I had a buddy — his name was Schein, Abe Schein. Like Klein. Tallest Jew I ever seen, taller than I am, lots. Jesus, he was lanky. We called him Shnitzel for the hell of it. Shnitz. He was always talkin’ Torah, Torah. You remember Christmas Eve, remember? I told you somethin’ about him.” he addressed Ira. “It’s in the Torah. Sometimes I’d kid him: Hey Shnitz, does the Torah tell you how to fade the dice?”
“You told me that already.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Once again, Quinn assumed the same strange posture he had taken when he waited for Ira to scramble off the rear end of the big White: He locked the fingers of both hands together, knuckles upward, his gray eyes fixed on remoteness: With locked hands so low in front of him, there was no telling whether he was praying or despairing.
“Shoyn shikker,” Mr. Klein muttered under his breath. “All right,” he rustled the yellow sheaf aggressively. “We got first: lobster. Small ken. Jar, cheddar in wine, the one closed with the wire—”
“Wouldn’t go to a whore. ‘Why don’t you git frenched,’ I sez. ‘You say it’s against yer religion to lay ’em. Try that. That ain’t layin ’em.’ ‘Go away,’ he sez. ‘Fer Christ sake, the Heinies might pick you off t’morrow. A guy tall as you. You stand out woise’n a second-louie in his Sam Brown belt — Git yer piece some way.’ Nope. Torah. Torah. Jumpin’ Jesus.”
“Mint jelly, a gless.” Mr. Klein kept his voice raised. “Coffee, a beg. Sugar. Cubes beef consommé—Where is it?”
“It’s that tin box.”
“You see? You’re really smart already. I thought it was crystallized ginger. Shikker auf toit,” he directed a subdued aside at the stooping Ira.
Quinn pressed his locked hands further down. “You know how you go up to the front. Klein, you an’ your buddy, side by side — Yer in a long file. You oughta know.”
“I know. I know already,” Mr. Klein said abruptly.
“It pays to be a short guy like you,” said Quinn. “You ain’t no runt. But Shnitzel, he’d make anybody—”
“I know what you’re goin’ to tell me! All right?” Mr. Klein interrupted, all but snappish.
“Yeah, but he didn’t make a sound, Klein,” Quinn’s voice burred harshly. “Not a fuckin’ sound.” Quinn suddenly sucked in his breath. “I never knew where he went. I never knew when he went. We wuz talkin’ about different things. Not a goddamn tree in sight, blown to hell. What a pity he sez. Like they wuz innocent. An’ me about the thirteen-, fourteen-year-old kids here gittin’ free lays in gay Paree from married women with hot pants whose hubbies were at the front—”
“All right!” Mr. Klein said with explosive emphasis. “I gotta get these orders out. What’s the use talkin’ about it? We’ve been through it. We lived it. The mortar shells, the machine guns. So who needs more? Quinn, it’s a big Saturday tomorrow. Like Thenksgiving nearly, and with no help. Some other time.”
“Okay. But I been talkin’ to Shnitzel ever since. A harp an’ a Jew. But he was my buddy an’ the way he went, it was like he was gone an’ never left me. Been different if I’d seen him get his. But this way—”
“Okay. So what’re you gonna do? It happened to everybody nearly.”
“Not this way.”
“All right, not this way. So a sniper got him. You tell yourself once and for all a sniper got him.” Mr. Klein’s vehemence turned on Ira. “Where were we on the orders?”
“Yeah, hey, Shnitz! Hey!” Quinn unclasped his hands. “Tell me about them thirty-six holy men that has to be here. Ah, Jesus.” He made for the outside stairs.
Mr. Klein turned to Ira. “Where were we on the orders?”
“Nonpareils, you gave me a box of nonpareils.”
“Nonpareils,” Mr. Klein began, consulted the invoice, and looked up — looked up, and kept his eyes fixed in pained wonder. Above the noise of the rolling handtruck, while Murphy pushed the load of steel-strapped boxes, he and the stalwart agent escorting him were engaged in loud dispute.
“Oy, gevald,” Mr. Klein growled, all but inaudibly. “Sit zan du khoisakh. C’mon. Take! Here is a bottle maple syrup, Oregon prunes, two pounds—”
XXVI
It seemed that Murphy and the agent accompanying him behind the rolling handtruck were furious with each other. They weren’t at all. Their loud voices were raised, but not in wrath — in uncompromising disagreement. “I’m tellin’ youz, youz wuz.” Murphy pressed the elevator button.
“How the hell could you tell it was me. It was night and a dark one, too,” contended the Prohibition agent. “It was pitch dark. Only light we had was a starshell. We didn’t light a match. We bummed lights off each other’s smokes.”
“That’s right. Cigarette end, only light we had. That’s why it took me so long to figure out it was you: your voice. An’ your build, maybe. You wuz a captain, wuzn’t you?”
“Maybe. I was a major at the end. What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
“I’m tryin’ to tell ye.” Murphy watched the elevator platform descend. “All right, fergit it. You wuzn’t there.”
“Yes, but the whole goddamned Argonne. You know how many American troops were in that battle?”
“All right, I’m wrong.” As the elevator platform settled at floor level, Murphy hunched to shove the handtruck aboard, stopped. “You wuz in the Boer War, right? You wuz a soldier o’ fortune you said. You wuz a private. Remember tellin’ us that big kick you got givin’ the compliments o’ General Kitchener to majors an’ colonels, an’ havin’ ’em salutin’ you?”