“I wasn’t looking for no fight, Major. I told the man.”
“I know it, Harvey.” The major’s chin pressed down grimly on his chest. “Sometimes we say too damned much we don’t mean. Come on, Murph, come on, both of you.” He put his arms about both men’s shoulders, and as all three walked in front of the table and around: “Let’s hear that story again, Murph. Anybody doesn’t get a laugh out of that’s never been in a shellhole.” They disappeared in the direction of the iceboxes.
“Put everything on top. All the rest,” Mr. Klein ordered wearily. “He’ll find it. Wait. Let me make sure. It’s the lest one: cayenne pepper, yes?”
“It’s here,” said Ira.
“Knockbrod, Swedish, a peckage. White raisins, two pounds. Sage, a box. Onion flakes, a box. Mocha java, they want in the bean.” He felt the bag. “Sugar. Turkish paste. Two cans button mushrooms. All right. What’s this box coriander doing here?” He clucked in annoyance, “A day like this could heppen anything.” He tossed the box into the hamper. “Coriander.” He shuffled the invoices into a neat batch, slipped them under the open clip of the clipboard, and screwed up his face into a yawn — just as a burst of laughter came from the aisle where the iceboxes stood, where Murphy was retelling the story.
Tommy pushed the loaded handtruck up to the elevator pit; behind came the towheaded agent, Lorring, dragging an open crate of assorted straw-covered bottles. “Where’s Murphy?” he called to Mr. Klein. “The elevator ain’t down. Didn’t I hear the major?”
Mr. Klein silently thumbed in the direction of the iceboxes.
“Okay, men, let’s unload her. Pile ’em here.”
There was a stir on the stairs. Shea came down. “I couldn’t get that goddamn hunka tin started fer love or money. I blew out the fuel lines. I took out the plugs—”
“Oh, Major,” the towheaded agent called toward the other end of the cellar. “That last driver’s here!”
“Oh, is he? Okay.” The major appeared, and with him, Harvey and Murphy, now grinning at each other.
“Where they keepin’ it?” Shea sidled over to Mr. Klein.
“I know like my grendmother,” Mr. Klein replied testily. “In beck from the icebox someplace. Esk Tommy.”
“I’ll find it,” Shea moved toward the icebox aisle.
“Who’s gonna drive those trucks to the warehouse?” asked Mr. Klein rhetorically. “The agents. Or who? Ever see such a mishigoss? Now all is needed is highjeckers.”
“Thanks, Harvey.” The major lifted his hand to the elevator button as Harvey pulled the shovel up from the ledge. “That bucket all right down there?”
“Yes, sir, Major. That bucket’s too low to touch.”
“Okay, Harold,” the major called up. “We’re bringing her down. Hit that button, will you — I almost said soldier.”
“Right, Major.”
“I’ll tell ye somethin’, Harvey,” Murphy rocked slightly, spoke with muzzily contorted features. “When you climbed outta that hole, it all come back, you know what I mean? I was back there again, you know what I mean? An’ there wuz McGrath, only guy I could git along wit’ follerin’ me goin’ over the top. Der was McGrath. Big guy like you, only white.”
“There’s all kinds o’ ways o’ goin’,” Harvey commented.
“Yeah. Right.”
“Okay, men,” said the major. “Let’s pitch in while it’s still light. Everything okay up there, Harold?”
“Can’t see a thing to worry about up here, Major,” came the voice from the street.
“I’m going to send Lorring up anyway. Okay, Lorring. Sentry. Make it casual. Any car stops, take cover. Right? I’ll take care of the loading.”
“Right, Major.” Lorring left for the stairs.
With so many hands to transfer the load from cellar to elevator platform, the shipment was loaded in a few minutes.
“First time I ever wished we were still on daylight saving time.” The major surveyed the load on the elevator. “Have we got the last of it yet?”
“That’s it, Major,” said Murphy.
As Tommy got on the platform “Comin’, Murphy?”
“Hold it,” the major said. “Not this time. Last thing we want is to get held up by a stuck elevator.” He waited for Tommy to step off. “Tell you the truth, Murphy,” he raised his arm to press the elevator button. “I’m beginning to feel like a Georgia nigger with the sun going down on his back.”
The men overhead laughed. The elevator ascending, the major turned — to face Harvey — and was slightly taken aback. “I’m sorry, Harvey, no harm meant. It’s just a damned habit, and a bad one. Damn!”
“That’s all right, Major,” said Harvey. “I understand.”
“I’m glad you do.” The major extended his hand.
They shook hands, parted. And just as he was about to join the others climbing up the stairs, Quinn came down. “Where to?” asked the major.
“The john, Major. I’m caught short.”
“We’re ready to go.”
“Be right back.” Winking at Mr. Klein’s glum, averted face, Quinn passed the counter.
The elevator platform overhead shook with the tread of those unloading it. Harvey knelt at the edge of the sump, pulled the bucket out, straightened up, and with bucket in one hand, shovel in the other, passed in front of the table. “Comme çi, comme ça, Miste’ Klein.” His thick, limber wrist gleamed as he swung the shovel like a pendulum. Deliberately flat-footed, he shuffled a few steps: “C’est la guerre.”
“You got a big cleanup job yet in that wine and whiskey corner. You know that?” Mr. Klein advised him, gratuitously.
“You’re tellin’ me? Mister Stiles got me a man-size hoe, a real he-hoe.” Harvey looked at Ira. “I might need a helper too.”
“Hey, Quinn, where the hell are ye!” came the cry from the street.
Quinn’s voice preceded him as he rounded the corner: “Oh, the French, they are a funny race, parlez-vous. The French, they are a funny race—”
“Don’t listen to him!” Mr. Klein swept his arm protectively toward Ira as if to brush him out of range.
“How am I gonna help it?”
“Oh, the French, they are a funny race,” Quinn halted an instant as he came face-to-face with Harvey before the table: two countenances, almost at the same level, the one brown and solidly boned, the other by comparison pale and narrow.
“Quinn,” Mr. Klein jerked his head toward the inner stairs leading down from the store. “Cut it out. Somebody’s comin’ down.”
All eyes fixed on the stairs: In his tan jacket, holding the bannister, Walt skipped the last step to the cellar floor: “Boy, you can’t smell the stink o’ the booze for the cigarette smoke.”
“They should know what’s goin’ on down here. It’s busy upstairs.”
“They’re startin’ to come in. Last-minute trade.” Walt swung into an aisle.
“The French, they are a funny race—”
The honking of auto horns in the street almost drowned out his voice. “Hey, Quinn!”
“They’ll be comin’ down after you,” Mr. Klein warned.
“Fuck ’em. You’d think I was hidin’ in a fuckin bunker.” Quinn teetered unsteadily. “The French, dey are a funny race. Dey fight wit’ der feet an’ fuck wit’ der face—”
Against the raucous clamor of auto horns came down from the street: “Quinn!”
“Hinky dinky, parlez-vous.” Quinn licked the corners of his mouth, wobbled as he moved toward the stairs. “Well, the man’s had a drop too much, y’know. I had to take an extra one for me Jew buddy, Shnitzel—” He mounted the stairs to the street. “Comin’, comin’! Where the hell’s the fire, you guys?” He climbed up out of sight.