“Well, you don’t look like the type of fellow who would steal a bag,” Taller said. “Except from necessity, huh?”
“Nobody hocks anything except from necessity,” Andy said.
“I didn’t say ‘hock.’ I said ‘steal,’” Taller said.
“I didn’t steal the bag, so get off that kick,” Andy said.
“Are you a musician?”
“Yes.”
“What do you play?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Trumpet or trombone?”
“Trumpet. How—”
“You have a muscle on your lip,” Taller said shrewdly.
“You win the gold star,” Andy answered. “Do I get fifteen?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think you’ll know in time for Christmas?”
Taller smiled. “I might.”
“I can’t wait that long. Decide now.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“Oh, the hell with this,” Andy said. He reached across the counter for the bag, and Taller pulled it back farther, and as Andy stretched his arm, his jacket pulled back slightly, and there was a sudden spark in Taller’s eyes, and then Taller reached out quickly, unbelievably fast for a fat man, his fat fingers clamping on Andy’s wrist. He brought his other hand around, clasping the material of Andy’s jacket, and then he shoved the jacket and the shirt, and Andy felt the button at his wrist snap, and then the shirt and the jacket together were moving up the length of his arm, his hand imprisoned in Taller’s firm, fleshy grip.
“What the hell...” he started, and then he glanced down at his arm, and he felt sick inside all at once because Taller was looking at the exposed arm, too, and the exposed arm was the arm of a drug addict, unmistakably so, irrevocably so.
“I figured,” Taller said.
“Let go of my arm,” Andy warned.
“You’re a hophead. What’s the matter, kid, you got an itch? You got an itch for a couple of caps of the crap? Is that why you want the fifteen so bad? Is that why?”
“Listen—”
“You figure you come in here and con an old fat man into giving you fifteen bucks for a bag you probably stole, huh? Con an old fat man who can hardly get around he’s so fat into giving you fifteen bucks so you can go out and shoot yourself full of poison, huh? Well, son, you picked on the wrong fat man this time. I get your kind of vermin all the time. I get your kind of filthy animals all the time. And do you know what I do with them? I take whatever they bring and throw it down at their feet.”
He viciously swept one hamlike hand across the counter, knocking the bag to the floor. Andy scrambled for it, picking it up, frightened by the intensity in the fat man’s eyes.
“I throw it down on the ground, down to their level,” Taller said vehemently. Andy was standing up now, backing away from the counter.
“And then do you know what I do?” Taller shouted, his fist clenched, his breath coming hard. “Do you know what I do to these rotten, grubby parasites?”
Andy stared at him, incapable of movement, paralyzed by the trembling, furious hulk before him. Taller drew back his head and then brought it down in a sudden movement that took Andy completely by surprise. In a second he understood, but in that second it was too late. He saw Taller’s pursed lips, and he flinched when he realized what was going to happen. When it happened, he stood there stunned for several seconds, and then he reached for a handkerchief and wiped Taller’s vile spit from his face.
“I spit at them!” Taller screamed. “I spit right into their faces, and I tell them to take their filthy trade someplace else. I spit at them!” he screamed. “I spit at them!”
He fled from the shop and out onto the sidewalk, stopping outside Daniels’ shop to catch his breath. He went in to see Daniels again then, fully expecting the price to have dropped, surprised when it was still ten dollars.
He pocketed the bills and went out onto the sidewalk. He had to get to the Union Floor now.
He began walking quickly.
10
The musicians were congregated in the street outside Local 802, even though a sign inside the building warned them that such assembly was a violation. They stood close to the curb, their backs to the street, and they talked. The people passing by paid them scant attention. The musicians wore suits, or sports jackets, or dress shirts, or sports shirts, or tee shirts. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company. They talked a lot and they laughed a lot. Some of them carried their instruments with them. Most of them carried nothing but a small engagement book in which they recorded future job dates. They looked like men in the garment district discussing whether they should cut Shantung or corduroy. They looked like men on the television circuit standing outside casting studios and discussing bit parts on Montgomery or Kraft. They looked like any group of men discussing the intimate aspects of their businesses. Music was their business, and though they sometimes asked, “How’s your wife?” they mostly asked, “Are you booked for this Saturday?”
He scanned them quickly, looking for Rog, not seeing him, and then starting up the long flight of steps that led to the Exchange Floor. He passed someone he knew on the way down, and the musician nodded and said, “Hi, Andy,” and he nodded back and said, “Hi,” not remembering the man. He stepped onto the Floor, and he was immediately engulfed in a huge wave of sound. The Floor was enormous and bare. The Floor was thronged with men and women, and every man and woman was talking, and the sound of their voices joined to form a crashing crescendo that reached up for the ceiling and bounced down again in a smothering storm of mumbles.
“I went away for Passover. I got matzos coming out of my ears. You know those nice little seeded rolls? The only reason I go away. What? Is the loot so good? I go away for the seeded rolls, and all I get is matzos. But look at that waistline. I must’ve lost twelve pounds. This hardtack is wonderful. They should put it on the market.”
“The only way to reduce, Sam. You try a starvation diet, you wind up with functional disorders of the liver, the heart, and the intestinal tract. Are you booked this Saturday?”
He shoved his way through the crowd, listening to the babel of sound, and above the disjointed, mingled mumbles the harsh boom of the microphone paging people to the desk.
“Johnny Fillera. Johnny Fillera. Michael Storey. Michael Storey. Amos Dale. Amos Dale.”
Somewhere in the blurred faces around him there might be Rog. He was interested in none of the faces but Rog’s. Rog might be here, and if he were...
“I told him, ‘What the hell, you want a trumpet player or a slave coolie?’ I picked up my ax and almost brained the son-of-a-bitch. But that horn cost me two bills, so I just told him I was gonna report him, that’s all, and then I walked out.”
“David Bergen. David Bergen. Skippy Fried. Skippy Fried.”
“He was getting forty-three as leader, and he was trying to get side-men for fifteen. I told him to shove his goddamn piccolo.”
“Flip Callabia. Flip Callabia.”
“You should have let me know sooner. I’m booked solid for the next three week ends. Jesus, Harry, you know I like your outfit.”
“Well, I didn’t see you. Where you been hiding?”
“Anybody has checks due from Stan Bowles, come and get ’em. Anybody has checks due from Stan Bowles, come and get ’em.”
He saw a face he knew, and then the face was beside him, a round cherubic face, and a hand was extended toward him, and he took the hand unconsciously, the sound around him smothering him until he wanted to shout for air, and then a hole opened in the face, and the hole was framed with teeth, and the face said, “Hey, Andy, long time no see.”