William Haggard - The New Black Mask (No 5)

Dutch, to his friends.

No, not Arthur Flegenheimer, Mr. Ito is not that naive (for the King of Policy long ago bought the bloody bullet in that chophouse in Newark, New Jersey). Nor is he concerned any longer with numbers; times change and so does the big dough. This Dutch is playing the deadliest game in town, the Olympics of the Rackets. And playing it with the man who has been suckered from one misery to another. He is playing it with Sugar. A sigh, a click.

Mr. Ito thinks back to the lecture in Sapporo. The one that did not tell him anything startling but that made the scene a bit more graphic: “The Underculture of American Life.” He thinks specifically of the film that was quite effective. In fact he shuddered several times during the film, even as he shudders now at the memory of Reefer Madness. But the shudder has added quality and depth to itself, for the two people in his viewfinder have clearly moved far beyond the dizzying weed. The deal they are involved in doing is the big time. The goods. The stuff. The merchandise.

He circles gently, keeping a good distance, and snaps various angles of the thrusting, climactic moment. He catches the smile of the Dutchman that has widened a millimeter, he catches Sugar’s solemn mask. Catches a shake of two heads, professional nods, once more the stiffly perpendicular five. With a brief shock, Mr. Ito realizes that this is how they pass the merchandise. And he records three different perspectives of the expensive handclasp. In a short time, even the roughest and toughest frails will be kicking the gong around. Hardly a happy thought…

Dutch is looking at his hand. Still wearing the resigned smile with its touch of mirth, he is looking at his hand. Now, still with the smile in place, he is holding his hand out, palm upward. Sugar is examining the palm, like a gypsy reading fortunes. He is shrugging. Mr. Ito is pondering: open palm, shrug. Shrug. Ah. Empty palm. A palm sans merchandise. Click. The Dutchman’s smile hardens. Click. Sugar is gazing with an even defiance. Click.

Mr. Ito feels that it would be appropriate to turn away. This could be an extremely uncool moment. However, a socioeconomic problem has taken place and it must be captured if a realistic statement is to be valid. He places the problem in the center of his viewfinder and his finger descends. As it does, his active, reaching-out mind attempts to dig the ramifications…

It is quite clear that Sugar has not delivered the merchandise. Equally clear that somewhere soon the boss will be very disenchanted (Dutch, although powerful, is definitely not Mr. Big). When that chicken comes home to roost, the joint, to Sugar’s detriment, will surely start jumping.

The camera, as Mr. Ito works out the scene, continues to pump smoothly away, a silent partner to its owner’s busy, indeed teeming, brain. The camera catches Sugar talking very seriously and with great animation. No southern syrup here, no S. Fetchit, slipping and slurring. Now Sugar is pointing. The camera moves, catches the object of his intensity. The magnificent resting place of the hero general. Then it returns and catches Sugar plucking at the Dutchman’s arm. It catches a suddenly bemused smile, catches Sugar talking even faster. In his lecture in the linen factory, the camera man will call this group “Yakking His Way Out of Trouble.”

He frowns even as he takes the picture. That is most unfair. That hard-knock little man does not have to yak his way out of anything. He has paid a multitude of dues. If, on occasion, he has not always played on the straight and narrow, who has? Is the man pointing the camera so pure? Has he played flawless baseball? Mr. Ito flicks a shoulder; he is removing the image of the bosomy Rumanian woman in Beverly Hills, the evening of dice in Reno. He returns quickly to Sugar. He reaches for some more history…

There is the boy, attempting to improve himself in a school in the asphalt jungle. One can see him encountering hypocrisy, derision from his peers and, yes, from his teachers. They mock his dress, his speech, his manner. They cakewalk through the halls, dare Sambo to retaliate. He retains a firm grasp on his cool. Then on a climactic day it happens: the boy is conversing with the one person of empathic vibes, a golden-haired girl. One sees the bright face and the dark face talking with deep involvement at the top of a staircase. One sees white youths bursting into the scene, Rico, Tony, Alvin. The two are surrounded. Hard words. A blow. Another. A flaming rumble. The black lad falling heavily down the stairs, Rico giggling. The girl screaming. The boy’s leg crumples beneath his still form. The others swagger off, the girl runs for help. The boy awakens in an emergency clinic; the Kildares can only do so much. The boy will never walk normally again. Or return to school again. Or forget again…

Mr. Ito stares through his powerful lens. The two men have stopped beating their unproductive gums. They have begun to walk. They are walking side by side, Sugar with a quickstep limp, Dutch with a long, rolling gait, as if he were running rum and the boat was heaving beneath him. They are heading for the steps of the Tomb. Zoom. Snap. But this is quite confusing. When a deal falls through, the Little Caesar should be furious. At the very least, highly indignant, for a huge amount of lettuce is involved. Instead, the two are strolling calmly into the quiet building. Is it possible that they will do their expensive thing there?

Mr. Ito saunters after them. Of course he lags well behind. They mount the steps and disappear beneath “LET US HAVE PEACE.” He follows slowly, steps into the gloomy interior. Then, as if the general himself had nudged him, specific insight occurs. Sugar, quite simply, will not pass the goods under the very eyes of the man who smashed his chains! He has said this with very great emphasis so that the Dutchman cannot fail to dig the jive. He has, in addition, prevailed on his bemused partner to walk inside so that motivations will be perfectly clear. Acknowledging to himself that he may have sold Dutch a bit short, Mr. Ito mounts the steps.

In the quiet dimness the two of them are leaning over the marble rail. Sugar is pointing down. Dutch is nodding quite pleasantly. Holding his coolness at the ready, Mr. Ito strolls to the other side of the rotunda and then he also leans on the rail. However, he keeps an eye on his target: two gentlemen socializing, soaking up a bit of history.

They gaze down at the hero and his wife. The sepia member of the team is talking quietly and pointing down at the white caskets. The rise and fall of his voice is animated, but his face is especially sad. Small wonder. One has to infer that he has known only gold diggers and Minnie-the-Moochers in his checkered career. Frails who could not possibly have provided the affection and loyalty he needed, that Julia Grant gave to her better half. He has clearly struck a sensitive nerve, for Dutch is nodding heavily: he has had his own roll call of faithless molls. Mr. Ito zooms down and captures the singular devotion of the couple joined for all time. Very gently, he steps into the nearby alcove and records the long list of victories of the man who had nothing but support and encouragement in the home (he will enlarge this “fidelity” series and present it to Mrs. Ito). With a quiet sigh, he leaves the alcove.

They are gone.

They are not on the front steps.

They are not on the broad walkway.

Has Sugar flapped his excited gums in vain? Was Dutch oozing soft soap? Did he invoke the threat of the mob? Are some of the boys slinking about?

Mr. Ito quickly circles the Tomb, barely glancing at the scribbled tributes to Angel, Cheech, Batrat 80. Ah. There. Close by the iron-railed (rather insignificant) tribute to the general given by the Chinese many moons ago. He continues walking, with his tourist’s mug, to a point some thirty yards beyond the pair. Deliberately then he turns, he focuses.