William Haggard - The New Black Mask (No 5)

They are still peppering the atmosphere with their jive. But the give and take is no longer cool and smooth. They have obviously shifted into bitterness. He presses off five shots of the bitterness; it could mean trouble in River City for Sugar, but frankly, Mr. Ito is rather pleased. The little man has held to the high ground, he is clinging to his well-earned points. In fact, he is dishing it out with panache.

Experiencing a surge of elation, Mr. Ito swings around for some background material. He locates the calmly stolid International House, soaring Riverside Church. To his left a couple with the look of young American Gothic stamped on their open faces: Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, Rocky Mountain high. He ripples off eight versions of Heartland Innocence. As he does he is aware, once more, of the voices of the “businessmen.” They have jumped beyond bitterness. Bark. Snap. Dart. Crack. Back and forth, a bit like his son and best friend after a baseball game. Dutch is surely responding to the earnest little man: So you’re on the level, so you’re giving it to me absolutely straight, so what ?

Sugar tells him so what, but is now getting it back in spades. As they harshly kick it around, Mr. Ito picks out one word. Over and over that same word. No, not a word. A name. Vic. Yes, Vic. The heartland couple are posing for a stranger, and Mr. Ito ponders Vic. Could he be Mr. Big? Is he the power behind that fat little throne? His ears focus as sharply as his camera. Vic. Again. Yet again. Chiefly from Sugar. He is certainly a major factor in his life, this Vic. Here we go again. Hold it, time out. Try another entry point. But of course. Mr. Ito gently tosses a smile at the Gothics, but of course does not look at them. Our man is not Vic, he is Vicksburg. The town of Vic(k). And Sugar is digging up all the information planted long ago by the general, imparting same to Mr. Savvy. And surely throwing in some Sugar-history as an extra-added attraction. All of it adding up to the major point, and if my record is stuck in this groove, you had better believe it I cannot pull a bad scene before the Hero of Vicksburg, under the gaze, if you will, of my main man.

Mr. Ito is itching to smile broadly. But he merely points his camera at the innocent couple, and then behind them, on the wall, at the rather nasty observation that “USA SIK.”

The two men are walking again. Sugar heavily, Dutch with the smooth, rolling stride. He is also all action as he walks, arms flailing, waving away the classic siege on the Mississippi, gums flapping as if they were chomping air. No doubt he is asking the limping little man, “But what has your soldier boy done for you recently?”

Although his point has been missed by a country mile, Sugar is patient. The man brought me here, he gave me my chance. Remaining well behind, Mr. Ito clicks, nods.

They stop. Mr. Ito slides to one side, he stops. Sugar is pointing. To his feet. Cheap, worn-out canal boats. Now he points south, along the Hudson. Splendid chap. There is another river, Big Muddy. Sugar will make a pilgrimage down to Vicksburg on the banks of Big Muddy. The loyal finger jabs thrice; along the way its owner will pay some overdue respects to Orchard Knob, Lookout Mountain, The Wilderness. Mr. Ito sighs with pleasure; the Pentax clicks with pleasure.

Dutch views it from quite another angle. One can easily dig his words; the context provides the content: “How do you make it to Old Man River in the absence of dough? And where do you obtain the dough if you do not do a deal?”

It is actually a very good point. Two good points. Shrewd points. From a very shrewd apple. They seem to tip the little man galley west. But only for a moment. He is responding and one does not have to be a mind reader: “Do not let it bug you. Where there is a will, there is a payday.”

Very good. Excellent. The face of Dutch reveals that with utmost clarity. He is clearly wigged.

Sugar shrugs easily. He has a very skilled shrug. A bit like the shrug of Mr. Ito’s son, but, of course, with much more sincerity. The two men gaze at each other. The camera gazes at the two men.

A break in the silent action. Dutch. Suddenly laughing. The laughter is building, then it is doubling over. Dutch is bending down, pounding the area above the fat basketball, searching for breath. Mr. Ito, frowning, snaps “Plump Hilarity.” He remains with his subject, as finally, still gasping, he straightens up. Now that he is flying right, he points at the Tomb. He leans forward, and a word kicks out It can be but one word: Jerk.

The camera swivels. The dignified face absorbs the word, not for the first time. Sugar is surely, and patiently, replying (and not for the first time), “Oh? Why a jerk?”

Expensive Bally shoes inch closer. Mr. Ito knows the answer to that one. He would dearly like to intercept the words, but the recording realist takes the picture, he does not paint it. He does, however zoom to his closest limit for the inevitable response:

“You are a jerk, old friend, because your winner is a loser .”

The little man bears up beautifully. His words are soft, low, almost melodic. He wants to know the rationale behind that miserable jive.

The man who seems to be inflating under his cabana shirt comes back with the utmost coolness: “Because, my friend, your general was a rummy boozer.”

Sighing, Mr. Ito swings to the general’s bodyguard, his soulguard. If only he could answer as Cab Calloway would. Ah, he is answering. Oh yes, exactly like the Cab: “Hi-dee-hi-dee-hi-dee-hi!”

Dutch shakes his head sadly.

“Ho-dee-ho-dee-ho-dee-ho!” (Thank you, Cab.)

“I will say it again, old pal. He was a bottle baby.”

Sugar is absolutely ready. “As President Lincoln remarked, not inaptly, ‘Determine his brand of hooch and serve it up to my other boys.’ ” Sugar cracks a smile. “Take a quart for yourself, old pal.” Four joyful clicks.

The man who had been in charge hesitates. The Little Caesar is racking that cunning gray matter. Of course he will come back with something, the overseers always do. And, on cue, here it is, as Mr. Ito runs his sound track:

“All rights Sugar, I am heartily sick of this jive. I demand a full deck.” Mr. Ito cranes forward. “Are you really and truly telling me you refuse to do a deal?”

The head of Sugar Man: a curt nod. “You have got it, old friend.”

“All because of your hooching general?”

“Because of my general.”

The grim smile narrows. “I suppose I can place that in my pipe and smoke it?”

“That would be cool.”

“I dig… I dig…” The Pentax is jammed against its owner’s cheekbone, but the finger on the button is pressing smoothly. The receiving mind is finely tuned:

“Sugar, you are pushing hard. So pay attention and dig me good.”

Shrug.

“Hobba hobba good.”

Shrug.

“All right, come and get it. Your general, you silly chump, was a crook, a low-down, dirty crook.”

A tiny flick of the shoulder, as if the shrug is trying to fight through. Then the shoulder is quiet.

Dutch keeps going: “Well? What is your story, morning glory?”

The camera does not waver, it dare not If only the little man would reenter the ball park. Something, anything… Ah… Quietly, calmly: “President Lincoln said he was my man…”

Dutch eats that up, gobbles it up. “There is evidence, old boy, that President Lincoln did not always place both oars in the water.”

“Hey, Dutch, don’t say that.”

“No? Play this on your record machine. Your general was the worst president we ever had. Double zero.”

Suddenly, the sad, neutral face begins to sway from side to side, as if it were weaving away from tough, snapping jabs. Mr. Ito sends help, so does the camera, but the face keeps swaying, for the Dutchman is implacable: