Meyer Levin - Compulsion

And Judd said, “No, I’ve got the lousy Harvard Law exam.” And if it waited past the exam, and past the weekend, it would already reach the week before his sailing. Then, Max’s engagement party…

“All right,” Artie gave him that cunning look, and pinned him, moving the date forward instead of farther away. “Wednesday.”

And Judd could say nothing except, “Hey, we were supposed to have lunch with Willie.”

“The nuts!” Artie said. Willie would be an alibi, ready-made. Wednesday, then. Yesterday.

After his ten-o’clock, driving down Michigan with Artie. “I had one of your cars out, once before. James Singer. Just got back into town.” And then the two cars driving back south, Artie ahead of him in the Willys, pushing the speed, and himself racing the Bearcat, nose to tail. Then, picking up the last things. The hydrochloric, though he wasn’t entirely sure – maybe sulphuric would work faster. But hydrochloric should do it. Two drugstores, without any luck. At the third, Artie going in, otherwise too many druggists might remember the same short, dark young man with the unusual request. Artie, bringing it. And finally the chisel. A hardware store on Cottage Grove. Artie knowing the kind that was best, the kind with the steel going all the way up through the wooden head.

And then stopping to get Max’s boots. And remembering – a silken cord. Artie tramping through the bedrooms. “Hey, how about this?” The cord from the old man’s dressing gown. Great!

“No, he might miss it.” Then, Artie: “All right, the hell, any piece of rope. Buy some clothes line. Wait, don’t forget to pick up the goddam adhesive tape.” In the medicine chest.

And then just time enough before lunch to stop in Jackson Park, Artie showing him how to wind the tape around the chisel, thick around the blade – tape makes a perfect grip.

Thus, all set. The lunch at the Windermere, and Willie, Willie the Horrible Hebe with his oily dark face, trying to act real clever, quoting from Havelock Ellis, flashing his medical-student sex-anatomy knowledge, trying to play up to Artie, and never knowing, never having the faintest idea what was going on between his luncheon partners.

Coming out, they ducked Willie, so he wouldn’t see the car they were using. Then, on the way to the Twain School, Judd went into his house once more. From the bottom drawer in Max’s room, he took the revolver. Artie already had his own, in his pocket.

Even when they were ready on the spot, waiting, so close to the school, it still did not seem that the thing was happening. The school doors opened, and a flock emerged – first a few, then the thick mass of them, spreading over the street. Judd saw himself as he had been among them only a few years ago, the spindly-legged crazy bird, smaller, younger than anybody. “Hey! Genius!” a redheaded comedian would call – “Hey, Genius, I saw a funny bird, right on Ellis Avenue.” And, falling for it, “What was it like?” “A Crazy Bird!” and the comedian would be pointing at him, and the whole gang howling. The punks, the snots! Why, even at that time he could name and identify over two hundred species!

And maybe picking up one of these punks today would be a kind of revenge for his miserable years in this miserable school. Today’s flock, or the flock around him four years ago – all crowds were the same, raucous humanity, stupes…

But coolly, Judd checked himself. What he was doing today was not for revenge. He must have no feelings about those days. Even then, as a kid, he had known that he must not feel anything. That way, nothing could hurt.

Therefore, no revenge. No emotional connection. This was an exercise in itself, a deed like a theorem.

“Hey, ixnay.” Artie gestured for him to drive on. Too many of these kids were coming toward the car. Some might know them. Artie slid down in his seat, while the car rolled around the block. By then the flock was already broken up. A few kids walked with maids who always called for them, and some lingered in small groups, girls especially. Then Artie nudged, pointing his chin. “Richard Weiss.”

A good one. A cousin of their pal Willie, and a grandson of Nathan Weiss, the biggest investment banker in Chicago, the financier behind all their family fortunes, the Strauses, the Hellers, the Seligmans. Little Richard Weiss was turning into 49th Street. It took a moment to make the U-turn, and by the time they came to 49th Street, the kid was not in sight.

In that momentary interval, the whole thing went down again in Judd. Perhaps losing the kid was an omen that it wouldn’t really be done. “The hell with him,” Artie said. “Let’s go back to the school.”

If by now the school street was clear, then today’s chance would have been lost, and tomorrow Judd could say he really had to get ready for his exam.

“Hey!” Judd followed Artie’s glance. Across from the school, on the play lot – a whole flock of them. “Watch me!” Boldly, Artie walked across to the lot. Judd sat staring, feeling a kind of awe. This was the way of a man entirely above normal fears and rules. So bold an impulse would never have occurred in himself, Judd knew.

Artie walked casually on to the lot. Judd saw him stop and put his arm around his kid brother, Billy. Would he really bring Billy!

He was leaving the lot alone. Judd pulled the car ahead a short distance to get out of sight of the kids. Catching up, jumping into the car, Artie said excitedly, “There’s a whole bunch of good ones. Mickey Bass.” His old man owned the South Shore Line. “And the Becker kid – but he’s pretty husky.”

“How about Billy Straus?” Judd suggested. “His old man is the richest Jew in town.”

Artie grinned. Then he shook his head. “How would we collect? Cops would be all over the house; I couldn’t make a move.” He looked back toward the lot. “I’ll tell you. Let’s make it the first good one that leaves the ball game.”

They waited. Artie became restless. Motioning Judd to follow, he dodged around behind the play lot; from the alley they could watch the kids – birds with their random movements, stirring on the vacant lot. Artie was getting dangerously close. And yet not near enough to recognize one kid from another, especially those at the distant end of the field. They seemed to go on endlessly with their ball game. “Damn it,” Judd said, “you need field glasses.”

“Hey! You’re a genius!” Artie squeezed his arm. “Let’s go!”

“What?”

“Let’s get your goddam glasses!”

Fleetingly, Judd wondered, was even Artie at that moment giving the whole plan a chance to collapse? Allowing a chance for all the kids to disappear while they went back for the field glasses?

The house was quiet. Up in Judd’s room, Artie went straight for the Bausch and Lomb, grabbing the case. “Take it easy!” Judd cried. “They’re delicate!”

Standing by the window, Artie focused. “This is the nuts! Christ, you could reach out your mitt and grab one of them!”

Judd stood close to Artie. It was one of those moments, perhaps because of being safe together in the room, and yet in the midst of their wild game – one of those moments when he could almost groan with excitation.

Artie turned to let him use the binoculars. And from the look in Artie’s eyes, that almost mocking look, Judd knew that Artie knew. “Come on!” Artie laughed, bounding for the stairs. “We’ll miss them!”

Into the car again, and back beneath the tree. They took turns with the field glasses. It was so strange, watching a kid as he bent to tie his shoe lace, then stood up, waiting. Like a bird, preening, lifting his head, listening.

Artie said, “One’s coming!” Judd started the motor. Then Artie shook his head. “No. I dunno.” They waited, the motor running. Judd felt Artie’s hand on his thigh, warm, tense, ready. Anything, anything to have times like this with Artie.