Lawrence Block - When the Sacred Ginmill Closes

"Just an acting job."

"You could look at it that way."

"Judas was pretty good, too. He got an Oscar nomination but he couldn't be present at the awards ceremony."

"You make a funny-looking Jesus, Arthur. You're just not right for the part."

Skip stared hard at him. "I don't get it," he said. "You're not even ashamed of yourself."

"Would that make you happy?A little show of shame?"

"You thinkit's okay, right? Putting your best friend through hell, costing him a lot of money? Stealing from him?"

"You never stole, right, Arthur?"

"What are you talking about?"

"How'd you come up with twenty grand, Arthur? What did you do, save your lunch money?"

"We skimmed it. That's not much of a secret. You mean I stole from the government? Show me anybody with a cash businesswho doesn't."

"And how did you get the money to open the joint? How did you and John get started? Did you skim that, too? Tips you didn't declare?"

"So?"

"Bullshit! You worked behind the stick at JackBalkin's joint and you stole with both hands. You did everything but take the empties to the grocery store for the deposit. You stole so muchoffa Jack it's a wonder he didn't have to close the place."

"He made money."

"Yeah, and so did you. You stole, and Johnny stole where he was working, and lo and behold, the two of you got enough to open a place of your own. Talk about the American Dream, that's the American Dream. Steal from the boss until you can afford to open up in competition with him."

Skip said something inaudible.

"What's that? I can't hear you, Arthur."

"I said bartenders steal. It's expected."

"Makes it honest, right?"

"I didn't screwBalkin. I made money for him. You can twist it all you want,Bobby, you can't make me into what you are."

"No, you're a fucking saint, Arthur."

"Jesus," Skip said. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what I'm going to do."

"I do. You're notgonna do anything."

"I'm not?"

Bobby shook his head. "What are yougonna do? Yougonna get the gun from behind the bar, come back and shoot me with it? You're notgonna do that."

"I ought to."

"Yeah, but it's notgonna happen. You want to hit me? You're not even mad anymore, Arthur. You think yououghta be mad but you don't feel it. You don't feel anything."

"I-"

"Listen, I'm beat," Bobby said. "I'mgonna make it an early night if nobody objects. Listen, guys, I'll pay it back one of these days. The whole fifty thousand. When I'm a star, you know? I'm good for it."

"Bobby-"

"I'll see you," he said.

AFTER the three of us had walked Skip around the corner and said goodnight to him, after JohnKasabian had flagged a cab and headed uptown, I stood on the corner with Billie Keegan and told him I'd made a mistake, that I shouldn't have told Skip what I'd learned.

"No," he said. "You had to."

"Now he knows his best friend hates his guts." I turned, looked up at theParc Vendome. "He lives on a high floor," I said. "I hope he doesn't decide to go out a window."

"He's not the type."

"I guess not."

"You had to tell him," Billie Keegan said. "What are yougonna do, let him go on thinking Bobby's his friend? That kind of ignorance isn't bliss. What you did, you lanced a boil for him. Right now it hurts like a bastard but it'll heal. You leave it, it just gets worse."

"I suppose."

"Count on it. If Bobby got by with this he'd do something else. He'd keep on until Skip knew about it, because it's not enough to screw Skip, Bobby'sgotta rub his nose in it while he's at it. You see what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Am I right?"

"Probably.Billie? I want to hear that song."

"Huh?"

"The sacredginmill, cuts the brain in sections. The one you played for me."

" 'LastCall.' "

"You don't mind?"

"Hey, come on up. We'll have a couple."

We didn't really drink much. I went with him to his apartment and he played the song five, six times for me. We talked a little, but mostly we just listened to the record. When I left he told me again that I'd done the right thing in exposing BobbyRuslander. I still wasn't sure he was right.

I slept late the next day. That night I went out toSunnysideGardens inQueens with Danny Boy Bell and two uptown friends of his. There was a middleweight on the card, a Bedford-Stuyvesant kid Danny Boy's friends had an interest in. He won his fight handily, but I didn't think he showed a whole lot.

The following day was Friday, and I was having a late lunch in Armstrong's when Skip came in and had a beer with me. He'd just come from the gym and he was thirsty.

"Jesus, I was strong today," he said. "All the anger goes right into the muscles. I could have lifted the roof off the place. Matt? Did I patronize him?"

"What do you mean?"

"All that shit about I made him my pet actor. Was that true?"

"I think he was just looking for a way to justify what he did."

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe I do what he said. Remember you got a hair up your ass when I paid your bar tab?"

"So?"

"Maybe I did that with him. But on a bigger scale." He lit a cigarette, coughed hard. Recovering, he said, "Fuck it, the man's a scumbag. That's all. I'm justgonna forget about it."

"What else can you do?"

"I wish I knew. He'll pay me back when he's rich and famous, I liked that part. Is there any way we can get the money back from those other two fucks? We know who they are."

"What can you threaten them with?"

"I don't know. Nothing, I guess. The other night you gathered everybody together for a war council, but that was just setting the stage, wasn't it?To have everybody on hand when you put it all on Bobby."

"It seemed like a good idea."

"Yeah.But as far as having a war council, or whatever you want to call it, and figuring out a way to sandbag those actors and get the money back-"

"I can't see it."

"No, neither canI. What am Igonna do, stick up the stickup men? Not really my style. And the thing is,it's only money. I mean that's really all it is. I had this money in the bank, where I wasn't really getting anything out of it, and now I haven't got it, and what difference does it make in my life? You know what I mean?"

"I think so."

"I just wish I could let go of it," he said, "because I go around and around and around with it in my mind. I just wish I could leave it alone."

I had my sons with me that weekend. It was going to be our last weekend together before they went off to camp. I picked them up at the train station Saturday morning and put them back on the train Sunday night. We saw a movie, I remember, and I think we spent Sunday morning exploring down around Wall Street and the Fulton Fish Market, but that may have been a different weekend. It's hard to distinguish them in memory.

I spent Sunday evening in the Village and didn't get back to my hotel until almost dawn. The telephone woke me out of a frustrating dream, an exercise in acrophobic frustration; I kept trying to descend from a perilous catwalk and kept not reaching the ground.

I picked up the phone. A gruff voice said, "Well, it's not the way I figured it would go, but at least we don't have to worry about losing it in court."

"Who is this?"

"Jack Diebold. What's the matter with you? You sound like you're half asleep."

"I'm up now," I said. "What were you talking about?"

"You haven't seen a paper?"

"I was sleeping. What did-"

"You know what time it is? It's almost noon. You're keeping pimp's hours, you son of a bitch."

"Jesus," I said.

"Go getyourself a newspaper," he said. "I'll call you in an hour."

THE News gave it the front page. KILL SUSPECT HANGS SELF IN CELL, with the story on page three.