James Cain - The Baby in the Icebox and Other Short Fiction

“How would I know that?”

“Well, you might know by remembering what time the man came around to get the money last month and figuring he would come around the same day this month, and that we would have the money here waiting for him. That would be one way, wouldn’t it?”

“Let me tell you something, fellow: I don’t know a thing about this, or your furniture, or the collector, or nothing. And there ain’t nothing to show what I know. So you ain’t got nothing on me, see? So shag on. Go on down where you come from. So shut up. So that’s all. So good-bye.”

“Now, not so fast,”

“What now? I ain’t going to stay but here all night.”

“I’m just thinking about something. First off, we ain’t got nothing on you. That sure is a fact. We ain’t got nothing on you at all. Next off, them detectives ain’t got nothing on you. They called me up a little while ago and told me so. Said they couldn’t prove nothing.”

“It’s about time you was getting wise to yourself.”

“Just the same, you are the one that done it.”

“Huh?”

“I say you are the one that done it.”

“All right. All right. I’m the one that done it. Now go ahead and prove it.”

“Ain’t going to try to prove it. That’s a funny thing, ain’t it? Them detectives, when they start out on a thing like this, they always got to prove something, haven’t they? But me, I don’t have to prove nothing.”

“Come on. What you getting at?”

“Just this: Come on with that money, and come on with them jewels, or I sock you. And make it quick.”

“Now wait a minute... Wait a minute.”

“Sure. I ain’t in no hurry.”

“Maybe if I was to go in and look around... Maybe some of my kids done that, just for a joke—”

“Just what I told my wife, old man, now you mention it. I says to her, I says, ‘Them detectives is all wrong on that idea. Them kids upstairs done it,’ I says, ‘just for a joke.’”

“I’ll go in and take a look—”

“No. You and me, we set out here till I get them things in my hand. You just holler inside and tell the kids to bring them.”

“I’ll ring the bell and get one of them to the door—”

“That sure is nice of you, old man. I bet there’s a whole slew of them robberies done by kids just for a joke, don’t you? I always did think so.”

“This here,” said Mr. Kemper, after contemplating for a time the rear elevation of the Public Library, “is a bum park. You can twist your neck around till you got a crick in it and still you can’t tell what time it is. Let’s go down to City Hall. It’s plenty clocks down there.”

Mr. Needles said nothing.

“What the hell you doing with that paper anyhow?” continued Mr. Kemper fretfully. “You been gawping at it for a hour, and in the same place. If you can’t read it, then say so, but don’t keep looking at it that way. That there annoys me.”

“This here,” said Mr. Needles, “is a terrible thing.”

“What is it?” said Mr. Kemper.

“A guy what’s getting littler all the time,” said Mr. Needles. “Look at him. ‘Living at Soldiers’ Home in Sawtelle, Cal., he was five feet seven inches tall in 1914; now he is four feet ten inches. The case is of rare type.’”

“Rare and then some,” said Mr. Kemper. “More like raw.”

“How you mean?” said Mr. Needles.

“I mean it’s so rare it ain’t so,” said Mr. Kemper. “That there is just one more of them lies what the guys would get tired of that devilment after a while.”

“That there is so,” said Mr. Needles.

“H’m,” said Mr. Kemper.

“Because look at them pants,” said Mr. Needles.

“Well,” said Mr. Kemper, “them pants is for a bigger guy than he is, that’s a fact. H’m. And that coat don’t fit so good, neither.”

“That there is true,” said Mr. Needles. “I know it’s true. I feel it in my bones.”

“Well, then,” said Mr. Kemper, “what of it? Maybe that guy is better off little than he was big. He don’t eat so much, and that makes it easier. Or would, anyway, if he had to panhandle his grub off these eggs around here, ’stead of getting it free in a old soldiers’ home. Bryant Park. Was this here William Jennings Bryant a Scotchman, do you suppose?”

“I ain’t thinking about him,” said Mr. Needles. “I’m thinking about myself.”

“What you got to do with it?” said Mr. Kemper.

“Plenty,” said Mr. Needles, and lapsed into a gloomy silence. Then, after a long time: “I been worried about myself a long time. I ain’t as big as I was. Not nowhere near as big. And suppose I got this here disease too? ‘The case is of rare type,’ but if they got one, why can’t they have two?”

“No reason at all,” said Mr. Kemper. “’Cepting what ails you is you don’t get enough to eat. If you would get offen that bench more and work up and down Forty-second Street, panhandling enough nickels and dimes to get some grub what would stick to your ribs, why, then, you wouldn’t have that there disease. Nobody can’t stay the same size on coffee only.”

“He’s getting littler all the time,” said Mr. Needles. “Maybe I am too. And that there is a terrible thing.”

“What’s so terrible about it?” said Mr. Kemper. “I already told you maybe he was better off. And maybe so are you.”

“But suppose he would shrivel clean up like a balloon what has a leak and the wind all goes out?” said Mr. Needles. “Or maybe go away altogether, like a... like a... well, what the hell is that there like anyway?”

“Like a hole what somebody et the doughnut,” said Mr. Kemper.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Needles.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Kemper, “suppose he would? The next war what he fights in, nobody couldn’t shoot him. Looks like to me he would be still better off.”

“But how about his soul?” said Mr. Needles.

“That guy,” said Mr. Kemper, “he don’t look to me like he even got a soul.”

“But I got a soul,” said Mr. Needles.

“How you know?” said Mr. Kemper.

“Never mind how I know,” said Mr. Needles. “I know, and that’s enough.”

“Well, then, if you know, that’s enough and you ain’t got nothing to worry about. You never hear tell of no soul going out like a hole what somebody et the doughnut, did you? A soul, why that there is something what’s built to last.”

“I know,” said Mr. Needles, “but if I all shrivel up and go away like that, am I dead yet or not?”

“Well, now,” said Mr. Kemper, “that there is a question. It sure is. Of course, if you ain’t there no more, I guess you’re dead legal, all like of that. But are you really dead, let’s see now. I got to think about that.”

“I ain’t even sure I’m dead legal,” said Mr. Needles. “If it ain’t no dead body, how can a guy be dead legal? No coroner wouldn’t give no verdict without no remains.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Kemper. “It’s funny I didn’t think of that myself. Must of been because I was figuring on this other side of it.”

“What’s that?” said Mr. Needles.

“Suppose after you shrivel up and go out like that,” said Mr. Kemper, “suppose, then, you would start growing again. How about that?”

“What was that again?” said Mr. Needles.

“Suppose,” said Mr. Kemper, talking very slowly and distinctly, “after you went away and you wasn’t there no more, why maybe you got cured of this here disease and begun growing again. How about that? Would you be the same guy or would you be another guy? Or like the fellow says, a couple of other fellows?”

“Holy smoke,” said Mr. Needles. “Holy smoke, I never thought of that.”