John Passos - Manhattan transfer

He walked into the chilly park and sat down on a bench. There was hoarfrost on the asphalt. He picked up a torn piece of pink evening newspaper. $500,000 HOLDUP. Bank Messenger Robbed in Wall Street Rush Hour.

In the busiest part of the noon hour two men held up Adolphus St John, a bank messenger for the Guarantee Trust Company, and snatched from his hands a satchel containing a half a million dollars in bills…

Dutch felt his heart pounding as he read the column. He was cold all over. He got to his feet and began thrashing his arms about.

Congo stumped through the turnstile at the end of the L line. Jimmy Herf followed him looking from one side to the other. Outside it was dark, a blizzard wind whistled about their ears. A single Ford sedan was waiting outside the station.

‘How you like, Meester ’Erf?’

‘Fine Congo. Is that water?’

‘That Sheepshead Bay.’

They walked along the road, dodging an occasional bluesteel glint of a puddle. The arclights had a look of shrunken grapes swaying in the wind. To the right and left were flickering patches of houses in the distance. They stopped at a long building propped on piles over the water. POOL; Jimmy barely made out the letters on an unlighted window. The door opened as they reached it. ‘Hello Mike,’ said Congo. ‘This is Meester ’Erf, a frien’ o mine.’ The door closed behind them. Inside it was black as an oven. A calloused hand grabbed Jimmy’s hand in the dark.

‘Glad to meet you,’ said a voice.

‘Say how did you find my hand?’

‘Oh I kin see in the dark.’ The voice laughed throatily.

By that time Congo had opened the inner door. Light streamed through picking out billiard tables, a long bar at the end, racks of cues. ‘This is Mike Cardinale,’ said Congo. Jimmy found himself standing beside a tall sallow shylooking man with bunchy black hair growing low on his forehead. In the inner room were shelves full of chinaware and a round table covered by a piece of mustardcolored oilcloth. ‘Eh la patronne,’ shouted Congo. A fat Frenchwoman with red applecheeks came out through the further door; behind her came a chiff of sizzling butter and garlic. ‘This is frien o mine… Now maybe we eat,’ shouted Congo. ‘She my wife,’ said Cardinale proudly. ‘Very deaf… Have to talk loud.’ He turned and closed the door to the large hall carefully and bolted it. ‘No see lights from road,’ he said. ‘In summer,’ said Mrs Cardinale, ‘sometime we give a hundred meals a day, or a hundred an fifty maybe.’

‘Havent you got a little peekmeup?’ said Congo. He let himself down with a grunt into a chair.

Cardinale set a fat fiasco of wine on the table and some glasses. They tasted it smacking their lips. ‘Bettern Dago Red, eh Meester ’Erf?’

‘It sure is. Tastes like real Chianti.’

Mrs Cardinale set six plates with a stained fork, knife, and spoon in each and then put a steaming tureen of soup in the middle of the table.

‘Pronto pasta,’ she shrieked in a guineahen voice. ‘Thisa Anetta,’ said Cardinale as a pinkcheeked blackhaired girl with long lashes curving back from bright black eyes ran into the room followed by a heavily tanned young man in khaki overalls with curly sun-bleached hair. They all sat down at once and began to eat the peppery thick vegetable chowder, leaning far over their plates.

When Congo had finished his soup he looked up. ‘Mike did you see lights?’ Cardinale nodded. ‘Sure ting… be here any time.’ While they were eating a dish of fried eggs and garlic, frizzled veal cutlets with fried potatoes and broccoli, Herf began to hear in the distance the pop pop pop of a motorboat. Congo got up from the table with a motion to them to be quiet and looked out the window, cautiously lifting a corner of the shade. ‘That him,’ he said as he stumped back to the table. ‘We eat good here, eh Meester Erf?’

The young man got to his feet wiping his mouth on his forearm. ‘Got a nickel Congo,’ he said doing a double shuffle with his sneakered feet. ‘Here go Johnny.’ The girl followed him out into the dark outer room. In a moment a mechanical piano started tinkling out a waltz. Through the door Jimmy could see them dancing in and out of the oblong of light. The chugging of the motorboat drew nearer. Congo went out, then Cardinale and his wife, until Jimmy was left alone sipping a glass of wine among the debris of the dinner. He felt excited and puzzled and a little drunk. Already he began to construct the story in his mind. From the road came the grind of gears of a truck, then of another. The motorboat engine choked, backfired and stopped. There was the creak of a boat against the piles, a swash of waves and silence. The mechanical piano had stopped. Jimmy sat sipping his wine. He could smell the rankness of salt marshes seeping into the house. Under him there was a little lapping sound of the water against the piles. Another motorboat was beginning to sputter in the far distance.

‘Got a nickel?’ asked Congo breaking into the room suddenly. ‘Make music… Very funny night tonight. Maybe you and Annette keep piano goin. I didnt see McGee about landin… Maybe somebody come. Must be veree quick.’ Jimmy got to his feet and started fishing in his pockets. By the piano he found Annette. ‘Wont you dance?’ She nodded. The piano played Innocent Eyes . They danced distractedly. Outside were voices and footsteps. ‘Please,’ she said all at once and they stopped dancing. The second motorboat had come very near; the motor coughed and rattled still. ‘Please stay here,’ she said and slipped away from him.

Jimmy Herf walked up and down uneasily puffing on a cigarette. He was making up the story in his mind… In a lonely abandoned dancehall on Sheepshead Bay… lovely blooming Italian girl… shrill whistle in the dark… I ought to get out and see what’s going on. He groped for the front door. It was locked. He walked over to the piano and put another nickel in. Then he lit a fresh cigarette and started walking up and down again. Always the way… a parasite on the drama of life, reporter looks at everything through a peephole. Never mixes in. The piano was playing Yes We Have No Bananas . ‘Oh hell!’ he kept muttering and ground his teeth and walked up and down.

Outside the tramp of steps broke into a scuffle, voices snarled. There was a splintering of wood and the crash of breaking bottles. Jimmy looked out through the window of the diningroom. He could see the shadows of men struggling and slugging on the boatlanding. He rushed into the kitchen, where he bumped into Congo sweaty and staggering into the house leaning on a heavy cane.

‘Goddam… dey break my leg,’ he shouted.

‘Good God.’ Jimmy helped him groaning into the diningroom.

‘Cost me feefty dollars to have it mended last time I busted it.’

‘You mean your cork leg?’

‘Sure what you tink?’

‘Is it prohibition agents?’

‘Prohibition agents nutten, goddam hijackers… Go put a neeckel in the piano.’ Beautiful Girl of My Dreams , the piano responded gayly.

When Jimmy got back to him, Congo was sitting in a chair nursing his stump with his two hands. On the table lay the cork and aluminum limb splintered and dented. ‘Regardez moi ça… c’est foutu… completement foutu.’ As he spoke Cardinale came in. He had a deep gash over his eyes from which a trickle of blood ran down his cheek on his coat and shirt. His wife followed him rolling back her eyes; she had a basin and a sponge with which she kept making ineffectual dabs at his forehead. He pushed her away. ‘I crowned one of em good wid a piece o pipe. I think he fell in de water. God I hope he drownded.’ Johnny came in holding his head high. Annette had her arm round his waist. He had a black eye and one of the sleeves of his shirt hung in shreds. ‘Gee it was like in the movies,’ said Annette, giggling hysterically. ‘Wasnt he grand, mommer, wasn’t he grand?’