Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“Sit down,” Fergesson said. “Your wife didn’t come along. I guess she’s still sore at me.”

Al seated himself across from him.

“I’m buying a new garage,” the old man said.

After a moment Al began to laugh.

“I mean it,” the old man said.

“I know you mean it,” Al said.

“You surprised? You are.”

“Sure,” Al said. “When did this happen? Today?”

“I went up and looked at it today,” the old man said. “It’s over in Marin County. I got a hot tip so I went over there. There’s a lot of big financiers involved in it. You ever heard of Achilles Bradford? He’s the big gun behind it all. They have millions involved.”

Al said, “Involved in what? I don’t get it.” He had lost his grin; he seemed to be bewildered.

“In a shopping center,” the old man said. “It’s called Gardens.” For the life of him he could not remember the name; it had escaped him. “Marin Gardens,” he said. “One of those tracts. Along the highway.” He ceased. The talking had made him pant; he sat getting back his wind, rubbing his chest with his hand. Al saw the motion, the care with which he explored and touched himself. The old man moved his hand away and laid it down on the arm of the couch.

“I’ll be darned,” Al said, in a slow voice.

“I don’t do any work,” the old man said. “Any physical work. Only supervising.”

Al nodded.

“What do you think?” the old man said.

“Sounds fine,” Al said.

“It’s just what I’ve been looking for,” the old man said. “It’s as new as tomorrow.” That was how he thought of it; he had come across that expression, and it fitted perfecdy. “It’s part of the atomic world,” he said. “You know. Modern. Everything modern.” Again he ceased talking and merely sat.

“Fine,” Al said.

“I’m really on the in,” the old man said. “This is the inside. I have people working for me, in contacts. This is something nobody knows about. This opportunity. I didn’t even tell Lydia.”

“I see,” Al said.

“You ought to get something like this,” the old man said.

“It takes money.”

“Sure,” the old man said. “I have to put up something like forty-five thousand dollars.”

Al’s face showed deep reaction; he was impressed.

“A lot,” the old man said, smiling. “Plenty of dough. I got thirty-five thousand from the garage. Then ten I have already. In stocks and bonds. Savings account.”

Al said, “You’re putting up everything on this? You better watch your step.”

“I’m watching my step,” he said.

“You have legal advice?”

“Sure,” the old man said. “Listen, you know who’s going to deal with Bradford for me?” He had been thinking it over, and he had made up his mind. “Boris doesn’t know anything about this kind of stuff,” he said. “It takes an expert.”

“Boris is your lawyer.”

“That’s right.” Breathing heavily, the old man said, “Harman is going to represent me and deal with the big boys.”

Al said, “Chris Harman? The dirty-record man?”

“Yes,” the old man said. “He drives the ’58 Cadillac; he owns that record place, Teach Records. I told you about him.”

“The motherfucker is a crook,” Al said.

“No,” the old man said. “The hell.”

“He is.”

“What do you know? How do you know?” He felt his pulse labor. His body labored. “Listen, you don’t know him. I know him for almost six years. We’re both businessmen.”

“He put you onto this?” Al said. “He wants your money.”

“You don’t know,” the old man said. “What do you know? How much have you amassed? Nothing.” His voice escaped him; it shook and faded. Clearing his throat, he said, “A bunch of old wrecks.”

“Listen,” Al said in a low voice. “That guy is a crook. I know he is. He probably owns this place, this Gardens. Everybody knows it, that he’s a crook.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Lane. The realtor.”

The old man sat up, saying, “That colored realtor?”

Al nodded.

“A colored pal of yours? That’s how you know?”

“That’s right,” Al said. “You talk to her. Call her.”

The old man said, “When do I call a colored and ask advice.”

“Now,” Al said. By degrees his face flushed.

“I don’t listen to colored,” the old man said.

“You listen to that fancy-dressed crook, because he’s got a Cadillac.”

They were both silent, facing each other, both breathing through their mouths.

“I don’t need your advice,” the old man said.

“You sure do. You’re getting senile.”

The old man could think of nothing to say.

“You must have fallen on your head,” Al said. “On your God damn head. Call your lawyer and tell him you’re being swindled by a crook. Call the district attorney. I’ll call the district attorney, the first thing tomorrow.”

“You keep out of it,” the old man said as loudly as he could. “Mind your own business.”

Suddenly there was Lydia in the room. Neither of them had noticed her come in; they both turned their heads at the same moment.

Lydia said, “What’s this about a crook swindling you out of your money?” She moved toward the old man, her eyes black and shining. “What does Mr. Miller mean? Why didn’t you say you invested your money from the garage in this place, which you don’t even know the name of?”

“It’s my business,” the old man said. He did not look at either of them; he stared down at the floor.

No one spoke.

To Lydia, Al said, “This guy’s a con man. I know he is.”

Going to the telephone, Lydia reached down and lifted up the receiver; holding it to Al she said, “You call this man, whatever his name is, and tell him there is no intention by my husband; he does not want to go into this.”

“Sure,” Al said. He started toward the phone. “But it wouldn’t mean anything,” he said. “What I say.”

“Then you say,” Lydia said to the old man. “You call him and tell him now. You have nothing in writing, do you? You did not go and sign anything, did you? I know not. I know in my heart that God did not permit you to go ahead; I have that faith.”

At last he said, “No. I didn’t.”

“Thank God in the heavens above us,” Lydia said. “As Schiller says,” it is an ode to the joy of the heavenly father beyond the band of stars.” Her eyes sparkled with relief and happiness.

The old man said, “I’m going to see him tomorrow.”

“No, you are not,” she said.

Al said, “There’s no problem; all you have to do is get hold of the district attorney and show your husband that this Harman is involved in this real-estate venture, this shopping center he wants Jim to invest in.”

The old man said, “Of course he’s involved in it. Otherwise how would he know about it?”

“I mean there’s a connection between him and Bradford,” Al said. “The guy who you’re going to have Harman represent you with.”

“If there wasn’t a connection,” the old man said, “how would Harman have known about it?” Excitedly, he said, “That’s the whole point. I know he’s connected; that’s the point.”

Al said, “I mean financially connected. This shopping center is financially his.”

“Then he really believes in it,” the old man said. “If he’s willing to put up his own money. That proves he thinks it’s reliable. He let me in on a good investment and he invested in it himself. Of course he did; you don’t know anything. You know nothing about this thing. You keep out of it—” He waved his hands at both Al Miller and Lydia. “You keep out of it, you women and boys. This is for me. What I say goes!”