Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“Are you coming out?”

Al got to his feet and flushed the toilet. The old man said something, but it was lost behind the racket of the water.

When he opened the door he found the old man still standing there.

“I never did get finished,” Al said.

The old man clapped him excitedly on the back as they walked up the hall to the living room. “I’ll buy you lunch,” he said. “I’m treating.”

“Okay,” Al said.

Harman glanced at him without expression. He had put on a black Italian knitted sports shirt and slacks and crepe-soled shoes while Al had been in the bathroom; he was ready to go. “I hope we can all fit in the Mercedes,” he said, leading the way.

“If not,” Al said, “one of us can follow in the truck.”

Harman said, “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No,” Al said.

To that, Harman said nothing. They stepped down a short flight of stairs and into the garage, where the Mercedes was parked. Harman got out his keys and unlocked the car door, holding it for the old man to enter.

“Al has an old Marmon,” the old man said as he seated himself on the black leather seat in the back, his hands on his knees. “Don’t you, Al? Sixteen cylinder.”

“Is that so?” Harman murmured as he and Ross got in. “That must be quite a car. A collector’s item. Here.” He handed Al the keys.

“I can’t drive,” Al said.

“Why not?” Harman said in a slow, calm voice.

“I lost my license,” Al said.

After a pause, the old man said, “Hey Al, you’re spoiling the fun. You’re always so God damn gloomy and sore.” To Harman he said, “He’s always this way. He’s got a grudge against the world.”

“I didn’t really lose my license,” Al said. “I just don’t feel like driving.”

“That’s what I mean,” the old man said. He was breathing rapidly, and he sat with his hand pressed tightly against his coat. His face had a pinched, flat cast to it, an inertness. Speaking as if he were in pain, he said, “He put me on his shit list because I sold my garage. He wanted me to support him the rest of his life.” He halted, grimacing. “Fix his wrecks for him.”

Harman sat thoughtfully plucking at his lips. He did not seem ruffled or at a loss; he pondered, looked for a moment at the old man and then at Al, and then, swinging around, he opened the car door and stepped out. “No problem,” he said. “Mrs. Harman will be glad to fix us lunch. We’ll finish our business here.”

Still seated in the back of the Mercedes, the old man said in a strained voice, “I—hate to put her to any trouble.”

Ross said, “We could even send out for a caterer.” He, too, stepped from the car. Finally the old man, holding on tightly to the car door, got out. Only Al remained in the car.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Al said.

“What?” Harman said.

“I said it’s no trouble at all.” Al climbed from the car. “I’m starved,” he said. “Let’s pitch in. Tell her to bear down and really whip up something nice.”

“Sure,” the old man said, panting. “You won’t do anything for anybody else, but you want them to wait on you.” To Harman he said, “Isn’t that human nature? I tell you, it’s really funny. This guy ought to be grateful to me. He sure got a good low rent from me on that desirable lot. That’s why he’s so sore; he knows he’ll never get anyone else to solve all his problems for him, the way I did.” Starting on back through the house, he said over his shoulder, “I don’t know why you want to go out and hire anybody like that. You really made a mistake.”

As they entered the dining room, Harman drew Al off to one side. “This enmity between you two,” he said. “I have no desire to mix into anybody’s personal situation, but it might have been better if you had given me some inkling in advance. Don’t you think? Simply from a practical standpoint.”

“Maybe so,” Al said.

“In any case, you probably ought to bear in mind that he’s an old man. And he’s been seriously ill. It’s not my place to give you advice, of course.”

“There’s something to that,” Al said.

“I think it’s a good rule,” Harman said, “to keep one’s private life and one’s business life separate. It strikes me that you’ve got the two muddled together, to the detriment of all of us. Now let’s try to get things back on a civil footing, and then later on—”

Al said, “It’s no use, Chris.”

After an interval, Harman said, “What does that signify?”

“The jig is up,” Al said.

For a long time Harman scrutinized him. Ross appeared, but Harman waved him away. The old man, at the far end of the dining room, was chattering with Mrs. Harman about food; his voice penetrated the whole room. He seemed to have gotten back most of his energy.

“We placed that call,” Al said.

“What call?” Harman said. His forehead had become as white as tusk. There was no hair on it at all, Al noticed; it was absolutely polished and smooth. It shone. “Miller,” he said, “do you know what I’m beginning to think about you? You’re a bullshitter. I should have been on to you from the start. You’ve been bullshitting me the whole way.” He did not seem especially disturbed; his voice was controlled.

Al continued, “The colored individual who called asked about the ‘Little Eva’ record. Did he not?”

Harman’s head moved up and down.

“Your response,” Al said, “was an offer to sell him some. But we weren’t fooled. It took a long time, Chris, but we did do it.”

“Did do what?” Harman said.

“We got inside,” Al said. “We penetrated your organization. You were right. We’re here, now.” He paused. “Aren’t we, Chris?”

Still Harman’s eyes showed no reaction. It was, Al thought, as if the man actually did not hear him. Had not heard in the slightest.

“And him,” Al said, pointing at the old man. “We reached him, too. You heard what he said. About the letter.”

Turning, Harman walked away from him. He walked over to Ross, Mrs. Harman, and the old man.

“You can’t get away,” Al said.

Harman did not stir. But the old man ceased talking. The room was silent. The old man, Bob Ross, Mrs. Harman all gazed at Al.

“We’ve watched your activities for a long time,” Al said. “In the main, we’ve found you a shrewd operator. You’ve interested us. But even good things can’t go on forever. And you’ve had quite a good thing going for you. Haven’t you, Chris? But now the time has come.” He walked from the dining room, into the hall. “We’re going to blow the whistle. On all of you.”

At the telephone he dialed, watching the three men and the woman. They remained where they were, in the dining room. Harman was saying something to them. Al could not catch it. He did not try.

The phone receiver clicked, and then, in Al’s ear, a woman’s voice said, “Good afternoon.” A warm, familiar, reassuring voice. “Lane Realty. This is Mrs. Lane.”

Al said, “This is Al.” The people in the dining room had stopped talking now. Their sound had died away.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Lane said. “How are you today, Mr. Miller? I been wondering about you, how you been getting along. Actually I been a little worried about you, but I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

“Could you come and pick me up?” he said.

Hesitating, she said, “I—you’re not at your lot, I know. I can see down there. Where you at?”

“I don’t have a car,” he said. “I’m up in Piedmont.” He gave her the address. “I’d appreciate it,” he said.

“Well,” she said, “by the tone of your voice I can perceive something is going on. I know you wouldn’t call me. Okay, Mr. Miller. There ain’t any bars in that neighborhood, so it ain’t that again. I’ll be there. As soon as I can. Should I just honk or—”