Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“No,” he said. “Come on up to the porch. If you will.”

“I’ll get out of the car,” Mrs. Lane said. “But I won’t go any further than the sidewalk. You have to come down. Goodbye now.” She hung up then.

He put down the phone and walked back into the dining room. The four of them watched him silently as he approached.

“This is it,” he said.

Pressing her hands together, Mrs. Harman said, “Chris, is something dreadful going on?” She moved over to stand by her husband.

Bob Ross had relit his pipe. He seemed completely at sea; he started to say something and then, grunting, wandered off. Perhaps, Al thought, it was too much for him.

“Do you want to do business?” Al said to Harman. “With me?”

The old man said in a squeaky voice, “Listen, Al—you’re jealous of me and I wish you’d get the hell out of here. Isn’t that a fact? You’re doing this out of spite.” He, too, seemed confused; his hand, pressed against his coat, now scrabbled and then dug into the inside pocket. He brought out an envelope, and from it took a checkbook and a passbook; he studied them, his lips moving. “You know what I got in here?” he said to Al. “Want to know? Listen to this.” His head bobbed up and down, trembling. He swallowed, cleared his throat.

“That passbook is a fake,” Al said.

They all stood rigid, their eyes fixed on him.

“Didn’t you know that?” Al said to Harman. “Did you get hooked on that, too? God, he hooked me years ago, when we went into business together originally. That book’s been around since 1949. Eleven years. He uses it to establish credit; he waves it around. Like he’s doing now. With you.”

Bob Ross laughed.

Swiveling his head, Harman said, “What’s funny, Bob?”

“I just have to laugh,” Ross said. Again he laughed. “I’m not laughing at you,” he said, but he obviously was; he moved into the next room. They could still hear him laughing.

Very slightly, Harman smiled.

“Maybe he’s nuts,” Al said, nodding toward the old man. “I’ve wondered about that. He may very well think he’s really got all that money. Here’s what became of his garage. He went into bankruptcy. They took it over. That’s why he retired. He got nothing out of it. In fact, he owes his brother-in-law seven thousand and me five hundred; he borrowed up to the hilt.”

After a time, Harman said in a casual voice, “Well, we don’t have to dwell on it now.” He moved toward the kitchen. “We’ll have another round of drinks and then lunch.” To his wife, he said, “What about baked ham sandwiches and coffee? And possibly you could fix a salad.” To Al he said, “We’ve got some good French bread.”

As Mrs. Harman went past him and into the kitchen, Harman smiled at Al. He had completely regained his composure. Or, at least, he showed nothing but composure. This is really a smart man, Al said to himself. He knows that it can be checked on in half an hour. He needs to do nothing but put in a couple of phone calls to banks here in town, and then he’ll know all there is to know about the old man’s financial situation. He won’t waste his time trying to battle it out in words. There is no showdown in words, not with this.

I almost had him, Al Miller realized. I almost plugged him with words. But he knows too much about words. He knows they are nothing.

The old man had said nothing; he still stood holding his passbook. Then he put it away in his pocket and started from the dining room, back toward the front part of the house. Al walked after him. As he came into the living room, he saw the old man get the passbook out once more, glance at it, and then again put it away in his coat pocket.

“Fuck you,” the old man said, seeing him.

“The same to you,” Al said.

They were both silent.

There’s no use telling him I saved his money for him, Al said to himself, because he wouldn’t care anyhow. And I haven’t saved it because tomorrow or tonight or next week he will sign it over to Chris Harman anyhow. So it doesn’t matter. But, he thought, at least I didn’t have to stand there and watch it.

“This is a nice house,” the old man said hoarsely.

“Yeah,” Al said.

“Must cost around seventy-five thousand,” the old man said.

“I don’t know,” Al said. “The stucco’s beginning to crack. I think he’s let water get behind it. That’s what ruins stucco.”

From behind them, Harman said, “No water has gotten behind the stucco of this house. I can assure you of that, gentlemen.”

“Al knows everything,” the old man muttered. “No use arguing with him; he’s a know-it-all.”

“Evidently,” Harman said. “Well, the world can use that, too. Any ability can be useful, depending on what it’s applied to.” He gave Al an amiable smile.

There’re no hard feelings there, Al said to himself. That man can afford to be magnanimous; he knows what I know, that what he failed to get today he’ll get tomorrow anyhow. And he knows, too, that I’ve done everything I can; I’ve completely exposed myself, laid myself out bare, and accomplished nothing. I’ve shot my wad. Whatever menace I posed to him was over when he asked his wife to fix baked ham sandwiches and coffee; he had the situation back in his hands at that moment, and he will never lose it again.

To Harman, he said, “How about a raise?”

Startled, Harman said, “For—” He gasped and turned red.

“I think I’m worth more than I’m getting,” Al said.

“We’ll see,” Harman murmured, in an automatic manner; he had no other response, evidently. And then he collected himself. “I tend not to agree,” he said to Al. “No, I can’t agree at all.”

“Then I quit,” Al said.

To that, Harman had no response at all.

Outside, from the street, came the sound of a car horn.

“I’ll see you,” Al said. He walked to the window and looked out. There, on the sidewalk beside her old dun-colored Cadillac, stood Mrs. Lane, wearing a long heavy coat and peering up at the Harman house. Her hair was tied up in a silk scarf; she had not had time to dress as fully as she usually did. Seeing him, she gave a sign of recognition. He did the same, and started toward the front door of the Harman house.

Coming from the kitchen, Mrs. Harman said rapidly, “I’m glad to have met you, Mr.—” Her voice faltered.

Over in the corner Bob Ross stood smoking, saying nothing, watching everything with an ironic expression.

Harman walked to the window and glanced out; he had started to speak, to say goodbye to Al, perhaps. But then he made out Mrs. Lane.

“We’ll be seeing you, Harman,” Al said to him. “Again.”

He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. A moment later he was going down the flagstone path to the Cadillac. He did not look back. He’s probably signing over his money right now, he thought. Even before I’m gone. But there was nothing he could do about it, so he went on, to the parked car. Mrs. Lane had gotten back in behind the wheel; as soon as he opened the car door and seated himself, she drove out onto the street.

“I know who house that be,” she said presently.

“Yes,” Al said.

“Crazy Al Miller,” she said. “Coming back from that house, like some I don’t know what. Do you know?”

“No,” he said.

“Did you get it done?” she said. “Whatever you had to get done? Did you do it to your satisfaction?”

He said nothing.

“You didn’t,” she said.

“No,” he said.

“Too bad,” she said. “That really too bad. But anyhow you out of there. That something.”

“I hope so,” he said.

“Just don’t go back. Promise me, Mr. Miller. As one small West Oakland businessman speaking to another.”