Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“Why don’t you go home?” the rough little man said pleadingly. “It’s nuthin’ to me, but you’re only complicating yerself. Why don’t you go home?”

Barnum looked at him coldly for a moment.

“Then what happened?” a voice demanded from the crowd.

“‘Not this time, Spanish!’” Barnum cried. “And he went bang! bang! bang! bang!” Barnum moved his hand as though he was firing a heavy gun and fighting the recoil. “And he said, ‘How do you like that?’ and he looked at me and he went ‘Aaah!’” Barnum snarled it out, with every eye upon him, “and he disappeared, and this gentleman was dead.”

“As a good friend of yours,” the small rough man said earnestly, “I advise you to go home. You didn’t see nuthin’.…”

“What happened?” A voice shouted across the bobbing heads. By now it seemed to Barnum nearly a thousand people must be congregated around him, all with their eyes fixed eagerly on him, who never, even in his own home, could get three people at one time, even his wife and two children, to listen to him for as long as a minute without interruption.

“I was walking along,” Barnum said in a loud, ringing voice, “and this fellow …”

“Mistuh!” The small man shook his head despairingly. “Why’re you doing this? What’s it goin’ to get you? Trouble!”

“This fellow,” Barnum went on, disregarding the small, rough man, “walked past me and a man in a gray hat jumped out of a doorway …” Once more Barnum demonstrated. “‘There you are, you son of a bitch!’ he hollered and this fellow started to run and the man in the gray hat pulled out a gun …” Barnum snatched an imaginary pistol from under his armpit, pointed it at the corpse. “And he yelled, ‘Not this time, Spanish!’ and he went bang! bang! bang! bang! and he said, ‘How do you like that?’ and he looked at me and he went ‘Aaah!’ and he disappeared and this gentleman was dead.” Barnum was sweating heavily now from his leaps and snarls and the unaccustomed strain of talking so that a thousand people could hear every word, and his eyes were rolling with excitement. “And it was all over,” Barnum said dramatically, “and this gentleman was lying there looking up at me before you could blink your eyes.”

“Jesus Christ!” one of the four little boys in the inner circle said in deep admiration.

“Whoever you are,” the small man said to Barnum, “you’re a dope. Remember I told you. Good-bye.” And he pushed his way out of the crowd.

A big man with a red face tapped Barnum’s arm. He smiled engagingly at Barnum. “Did you really see it?” he asked.

“Did I see it!” Barnum waved his hand. “The bullets went past my head.”

“What happened?” the red-faced man asked.

“I was walking along,” Barnum began while the red-faced man listened with deep interest. “And this fellow was walking in front of me …”

“Louder!” a voice cried deep in the crowd.

“I WAS WALKING ALONG,” Barnum shouted, “AND THIS FELLOW WAS WALKING IN FRONT OF ME AND A MAN IN A GRAY HAT …” And Barnum went through the story, with gestures, while the red-faced man listened with respect.

“You saw the murderer close up?” the red-faced man inquired.

“Like you.” Barnum stuck his face right next to the other man’s.

“You’d know his face again if you saw it?”

“Like my wife’s …”

“Good,” said the red-faced man, taking Barnum by the elbow and starting out through the crowd, as the sirens of radio cars howled to a halt at the corner. “You’ll come with me to the police station and when we catch the murderer you’ll identify him. You’re a material witness. I’m glad I found you.”

Barnum, a year later, sighed in retrospect. For a whole year the murderer was not caught, and he sat in jail and lost his wife and children and a bearded Rumanian took his job and highwaymen and forgers beat him with mop handles and slop buckets. Every three days he would be taken down to look at some new collection of thugs. Each time he would have to shake his head because the man in the gray hat was not among them and then the young district attorney would say, sneeringly, “You’re one hell of a fine material witness, Barnum. Get him the hell out of here!” and the detectives would wearily drag him back to his cell. “We’re pertectin’ yuh,” the detectives would say when Barnum would ask to be freed. “Yuh wanna go out and have ’em blow yer brains out? That was Sammy Spanish that was killed. He’s an important figure. You know too much. Take it easy, yuh’re getting yer three squares a day, ain’t yuh?”

“I don’t know anything,” Barnum would say wearily, in a low voice, as they locked him into his cell, but they never paid any attention. Luckily, the district attorney got a good job with an insurance company and gave up looking for the murderer of Sammy Spanish, otherwise Barnum was sure he’d have been kept until either he or the district attorney died.

Walking aimlessly down the street, with the year behind him, homeless, wifeless, childless, jobless, Barnum sighed. He stood on a corner, rubbing his chin sadly, trying to decide which way to turn. A car swung around the corner past him, too close to a car parked just below the corner. There was the sound of the grating of fenders and then the forlorn wail of brakes and the crumpling of metal. A man jumped out of the parked car, waving his hands.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he cried to the driver of the other car, looking wildly at his mashed fender. “Lemme see your license! Somebody’s got to pay for that fender and it ain’t going to be me, brother!” While the reckless driver was getting out of his car, the owner of the damaged car turned sadly to Barnum.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

Barnum looked hurriedly at him, at the fender, at the street around him. “Oh, no,” he said. “I didn’t see anything.”

And he turned and walked swiftly back in the direction from which he had come.

T he dice rolled like cavalry across the concrete floor of the academy basement.

“Eight’s the point,” Eddie said, pulling at the high collar of his cadet’s uniform. “Eight, baby, come eight, oh, you eight.” He stood up with a grin, dusting the knife-creases at his knees. “Read them,” he said.

The Custodian shook his head and sat down backward. “I might just as well lay down and die. On Christmas. How can a man be as unlucky as me on Christmas?”

“Roll for the pot,” Eddie offered seductively.

“My better nature says no,” the Custodian said.

“Roll you for the pot.”

“If I lose I’m cleaned. I won’t even be able to buy a pint of beer for my throat on Christmas.”

“O.K.,” Eddie said offhandedly, starting to rake in the silver, “if you want to quit, losing …”

“Roll for the pot,” the Custodian said grimly. He put out his last dollar-twenty with the desperate calm of a man signing his will. “Go ahead, Diamond Jim.”

Eddie cooed to the dice, held warm and cozy in his hands, and rocked soothingly back and forth on his skinny knees. “The moment has come,” he cried softly into his hands. “Little sweethearts …”

“Roll!” the Custodian cried irritably. “No poetry!”

“Four and three, five and two, six and one,” Eddie coaxed into his hands. “That’s all I ask.”

“Roll!” the Custodian yelled.

Delicately Eddie spun the dice along the cold hard floor. They stopped like lovers, nestling together against Fate. “Do we read seven?” Eddie asked gently.