William McGivern: Savage Streets

“I don’t know. I was just looking, that’s all.”

“Well, come here and sit down. I want to talk to you.”

Jimmy turned and slumped down on the ottoman at Farrell’s feet. He stared down at his shoes, his expression withdrawn and cautious in the shadings of soft lamplight. “What do you want?” he said, in an anxious little voice. He sat dejectedly and helplessly, his face averted as if expecting a blow.

Farrell felt a wrench of compassion for him, but he said casually, “I know you’ve got a birthday coming up pretty soon, and it occurred to me you’re about old enough to start choosing some of your own presents. My father let me do that when I was your age. Of course there’d be surprises, too, but he let me pick out the big thing. Does that strike you as a good idea?”

Jimmy raised his head to look at him, and Farrell saw the relief in his face. “Yes, it sounds fine,” Jimmy said.

“Okay then, we’ll try it on your next birthday. Think it over carefully. Is there anything you’ve really got your heart set on? I mean, something so exciting that you might be afraid to mention it for fear — well, that we might think it’s too expensive or too dangerous?” Farrell saw that Jimmy’s expression had become cautious again and he said quickly, “I mean a rifle or a printing press, or one of those fancy English bikes — something you might think we wouldn’t even consider getting for you?” He smiled and patted his son on the shoulder. “Well? Am I getting closer?”

“I don’t want anything in particular, Dad.” He stared away as if the discussion embarrassed him. “But I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Sure. That’s all I want you to do.”

Barbara came in with a fur stole over her arm and Farrell got to his feet. She kissed Jimmy and gave him a tight hug. “Your supper is ready and you get one-half hour of television, repeat ‘one-half hour,’ before your bath. Okay? We won’t be too late.”

In the car Farrell said, “Well, I didn’t accomplish very much.” He turned from his driveway into the quiet, familiar street and headed for the club. The Wards’ car was gone, but the Detweillers’ convertible was still in front of their house. They wouldn’t be the last arrivals at any rate. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he said, “unless we can get Jimmy to talk to us, to trust us...” He let the sentence trail off; he knew he was merely stating the obvious.

Barbara reached over and touched his hand. “We’ll work it out some way. But let’s make an effort to enjoy the party tonight. It’s a big evening for Sam and Grace. You know how tense they are about entertaining.”

“They’re goddamn bores about it, is what you mean,” Farrell said.

“Come on, come on,” Barbara said. “Do your best to have fun.”

“Okay,” Farrell said. “I’ll give it a grim, muscular try.”

The country club was owned by the company which had financed Faircrest Hills, and membership was restricted to families living in the development. When John and Barbara Farrell entered the lounge they saw Sam Ward talking to the club’s secretary, a man named Silvers. Ward hurried to meet them, shook hands with Farrell, congratulated Barbara on her dress and then said explosively, “Christ! What a mess! Grace is down with some damn virus infection and I’m trying to get the table rearranged with Silvers.”

“But I saw Grace at the station,” Farrell said.

“Yes, like an idiot she got out of bed to meet me,” Ward said.

“It’s a shame,” Barbara said. “Is there anything I could do for her? You’ve called Dr. Webber, haven’t you?”

“Yes, he gave her some pills and so forth. These things just have to run their course. But I’m damned if I know how to seat everybody with the hostess missing.”

“Could I help?” Barbara asked him.

“Thanks,” Ward said, without much enthusiasm. “I don’t know.” Then he had the grace to add, “You’re supposed to be here to enjoy yourself, Barbara.”

“I will, don’t you worry about that.”

“All right then,” Ward said. “I’ll leave it to you. And thanks a lot. I appreciate this.”

Farrell and Ward turned into the men’s bar, while Barbara and Mr. Silvers hurried into the dining room chattering together like conspirators. Farrell caught the bartender’s eye and said, “Two Scotches, please, Mac. With water.”

“Coming right up,” Mac said, without raising his eyes from his paper. “Just as soon as I dope tin’s race.” Mac was the closest thing the club had to an institution; a stout and breezy man in his middle forties, he treated members with a brusque and sardonic tolerance, as if they were supplicants at a free-lunch counter. He was occasionally a bore, with off-color stories and long-winded interruptions, but on the credit side he mixed excellent drinks, stocked the bar with efficient economy, and turned in a profit to the club at the end of every month. In addition to tending bar, Mac drove a cab mornings in Rosedale, because he had five small children (whose pictures adorned the bar mirror) and he needed all the cash he could lay his hands on to keep his and their heads above water.

“Grace isn’t sick,” Ward said unexpectedly. “You saw her at the station, so you know. The thing is, Andy got in a fight at school today and came home pretty banged-up. It wasn’t anything serious so far as I could judge, but Grace got herself all worked up over it. She refused to leave him with a sitter.” Ward shook his head. “So we had a nice row about that just to get the evening off to a perfect start.”

“Maybe she had a point,” Farrell said. “Was Andy hurt pretty badly?”

“Christ no!” He rapped on the bar and glanced at Mac. “Two Scotches, remember?”

Mac put his paper aside. “You guys are kind of impatient, eh?”

“Who did he have a fight with?” Farrell asked.

“I don’t know. Some kid at school apparently.”

“What was it about?” There was no connection between Jimmy’s stealing and the fact that Andy Ward had got into a fight at school, but Farrell felt an odd, premonitory stir of anxiety; for he realized that Ward, despite his almost belligerent indifference, was more worried than he was letting on.

“It was just one of those things, I guess,” Ward said. “To be truthful I don’t know, but kids are always getting into scrapes. I explained that to Grace. I told her it didn’t amount to anything, but she wouldn’t listen to me.” Ward swore and drummed his fingers on the bar.

“And you say Andy wasn’t hurt badly?”

“Well, he was bloodied up a little, and naturally with Grace carrying on he had to get into the act, too. If she’d treated it casually he probably would have, too.”

Mac put the drinks before them with a careless flourish. “Here you are, gents. Enjoy them because you’re paying for them.”

“Thanks.” Farrell picked up his drink and said to Ward, “That doesn’t sound like Grace. She’s pretty calm, as a rule.”

Ward twisted on the bar stool to face Farrell and the exertion caused his stiff shirt to belly out like a sail. “As a rule, yes,” he said. “That’s what gets me. Of all nights to behave like a nervous schoolgirl, she has to pick this one.”

“Hell, cheer up!” Mac said, smiling affably. “Try a little of that Scotch on for size. No need glooming up the place when you’ve got some good booze in front of you.” He was grinning at Ward as he spoke, his eyes and cheeks shining with a pointless well-being and humor; there was no more malice in his expression than one would find in that of a well-cared-for baby, which was what he reminded Farrell of at that instant — a large, cheerful baby who, to judge from Ward’s growing anger, was about to be turned upside down and given a thorough and unexpected spanking. But there was something else in Ward’s expression, Farrell realized, a deliberateness which suggested that his anger was as much a matter of policy as it was a glandular reflex.