Джеймс Кейн - The Moth

“There’s certain things that soft-drink dough knows about, certain things that show dough knows about, and certain things that sporting dough knows about — things you got to do, stuff you’ve got to pay for, that looks plain crazy to other kinds of dough. Sporting dough knows, for instance, that you can’t promote football with some guy sent out by the chamber of commerce that’s a shark on debentures, futures, escrows, and stocks, but nothing else. For football, you need a guy that knows football, and right there, Jack, if you don’t mind my being a little personal, is where you’ve got inside position on anybody in this town that I know of. That’s why this dough I’m talking about is going to be impressed.”

“Who is this dough, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“If I told you all I know, where’d I be at with my angle? I love you, Jack, but this is business. In due time you’ll know everything there is to know, but until then leave it to me.”

“What time is due time?”

“That dough, right now, is on the yacht.”

“It got a yacht?”

“As I told you, it’s sporting dough. The yacht’s off Nassau now, sailfishing, but on a radio from me they’ll break in on it. Relax, that’s all. See our city. In a couple of days you’ll be hearing something. But I’ve got to know one thing.”

“I’ll tell you, if I can.”

“Are you playing on this team yourself?”

“I cracked a knee cap last fall.”

“You mean it’s out? Your playing days are over?”

“I mean if I could run a hundred yards in fifteen seconds now it would be a miracle. You’re not much good out there, you know, unless you can do it at least in eleven.”

“Shake, Jack. That makes me feel better than anything you’ve said yet. Because a player-manager is just a headache, as every sporting man knows. It’s O.K. to play, but if you’re playing, play. But if you’re going to run it, run it. Don’t be causing jealousy and friction and distrust just because you’ve got some idea you’re the only man that can score a point. Now I know it’s a natural. Now I can put in that radiogram what it’ll take to get action. You feel it yourself, don’t you?”

“If I didn’t I wouldn’t be here.”

“Right.”

That week, if I ever had any respect for newspapers I lost it. Once more, I can’t tell you how much I meant any of this, of whether I thought something would come of it, or if it was just one last shot in the arm before I’d have to wake up and come face to face with my life. But it seemed real, at the time, and of course by then I knew that on something of that kind, where promotion was it, you had to tear in with all you had, and put it in lights, with bugles blowing. I put out stuff so raw you wouldn’t think anybody would go for it. Capone was hot then. I put out stuff denying he was back of me, and saying I’d sue anybody that said he was, and they printed it. I put out stuff saying I meant to build a team that could play even with the best there was, I didn’t care if it was the Green Bay Packers or the Providence Steam Roller, and they printed it. I wired Red Baughman, that had played tackle with me in college, if he was free to work for me, and when he wired he was, I put out stuff saying the first player had been selected for Atlanta, and they printed it. I sent a dozen more wires, and when enough players had accepted, or anyway said they were free, I announced the “first eleven,” and they printed it. I put out stuff that the team would be the Remuda, and they printed it. Soon I decided to put out drinks for the reporters, and that meant a suite, as they wouldn’t serve it downstairs. The bellboy took nine dollars a bottle for the liquor, with fifty cents tip. Almost before I knew it the cash in my pocket was down to silver, and I had to eat chili till my check cleared for a hundred dollars.

All sorts of people were calling me by then: real-estate men, trying to sell me anything from a farm, to make a park out of, to a house to live in; insurance men, to write coverage for the team, on some kind of group plan; sporting-goods salesmen, to quote prices on uniforms; concession men, to talk about soft drinks, hot dogs, and programs; and forty guys wanting jobs, anything from usher to cutting grass. I stalled them all off, but soon I made use of them, anyway to look big. I’d sit around the lobby, on purpose not near a phone, and of course when the girl couldn’t get me she’d have me paged. It got so that “Mr. Jack Dillon, of the Atlanta Remuda,” was going off every minute and a half. It cost a dime a throw for the bellboys, but I figured it was worth it. Hank called me three, four, and five times a day, and when he wasn’t calling me he was dropping around. Then one night the phone rang, and he was on the line. “Well, Jack, what did I tell you? Boy, are you going to feel good. O.K., here goes, word for word — it’s addressed to me here at the paper and it says:

DON’T TELL ME ABOUT DILLON I SAW HIM TWO YEARS AGO IN THE GAME WITH NAVY THREE YEARS AGO AT NEW HAVEN AND LAST YEAR AT GEORGETOWN He’s TERRIFIC AND ONE OF THE CLEANEST GUYS IN THE GAME HOLD HIM THERE FOR ME AND AS SOON AS MY ENGINE TROUBLE IS FIXED I’LL BE IN STOP TELL YOURSELF HELLO.

Is that saying it, Jack? Ain’t that one swell guy and don’t it make you feel good?”

“It’s just great.”

“I told you, hold everything.”

“I’m playing it just like you say.”

Within the next three days there were four more wires, each one better than the last. But when I found out the engine was a tug job into Nassau, I began to get worried, because my money was going fast. One night when he called I said: “Hank, I got an idea that makes sense.”

“Boy, let’s hear it.”

“While he’s getting his boat in shape, why don’t I jump in the car and take a swing around to Memphis and New Orleans and as many places as I can before he gets back? Then when he comes in I’ve got something to tell him. I’ll keep in touch, and—”

“That’s it! That’s it!”

“I’ll line it up, and then—”

“It’s ready.”

I don’t think I said one thing to Hank the whole time that was going on that he didn’t say it was great, and I guess I was beginning to notice it, that he was what you might call unusually optimistic. But, as I’m telling you, I’m not sure any of it was more than a jumbo stall. Nothing about it seemed real, from all those zanies trying to sell me stuff, and kidding themselves as much as I was kidding them, to those players wiring they were free and would be proud and happy to play under me as manager, and kidding themselves there’d be something on the fire pretty soon. But the main thing now was, I had to get out of that hotel, and at the same time I had to make it look like I was only temporarily gone, and would be back as soon as I got other stuff out of the way that was important. I packed what I’d need in one bag, left the other at the check room, and checked out. I went to a little dump on the north end of town, with some name like the Rosemary Cottage, that charged a dollar a night and wanted it in advance, and took a room. Then I began cruising around Georgia, going to every town there was: Augusta, Athens, Rome, Milledgeville, Decatur, just to name a few, looking for work. I went to every garage there was, and everywhere was the same answer: if they could, they would, and glad to do it; but every one of them had laid men off, and if there was any hiring to be done, the laid-off men had to come back. Then I began going to hotels. I don’t like the hotel business, and I hated anything that might mean a query to the Cartaret. But anything for a job. It got me nowhere. One man, at the Dixie Hunt in Gainesville, it could have been, explained to me: “Brother, I hear what you say, that you’ll do whatever I’ve got for room and meals and space for your car. The trouble is, there’s been just about three hundred guys ahead of you with exactly that proposition, and some of them are friends. I mean it’s personal. You don’t know what this thing is, or you wouldn’t even be in here. It’s just about the worst that ever hit the country, and if you’re up against it, don’t let it worry you. Everybody else is, bad.”