Henry Roth - Mercy of a Rude Stream - The Complete Novels

“Why do you think there’s a Prohibition man in beck of the door,” Mr. Klein demanded — and without waiting for an answer: “He protects a flenk. Sit a sakh helfin, ” he added. “You know there’s bottle goods up there in the trucks cost twice what I get a week, one bottle?” With the orders in Shea’s hamper nearly all packed away, Mr. Klein allowed himself to relax. “Thet was before Prohibition. So what will it cost now?”

“You mean those dirty old bottles I used to see through that little window?” Ira hoped his ignorance would prolong the brief recess.

“Those dirty old bottles, yeh: chempagne. You know what is chempagne: Mouton and Lafite and Rothschild? Esk the alter kocker upstairs in the wing-collar. He’ll tell you.”

“So what?”

“ Oy, gevald! ” Mr. Klein arched backward in despair. “So what?”

“You mean somebody’ll try t’take ’em?” Ira demanded, miffed at being so uncharitably found mystified.

“You never heard from hijeckers? Shlemiel! ”

“Lorring,” the major called toward the liquor vault. “I want all the rest stacked in front of the elevator ready to go. Get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you two, and that young fellow in there, pull everything out here?” the major addressed Quinn and Murphy. “Set it right here, will you? Okay, Lorring,” he called again. “You know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is that man?” Still frowning, the major turned to Mr. Klein.

“I don’t know. The Model T sometimes — he has trouble.”

“We should have been out of here by now.” The major glanced down at Harvey in the elevator sump shoveling glass and murky water into the bucket, pursed his lips in a silent, reflective whistle. “We’ve been in the neighborhood too damned long. If he has trouble, we could have a lot of it.” He strode over to the stairs, climbed up.

“Now there’s three up there.” Ira felt a not unpleasant vertigo of tension. “You don’t think anything is goin’ to happen?” He stopped to listen to the conversation.

“You know, Harv, I got nothin’ against you. You’re all right.” Murphy didn’t seem unsteady. He raised his arm and rested his hand against the wall, under the elevator switches. “But the trouble with some o’ you boys is — I don’t mean you — just because you had a little French pussy over there, you start struttin’ aroun’. Them French floosies just thought youz wuz Yanks wit’ a deep tan.”

“Yeah. You’re right, Murphy.” Harvey’s accommodating laugh belied the deeply sober eyes lifted up toward Murphy’s arm. “Yee-hee-hee! That’s right.”

“You’re damn right,” said Murphy. “You know I don’t git along good wit’ people sometimes because I don’t softsoap ’em. I don’t give a fuck what color they are. I coulda made sergeant three times over if I’da brown-nosed.”

“I know, Murphy. You don’t have to tell me. I know that the first time I saw you.” Placating in tone, Harvey kept his eyes rolled upward.

“Just because I’m short, some people think I’m a pushover. Shit, it wuz jist because I wuz a runt, everybody picked on me when I was a kid. I had to learn how to fight, you know what I mean?”

“Ain’t that the truth?” said Harvey.

“So if I sez dem Senegalese wuz yeller, dem sons o’ whores wuz yeller.” He slapped the wall. “Dey couldn’t fight der way into a crowded bar.”

“Man, you’re gettin’ too close to them switches.” Harvey no longer feigned negligence. The timbre of his voice became peculiarly rich — and vibrant. “You better get your hand away from that wall, and let me finish before I get outta here.”

“Yeah?” Murphy tapped the down button. The elevator jarred in preliminary movement. He tapped the up button. “I’ll tell ye somethin’ else: Some bright colonel put some you guys in them same monkey uniforms them Senegals had on, thinkin’ to give the Heinie a surprise. He attacked.” Murphy thumped the elevator button, reversed it. “Those guys scrambled outta the trenches so fast, you couldn’t see ’em fer the dust. Hell, they must be runnin’ yet.” He thumped the elevator buttons again.

The shovel left leaning against the ledge, Harvey clambered out to the cellar floor. He stood head and shoulders above Murphy. “I ain’t looking for no trouble, Murphy. I ain’t looking for no fight. But I tell you, man, I ain’t running away from it. I’m ready any time you is. Any place.”

“You better run upstairs,” Mr. Klein nudged Ira. “No! No! Get that shavetail. Tell him there’s trouble.”

But they could already hear the major’s voice on the stairs as he came hurrying down: “What the hell’s happening to that elevator?” He took in the situation at a glance. “You men at it again? I’m really surprised. I’d think, by God, you two men would know better. You were soldiers. But you’re acting like — like half-grown kids. Men who wore the same uniform. Who fought the same war. Who fought for the same cause, for the same ideals — and died for it, your own buddies: freedom and democracy. And remember we won it. We won it! You going to throw it all away down here in this damned cellar?”

“I wasn’t looking for no fight, Major. I told the man.”

“I know it, Harvey.” The major’s chin pressed down grimly on his chest. “Sometimes we say too damned much we don’t mean. Come on, Murph, come on, both of you.” He put his arms about both men’s shoulders, and as all three walked in front of the table and around: “Let’s hear that story again, Murph. Anybody doesn’t get a laugh out of that’s never been in a shellhole.” They disappeared in the direction of the iceboxes.

“Put everything on top. All the rest,” Mr. Klein ordered wearily. “He’ll find it. Wait. Let me make sure. It’s the lest one: cayenne pepper, yes?”

“It’s here,” said Ira.

“Knockbrod, Swedish, a peckage. White raisins, two pounds. Sage, a box. Onion flakes, a box. Mocha java, they want in the bean.” He felt the bag. “Sugar. Turkish paste. Two cans button mushrooms. All right. What’s this box coriander doing here?” He clucked in annoyance, “A day like this could heppen anything.” He tossed the box into the hamper. “Coriander.” He shuffled the invoices into a neat batch, slipped them under the open clip of the clipboard, and screwed up his face into a yawn — just as a burst of laughter came from the aisle where the iceboxes stood, where Murphy was retelling the story.

Tommy pushed the loaded handtruck up to the elevator pit; behind came the towheaded agent, Lorring, dragging an open crate of assorted straw-covered bottles. “Where’s Murphy?” he called to Mr. Klein. “The elevator ain’t down. Didn’t I hear the major?”

Mr. Klein silently thumbed in the direction of the iceboxes.

“Okay, men, let’s unload her. Pile ’em here.”

There was a stir on the stairs. Shea came down. “I couldn’t get that goddamn hunka tin started fer love or money. I blew out the fuel lines. I took out the plugs—”

“Oh, Major,” the towheaded agent called toward the other end of the cellar. “That last driver’s here!”

“Oh, is he? Okay.” The major appeared, and with him, Harvey and Murphy, now grinning at each other.

“Where they keepin’ it?” Shea sidled over to Mr. Klein.

“I know like my grendmother,” Mr. Klein replied testily. “In beck from the icebox someplace. Esk Tommy.”

“I’ll find it,” Shea moved toward the icebox aisle.

“Who’s gonna drive those trucks to the warehouse?” asked Mr. Klein rhetorically. “The agents. Or who? Ever see such a mishigoss? Now all is needed is highjeckers.”