An American Tragedy (11 page)

And so unsophisticated was his mother in these matters that she believed him.

But that was not all. He was now daily in contact with a type of youth who, because of his larger experience with the world and with the luxuries and vices of such a life as this, had already been inducted into certain forms of libertinism and vice even which up to this time were entirely foreign to Clyde’s knowledge and set him agape with wonder and at first with even a timorous distaste. Thus, as Hegglund had pointed out, a certain percentage of this group, of which Clyde was now one, made common cause in connection with quite regular adventures which usually followed their monthly pay night. These adventures, according to their moods and their cash at the time, led them usually either to one of two rather famous and not too respectable all-night restaurants. In groups, as he gathered by degrees from hearing them talk, they were pleased to indulge in occasional late showy suppers with drinks, after which they were wont to go to either some flashy dance hall of the downtown section to pick up a girl, or that failing as a source of group interest, to visit some notorious—or as they would have deemed it reputed—brothel, very frequently camouflaged as a boarding house, where for much less than the amount of cash in their possession they could, as they often boasted, “have any girl in the house.” And here, of course, because of their known youth, ignorance, liberality and uniform geniality and good looks, they were made much of, as a rule, being made most welcome by the various madames and girls of these places who sought, for commercial reasons of course, to interest them to come again.

And so starved had been Clyde’s life up to this time and so eager was he for almost any form of pleasure, that from the first he listened with all too eager ears to any account of anything that spelled adventure or pleasure. Not that he approved of these types of adventures. As a matter of fact at first it offended and depressed him, seeing as he did that it ran counter to all he had heard and been told to believe these many years. Nevertheless so sharp a change and relief from the dreary and repressed work in which he had been brought up was it, that he could not help thinking of all this with an itch for the variety and color it seemed to suggest. He listened sympathetically and eagerly, even while at times he was mentally disapproving of what he heard. And seeing him so sympathetic and genial, first one and then another of these youths made overtures to him to go here, there or the other place—to a show, a restaurant, one of their homes, where a card game might be indulged in by two or three of them, or even to one of the shameless houses, contact with which Clyde at first resolutely refused. But by degrees, becoming familiar with Hegglund and Ratterer, both of whom he liked very much, and being invited by them to a joy-night supper—a “blow-out” as they termed it, at Frissell’s—he decided to go.

“There’s going to be another one of our monthly blow-outs to-morrow night, Clyde, around at Frissell’s,” Ratterer had said to him. “Don’t you want to come along? You haven’t been yet.”

By this time, Clyde, having acclimated himself to this caloric atmosphere, was by no means as dubious as he was at first. For by now, in imitation of Doyle, whom he had studied most carefully and to great advantage, he had outfitted himself with a new brown suit, cap, overcoat, socks, stickpin and shoes as near like those of his mentor as possible. And the costume became him well—excellently well—so much so that he was far more attractive than he had ever been in his life, and now, not only his parents, but his younger brother and sister, were not a little astonished and even amazed by the change.

How could Clyde have come by all this grandeur so speedily? How much could all this that he wore now have cost? Was he not hypothecating more of his future earnings for this temporary grandeur than was really wise? He might need it in the future. The other children needed things, too. And was the moral and spiritual atmosphere of a place that made him work such long hours and kept him out so late every day, and for so little pay, just the place to work?

To all of which, he had replied, rather artfully for him, that it was all for the best, he was not working too hard. His clothes were not too fine, by any means—his mother should see some of the other boys. He was not spending too much money. And, anyhow, he had a long while in which to pay for all he had bought.

But now, as to this supper. That was a different matter, even to him. How, he asked himself, in case the thing lasted until very late as was expected, could he explain to his mother and father his remaining out so very late. Ratterer had said it might last until three or four, anyhow, although he might go, of course, any time. But how would that look, deserting the crowd? And yet hang it all, most of them did not live at home with their parents who didn’t mind what they did. Still, a late supper like that—was it wise? All these boys drank and thought nothing of it—Hegglund, Ratterer, Kinsella, Shiel. It must be silly for him to think that there was so much danger in drinking a little, as they did on these occasions. On the other hand it was true that he need not drink unless he wanted to. He could go, and if anything was said at home, he would say that he had to work late. What difference did it make if he stayed out late once in a while? Wasn’t he a man now? Wasn’t he making more money than any one else in the family? And couldn’t he begin to do as he pleased?

He began to sense the delight of personal freedom—to sniff the air of personal and delicious romance—and he was not to be held back by any suggestion which his mother could now make.

AND so the interesting dinner, with Clyde attending, came to pass. And it was partaken of at Frissell’s, as Ratterer had said. And by now Clyde, having come to be on genial terms with all of these youths, was in the gayest of moods about it all. Think of his new state in life, anyhow. Only a few weeks ago he was all alone, not a boy friend, scarcely a boy acquaintance in the world! And here he was, so soon after, going to this fine dinner with this interesting group.

And true to the illusions of youth, the place appeared far more interesting than it really was. It was little more than an excellent chop-house of the older American order. Its walls were hung thick with signed pictures of actors and actresses, together with playbills of various periods. And because of the general excellence of the food, to say nothing of the geniality of its present manager, it had become the hangout of passing actors, politicians, local business men, and after them, the generality of followers who are always drawn by that which presents something a little different to that with which they are familiar.

And these boys, having heard at one time and another from cab and taxi drivers that this was one of the best places in town, fixed upon it for their monthly dinners. Single plates of anything cost from sixty cents to a dollar. Coffee and tea were served in pots only. You could get anything you wanted to drink. To the left of the main room as you went in was a darker and low-ceilinged room with a fireplace, to which only men resorted and sat and smoked, and read papers after dinner, and it was for this room that these youths reserved their greatest admiration. Eating here, they somehow felt older, wiser, more important—real men of the world. And Ratterer and Hegglund, to whom by now Clyde had become very much attached, as well as most of the others, were satisfied that there was not another place in all Kansas City that was really as good.

And so this day, having drawn their pay at noon, and being off at six for the night, they gathered outside the hotel at the corner nearest the drug store at which Clyde had originally applied for work, and were off in a happy, noisy frame of mind—Hegglund, Ratterer, Paul Shiel, Davis Higby, another youth, Arthur Kinsella and Clyde.

“Didja hear de trick de guy from St. Louis pulled on the main office yesterday?” Hegglund inquired of the crowd generally, as they started walking. “Wires last Saturday from St. Louis for a parlor, bedroom and bat for himself and wife, an’ orders flowers put in de room. Jimmy, the key clerk, was tellin’ me. Den he comes on here and registers himself an’ his girl, see, as man and wife, an’, gee, a peach of a lookin’ girl, too—I saw ’em. Listen, you fellows, cantcha? Den, on Wednesday, after he’s been here tree days and dey’re beginnin’ to wonder about him a little—meals sent to de room and all dat—he comes down and says dat his wife’s gotta go back to St. Louis, and dat he won’t need no suite, just one room, and dat they can transfer his trunk and her bags to de new room until train time for her. But de trunk ain’t his at all, see, but hers. And she ain’t goin’, don’t know nuttin about it. But he is. Den he beats it, see, and leaves her and de trunk in de room. And widout a bean, see? Now dey’re holdin’ her and her trunk, an she’s cryin’ and wirin’ friends, and dere’s hell to pay all around. Can ya beat dat? An de flowers, too. Roses. An’ six different meals in de room and drinks for him, too.”

“Sure,I know the one you mean,” exclaimed Paul Shiel. “I took up some drinks myself. I felt there was something phony about that guy. He was too smooth and loud-talking. An’ he only comes cross with a dime at that.”

“I remember him, too,” exclaimed Ratterer. “He sent me down for all the Chicago papers Monday an’ only give me a dime. He looked like a bluff to me.”

“Well, dey fell for him up in front, all right.” It was Hegglund talking. “An now dey’re tryin’ to gouge it outa her. Can you beat it?”

“She didn’t look to me to be more than eighteen or twenty, if she’s that old,” put in Arthur Kinsella, who up to now had said nothing.

“Did you see either of ’em Clyde?” inquired Ratterer, who was inclined to favor and foster Clyde and include him in everything.

“No,” replied Clyde. “I must have missed those two. I don’t remember seeing either of ’em.”

“Well, you missed seein’ a bird when you missed that one. Tall, long black cut-a-way coat, wide, black derby pulled low over his eyes, pearl-gray spats, too. I thought he was an English duke or something at first, the way he walked, and with a cane, too. All they gotta do is pull that English stuff, an’ talk loud an’ order everybody about an’ they get by with it every time.”

“That’s right,” commented Davis Higby. “That’s good stuff, that English line. I wouldn’t mind pulling some of it myself sometime.”

They had now turned two corners, crossed two different streets and, in group formation, were making their way through the main door of Frissell’s, which gave in on the reflection of lights upon china and silverware and faces, and the buzz and clatter of a dinner crowd. Clyde was enormously impressed. Never before, apart from the Green-Davidson, had he been in such a place. And with such wise, experienced youths.

They made their way to a group of tables which faced a leather wall-seat. The head-waiter, recognizing Ratterer and Hegglund and Kinsella as old patrons, had two tables put together and butter and bread and glasses brought. About these they arranged themselves, Clyde with Ratterer and Higby occupying the wall seat; Hegglund, Kinsella and Shiel sitting opposite.

“Now, me for a good old Manhattan, to begin wit’,” exclaimed Hegglund avidly, looking on the crowd in the room and feeling that now indeed he was a person. Of a reddish-tan hue, his eyes keen and blue, his reddish-brown hair brushed straight up from his forehead, he seemed not unlike a large and overzealous rooster.

And similarly, Arthur Kinsella, once he was in here, seemed to perk up and take heart of his present glory. In a sort of ostentatious way, he drew back his coat sleeves, seized a bill of fare, and scanning the drink-list on the back, exclaimed: “Well, a dry Martini is good enough for a start.”

“Well, I’m going to begin with a Scotch and soda,” observed Paul Shiel, solemnly, examining at the same time the meat orders.

“None of your cocktails for me to-night,” insisted Ratterer, genially, but with a note of reserve in his voice. “I said I wasn’t going to drink much to-night, and I’m not. I think a glass of Rhine wine and seltzer will be about my speed.”

“For de love o’ Mike, will you listen to dat, now,” exclaimed Hegglund, deprecatingly. “He’s goin’ to begin on Rhine wine. And him dat likes Manhattans always. What’s gettin’ into you all of all sudden, Tommy? I t’ought you said you wanted a good time to-night.”

“So I do,” replied Ratterer, “but can’t I have a good time without lappin’ up everything in the place? I want to stay sober to-night. No more call-downs for me in the morning, if I know what I’m about. I came pretty near not showing up last time.”

“That’s true, too,” exclaimed Arthur Kinsella. “I don’t want to drink so much I don’t know where I’m at, but I’m not going to begin worrying about it now.”

“How about you, Higby?” Hegglund now called to the round-eyed youth.

“I’m having a Manhattan, too,” he replied, and then, looking up at the waiter who was beside him, added, “How’s tricks, Dennis?”

“Oh, I can’t complain,” replied the waiter. “They’re breakin’ all right for me these days. How’s everything over to the hotel?”

“Fine, fine,” replied Higby, cheerfully, studying the bill-of-fare.

“An’ you, Griffiths? What are you goin’ to have?” called Hegglund, for, as master-of-ceremonies, delegated by the others to look after the orders and pay the bill and tip the waiter, he was now fulfilling the rôle.

“Who, me? Oh, me,” exclaimed Clyde, not a little disturbed by this inquiry, for up to now—this very hour, in fact—he had never touched anything stronger than coffee or ice-cream soda. He had been not a little taken back by the brisk and sophisticated way in which these youths ordered cocktails and whisky. Surely he could not go so far as that, and yet, so well had he known long before this, from the conversation of these youths, that on such occasions as this they did drink, that he did not see how he could very well hold back. What would they think of him if he didn’t drink something? For ever since he had been among them, he had been trying to appear as much of a man of the world as they were. And yet back of him, as he could plainly feel, lay all of the years in which he had been drilled in the “horrors” of drink and evil companionship. And even though in his heart this long while he had secretly rebelled against nearly all the texts and maxims to which his parents were always alluding, deeply resenting really as worthless and pointless the ragamuffin crew of wasters and failures whom they were always seeking to save, still, now he was inclined to think and hesitate. Should he or should he not drink?