The Troubled Air (2 page)

Archer sighed. “Friday’s my day of rest, Emmet,” he said. “Can’t it wait?”

“Not really. It’s important. Say eleven o’clock …”

“Eleven-thirty. I expect to be sleepy tomorrow morning.”

“Eleven-thirty,” O’Neill said, putting on his hat. “And don’t call me up and say you can’t make it.”

“O’Neill, you’re an exploiter of labor.” Archer peered at O’Neill curiously. “What’s so important about it?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” O’Neill waved and went out without saying good night to Herres or Atlas.

The sound man sat at the piano and worked at a complicated arrangement of “Some Enchanted Evening.” He made it sound mournful, as though every time he had been in love he had been jilted.

Archer shook his head, dismissing O’Neill and his problems until eleven-thirty the next morning. He picked up his hat and coat and went over to Herres, who had taken all of Atlas’ quarters by now and was reading a newspaper, waiting.

“OK,” Archer said, “the barroom detail is ready for action.”

“Mercy killing is the question of the day,” Herres said, tapping the newspaper. He got into his coat and they started out of the studio, waving good-bye to Atlas, who was waiting for a friend. “Doctors with airbubbles, husbands with breadknives, daughters with police revolvers. You never saw such violent mercy in all your days. It opens up completely new fields of saintliness. At the trial of the war criminals after the next war, the euthanasia society will conduct the defense. The hydrogen bomb was dropped in a temporary access of pity. Saved whole populations from the pains of cancer and living in general. Air tight. What jury would convict?”

Archer grinned. “I knew that finally somebody would prove how dangerous air can be,” he said. “Memo to all radio executives—treat air with caution.”

They got into the elevator and plunged twenty stories in a low howl of wind.

Outside the building, New York was deceptively clean and shop windows glowed down the dark avenue. Taxis swept past in the light traffic and you could almost taste fine crystals of salt from the rivers in the air. It was still early and Archer felt that there was a great deal that might be done with the evening.

He started walking uptown, with Herres striding beside him. They were both tall men, and although Archer was almost ten years older than Herres, he walked briskly, with a healthy, solid way of planting his feet. Their heels echoed in rhythm against the shut buildings and they had the street to themselves as they went north, into the wind.

They walked in silence for a block. Then Herres said, “What’s wrong with O’Neill? He looked as though he’d been bitten in the ass by an ingénue.”

Archer grinned. You had to be very careful with Victor. He didn’t seem to be noticing anything, but he took everything in, and was barometer-sensitive to the slightest changes in the emotional climate.

“I don’t know,” Archer said. “Maybe the sponsor sneezed during the commercials. Maybe a hatcheck girl rubbed his mink the wrong way.”

“Mink,” said Herres. “The Class A uniform. To be worn for parades, court-martials and when leaving the post. Do you think O’Neill’ll vote Republican now that he’s so warmly dressed?”

“I doubt it,” Archer said gravely. “The entire O’Neill family suffers from tennis elbow from pulling so hard and so long on the Democratic levers on the voting machines of a dozen assembly districts.”

“For he’s a jolly good fellow,” Herres said, “with his balls in a sponsor’s sling.”

Archer smiled, but he felt the click of criticism in his brain. Ever since Herres had come back from the war he had salted his speech constantly with barracks images, no matter who was listening. Archer, who felt uneasy when he heard profanity, had protested once, mildly, and Herres had grinned and said, “You must excuse me, Professor. I’m a dirty man, but I got my vocabulary in the service of my country. Patriotism is a four-letter word. Anyway, I never say anything you can’t find in any good circulating library.”

This was true. It was also true that most of the people Archer knew spoke loosely, in the modern manner, and Archer always had an uncomfortable sense of being spinsterish and old-fashioned when his inner censor made these private objections. But he had an undefined sense that when Herres spoke in front of him in the tones of a sergeant’s mess, a hidden flaw in their friendship was being momentarily exposed.

Archer shook his head, impatient with his reflections. Probably, he thought, it’s some hangover from the schoolroom, the inextinguishable core of schoolteacher in him, everlastingly herding phantom students into proper channels of deportment. Consciously, he resolved not to allow himself to be annoyed the next time.

“I had a thought,” Archer said, “while watching you tonight, Victor.”

“Name it,” said Herres. “Name the thought.”

“I thought you were a very good actor.”

“Mention me in dispatches,” Herres said, grinning, “the next time you go up to Division.”

“Too good for radio.”

“Treason,” Herres said gravely. “Biting the hand that murders you.”

“You never have to extend yourself,” Archer went on seriously, looking into a bookstore window. The window had a display of books from the French, all celebrating despair in bright, attractive covers. Collaboration, guilt and torture, imported especially for Madison Avenue, at three dollars a copy. “Everything’s so easy for you, you win every race under wraps.”

“Good blood lines,” Herres said. “My sire was a well-known stud in Midwestern stables. His get took many firsts. In the sprints at second-class meetings.”

“Aren’t you curious to see what you could do against tougher competition?”

Herres looked thoughtfully down a side street. “Why?” he asked. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Archer said. “On the stage. Where you could be fully used. You’re a good type. You’re still young-looking. And you’ve got a simple, open face, with the necessary touch of brutality in it for the older trade.”

Herres chuckled. “Hamlet, 1950,” he said, “wearing his major H.”

“Listening to you reading Barbante’s silly lines,” Archer said, “I get a sense of waste. Like seeing a pile driver used for thumbtacks.”

Herres smiled. “Think how comfortable it is,” he said, “for the pile driver to be asked only to handle thumbtacks. Last forever and be as good as new a hundred years from date of sale.”

“Think about it, dear boy,” Archer said, as they turned down Fifty-sixth Street.

“Dear boy,” said Herres. “I won’t.”

They smiled at each other and Herres held the door of Louis’ bar open for him. They went in, out of the cold.

The first drink was fine, after the day’s work and the brisk walk. Nancy hadn’t come yet and they sat at the bar, on the high stools, rolling the cold glasses in their hands, enjoying watching the bartender handle the bottles and the ice.

Woodrow Burke was sitting by himself around the curve of the bar, staring into his drink. He looked drunk and Archer tried to keep from catching his eye. Burke had been a famous correspondent during the war. He was always being spectacularly caught in surrounded towns and burning airplanes and because of this specialty his price had gone very high in those days. Since the war he had become a news commentator on the radio and his washboard voice, hoarse with criticism and disdain, had for awhile been the disturbing incidental music at dinner tables all through the country. He had been fired suddenly over a year ago (his enemies said it was because he was a fellow-traveler and he said it was because he was an honest man) and since that time had sat in bars, deciding to divorce his wife, and announcing that free speech was being throttled in America. He was a fattish pale young man, with bold, worried dark eyes, and with all that weight he must have landed very hard the time he had to bail out of the airplane. During the war he had had a reputation for being very brave. He had grown much older in the last year and his tolerance for alcohol seemed to have diminished seriously.

He looked up from his drink and saw Archer and Herres. He waved and Archer saw the gesture out of the corner of his eye, but pretended not to. Carefully, Burke got down from his stool and walked, steadily but slowly, around the curve of the bar toward them, holding his drink stiffly to keep it from spilling.

“Clem, Vic,” Burke came up behind them, “we who are about to die salute thee. Have a drink.”

Archer and Herres swung around in their chairs. “Hi, Woodie,” Archer said, very heartily, to make up for the fact that he was sorry Burke had come over. “How’s it going?”

“I am sinking with all hands on board,” Burke said soberly. “How’s it going with you?”

“Fair,” Archer said. “I’ll probably live at least until the next payment on the income tax is due.”

“Those bastards,” Burke said, sipping his whiskey, “they’re still after me for 1945. The Vosges Mountains,” he said obscurely. “That’s where I was in 1945.” He stared gloomily at himself in the mirror. His collar was rumpled and his tie was damp from spilled whiskey. “Were you there?” He turned pugnaciously on Herres.

“Where?” Herres asked.

“The Vosges Mountains.”

“No, Woodie.”

“Old Purple-Heart Vic,” Burke said, patting Herres on the shoulder. “You were a good boy, they told me. Never saw for myself, but I heard you were a good boy. But watch out now, Vic, the Big Wound is coming up now.”

“Sure, Woodie,” Herres said. “I’ll take good care of myself.”

“The wounds of peace,” Burke said, his prominent eyes angry and troubled. “Jagged and with a high percentage of fatalities. Invisible bursts at treetop level on Fifth Avenue. The Big One. No medals for it and no points toward discharge, either. Watch out for the big one, though.”

“I sure will, Woodie,” Herres said.

“How about you?” Burke swung his head and aimed it at Archer.

“How about me what?” Archer said mildly.

“Where were you?”

“No place, Woodie,” Archer said. “I was a continental limits man.”

“Well,” said Burke, generously forgiving him, “somebody had to stay home.” He sipped his drink noisily. “My big mistake,” he said, “was not being kicked out of Yugoslavia when I had the chance.” He nodded, confirming himself.

Archer kept silent, hoping that Burke would notice that he was not being encouraged to talk. But Burke was now on his nightly subject and refused to stop. “I left of my own free will,” Burke went on, “instead of being invited out, and I didn’t write that Tito raped a nun every day before breakfast, and the hand of suspicion was laid on me. I said what I had to say as an honest man, and the bastards got me. Powerful agencies at work, Archer, throttling the means of communication. Sinister and powerful agencies,” he whispered over his glass, “weeding out the honest men. Don’t laugh, Archer, don’t laugh. Somewhere, somebody has your name on a list. Treetop level.” He drained his whiskey and put the glass down on the bar. He looked shabbier and more lonesome without a glass in his hand. “Archer,” he said, facing around, “can you lend me a thousand dollars?”

“Now, Woodie …” Archer began.

“OK.” Burke waved his hands. “No reason for you to lend me any money. Hardly know me. Barroom bore, with his credit running out, always telling the same old story of everybody’s life. Forget it. Shouldn’t’ve asked. It’s just that I happen to need a thousand dollars.”

“I can let you have three hundred,” Archer said. He was surprised at the figure as he said it. He had meant to offer a hundred, but three hundred came out.

“Thanks,” Burke said calmly. “That’s nice of you. I need a thousand, but three hundred helps, I suppose.”

Herres turned his back on them, and said something to the man on his left, delicately trying not to overhear Burke.

“You couldn’t let me have it now, could you?” Burke peered uncertainly at Archer. “Tonight? I could use three hundred in cash tonight.”

“Now, Woodie,” Archer said. “I don’t carry money like that on me. You know that.”

“Thought I’d ask,” Burke mumbled. “No harm in asking. People carry all kinds of things on them these days. Inflation, maybe, the general feeling of insecurity, always being ready to cut and run if necessary.”

“I’m not running any place,” Archer said.

“No?” Burke nodded soberly. “Who knows?” He put his face closer to Archer. “Maybe you have it at home,” he whispered. “In the old safe behind the picture on the dining-room wall. I’d be happy to go downtown with you and wait. Pay the taxi myself.”

Archer laughed. “Woodie, you’re drunk. I’ll put the check in the mail tomorrow morning.”

“Special delivery,” Burke said.

“Special delivery.”

“You’re sure you can’t make it a thousand?” Burke asked loudly.

“Woodie, why don’t you go home and get a good night’s sleep?” said Archer.

“The minute a man lends you a buck,” Burke said angrily, “he begins to give you advice. Traditional relationship of creditor to debtor. Archer, I thought you’d be above that. I’ll go home and go to sleep when I’m damn well ready.” He turned and started back toward his place at the end of the bar. After he had gone two steps, he stopped and reversed himself. “You said special delivery, remember,” he said threateningly.

“I remember,” Archer said, trying not to be angry.

“OK.” Burke turned again and walked, without swaying, back to his stool. He sat down, very straight. “Joe,” he said to the bartender, “Bell’s twelve-year-old. Double. With water.”

That’s a hell of an expensive drink for a man to order in front of somebody who’s just loaned him three hundred dollars, Archer thought. Then he heard Herres whispering harshly at him, “Why did you give that scrounging windbag that money?”

Archer shrugged as he swung around to face Herres. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m as surprised as you are.”

“You’ll never get it back,” Herres said. “He’ll never get a job again, and he’ll be too drunk to hold one if he does.”

“Why, Vic,” Archer said, “I thought he was a friend of yours.”

“The only friend he has is Haig and Haig. You’ve just kissed three hundred bucks farewell,” Herres said. “I hope you can afford it.”

“Mr. Herres.” It was the headwaiter, standing behind them. “Mrs. Herres is on the telephone.”