Читать книгу This Finer Shadow - Harlan Cozad McIntosh - Страница 7

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Rio lay on a bed in a room on Fourteenth Street. He was in a bad humor. A back tooth ached and he sucked hot smoke from a cigarette against it. The Relief authorities had told him that Martin had signed up, but had disappeared without report. Had he left New York, or had he found a job? Had he changed his mind and caught a ship—Martin was too slippery for an idea to hold on to. Rio’s irritation increased.

“He never was solid,” he said to the girl sitting across the room.

“What do you care?” she answered. “You ain’t in love with him.”

Rio dropped the cigarette butt, pressed his thumb on the coal and rubbed it into the floor.

“Don’t get mad now, sweetheart,” the girl said. “I try to be funny. And that’s more than you done.”

Rio sat up, took his coat and left. There was another chance. Martin might have registered at the Employment Station. Rio walked along Third Avenue, watching faces, stopping frequently to glance inside the saloons. A long line of men, waiting outside one of the Relief restaurants, attracted him. One of the men held out his hand.

“Two for a nickel, buddy,” he said, holding his fingers over the meal-tickets.

“Three for a nickel, pisan,” said Rio, walking on.

It was late afternoon when he reached the Employment Station. Roberts was at his desk when Rio approached. He was turning over the cards in some files and did not look up immediately. Rio, a rollicking expression in his eyes, put his hands on his hips and began to pose slightly. He looked like a male bear under morphine. The adviser glanced at him briefly, saw the attitude and dismissed it.

“Come back to-morrow. It’s five o’clock,” he said.

“I don’t want to sign up,” answered Rio, grinning now. “I’m lookin’ for a shipmate.”

Roberts shook his head.

“They’ll help you at Central Relief Headquarters. This is Employment.” He spoke peremptorily.

“I know,” said Rio. “He signed up over there and never checked out, but he ain’t around. I thought maybe he found a job here.”

“Five o’clock,” Roberts repeated, looking annoyed. “My secretary will check over the list for you.”

“His name is Devaud,” insisted Rio. “Martin Devaud. He’s a sort of young guy.”

“Devaud?” Roberts’ eyes were round. “Have I heard the name? A thin, crippled fellow?”

“No.”

Roberts took a pencil and filled in a blank card.

“We aren’t permitted to give information concerning these men, but if such a person should ever come in, I’ll give him your name.”

“My name’s Rio.”

“What shall I tell him you wanted—if I see him?”

Rio stuck his thumb against his chin.

“You don’t need to tell him nothin’.” He leaned on the desk.

Roberts looked at him stiffly. The color surged into his cheeks.

“Is that all? I’m accustomed to accepting, not giving information. Unless you give me the particulars I need, it will be impossible to coöperate with you. Is this boy wanted for any misdemeanor?”

Rio’s face turned a heavy red.

“This boy ain’t wanted for ‘any misdemeanor.’ This boy’s a friend of mine. He’s on the beach. I want to see him.”

Roberts dropped the card on his desk. He showed the stamp of discipline.

“Have you ever been thrown out of anywhere?”

“Not by ten like you.”

“Fortunately there are gentlemen here vested with that privilege.” The adviser nodded across the room at several policemen.

Rio laughed.

“Fortunately? Gentlemen?” He walked away, then turned. “I’ll see you later, Mister!”

Roberts watched him leave. Powerful brute, he thought. Rio! A shipmate. A friend. How good a friend? Roberts put his finger to his lips. Certainly not a good contact for Martin. Damn the intimacy of the sea—like prison, like Devil’s Island, holding men together, destroying all the niceties of camaraderie.... Were those stories true about men on ships? A sordid subject exaggerated out of all proportion—still, some of it must be true. That big fellow. Was he? He had been unwarrantedly excited.

Rio left the Station. Mr. Fish inside would look good with his teeth out. Strictly fruit, huh? By God, these governors! Well, what of it?... Where to look now? Martin wasn’t trying to ship. He wasn’t at the Hall or on the docks. He wasn’t on Relief. He hadn’t got a job at the Station—or was Roberts lying. “Gentlemen here vested with that privilege!”

Rio took a train to Forty-second Street. The bright, flashing lights of Broadway shut out the early stars. The hurrying expanse of faces had less individuality than waves. There was no bond between their eyes and his, impassionate. They were as eternal, as indestructible as ants. They passed him, died, were born and passed again; a long, driving throng, pale and imperishable, typed and counterparted into immortality. Rio turned away, disgusted. Martin wasn’t there. He’d die in such a sea. God bless sailors and their drifted lives.

Rio returned to his room and lay down on the bed, nervous from its quiet. He saw the unused pitcher—one of dignity; with whiteness and good height. It made him slightly sick. There was a girl’s bag on a chair; and one article, too intimate, beside it. He rolled over. Suddenly the doorknob rattled.

“What is it?” he called out, impatiently.

Two girls walked in, smiling, red-cheeked.

“Hello, Rio,” one of them said. “Did you find your buddy?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad, Rio.”

“Look here,” said Rio, unsmiling. “This is amateur night. Now beat it.”