Square in the Middle Read online

“Oh, there’s something special about this Miss Ritter? Maybe you like aged meat, or something?”

  I looked at him steadily. “Easy, Max.”

  He took a deep breath and laced his hands in front of him. His voice was a quiet monotone. “All right, then. So, we are partners and I would like a partner’s explanation of a promise just made of a ridiculous loan. Am I entitled to that?”

  I was quiet for a moment. I hate to voice sentiment and I’m not very good at it. But I tried. I said, “Once, in Italy, on a very bad day after a horrible week, Miss Ritter made me forget the day and the week and Italy. That’s all, that’s it.”

  “I see. How did she do this? The way I’m thinking?”

  “No. She did it by reading some poetry.”

  Max was silent for seconds. Then he said, “You’re sentimental. Don’t you think this is the wrong business to be sentimental in?”

  “It could be. I keep thinking it’s maybe the wrong business for us to be in together, Max.”

  His face hardened. “Maybe, huh? Maybe we should work out something?”

  “I think we should,” I said. “I’ll phone Sam and tell him you didn’t agree with the commitment. And then we’ll get some auditors in here to …”

  “Wait,” he interrupted. “Let’s not go off half-cocked, Jim. You don’t have to tell Sam anything.”

  “He’ll understand,” I said.

  “Sure. And tell all my friends and relatives what a schtunk I am. Jim, why do you fly off the handle like this?”

  “Because you’re constantly carping at me, Max. Because you make remarks about teaching me the loan business. There are some other reasons.”

  “I didn’t teach you the loan business?”

  “No. We both went into it green.”

  “Sure, but my father was in the investment business all his life. Didn’t I learn something there?”

  Max frequently mentioned his father’s “investment business.” Adele had told me one time what it was — a pawn shop. I’d never told Max Adele had told me, though the urge was strong to tell him now.

  Instead, I said, “Perhaps you learned something in your father’s investment business. I’m not going to quibble, Max. Do we get the auditors in or don’t we?”

  “You said there were other reasons,” he went on quietly. “Is it maybe because I’m a Jew?”

  “No, though you’d like to think so. I’ve known a lot of Jews in my life, Max. You’re the first who has accused me of anti-Semitism.”

  “I didn’t accuse you; I asked you.”

  “And I answered you. And I consider the question an insult, Max. I think we’d better stop talking. We’re not getting anywhere.”

  His face was suddenly humble and his smile apologetic. “Jim, I’m a bastard. A real gold-plated son-of-a-bitch. Baby, believe me, I love you like a brother. Why are we fighting?”

  I said nothing.

  “You’re miffed,” he said softly. “I don’t blame you. Jim, what did you mean about my wanting to think it was because I was a Jew?”

  “Because you love to believe people hate you. It salves your conscience when you slip the knife into them.”

  He smiled. “You bastard, you do know me, don’t you?”

  I shook my head. “Only a little. You’re too complex for me, Max.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I don’t think I’m very complex. I came from a farm and a small town after that. I’m pretty simple, Max.”

  “All right,” he said, “you’re simple and sentimental. And I’m sentimental enough to like the firm of Gulliver-Schuman. Let’s not talk auditors without sleeping on it first, Jim.”

  “Okay, Max. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. And Jim, don’t tell Sam Gross I got hot, huh? He kids me too much already.”

  “I won’t tell him. I only talked to Sam for ten minutes, Max.”

  “So?”

  “And we’ll get one percent of six thousand. That’s sixty dollars. That’s six dollars a minute, Max.”

  He smiled. “We can live on that, huh?”

  “We should be able to. We’ve lived on less.”

  “Oh, baby, haven’t we? But Jim, it could have been three hundred and sixty dollars. That’s thirty-six dollars a minute.” He shook his head sadly. “And it would still have been a plum for Sam.”

  two

  Max left, and I sat without thinking for a moment, emotionally disturbed, faintly perspiring. I dislike friction and avoid quarrels as much as possible.

  I thought back to last night. Everything in Heeney’s had been so pleasant. The people had been pleasant to look at, the music pleasant to listen to.

  I took a western section phone book from a drawer in my desk, and looked up Lynn Bedloe. She lived on Mesa Road. That was in the Santa Monica Canyon, an area that seemed to attract numerous artists, would-be artists and phonys.

  Mostly the Canyon crowd frequented the Canyon bars. But perhaps Lynn wasn’t one of the Canyon crowd.

  The man who usually measured the homes we lent money on was laid up with a virus infection; I took the steel tape and drove over to Montana Avenue to measure a small home. I was glad to get out of the office.

  It was a clear, bright day and a lot of cars were heading for the beach. I wondered if the kids were having fun at Arrowhead and I thought of Carol. I wondered if she’d ever been attracted to another man. Somehow, the thought didn’t disturb me as I felt it should. Carol wasn’t exactly the — romantic type.

  The home on Montana was small but the lot was large and the neighborhood was well kept up. The owner had a five-thousand-dollar first and wanted a three-thousand-dollar second. He’d been turned down by his bank. We like to loan to people who are turned down by banks; they expect to pay more for their money.

  It was close to lunchtime when I finished, and I decided to drive down to the Canyon for lunch, for some of that clam chowder at Ted’s Grill. And on the way I could stop and check the Bedloe house on Mesa Road.

  It’s a narrow, winding street and I had to go slowly to watch the numbers. And then, as I came around the last big curve in her block, I saw her.

  She was standing next to a well-worn Packard convertible; the hood was up and she was looking vexedly at the motor. She was wearing a black, turtleneck sweater and white shorts and my breath was suddenly shallow and quick. Her small figure was perfect.

  I pulled behind the Packard and called out, “Trouble?” My voice sounded unnaturally high.

  She smiled warmly. “Well, Mr. Gulliver. You came at an opportune time. Do you know anything about cars?”

  “A little. I came to measure your house. Or aren’t you still interested in a loan?”

  Her smile had some mockery in it. “Maybe, if the price is right.” She nodded toward the car. “But Old Ironsides is my major concern at the moment.”

  I brought my tape with me as I stepped from the car. “Just let me get a quick check on the place and then I’ll be right with you.”

  She held the other end of the tape while I measured the lot and she waited at the curb while I looked under the foundation for signs of termite damage. The little place had been well built.

  When I came back to the curb, she said, “It’s not much, but it’s mine. I’m a little scared about mortgaging it.”

  “Most people are, the first time,” I told her and then gave my attention to the aged Packard. “Are you sure you have enough gas?”

  She frowned. “Too much, I think. Don’t you smell it?”

  I could smell it. And I could see it running down the intake manifold. I said, “Those automatic chokes get out of kilter. Does your ammeter needle register when you turn on the ignition?”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” she said. “Does yours?”

  I laughed, and went over to check her instrument board. The gas gauge went to half-full when I turned the key and the ammeter showed a definite discharge.

  I said, “Press your accelerator down gently to full throttle and try to start it i
n second or high. There should be enough hill to start the motor. But don’t pump the accelerator.”

  She took a deep breath and looked down the winding, steep, narrow hill. She looked back at me. “I’d mess it up. I’m not very bright about cars. Would you …?”

  “I’d be glad to,” I said. “Do you want to follow in my car?”

  She smiled. “Do I …! That’s a new Olds Holiday, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, and climbed into the Packard.

  I was almost to the bottom when the motor came to life, throwing a great cloud of white smoke out behind. I turned right on Channel Road and pulled up far enough for her to bring the Olds up clear of the corner.

  The Packard was running smoothly when I went back to my car. She hadn’t moved from behind the wheel, and she was running her hand over the leather of the upholstery. She looked about fourteen, right then.

  “Rich people,” she said. “We couldn’t work out some kind of trade, could we?”

  Iowa deserted me, as I said, “We could go to lunch and talk it over.”

  Her soft brown eyes seemed to appraise me. And then she sighed. “I wish I could, but I’ve a tennis date in six minutes, and I never break a date. Thank you for asking though, Jim Gulliver.” She opened the door and I held it while she stepped out. Then she said, “Perhaps we’ll meet again at Heeney’s. You don’t go there often, do you?”

  “Last night was the first time,” I said. “But not the last.”

  One tanned finger came out to tick the end of my nose. “Okay, Jim Gulliver. Thank you, and I shall look forward to seeing you again.”

  I was sitting in the Olds when the Packard went off, trailing a faint cloud of blue smoke. The Packard was out of sight before I started the motor of my car.

  The trees in the Canyon wore their fall colors; ahead, the Pacific had never been more blue. I hadn’t noticed the beauty of the Canyon for a long time, and I could understand now why it was attractive to the artistically inclined.

  At Ted’s, I had a drink before lunch and then a couple of brokers I knew came in, and we had lunch together. I don’t know how the talk got around to women; I didn’t start it.

  But one of them said, “This is rough country for a married man. All this beautiful stuff floating around and all we can do is look.”

  The other said, “Speak for yourself, sissy.”

  And the first one said, “You’re bragging. A man would be a damned fool to risk a decent family life just for some floozie on the prowl. Right, Jim?”

  “I suppose,” I said. “I’m not much of an expert on things like that.”

  The man laughed. “That’s Max’s department, eh, Jim?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I said, and looked at him curiously. “Is Max a — a chaser?”

  The man shrugged. “I was just kidding. Max is such a live wire…. It was a silly thing to say, I realize now.”

  “He’s got a beautiful wife,” I said. “He’d certainly be a fool to risk losing her.”

  The other man said easily, “She’s no prettier than Carol, I’ll bet.” He took out a coin. “Odd man pays.”

  I was the odd man, in two flips. I paid.

  It was a busy and annoying afternoon. A very solid loan through one of the brokers who usually favored us was being given to a big-time shark in Beverly Hills and I spent an hour on the telephone trying to save it for us. Our terms were better, and I would have gone directly to the borrower if I’d thought the broker was deserting us permanently. The way it looked to me, the broker was getting a kickback.

  I lost the loan and didn’t complain. It was the first time I’d had friction with this broker and I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions.

  And then there was a default on a house in Venice, a house that Max had overappraised by two thousand dollars. The owner had no income and no prospects of any; it looked like we were going to take one of our rare lickings on this Venice place.

  At five o’clock, when Miss Padbury came in with some papers to sign, I had a nagging headache. I asked her if she’d bring me some aspirin.

  She brought me the bottle from the washroom and a glass of water. She said quietly, “It’s been a bad day, hasn’t it?”

  I nodded. “That damned Venice dump …”

  She took a breath. “Mr. Gulliver, I heard you and Mr. Schuman arguing this morning.”

  I smiled dimly. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “No.” She looked at the top of my desk and up at me. “I just wanted to say — that if you do break up, I’d like to work for you if you need anyone.”

  I nodded. “If I had to lose one of you, I’d prefer to lose Max. But we’ll never break up, probably. It’s too complicated.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  I looked up to see her looking bleakly past me. As I said before, she’s attractive, and one of the pleasantest women I’ve ever known. I said lightly, “Is there any chance of our losing you? Are men so blind they aren’t beating your door down every evening?”

  Her gaze was direct, her face bland. “They aren’t blind, and I’m not bothered much. Who needs ‘em?” She picked up the papers and went out.

  A few minutes later, Max popped his head through the doorway. “How about coming to our place for dinner tonight, Jim?”

  “I’d like to, Max, but I’m tied up tonight.”

  Max grinned. “With a blonde?”

  I said, “You know me better than that. What would a square like me be doing with a blonde?”

  He didn’t answer that. He looked at me gravely for a moment. “Friends again, Jim?”

  I waved. “Until next time.” I thought of making some crack about the Venice deal, but held my tongue.

  He went away and I went over to watch the traffic. Maybe, before I made a damned fool of myself, I should get into the car and drive up to Arrowhead. I was no Casanova, that wasn’t my game.

  Miss Padbury came into the room to say, “No more appointments, and everything’s in the mail. You’ll lock up, Mr. Gulliver?”

  “I’ll lock up. Good night, Miss Padbury.” I smiled at her. “Tomorrow will be better.”

  She smiled briefly, nodded and closed the door quietly. A second later, I heard the outer door close.

  My phone rang, and it was Adele. She asked, “Is Max there, Jim?”

  “He left only a moment ago, Adele. How are you?”

  “Breathing. I suppose the dope forgot to ask you for dinner tonight?”

  “He remembered. But I couldn’t make it tonight.”

  “When can you, Jim?”

  “You name it.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “A date.”

  A momentary silence, and then, “Jim, Max came home for lunch. You two fought again, didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t serious, Adele.”

  I could hear her take a deep breath. “I hope not. Max needs you. He needs a good solid man like you to keep him from turning into a first-class schtunk.”

  I chuckled. “Adele, Carol assures me just as often that I need Max, too. Carol thinks I’m soft and lazy, by nature.”

  “Well, you tell Carol from me that I’ll trade, any time. And give her fourteen dollars to boot.”

  “I’ll tell her. I’ll even try to sell her on it. And don’t worry, Adele; I understand Max, I think.”

  “Nobody understands Max,” she said. “If I didn’t love him, I’d have left him years ago. Tomorrow for dinner, then, Jim. Don’t forget now.”

  I promised I wouldn’t, and hung up. I went back to the window and saw an old Packard convertible go by. On the sidewalk, a girl walked hand in hand with her father, a girl about Sue’s age. At the corner, a hot rod’s tires squealed as the young driver gunned away with the change of light.

  Back home would be beautiful now. Harvest time, and the trees all gold and red, and at night the big yellow moon over that flat rich land. Frosty mornings and hot noons and the chill coming again with the setting sun. We had seasons at home.

&
nbsp; But I wasn’t there; I was here. And if I didn’t like it here, the roads were open both ways. It wasn’t Iowa I wanted; it was my youth.

  My headache was almost completely gone. I went into the washroom and shaved. I thought of the war and I thought of college and I thought of Miss Padbury — going home to what? I knew very little about her, or the reasons for her serenity.

  I left my car on the lot and walked to Heeney’s. I stepped from the clatter of the street into the dim quiet and the rest of my headache disappeared. There were two men at the bar and none of the booths were occupied.

  Heeney said, “Good evening, Mr. Gulliver. And what’ll it be tonight?”

  “Oh, Al, I guess I’ll have a martini or two before I try another of your steaks.”

  I had finished my first drink and was halfway through my second when Lynn came in.

  She came directly to the bar and smiled up at me. “Waiting for me, were you?”

  “More or less. Could we have dinner together?” My heart was beating faster.

  “We could. Let’s take that big corner booth.”

  Heeney looked at me curiously, and then his eyes went blank as Lynn and I headed for the big corner booth.

  I don’t remember much about the early part of our conversation except that my words seemed labored while hers were bright and flippant.

  A few drinks helped that; ordinarily dull remarks take on a certain sheen under alcohol. We were almost through with our meal when some of her friends came in and joined us.

  There were three of them, a married couple named Joe and Janis Paige and an unattached male named Tom Edlinger. I had an unsubstantiated feeling that Tom had come here to join Lynn. Which would have made me a very unnecessary fifth wheel.

  That feeling was buried under alcohol and laughter as the evening wore on. Another couple joined us, whose names I didn’t catch, and we moved from there to a bar in the Canyon.

  My car was still on the lot; I rode over in Lynn’s car. The place was jammed and noisy; we left, after a half-hour, and went to Lynn’s.

  I’d had bar drinks, up to then. But at Lynn’s somebody mixed me a tall drink which must have been pure whiskey. I passed out sitting in a chair in the living room.

  I wakened in a cold room and looked out at a cold, white moon shining through an open window. My shoes and jacket were off and my tie had been loosened. I was on some kind of studio couch, covered with an electric blanket.