A Fist Full of Money

"Read 'Em And Weep," Smalley said, "four beauties left to right." His big hands scooped the money toward his plaid vest, and he grinned hatefully.

The grin hadn't seemed hateful to Irv Randall when the poker game started. He had always admired Smalley's grin. He liked seeing it flash in the corridor between their offices at Bryant and Company, liked to see it when they met in the elevator in the morning, and when Smalley said, "How's married life, Irv, how's the little woman?" It was a wide, attractive grin, illuminating the handsome face, and Irv always figured that warmth and friendliness were behind it. It was only now, seeing it over the top of a poker hand that meant the end of his week's earnings, that Irv Randall knew he despised Smalley's easy smile.

The table around Irv's elbows looked so naked that the other players seemed embarrassed. Irv pushed back the chair, and tried to shrug it off.

"Easy come, easy go," he said, with a light laugh. "There's always another payday."

"Gee, Irv." Manny, from the shipping department, stirred uncomfortably. "We shouldn't have let the stakes get so high. This was gonna be a friendly game, remember?"

"So we got a little excited," Smalley said, shuffling the cards. "It's bound to happen."

"Hell, I'm losing 50 bucks myself," Manny said. "The water's too deep around here."

"You want to quit?" Smalley said.

"No, I didn't say that. I mean, hell, it's OK for us, we're all bachelors. But Irv here, he's got a new bride at home."

Irv tried to fight the flush that was tinting his cheek. "Don't worry, I got her trained. Well, I better get home; it's after 10..." He lifted his coat from the only upholstered chair in Smalley's apartment, and put it on carefully. When he turned around to say goodbye, he saw that the others were already absorbed in the next hand, so he went to the door.

"Give my regards to Francey," Smalley shouted.

Irv whirled around. "Her name's Frances," he said tautly.

"Yeah, sure, Frances. Good night, Irv. See you in the morning."

He didn't see the face, but he knew Smalley was grinning. He thought of the grin all the way down in the grimy elevator and into the street. Then he started thinking of Francey, and he grew so cold inside the thin topcoat that was brazening out the February freeze that he shivered like a forlorn child.

How could he explain away a week's pay? With a laugh? A snarl? "Listen, honey, I dropped it and that's that ..." No, that wasn't Irv Randall. He could see her face grow pale, the hurt in her eyes, and he knew he couldn't go home a loser. She bird-dogged every dime, every nickel he brought home, walked off her feet to save on food and hadn't bought a new dress since they were married. How could he tell her? How could he explain that his first night out had been so disastrous? It had started out with an innocent invitation to a bowling match. Then, somehow, they had wound up in Smalley's apartment, around Smalley's kitchen table, and somebody was cracking the cellophane from around a new deck of cards ...

I could say I lost it, Irv thought. I was walking home from the bowling alley, and my wallet fell out of my pocket ... He tried to mumble the alibi aloud and knew that it was no good. Francey was sharp. Francey would spot the easy excuse; he'd make a fool of himself. What he wanted, desperately wanted, was her sympathy.

He stopped on the lonely dark street, aware of its ominous silence. It was a bad neighborhood, a rough neighborhood ...

That was it! He would say he was mugged, attacked, robbed. The streets and alleyways were stalked by young hoodlums; that kind of thing happened every day. Why not to him?

Instead of turning at the next block he continued on to the empty lot on the next street. Across the way was a row of new, identical one-family houses not yet occupied. He cut into the lot, brushing aside dying ragweed until he got to a clearing. Here he ran his hands through the hair pushing over his forehead. Ripping at his collar and tie, he tore the top button of his shirt loose. He bent and dug his fingers into the hard earth. He was Sweating despite the cold, afraid of being seen, afraid that he might not act out the farce with perfect conviction. With his hands full of dirt, he rubbed them over his clothes and finally on his face. He was ready.

In the lamplight on the corner, reflected by an empty store window, he saw that his appearance would easily fool Francey. His face stung, and he wondered if his fingers hadn't clawed red welts on his skin, for in one wild moment he had actually tried for that much reality.

There were only five dark streets between Smalley's apartment and his own. He walked the rest of the distance hurriedly, and then slowed his pace in an approximation of the fatigue he should have felt after a hoodlum's assault. He was panting when he reached the house, and he was half convinced that the mugging was authentic when he turned the doorknob of Apartment 3-B and staggered inside.

"Irving!"

She fluttered over him like a mother bird, and he folded himself into her wings.

"Irving, what happened to you? Where've you been?"

"With the guys," he said, his voice muffled against the comforting shoulder. "I walked home, and this kid jumped out of a side street at me --"

"Oh, my God! Are you hurt?"

"No, no, I'm OK. But he took my wallet, the whole week's salary --" He let her guide him to a kitchen chair. She was small, and thin as a sparrow, but her arms felt strong. She stared at him, the tears bright in her large, pretty eyes. "I'm all right, Francey, don't worry about me. Only it's the money --"

"I don't care about the money, Irv. If you're all right." She made small, angry fists. "Oh, this rotten neighborhood! Why didn't the police come? Why didn't they help you?"

"There just wasn't anybody around, that's all. Look, it's just one of those things. I'm lucky I wasn't knifed or anything."

'Thank God for that." She went limp, and sat down in the chair on the other side of the kitchen table. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, nothing. I'll have some hot milk and go to bed."

"Don't go in to the office tomorrow, huh? They could get along without you for a day."

"I'll be OK, Francey, I mean it. I'll be fine in the morning. Only what we'll do without the money --"

"We'll manage. I've been putting aside some from the house money. It's not much, but it'll last us." She stroked his arm soothingly. "My poor Irving," she crooned. "Look, you go in and get cleaned up and I'll warm some milk. Then we'll call the police ..."

He looked up sharply. "The police?"

"Yes, of course, the police. We've got to report it, don't we?"

"But what for? I didn't even see the kid who jumped me. I couldn't describe him, not even a little bit."

"That doesn't matter. We've got to report him, Irv, don't you know that? We can't just say, here, take my money, thanks very much, Mr. Mugger." Her voice softened. "Do you want me to do it?"

"No!" Her mothering tone irritated him. "I don't want you to do it, or me either. The whole thing's over and done with. They'll never catch him --"

"You're upset," Francey said. "Go in and clean up, and then we'll talk about it."

He went in and cleaned up in the closet-size bathroom, stalling for time. He took a long hot bath, soaking his tired body for a full 10 minutes. When he emerged, he caught a look at his guilty face in the bathroom mirror. What a dirty trick! he thought. But dirty or not, he had to see it through.

He considered the alternatives. If he called the police, their questions might reveal the hoax. If he didn't, Francey might get ideas herself. He thought it over, and decided he had a better chance with the cops. Francey's bright eyes held a store of wisdom that gave her uncomfortable insight.

He came back to the kitchen half an hour later, and Francey had the milk waiting, a saucer holding down the heat. He sipped it slowly while she watched him.

"Well?" she said. "Will you call the police, Irv?"

"Yeah, sure. I was just going to."

He got up, tightening the belt of his bathrobe. He picked up the telephone, (concluded overleaf)Fist Full of Money(continued from page 26) and hesitatingly asked for police headquarters. The sergeant asked questions: when did it happen, could he describe the mugger, how much had he lost -- and with each answer, the robbery, his fear, the loss, seemed to become more and more genuine. When the officer finally switched him over to a Lieutenant Dirkson, he was able to repeat the story with all the detail of a personally experienced episode.

He was beginning to think it hadn't turned out badly at all, when the lieutenant exploded the question:

"Can you come down to the station house, Mr. Randall? We think we have your man."

"You what?"

"I said I think we've got him. Picked him up a little while ago, right where it happened. It's important that you come down now."

His tongue froze in his mouth.

"Mr. Randall?"

"Yes," Irv stuttered. "Yes, I guess I can make it." How could he refuse?

"Ok, we'll have a car pick you up in five minutes."

Irv set the phone gently on the hook, turning to meet Francey's questioning eyes.

"They say they might have the man. They're sending a car for me." His heart pounded. First Francey, now the police!

"There, you see!" Francey said. "They have him already!"

"Don't expect it to be so easy. The police are always picking up suspicious characters; it's just routine --"

"I know it's him," Francey said. "You better get dressed, Irv."

• • •

He felt more like a criminal than a complainant as he walked up the steps of Precinct 23. The station house was quiet, but he stirred up activity when he told the desk sergeant his name. A plainclothesman, broad of shoulder and beam, came lumbering out of the rear and took him in charge.

"In here, Mr. Randall," he said, leading him to the back room. He had a big, sweaty face with suffering eyes and a kind mouth. "We picked up this kid right about the time you got mugged. I don't think there's any question about it, but see if you can identify him."

He wanted to say something, but no words came.

"Here he is. Stand up, Whitey."

There was a boy in a leather jacket seated at a wooden table, its surface bare except for a cluttered ashtray and the boy's peaked cap. He scraped back the chair and stood up when they walked in, arching his back insolently, and staring at Irv with a cigarette glued to his bottom lip. His hair was so blond that it was almost white, and despite the sneering mouth, there was fright and uncertainty in his face.

"Ditch that cigarette," the detective snapped. "And stand up straight. Here's a friend of yours."

"I never saw him before."

Irv couldn't meet his eyes.

"Look familiar, Mr. Randall?"

"It was dark. I -- I told you that over the phone. It was too dark to see a thing."

"Don't let that part worry you. We got other evidence, right, Whitey?"

The kid snorted.

"How much money did you have on you, Mr. Randall?"

"It was about -- 96 dollars."

The big man reached into his hip pocket, and extracted a grimy white envelope.

"He must have unloaded or lost a few bucks, but you can count it for yourself. Ninety-two bucks. And he was picked up half a block from where you say it happened, running like the devil was chasing him. That's what I meant about evidence."

Irv looked at the bills he was fanning in his hand, not knowing what to do next.

"All right, tough guy," the detective said. "Sit down and behave. Mr. Randall -- would you come this way, please?"

He drew Irv off to the side, out of earshot. He lowered his voice, and said:

"Look, Mr. Randall, I got no business doing this, but I'm going to ask you a favor."

"A favor?"

"Yeah. This kid, this Whitey. I know him from the neighborhood since he wore rompers. He's got a lot of poison in him, like the rest of them, but he's only 15. It's the first time he was ever in a real jam, if you know what I mean."

"Not exactly."

The detective scowled.

"Hell, I'm no Father Flanagan. I know there's such a thing as a bad boy. Only this kid -- well, I'd like to see him get a break. If you'll stand for it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"If you can see it my way, you can just forget about what happened tonight. Take the dough and don't press charges. I'll scare the kid a little, and let him go in a couple of hours. I think it'll do him more good than a stretch in jail. But that's only my opinion, Mr. Randall, you got your rights."

Irv felt such a surge of relief that he almost laughed.

"Of course, of course!" he said eagerly. "I don't want to see the kid get hurt. Hell, I'm not even sure he -- I mean, I'll do whatever you say, lieutenant."

"That'd be real decent of you, Mr. Randall."

"Glad to do it," Irv said, "no kidding."

A big smile spread across the moist, homely face.

"You're OK, Mr. Randall," he said. "Here's your money."

He handed over the envelope, containing almost a week's salary. Irv took it, the happiness rising in his chest, and went out of the station house to the waiting patrol car. At home, he gave his wife a hug and a kiss that made her squeal and giggle the way she did in their courtship days.

• • •

But in the morning, he felt troubled.

All the way to the office, he kept thinking of the kid. So what if he was a punk, a half-grown hood? The money was his, and Irv had conned him out of it as slickly as if he had worked at that sort of thing all his life. Maybe that cash had been earmarked for rent, for doctor's bills, for the kid's destitute family. And more than that, he had labeled the boy a criminal, even if there had been no judge or jail sentence ...

At his desk, the office boy left a container of coffee.

"What's the matter, Mr. Randall? Tough night?"

"Yeah," he said. "Lousy night."

His in box was thick with orders, but he couldn't get to work. Somewhere in the city, a kid was telling himself: "What's the use of going straight? You get the dirty end of the stick anyway ..."

He knew he couldn't go through with it. Not for a lousy week's pay. He picked up the telephone and asked for an outside line, thinking of the words he would say when the police lieutenant came on the other end.

The phone buzzed in his ear, and he saw Smalley going down the corridor to his desk. There was no grin on Smalley's face this morning, but there was a white patch of plaster on his right cheek. When Smalley paused in the doorway, Irv held onto the phone and said: "What the hell happened to you?"

Smalley grimaced. "What a night. We broke up after you left, and I went out to get the papers. Some lousy kid jumped me --"

Irv's eyes widened. "No kidding!"

"Yeah, how do you like that? Took every nickel I had, the dirty punk."

"Did you report him?"

"Ah, what's the use? You can't tell one hoodlum from the next in this lousy town. Say, Irv, you wouldn't have a couple of bucks to lend me till payday?"

Irv Randall relaxed into the swivel chair, and grinned.

"Gee, I'd like to help you, pal. But you know how it is. I'm a married man." And he hung up the phone.