Rich Man, Poor Man

For a moment Thomas thought of locking up, but then he thought, hell, if there’s anybody in this club so poor he has to steal from me, he’s welcome. He undressed, put his shoes in the locker, wrapped himself in a towel and went to the shower room, where Brewster Reed was already happily splashing around.

When he came back after the shower, there was a note pi

The curtness of the message, the fact of its being written at all when he and Dominic passed each other ten times an afternoon, meant trouble. Something official, pla

Dominic was reading a copy of Life, slowly turning the pages on his desk. He looked up, closed the magazine and put it neatly to one side of the desk. He got up and looked out into the hall to make sure it was empty, then closed his office door. “Sit down, kid,” he said.

Thomas sat down and waited while Dominic sat down opposite him behind the desk.

“What’s up?” Thomas asked.

“Plenty,” Dominic said. “The shit is hitting the fan. I’ve been getting reamed out all day.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Dominic said. “No use beatin’ around the bush, kid. Somebody’s been lifting dough out of people’s wallets. Some smart guy who takes a bill here and there and leaves the rest. These fat bastards here’re so rich most of ’em don’t even know what they have in their pockets and if they do happen to miss an odd ten or twenty here or there, they think maybe they lost it or they made a mistake the last time they counted. But one guy is sure he don’t make no mistakes. That bastard Greening. He says a ten-dollar bill was lifted from his locker while he was working out with me yesterday and he’s been on the phone all day today talking to other members and now suddenly everybody’s sure he’s been robbed blind the last few months.”

“Still, what’s that got to do with me?” Thomas said, although he knew what it had to do with him.

“Greening figured out that it’s only begun since you came to work here.”

“That big shit,” Thomas said bitterly. Greening was a cold-eyed man of about thirty who worked in a stock broker’s office and who boxed with Dominic. He had fought light-heavy for some school out West and kept in shape and took no pity on Dominic, but went after him savagely for three two-minute rounds four times a week. After his sessions with Greening, Dominic, who didn’t dare really to counter hard, was often bruised and exhausted.

“He’s a shit all right,” Dominic said. “He made me search your locker this afternoon. It’s a lucky thing you didn’t happen to have any ten-dollar bills there. Even so, he wants to call the police and have you booked on suspicion.”

“What did you say to that?” Thomas asked.

“I talked him out of it,” Dominic said. “I said I’d have a word with you.”

“Well, you’re having a word with me,” Thomas said. “Now what?”

“Did you take the dough?”

“No. Do you believe me?”

Dominic shrugged warily. “I don’t know. Somebody sure as hell took it.”

“A lot of people walk around the locker room all day. Charley, the guy from the pool, the pro, the members, you …”

“Cut it out, kid,” Dominic said. “I don’t want no jokes.”

“Why pick on me?” Thomas asked.

“I told you. It only started since you came to work here: Ah, Christ, they’re talking about putting padlocks on all the lockers. Nobody’s ever locked anything here for a hundred years. The way they talk they’re in the middle of the biggest crime wave since Jesse James.”

“What do you want me to do? Quit?”

“Naah.” Dominic shook his head. “Just be careful. Keep in somebody’s sight all the time.” He sighed. “Maybe it’ll all blow over. That bastard Greening and his lousy ten bucks … Come on out with me.” He stood up wearily and stretched. “I’ll buy you a beer. What a lousy day.”

The locker room was empty when Thomas came through the door. He had been sent out to the post office with a package and he was in his street clothes. There was an interclub squash match on and everybody was upstairs watching it. Everybody but one of the members called Sinclair, who was on the team, but who had not yet played his match. He was dressed, ready to play, and was wearing a white sweater. He was a tall, slender young man who had a law degree from Harvard and whose father was also a member of the club. The family had a lot of money and their name was in the papers often. Young Sinclair worked in his father’s law office in the city and Thomas had overheard older men in the club saying that young Sinclair was a brilliant lawyer and would go far.

But right now, as Thomas came down the aisle silently in his te

For a moment, Thomas hesitated, wondering if he could turn and get away before Sinclair saw him. But just as Sinclair got the wallet out, he looked up and saw Thomas. They stared at each other. Then it was too late to back away. Thomas moved quickly toward the man and grabbed his wrist. Sinclair was panting, as though he had been ru

“You’d better put that back, sir,” Thomas whispered.

“All right,” Sinclair said. “I’ll put it back.” He whispered, too.

Thomas did not release his wrist. He was thinking fast. If he denounced Sinclair, on one excuse or another he would lose his job. It would be too uncomfortable for the other members to be subjected daily to the presence of a lowly employee who had disgraced one of their own. If he didn’t denounce him … Thomas played for time. “You know, sir,” he said, “they suspect me.”

“I’m sorry.” Thomas could feel the man trembling, but Sinclair didn’t try to pull away.

“You’re going to do three things,” Thomas said. “You’re going to put the wallet back and you’re going to promise to lay off from now on.”

“I promise, Tom. I’m very grateful …”

“You’re going to show just how grateful you are, Mr. Sinclair,” Thomas said. “You’re going to write out an IOU for five thousand dollars to me right now and you’re going to pay me in cash within three days.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Sinclair said, sweat standing out on his forehead.

“All right,” Thomas said. “I’ll start yelling.”

“I bet you would, you little bastard,” Sinclair said.

“I’ll meet you in the bar of the Hotel Touraine, Thursday night at eleven o’clock,” Thomas said. “Pay night.”

“I’ll be there.” Sinclair’s voice was so low that Thomas could barely hear it. He dropped the man’s hand and watched as Sinclair put the wallet back into the jacket pocket. Then he took out a small notebook in which he kept a record of petty expenses he laid out on errands and opened it to a blank page and handed Sinclair a pencil.

Sinclair looked down at the open notebook thrust under his nose. If he could steady his nerves, Thomas knew, he could just walk away and if Thomas told anybody the story he could laugh it off. But never completely laugh it off. Anyway, his nerves were shot. He took the notebook, scribbled in it.

Thomas glanced at the page, put the notebook in his pocket and took back the pencil. Then he gently closed the locker door and went upstairs to watch the squash.