Страница 92 из 194
Both Rudolph and Joh
“We didn’t know we were coming,” Rudolph said. “This is an impromptu celebration.” He kissed her cheek. He had not been drinking.
“Hi, Billy,” he said to the little boy.
“Hi,” Billy said perfunctorily. The relationship between uncle and nephew was tenuous. Billy called his uncle Rudy. From time to time Gretchen tried to get the boy to be more polite and say Uncle Rudolph, but Willie backed up his son, saying, “Old forms, old forms. Don’t bring up the kid to be a hypocrite.”
“Come on upstairs,” Gretchen said, “and we’ll open these bottles.”
The living room was a mess. She worked there now, having surrendered the upstairs room completely to Billy, and there were bits and pieces of two articles she had promised for the first of the month. Books, notes, and scraps of paper were scattered all over the desk and tables. Not even the sofa was immune. She was not a methodical worker, and her occasional attempts at order soon foundered into even greater chaos than before. She had taken to chain-smoking when she worked and ash trays full of stubs were everywhere. Willie, who was far from neat himself, complained from time to time. “This isn’t a home,” he said, “it’s the goddamn city room of a small-time newspaper.”
She noticed Rudolph’s quick glance of disapproval around the room. Was he judging her now against the fastidious girl she had been at nineteen? She had an unreasonable flash of anger against her impeccable, well-pressed brother. I’m ru
“Billy,” she said, as she hung up her coat and scarf, with elaborate precision, to make up for the state of the room, “go upstairs and do your homework.”
“Aah …” Billy said, more for form’s sake than out of any desire to remain below with the grownups.
“Go ahead, Billy.”
He went upstairs happily, pretending to be unhappy.
Gretchen got out three glasses. “What’s the occasion?” she asked Rudolph, who was working on opening the bottle of champagne.
“We did it,” Rudolph said. “Today we had the final signing. We can drink champagne morning, noon, and night for the rest of our lives.” He got the cork out and let the foam splash over his hand as he poured.
“That’s wonderful,” Gretchen said mechanically. It was difficult for her to understand Rudolph’s single-minded immersion in business.
They touched glasses.
“To Dee Cee Enterprises and the Chairman of the Board,” Joh
Both men laughed, nerves still taut. They gave Gretchen the curious impression of being survivors of an accident, almost hysterically congratulating themselves on their escape. What goes on in those offices downtown, Gretchen wondered.
Rudolph couldn’t sit still. He prowled around the room, glass in hand, opening books, glancing at the confusion of her desk, ruffling the pages of a newspaper. He looked trained down and nervy, with very bright eyes and hollows showing in his cheeks.
By contrast, Joh
Rudolph turned on the radio and the middle of the first movement of the Emperor Concerto blared out. Rudolph gri
“Cut it out,” Gretchen said. “You fellows are making me feel like a pauper.”
“If Willie has any sense,” Joh
“Willie,” Gretchen said, “is too proud to beg, too well known to borrow, and too cowardly to steal.”
“You’re talking about my friend,” Joh
“He was once a friend of mine, too,” Gretchen said.
“Have some more champagne,” Joh
Rudolph picked up a sheet of paper from her desk. “‘The Age of Midgets,’” he read. “What sort of title is that?”
“It started out to be an article about the new television programs this season,” Gretchen said, “and somehow I branched out. Last year’s plays, this year’s plays, a bunch of novels, Eisenhower’s cabinet, architecture, public morality, education … I’m aghast at how Billy’s being educated and maybe that really started me off.”
Rudolph read the first paragraph. “You’re pretty rough,” he said.
“I’m paid to be a common scold,” Gretchen said. “That’s my racket.”
“Do you really feel as black as you sound?” Rudolph asked.
“Yes,” she said. She held out her glass toward Joh
The telephone rang. “Probably Willie saying he can’t come home for di
“Me?” Rudolph shrugged. “Nobody knows I’m here.”
“The man said Mr. Jordache.”
“Yes?” Rudolph said into the phone.
“Jordache?” The voice was husky, secretive.
“Yes.”
“This is Al. I put down five hundred for you for tonight. A good price. Seven to five.”
“Wait a minute,” Rudolph said, but the phone went dead. Rudolph stared at the instrument in his hand. “That was the queerest thing. It was a man called Al. He said he put down five hundred for me for tonight at seven to five. Gretchen, do you gamble secretly?”
“I don’t know any Al,” she said, “and I don’t have five hundred dollars and besides, he asked for Mr. Jordache, not Miss Jordache.” She wrote under her maiden name and was listed as G. Jordache in the Manhattan directory.
“That’s the damnedest thing,” Rudolph said. “Did I tell anyone I’d be at this number?” he asked Joh
“Not to my knowledge,” Joh
“He must have gotten the numbers mixed up,” Gretchen said.
“That doesn’t sound reasonable,” Rudolph said. “How many Jordaches can there be in New York? Did you ever come across any others?”
Gretchen shook her head.
“Where’s the Manhattan book?”
Gretchen pointed and Rudolph picked it up and opened it to the J’s. “T. Jordache,” he read, “West Ninety-third Street.” He closed the book slowly and put it down. “T. Jordache,” he said to Gretchen. “Do you think it’s possible?”
“I hope not,” Gretchen said.
“What’s all this about?” Joh
“We have a brother named Thomas,” Rudolph said.
“The baby of the family,” Gretchen said. “Some baby.”
“We haven’t seen him or heard of him in ten years,” Rudolph said.
“The Jordaches are an extraordinarily close-knit family,” Gretchen said. After the work of the day, the champagne was begi
“What does he do?” Joh
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Rudolph said.
“If he’s living up to his early promise,” Gretchen said, “he is dodging the police.”
“I’m going to find out.” Rudolph opened the book again and looked up the number of T. Jordache on West Ninety-third Street. He dialled. The phone was answered by a woman, young from the sound of her voice.
“Good evening, madam,” Rudolph said, impersonal, institutional. “May I speak to Mr. Thomas Jordache, please?”
“No, you can’t,” the woman said. She had a high, thin soprano voice. “Who’s this?” Now she sounded suspicious.
“A friend of his,” Rudolph said. “Is Mr. Jordache there?”