I could tell the Duncan street building from the end of the block. I could tell all about it, even though it was dark, or because it was dark and the ground floor, in the rear, was on fire.
There were fire engines and people but nobody I knew. The sight made me sick and I left.
I wanted Lippit. Him or Folsom, I didn’t care which, but really I mostly wanted Lippit.
He wasn’t home, because Pat was there and nobody else. I went to the club and it would have been a laugh if he had been there, swimming maybe or getting a sweat in the courts. He wasn’t there. They were holding a dance and everything else was closed by that time.
His shop was closed, which I knew when nobody answered the telephone, but I went there to see for myself. No Lippit.
I drove around. It was a warm night, like all nights that time of the year, but it didn’t mean anything. A drive on a warm night was just something in the head. I remembered how it’s a pleasure sometimes, but it wasn’t then.
They hadn’t seen him, the bars, candy shops, bowling alleys, so forth. Not since noon, anyway. He had been in and out.
And they asked if I knew when the new sets and the new music would come in.
I don’t think anyone really cared very much, except sticklers like Morry in his nine-alley emporium, because they all played the same tunes in most of the places, dancing to it at the bars, foot stomping it at the ice-cream tables, or listening to it where it hummed out to the street.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll get the new one tomorrow.”
“It’ll be dead by then, maybe.”
“Maybe.”
When I found him the night was almost done. They had Folsom in police jail for arson, they had Lippit there for assault.
“You wanna bail?” asked the sergeant.
“Sure. I’ll bail.”
“Not the arson guy. He’s in the hospital.”
“I’ll take the other one.”
“Two hundred even.”
I had to go home and get the money and when I got back to the precinct it was getting light.
“He says he doesn’t want to get bailed,” said the sergeant.
“Ask him again. Tell him it’s St. Louis.”
“I did.”
“Tell him I’m waiting. One way or the other.”
Lippit came out then. We said hello and we walked out together. He needed a shave, which made him look rugged, and his clothes were wrinkled, which made him look poor. He said he wanted a beer. He wasn’t a beer drinker but lying in that cell, he explained, he suddenly wanted a beer. We went to an open place which served the hangover crowd and sat by the window, drinking beer.
“Did you beat him up?” I asked him.
“Folsom? Yeah.”
“You caught on to him.”
“No. I was in the plant, in the pressing place office, after nine, I think, looking at the stuff that was ready. I caught him that way.”
“But too late, by the looks of it.”
“Yuh. Most everything ruined.”
I drank beer, feeling cold from it.
“You insured?” he asked me.
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
“Anybody think of saving the masters?”
“The safe wasn’t touched, far as I know.”
“That’s good,” I said.
He looked out of the window, at the white light in the sky. “Know what else?” he said.
“What else.”
“Bascot’s turning.”
“Which way?”
“The normal way. His suppliers been on his neck, for stalling down on the orders, and he’s got a duress thing up in court, pushing Benotti back down to the bottom.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. That’s nice, huh?”
I said yes again and put out my cigarette. He said, “You done with your beer?”
“Yuh. I’m done.”
“Me too.”
We got up.
We walked out to the street and there we stopped and he held out his hand.
“Well, it’s over,” he said. It was for me. I took his hand. “Good luck.”
“Same to you, Jack,” and we went down the street. He one way, I the other.
Pat, of course, didn’t become a singer, like Doris did. Doris became the biggest thing on Blue Beat labels. She had played her cards right, but that was all there was to it now, and Pat was almost happy for me. I asked Pat if she wanted to sing and she shook her head.
“No, Jack,” she said.
“And no more ‘No-Jacks’ after this?”
“Yes, Jack.”
“Starting now?”
“Yes, Jack.”
“Show me.”
“Yes, Jack-”