The city is prosperous, being the second largest market and transportation center of the most productive agricul­tural area on Ierra—grain, beef, pork. The unsightly as­pects of this trade are down in river bottoms while the citizens live in beautiful wooded hills. On a damp morning when the wind sets from that quarter one sometimes catches a whiff of stockyards; otherwise the air is clear and clean and beautiful.

  It is a quiet city. Traffic is never dense, and the clop­clop of horses’ hooves or the warning gong of an elec­trically propelled street-railroad car is just enough to accent the silence—the sounds of children at play are louder.

  Galahad is more interested in how a culture uses its leisure than in its economics—and so am I, as scratching a living is controlled by circumstances. But not play. By play I do not mean sex. Sex can’t take up too much time of humans matured beyond adolescence (except a few oddies like the fabled Casanova—and Galahad of course—‘Me ‘at’s off to the Dyuke!’).

  In 1916 (nothing I say necessarily applies ten years later and certainly not one hundred years later; this is the very end of an era)—at this time the typical Kansas Citian makes his own play; his social events are associated with churches, or with relatives by blood and marriage, or both—dining, picnicking, playing games (not gambling), or simply visiting and talking. Most of this costs little or nothing except the expense of supporting their churches—which are social clubs as much as they are temples of religious faith.

  The major commercial entertainment is called “mov­ing pictures”—dramatic shows presented as silent black-and-white shadow pictures flickering against a blank wall. These are quite new, very popular, and very cheap—they are called “nickel-shows” after the minor coin charged as a fee. Each neighborhood (defined as walking distance) has at least one such theater. This form of entertainment, and its technological derivatives, eventually had (will have) as much to do with the destruction of this social pattern as the automobile carriages (get Galahad’s opin­ions on this), but—in 1916—neither has as yet disturbed what appears to be a stable and rather Utopian pattern.

  Anomie has not yet set in, the norms are strong, cus­toms ‘are binding, and no one here-&-now would believe that the occasional rumble is Cheyne-Stokes breathing of a culture about to die. Literacy is at the highest level this culture will ever attain—my dears, the people of 1916 simply would not believe 2016. They won’t even believe that they are about to be enmeshed in the first of the Final Wars; that is why the man for whom I am named is about to be reelected. “We Are Neutral.” “Too Proud to Fight.” “He Kept Us Out of War.” Under these slogans they are marching over the precipice, not knowing it is there. (I’m depressing myself—hindsight is a vice . . espe­cially when it is foresight.)

  Now let’s look at the underside of this lovely city:

  The city is a nominal democracy. In fact it is nothing of the sort. It is governed by one politician who holds no office. Elections are solemn rituals—and the outcomes are what he ordains. The streets are beautifully paved because his companies pave them—to his profit. The schools are excellent, and they actually teach—because this monarch wants it that way. He is pragmatically benign and does not overreach. “Crime” (which means anything illegal and includes both prostitution and gambling) is franchised through his lieutenants; he never touches it himself.

  Much of this crime-by-definition is handled by an organization sometimes called “The Black Hand”—but in 1916 it usually has no name and is never seen. But it is why I don’t dare accept election bets; I would be en­croaching on a monopoly of one of this politician’s lieu­tenants—which would be very dangerous to my health.

  Instead, I’ll bet by the local rules and keep my mouth shut.

  The “respectable” citizen, with his pleasant home and garden and church and happy children, sees none of this and (I think) suspects little of it and thinks about it less.

  The city is divided into zones with firm though unmarked bounds. The descendants of former slaves live in a zone that forms a buffer between the “nice” part of town and the area dominated by and lived in by the franchised monopolists of such things as gambling and prostitution. At night the zones mix only under unspoken conventions. In the daytime there is nothing to notice. The boss, maintains tight discipline but keeps it simple. I’ve heard that he has only three unbreakable rules: Keep the streets well paved. Don’t touch the schools. Don’t kill anyone south of a certain street.

  In 1916 it works just fine—but not much longer. I must stop; I have an appointment at K.C. Photo Supply Company to use a lab—in private. Then I must get back to the grift: separating people from dollars painlessly and fairly legally.

  Love forever and all the way back,

  L

  P.S. You should see me in a derby hat!

  DA CAPO

  III

  Maureen

  Mr. Theodore Bronson né Woodrow Wilson Smith aka Lazarus Long left his apartment on Armour Boulevard and drove his car, a Ford landaulet, to a corner on Thirty-first Street, where he parked it in a shed behind a pawnshop—as he took a dim view of leaving an automobile on the Street at night. Not that the car had cost Lazarus much; he had ac­quired it as a result of the belief of an optimist from Denver that aces back to back plus a pair showing could certainly beat a pair of jacks—Mr. “Jenkins” must be bluffing. But Mr. “Jenkins” had a jack in the hole.

  It had been a profitable winter, and Lazarus expected a still more prosperous spring. His guess about a war market on certain stocks and commodities had usually been correct, and his spread of investments was wide enough that a wrong guess did not hurt him much as most of his guesses were right— they could hardly be wrong since he had anticipated stepped-up submarine warfare, knowing what would eventually bring this country into the war in Europe.

  Watching the market left him time for other “investments” in other people’s optimism, sometimes at pool, sometimes at cards. He enjoyed pool more, found cards more rewarding. All winter he had played both, and his plain and rather friendly face, when decorated with his best stupid look, marked him as a natural sucker—a look he enhanced by dressing as a hayseed come to town.

  Lazarus did not mind other pool-hall hustlers, or “me­chanics” in card games, or “reader” cards; he simply kept quiet and accepted any buildup winnings offered him, then “lost his nerve” and dropped out before the kill. He enjoyed these crooked games; it was easier—and pleasanter—to take money from a thief than it was to play an honest game to win, and it did not cost as much sleep; he always dropped out of a crooked game early, even when he was behind. But his timing was rarely that bad.

  Winnings he reinvested in the market.

  All winter he had stayed “‘Red’ Jenkins,” living at the Y.M.C.A. and spending almost nothing. When the weather was very bad, he stayed in and read, avoiding the steep and icy streets. He had forgotten how harsh a Kansas City winter could be. Once he saw a team of big horses trying gallantly to haul a heavy truck up the steep pitch of Tenth Street above Grand Avenue. The off horse slipped on the ice and broke a leg—Lazarus heard the cannon bone pop. It made him feel sick, and he wanted to horsewhip the teamster—why hadn’t the fool taken the long way around?

  Such days were best spent in his room or in the Main Public Library near the Y.M.C.A.—hundreds of thousands of real books, bound books he could hold in his hands.. They tempted him almost into neglecting his pursuit of money. During that cruel winter he spent every spare hour there, getting reacquainted with his oldest friends—Mark Twain with Dan Beard’s illustrations, Dr. Conan Doyle, the Marvelous Land of Oz as described by the Royal Historian and portrayed in color by John R. Neil, Rudyard Kipling, Herbert George Wells, Jules Verne— Lazarus felt that he could easily spend all the coming ten years in that wonderful building.

  But when false spring arrived, he started thinking about moving out of the business district and again changing his persona. It was becoming difficult to get picked as a sucker either at pool or at poker; his investment program was com­plete; he had enough cash in Fidelity Savings & Trust Bank to allow him to give up the austerity of the Y.M.C.A., find a better address, and show a more prosperous face to the world—essential to his final purpose in this city: remeeting his first family—and not much time left before his July deadline.

  Acquiring a presentable motorcar crystallized his plans. He spent the next day becoming “Theodore Bronson”: moved his bank account one street over to the Missouri Savings Bank, and held out ample cash; visited a barber and had his hair and mustache restyled; went to Browning, King & Co., and bought clothing suitable to a conservative young businessman. Then he drove south and cruised Linwood Boulevard, watching for “Vacancy” signs. His requirements were simple: a furnished apartment with a respectable address and facade, its own kitchen and bathroom—and in walking distance of a pool hall on Thirty-first Street.

  He did not plan to hustle in that pool hall; it was one of two places where he hoped to meet a member of his first family. Lazarus found what he needed, but on Armour Boulevard rather than Linwood and rather far from that pool hall. This caused him to rent two garaging spaces—difficult, as Kansas City was not yet accustomed to supplying housing for auto­mobiles. But two dollars a month got him space in a barn close to his apartment; three dollars a month got him a shed behind the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlour.

  He started a routine: Spend each evening from eight to ten at the pool hall, attend the church on Linwood Boulevard that his family had attended (did attend), go downtown morn­ings when business required—by streetcar; Lazarus considered an automobile a nuisance in downtown Kansas City, and he enjoyed riding streetcars. He began profit-taking on his invest­ments, coverting the proceeds into gold double eagles and sav­ing them in a lockbox in a third bank, the Commonwealth. He expected to complete liquidation, with enough gold to carry him through November 11, 1918, well before his July de­parture date.

  In his spare time he kept the landaulet shining, took care of its upkeep himself, and drove it for pleasure. He also worked slowly, carefully, and very privately on a tailoring job: mak­ing a chamois-skin vest that was nothing but pockets, each to hold one $20 gold piece. When completed and filled and pockets sewed shut, he planned to cover it, inside and out, with a suit vest he had used as a pattern. It would be much too warm, but a money belt was not enough for that much gold—and money that clinked instead of rustling was the only sort he was certain he could use outside the country in wartime. Besides, when filled it would be almost a bulletproof vest— one never knew what lay around the next corner, and those Latin-American countries were volatile.

  Each Saturday afternoon he took conversational Spanish from a Westport High School teacher who lived nearby. All in all he kept pleasantly busy and on schedule.

  *

  That evening after locking his Ford landaulet into the shed back of the pawnshop, Lazarus glanced into a bierstube ad­joining it, thinking that his grandfather might have a stein of Muehiebach there before going home. The problem of bow to meet his first family easily and naturally had occupied his mind from time to time all winter. He wanted ‘to be accepted as a friend in their (his!) home, but he could not walk up the front steps, twist the doorbell, and announce himself as a long-lost cousin—nor even as a friend of a friend from Paducah. He had no connections with which to swing it, and if he tried a complex lie, he was certain his grandfather would spot it.

  Thus he had decided on a pianissimo double approach: the church attended by his family (except his grandfather) and the hangout his grandfather used when he wanted to get away from his daughter’s family.

  Lazarus was sure of the church—and his memory was con­firmed the first Sunday he had gene there, with a shock that had upset him even more than the shock of learning that he was three years early.

  He saw his mother and had momentarily mistaken her for one of his twin sisters.

  But almost instantly he realized why: Maureen Johnson Smith was the genetic mother of his identicals as certainly as she was his own mother. Nevertheless, it had shaken him, and he was glad to have several hymns and a long sermon in which to calm down. He avoided looking at her and spent the time trying to sort out his brothers and sisters.

  Twice since then he had seen his mother at church and now could look at her without flinching and could even see that this pretty young matron was compatible with his faded image of what his mother ought to look like. But he still felt that he would never have recognized her had it not been for his sharp recollection of Lapis Lazuli and Lorelei Lee. He had illogically expected a much older woman, more as she had been when he left home.

  Attending church had not resulted in his meeting her, or his siblings, although the pastor had introduced him to other parishioners. But he continued to drive his automobile to church against the day when it might be polite to offer her and his siblings a ride home—six blocks over on Benton Boulevard; the spring weather would not always be dry.

  He had not been as certain of his grandfather’s hangout. He was sure that this was where “Gramp” used to go ten or twelve years later-but did he go here when Woodie Smith was (is) not yet five?

  Having checked the German beer parlor—and noted that it had suddenly changed its name to “The Swiss Garden”—he went into the pool hall. Pool tables were all in use; he went back to the rear, where there was one billiard table, a card table, and one for chess or checkers; no pool game being available, it seemed a good time to practice some “mistakes” at three-cushion.

  Gramp! His grandfather was alone at the chess table; Laza­rus recognized him at once.

  Lazarus did not break stride. He went on toward the cue rack, hesitated as he was about to pass the chess table, looked down at the array. Ira Johnson looked up—seemed to recog­nize Lazarus, seemed about to speak and then to think better of it.

  “Excuse me,” said Lazarus. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No harm,” said’ the old man. (How old? To Lazarus he seemed both older and younger than he ought to be. And smaller. When was he born? Almost ten years before the Civil War.) “Just fiddling with a chess problem.”

  “How many moves to mate?”

  “You play?”

  “Some.” Lazarus added, “My grandfather taught me. But I haven’t played lately.”

  “Care for a game?”

  “If you want to put up with a rusty player.”

  Ira Johnson picked up a white pawn and a black, put them behind his back, brought them out in his fists. Lazarus pointed, found that he had chosen the black.

  Gramp started setting up pieces. “My name is Johnson,” he offered.

  “I’m Ted Bronsón, sir.”

  They shook hands; Ira Johnson advanced his king’s pawn to four; Lazarus answered in kind.

  They played silently. By the sixth move Lazarus suspected that his grandfather was re-creating one of Steinitz’s master games; by the ninth he was sure of it. Should he use the escape Dora had discovered? No that would feel like cheating—of course a computer could play better chess than I man. He concentrated on playing as well as possible without at­tempting Dora’s subtle variation.

  Lazarus was checkmated on white’s twenty-ninth move, and it seemed to him that the master game had been perfectly re­produced—Wilhelm Steinitz against some Russian, what was his name? Must ask Dora. He waved to a marker, started to pay for the game; his grandfather pushed his coin aside, in­sisted on paying for the use of the table, and added to the marker, “Son, fetch us two sarsaparillas. That suit you, Mr. Bronson? Or the boy can fetch you a beer from those Huns next door.”

  “Sarsaparilla is fine, thank you.”

  “Ready for revenge?”

  “After I catch my breath. You play a tough game, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Mrrrmph! You said you were rusty.”

  “I am. But my grandfather taught me when I was very young, then played me every day for years.”

  “Do tell. I’ve a grandson I play. Tyke isn’t in school yet, but I spot him only a horse.”

  “Maybe he would play me. Even.”

  “Mrrmph. You’ll allow him a knight, same as I do.” Mr. Johnson paid for -the drinks, tipped the boy a nickel. “What business are you in, Mr. Bronson?—if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Not at all. In business for myself. Buy things, sell things. Make a little, lose a little.”

  “So? When are you going to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge?”

  “Sorry, sir, I unloaded that last week. But I can offer you a bargain in Spanish Prisoners.”

  Mr. Johnson smiled sourly. “Guess that’ll teach me.”

  “But, Mr. Johnson, if I told you I was a pool-hall hustler, you wouldn’t let me play chess with your grandson.”

  “Might, might not. Shall we get set up? Your turn for white.”

  With the first move allowing him to control the pace. Laza­rus made a slow, careful buildup of his attack. His grand­father was equally careful, left no openings in his defense. They were so evenly matched that it took Lazarus forty-one moves and much skull sweat to turn his first-move advantage into a mate.

  “Play off the tie?”

  Ira Johnson shook his head. “Two games a night is my limit. Two like that is over my limit. Thank you, sir; you play a fine game. For a man who is ‘rusty.” He pushed back his chair. “Time for me to head for the stable.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “So I noticed, I’ll stand in the doorway and watch for the Thirty-first Street trolley.”

  “I have my automobile here. I’d be honored to run you home.”

  “Eh? No need to. Only a block from the car line at the other end, and if I get a little damp, I’ll be home and can get dry.”

 

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