Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [105]
Obviously, Tinker had read many of the Rules on Mr. Washington’s list quite closely. Maybe he had just never gotten this far.
On Tuesday morning, I woke early and walked all the way to work at a Bitsy Houghton pace. The sky was autumn blue and the streets bustled with honest men on their way to earn an honest wage. The Fifth Avenue high-rises shimmered to the envy of the outer boroughs. On the corner of Forty-second Street I gave the whistling newsie two bits for the Times (keep the change, kid) and then the Condé Nast elevator whisked me up twenty-five floors faster than it would have taken to fall them.
As I walked across the bullpen with my paper under my arm (and the newsie’s whistle on my lips), I noticed out of the corner of my eye that singing-telegrammed Fesindorf stood when I passed. Then Cabot and Spindler did the same. Across the room I could see Alley at her desk typing at full clip. She caught my eye with a hint of caution. Through the glass walls of his office, I could see Mason Tate dipping his chocolate into his coffee.
At my desk, in place of my chair, I found a wheelchair with a red cross emblazoned on the back.
SEPTEMBER 30
As he crossed First Avenue, he made eye contact with two Caribbean girls in the light of a street lamp. They stopped talking so that they could smile at him professionally. By way of response, he shook his head. He looked farther along Twenty-second Street and quickened his pace. They picked up where they’d left off.
It started to rain again.
He took off his hat and tucked it under his jacket, counting the numbers of the tenement houses. No. 242. No. 244. No. 246.
When he had spoken to his brother on the telephone, his brother had been unwilling to meet uptown, to meet in a restaurant, to meet at a reasonable hour. He had insisted they meet in the Gashouse district at eleven o’clock where he had some business to attend to. He found him sitting on the stoop of No. 254 smoking a cigarette, looking as pale as a miner.
—Hey Hank.
—Hello Teddy.
—How are you?
Hank didn’t bother to answer or get up or ask him how he was. Hank had stopped asking how he was a long time ago.
—What have you got there? Hank said, nodding his head at the lump under his jacket. The head of John the Baptist?
He took out the hat.
—It’s a Panama hat.
Hank nodded with a wry smile.
—Panama!
—It shrinks in the rain, he explained.
—Of course it does.
—How’s the work going? he asked Hank, changing the subject.
—Everything I imagined and more.
—Are you still working on the marquee paintings?
—Didn’t you hear? I sold the lot of them to the Museum of Modern Art. Just in time to stave off eviction.
—Actually, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you. I just got a bit of a windfall. And I don’t know when I’ll get another. You could put some of it toward the rent. . . .
He took the envelope out of his jacket pocket.
Hank’s expression soured at the sight of it.
A car pulled up in front of the stoop. It was a police car. Before turning fully around, he put the envelope back in his pocket.
The officer in the passenger seat rolled down his window. He had dark eyebrows and olive skin.
—Everything all right? the patrolman asked helpfully.
—Yes, officer. Thanks for stopping.
—Okay, he said. But watch out for yourselves. This is a nigger block.
—Sure thing, officer, Hank called over his shoulder. And you watch out on Mott Street. That’s a wop block.
Both officers got out of the car. The driver already had his baton in hand. Hank stood up, ready to meet them at the curb.
He had to step in between his brother and the officers. He put both hands up in front of his chest and spoke in a quiet, apologetic voice.
—He didn’t mean it, officers. He’s been drinking. He’s my brother. I’m taking him home right now.
The officers studied him. They studied his suit and his haircut.
—All right, the passenger-seat cop said. But don’t let us find him here later.
—Or ever, the driver-seat cop said.
They got back in the car and drove away.
He