The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 63
In the empty hall, Rye’s head fell to his chest. Six months?
He felt like such a fool. Lem Brand had said he’d get Gig out early. And Rye had believed it.
He thought he might get sick.
He looked around the dark union hall.
In the office, Gurley had straightened up from the table and was staring at him. “Ryan?”
Christ. What were they doing here? What were they pretending they could do? He thought of Early: You don’t believe this shit, do you, that it’s possible?
And Lem Brand: You’re a pawn.
And Gurley? Did she ever have a plan other than having them throw themselves at the cops and rotting in jail? They had no money, no men, no pressure, no Clarence Darrow, no hope.
Gig was going to jail for six months. Or worse, he’d die in there, like Jules had. And if Gig did get out, what would he be like? He’d been gone a month already, on hunger strike for part of that time. Rye looked around the empty union hall. He felt like his chest might collapse.
He stood and left the newspapers open on the pew.
Gurley came to the office doorway. “Ryan, is everything okay?”
He lurched toward the door. “I just need some air.” By the time he reached the street, Rye felt like his sternum was cracking. Six months. He gasped at the cold air, needles in his lungs. What would he do? Tramp around and try to find work himself? Where would he go? Rye doubled over but couldn’t catch his breath. He glanced to his left and saw a policeman on the corner, watching the hall.
It took a moment to recognize the big cop, Clegg. “Hello, Dolan. Back from Montana already?”
Rye couldn’t speak, his breathing shallow and pained. He turned away from Clegg and hurried down Front Street. He passed a couple staggering on the street, passed a saloon, a café, a Chinese cleaner.
He passed the newsboy, Lidle, followed by three other boys, like quail crossing Front Street. “Hey, Ryan, we’re ready.”
He waved at them from across the street but kept moving, turned south on Stevens, wavering against the flow on the sidewalk, people headed for east-side saloons. He passed job sharks, hired guards on stoops, and an alley where two women stood smoking outside their storefront cribs. He had no idea where he was going. He just kept thinking the word home, although he didn’t think it existed without Gig.
He looked back once to see if Clegg had followed him.
But no one was there. Had he imagined the big cop?
He slowed, his breath returning to normal.
He looked up. He was on Sprague Avenue, in the fancier part of downtown, where a better class of steam escaped people’s mouths.
25
Tramps didn’t venture into this part of downtown without getting hassled, so Rye pulled his coat tight and lowered the bowler on his head, trying to blend in, just a man on his way home from work. Even with Mr. Moore’s coat and hat, though, his dungarees and boots gave him away. At Howard Street, he paused for an electric trolley car, its overhead wires crackling, and he was spellbound by the pale-lit, ghostly faces inside the car, people headed to families and meals and fires. Automobiles and horse wagons filled the streetcar’s wake, and Rye stood at that intersection for a long time, staring at the tracks. The whole country was laced together with tracks. He could get on a train and end up in New York City if he wanted, and this felt like another reverie, or a premonition.
The world was becoming a single place.
He moved deeper into the west side, fancy hotels, restaurants, and theaters. He found himself on the sidewalk in front of Louis Davenport’s frilly white stucco restaurant, pillars at the door, arched windows—inside, the bright lights gleaming off crisp white tablecloths and sparkling on gowns and shoes. He couldn’t stop staring—the light inside was like a vision of heaven.
Three men in fine suits and leather gloves were walking into a cigar shop next door. At the curb, a young man in tails was helping a drunk woman in a gown into a brand-new automobile. Another man was leading a woman in a fur into the restaurant, and casually slipped the tuxedoed doorman a dollar.
A day’s wage for opening a door.
Rye stood on the sidewalk and turned a slow circle, taking it all in. It was dusk, early supper hour, and men were leaving offices for a beer together, or taking their wives to a meal before the theater.
Right now he and Gig would be lining up at a Starvation Army soup kitchen or warming their hands over a rail-yard cook fire or, best case, huddled in their coats on Mrs. Ricci’s sleeping porch, hoping she’d invite them in for dinner.
“Come on, get!”
Rye looked back over his shoulder. The Davenport’s doorman was shooing him. He wore a heavy coat over his tuxedo and was waving a gloved hand as though Rye were a stray dog. “Come on, kid, move it.” He was probably only nineteen or twenty himself, hair slicked on either side of a widow’s peak.
But what caught Rye’s eyes were the young man’s hands, encased in a pair of the warmest-looking gloves he’d ever seen. They were heavy black leather and reflected the diamond sparkle of the restaurant. Rye looked around at people on the street, some of them turning to watch. Everyone’s hands were gloriously gloved in fur