The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 92
Rye wasn’t sure what to say.
“Sta’ zitto,” Mrs. Ricci said.
“Exactly,” said the Canadian man.
After dinner, Rye sat by the fire and read a chapter of War and Peace.
“What are you reading?” the Canadian asked, but when Rye held up the book, the man gave no reaction and went back to his newspaper. Rye had trouble concentrating on the book, and he went to bed early. He fell asleep right away but woke well before dawn and lay in bed waiting for morning.
With the sun just beginning to spill across the horizon, Rye rose and went to the outhouse. He cleaned and powdered himself, wet down his hair. He began to get dressed in his new suit. It was winter. Was he supposed to wear his long johns with a suit? He worried they would be too bunchy under his pants, so he put on summer undershorts instead. Then he put on the smooth suit pants, running his hand down the crease in the center. He put on the stiff white collared shirt, braces, the vest, the thin new socks, and the shiny calfskin shoes. He laced and knotted the shoes tight around his feet. He put on his coat. And his bowler. And finally, he grabbed the necktie. Chester the clothier had given him a quick lesson on knotting it, but that had been in front of a mirror, and he couldn’t remember the steps. And there was no mirror in Mrs. Ricci’s house. He felt a moment of panic. He could never loop this tie without a mirror. And anyway, what even was the point of having such clothes if he couldn’t see himself in them?
Mrs. Ricci was making breakfast for the Canadian salesman when Rye came out of his bedroom. “Sharp suit,” the Canadian said. “Single-breasted vest, elegant cut, fine, fine, where’d you get it, the Crescent?”
“Burks and Feyn,” Rye said. “Downtown?”
“That’s a thirty-dollar suit if I’ve ever seen one, nice, nice, very nice.”
Rye’s face was burning. He could ask the Canadian for help with the tie, but the man bothered him. Maybe Mrs. Ricci had helped her sons knot neckties. But she just stared at him, spatula in hand, bacon grease popping behind her.
“I can’t eat this morning, Mrs. Ricci,” Rye said, “no mangia,” and he went into the front room, peeked through the curtains, and saw, at the curb, Willard’s Model T idling in front of the house.
Rye unlocked the front door and walked out, went down the walk. He knocked on the passenger door and startled Willard again.
“You can’t keep doing that,” Willard said. He ran his hand along the right side of his face. “Glaucoma. No peripheral vision.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Rye asked.
Willard looked Rye up and down. “Christ. What happened to you?”
“Gurley’s verdict is today. I want to look nice.”
“Well,” Willard said, “you do.”
Rye held out the necktie. “Do you have any idea—”
“Sure. Get in.” Willard had Rye sit in the passenger seat and face away, toward the house. “Double Windsor?”
“Whatever it’s supposed to be,” Rye said, embarrassed that he’d bought clothes that he couldn’t even operate.
Willard lifted Rye’s collar and draped the tie over his neck. He lowered the collar and narrated as he looped it. “Okay. This is simple.” He put his hands over Rye’s, and they did it together. “Over the top, around, over, through the loop, around again, and once more through the hole. Then pull tight. Adjust. There you go.”
He patted Rye’s shoulder and sat back in his seat. Rye settled in and Willard handed him a fat envelope. “You want to count it?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Put it in your inside pocket.”
Rye did.
“I’m going to be at the courthouse, watching.”
“No, Willard, he said nobody—” Rye began.
“I know what he said. You won’t know I’m there, and neither will he.”
Rye felt less than confident.
“I’m not doing this for Brand,” Willard said. “He doesn’t even know. He’s scared stupid of this Early Reston, or Ennis Cooper, or whoever he is. Thinks he’s a ghost. But I know he’s not. I worked with sons of bitches like this. He’s no anarchist, no ghost. He’s not even a detective. He’s just a thief and a murderer.”
“A murderer?” Rye felt a chill.
“He’s killed at least two men, easy as swatting flies.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Willard said. “But I want you to know, I’ll be watching in case something happens.”
“But what if it’s in your peripheral vision?” Rye asked.
Willard sat for a moment before a corner of his mouth went up and he made a noise—“Hmm”—that Rye realized was the closest he had to a laugh. The big man patted Rye on the lapel of his jacket. “You look good, kid. A real gentleman.”
36
Willard dropped Rye off two blocks from the county courthouse. It was a cool, clear day, wind agitating a row of young maples lining Broadway in front of the courthouse, which sat on a knoll across the railroad tracks, above the river gorge.
Outside, people were milling about, Wobbly organizers from Idaho and Seattle, tramps from all over, cops, men in work clothes, goateed socialists, newspapermen in fedoras, women from church and temperance societies, lawyers in worn workaday suits with winter rubbers pulled over their shoes. Rye looked down at his own shoes, so shiny they seemed to be lit from within. Rye was the only one here who had come dressed for a soiree.
He felt so foolish. What had