End of the Tiger Read online

  As he stood there he began, cautiously, to think of the previous evening. He had much experience in this sort of reconstruction. He reached out with memory timorously, anticipating remorse and self-disgust.

  The first part of the evening was, as always, easy to remember. It had been an important evening. He had dressed carefully yesterday morning, knowing that there would not be time to come home and change before going directly from the office to the hotel for the meeting, with its cocktails, dinner, speeches, movie, and unveiling of the new model. Because of the importance of the evening, he had taken it very easy at Mario’s at lunchtime, limiting himself to two Martinis before lunch, conscious of virtue—only to have it spoiled by Bill Hunter’s coming into his office at three in the afternoon, staring at him with both relief and approval and saying, “Glad you didn’t have one of those three-hour lunches, Had. The old man was a little dubious about your joining the group tonight.”

  Hadley Purvis had felt suddenly and enormously annoyed. Usually he liked Bill Hunter, despite his aura of opportunism, despite the cautious ambition that had enabled Hunter to become quite close to the head of the agency in a very short time.

  “And so you said to him, ‘Mr. Driscoll, if Had Purvis can’t go to the party, I won’t go either.’ And then he broke down.”

  He watched Bill Hunter flush. “Not like that, Had. But I’ll tell you what happened. He asked me if I thought you would behave yourself tonight. I said I was certain you realized the importance of the occasion, and I reminded him that the Detroit people know you and like the work you did on the spring campaign. So if you get out of line, it isn’t going to do me any good either.”

  “And that’s your primary consideration, naturally.”

  Hunter looked at him angrily, helplessly. “Damn it, Had …”

  “Keep your little heart from fluttering. I’ll step lightly.”

  Bill Hunter left his office. After he was gone, Hadley tried very hard to believe that it had been an amusing little interlude. But he could not. Resentment stayed with him. Resentment at being treated like a child. And he suspected that Hunter had brought it up with Driscoll, saying very casually, “Hope Purvis doesn’t put on a floor show tonight.”

  It wasn’t like the old man to have brought it up. He felt that the old man genuinely liked him. They’d had some laughs together. Grown-up laughs, a little beyond the capacity of a boy scout like Hunter.

  He had washed up at five, then gone down and shared a cab with Davey Tidmarsh, the only one of the new kids who had been asked to come along. Davey was all hopped up about it. He was a nice kid. Hadley liked him. Davey demanded to know what it would be like, and in the cab Hadley told him.

  “We’ll be seriously outnumbered. There’ll be a battalion from Detroit, also the bank people. It will be done with enormous seriousness and a lot of expense. This is a pre-preview. Maybe they’ll have a mockup there. The idea is that they get us all steamed up about the new model. Then, all enthused, we whip up two big promotions. The first promotion is a carnival deal they will use to sell the new models to the dealers and get them all steamed up. That’ll be about four months from now. The second promotion will be the campaign to sell the cars to the public. They’ll make a big fetish of secrecy, Davey. There’ll be uniformed company guards. Armed.”

  It was as he had anticipated, only a bit bigger and gaudier than last year. Everything seemed to get bigger and gaudier every year. It was on the top floor of the hotel, in one of the middle-sized convention rooms. They were carefully checked at the door, and each was given a numbered badge to wear. On the left side of the room was sixty feet of bar. Along the right wall was the table where the buffet would be. There was a busy rumble of male conversation, a blue haze of smoke. Hadley nodded and smiled at the people he knew as they worked their way toward the bar. With drink in hand, he went into the next room—after being checked again at the door—to look at the mockup.

  Hadley had to admit that it had been done very neatly. The mockup was one-third actual size. It revolved slowly on a chest-high pedestal, a red and white convertible with the door open, with the model of a girl in a swimming suit standing beside it, both model girl and model car bathed in an excellent imitation of sunlight. He looked at the girl first, marveling at how cleverly the sheen of suntanned girl had been duplicated. He looked at the mannekin’s figure and thought at once of Sarah and felt a warm wave of tenderness for her, a feeling that she was his luck and, with her, nothing could ever go wrong.

  He looked at the lines of the revolving car and, with the glibness of long practice, he made up phrases that would be suitable for advertising it. He stood aside for a time and watched the manufactured delight on the faces of those who were seeing the model for the first time. He finished his drink and went out to the bar. With the first drink, the last traces of irritation at Bill Hunter disappeared. As soon as he had a fresh drink, he looked Bill up and said, “I’m the man who snarled this afternoon.”

  “No harm done,” Hunter said promptly and a bit distantly. “Excuse me, Had. There’s somebody over there I have to say hello to.”

  Hadley placed himself at the bar. He was not alone long. Within ten minutes he was the center of a group of six or seven. He relished these times when he was sought out for his entertainment value. The drinks brought him quickly to the point where he was, without effort, amusing. The sharp phrases came quickly, almost without thought. They laughed with him and appreciated him. He felt warm and loved.

  He remembered there had been small warnings in the back of his mind, but he had ignored them. He would know when to stop. He told the story about Jimmy and Jackie and the punch card over at Shor’s, and knew he told it well, and knew he was having a fine time, and knew that everything was beautifully under control.

  But, beyond that point, memory was faulty. It lost continuity. It became episodic, each scene bright enough, yet separated from other scenes by a grayness he could not penetrate.

  He was still at the bar. The audience had dwindled to one, a small man he didn’t know, a man who swayed and clung to the edge of the bar. He was trying to make the small man understand something. He kept shaking his head. Hunter came over to him and took his arm and said, “Had, you’ve got to get something to eat. They’re going to take the buffet away soon.”

  “Smile, pardner, when you use that word ‘got.’ ”

  “Sit down and I’ll get you a plate.”

  “Never let it be said that Hadley Purvis couldn’t cut his own way through a solid wall of buffet.” As Hunter tugged at his arm, Hadley finished his drink, put the glass on the bar with great care, and walked over toward the buffet, shrugging his arm free of Hunter’s grasp. He took a plate and looked at all the food. He had not the slightest desire for food. He looked back. Hunter was watching him. He shrugged and went down the long table.

  Then, another memory. Standing there with plate in hand. Looking over and seeing Bill Hunter’s frantic signals. Ignoring him and walking steadily over to where Driscoll sat with some of the top brass from Detroit. He was amused at the apprehensive expression on Driscoll’s face. But he sat down and Driscoll had to introduce him.

  Then, later. Dropping something from his fork. Recapturing it and glancing up to trap a look of distaste on the face of the most important man from Detroit, a bald, powerful-looking man with a ruddy face and small bright blue eyes.

  He remembered that he started brooding about that look of distaste. The others talked, and he ate doggedly. They think I’m a clown. I’m good enough to keep them laughing, but that’s all. They don’t think I’m capable of deep thought.

  He remembered Driscoll’s frown when he broke into the conversation, addressing himself to the bald one from Detroit and taking care to pronounce each word distinctly, without slur.

  “That’s a nice-looking mockup. And it is going to make a lot of vehicles look old before their time. The way I see it, we’re in a period of artificially accelerated obsolescence. The honesty has gone out of
the American product. The great God is turnover. So all you manufacturers are straining a gut to make a product that wears out, or breaks, or doesn’t last or, like your car, goes out of style. It’s the old game of rooking the consumer. You have your hand in his pocket, and we have our hand in yours.”

  He remembered his little speech vividly, and it shocked him. Maybe it was true. But that had not been the time or place to state it, not at this festive meeting, where everybody congratulated each other on what a fine new sparkling product they would be selling. He felt his cheeks grow hot as he remembered his own words. What a thing to say in front of Driscoll! The most abject apologies were going to be in order.

  He could not remember the reaction of the man from Detroit, or Driscoll’s immediate reaction. He had no further memories of being at the table. The next episode was back at the bar, a glass in his hand, Hunter beside him speaking so earnestly you could almost see the tears in his eyes. “Good Lord, Had! What did you say? What did you do? I’ve never seen him so upset.”

  “Tell him to go do something unspeakable. I just gave them a few clear words of ultimate truth. And now I intend to put some sparkle in that little combo.”

  “Leave the music alone. Go home, please. Just go home, Had.”

  There was another gap, and then he was arguing with the drummer. The man was curiously disinclined to give up the drums. A waiter gripped his arm.

  “What’s your trouble?” Hadley asked him angrily. “I just want to teach this clown how to stay on top of the beat.”

  “A gentleman wants to see you, sir. He is by the cloakroom. He asked me to bring you out.”

  Then he was by the cloakroom. Driscoll was there. He stood close to Hadley. “Don’t open your mouth, Purvis. Just listen carefully to me while I try to get something through your drunken skull. Can you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Certainly I can—”

  “Shut up! You may have lost the whole shooting match for us. That speech of yours. He told me he wasn’t aware of the fact that I hired Commies. He said that criticisms of the American way of life make him physically ill. Know what I’m going back in and tell him?”

  “No.”

  “That I got you out here and fired you and sent you home. Get this straight. It’s an attempt to save the contract. Even if it weren’t, I’d still fire you, and I’d do it in person. I thought I would dread it. I’ve known you a long time. I find out, Purvis, that I’m actually enjoying it. It’s such a damn relief to get rid of you. Don’t open your mouth. I wouldn’t take you back if you worked for free. Don’t come back. Don’t come in tomorrow. I’ll have a girl pack your personal stuff. I’ll have it sent to you by messenger along with your check. You’ll get both tomorrow before noon. You’re a clever man, Purvis, but the town is full of clever men who can hold liquor. Goodbye.”

  Driscoll turned on his heel and went back into the big room. Hadley remembered that the shock had penetrated the haze of liquor. He remembered that he had stood there, and he had been able to see two men setting up a projector, and all he could think about was how he would tell Sarah and what she would probably say.

  And, without transition, he was in the Times Square area on his way home. The sidewalk would tilt unexpectedly, and each time he would take a lurching step to regain his balance. The glare of the lights hurt his eyes. His heart pounded. He felt short of breath.

  He stopped and looked in the window of a men’s shop that was still open. The sign on the door said Open Until Midnight. He looked at his watch. It was a little after eleven. He had imagined it to be much later. Suddenly it became imperative to him to prove both to himself and to a stranger that he was not at all drunk. If he could prove that, then he would know that Driscoll had fired him not for drinking, but for his opinions. And would anyone want to keep a job where he was not permitted to have opinions?

  He gathered all his forces and looked intently into the shop window. He looked at a necktie. It was a gray wool tie with a tiny figure embroidered in dark red. The little embroidered things were shaped like commas. He decided that he liked it very much. The ties in that corner of the window were priced at three-fifty. He measured his stability, cleared his throat, and went into the shop.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening. I’d like that tie in the window, the gray one on the left with the dark red pattern.”

  “Would you please show me which one, sir?”

  “Of course.” Hadley pointed it out. The man took a duplicate off a rack.

  “Would you like this in a box, or shall I put it in a bag?”

  “A bag is all right.”

  “It’s a very handsome tie.”

  He gave the man a five-dollar bill. The man brought him his change. “Thank you, sir. Good night.”

  “Good night.” He walked out steadily, carrying the bag. No one could have done it better. A very orderly purchase. If he ever needed proof of his condition, the clerk would remember him. “Yes, I remember the gentleman. He came in shortly before closing time. He bought a gray tie. Sober? Perhaps he’d had a drink or two. But he was as sober as a judge.”

  And somewhere between the shop and home all memory ceased. There was a vague something about a quarrel with Sarah, but it was not at all clear. Perhaps because the homecoming scene had become too frequent for them.

  He dried himself vigorously on a harsh towel and went into the bedroom. When he thought of the lost job, he felt quick panic. Another one wouldn’t be easy to find. One just as good might be impossible. It was a profession that fed on gossip.

  Maybe it was a good thing. It would force a change on them. Maybe a new city, a new way of life. Maybe they could regain something that they had lost in the last year or so. But he knew he whistled in the dark. He was afraid. This was the worst of all mornings-after.

  Yet even that realization was diffused by the peculiar aroma of unreality that clung to all his hangover mornings. Dreams were always vivid, so vivid that they became confused with reality. With care, he studied the texture of the memory of Driscoll’s face and found therein a lessening of his hope that it could have been dreamed.

  He went into his bedroom and took fresh underwear from the drawer. He found himself thinking about the purchase of the necktie again. It seemed strange that the purchase should have such retroactive importance. The clothing he had worn was where he had dropped it beside his bed. He picked it up. He emptied the pockets of the suit. There was a skein of dried vomit on the lapel of the suit. He could not remember having been ill. There was a triangular tear in the left knee of the trousers, and he noticed for the first time an abrasion on his bare knee. He could not remember having fallen. The necktie was not in the suit pocket. He began to wonder whether he had dreamed about the necktie. In the back of his mind was a ghost image of some other dream about a necktie.

  He decided that he would go to the office. He did not see what else he could do. If his memory of what Driscoll had said was accurate, maybe by now Driscoll would have relented. When he went to select a necktie after he had shaved carefully, he looked for the new one on the rack. It was not there. As he was tying the one he had selected he noticed a wadded piece of paper on the floor beside his wastebasket. He picked it up, spread it open, read the name of the shop on it, and knew that the purchase of the tie had been real.

  By the time he was completely dressed, it still was not eight o’clock. He felt unwell, though the sharpness of the headache was dulled. His hands were shaky. His legs felt empty and weak.

  It was time to face Sarah. He knew that he had seen her the previous evening. Probably she had been in bed, had heard him come in, had gotten up as was her custom and, no doubt, there had been a scene. He hoped he had not told her of losing the job. Yet, if it had been a dream, he could not have told her. If he had told her, it would be proof that it had not been a dream. He went through the bathroom into her bedroom, moving quietly. Her bed had been slept in, turned back where she had gotten out.

  He went d
own the short hall to the small kitchen. Sarah was not there. He began to wonder about her. Surely the quarrel could not have been so bad that she had dressed and left. He measured coffee into the top of the percolator and put it over a low gas flame. He mixed frozen juice and drank a large glass. The apartment seemed uncannily quiet. He poured another glass, drank half of it, and walked up the hallway to the living room.

  Stopping in the doorway, he saw the necktie, recognized the small pattern. He stood there, glass in hand, and looked at the tie. It was tightly knotted. And above the knot, resting on the arm of the chair, was the still, unspeakable face of Sarah, a face the shiny hue of fresh eggplant.

  The Big Blue

  I walked down the length of the curved concrete pier at Acapulco, passing the charter boats getting ready to take off across the sparkling blue morning water after the sail and the marlin.

  Pedro Martinez, skipper of the shabby-looking Orizaba, was standing on the pier coiling a line. I have gone out many times with Pedro during the season for the past five years. Other craft are prettier, but Pedro’s equipment is good, and he knows where the fish can be found. Pedro did not look happy. Not at all.

  Lew Wolta sat in one of the two stern fishing chairs half under the canopy. He looked up at me, waved the half-empty bottle of beer in his big hand, and said, “What the hell kept you, Thompson?”

  I had met Wolta the afternoon before. He and his friend, Jimmy Gerran, had stepped up to Pedro to sew him up for the next day at the same time I did. We had joined forces. I knew that Wolta had wanted the Orizaba because he had seen the four flags flying and the hard, lean, black bodies of the two sails on the tiny deck forward of the cabin.

  When we had gone across the street to seal the bargain over a beer, I had begun to regret my quick decision. Wolta was a tall, hard, heavy-shouldered man in his late thirties with a huge voice, white teeth gleaming in a constant grin, and washed-out eyes that never smiled at all. He kept up a running chatter, most of which seemed designed to inflict hurt on the younger, frailer Jimmy Gerran, a quiet lad with a humble manner.