No Business of Mine

I followed him, found myself in a big luxuriously furnished room. There was a built-in upholstered corner seat by the window, a black-and-chromium safe in the wall. There were some filing cabinets, a small bar, and the usual broad, heavy executive desk with the usual high-padded leather chair behind it.

Looking out of the window was a man in a dark lounge suit. He had grey hair and plenty of it. He turned. He was going on for fifty and his face was handsome in a dark heavy way. His eyes were slate grey, unfriendly.

I remembered him now. It was Jack Bradley. I had only seen him twice before and that was two years ago. I decided he had aged a lot since last I saw him.

“Hello, Harmas,” he said, then caught sight of Frankie. His face set. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled at Frankie. “You’re bleeding over my goddamned carpet.”

“My fault,” I said, taking out my cigarettes, selecting one. “Your boy made me nervous. I thought he was a tough egg. We fooled around together just to see how strong we were. It turned out he wasn’t strong at all.”

Frankie’s lips twitched. He said three words; one of them obscene. His voice was not loud, but it was bitter.

Bradley took a step forward, snapped, “Get the hell out of here,” to Frankie, who went.

I lit my cigarette, hooked a chair towards me with my foot, sat down.

“You’d better watch that boy,” I said. “He’s in need of a mother’s care.”

“Never mind him,” Bradley said, frost in his eyes. “It’s you I want to talk about.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I like talking about myself. Where shall we begin? Would you like to hear how I snitched the scripture prize when I was a little lad?”

Bradley leaned forward. “Frankie may not be tough,” he said, “but I am. You’d better not forget it.”

“That’s scared me right through to my jaegers,” I said. “May I go in a corner and cry?”

“I’ve warned you,” Bradley said, sitting at his desk. “You’re getting too inquisitive, my friend. I sent for you because I thought a little chat off the record might clear the air, I advise you not to pass this on to your friend Corridan. It wouldn’t be healthy.”

“You needn’t worry about Corridan,” I said. “He and I aren’t pals anymore. What’s biting you?”

He took a cigar from a silver box on his desk, pierced it, lit it, threw the match away, puffed it once or twice before he spoke again.

He took his time. He didn’t rattle me. I was in no hurry myself.

“I don’t like American newspaper men who are inquisitive,” he said. “They annoy me.”

“Are you suggesting I should relay that item of news to the U.S. Press Association?” I kidded him. “I doubt if they’d lose much sleep, but, of course, they might. You never know.”

“You’re sticking your nose into something that has nothing to do with you,” Bradley went on smoothly. “I suggest you stop it.”

“No harm in making suggestions,” I returned lightly. “What exactly do you mean by that sinister ‘something’?”

“We needn’t go into that,” Bradley said, a cold, angry gleam in his eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m serious about this. I’d advise you to return to your own country. There’s a plane leaving tomorrow. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you were on it.”

I shook my head. “I have a lot of work to do in this country,” I said. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you. Is that all you wanted to see me about?”

He studied his cigar for a moment, said, “I’m warning you, Harmas. If you don’t keep your nose out of this, you’re going to be taught a sharp lesson. I know what you newspaper men are like. You get keen on a story and you need a lot of persuasion to give it up. I have all the necessary persuasion but I’m not anxious to use it. I thought if I gave you the hint, you’d be a smart fellow and mind your own business in the future.”

I stubbed out my cigarette in the copper ashtray on his desk, stood up.

“Look, Bradley,” I said, leaning across the desk, “I’ve listened to your hot air because I wanted to hear how far you’d go. You and hundreds of other fat, sleek rats who’ve made money out of this war, sold stinking bad liquor to the Service men, and gorged yourselves with black market food are a gross a nickel in my country. I’ve knocked around and met real tough eggs, not jerks like you who merely smell strong. I’ve been threatened before, and the guys who’ve shaken their fists at me have ended up in a nice cool cell or are now fertilizing the soil. I’m not scared of you, or of your panty-waisted Frankie. I’m coming after you, and I’m keeping after you until I’ve had the satisfaction of knowing the hangman’s taken your weight and height and selected a nice strong rope for you. Show me how tough you are, and I’ll show you how tough I am. Keep Frankie out of my hair. He’s too young for this kind of shindig. But if he does try anything with me, I’ll paper a wall with him, and I’ll paper another wall with you.”

Bradley let me say my piece to the end. There was a faint flush on his heavy face and his fingers drummed on the desk, otherwise he was calm enough.