A Man Named Flute

Two policemen, one of them a sergeant, entered the stationery store and tramped heavily to the back where Dave Murdock ran his business. Murdock was a bookmaker. He had arrived shortly before, and he and the two men he employed were still busily tabulating the previous day’s results. When the two men entered, Murdock looked up at them with surprise, his dark eyes taking them in without welcome. An angry scowl appeared on his heavy face. “What do you want?” he said.

The policemen hung back several steps before him. “I’ve got bad news for you, Dave,” the sergeant said regretfully. “We have to close you up for a while.”

Murdock studied him a moment and then leaned back. He bit the tip from a fresh cigar and spat it out with savage annoyance. “Don’t bother me,” he said. “I’m busy.”

“I’m not fooling, Dave,” the sergeant said. “You have about four hours.”

Murdock moved forward over the desk, his big shoulders bunching up menacingly, and glared at him with frank belligerence. “What the hell’s the idea?” he demanded.

“We have to clean up for a while, Dave. You know that.”

“I know that,” Murdock said. “But why me?”

“It’s not just you, Dave. We’re closing every shop in the district. I’ll make it an easy complaint and you get someone to take the pinch for you. All right?”

Murdock stopped arguing when he saw there was nothing he could do. He collected what papers he thought he would need and went out, leaving his two assistants to make the necessary arrangements, among them the usual task of locating someone to be arrested in Murdock’s place. He spent the rest of the afternoon visiting as many of his customers as he was able to, giving the favored ones his home number and taking what business he could get on the way. In the late afternoon he called Nat Baker and got a ride home.

Nat was also a bookmaker, and when they were in the neighborhood, they stopped at a small luncheonette where the counterman took bets for him. They had coffee, and Murdock decided to wait in the car when Nat and his man huddled in a corner of the room. It was already dark when he stood up and walked to the door. When he stepped outside, he was greeted with a thick, rich, weedy smell. A group of boys stood clustered together in the darkened doorway of a hardware store, all smoking with a strangely surreptitious guilt. Murdock sniffed curiously at the air, recognizing the odor with surprise. The furtive manner of the group immediately confirmed his suspicion. They were smoking marijuana. Murdock remained where he was, glancing at the doorway secretly until Nat came out. Nat caught the smell as he came briskly through the door. He looked briefly over Murdock’s shoulder as he started toward the car.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

“Probably,” Murdock said, with a nod. “Reefers, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Nat said. “It’s getting to be quite the thing around here.”

Murdock entered the car slowly, glancing at the boys with an interest mingled with regret. Nat began moving the car out. Murdock turned a last commiserating glance on the group, and his eyes came to a sudden stop. His son Dick was among them, smoking, standing far back in the recess of the dark doorway where the shadows were heaviest, but unmistakably his son, Dick, sixteen years old. Murdock gasped with surprise. He reached out and held Nat’s arm in a strong grip.

“Nat, who sells it to them?”

“Why?” Nat asked, slightly puzzled. He looked at the group for a moment and then seemed to understand. “I can find out,” he said. “Do you want me to find out?”

“Yeah,” Murdock said, grimly. “Go find out.”

Nat left the car and returned to the luncheonette. Murdock sat motionless, smoldering, feeling his anger boil as he glanced at his boy from time to time. He had a murderous temper and he fought to keep it subdued, because Dick was a good boy and he knew that everything could be settled by a serious talk. As he watched, the boy raised his hand to his face and inhaled deeply. Murdock watched the glowing spark brighten and turned away. He didn’t look there again until Nat had returned and pulled the car out.

“They get it from a fellow called Flute,” Nat said. “You can find him in the poolroom.”

Murdock nodded his thanks and remained silent. When Nat dropped him off, he stood before the house for several minutes, trying to calm himself before he went inside. Claire was surprised to see him so early.

“They closed the place up again,” he explained, answering her question. He studied her intently for several moments, trying to guess what she was thinking. She stood before him in silence, watching him with a sad expression. “What’s troubling you, Claire?” he asked, feeling a bit guilty.

“Nothing’s troubling me,” she answered slowly. “I just wish you’d get into a respectable business.”

“It’s only for a few days,” Murdock said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Claire said.

Murdock well knew what she did mean. He had been a bookmaker for almost sixteen years, and in all that time Claire had never stopped disapproving. With an almost puritanical obstinacy, she still refused to regard his income as an honest living.

“Look, Claire,” he said, with a slight trace of annoyance. “Stop blaming all the gambling in the world on me. The city is crawling with bookmakers, and if I didn’t take the bets I handle, someone else would. Can’t you see that?”

“I can see it,” Claire said. “But I just wish it wasn’t you.” She regarded him regretfully for another moment and then turned to the stove.

Murdock left the kitchen and went to the bedroom, where he removed his clothes until he was bare to the waist. He was a big man in his early forties, and his large, heavy frame still had a definite expression of solid, masculine strength. In the bathroom he washed slowly and combed his hair. He put on a fresh shirt, leaving the collar unbuttoned, and returned to the kitchen, where Claire was peering into a simmering pot.

“Where’s Dick?” he asked casually.

“He went out.”

“Where?”

Claire turned from the stove to look at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”

“How is he doing in school this term?” Murdock asked.

“The new term just began. He always does well in school. What’s the matter?”

“When does he do his homework?”

“You know when he does his homework. After school and at night. Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Murdock said. “I just don’t like the idea of my kid running all over the streets and getting into trouble.”

Claire moved toward him with alarm. “What kind of trouble? What’s he done?”

Murdock smiled and patted her arm with clumsy assurance. “There’s nothing wrong,” he said. “I guess the police put me in a bad mood.” He smiled again and stood up. “I have some work to do,” he said, and walked out without waiting to see if she believed him.

2

IN the bedroom he sat down and waited. Dick was a good boy, he told himself, and everything would be all right. There had always been a cheerful friendship between them. He knew that Dick gambled occasionally and shot pool frequently, that an imbecile woman had willingly taken his virginity, and that he probably smoked cigarettes regularly even though he had promised to hold off for another year. They had discussed all that with comfortable honesty, and Murdock had always prided himself on the open relationship. This new deed incensed him, because of its evil suggestions and because it had been done secretly, and as he sat waiting he was filled with a fierce resentment.

He heard the boy come in and waited until he settled himself in the living room. Then he rose and went in to him. Dick was sitting in a chair near the window, holding a magazine he had just opened. He was a well-built boy with clear, probing eyes in a handsome face that looked a year or two older than his actual age. Claire came from the kitchen and stood in the doorway, looking on in nervous anticipation.

“Hello, Dad,” Dick said, when Murdock entered.

Murdock had decided to let it ride until after dinner, but when the boy spoke, all resolve gave way to an overwhelming indignation. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

The boy looked at him with surprise. “I was outside,” he said. “Why?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Murdock said. “You answer them.”

“I was only gone a couple of hours,” Dick said. “Ask Mom.”

“I don’t have to ask anybody,” Murdock said. “I’m sending you away to school.”

Dick stared at him with amazement. “What’s that?” he asked.

“I said I’m sending you away to school. What’s the matter? Can’t you hear?”

“What are you talking about?” Claire said.

“I know what I’m doing,” Murdock answered.

“It doesn’t sound like it,” Claire said.

“What kind of school?” Dick asked.

“Military school.”

“Military school! Gee, Pop, what’s got into you anyway?”

“I’ll show you what’s got into me,” Murdock said. “Stand up.” Dick looked at him incredulously and began to rise. Murdock strode up to him and pulled him to his feet. Before the boy realized it, Murdock was going through his pockets, gathering the contents in his large hands. When he had emptied them all, he pushed the boy down roughly into the chair. “Wait in here,” he ordered, and walked out.

He went to the boy’s room and examined the articles in his hands, doing it quickly and throwing each one on the bed after a brief inspection. He couldn’t find what he wanted and turned to the jacket the boy had been wearing. In the breast pocket he found a small packet. He opened the tissue wrapping and saw two thin, wrinkled cigarettes. He split one with his fingernail and examined the seeds to his satisfaction. Now that he was sure, he felt surprisingly calm. He closed the cigarettes in his hand and returned to the living room. Neither Claire nor the boy had moved.

“Come inside, Dick,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

The boy followed him back into the room. Murdock closed the door and turned the lock. He let several seconds go by before speaking.

“Dick,” he said. “Are you doing anything you wouldn’t want me to know about?”

The boy hesitated, watching him cautiously, and then shook his head.

“Or anything you know I’d really object to?”

The boy replied uncertainly. “I can’t think of anything.”

Murdock took a step forward, feeling the hot anger flame within him. “Are you sure?” The boy nodded, and Murdock came forward another step. He watched Dick’s face closely as he raised his arm and held up one of the thin cigarettes. “What’s this?” he asked.

A conclusive look of guilt flooded the boy’s face. His frightened eyes caught Murdock’s for a moment and then dropped to the floor. “A cigarette,” he answered.

“What kind of cigarette?”

“A regular cigarette,” the boy said. “I’ve been rolling my own.”

Murdock hit him with his open hand. Dick fell back, stumbled to his knees, scampered up again quickly, and retreated in hurried steps. Murdock moved toward him, enraged. He had never struck him in anger before, and the great shame that swept over him he immediately blamed on the boy.

“What kind of cigarette?” Murdock demanded.

“A reefer,” Dick said, in a low voice that was filled with shame.

Murdock stepped back, breathing hoarsely, feeling with relief that another point had been won. “Who sells it to you?”

The boy looked down at the floor without answering. A small trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Murdock said. “I know.”

“Who?” Dick asked.

“A fellow named Flute,” Murdock said. “Is that right?” Dick nodded slowly. “Can I find him in the poolroom now?” Murdock asked. The boy nodded again. Murdock studied him silently for several seconds. “You’re bleeding,” he said, in a lower voice.

Dick touched his finger to his mouth and looked at it without emotion. “It isn’t anything,” he said.

“I’m going out,” Murdock said. “You wait in here until I get back. I don’t want Mother to know. If she asks you, tell her you’ve been cutting school. All right?”

The boy nodded and Murdock walked out. Claire blocked his way in the foyer.

“He’s all right,” Murdock said. “Let him stay there until I get back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out for some air,” Murdock said.

3

IT WAS a six-block walk to the poolroom. When he was inside, he stopped by the door and scanned the long, crowded interior. All the tables were in use, each with its small, chattering audience, and in the back a small crowd stood around the ticker that was bringing in the sporting results. Murdock was looking for Marty Bell, the owner, and he spied him coming forward with a greeting smile.

“Hello, Dave,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“I want to talk to you,” Murdock said. “Is there a fellow named Flute here?”

Marty looked toward the back and nodded. “That’s him at the fourth table,” he said, pointing. “What do you want him for?”

“I’m going to beat his brains out,” Murdock said, and started away.

Marty came after him nervously and caught his arm. He had a soft, owlish face with a peculiarly mournful twist to his mouth that had earned him the nickname Tearful. He looked unusually troubled now. “Be careful, Dave,” he said. “He’s a strong boy.”

Murdock shook him away impatiently and walked back to the fourth table, his eyes fixed on the man but not noticing that Flute was as big as he himself was, with broad, level shoulders and thick forearms. Flute was bending over to make a shot when Murdock came up to him. Murdock tapped him sharply.

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

Flute straightened up slowly and studied him with a careless interest, a slight, mocking smile coming to his strong face. “What about?”

“I’ll tell you outside,” Murdock said.

Flute thought about it a moment and then nodded. He put his cue down and followed Murdock out through the side door. Murdock walked until they were out of the light before he turned.

“You’ve been selling marijuana to my kid,” he said.

Flute showed no emotion. “Who’s your kid?” he said calmly. “I sell tea to a lot of people.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Murdock said. “It takes a pretty low bastard to sell it to anyone.”

“All right,” Flute said. “Talk nice.”

Four men came out of the darkness behind Flute, two on either side, and moved forward until they were around Murdock. As soon as Murdock saw them, he swung at Flute. Flute caught his wrist and held it, and before Murdock could move, he had his other arm, and in an instant Murdock was pinned back against, the wall, unable to move. He kicked out viciously at the man’s groin and struck his thigh. Then the leg moved and Murdock could no longer hit anything. The four men watched without moving. Flute held Murdock powerless with his arms and shoulder, making no attempt to hurt him. Murdock struggled feverishly to break free from the younger man, putting all his strength behind the effort. It was no use, and after a few minutes he sagged in helpless exhaustion. The anger went out of him, leaving him limp with defeat.

“All right?” Flute asked.

Murdock nodded weakly. Flute released him and stepped back. Murdock moved from the wall, his eyes on the ground.

“It’s all up to your kid,” Flute said. “He comes to me. Tell me who he is and I won’t sell it to him.”

Murdock was silent. He rubbed his arms slowly, trying to shake the soreness from them. Flute watched him steadily, waiting.

“All right,” he said, with a shrug. “Don’t tell me. But don’t make trouble for me. All right?”

Murdock still didn’t speak. His eyes flickered to Flute’s square face every few seconds. He was still gasping for breath, still trembling slightly in defeat, but on his face there was a look of stubborn determination which Flute eyed apprehensively. He watched Murdock a moment longer and then stepped back reluctantly, shrugging again. Murdock moved between two of the men and walked away. He left them in a rapid stride, but as soon as he turned a corner his step slowed to a tired pace. He continued home in a weary walk. When he was before the house, he stopped to comb his hair and straighten his clothes. Claire was waiting for him by the door.

“Where have you been?” she asked anxiously.

“Out for some air,” Murdock said.

Claire studied him with a puzzled expression. “Have you been fighting?”

“Do I look like I’ve been fighting?” Murdock said. Claire shook her head slowly and Murdock had to smile. “Get dinner ready,” he said. “We’ll be right out.”

4

HE hesitated outside Dick’s room and then continued into his own. He closed the door and sat down on the bed, truly feeling his age for the first time. He was humbled by the shameful memory of being handled by Flute as though he possessed only the puny power of an infant. He sat motionless for a while and gazed down blankly at his hands, listening aimlessly to the noise of his breath passing through his nostrils. He didn’t hear the doorbell ring and he looked up with surprise when Claire came into the room.

“Marty is here,” she said. Murdock looked at her quizzically. “Marty Bell,”she explained.

“What does he want?” Murdock said, without looking at her.

“He wants to see you.”

“All right,” Murdock said.

Claire turned from the door and returned a moment later with Marty. Marty came into the room gingerly, his sad face filled with a troubled gloom. He glanced significantly at Claire, and she left with an anxious glance at Murdock. Marty closed the door and faced Murdock. He didn’t speak.

“What do you want, Marty?” Murdock said.

“I was talking to Flute,” Marty said. “He asked me to come to see you.” Marty stepped forward hopefully. “Do me a favor, Dave. Let him alone, will you?”

“Why?” Murdock demanded brusquely. “Why should I let him alone?”

“Because he’s a good boy, Dave. You don’t know him, Dave, but he’s a good boy.”

“Yeah,” Murdock said scornfully. “Some good boy. He sells dope to my kid.”

Marty shrugged with acute discomfort. “He just looks to make a buck,” he explained. “You know how it is, Dave. You knocked around a lot yourself.”

“I never sold dope,” Murdock said.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Marty said, with another deprecating shrug. He stepped close to Murdock and cocked his face forward in an intimate gesture. “He just tries to get by. You know how it is, Dave. There are a dozen guys in the neighborhood who would sell tea to your kid if he wants it. If Flute didn’t do it, somebody else would. It’s just like your own business.”

Murdock’s jaw dropped. Marty stopped speaking and looked at him with amazement. He took a cautious step back.

“Beat it, Marty,” Murdock said.

“Sure, Dave,” Marty said quickly. “But think it over, will you?”

“Get out, Marty,” Murdock said. “I won’t bother him.”

Marty smiled at him gratefully and left. Murdock sat alone for a few minutes and then rose slowly, as a man exhausted, and went to Dick’s room. Dick looked up at him quickly when he entered, and then dropped his eyes to the floor. Murdock stared down at his hands for several minutes, breathing slowly and heavily, feeling a strong sense of shame as he stood before his son. After a while he looked up.

“I’m sorry I hit you, Dick,” he said.

Dick looked at him with surprise for a moment, and then his face broke into a wide, bashful grin. “That’s all right, Pop,” he said happily.

“Here,” Murdock said. He picked up the small packet containing the two reefers and handed them to him. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. All right?”

“Sure, Pop,” Dick said. He hesitated a moment and then replaced the packet on the table. “Anything you say.”

Murdock smiled at him and the two of them went in to dinner. As he sat down it occurred to him that Claire must not know. The food was good, but he ate slowly, without appetite, and through the whole meal he never once met her eyes.