Time Enough for Love

  In 1916 it works just fine—but not much longer.

  I must stop; I have an appointment at K.C. Photo Supply Company to use a lab—in private. Then I must get back to the grift: separating people from dollars painlessiy and fairly legally.

  Love forever and all the way back,

  L.

  P.S. You should see me in a derby hat!

  III

  Maureen

  Mr. Theodore Bronson né Woodrow Wilson Smith aka Lazarus Long left his apartment on Armour Boulevard and drove his car, a Ford landaulet, to a corner on Thirty-first, Street, where he parked it in a shed behind a pawnshop—as he took a dim view of leaving an automobile on the street at night. Not that the car had cost Lazarus much; he had acquired it as a result of the belief of an optimist from Denver that aces back to back plus a pair showing could certainly beat a pair of jacks—Mr. “Jenkins” must be bluffing. But Mr. “Jenkins” had a jack in the hole.

  It had been a profitable winter, and Lazarus expected a still more prosperous spring. His guess about a war market on certain stocks and commodities had usually been correct, and his spread of investments was wide enough that a wrong guess did not hurt him much as most of his guesses were right—they could hardly be wrong since he had anticipated stepped-up submarine warfare, knowing what would eventually bring this country into the war in Europe.

  Watching the market left him time for other “investments” in other people’s optimism, sometimes at pool, sometimes at cards. He enjoyed pool more, found cards more rewarding. All winter he had played both, and his plain and rather friendly face, when decorated with his best stupid look, marked him as a natural sucker—a look he enhanced by dressing as a hayseed come to town.

  Lazarus did not mind other pool-hall hustlers, or “mechanics” in card games, or “reader” cards; he simply kept quiet and accepted any buildup winnings offered him, then “lost his nerve” and dropped out before the kill. He enjoyed these crooked games; it was easier—and pleasanter—to take money from a thief than it was to play an honest game to win, and it did not cost as much sleep; he always dropped out of a crooked game early, even when he was behind. But his timing was rarely that bad.

  Winnings he reinvested in the market.

  All winter he had stayed " ‘Red’ Jenkins,” living at the Y.M.C.A. and spending almost nothing. When the weather was very bad, he stayed in and read, avoiding the steep and icy streets. He had forgotten how harsh a Kansas City winter could be. Once he saw a team of big horses trying gallantly to haul a heavy truck up the steep pitch of Tenth Street above Grand Avenue. The off horse slipped on the ice and broke a leg—Lazarus heard the cannon bone pop. It made him feel sick, and he wanted to horsewhip the teamster—why hadn’t the fool taken the long way around?

  Such days were best spent in his room or in the Main Public Library near the Y.M.C.A.—hundreds of thousands of real books, bound books he could hold in his hands. They tempted him almost into neglecting his pursuit of money. During that cruel winter he spent every spare hour there, getting reacquainted with his oldest friends—Mark Twain with Dan Beard’s illustrations, Dr. Conan Doyle, the Marvelous Land of Oz as described by the Royal Historian and portrayed in color by John R. Neil, Rudyard Kipling, Herbert George Wells, Jules Verne—

  Lazarus felt that he could easily spend all the coming ten years in that wonderful building.

  But when false spring arrived, he started thinking about moving out of the business district and again changing his persona. It was becoming difficult to get picked as a sucker either at pool or at poker; his investment program was complete; he had enough cash in Fidelity Savings & Trust Bank to allow him to give up the austerity of the Y.M.C.A., find a better address, and show a more prosperous face to the world —essential to his final purpose in this city: remeeting his first family—and not much time left before his July deadline.

  Acquiring a presentable motorcar crystallized his plans. He spent the next day becoming “Theodore Bronson”: moved his bank account one street over to the Missouri Savings Bank, and held out ample cash; visited a barber and had his hair and mustache restyled; went to Browning, King & Co., and bought clothing suitable to a conservative young businessman. Then he drove south and cruised Linwood Boulevard, watching for “Vacancy” signs. His requirements were simple: a furnished apartment with a respectable address and facade, its own kitchen and bathroom—and in walking distance of a pool hall on Thirty-first Street.

  He did not plan to hustle in that pool hall; it was one of two places where he hoped to meet a member of his first family.

  Lazarus found what he needed, but on Armour Boulevard rather than Linwood and rather far from that pool hall. This caused him to rent two garaging spaces—difficult, as Kansas City was not yet accustomed to supplying housing for automobiles. But two dollars a month got him space in a barn close to his apartment; three dollars a month got him a shed behind the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlour.

  He started a routine: Spend each evening from eight to ten at the pool hall, attend the church on Linwood Boulevard that his family had attended (did attend), go downtown mornings when business required—by streetcar; Lazarus considered an automobile a nuisance in downtown Kansas City, and he enjoyed riding streetcars. He began profit-taking on his investments, coverting the proceeds into gold double eagles and saving them in a lockbox in a third bank, the Commonwealth. He expected to complete liquidation, with enough gold to carry him through November 11, 1918, well before his July departure date.

  In his spare time he kept the landaulet shining, took care of its upkeep himself, and drove it for pleasure. He also worked slowly, carefully, and very privately on a tailoring job: making a chamois-skin vest that was nothing but pockets, each to hold one $20 gold piece. When completed and filled and pockets sewed shut, he planned to cover it, inside and out, with a suit vest he had used as a pattern. It would be much too warm, but a money belt was not enough for that much gold —and money that clinked instead of rustling was the only sort he was certain he could use outside the country in wartime. Besides, when filled it would be almost a bulletproof vest—one never knew what lay around the next comer, and those Latin-American countries were volatile.

  Each Saturday afternoon he took conversational Spanish from a Westport High School teacher who lived nearby. All in all he kept pleasantly busy and on schedule.

  That evening after locking his Ford landaulet into the shed back of the pawnshop, Lazarus glanced into a bierstube adjoining it, thinking that his grandfather might have a stein of Muehlebach there before going home. The problem of how to meet his first family easily and naturally had occupied his mind from time to time all winter. He wanted to be accepted as a friend in their (his!) home, but he could not walk up the front steps, twist the doorbell, and announce himself as a longlost cousin—nor even as a friend of a friend from Paducah. He had no connections with which to swing it, and if he tried a complex lie, he was certain his grandfather would spot it.

  Thus he had decided on a pianissimo double approach: the church attended by his family (except his grandfather) and the hangout his grandfather used when he wanted to get away from his daughter’s family.

  Lazarus was sure of the church—and his memory was confirmed the first Sunday he had gone there, with a shock that had upset him even more than the shock of learning that he was three years early.

  He saw his mother and had momentarily mistaken her for one of his twin sisters.

  But almost instantly he realized why: Maureen Johnson Smith was the genetic mother of his identicals as certainly as she was his own mother. Nevertheless, it had shaken him, and he was glad to have several hymns and a long sermon in which to calm down. He avoided looking at her and spent the time trying to sort out his brothers and sisters.

  Twice since then he had seen his mother at church and now could look at her without flinching and could even see that this pretty young matron was compatible with his faded image of what his mother ought to look like. But he stil
l felt that he would never have recognized her had it not been for his sharp recollection of Lapis Lazuli and Lorelei Lee. He had illogically expected a much older woman, more as she had been when he left home.

  Attending church had not resulted in his meeting her, or his siblings, although the pastor had introduced him to other parishioners. But he continued to drive his automobile to church against the day when it might be polite to offer her and his siblings a ride home—six blocks over on Benton Boulevard; the spring weather would not always be dry.

  He had not been as certain of his grandfather’s hangout. He was sure that this was where “Gramp” used to go ten or twelve years later—but did he go here when Woodie Smith was (is) not yet five?

  Having checked the German beer parlor—and noted that it had suddenly changed its name to “The Swiss Garden”—he went into the pool hall. Pool tables were all in use; he went back to the rear, where there was one billiard table, a card table, and one for chess or checkers; no pool game being available, it seemed a good time to practice some “mistakes” at three-cushion.

  Gramp! His grandfather was alone at the chess table; Lazarus recognized him at once.

  Lazarus did not break stride. He went on toward the cue rack, hesitated as he was about to pass the chess table, looked down at the array. Ira Johnson looked up—seemed to recognize Lazarus, seemed about to speak and then to think better of it.

  “Excuse me,” said Lazarus. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No harm,” said the old man. (How old? To Lazarus he seemed both older and younger than he ought to be. And smaller. When was he born? Almost ten years before the Civil War.) “Just fiddling with a chess problem.”

  “How many moves to mate?”

  “You play?”

  “Some.” Lazarus added, “My grandfather taught me. But I haven’t played lately.”

  “Care for a game?”

  “If you want to put up with a rusty player.”

  Ira Johnson picked up a white pawn and a black, put them behind his back, brought them out in his fists. Lazarus pointed, found that he had chosen the black.

  Gramp started setting up pieces. “My name is Johnson,” he offered.

  “I’m Ted Bronson, sir.”

  They shook hands; Ira Johnson advanced his king’s pawn to four; Lazarus answered in kind.

  They played silently. By the sixth move Lazarus suspected that his grandfather was re-creating one of Steinitz’s master games; by the ninth he was sure of it. Should he use the escape Dora had discovered? No, that would feel like cheating —of course a computer could play better chess than a man. He concentrated on playing as well as possible without attempting Dora’s subtle variation.

  Lazarus was checkmated on white’s twenty-ninth move, and it seemed to him that the master game had been perfectly reproduced—Wilhelm Steinitz against some Russian, what was his name? Must ask Dora. He waved to a marker, started to pay for the game; his grandfather pushed his coin aside, insisted on paying for the use of the table, and added to the marker, “Son, fetch us two sarsaparillas. That suit you, Mr. Bronson? Or the boy can fetch you a beer from those Huns next door.”

  “Sarsaparilla is fine, thank you.”

  “Ready for revenge?”

  “After I catch my breath. You play a tough game, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Mrrrmph! You said you were rusty.”

  “I am. But my grandfather taught me when I was very young, then played me every day for years.”

  “Do tell. I’ve a grandson I play. Tyke isn’t in school yet, but I spot him only a horse.”

  “Maybe he would play me. Even.”

  “Mrrmph. You’ll allow him a knight, same as I do,” Mr. Johnson paid for the drinks, tipped the boy a nickel. “What business are you in, Mr. Bronson?—if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Not at all. In business for myself. Buy things, sell things. Make a little, lose a little.”

  “So? When are you going to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge?”

  "Sorry, sir, I unloaded that last week. But I can offer you a bargain in Spanish Prisoners.”

  Mr. Johnson smiled sourly. “Guess that’ll teach me.”

  “But, Mr. Johnson, if I told you I was a pool-hall hustler, you wouldn’t let me play chess with your grandson.”

  “Might, might not. Shall we get set up? Your turn for white.”

  With the first move allowing him to control the pace. Lazarus made a slow, careful buildup of his attack. His grandfather was equally careful, left no openings in his defense. They were so evenly matched that it took Lazarus forty-one moves and much skull sweat to turn his first-move advantage into a mate.

  "Play off the tie?”

  Ira Johnson shook his head. “Two games a night is my limit. Two like that is over my limit. Thank you, sir; you play a fine game. For a man who is ‘rusty.’ ” He pushed back his chair. “Time for me to head for the stable.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “So I noticed. I’ll stand in the doorway and watch for the Thirty-first Street trolley.”

  “I have my automobile here. I’d be honored to run you home.”

  “Eh? No need to. Only a block from the car line at the other end, and if I get a little damp, I’ll be home and can get dry.”

  (More like four blocks and you’ll be soaked, Gramp.) “Mr. Johnson, I’m going to crank up that flivver anyhow, to go home myself. It’s no trouble to drop you anywhere; I like to drive. In about three minutes I’ll pull up in front and honk. If you’re there, fine. If you aren’t, I’ll assume that you prefer not to accept rides from strangers and will take no offense.”

  “Don’t be touchy. Where’s your automobile? I’ll come with you.”

  “No, please. No need for us both to go out in the rain for a one-man job. I’ll slide out the back through the alley, then I’ll be at the curb almost before you reach the front door.” (Lazarus decided to be stubborn; Gramp could smell a mouse farther than a cat could—and would wonder why “Ted Bronson” kept a garage at hand when he claimed to live a driving distance away. Bad. How are you going to handle this, Bub? You’ve got to tell Gramp a passel of lies or you’ll never get inside that house—your own home!—to meet the rest of your family. But complexity is contrary to the basic principle of successful lying, and Gramp is the very man who taught you that. Yet the truth could not serve and keeping silent was just as useless. How are you going to solve this? When Gramp is as suspicious as you are and twice as shrewd.)

  Ira Johnson stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Bronson; I’ll be at the front door.”

  By the time Lazarus had his landaulet cranked, he had settled on tactics and outlined a long-range policy: (a) Drive around the block; this wagon should be wet; (b) don’t use this shed again; better to have this puddle jumper stolen than to leave a hole in your cover story; (c) when you surrender the shed, see if “Uncle” Dattelbaum has an old set of chessmen; (d) make your lies fit what you’ve said, including that toohasty truth about who taught you to play chess; (e) tell as much truth as possible even if it doesn’t sound good—but, damn it, you should be a foundling . . and that doesn’t fit having a grandfather, unless you invent complexities, any one of which might snap back and catch you out.

  When Lazarus sounded the klaxon, Ira Johnson darted out and scrambled in. “Where now?” asked Lazarus.

  His grandfather explained how to reach his daughter’s home and added, “Pretty ritzy rig to call a ‘flivver.’ ”

  “I got a good price for the Brooklyn Bridge. Should I swing up to Linwood or follow the car tracks?”

  “Suit yourself. Since you’ve unloaded the bridge, you might tell me about these ‘Spanish Prisoners.’ Good investment?”

  Lazarus concentrated a while on getting his vehicle headed down the tracks while avoiding the tracks themselves. “Mr. Johnson, I evaded your question about what I do for a living.”

  “Your business.”

  “I really have hustled pool.”

  “Again, your business.” br />
  “And I ran out and let you pay the table fee a second time, as well as letting you pay for the pop. I did not intend to.”

  “So? Thirty cents, plus a nickel tip. Knock off five cents the streetcar would have cost me. That makes your half fifteen cents. If it worries you, drop it in his cup the next time you pass a blind man. I’m getting a chauffeured ride on a wet night. Cheap. This is hardly a jitney bus.”

  “Very well, sir. I wanted to get straight with you . . because I enjoyed the games and hope to play you again.”

  “The pleasure was mutual. I enjoy a game where a man makes me work.”

  "Thank you. Now to answer your question properly: Yes, I’ve hustled pool—in the past. It’s not what I do now. I’m in business for myself. Buying things, selling things—but not the Brooklyn Bridge. As for the ‘Spanish Prisoner’ con, I’ve had it tried on me. I deal in the commodities market, grain futures and such. I do the same with stock margins. But I won’t try to sell you anything, I’m neither a broker nor a bucket-shop operator; instead I deal through established brokers. Oh, yes, one more thing—I don’t peddle tips. Give a man what seems to me a good tip—and he loses his shirt and blames me. So I don’t.”

  “Mr. Bronson, I had no call to ask about your business. That was nosy of me. But it was meant to be a friendly inquiry.”

  “I took it as friendly, so I wanted to give it a proper answer.”

  “Nosy, just the same. I don’t need to know your background.”

  "That’s just it, Mr. Johnson, I don’t have a background. Pool hustler.”

  “Not much wrong with that. Pool is an open game, like chess. Difficult to cheat.”

  "Well . . I do something that you might regard as cheating.”