A Matter of Conviction

“I don’t know. Would our neighbors...?”

“Would our neighbors assume we were threatening their way of life by trying to find justice for a dead Puerto Rican? Karin, I don’t know. I gave our neighbors credit for a lot more intelligence and tolerance.”

The telephone rang again. “I’ll get it,” Hank said. He put down his drink and went to the phone. “Hello?”

“Hank?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“George Talbot. How goes it, boy?”

“So-so. What’s up, George?”

“Ran into a slight snag, Hank boy. Afraid Dee and I will have to pass up the festivities this Saturday.”

“What kind of a snag, George?”

“The brain trust at my sweatshop decided they ought to send me to Syracuse for the weekend. To talk to a prospective sucker about his breakfast cereal. So what can I do? I’m a slave to the hidden persuaders, only this time they’re not so hidden.”

“I’d say they’re not hidden at all,” Hank said.

“Sure. So what’s more important, lad, a drink in the fist or bread and butter on the table?”

“Sure,” Hank said. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. That is, I think tomorrow. Be gone until Monday. Unless the big brass change their mind. In any case, I wouldn’t count on the Talbots.”

“Seen McNalley or Pierce lately?” Hank asked.

“Huh?”

“John and Fred,” Hank said. “Our good neighbors. Seen them recently?”

“Well, I always see them around. You know how it is.”

“I know exactly how it is, George. Thanks for calling. I’m sorry you can’t make it this Saturday. But then, a lot of other people in the neighborhood seem to have come down with the sniffles, or grandmothers dying out in Peoria. Maybe you can all get together and have a little party of your own.”

“What do you mean, Hank?”

“A sort of do-it-yourself party. You can make all kinds of interesting things.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Hank.”

“You can make a lovely wooden cross and then come set fire to it on my lawn.”

“Hank?”

“What is it, George?”

“I really do have to go to Syracuse. This has nothing to do with the junk McNalley and Pierce are spreading.”

“Okay.”

“Do you believe me?”

“What’s not to believe?”

“I just wanted you to know. I don’t ask your advice on how to write copy that sells cigarettes. And I don’t intend to tell you how to do your job.” Talbot paused. “Guilt by association is a sin, too, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, George. But this telephone has been going like crazy.”

“I just wanted you to know I haven’t joined the barbarian hordes. My reason for not coming is legit. As a matter of fact, I was looking forward to meeting Samalson.”

“Okay, George. I’m sorry you can’t make it. Thanks for calling.”

“See you soon,” Talbot said, and he hung up.

Hank replaced the receiver on its cradle. “Who else did you invite?” he asked.

“The Cronins.”

“They haven’t called yet?”

“No.”

“Think they will?”

“I don’t know.”

He went to her and took her in his arms. “Are you angry?”

“No. Just a little sad. I rather liked this neighborhood.”

“Stop talking as if we have to move out tomorrow.”

“That isn’t what I meant. I didn’t think the people here...” She shook her head. “Is it wrong for a man to do his job the way he feels it should be done?”

“I always felt that was the only way to do a job,” Hank said.

“Yes.” Karin paused. “So the hell with them. I’m selfish enough to want Abe’s company all to ourselves, anyway.”

“Sure,” Hank said, and he smiled.

“Only it makes me wonder. If these high-minded citizens of Inwood, these pillars of the community, these people who are shaping thought — if these people can behave this way, can we expect any more from the kids living in Harlem? Maybe there doesn’t have to be a reason, Hank. Maybe people would much rather hate than love.”

“I doubt it,” he said, and he smiled again. “I’d much rather love, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re a sex fiend,” she said. “One day you’ll be exposed and locked up for the rest of your natural life.”

The telephone rang.

“That’s the Cronins,” Hank said. “That should make it unanimous. We now know that everyone on the street thinks we should bury Morrez in a hurry and forget all about him. And maybe we should put up a statue in the park to the three kids who killed him. Do you want to answer it, or shall I?”

“I’ll take it,” Karin said.

“Bury Morrez before he begins to stink. Pat the young killers on the back and say, ‘A job well done, lads.’ And thereby win the acclaim of McNalley and Pierce and all the pure-white Protestants in the neighborhood.”

“The Cronins are Catholics,” Karin said. “You’re beginning to sound like McNalley.”

“I was using a figure of speech,” Hank said.

Karin lifted the receiver. “Hello?” she said. She listened for a moment and then, still listening, she nodded knowingly at Hank.

Nine