The Longer the Thread Page 11

  Elena was thinking about her own husband.

  “It’s good to see them enjoying themselves, isn’t it?” she asked lazily. “Cesar has been a mass of nerves ever since the trouble at Slax started. This is the first time in weeks I’ve seen him unwind.”

  The two women fell silent. They were idly watching a cluster of rocks a short distance from the shore. On these rocks their husbands, equipped with face masks and flippers, were superintending the skin-diving efforts of Cesar’s two oldest sons.

  “They’ve been out there a long time,” Norma murmured. “I wonder if they’re ever planning to come in.”

  Elena chuckled. “I’ve taken steps. María is bringing out the drinks in a minute. David and Cesar will be back as soon as they hear the gong.”

  “Meanwhile, tell me what you’re going to wear to the fiesta tomorrow night.”

  Norma was looking forward to tomorrow’s gala in historic Old San Juan. Its sponsors were predicting it would be the social event of the year. And many people seemed to agree with them. It was one of the few occasions at which the Romeros’ two worlds would meet. Elena was planning to do it full justice.

  Five minutes later, when she was describing the black lace fan her grandmother had carried, the gong sounded. After a brief animated discussion, which even at that distance was clearly an exercise in paternal authority, all four swimmers headed ashore. The boys padded straight to the kitchen, while the men stripped themselves of their gear and fell on the tray.

  David Lippert, stretched full length in the shade with a cold glass on his chest, sighed voluptuously.

  “This is great, Elena, just great.”

  “I’m enjoying it, too,” she replied, “but I’m still sorry that you couldn’t get Annie Galiano out here. How I was looking forward to meeting that woman!”

  “You may still meet her,” Cesar said without much conviction. “But today she insisted on some meeting with the union local. And she swept Harry and Eric off to it, too.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry she isn’t here,” David announced. “I’m sick of the sound of her name. It’s been Annie this and Annie that all week from Harry. I can do with a day off.”

  Norma looked down at him contentedly. David had been saying much the same thing for some time. But after a day at the office the words came out barbed and virulent. Now David sounded half amused.

  “But all San Juan is talking about her,” Elena protested. “Even my nephew at the university is quoting her. Is it true that she called Nadal a Samson that Delilah would have thrown back?”

  David grinned. “That and a lot more. The trouble, of course, is that I can’t really follow her Spanish when she gets going.”

  “You missed a lot,” Cesar agreed. He lifted the pitcher of rum punch and carefully topped up glasses. “I admit that she’s an unusual personality to have at Slax, but she is certainly giving us our money’s worth. Apart from getting rid of Nadal, we’ve gotten more publicity on that day-care center than if we’d hired television.”

  “I’m not fighting you, Cesar,” David said sleepily. “All I say is that I’ll be glad when this is over. Then we can go back to running a factory instead of a three-ring circus.”

  Elena leaned forward to spear a savory little appetizer. “Men,” she announced provocatively, “are all so conventional. Look at Cesar. He really wants each day to be a replica of the day before. He does not enjoy the unusual.”

  Thus attacked, her husband cocked an ironic eyebrow. “When the unusual takes the form of sabotage, murder and riot, you are right, Elena. I do not enjoy it.”

  “Annie Galiano isn’t any of those,” said Elena.

  “Nevertheless, I shall be glad when she goes,” Cesar said firmly. “I myself am looking forward passionately to the day when David and I can plan a run of three thousand pairs of white slacks and nothing more dramatic follows than the production of three thousand pairs of perfectly ordinary slacks.”

  “How dull!” cried Elena. “What I want is a husband looking forward passionately to tomorrow night—when he will be dancing with me under the stars.”

  But Norma was not thinking of the fiesta now. She was offering up silent thanksgiving. Only Cesar, she thought, would be tactful enough to paint David this picture of the promised land. He had referred only to Annie’s going, without once mentioning that, when she went, she would take Harry Zimmerman with her.

  “The way Annie’s handling this, I’ll be able to leave in two or three days,” Harry Zimmerman was saying as Eric Marten drove him back to his hotel after their meeting at union headquarters.

  “Handling it!” Marten snorted robustly. “You mean the way she’s ramming it through.”

  “Annie,” Harry said fondly, “doesn’t take any guff, does she?”

  They were leaving behind them the dazed representatives of Local 600, International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union. First Annie had read them a description of day-care centers that made the USSSR’s program sound halfhearted. Then she had delivered a forceful lecture on keeping the peace at Slax. Finally she had ordered them to sign on the dotted line.

  “She doesn’t give a damn about winning friends, does she?” Eric remarked.

  “You should see her in New York,” Harry said, all admiration. “Why, I’ve seen her take on the CIO, the Black Panthers and the Mayor, all at the same time. And guess who came out on top?”

  Eric Marten was an example of the conventionality of men that Elena Romero deplored. He thought that Annie might be too much of a tigress for such a small island. He was happy to work Sunday afternoon if that would speed her departure from their midst.

  “It was a big help having you at the meeting, Harry,” he said diplomatically. “It’s too bad you didn’t get to go out to the beach with the others.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Harry was clumsy about personal matters. “It’s good for the youngsters to get away by themselves sometimes.”

  “Sure thing,” Eric said stoutly. “David’ll have a chance to relax. He’ll be back in top form tomorrow, you’ll see.”

  Eric Marten knew perfectly well that Harry Zimmerman was disappointed in the way his brother-in-law behaved under pressure. At the same time, Harry was trying not to add to that pressure. It would be interesting to see what he would do, Eric thought, if it ever got to a choice between watching Slax go under or popping up David’s sagging morale.

  “Anyway, I’ve got something else I want to talk about, Eric.” Harry seized on a diversion. “Production has been great all this week, but what about shipments? We seem to have a lot of stuff stalled in the warehouse.”

  Eric turned his mind to his own special concerns. “The freight forwarders have been giving me double-talk,” he admitted. “They won’t say so, but it’s easy enough to see what’s happened. After all our troubles in the past month, they stopped holding space for us. Now we’re at the peak shipping season, and they’ve got to scramble to find us enough cubic footage.”

  “Then make them scramble,” Harry ordered. “Now’s the time to use a little muscle. Tell them we can always find another freight forwarder if they don’t cooperate. I’m going to be back in New York in a couple of days, and I want to be able to tell our customers that deliveries are coming through. I don’t want any delays because our latest runs are backed up on the docks in Puerto Rico.”

  Eric Marten could be equally terse. “Right. I’ll read them the riot act. Leave it to me, Harry.”

  “Good. I’m seeing the boys at the Sloan tomorrow, and I want to be able to tell them there isn’t a cloud in the sky.”

  Eric Marten would have liked to study Harry’s countenance at this statement, but no driver in San Juan takes his eyes off traffic for even a second.

  “You don’t count the police investigation into Domínguez’ murder as a cloud, Harry?” he asked curiously.

  “I count it,” Harry answered, “but as long as we’re making a profit I don’t see why the Sloan should.”

  There was a short
silence. Both men were considering the possibility that a police arrest might have a marked impact on profits at Slax. When Harry finally spoke again, it was with a diffidence alien to him.

  “Look, Eric, just between the two of us, you wouldn’t tell me who you think really shot Domínguez?” he suggested.

  Eric Marten did not hesitate. “No, Harry,” he said bluntly, “I would not.”

  “All right, all right,” Harry growled. “Forget I asked. But look, there’s one thing you could do for me.”

  “Yes?” Marten was very cautious.

  “I know we’ve got a local lawyer down here. But I’ve had a lawyer in New York primed for the last two weeks. He can be down here on the first flight. What I’d like you to do, if things look bad, is give me the tip. In some ways, David and Norma are a pair of kids. They may not recognize trouble when it’s coming. If anything threatens Slax, I’d like the best help we can get and I’d like it fast. Of course, I don’t want to go off half-cocked. That kind of thing doesn’t look very good.”

  Eric Marten was grimly amused. In spite of all the talk about threats to Slax, he knew what Harry was afraid of. Harry was afraid that David Lippert would be arrested. If worst came to worst, Harry might be able to voice that fear in awkward phrases about the miscarriage of justice and circumstantial evidence. The deepest fear of all Harry could never put into words.

  “Yes, Harry. At the first sign of trouble, you’ll hear from me.”

  After due expression of gratitude, Harry Zimmerman sat silently the rest of the way to the Americana. It was not a comfortable trip. Marten was glad that he had a legitimate excuse to refuse a drink.

  “Sorry, Harry. But I have to pick up my wife. We’re going to be late at her parents’, as is.” With a wave, he sped once again into the traffic.

  Eric Marten’s in-laws did not talk of literature at the dining-room table. They were all Puerto Rican businessmen. Unfortunately, they were hypnotized by events at Slax. They were eager for every bulletin, ready to speculate and prophesy endlessly. Marten could not leave Slax behind when he dined with his wife’s family. Already he was busy editing the record of his day’s work so that it could re-emerge as a suitable after-dinner story.

  Stripped, of course, of certain details.

  Chapter 11.

  Pins and Needles

  Old San Juan, the section of the city contained by the original masonry walls, was the background for the fiesta that Monday evening. Long since overwhelmed by the new city in extent and population, it retains its unparalleled site and its remarkable diversity. Lying at the very tip of a small peninsula, the land rises abruptly to a height from which Spanish fortifications command the most magnificent natural harbor in the Caribbean. Here there are breathtaking vistas along every inch of the historic walls. To the north, the long swells of the Atlantic end in breakers pounding endlessly against stone foundations many feet thick. To the south is the busy harbor and, beyond, the blue hills that form the spine of Puerto Rico.

  Within the old city, open plazas alternate with rabbit warrens of sixteenth-and seventeenth-century Spanish architecture; precipitous cobblestone streets here and there yield to equally precipitous stone steps; majestic buildings which have housed the island’s government since the Spanish occupation lie cheek by jowl with ferry slips for commuters. Both commerce and art have judged the location irresistible. Shopkeepers catering to the tourist trade were quickest. Now, in unbroken rows, they offer hand-screened fabrics, leatherwork, peasant blouses, basketry, jewelry and antiques. Painters and sculptors were next to move their studios here. The restorers came last, taking a single building and, with vast expenditure of time and money, turning it into a single perfect Hispanic gem. Between, around and above all these ventures, a resident population of twenty-five thousand people continues to thrive in unrestored bliss, serenely doing its laundry, buying its groceries and raising its children.

  What had originally been planned as a modest social event, sponsored jointly by the restorers of Old San Juan and the promoters of native modern art, had mushroomed far beyond its initial dimensions. Every group with a vested interest in the old city had improvised its own addition to the entertainment. An outdoor art show had sparked a handicraft exhibit. A string quartet in the Plaza San José had brought guitarists, singers and rock groups to every street corner. Dancing in the Plaza de Armas was matched by a revival meeting in the Parque de las Palomas. The stores, bars and restaurants were all staying open. There was refreshment at every level, from stately dining rooms to taverns with fifty-cent rum drinks to stalls hawking mango and tamarind ice cream.

  Everyone spent the first hour of the fiesta walking around. This exercise provided a bird’s-eye view of the activities. It would also, John Thatcher profoundly trusted, provide him with an opportunity to shed his host and hostess, at least for a while. Norma and David Lippert were not successfully projecting their usual image of a harmonious couple. David’s failure took the form of rather surly silence. Norma’s, which was in many ways harder on the innocent bystander, took the form of brittle vivacity.

  “You’ll love the evening we have planned, I hope,” she was saying, the words spilling out too quickly. “After the exhibition of native dancing, there will be some regular dancing. I promised the Romeros we’d meet them there.”

  Thatcher and Pete Olmsted said they were looking forward to it.

  “I thought we’d stay outside until after the fireworks. They’re supposed to be marvelous. Then we’ll be joining the sponsors’ banquet at El Convento Hotel.”

  Manfully Pete Olmsted tried to keep up his end. “I suppose we’ll be seeing Harry there. Is he coming with some other people?”

  Norma hesitated one second too long. Then she flowed on. “Poor Harry found he couldn’t make it at the last minute. It’s such a shame. He’s been looking forward to the fiesta all week.”

  “Sure,” said David unpleasantly. “Harry’s great on old Puerto Rican customs.”

  Fortunately a large family party on the narrow pavement forced them into single file at this point. When they coalesced again, Norma began to sing the praises of a local string quartet.

  “I know it’s quite a climb up to the plaza,” she said, “but we really shouldn’t miss them.”

  As they were currently plunging down a street that threatened to propel them into the harbor, Thatcher decided that Norma was beginning to panic. No rational response, however, was required. David Lippert was ready to denigrate any suggestion by his wife.

  “Big deal!” he scoffed. “It’s not as if they were the Casals Festival.”

  It was at this moment that Pete Olmsted proved worth his weight in gold.

  “Well, now!” he marveled, ignoring the exchange. “What do you think of that?”

  He was indicating a corner grocery that had been taken over temporarily by one of the many public groups active this evening. The sign read:

  ILGWU

  POINTING THE WAY!

  But it was not the sign that was bringing people in off the street. It was the large photograph of a smiling woman and the invitation “Come and Meet Annie!”

  “You said you wanted to meet her, John,” Olmsted was continuing. “Here’s your chance. Let’s go in.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” muttered Lippert.

  Norma’s voice rose a notch. “Yes, why don’t you? But I do want to drop in at Cavanaugh’s in the next block. David and I will wait there for you.”

  “We’ll catch up with you,” Thatcher agreed, promising himself that this reunion would not take place for at least an hour. He waited until the Lipperts were out of earshot before announcing this decision. “An hour should take us past the threat of this string quartet,” he argued. “And, with luck, it will finish off this quarrel between the Lipperts, whatever it may be about.”

  “Trouble between David and Harry,” Pete Olmsted diagnosed glumly.

  “Is that just a guess, or did Zimmerman say so this morning? After all, he seems to be
breaking appointments all over.”

  “No, Harry didn’t say anything. He’s not the kind who foists his family troubles onto business associates.” Olmsted cast a look of deep disapproval down the street. “He just dropped by the bank for a few minutes. He said he was sorry to miss his appointment with us, but he had to get over to union headquarters. Even though he didn’t say so, I could tell he was worked up about something. He was talking about clearing up a mess once and for all. Ten to one, he had a fight with Lippert about the way Slax ought to be run.”

  “And Mrs. Lippert has been sucked into the squabble,” Thatcher concluded.

  “Well, that’s their problem,” said Olmsted philosophically. “Would you like to take a look at this union storefront? It’s not much compared to a Seventh Avenue rally, is it?”

  Thatcher confessed, to his shame, that Seventh Avenue rallies did not come his way very often these days.

  Olmsted shook his head sympathetically and shouldered the door open. Inside, thirty or forty people were crowded around the central figure. Annie was enthusiastically signing autographs and posing with people for snapshots. Several local union leaders looked on with pride. On the outskirts of the scene was a familiar face.

  Eric Marten did not share whatever oppression had engulfed the Lipperts. “Hello!” he shouted cheerfully over the din. “I’m escaping from my wife. She’s looking at a display of masks. And I can take just so much of that.”

  Stretching the truth somewhat, Thatcher remarked that they were fugitives from a string quartet. “And, of course, I’ve been hearing a good deal about Mrs. Galiano this past week. I thought I’d like to see her with my own eyes.”

  Marten immediately let loose a Scandinavian bellow. “Annie! Come meet Thatcher from the Sloan!”

  Breaking out from her circle, Annie stumped across to join them. Olmsted was familiar to her from various loan negotiations. Thatcher she knew all about.