Manhattan.”
Twelve
His name was Arnold Beeworthy. I found him in the Queens directory, on 74th Road. He was the only Arnold Beeworthy in New York City. NEwtown 9-9970. I called from a drugstore, and a sleepy, heavy baritone answered. I said, “Did you used to work for the New York Times? ”
“I still do. What the hell time is it?”
“A little after one.”
“Oh. All right, I ought to get up anyway. Hold on a second.”
I heard the click of the lighter, then he came back. “All right, what is it?”
“You once did a profile of my father, Willard Kelly.”
“I did? When?”
“1931.”
“Holy hell, boy, don’t talk like that!”
“It wasn’t you?” He didn’t sound old enough.
“It was me, but you don’t have to remind me.”
“Oh. Can I come out and talk to you?”
“Why not? But make it this afternoon, if you can. I have to go to work at eight.”
“All right.”
We had lunch first, but didn’t go back to the hotel. Then we went out to Queens. We started on the same route as yesterday, when we went to see McArdle. Then we turned off onto Woodhaven Boulevard.
The cross-streets were all numbered. Some of them were avenues and some of them were roads and some of them were streets. We saw 74th Avenue. The next block was the one we wanted, 74th Road.
Beeworthy lived in a block of brick two-story houses all attached together at the sides. His was in the middle. There was a white-painted, jagged-edged board on a stick set into the middle of the narrow lawn. Reflector letters were on the board: BEEWORTHY. It looked like one name, and sounded like another.
A woman who hadn’t had Eddie Kapp for a brother or Robert Campbell for a husband opened the door, smiling at us, saying we must be Kelly. Both of us? “That’s right. I’m Ray and this is Bill.”
“Come in. Arnie’s chewing bones in his den.”
It was the kind of house sea captains are supposed to retire in. Small and airy rooms, with lots of whatnots around.
We went downstairs to the cellar. It had been finished. There was a game room with knotty pine walls. To the right there was a knotty-pine door. A sign on it said, snarl. It had been hand-lettered, with a ruler.
She knocked, and somebody inside snarled. She opened the door and said, “Two Kellys. They’re here.”
“More coffee,” he said.
“I know.” She turned to us. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Just black. Both of us.”
“All right, fine.”
She went upstairs, and we went into the den. Arnold Beeworthy was a big patriarch with a gray bushy mustache. Maybe he’d always looked forty. If he was writing profiles for the Times in 1931, he had to be nearly sixty anyway.
The den was small and square. Rubble and paraphernalia and things around the walls and on the tables. A desk to the right, old and beaten, with mismatched drawer handles. Cartoons and calendars and photographs and matchbooks and notes were thumbtacked to the wall over the desk. A filing cabinet was to the left of the desk, second drawer open. A manila folder lay open on top of all the other junk on the desk.
His swivel chair squawked. He said, “It’s too early to stand. How are you?” He jabbed a thick hand at us.
After the handshake and the introductions, Bill took the kitchen chair and I found a folding chair where Beeworthy said it would be, behind the drape.
“1931 is a long time ago,” said Beeworthy. He tapped the open folder. “I didn’t remember the piece you meant. Had to look it up.” He swiveled the chair around and smacked his palm against the side of the open file drawer. “I’ve got a file here,” he said, “of every damn thing I’ve ever written. Some day it’ll come in handy. I can’t think how.” He grinned at himself. “Maybe I’ll write a book for George Braziller,” he said. “It’s fantastic how things that are exciting in life can be so dull in print. I wonder if the reverse is true. It’s a stupid world. And what can I do for you two?” He
Twelve
His name was Arnold Beeworthy. I found him in the Queens directory, on 74th Road. He was the only Arnold Beeworthy in New York City. NEwtown 9-9970. I called from a drugstore, and a sleepy, heavy baritone answered. I said, “Did you used to work for the New York Times? ”
“I still do. What the hell time is it?”
“A little after one.”
“Oh. All right, I ought to get up anyway. Hold on a second.”
I heard the click of the lighter, then he came back. “All right, what is it?”
“You once did a profile of my father, Willard Kelly.”
“I did? When?”
“1931.”
“Holy hell, boy, don’t talk like that!”
“It wasn’t you?” He didn’t sound old enough.
“It was me, but you don’t have to remind me.”
“Oh. Can I come out and talk to you?”
“Why not? But make it this afternoon, if you can. I have to go to work at eight.”
“All right.”
We had lunch first, but didn’t go back to the hotel. Then we went out to Queens. We started on the same route as yesterday, when we went to see McArdle. Then we turned off onto Woodhaven Boulevard.
The cross-streets were all numbered. Some of them were avenues and some of them were roads and some of them were streets. We saw 74th Avenue. The next block was the one we wanted, 74th Road.
Beeworthy lived in a block of brick two-story houses all attached together at the sides. His was in the middle. There was a white-painted, jagged-edged board on a stick set into the middle of the narrow lawn. Reflector letters were on the board: BEEWORTHY. It looked like one name, and sounded like another.
A woman who hadn’t had Eddie Kapp for a brother or Robert Campbell for a husband opened the door, smiling at us, saying we must be Kelly. Both of us? “That’s right. I’m Ray and this is Bill.”
“Come in. Arnie’s chewing bones in his den.”
It was the kind of house sea captains are supposed to retire in. Small and airy rooms, with lots of whatnots around.
We went downstairs to the cellar. It had been finished. There was a game room with knotty pine walls. To the right there was a knotty-pine door. A sign on it said, snarl. It had been hand-lettered, with a ruler.
She knocked, and somebody inside snarled. She opened the door and said, “Two Kellys. They’re here.”
“More coffee,” he said.
“I know.” She turned to us. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Just black. Both of us.”
“All right, fine.”
She went upstairs, and we went into the den. Arnold Beeworthy was a big patriarch with a gray bushy mustache. Maybe he’d always looked forty. If he was writing profiles for the Times in 1931, he had to be nearly sixty anyway.
The den was small and square. Rubble and paraphernalia and things around the walls and on the tables. A desk to the right, old and beaten, with mismatched drawer handles. Cartoons and calendars and photographs and matchbooks and notes were thumbtacked to the wall over the desk. A filing cabinet was to the left of the desk, second drawer open. A manila folder lay open on top of all the other junk on the desk.
His swivel chair squawked. He said, “It’s too early to stand. How are you?” He jabbed a thick hand at us.
After the handshake and the introductions, Bill took the kitchen chair and I found a folding chair where Beeworthy said it would be, behind the drape.
“1931 is a long time ago,” said Beeworthy. He tapped the open folder. “I didn’t remember the piece you meant. Had to look it up.” He swiveled the chair around and smacked his palm against the side of the open file drawer. “I’ve got a file here,” he said, “of every damn thing I’ve ever written. Some day it’ll come in handy. I can’t think how.” He grinned at himself. “Maybe I’ll write a book for George Braziller,” he said. “It’s fantastic how things that are exciting in life can be so dull in print. I wonder if the reverse is true. It’s a stupid world. And what can I do for you two?” He
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