SYNTHETIC MEXICAN
“As a matter of fact,” Richendollar repeated, “my editor won’t print my interview in a hundred thousand years. Unless,” he amended quickly, “you relent, Mr. Crabtree—and repudiate your repudiation! And—oh hell’s-bells, Mr. Crabtree, be a good fellow for once, will you? I was desperate tonight. For I’ve been on the Blade on trial only; 30 days trial. And I’ve had nothing but bad breaks—no fooling! And I was notified today that unless I brought in a red-hot exclusive story within 48 hours, I was ‘out.’ And I couldn’t afford to be out. We Richendollars are broke. Thanks to the complete crash of that Bronx Trust. And so I did conceive the idea of coming up here, as an apparent contestant. Though I had no hope nor intention of actually winning the prize—that is, any prize. I simply was desperate for a story—in this case, an interview with ‘The Man Who Couldn’t be Interviewed.’ For, as I said, I couldn’t afford to be ‘out’ from this only job I’ve had a chance at. For my sister Erminie needs an operation—nothing dangerous—but one to prevent the spread of something dang—”
“Oh, cut the sob stuff! It would be a blessing if all you attenuated blue-bloods died of cancer and whatnot. The interview is repudiated this very minute. Wheredja get that stagy costume?”
“From the Manhattan Theatrical Costume Company, downtown,” said Richendollar meekly, feeling that the other’s curiosity about him might possibly yet prove in his favor. “And I suppose it—it is a bit stagy, because of the dollars on the hat yonder, though they’re really only counterfeits, voided by the Government, that is—and hollowed out on one side. Though—though the costume, as a copy, is artistically correct—for it—it even has the slit-like pocket—see?—in the edge of the coat?—where a true Mexican keeps his—his handkerchief? And—” He broke off helplessly. And paused. “I—I left my regular clothing in one of the lockers the costume company has for people changing there—and going to dances via taxi.”
“And that dialect—wheredja get that?”
“From a college play I once played in. It’s not Mexican-Spanish at all. It’s the dialect of a high-bred Castilian.”
“As phoney as your getup, eh? Still, you’re evidently partly Mex. In view of this affidavit of Archbishop Shay’s. I suppose you got your Mexican black eyes and Mexican black hair from some Mex gal your father seduced down there?”
“Now see here,” snapped Richendollar. “That’s—that’s coming it a bit insulting, Mr. Crabtree. My father was married to my mother by bell, book and candle. And she wasn’t a Mexican—though she did give me my black eyes and black hair. For she was a Norwegian girl.”
“Hrmph! Norwegians have dead-white skins. And your skin is—”
“Yes, I know. But my father’s father married an Italian marchioness.”
“Oh deah, deah, deah me!” mocked the multimillionaire. “Nobility has ‘wisited’ me this day, eh! Well, howdja get Archbishop Michael Shay to write you an affidavit that yourself—bearer—was born in Mexico City?”
“Because he was a bishop there when I was born there. In fact, he christened me—next day. Though I’m not of his religion today—no. He was glad to write me that affidavit today—without knowing why I wanted it—when he saw my birth certificate—with his own signature on it. I was born in Mexico City, you see, because my father was vice-consul there at the time.”
“Hrmph! And Alderman Perce Landyne?—howdja get him to write an affidavit—over his own name—that you entered the U.S.A. 11 months ago?”
“Because he was on the same yacht, coming in from Bermuda, that I was on. ’Twas Willie van Hambly’s party.”
“Lousy loafers, all of you. And this check you showed me?”
“Well—it’s a long story. But here it is. You see—in figuring this thing out, I figured that my black hair and eyes made me best a Mexican. But what does a Mex in the U.S.A. do?—an intelligent one, that is? He’s a violinist. Always! But where, in these days of no vaudeville, could he fiddle? In a night club only, of course. And so—well, the stencil-stamped payee—and associated union dope there on the payee line—was gotten from the only place one could logically get it—the New York Musicians’ Union. Oh, not the officials—no. My sweetheart—and whose name is Opal Marberry, not that it makes any difference!—well, my sweetheart, who is private secretary to Inchpin Nelk, Secretary of the New York Musicians’ Union, secretly stamped in for me, from their cabinet of stencils, the name of a Mexican musician who recently died—yes, Ramon de Montesquez, whoever he was! And she signed the check, moreover, since signing a fictitious and nonexistent name isn’t forgery. And a night-club proprietor, who’s purveyed me many a bottle of Ruinart champagne—shortly back when we Richendollars were in the money—stamped his rubber stamp slightly across my spurious endorsement there at the top—as a favor. So that ’twould be certified that I was the payee—and thus I could re-sign underneath, if I had to, in the presence of any doubting Thom—that is, doubter, and prove that I was the first endorser and therefore the—but you grasp it, I know.”
“So you’re even in love, poor goddamned fool? And because you were, I suppose, you became a synthetic Mex—but wait!—howdja know I wouldn’t ring Archbishop Shay—or Alderman Landyne?”
“We-ell—Archbishop Shay, if you read the papers, is due to go on retreat at 6 tonight!—and Alderman Landyne is due to be in Schenectady tonight on that cement investigation.”
“Foxy, heh? You, I mean? Protected from discovery all the way around? And just a synthetic Mexican—a synthetic Mex. Pretty goddamned clever, I must say! I—”
“All right,” retorted Richendollar boldly. “Reward an artist, then—for being clever. Phone in your confirmation of that interview.”
“An artist?” sneered the other. “You’re the hammiest ham who ever escaped being drowned in rotten eggs—just because he didn’t do his Mex act on a stage. And I’ll—I’ll—” He was half choking now. “I intend to reward you by having Rawleigh give you the beating of your life between this library and the front door; and, if you’re not out of here, moreover, in 5 minutes to boot, I promise you you’ll need two dental plates to take care of all the teeth he’ll knock out additionally to the beating. Believe you me, you dirty bastard, if you’ve never been kicked down a front stairs, you’re going to be this night—though with your tract of land—the deed to it, that is—in your hands. For you won’t march down to the post office and get me under the postal laws—no, sir!”
“All right, you win! And thanks at least for the 5 minutes grace for my ivories. An occasional mere beating is, so they say, one of the perquisites in this delightful news game—though I claim it’s not cricket to have it done by a gink with such elephantine feet and hamlike hands as Rawleigh’s. But thanks, anyway, for the 5 minutes grace on the teeth! And I’ll beat that by 4½ minutes, God willing! But since I at least won a tract of land, I desire to humbly ask a few questions about my acquisition?”
The other chuckled gleefully. “Your ‘acquisition’ is good! The minute you put your deed of record, you’ll have a bill for $2000 taxes shoved in your face. If you pay it, you’ve got a $1000 piece of land free of tax lien. Yes, you can ask all the questions you want—up until, that is, Raweigh starts in.”
“All right. But that’s 5 minutes off yet. Well, may I humbly inquire how it happens that $2000 taxes could ever accumulate—on a piece of land worth only $1000?”
“Hoping against hope, eh, that old Crabtree has slipped? And that you’ve got something worth ten times what I say? Well, you haven’t—for my agent investigated the land in question completely yesterday. Its assessment is based on a value of $1000—and $1000 only. And it has $2000 taxes on it. To make it brief—” Silas Crabtree rubbed his hands gleefully. It was plain that he really enjoyed recounting this hopeless situation to the grantee in question. “—the owner of record, because of considerable dispute as to what were the real and correct boundary lines of the state where this piece of land lay, always considered that it lay properly in the state adjoining. A state which was free of the hordes of grafting officials which infested the state where the land putatively lay. And had a tax rate stupendously lower, besides. And because a dozen suits were pending in all kinds of state courts, affecting the boundaries of the particular state where the land supposedly lay—and because, also, the owner of record hated the graft-ridden political machinery of that state—he took a chance—years back—filed a tax-protest with the county clerk based on one, or another, or perhaps all of those suits—and withheld his taxes—legally!—awaiting settlement of all those suits. He knew that if he lost he would be stuck not only with all the withheld taxes—but with stiff penalties as well; but, being a bit of a gambler, he took a chance, for he’d been assured by tax officials in the adjoining state that in case the piece eventually was found to lie in that state instead, taxes on it would begin at that moment only. Anyway, to boil a long story short, the Supreme Court of the U.S.A. today definitely decreed the boundaries of the State that was in question—settling some 20 suits in the lower courts. And the official boundaries include this piece of land—instead of excluding it. And the taxes—plus penalties accrued—make $2000 due.” Silas Crabtree chuckled gleefully again.
“I see,” was Richendollar’s comment. “Well, one more question—if you don’t mind. How did you acquire this pig in a poke? You’re rather a shrewd buyer, I take it. So—”
“Buy it?” sneered the other. “I didn’t buy it. What the hell do you think I am? At the very time it was deeded me, the accrued withheld taxes then were approximately equal to the value of the land. It was given me voluntarily—the deed, I mean—by the owner of record—a rich man from out of town—who had searched me out, after reading something in the papers about a difficult operation I’d had—the same being none of your business—call it resection of the intestine, if you want to—or call it laminectomy of the spine—anyway, because this man was confronting the possibility of an operation in the same field, and had read of mine, he searched me out here to get some information about surgeons; and so—after he’d identified himself by about 1001 per cent, plus!—I invited him to stay here overnight—and get all the information in question—and have a session of chess together, to boot. The poor fool—all because of a bottle of wine over our chess—was in his cups when he deeded this land to me. Had the—the ‘givvies.’ And since ’twas my wine that had twisted his wits, I merely put the deed away, intending to destroy it next day. Though I never did. As for him, he never knew, I’m sure, that he ever uttered the deed. His condition at the time is, possibly, a defense against my title—but not against yours—for you are known as ‘2nd grantee’! Moreover, he won’t contest it—for he’s dead. No, not by any operations—from natural causes. And—oh, I see in your eyes that you think you’ve caught me in a violation of the contest laws at last. Well, you haven’t—for the law of the state where this land now definitely is, is that a deed can be put of record up until 2 weeks after the grantor dies. And this owner of record hasn’t been dead 2 weeks yet. So your deed is valid—if you put it of record! Of course if you don’t—not wishing to have a $1000 deficiency tax-sale judgment clamped on your patrician shoulders—well, that’s not my fault.” And Silas Crabtree gave an airy-fairy gesture of his own shoulders.
“No, of course. Well,” Richendollar now begged ironically, “might I have one more minute to examine—my first piece of real estate?”
“Certainly! You have, actually, 3¾ minutes yet before Rawleigh starts in on you, and ends by laying his foot atop your patrician behind, and catapulting you down my front steps.”
“Ouch!—and thank you.” And Richendollar, without further ado, unfolded the tri-folded paper. And ran over it. And his eyes widened as he did so. He looked up.
“Why—this is a deed to Blceker’s Island—that God-forsaken spit of land where that millionaire McCorniss had himself interred late today, because—”
“Right, you rat! And whenever you can dig up $2000 to make full title to it, you can squat there on your barren $1000 seat without anybody legally ordering you off. And squat there is all you can do. For you can’t grow anything on that hunk of mud, drift stumps, and rock—at least enough to feed a cockroach like yourself on; you can’t build a skyscraper on it, because it’s shifting dirt, and subject to floods, to boot; you can’t bring in oil on it because it’s an island; you can’t uncover a mine on it—for the same sad reason; you—you can’t even breed jack rabbits on it. All you can do is to squat on it—” Crabtree was almost shouting now. “—and worship a damned old fool who had himself interred there—and who’ll probably be stinking so badly you’ll have to put a clothespin on your nose—and—”
But Thorpe Richendollar had suddenly stood up. And was carefully folding and putting away the document in his breast pocket. And, taking up his imitation-dollar-studded sombrero.
“What’s your hurry?” the other inquired sardonically. “You’ve got 2 full minutes yet before Rawleigh is scheduled to teach you what a really first-class beating is like! Or must you hasten forth in order to try and borrow $2000—to get full title to a $1000 piece of land?”
“Where in hell,” retorted Richcndollar glumly, “could I borrow $2000 on a $1000 piece of land? And moreover, why would I—if I could? No, I’ve got—in case Rawleigh leaves enough of me hanging together!—to catch me a taxi outside—so I can go ’way up north to—”
“North? The Manhattan Costume Company—if it’s down-town—isn’t north. So—”
“No, I know it. Only—I won’t be going back there. I haven’t time. Instead, I’ll be heading north—Mexican suit and all—to Arrow Airfield, from where goes out each morning, at 1 a.m., to Boggtown on Big River, a passenger and mail plane known as the ‘Arthritic’s Special’—it really goes on, you know, to Hot Springs, Arkansas. I happen to know the interesting fact of its existence because our staff photographer went that way, last night, to get pics on that Bleeker’s Island funeral today. And I, in turn, will be boarding tonight’s Boggtown-bound plane—which leaves in 30 minutes, according to your clock yonder—and using, for fare, part of a certain hundred smackers now in my pocket which I’m holding as stakes in a bet—no, the bet’s not to be decided before 60 days—so I’ve plenty time to make it up. But just why—no doubt you ask, Brother Crabtree—am I winging westward via air? So much of me, that is—as Rawleigh leaves hanging together! Well, I’ll tell you why. I was in my City Ed’s office tonight while he was calling, on the long-distance phone, Adjutant-General Kimber of the United States Health Service—to get some sort of follow-up story to that McCorniss interment. And I heard Kimber telling him—on the desk loud-speaker—that the very first bill to come up in Congress, when it reconvenes a week from today, is one to prohibit burial of a human being on any island in any navigable waters of the U.S.A. subject to flood—and that the said bill has a seven-eighths majority vote promised it. And I heard Kimber likewise say that the minute that bill is passed, the Big River Valley branch of the United States Health Service will order the town of Shelby’s Bluff to transfer McCorniss’ body, within 24 hours, to the town cemetery; and, in case the town is reluctant to do so lest they somehow technically endanger their bequest by so doing, the B.R.V. Health Department will itself take up the body and cremate it. For—and now I see you smiling, Crabtree—for now it turns out that Bleeker’s Island, which is just about damned near minus-zero in utility, won’t even be utilizable as a cemetery for poor niggers at perhaps $2 per grave! But here’s the point: That island now belongs to me. Legally right now. And officially the moment I set both feet atop it—and record my deed—for the law of that state, as I happen to know from having read proofs on a feature article about it, in the Blade offices, is that a deed to a piece of real estate can be recorded only if and when the recording grantee can take oath he’s set foot on the property in question. Which I’ll have done by tomorrow morning—before the flood gets ankle-high!—locking up my deed meanwhile, for safety’s sake, in a Boggtown Bank safety box under the name of ‘Thorpe and Erminie Richendollar’—just in case, you know, I’m a bum river pilot?—and, if I’m adequate in traversing that peevish water both to Bleeker’s Island, and back to Boggtown, I’ll pick up said deed, go down river by railroad or private car to Shelby County, and file it of record by noontime—now wait—I know—yes!—that the minute I do so, I’ve a tax lien, at that moment, bigger than the value of the fool island I’ve recorded. Sure—sure—I know all that. But get a load of this: I also heard my City Ed tonight, following up that same story, talk to Otto Kieske, the man who designed and built that vault for McCorniss—and brought the vault stone from Tibet—well, Kieske, on learning that the Honorable U.S. Gov. might vacate that vault forcibly, says he’ll immediately make the McCorniss Estate an offer for the vault—to take effect, of course, on said forcible vacatement—an offer of $3000—since he, Kieske, has two customers, either of whom want it very, very much, up to something slightly beyond that sum: one being the head of the Buddhist Church here in New York City, who is aged and near death, and wants his vault built of Tibetan stone; the other being no less than Whipley—New York’s own dear Whipley—owner of Whipley’s Believe-It-or-Not-Palace downtown—who thinks that that trick-balancing mechanism, if not the much-publicized vault itself, would intrigue every one of the thousands of customers who enter his jernt daily. But wait!—neither Kieske—nor the Buddhist monk—nor Whipley—can buy that vault, after its vacatement, from the McCorniss Estate, for the laws of that state, as I also happen to know, say that anything built upon a man’s land becomes the property of the landowner. Which is me! For I own that land now. And you can’t even hamstring me out of it by shipping Rawleigh down there by private plane to record ahead of me—because you’ve passed me the original deed from McCorniss to you—and have nothing you can record! Huzzah for small favors! I own that land now—against ever’body. And the minute the U.S.H.S. vacates that vault, I’ll gladly sell the vault to Kieske. Though puss’enly hoping that Whipley—rather than the Buddhist monk—eventually gets it. But be that nevertheless as it may, I’ll sell it to Kieske. For $3000. That is, you understand, Kieske will perfect my title by paying off my $2000 tax lien, and passing me the $1000 residue. At and upon which—I’ll even own the island besides—such as ’tis. And wait—wait—you ain’t heard nothing yet! I’m going to have wan gran’ story day after tomorrow—red-hot!—exclusive!—one that permanently secures my job on the Blade because it’s triple-angled—involves a Blade employee and two famous rich men—is therefore worth a headline—in fact, here ’tis: ‘Blade Reporter, in Contest of Wits with Multimillionaire Si Crabtree, Wins Millionaire McCorniss’ Island!!!!’ Boy—am I sitting pretty? A permanent job on the Blade—a thousand bucks in my jeans—and master of Bleeker’s Island besides. And tell Rawleigh—dear, dear Rawleigh!—that his boot will have to wait! And also that those naughty hamlike hands of his, which will now he ordered to take my deed bodily from me, will have to go and stroke eggs. For I see you, Mr. Crabtree, violently pressing the summoning button—but I, alas, having been champion pole-vaulter of my class at college, am preparing to take my departure from yon open window—to the soft turf but 10 feet below—no more, in truth, than many a drop I’ve made after clearing the bamboo—but my mistake!—now that I’m actually at the window, I see it’s full 12 feet—but no matter—I did 11 feet 3 at the last meet held at Yale—do you mind my foot on your sill?—thankee—I—ah there, Rawleigh, old top, do come in!—sorry I can’t wait, dontchaknow, but I’m just leaving—and thanks, Mr. Crabtree, for the mucho gran’ prize—yes—the island—and the gran’ story-thanks for just ever’thing—why, Rawleigh!—I’m surprised that you didn’t see ’twould be ‘no thoroughfare’ around that end of the table—why, your belly could never get ’tween that and the bookca—attaboy! Come ’round the other way, and—but Rawleigh—Rawleigh!—such cursing!—never in my life have I hear—why, Mr. Crabtree—you cursing too?—easy, Rawleigh, you should have known that the floor was like glass, and—hi there, cat, on the turf below—gangway!—our fran’ Rawleigh’s regaining his feet, and his eyes are blazing like yours are shin—gangway, cat, for Go’s-sake!—d’ya want to lose one of your nine lives?—gangway—psssst!—coming down, cat: Lord Richendollar of Bleeker’s Isl—made it, by God!—made it! Lucky cat—missed you by 3 feet! But luckier Lord Richendollar, who—c’am yourself, Rawleigh, up there in the window—you’ll disgrace all Park Avenue. Ca’m yourself and I’ll go quietly out yonder side gate. Toodle-oo, old chap—toodle-oo!”