The General Zapped an Angel: Stories

Tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal

At precisely eight forty-five in the morning, carrying a copy of tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal under his arm, the devil knocked at the door of Martin Chesell’s apartment. The devil was a handsome middle-aged businessman, dressed in a two-hundred-dollar gray sharksin suit, forty-five-dollar shoes, a custom-made shirt, and a twenty-five-dollar iron-gray Italian silk tie. He wore a forty-dollar hat, which he took off politely as the door opened.

Martin Chesell, who lived on the eleventh floor of one of those high-rise apartments that grow like mushrooms on Second Avenue in the seventies and eighties, was wearing pants and a shirt, neither with a lineage of place or price. His wife, Doris, had just said to him, “What kind of a nut is it at this hour? You better look through the peephole.”

“Drop dead,” he replied as he looked through the peephole.

Knowing a good tie and shirt when he saw them, Martin Chesell opened the door and asked the devil what he wanted.

“I’m the devil,” the devil answered politely. “And I am here to make a deal for tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal.”

“Buzz off, buster,” Martin said in disgust. “The hospital’s over by the river, six blocks from here. Go sign yourself in.”

“I am the devil,” the devil insisted. “I am really the devil, scout’s honor.” Then he pushed Martin aside and entered the apartment, being rather stronger than people.

“Martin, who is it?” his wife yelled—and then she came to see. She was dressed to go to her job at Bonwit’s, where she sold dresses until her feet died—every day about four-twenty—and she saw enough faces in a day’s time to smell the devil when he was near her.

“Ask your wife,” the devil said pleasantly.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Doris. “What are you peddling, mister?”

“Tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal,” the devil repeated amiably. “Everyman’s desire and dream.”

“It’s an old tired saw,” Martin Chesell said. “It’s been used to death. Not only have a dozen bad stories been written to the same point, but the New Yorker ran a cartoon on the same subject. A tired old bum looks down, and there’s tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal at his feet.”

“That’s where I picked up the notion.” The devil nodded eagerly. “Basically, I am conservative, but one can’t go on forever with the same old thing, you know.” He walked sprightly into their living room, merely glancing into the bedroom with its unmade bed, and measuring with another glance the cheap, tasteless furniture, and then spread the paper on the table. Martin and Doris followed him and looked at the date.

“They print those headlines in a place on Forty-eighth Street,” Doris said knowingly.

“Ah! And the inside pages as well?” The devil riffled the pages.

“Suppose you let me have a look at the last page?” Martin said.

“Ah—that costs.”

“Mister, go away. There is no devil and you’re some kind of a nut. My wife has to go to work.”

“But you don’t? No job. Bless your hearts, what does a devil do to prove himself. My driving license? Or this?” Blue points of fire danced on his fingernails. “Or this?” Two horns appeared on his forehead, glistened a moment, and then disappeared. “Or this?” He held up finger and thumb and a twenty-dollar antique gold piece appeared between them. He tossed it to Martin, who caught it and examined it carefully.

“Tricks, tricks,” said the devil. “Look into your own heart if you doubt me, my boy. Do we deal? I sell—you buy—one copy of tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal. Yes?”

“What price?” Doris demanded, precise, businesslike, and to the point, while her husband still stared bemused at the coin.

“The usual price. The price never changes. A human soul.”

“Why?” Martin snapped, holding out the coin.

“Keep it, my son,” the devil said.

“Why a human soul? What do you do with them? Collect them? Frame them.”

“They have their uses, oh yes, indeed. It would make for a long, complicated explanation, but we value them.”

“I don’t believe I have a soul,” Martin said bluntly.

“Then what loss if you sell it to me? To sell what you do not own without deceiving the purchaser, that is good business, Martin—all profit and no loss.”

“I’ll sell mine,” Doris said.

“Oh? Would you? But that won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“No—it just wouldn’t do.” He looked at his watch, a beautiful old pocket watch, gold and set with rubies and with little imps crawling all over it. “You know, I don’t have all the time in the world. You must decide.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Doris said, “sell him your damn soul or do we spend the rest of our lives in this lousy three-room rathole? Because if that’s the case, you spend them alone, Marty boy. I am sick to death of your sitting around on your ass while I work my own butt off. You’re a loser, sweety, and this is probably the last chance.”

“Good girl,” the devil said approvingly. “She has a head on her shoulders, Martin.”

“How do I know—”

“Martin, Martin, what do you have to lose?”

“My soul.”

“Whose existence you sensibly doubt. Come, Martin—”

“How?”

“Old-fashioned but simple. I have the contract here, all very direct and legal. You read it. A pinprick, a drop of blood on your signature, and tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal is yours.”

Martin Chesell read the contract. A pin appeared like magic in the devil’s hand. A thumb was pricked, and Martin found himself smearing a drop of blood across his signature.

“All of which makes it legal and binding,” the devil said, smiling and handing Martin the paper. Doris forgot her job and Martin forgot his erstwhile soul, and they flung the paper open with trembling hands, riffled to the last page but one, where the New York Stock Exchange companies and prices were printed, and scanned the list. The devil watched this with benign amusement, until suddenly Martin whirled and cried:

“You bastard—this is a rotten day. Everything is down.”

“Hardly, Martin, hardly,” the devil replied, soothingly. “Everything is never down. Some are up, some are down. I will admit that today is hardly the most inspiring of days, but there is a surprise or two. Just look at old Mother Bell.”

“Who?”

“American Telephone,” the devil said. “Look at it, Martin.”

Martin looked. “Up four points,” he whispered. “That makes no sense at all. American Telephone hasn’t jumped four points in a day since Alexander Graham Bell invented it.”

“Oh, it has, Martin. Yes, indeed. You see, until two o’clock today, it will just dilly-dally along the way it does every other day, and then at two precisely the management will announce a two-for-one split. Yes, indeed, Martin—two for one. Just read those prices again, and you will see that it touches a high of five dollars and seventy-five cents over the two o’clock price, even though it closes at a profit of only four points. So you see, Martin, if you sell at the high, you can clear five dollars and better, which is a very nice return for an in-and-out deal. No reason at all why you shouldn’t be a very rich man before today is over, Martin. No reason at all.”

“Marty,” Doris shouted, “we’re going to do it. We’re going to make it, Marty. This is the big one, the big red apple—the one we’ve been waiting for. Oh, Marty, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The devil smiled with pleasure, put on his forty-dollar hat, and departed. They hardly noticed that he had gone, so eager were they to be properly dressed to make a million. Doris tied Martin’s tie—something she had not done for a long time. Martin admired the dress she changed into and quietly agreed when she snapped at him:

“You keep that newspaper in an inside pocket, Marty. Nobody sees it—and I mean nobody.”

“Right you are, baby.”

“Marty, what do we go for? Five dollars a share—is that it?”

“That’s it, baby. Suppose we pick up twenty thousand shares—that’s one hundred thousand dollars, baby. One hundred thousand bright, green dollars.”

“Marty, have you lost your mind? This is it—the one and only—and you talk about one hundred thousand dollars. We pick up a hundred thousand shares, and then we got half a million. Half a million dollars, Marty. Beautiful, lean dollars.”

“All right, baby. But I’m not sure you can buy a hundred thousand shares of a stock like American Tel and Tel without influencing the price. If we drive the price up—”

“We can’t drive the price up, Marty.”

“How do you know? What makes you such a goddamn stock market genius?”

“Marty, maybe I don’t know one thing about the market—but I know how it closes today. Honey, don’t you see—we have tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal. We know. No matter how many shares of that stock you buy, it is going to stay put until two o’clock and then it’s going to go up five dollars and seventy-five cents. Isn’t that what he said?”

Marty opened the paper and concentrated on it. “Right!” he cried triumphantly. “Says so right here—no movement until two o’clock—and then zoom.”

“So we could buy two hundred thousand shares and make a cool million.”

“Right, baby—oh, you are so right!”

“Two hundred thousand shares then—right, Marty?”

“I hear you, kid.”

They took a cab downtown to the brokerage office of Smith, Haley and Penderson on Fifty-third Street. When you have it, you spend it. “Lunch today at the Four Seasons?” Doris asked him. “Right, baby. Right, baby.” Rich people are happy people. When he and Doris marched up to the desk of Frank Gibson, their poise and pleasure were contagious. Frank Gibson had gone to college with Martin and had supervised his few unhappy stock market transactions, and while he did not consider Martin one of his more valuable contacts, he found himself smiling back and telling them that it was good to see them.

“Both of you,” he said. “Day off, Doris?”

Doris indicated that days off were the farthest things from her mind, and Martin outlined his purpose with that superior and secure sense that the buyer in quantity always has. But instead of leaping with joy, Gibson stared at him unhappily.

“Please sit down,” Gibson said.

They sat down.

“If I understand you, Marty, you want to buy two hundred thousand shares of American Telephone. You’re putting me on.”

“No. We’re dead serious.”

“Even if you’re serious, you’re putting me on, Marty,” Gibson said. “This kind of goofing—well, someone gets upset. Someone gets angry.”

“Look, Frank,” Martin said, “you are a broker. You are a customer’s man. I am a customer. I come to buy, and you tell me politely to go take a walk.”

“Marty,” Gibson said patiently, “that much American Telephone adds up to over ten million dollars. That means you have to have at least six million, give or take a few, to back it up. So what’s the use, Marty? Take the gag somewhere else.”

“Then you won’t take my order?”

“Marty—Marty, no one will take your order. Because you got to be some kind of nut to even talk that way when I know that you and Doris between you—you got maybe twenty cents.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say!”

“Is it true?”

“For heaven’s sake, Marty,” Doris put in, “come clean with him and get the thing on the road. Here it is, Frank. We got inside dope that Telephone is going up five points this afternoon. At two o’clock today they are going to announce a stock split—and it will go.”

“How do you know?”

“We know.”

“Nobody knows. That rumor has been around for months. Telephone is the blandest, dullest piece of action on the market. You are asking for a day sale, and this firm would not stand for even a little one. It’s out of the question.”

“You mean you won’t sell me stock?”

“A hundred shares of Telephone—sure. You have an account with us. Buy a hundred shares. Don’t be greedy—”

They stalked out while Gibson was talking. The next stop was Doris’ brother, who was a lawyer and made a good living out of it and could have gone on living if he never saw Martin Chesell again.

“I should underwrite six million of credit for you? You got to be kidding.”

“I’m not kidding, I’m dead serious,” Martin replied, telling himself, “You, you son of a bitch, what a pleasure it would be to toss you out on your fat ass if you came pleading to me. Time—just give me time.”

“Am I permitted to ask what for?” his brother-in-law said.

“To make an investment in the market,” Martin said. “I am desperate. It is eleven o’clock. This is the first real chance I ever had. Please,” he pleaded, “do you want me to get down on my knees?”

“It would be an interesting position for a snotty guy like you,” the brother-in-law said. “I should be happy to underwrite seventy-five cents for you, Martin. For a whole buck, I write it off immediately.”

“You may be my brother,” Doris said, “but to me you are a louse. May I spell it—l-o-u-s-e.”

It was eleven-thirty when they got to the branch of the Chase Manhattan on upper Madison. Martin had been in college with the son of the present manager, and once he had introduced himself and Doris, the manager listened politely.

“Of course, we would be happy to lend you the money,” he agreed. “In any amount you wish—providing you offer acceptable collateral.”

“Would American Telephone stock be acceptable collateral?” Doris asked eagerly.

“The very best. And I think we might even lend you up to eighty percent of the market value.”

“See, Marty!” Doris exclaimed. “I knew we’d do it! Now can we get the money immediately?”

“I think so—at least within fifteen minutes. Do you have the stock with you?”

Doris’ face fell, while Martin explained that they were going to use the money to buy the stock.

“Well, that’s a little different, isn’t it? I am afraid it makes the loan impossible—unless you have sufficient stock already in your possession. It doesn’t have to be American Telephone. Any listed security—”

“You don’t understand,” Martin pleaded, watching the clock on the wall. “We got to buy that stock before two o’clock.”

“I am sure you have good reason to. But we can’t help you.”

“Lousy crumb,” Martin said when they got outside. “He stinks! The whole lousy Chase Manhattan stinks! You got a friend at Chase Manhattan, you don’t need enemies. You know what I’d like to do, go in there up to the window and—stick ’em up!—that’s what I’d like to do.”

Neither First National City nor Chemical New York proved any more flexible on the question of collateral, nor was Merrill Lynch disposed to open an account and plunge into a massive day sale. One forty-five P.M. found them back at the offices of Smith, Haley and Penderson, pleading anew with Frank Gibson.

“I got a job,” Gibson told them. “You may not believe me, but being a customer’s man just happens to be a job. I don’t interfere with you, so just let me do my job.”

“It’s a quarter to two,” Martin begged him.

“Oh, Jesus—show him the damn Wall Street Journal,” Doris snapped.

“Why don’t you drop dead?”

“Why don’t you get one little brain in your head? It’s ten minutes to two. Show him the paper.”

Martin took out the paper and shoved it at Gibson. “There—tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal. All markets—complete closing prices.”

“You’re both out of your minds. What do I have to do? Make a scene? Call the cops?”

“Just look at the date? Am I asking so much? Jesus God, if I was drowning would you stretch out a hand for me? I’m asking you to look at the date.”

“O.K.—so I look at the date.” Gibson picked up the paper and looked at the date. Then he stared at the date. Then he turned the paper around and looked at the date on the back page. Then he opened it.

“Marty, where did you get this?”

“Now you believe me. Now Marty’s not a lousy creep any more. Now Marty’s your buddy boy. Now will you buy the goddamn stock?”

“Marty, I can’t. Even if I thought this paper wasn’t phony—”

“Phony! Do you know—”

His voice died away. Gibson was staring at the screened flash news at the front of the office, where suddenly the news had appeared that the directors of American Telephone had decided upon a two-for-one stock split, pending approval of stockholders.

“Will you buy the stock?” Martin whimpered. “Oh, dear Jesus, will you please buy the stock?”

“Marty—I can’t.”

“It’s up two points already,” Doris said. “Why don’t I kill myself? Oh, no—I couldn’t jump in front of a subway train or anything like that. No, sir—not me. I had to marry Chesell.”

At two, when the market closed, American Telephone was four points over its opening price. At four-fifteen, the Chesells had one of their minor fights. If they had not been so done in with the day, it might have been a major fight. As it was, there was nothing physical, only a few recriminations, one word leading to another. Doris began the peroration by concluding:

“Drop dead—that’s all.”

“So long as you understand the feeling is mutual.”

“Lovely—and I have had it, ducky. Words cannot portray my feelings for you. You disgust me. You also turn my stomach. You also stink—and now I intend to have a nap. So just get out of here!”

Martin went into the living room, and she slammed the door behind him—and there was a gentle knock at the door to the apartment. Martin opened the door, and there was the devil.

“Greetings, my lad,” he said with great good nature.

“You got one hell of a nerve!” Martin exclaimed. “You miserable son of a bitch—after what you did to me, to come back here!”

“What I did? Martin, Martin, you are understandably angry—but that kind of wild talk—not good.”

“You tricked me into that.”

“Martin, my boy,” the devil said kindly, “did we or did we not make an honest trade, a bargain in kind, merchandise given, merchandise taken? Did we not?”

“You knew what would happen.”

“And just what did happen, Martin? Why get so upset? I gave you the Wall Street Journal for tomorrow and you found yourself not unexpectedly short of cash. Lesson number one—money makes money. How easily learned—and you complain.”

“Because I blew my one lousy chance,” Martin said. “One lousy chance out of a whole lifetime, and I blew it. One chance to come out on top, and I threw it away.”

“Martin.”

“No, it doesn’t matter to you. Well—me, I am sick and tired of you, so out. Just get the hell out!”

“Martin,” the devil said placatingly.

“Out!”

“Really, Martin.”

“Are you trying to tell me you didn’t know what would happen?”

“Martin, of course I knew what would happen. I have been at this so long, and people are so wretchedly predictable. But what happened today is of no importance.”

“No importance?”

“None whatsoever. The really important thing is that you sold me your soul, Martin. That’s the nitty-gritty of it. Riches? No problem. Wealth, power, success? No problem, Martin. It all follows. Once you have sold your soul to me, everything comes to you—everything, Martin. Dear lad—you look so blue, so morbid. Cheer up. The Wall Street Journal—who needs it? Do you want a tip for tomorrow? Cimeron Lead—four dollars a share. It will close at seven. Buy a few shares; pin money, but buy a few shares.”

“With what?” Martin asked sourly.

“Money—dear Martin, there is money wherever you look. For example, you have a bit of insurance on your wife, don’t you?”

“We each have a policy for twenty thousand.”

“Very nice beginning money, Martin. Fortunes have been built on less. And you don’t really like her at all, do you?”

“Why wouldn’t you make a deal for her soul this morning?” Martin asked suddenly.

“Dear Martin—her soul is worthless. In the five years of your marriage you have shriveled it to nothing. You have a talent for destruction, Martin. Her soul is almost nonexistent, and she’s not very pleasant to be with, is she, Martin?”

Martin nodded.

“And she’s so despondent today—it would be understandable that she should leap from an eleventh-story window. Poor girl, but some win and some lose, Martin.”

“I wouldn’t collect on the insurance for ten days,” Martin said.

“Good thinking. I like that. Now you are using your head, lad. Rest assured, I have a better tip for next week. Tips, opportunities, good liquor, rich good, uncomplaining women, and money—so much money. Dear Martin, why do you hesitate?”

Martin went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. There were the sounds of a short scuffle—and then a long, awful scream. When Martin came out of the bedroom, the devil sighed and said, “Poor boy, you’ll be despondent tonight. We must dine together. You will be my guest—of course. And to console you—”

He took out of his inside breast pocket a neatly folded copy of the Wall Street Journal.

“For a week from Wednesday—ten days,” he said.