I don’t say that he does it. All I know is that they’re there every morning, and with this our friend would begin scratching himself.
He doesn’t have to do it himself, of course, said I. Maybe he pays the janitor to do it for him.
I’m not saying who does it. I’m not making any accusations, not publicly anyway. All I know is that it’s a dirty trick. If he were a man he would hand me my walking papers and be rid of me.
Why don’t you turn the tables on him? said O’Mara maliciously.
How do you mean?
Why, just this … put the lice in his desk, see!
I’m in enough trouble, said poor Osiecki.
But you’re going to lose your job anyway.
Don’t be too sure of that. I’ve got a good lawyer who’s promised to defend me.
You’re certain you’re not imagining all this? I asked quite innocently.
Imagining it? Listen, see those glass cups under your chairs? He’s got them running around in here now.
I looked casually around. Even the piano legs were standing in glass cups filled with kerosene.
Jesus, said O’Mara, I’m getting itchy myself. You’ll go cuckoo if you don’t quit that job soon.
All right, said Osiecki smoothly and tonelessly, all right, I’ll go cuckoo then. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of handing in my resignation. Never.
Man, I said, you must be a bit nuts already to talk like that.
I am, said Osiecki. Who wouldn’t be? Can you lie awake all night scratching yourself and act normal the next day?
There was no answer to make to that. On the way home O’Mara and I began to discuss ways and means of helping the poor devil. Let’s talk to his girl, said O’Mara. That might help. We agreed that we would get Osiecki to introduce us to his girl friend. We’d invite them both for dinner one evening.
Maybe she’s nuts too, I thought to myself.
It was by accident we made the acquaintance shortly thereafter of Osiecki’s bosom friends, Andrews and O’Shaughnessy, also architects. Andrews, a Canadian, was a short, cocky little fellow, well mannered, highly intelligent, and a loyal friend, as we soon discovered. He had known Osiecki since boyhood. O’Shaughnessy was quite another type, big, brawny, full of health and vitality, reckless, carefree, happy-go-lucky. Always looking for a good time. Always ready to go on a drinking bout. He had a mind, too, but he suppressed it. He liked to talk about food, women, horses, suspension bridges. The three of them at a bar were quite a sight—like something out of Du Maurier or Alexandre Dumas. Inseparable companions. Always took good care of one another. The reason we hadn’t met them before was because Andrews and O’Shaughnessy had been away on a business trip.
They were quite pleased, it turned out, to learn that Osiecki had made friends with us. They were worried about him, but had been unable to decide what to do about the situation. The boss was a fine chap, they said. Couldn’t understand what had got into their friend to change him so—unless it was his girl.
What’s the matter with her? we asked.
Andrews, who was doing the talking, was reluctant to say much about her. I know her only a short time, he said. There’s something fishy about her, that’s all I can say. She gives me the creeps. And with that he shut up. O’Shaughnessy simply laughed heartily over the whole affair. He’ll come out of it, he said. He’s drinking too much, that’s all. After you’ve seen snakes and cobras climbing into your bed the itch is nothing. I’ll admit, though, I’d almost rather go to bed with a cobra than with that gal of his! There’s something inhuman about her. I think she’s a succubus, if you know what I mean. Here he gave a hearty guffaw. In plain English—a blood-sucker. Do you get it?
While it lasted it was wonderful. I mean the walks, the talks, the books we read, the food we ate, the excursions and explorations, the characters we bumped into, the plans we made. Everything was fizzing, or else purring like a smooth-running machine. Nights when nobody showed up, nights when it was mean outdoors or we were a little short of dough, O’Mara and I would get into one of those conversations which would last the whole night. Sometimes it began over a book we had just read, such as The Imperial Purple or The Eternal Husband. Or that wonderful story about a carrier pigeon—Gay Neck.
Around midnight O’Mara always got a bit nervous and fidgety. He was concerned about Mona, what she was doing, where she was, could she take care of herself.
Don’t worry, I would say, she knows how to take care of herself. She’s had lots of experience.
I know, he would say, but Jesus…
Listen, Ted, if I were to start worrying about such things I’d go nuts.
You sure have a lot of confidence in her.
Why shouldn’t I?
O’Mara would hem and haw. Well, all I can say is, if she were my wife…
You’ll never have a wife, so what the hell’s the use of talking? She’ll be home at ten after one sharp, wait till you see. Come on, forget about it.
Sometimes I couldn’t refrain from smiling to myself. You would think, b’Jesus that it was his wife and not mine, the way he took it to heart. My friends were always behaving in this fashion with me. They always did the worrying. The way to get him off the subject was to get him reminiscing. O’Mara was the greatest reminiscer ever. He went to it like a cow chewing its cud. Whatever lay in the past was fodder.
The person he loved most to talk about was Alec Walker, the man who had picked him up during a carnival at Madison Square Garden and put him to work in his office. Alec Walker always remained a mystery to O’Mara. He spoke of him affectionately, with admiration and with gratitude, but there was something in Alec Walker’s make up which baffled him. One night I tried to get to the bottom of it with him. Apparently, what bothered O’Mara most was that Alec Walker seemed to have no use for women. And he was such a handsome man! He could have had any woman he laid eyes on.
You said you didn’t think he was queer. If he’s not queer then he’s a celibate, that’s all there is to it. The way I see it, he’s a saint who’s missed his calling.
O’Mara wasn’t at all satisfied with this cut-and-dried explanation.
The only thing that bothers me, I added, is the way he allowed Woodruff to twist him about his fingers. If you ask me, there’s something fishy there.
Oh, that’s nothing, said O’Mara quickly, Alec’s a softy. Anybody can twist him about his little finger. He’s got too big a heart.
Listen, I said, determined to have done with the subject once and for all I want you to tell me the truth … did he ever make a pass at you?
O’Mara have a loud guffaw. A pass at me? You don’t know Alec at all or you’d never ask a question like that. Why, even if he were a queer, Alec would never do a thing like that, don’t you realize that?
No, I don’t. Unless you mean he’s too much of a gentleman—. Is that it?
No, no, not at all, said O’Mara vehemently. I mean that if Alec Walker were starving to death he would never ask you for a crust of bread.
Then it’s pride, I said.
It’s not pride either. It’s a martyr complex. He enjoys suffering.
It’s lucky for him he’s not poor.
He’ll never be poor, said O’Mara. He’d steal first.
That’s quite a statement. What gives you that idea?
O’Mara hesitated a few moments. I’ll tell you something, he blurted out, but don’t ever tell it to a soul. Alec Walker once stole a big sum of money from his brother; his brother, who’s a real son of a bitch, was going to send him up the river. But Sister what’s her name paid it back. Where she got it I have no idea. It was a considerable sum.
I said not a word to this. I was floored.
And you know who got him into that scrape, don’t you? O’Mara continued.
I looked at him blankly.
That little rat, Woodruff.
You don’t say!
I always told you that Woodruff was no good, didn’t I?
Yeah, but I don’t get it. You mean to tell me that Alec Walker squandered all that money on our little friend Bill Woodruff?
That’s exactly what I mean. Look, you remember that little tart Woodruff was so crazy about? He married her later, didn’t he?
You mean Ida Verlaine?
That’s it, Ida. Christ, it was Ida this and Ida that all day long. I remember because we were working together at the time. You haven’t forgotten that trip to Europe Alec and Woodruff took?
You mean Alec was jealous of the girl?
Christ no! How could Alec be jealous of a little slut like that? He was trying to save Woodruff from himself, that’s all. He saw that she was a no-good bitch and he tried to break it up. And Woodruff, the bastard, never satisfied with anything—I don’t have to tell you what he’s like!—had Alec running all over Europe. Just to keep his dirty little heart from breaking.
Go on, I said, it’s getting interesting.
The long and the short of it is that when they got to Monte Carlo Woodruff began to gamble—with Alec’s money, of course. Alec never said a word. It went on for weeks, Woodruff
