A few, I said. I’ll send you the latest one as soon as it’s off the press.
That would be kind of you. And send me something of your wife’s too, won’t you? You picked a clever little lady, I must say that. She certainly knows how to defend you.
We chatted awhile about the old days and then Lieutenant Morgan decided he had better go.
We’ll just file this under … what did you say you call these things?
Mezzotints, said Mona.
Good. Under M, then. Good-bye, and good luck with the writing! If you’re ever in trouble you know where to find me.
We shook hands on that and gently closed the door after him.
Whew! I said, flopping into a chair. The next time any one asks for me, said Mona, remember that I write the Mezzotints. It’s lucky I came when I did. You don’t know how to deal with such people.
I thought I did pretty well, I said. You should never be truthful with the police. she said.
It all depends, I said. You’ve got to use discrimination.
They’re not to be trusted, she retorted. You can’t afford to be decent with them … I’m glad O’Mara wasn’t here. He’s a worse fool than you in such matters.
I’m damned if I can see what you’re complaining about.
He wasted our time. You shouldn’t have offered him a drink, either.
Listen, you’re going off on a tangent. The police are human, too, aren’t they? They’re not all brutes.
If they had any intelligence they wouldn’t be on the police force. They’re none of them any good.
O.K. Let’s drop it.
You think it’s ended—because he was nice to you. That’s their way of taking you in. We’re on the books now. The next thing you know we’ll be asked to move.
Oh, come, come!
All right, you’ll see … The pig, he almost finished the bottle!
The next disturbing incident took place a few days later. I had been going to the dentist the last few weeks, to a friend named Doc Zabriskie whom I had met through Arthur Raymond. One could spend years sitting in his waiting room. Zabriskie believed in doing only a little work at a time. The truth was, he loved to talk. You’d sit with mouth open and jaws aching while he chewed your ear off. His brother Boris occupied an adjoining niche where he made bridges and sets of false teeth. They were great chess players, the two of them, and often I had to sit down and play a bit of chess before I could get any work done on my teeth.
Among other things Doc Zabriskie was crazy about boxing and wrestling. He attended all the bouts of any importance. Like so many Jews in the professional world, he was also fond of music and literature. But the best thing about him was that he never pressed you to pay. He was especially lenient with artists, for whom he had a weakness.
One day I brought him a manuscript I had just written. It was a glorification, in the most extravagant prose, of that little Hercules, Jim Londos *. Zabriskie read it through while I sat in the chair, mouth wide open and jaws aching like mad. He went into ecstasies over the script: had to show it immediately to brother Boris, then telephone Arthur Raymond about it. I didn’t know you could write like that, he said. He then intimated that we ought to get better acquainted. Wondered if we couldn’t meet somewhere of an evening and go into things more thoroughly.
The Greek wrestler.
We fixed a date and agreed to meet at the Cafe Royal after dinner. Arthur Raymond came, and Kronski and O’Mara. We were soon joined by friends of Zabriskie. We were just about to adjourn to the Roumanian Restaurant, down the street, when a bearded old man came up to our table peddling matches and shoe-laces. I don’t know what possessed me, but before I could check myself I was making sport of the poor devil, baiting him with questions which he couldn’t answer, examining the shoe-laces minutely, stuffing a cigar in his mouth, and in general behaving like a cad and an idiot. Every one looked at me in amazement, and finally with stern disapproval. The old man was in tears. I tried to laugh it off, saying that he probably had a fortune hidden away in an old valise. A dead and stony silence ensued. Suddenly O’Mara grabbed me by the arm. Let’s get out of here, he mumbled, you’re making a fool of yourself. He turned to the others and explained that I must be drunk, said he’d walk me round the block. On the way out he stuffed some money in the old man’s hand. The latter raised his fist and cursed me.
We had hardly reached the corner when we ran full tilt into Sheldon, Crazy Sheldon.
Mister Miller! he cried, holding out both hands and smiling with a full set of gold teeth. Mister O’Mara! You would think we were his long lost brothers.
We got on either side of him, locked arms, and started walking towards the river. Sheldon was bubbling over with joy. He had been searching all over town for me, he confided. Was doing well now. Had an office not far from his home.
And what are you doing. Mister Miller?
I told him I was writing a book.
With this he disengaged himself and took up a position in front of us, his arms folded over his chest, his expression ludicrously serious. His eyes were almost shut, his mouth pursed. Any moment now I expected that peanut whistle of his to issue like steam through the tight lips.
Mister Miller he began slowly and sententiously, as if he were summoning the whole world to listen in. I always wanted you to write a book. Sheldon understands. Yes indeed. He said this raspingly, his lower lip thrust out, his head jerking back and forth in violent approval.
He’s writing about the Klondike, said O’Mara, always ready to work Sheldon up to a lather.
No, No! said Sheldon, fixing us with a cunning smile, at the same time waving his index finger back and forth under our noses. Mister Miller is writing a great book. Sheldon knows. Suddenly he grasped us by the forearm, relaxed his grip and put his index finger to his lips. Sh—h—h—! He looked round as if to make sure we were out of earshot. Then he started walking backwards, his finger still raised. He moved it back and forth, like a metronome. Wait, he whispered, I know a place … Sh—h—h!
We want to walk, said O’Mara brusquely, shoving him aside as he pulled me along. He’s drunk, can’t you see that?
Sheldon looked positively horrified. Oh no! he cried, No, not Mr. Miller! He bent over to look up into my face. No, he repeated, Mr. Miller would never get drunk. He was forced to trot now, his legs still crooked, his index finger still wagging. O’Mara walked faster and faster. Finally Sheldon stood stock-still, allowing us to get quite a distance ahead of him. He stood there with arms folded over his chest, immobile. Then, all of a sudden, he broke into a run.
Be careful, he whispered, as he caught up with us. Poloks around here. Shhhhh!
O’Mara laughed in his face.
Don’t laugh! begged Sheldon.
You’re crazy! sneered O’Mara.
Sheldon marched beside us, briskly and gingerly, as if walking with bare feet on broken glass. He was silent for o few moments. Suddenly he stopped, opened overcoat and sack coat, and quickly, furtively buttoned his inside pockets, then the outer buttons of his sack coat, then his overcoat. He thrust his lower lip forward, narrowed his gimlet-like eyes to two slits, pulled his hat well down over his eyes, and pushed onward. All this rigmarole to the ‘tune of absolute silence. Still silent, he put forth one hand and significantly gave his gleaming rings a half turn. Then he pushed both hands deep down into his overcoat pockets. Quiet! he whispered, treading even more gingerly now.
He’s gaga, said O’Mara.
Sh-h-h-h!
I laughed quietly.
Now he began to talk in muffled tones, almost inaudibly, his lips scarcely moving. I could only get fragments of it.
Open your mouth! said O’Mara.
Sh-h-h-h!
More muffled flim-flam. Broken by an occasional Cooooooo or Eeeeeee. All punctuated by stifled shrieks and that infernal peanut whistle. It was getting eerie. We were now approaching the gas tanks and the dismal lumber yards. The empty streets were sinister and lugubrious. Suddenly I felt Sheldon’s fingers clawing my arm. A sound like Ughhh escaped from his thin cracked lips. He was tugging at me and nodding his head. He did it like a horse tossing his mane.
I looked sharply about. There on the other side of the street was a drunk zigzagging homeward. A huge hulk of a man, with his jacket wide open, no tie on, no hat. Now and then he stopped to let out a bloody oath.
Hurry, hurry! muttered Sheldon, gripping me tighter.
Shhh! It’s all right, I murmured. A Polok! he whispered. I could feel him quivering all over.
Let’s get back to the Avenue, I said to O’Mara. He’s in torment.
Yes, yes, whimpered Sheldon. This way is better, and with elbow glued to his body he stuck a hand out cautiously and jerkily, like the movement of a semaphore. Once we had turned the corner his pace livened. Half running, half walking, he kept swinging his head from side to side, fearful that some one would catch us unaware. When we got to the subway station
