I went on in this vein, extolling O’Rourke’s virtues, indicating none too subtly the comparison between O’Rourke’s methods and those of the ordinary flat-foot.
My words were producing the effect intended. Monahan was visibly wilting, softening like a sponge.
«You’ve got me wrong,» he finally burst out. «I’ve got as big a heart as the next guy, only I don’t show it. You can’t go around exposing yourself—not on this job. We ain’t all like O’Rourke, I’ll grant you, but we’re human, b’Jesus! You’re an idealist, that’s what’s the matter with you. You want perfection…» He gave me a strange look, mumbled to himself. Then he continued in a clear, calm voice: «The more you talk the more I like you. You’ve got something I once had. I was ashamed of it then… you know, afraid of being a sissy or something. Life hasn’t spoiled you—that’s what I like about you. You know what it’s like and yet it doesn’t make you sour or mean. You said some pretty nasty things a while back, and to tell you the truth, I was going to take a swing at you. Why didn’t I? Because you weren’t talking to me: you were aiming at all the guys like me who got off the track somewhere. You sound personal, but you ain’t. You’re talking to the world all the time. You should have been a preacher, do you realize that? You and O’Rourke, you’re a good team. I mean it. We guys have a job to do and we don’t get any fun out of it; you guys work for the pleasure of it. And what’s more… well, never mind… Look, give me your hand…» He reached for my free hand and grasped it in a vice. «You see», (I winced as he applied the pressure) «I could squeeze your hand to a pulp. I wouldn’t have to make a pass at you. I could just sit like this, talking to you, looking straight at you, and crush your hand to a pulp. That’s the strength I have.»
He relaxed his grip and I withdrew my hand quickly. It felt numb, paralyzed.
«There’s nothing to that, you see,» he went on. «That’s dumb brute strength; you’ve got another kind of strength which I lack. You could make mince meat of me with that tongue of yours. You’ve got a brain.» He looked away, as if absent-minded. «How is your hand?» he said, dreamy-like. «I didn’t hurt you, did I?»
I felt it with my other hand. It was limp and useless.
«It’s all right, I guess.»
He looked me through and through, then laughingly he burst out: «I’m hungry. Let’s eat something.»
We went downstairs and inspected the kitchen first. He wanted me to see how clean everything was: went about picking up carving knives and cleavers, holding them up to the light for me to examine and admire.
«I had to chop a guy down with one of these once.» He brandished a cleaver. «Split him in two, clean as a whistle.»
Taking my arm affectionately he led me back upstairs. «Henry,» says he, «we’re going to be pals. You’re going to tell me more about yourself—and you’re going to let me help you. You’ve got a wife—very beautiful too.» I gave an involuntary jerk. He tightened his grip on my arm and led me to the table.
«Henry, let’s talk straight for a change. I know a thing or two, even if I don’t look it.» Pause. «Get your wife out of that joint!»
I was just about to say «What joint?» when he resumed: «A guy can get mixed up in all sorts of things and come out clean—sometimes. But a woman’s different. You don’t like to see her working there, with those dizzy fluffs, do you? Find out what’s keeping her there. Don’t get sore now… I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I don’t know anything about your wife—that is, any more than I’ve heard…»
«She’s not my wife,» I blurted out.
«Well, whatever she is to you,» he said smoothly, as if that were quite an unimportant detail, «get her out of that joint! I’m telling you like a friend. I know what I’m talking about.»
I began to put two and two together, rapidly, fitfully. My mind shifted back to Florrie and Hannah, to their sudden exit. Was there going to be a raid, a shake-up—or a shake-down? Was he trying to warn me?
He must have divined what was going on in my head, for the next thing out of his mouth was this: «If she has to have a job let me try to find her something. She could do something else, couldn’t she? An attractive girl like her…»
«Let’s drop it,» I said, «and thanks for the tip.»
For a while we ate in silence. Then, apropos of nothing, Monahan took out the fat wad of greenbacks and peeled off two fifty dollar bills. He placed them beside my plate. «Take them,» he said «and put ’em in your pocket. Let her try the theatre, why don’t you?» He lowered his head to shovel a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. I picked up the bills and quietly shoved them into my trousers pocket.
As soon as I could free myself I set off to meet Mona in front of the dance hall. I was in a strange mood.
My head was spinning a bit as I rolled merrily along towards Broadway. I was determined to be cheerful, though something told me I had reason to be otherwise. The meal and the few parting shots that Monahan had succeeded in driving home had sobered me up somewhat. I felt large and luxuriant, in a mood to enjoy my own thoughts. Euphoric, as Kronski would say. To me that always meant being happy for no reason. Just being happy, knowing you’re happy, and staying happy no matter what any one says or does. It wasn’t alcoholic joy; the whiskies may have precipitated the mood, but nothing more. It wasn’t some underneath self that was cropping out—it was rather an overhead self, if I might put it that way. With each step I took the fumes of the liquor evaporated; my mind was growing almost frighteningly clear.
As I passed a theatre a glancing look at a billboard brought back a familiar face. I knew who it was, the name and everything, and I was astonished but—well, to put it truthfully, I was so much more astonished by what was going on inside me that I hadn’t time or room to be astonished by something that had happened to some one else. I would come back to her later, when the euphoria had passed away. And just as I was promising myself that, who did I run into head on but my old friend Bill Woodruff.
Hello hello, how are you, yes fine, long time since . I saw you, what are you doing, how’s the wife, see you again some time, yes I’m in a hurry, sure I’ll come up, so long, good-bye… it went like that, rat-a-tat-tat. Two solid bodies colliding in space at the wrong time, rubbing surfaces together, exchanging souvenirs, plugging in wrong numbers, promising and re-promising, forgetting, parting, remembering again… hurried, mechanical, meaningless, and what the hell does it all add up to?
After ten years he looked just the same, Woodruff. I wanted to take a look at myself in the mirror— quick. Ten years! And he wanted all the news in a nut-shell. Dumb bastard! A sentimentalist. Ten years. I ran back through the years, down a long twisted funnel of a corridor with distorted mirrors on either side. I got right to that spot in time and space where I had Woodruff fixed in my mind the way I would always see him, even in the next world. He was pinned there, as if he were a winged specimen under the microscope. That was where he revolved helplessly on his axis. And that’s where she comes in—the one whose picture flashed through my brain as I passed the theatre. She was the one he was crazy about, the girl he couldn’t live without, and everybody had to help him woo her, even his mother and father, even his cluck of a Prussian brother-in-law whose guts he hated.
Ida Verlaine. Born to fit the name. She was just exactly the way her name sounded—pretty, vain, theatrical, faithless, spoiled, pampered, petted. Beautiful as a Dresden doll, only she had raven tresses and a Javanese slant to her soul. If she had a soul at all! Lived entirely in the body, in her senses, her desires—and she directed the show, the body show, with her tyrannical little will which poor Woodruff translated as some monumental force of character.
Ida, Ida…. He used to chew our ears off about her. She was delicate in a perverse way, like one of Cranach’s nudes. The body very fair, the hair very black, the soul tilted backwards, like a stone becoming dislodged from its Egyptian setting. They had disgraceful scenes during the courtship; Woodruff would often leave her in tears. The next day he would send her orchids or a beautiful lavellier or a gigantic box of chocolates. Ida swallowed everything, like a pythoness. She was heartless and insatiable.
Eventually
