The Woman Aroused

Chapter 1

I'M GEORGE JACKSON.

And this began about the time when you could still remember getting on the subway for a nickel, people were just starting to worry about the water shortage, and the current expression making the rounds was, “How corny can you get?” “How great can one be?” and the like. I know it sounds insane now, but I remember it because I found the answer to: How smart can you get? The answer to that one is easy: Too smart, brother, much too smart for your own good.

I knew it was a Sunday morning when Flo walked out on me, and it must have been near the first of the month, because we only got together when I gave her the rent from the house. Flo was (and is) my ex-wife, and we were as much in love with each other as we could be—but that wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough—we once split up arguing as to whether a certain brand of Haitian rum was dark brown or yellow. But don't think we weren't in love.

That Saturday night we started fighting over a cup of coffee and a couple of bucks. It was after midnight and we'd seen two crummy pictures at some 86th Street theatre, if one can call a neighborhood movie house a theatre. Flo and I were “trying it again”—for a few days we had been enjoying one of our periodic reunions, complete with much kissing, tears, and a good deal of genuine love.

It was early Spring, about March, and I remember it was cold and brisk as we walked down Lexington Avenue. I was trying to remember which newsstands were open late, so I could buy a Sunday paper. Flo was dressed in an ankle-length red coat with a high collar that almost went over her head. She was wearing gold ballerina slippers, and I think she was hiding her upper lip that night. Flo had nice full lips but she used lipstick as a disguise, shaping her lips the way she thought they should be. Sometimes she tried making her mouth larger or smaller, or blandly forgot her lower lip. That night she was attempting to make a thin line of her full upper lip. As I was doing my strategic figuring about the best way home to pass an open newsstand, Flo said, “I'm hungry and cold. Let's stop for coffee.”

“We'll make coffee at home.”

“Too much bother,” she said, pointing to a coffee pot that didn't look too clean. “Let's duck in here.”

“You're certainly wearing the correct outfit for a greasy spoon.”

She gave me a mock bow. “Knew you'd finally appreciate this coat—took me two days of begging before I could even buy it. If you like, we can go back to one of the better places on 86th.”

We were at 80th Street and I was damned if I'd walk back in all that cold—not to mention the fact I only had about twenty dollars to last the week. I said, “I'm broke.”

“For a character making a hundred and twenty-five per, not to mention what you win on the horses, you're always broke. Very odd.”

I could have said something nasty about the scatter pins she was wearing, my “make-up gift,” being half a week's salary, but I walked on. When I looked back, Flo had gone into the dingy coffee pot. I went in, too.

There was the usual smell of many foods, and the short, swarthy counterman with tired eyes behind the cash register, reading a morning paper. At the other end of the counter a shabby old drunk was sipping coffee. There were no tables so we sat on stools, and Flo's shoes and horrible coat which she thought were the latest style (and probably were) looked so out of place, I felt irritated as hell. We ordered two light coffees and Flo took some cake. She took out cigarettes and gave me one. We sat there and smoked and she tried to make conversation by saying what a waste of time movies were these days, but I was too annoyed to chatter.

The cup looked clean but the coffee was crummy. The drunk suddenly put a nickel in the juke box—which surprised me as he didn't look as if he could afford a nickel—and played Old Black Magic—one of Flo's favorites. She smiled, said, “See, almost like a night club. That's a terrific number—hope they're reviving that song.”

I sipped the bad coffee and kept still. It was a good song, I often danced to it, pirouetting on that “down and down we go...” part. I went back to figuring how we'd walk to the house on 74th Street so that if one newsstand was closed, we'd pass another. General George mapping his campaign. I love reading in bed Sunday mornings; sometimes I can even read through the entire Sunday Times before I get up.

When Flo finished her coffee I stood up and the counterman said, “Twenty cents.” I only had twelve cents in change, so I took out my wallet, gave him a bill as Flo said, “Georgie, play Old Black Magic before we go.”

“It's late,” I told her.

“But the number does things to me,” she said, taking a nickel from the change in my hand, walking over to the gaudy juke box, a coy sway to her slim hips.

The counterman gave me eighty cents in change as she came dancing back, holding out her arms, both of us watching her. “Want to dance?”

“Oh, stop it.”

She turned to the counterman, “Dance this one with me, handsome?”

He laughed and the drunk at the end of the counter turned his back on us. Flo began spinning about, her long coat billowing out to show her good legs, even the lace garters on her thighs. She was too much of an exhibitionist to dance well. She's always been like that, thinking more of showing off than the rhythm. When the record was over, she blew a kiss at the counterman—who had been taking in her legs—said, “Sweet dreams, honeyboy,” and made a grand exit onto Lexington Avenue.

Following her, I said, “Damn it, Flo, why don't you stop being cute, Bohemian, or whatever you think you are? Dancing around in the great tent you call a coat, showing your legs like a seventeen-year-old brat.” I was punching a bit low—Flo was hitting 34 and starting to get sensitive about her years.

“George, don't be such a stupid snob,” she said, reaching up and pinching my cheek. “The crack about my coat I'll skip, you have absolutely no sense of what's smart. But where's your romance?”

“Not in a coffee pot!” I said, as she thumbed her nose at me. I was so furious we walked straight home and all the newsstands we passed were closed. When we reached our house—that had been the garage at one time where we kept the Pierce-Arrow and which was now her house—she quickly undressed and lay across the bed, naked, leafing through an issue of Harper's Bazaar. Flo had a long bony, small-breasted figure, ideal for a clothes horse. Her hand- and toe-nails were painted an odd shade of deep red; little islands of color against the whiteness of her smooth skin. For a woman so concerned with clothes, she could shed them with amazing speed.

I undressed, then stopped abruptly. I took out my wallet, went through my pockets. Flo asked, “What's wrong?” I kept going through my pockets and she said, “Stop screwing up your face. Now what?”

“Goddamn it, I gave that guy a ten dollar bill and he only gave me eighty cents in change. The bastard!”

She rested the magazine on her flat stomach. “You sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. All I had was two tens. Had a feeling in the back of my mind all the time something was wrong, but I was so upset about you making a damn fool of yourself....”

“No, you don't—you were the dope—don't put it on me. Dress and go back there. He'll remember you.”

“He'll welcome me with open arms I I'd look like a sap. It's late, he must have plenty of tens in the till. Mark it down as nine bucks lost.”

“At least call him.”

“No,” I said, glad she was annoyed now.

“God, you're always yelling about money—call him!” Flo snapped.

“Call whom? You remember the name or store number? Let's forget it,” I said, putting on my pajamas.

“At least try calling. I'll phone,” she said, sitting up.

“Go to sleep. If you hadn't acted the fool this never...”

She exploded, her voice shrill as she yelled, “Oh, now it's my fault you're a dummy! Why I!...

I saw the bust-up coming. I sat on the bed beside her, said gently, “Let's forget it, Flo. It was my fault.”

“Forget it? It's okay for you to call me a fool, shoot your refined mouth off. But me, if I open.... My God, we argue over everything, even a lousy cup of coffee. Why if we had had a baby, he'd be neurotic with your constant nagging and...”

“Don't start that baby routine. Wasn't my fault we never had a child.”

“I suppose it was mine!!! she said, her sharp face contorted as the tears came.

I put my arms around her. “Look, darling, forget it. We're trying to make a go of...”

She broke out of my arms, jumped off the bed, screamed, “Some chance of making a go of anything, if a lousy five-cent cup of coffee, if nine bucks, can start this!”

“Let me tell you something,” I said, my voice rising. “If you'd only stop being the big career woman, if we had a real home, regular meals, we wouldn't be drinking coffee in some dive. If you could forget trying to be the center of attraction for a few minutes, I could keep my mind on my change. Or if you hadn't showed your legs to the counterman he would...”

“I like that! Oh I really love that!” Flo yelled, tears making her make-up a mess. “Because you're so smart you can't tell a ten from a one, you place the onus on me! If...”

“That's the wrong word, you mean blame.”

“You damn tightwad! If you weren't so cheap, we could have gone to...”

“Sure I'm tight with money,” I said coldly. “I have to be, you and your big ideas. Flo, the walking Vogue. If you'd only come off your cloud and realize....”

“You... you writer!”

I stood up but she moved away from me. I pulled her into my arms, held her while she struggled. “Flo, please, let's cut it, I'm sorry. Please Flo.... I've looked forward so much to having you again.”

She rested her head on my shoulder, began to bawl. “I didn't want to fight, Georgie, and yesterday was so very good. But we always battle over money—or something. Nine crummy dollars. My mother always said you...”

“Now wait, this is just between us. I don't care what your mother said or...”

Flo pushed me away. Her face was a wet mess. “Well, George Jackson, the high-society lad! My mother... and you, the smug son of the toilet-seat king!”

I couldn't resist saying, “Sure, a plumber who made an honest living. Which is something nobody in your four-flushing family ever did. There isn't a one of them worth a damn except your brother Eddie and...”

“That's right, stick up for that... that... bum!” Flo sobbed. “You encourage him in his crazy ideas.”

“For God's sake stop talking about the kid like that, wounded and...'

She fell on the bed, sobbing hysterically. I stood there, waiting for her to quiet down. She stuffed the top of my blue satin sheet in her mouth, making pitiful muffled sounds—and smearing lipstick on the sheet. I said, “I'm sorry, Flo. I swear I'm sorry.” I don't think she even heard me. I always ended up saying I was sorry.

I stood there for a few minutes, looking down at her, sorry the way things were going, and even more sorry in a vague sort of way I was mixed up in somebody else's troubles and complexes. But when Flo got up and began to dress, I felt sick. She said in a normal voice, “Georgie, what's wrong with us? We always battle over something, something petty. Nine bucks... guess our marriage is only worth nine bucks, and no bargain at that.”

“Look, Flo honey, it's only been two days. Give us more time...”

“No use, we both know it. This time we're really through.”

“We've been really through so many times,” I said.

She shook her head sadly. “This time I mean it.”

She went to the bathroom, washed her face, repainted it, and within a few minutes she was gone and the place was full of a haunting empty silence.

It was exactly twenty after two a.m. and we had been “together” since Friday night. I poured myself a drink, tuned in one of the all-night disc jockeys, and sat down. It was the first few minutes after she left me that I always missed Flo most.

We had been married almost a dozen years before, when she was 22 and I 35. We spent six years together, then the divorce and our frequent reunions. We loved each other, as the saying goes, but I suppose it was a case of neither of us being built for marriage. In our own way we worked things out fairly well. Our reunions stopped me from getting a little frantic about sex and companionship, and I guess it worked that way for Flo too. The first years hadn't been bad, but Flo is the efficient type that must go in for smart conversation all the time, dress like something out of the latest fashion magazines. Unfortunately, the magazines are usually six months ahead of the latest styles, so seeing Flo was a constant shock. This may sound like a hell of a lot of small reasons why our marriage didn't last, but it was all pretty important to me. Somehow, her extreme styles kept me at a distance. Of course there were other things; like her dancing in the coffee pot in those gold shoes and the new-look coat to end all new looks. It may have been I was too old and set for Flo.

We hit it off well in bed, but when we decided to have a kid (and never did) she even spoiled that by a sort of efficient mechanical approach, asking me, “Darling, will this be it? Oh dearest be sure and do everything right. Make this the one. Are you doing everything right? Darling, will we make a boy or a girl?”

Our days became a series of fights and we separated and she got a job as a bookkeeper for a smart dress house. It was the ideal job for Flo: it pleased her efficiency to handle a thousand and more details, and she was right in with the very newest styles. Her analyst thought it was the right job for her, and I suppose he really did her a world of good, although it was on his advice she got the divorce. In the settlement, she took the house, which only had one other tenant beside myself—the upstairs apartment that had once been the chauffeur's apartment (although we never had one; my father loved to drive the big car himself) was rented to a quiet old retired man named Francis F. Henderson. He'd been living there for years and paid eighty a month for his three rooms. I gave her the rent money, and took care of the house and paid the taxes for my rent.

For about a year after she finished her analysis I didn't see Flo—she was busy analyzing all her friends. Then we began having tearful and wonderfully tender reunions—and just as tearful partings. Our reunions always seemed to come when I was fed up with being lonely, began to think about girls too much, glance at the bra ads in the subway with more than admiration for the copy and layout. I had to see her every month anyway to give her the rent, so spending a few days together every other month seemed to do us both nicely.

When the disc jockey said it was three o'clock I decided I'd better call the coffee pot after all—I needed the nine dollars. I dialed the operator, told her I wanted a coffee pot—a restaurant—on the West side of Lexington Avenue, near 80th Street No, I had no idea of the name or street number. After a moment she gave me two phone numbers and the first one I dialed turned out to be the right one.

The counterman said, “One of my partners comes on now, so I was counting the cash. Soon as I saw I was nine bucks over, I says, 'I short-changed some guy.' Then I remember you because that redheaded ba—your wife—was dancing in the red coat and the drunk said...”

“What did the drunk say?” I asked.

“Never mind, he was drunk. You...”

“What did the drunk say? I'm curious.”

“Mister,” the counterman said, his voice soft over the phone, “I don't even know the drunk. He said something about her legs. Look, you call for the money in the afternoon, after three, that's when I come on.”

“Fine.”

“Don't worry, it's safe.”

“I know that. And thank you.” I hung up.

I took out my blending bowl and mixed some tobacco, lit my pipe. I felt badly: I wanted to wake up in the morning and have Flo next to me, hear her chatter as we read the Sunday papers, feel the good warmth of her body against mine. The damn house seemed too quiet.

I sat around, had another drink. Even my cat was out. Flo had her own place on 16th Street. Maybe by the time she reached there, she'd cool off, take a cab back. I could phone her but that would only start more talk. Besides, I wanted her to come back to me. (You're so right—I wasn't exactly a dilly to live with either.)

By four I went to bed but I couldn't sleep and by five I was too restless to even lie down—I could smell Flo's perfume on the bed. I got up, put on sweat pants and a red sweat shirt, wool socks and tap shoes, and went downstairs to dance.

The basement was a long room with a neat oil burner at one end. A mirror ran along one wall and the room was completely bare of any furniture except a phonograph with an automatic record changer.

When I was a kid we lived in Washington Heights in fairly comfortable circumstances. My father was a hard working plumber. He started manufacturing bathroom fixtures and the money rolled in. When he bought the big brownstone on 76th Street and this garage which went with the house, we weren't trying to move in society or put on the ritz. My folks liked the neighborhood and father considered the houses the same as money in the bank. I was about seventeen then and raised like a rich man's son. At Columbia I studied journalism because I had a vague desire to write and mainly because the title “writer” was a lazy catch-all that covered so many phases of life—most of them empty. By merely calling himself a “writer” a man could get by with doing nothing all his life, if he had an income. When I graduated college I worked on a Bronx paper for a while as a copy boy, then played at working in the old man's sales department. Pop was an intelligent man, told me to enjoy myself, that money was meant to be spent. We lived happily and well, had one motto: “Never touch the principal, live on the interest.”

The 1929 crash (it was actually two months before the crash) took my father's cash, his business, the big house, and even took his and mother's life shortly after. The garage was left only because nobody wanted to buy it. With his last few bucks, raised by borrowing on his insurance, we converted the garage into living quarters, and my folks brooded there till they died within a few weeks of each other. They were people who had risen from poverty and the loss of their security broke their hearts. I got in public relations, became a small-time “planter,”—a good-time Charley who made it his business to know reporters and columnists and big shots, so I could almost guarantee a story or a mention in a column in certain papers. But when I started working for the oil company and had a steady salary, I renovated the garage so I could rent out the upper floor and made the basement into my private dance studio.

You see when we were still living on Washington Heights, my mother decided I had to take dancing lessons because it was “the thing” for polite kids to do. She sent me to a beautiful woman who claimed to have been part of the original Diaghileff Ballet Russe company Otto Kahn brought to America just before or after the first world war. She was a nervous, stocky little woman with an amazingly strong and limber body. Most of the time she jabbered so fast and her accent was so intense, I couldn't make out what she was saying. But she claimed to know or have known Fokine, Nijinsky, Matisse, Ravel, and Picasso... although the names didn't mean a thing to me at fifteen. She talked of the old Paris, what a dictator, snob, and genius Diaghileff was, as she put me through the strict discipline of the classical ballet.

I was a tall, skinny kid, still scared some of my pals would find out I was taking dancing lessons—and ballet at that. I had absolutely no desire to study the dance, and even though my mother insisted, I would certainly have given it up if my teacher hadn't seduced me the third time I was in her studio. She thought nothing of it, would make love to me in French, her voice gay and light, but of course it was a great experience for me. I studied hard to be sure she would reward me with her favors. In time I was quite pleased with the hard mus-cularness my body began to take on.

The truth is I soon liked—and still like—dancing. By the time I was eighteen the novelty of “Madame's” middle-aged body had worn off, but I studied as hard as before. I soon realized that like opera, the classic ballet is static, incoherent to us, reflecting only the past, the dull glories of a dead era. It is bound by a bric-a-brac tradition completely outdated. But in the modern dance I found my interpretation of life, although even the modern dance is still hindered by many of the silly old ballet traditions. I went in for tap dancing, went crazy over Martha Graham, and even tried ballroom dancing. At one time I thought I was a second Ted Shawn and while at Columbia, the stage bug bit me badly. I couldn't be bothered with college musicals, and decided the best and fastest way to get a break would be to become a chorus boy, where my great dancing ability would surely stand out, stop the show.

One day I tried out for a Broadway show, certain it would only be a few days before I would be the premier danseur. As I was waiting in the wings for the try-out, I looked smugly at the chorus boys about me. To limber up, I did a few turns, followed by an entrechat, all in perfect form. Then some blond nance got up and did a tremendous jete, really a mad leap. I tried a few tap routines and then this joker broke out into a tap dance that would have put Fred Astaire to shame. I quietly took off my dance shoes, put on my coat and hat and walked out.

That was the end of my “career,” but I still dance, mainly for the exercise and self-enjoyment, and of course I attend all the various dance recitals.

I put ten records on the phonograph, a collection of classical, jazz, some Afro-Cuban, and even one be-bop. Then turned down the lights and began to dance—watching myself in the mirror. I did whatever I felt in the mood for; an odd mixture of ballet, tap, rumba, and a great deal of arm and body movements.

It took a half hour for the records to play and then I rested for a few minutes, put on another ten records and danced again. By this time I was wet with sweat and so tired I could hardly move. I put the records away, went upstairs. Outside, it was turning light and I drank a glass of milk, spilled some in Slob's saucer—he was my cat and on the town for the night—and threw myself across the bed. I intended to get up in a few minutes, take a shower and dry off under the sun lamp. The next thing I new, the shrill sound of the doorbell cut into my sleep, seemed to drill through my head. I sat up, saw it was nearly nine.

For a moment I sat there, listening to the bell, wondering who it was, my mind still full of sleep. Then I jumped out of bed, ran to the door. Of course it had to be Flo and I felt like a louse for not calling her. There was a great heavy wooden door, ceiling high, across the front of the living room. It had once been the garage doors, and in this a smaller door had been cut. I flung this open and stared pop-eyed at a plump man in an army uniform, gold major leafs on his shoulders, several bright ribbons on his chest. For a moment we stared at each other, he ran his eyes over my smelly sweat suit and then he suddenly laughed. He said, “Well by Christ I'm glad to see something that hasn't changed. Knew I could count on you, George, to be an institution.”

“Well for—Hank Conroy!” I said as if I didn't believe my own voice. “Where did you drop from?”

“From Frankfort. Landed at 4 a.m. Going to let me in?”

“Sorry,” I said as he walked by me and I closed the door. I'd last seen Hank in 1942 when he came in on a ten-day leave after graduating officer school. Now he stood in the center of my living room, looking about slowly, as if seeing it for the first time, and I thought he was going to cry.

He said, “Ah, George, you don't know how good it is to see you, this room. New York's frightened the pants off me, but you—this room—the house—you're all a wonderful reminder that some things in this world of confusion are still the same. George, you're the goddam backbone of something or other.”

“Hank, carrying a load?”

He took off his hat, opened his jacket and sat down. His hair was still thick and heavy. “Drinking doesn't do me any good anymore, George. Odd, I killed time at LaGuardia, then wandered around downtown, not wanting to wake you. And here you are, up and dancing. Same old George.”

“That's me, the pillar of 74th Street. Come in the bathroom while I take a shower.”

I showered and he sat on the clothes hamper and talked. He'd been in Africa, Italy, and France. Hank had returned to the States once in '45, then back to Italy and Germany. We'd been friends since high-school and I looked at his lined and worried face, his graying hair (and he was five years younger than I—and such important five years when you reach my age), and I wished to hell I hadn't been exempt. No matter what they beefed about, the raw deals they got, the guys in the service had been places, seen things—their life had been shaken... while I had been 41 years old at the start of the war and oh, so necessary to the war effort (whatever that was) because I was editing the house organ of an oil company, doing a job that meant nothing except buttering the conceit of my bosses and the stockholders.

As I dried myself, wondering what Italy and Africa was like, I asked, “Out of the army, Hank?”

“Will be in a few days.”

“Somebody forget to tell you the war was over four or five years ago?” I asked, powdering my toes.

He shrugged his plump shoulders. “No. Don't think I've been through combat, hell, and all that. I haven't, but somehow the war turned out to be the only real thing in my life, and I tried to hang onto it. Only I got sour on the idea of living like an English Sahib in Germany and...”

He was staring at me sadly and I stopped powdering myself, asked what was wrong. “George, you're wonderful! Still using one kind of powder for your toes, another to dust your crotch, and a third for under the arms. My God, you don't know how I'm trying to get a hold of something, of my old life.”

“Got a job in the hopper?” I asked, slipping on a silk bathrobe.

“Oh, I'll get back to selling, I suppose,” Hank said.

We went back to the living room and I stepped into the kitchen, put on the electric coffee percolator, was halving grapefruit, when he called me.

He was standing in the living room next to the heavy woodwork that had once been a door leading to the upstairs apartment, before I had the wall filled in. He pressed part of one of the wooden panels, which slid back, showing an empty space. We used to call it the “hideaway” when we were kids.

Hank said happily, “Imagine, this still being here—still working.”

“Bet I haven't opened that panel—or thought of it—in fifteen years,” I said.

“Remember when this was the garage and the big car was here? We'd sit in the front seat and imagine we were racing like hell along some dark road, every yegg in the world after us, and then we'd jump out and put all sorts of crazy documents in the panel? Had some great times then.” Hank pressed the top of the panel and it slid back into place again. “Like a movie,” he added.

There was something a little slobbering and queer about him and I said rather sharply, “The corn-flakes company will still send you secret rings for box tops.”

He lit a cigarette, sat on the couch. “George, why is it when we grow older instead of getting smarter, we get more stupid? Why do we lose the simplicity and happiness we once held in childhood?”

“What happened, Hank, the army make you a philosopher?”

“Don't laugh it off, as we grow older we become full of sour bitterness. Too bad humans don't age for the better, like wine. The wine of humanity is pretty thin and watery.” He blew out a fairly decent smoke ring, watched it dissolve in the air, asked, “Own the oil company yet?”

“Nope. Still editing the 'Sun, published every month by the Sky Oil Company, Inc.,' and it's still as corny as it sounds.”

“And you still wear conservative suits by Brooks Brothers, custom-made shirts with stiff tab collars, Bronzini ties, make a ritual of powdering your crotch, of blending your tobacco. You take in the dance recitals, and quietly read your Times in the evening over the pre-dinner cocktail, which can only be ordered at certain bars. George, you're so wrapped up in yourself, you give so much attention to George, I envy you.”

“And I still have my little bouts with Flo—might as well make a complete inventory. Want breakfast?”

Hank shook his head.

“Then take some coffee with me.”

“I'm full of coffee. George, do me a favor.”

“Certainly,” I said, wondering how much of a bite he was going to put on me. I didn't have any money in the bank but I could always borrow a couple of hundred.

He pulled a thick white envelope out of his pocket. “Hold this for me.”

I took the envelope. It was open and full of twenty dollar bills. “What's this, black-market loot?”

“No, saved it from my salary. There's $7,000 there. Keep it in your bank for me.”

“Why don't you open an account tomorrow? I mean I don't like to hold money—you know how the green slips through my hands. What's the gimmick?”

“I'm married to the world's greatest bitch,” Hank said softly. “That's why I came home—I'm going to get a divorce, soon. I don't want Lee—that's the 'little woman'—to know about this. She's... well, I know why she is what she is, but she's... well, greedy wouldn't start to describe her. She's money-crazy. In fact, she's downright crazy. You see she... oh, it's quite a mess. No sense involving you in it.”

“This is news. How long have you been married?”

“Let's not talk about it. Put it down as one of these war marriages you've probably read too much about. It's a mess I got into with both feet. I'll get straightened out, but I'll be damned if she'll get the money.”

I put the envelope on the table, carefully. “Hank, why don't you put it in a safe deposit vault or...”

“Can't, she'd get it. You don't know what a nose she has for money. You keep it, please.”

“But Hank I have a hard time making my salary last the week. You know me and money, why I...”

“Damn it, George, do me this favor!” he said loudly, getting up, walking around the room. “I'm in a mess that's my own making. I'm in a rough jam, and all I'm asking is that you hold this.”

I didn't want to take the money, I knew myself too well, yet I had that old guilty feeling when I looked at Hank's uniform. I still had a slacker-complex even though the war had become almost a joke by this time, and being a vet was a handicap. I said, “Okay. I'll give you a receipt and...”

“No receipt. She'd find that.”

“Look Hank, please don't give me seven grand and not even take a receipt. You know the old gag—a man isn't made of stone.”

“Stop talking like a kid.”

I took paper and a pen from my desk, wrote:

I owe Hank Conroy seven thousand dollars ($7,000), payable on demand, in payment for moneys loaned me, this date.

I signed my name and the date, held it out to him. “Hank, you have to take this. Suppose I get killed falling off a bar stool? You don't have a thing to go on, and I'd hate to see this end up going to my distant cousins in L.A.”

“Forget the receipt, be serious. I'll probably be divorced, straightened out in a very few months and...”

“But I'm being serious, Hank. Seven grand is quite a bundle, what if something did happen to me?”

“Nothing will. I'll take that chance.

I looked at the envelope full of folding money and felt mixed up. “Hank, you're crazy.”

He stopped pacing the room. “That's no lie, sometimes I'm damn sure I am off my rocker. Come on, I'll take that cup of Java.”

“I don't hold the money unless you take this receipt,” I said. “The strain might easily overpower me.”

He suddenly grabbed the receipt out of my hand, walked over and pressed the panel. He put the piece of paper inside, closed the panel, and turned to me with a smile. “Feel better? No one knows about the panel but the two of us, maybe Flo, and...”

“I forgot to ever tell Flo about it.”

“Good. If anything happens to you, I'm protected.”

“But suppose the house burns down? Or...?”

“For God's sake!” Hank pushed me toward the kitchen. I went back and got the envelope. The way he left money around made me jittery.

Over coffee he told me he was going to live with his sister for a few weeks. “Just till I get an apartment or a room. Lee and my sister, they'll kill each other, if they haven't already. She wrote me she thinks Lee has already swiped some of the silver, and you know my sister Marion.”

“You don't mean she's actually stolen the silverware?”

“Probably has—I had to send Lee over a week or so ahead of my plane and... George, try to understand this, I've married a devil. A backward girl who's gone through... Hell, don't get me started on Lee. She isn't guilty. I am. We all are.”

“What?”

“I don't want to talk about it, Georgie. Look, it's as bad as this: all the way over I was hoping my plane would have an accident and I'd be killed.”

“You're the cautious type Hank, how...?”

“Forget it, it's my party,” Hank said. He began asking about fellows we'd known in the old days—and whom I hadn't seen in years. When we first moved downtown, Hank had lived in the brownstone across the street; the only kid on the block I had as a friend. He was real social register stuff, not that he ever let that get him down, or hinder our friendship.

We talked for a while longer, then he said, “Have to go and see my ever-loving wife, wired her I was coming in this morning. Thanks for holding the money.”

“I'll call you at your sister's. I might be able to line up a job or...”

“No. Don't ever call me,” he said curtly. “I don't want Lee to even know about you. I'll get in touch with you at your office from time to time.”

“If that's the way you want,” I said, thinking it strange Hank didn't want me to see his wife, at least take them out.

“Has to be that way. Know this sounds odd as the devil, but I know what I'm doing. Soon as I get out of this mess, I'll explain things—or as much as I can. Bye George, you've been a bracer, a tonic.”

When he left I took out the money, thinking he had never even counted it. Counting seven grand made me so nervous I went to the portable bar, found only a heel of bourbon, and finished that.

I dressed to go out and buy a Sunday paper. Every now and then I touched the envelope in my inside pocket to be sure it was there. I heard a noise in the kitchen and nearly hit the ceiling. I ran into the kitchen to see Slob coming through the open window, his fine tiger's skin mussed and dirty. He brushed against my leg and purred, his big tomcat's head looking up at me with mild interest.

I laughed and brushed my pants where he'd touched them, pointed to his milk, asked, “Get much, whoring around?” I cooked some liver for him, made sure the money was securely in my pocket, and went out to buy the Times.

People were going to the church across the street and I walked past them to Lexington Avenue and the stationery store near 73rd. As I was walking back, turning into my block, I saw a cab pull up in front of the house. Joe Collins stepped out, then helped a girl out. Joe rang the bell, then saw me and waved, nodding toward the girl.

It was going to be a big Sunday.

As I came up, Joe boomed, “Georgie boy, meet Stella. Doll, this is my boon buddy, George Jackson.”

Joe's florid face had a faint dark stubble of whiskers and his eyes were bloodshot—the only thing fresh about him, including his clothes, was the loud nude on his hand-painted tie. The week before, Joe had gone in for dogs on his ties, hunting scenes, and before that it was horses—now it was lush nudes. Joe was head of the Maintenance Department in Sky Oil, and not a bad sort, even if he was loud and vulgar. He was always good for heating oil for the house whenever I needed it.

On closer inspection Stella looked a bit bloated, somewhere in her late thirties: the heavy featured blonde that can be found in most bars looking for a little excitement of the week-end.

It was obvious they were winding up the night and both were hung-over. I said hello to Stella and as I unlocked the door, Joe said, “You're in for a treat, doll. Georgie is a writer. Damn good one. How's about that, Georgie boy?”

“My press agent,” I said politely, wondering if Joe had told heir we worked for Sky Oil, or what he had told her. Joe was never very careful with his pick-ups.

“My, this is an odd room,” Stella said, looking around. Joe helped her with her coat and she was a solid-built woman.

“Yeah. Used to be a garage when Georgie's family was in the chips, real blue-bloods. Now he's down to his last garage! That's a blip.” Joe began to laugh.

Stella glanced at me, said, “He always tries too hard,” and her voice had a nice throaty quality.

As we sat down, the cat came into the room and Stella said, “What a big pussy,” and of course Joe burst out laughing. “What's his name?” she asked, expertly rubbing the back of his ears.

“Slob",” Joe said before I could answer.

Stella said in that asinine baby-voice people use for animals and kids, “What a nasty old name to give such a nice pussy-cat.

“His real name is Vaslav—that was Nijinsky's first name,” I said. “Then I shortened it to Slav, and finally Slob.”

“I see,” she said, not knowing what I was talking about. Joe went to the bathroom and came out while the toilet was still flushing. He said, “Give and take. How about giving us a couple of snorters?”

“Sorry, killed the only bottle I had early this morning. Like some beer?” I asked, feeling a little nervous with all that money in my pocket, and more than a little angry—Joe had a hell of a nerve bringing this babe here. Suppose Flo was still with me? Not that it would have killed Flo to meet a Stella. I was doubly annoyed with myself for being such a snob.

“Want some beer, doll?” Joe asked, going over and running his big hand through her over-blonde hair.

“Sure, good to taper off on beer,” she said, giving Slob a real rubdown.

I went into the kitchen and I heard them kissing, then Joe told her, “I'd best go in and help Georgie boy.”

He came in and put a heavy arm around my shoulder, turned on the water in the sink so she couldn't hear, said, “Jeez, what a night. I tied a big one on. Hey what do you think of Stella? Some sex-boat.”

“Not bad,” I said, pouring the beer. I knew all about Stella—all the Stellas: with a husband someplace in the background, maybe a kid or two, a busted marriage, a routine job during the week, and the frantic week-ends with any guy who treated her “nicely,” as she tried to regain her illusions of bright romance and youth over some bar; a dozen drinks fogging reality. “Listen pal,” Joe said, hesitating a bit, “hate to ask you this, but I see Flo isn't around... didn't think she would be, and...”

“What made you think that?”

“Hell, don't kid your Uncle Joe. You two never last more than a few days. Look, the point is, you see Stella, what she wants. Could we use your place—for a little while?”

“What happened to your places—get dispossessed?” I asked, angry. I don't like anybody using my place, not even for parties—seemed to give the place a dirty atmosphere, and I mean dirty in every sense of the word. At the moment all I wanted was to listen to some good records, smoke my pipe, and read the Sunday paper.

“The kid's aunt and uncle came in from Harrisburg last night,” Joe said, running a comb through his thick, black-gray hair. “The yokels got their dates mixed, thought Walt was coming home this month, 'stead of next. Whole damn month off, but you see how it is, can't take doll there. Wouldn't even bother, only she's such a hot number. I know how you feel about... it... but you see her, ready to explode and...”

“All over my bed,” I said, shutting off the water, taking the beer bottles and glasses into the living room.

We sat around, making small talk over the beer, Joe waiting for me to make a move. Finally he said, “Beer—nothing to it. Georgie, you're a man of high influence, how about getting a bottle?”

“On Sunday morning?” I said. Then I got my hat and coat, decided I might as well let him have the place. I knew Joe and it would have been even more ridiculous for me to sit in the living room reading the Times while they were in the bedroom.

“What's Sunday morning? You're known at some of the bars around here, ought to get a bottle without much trouble,” Joe said quickly, winking at me.

“I'll try.”

“That's it. Take your time.”

I looked at my wrist watch. It was almost eleven. “I'll try—till noon.”

“Great,” Joe said.

I went out, wondering how I'd kill an hour. I had seven thousand in my pocket, had been maneuvered out of my own house, and although it was a mild sunny day, I was too tired and sleepy to walk. I knew I wouldn't sleep that night either—I have a complex about other people using my bed.

I stood in front of the house for a few minutes, trying to decide whether to drop down and see Flo, take a walk, or try the peace and quiet of the church across the street. I decided against all three. I was not only irritated at having been thrown oat of my house, but the money in my pocket gave me a restless sense of power—even though it wasn't mine. I walked to the corner of Park Avenue, then turned and went back to the house, rang Henderson's bell. When he buzzed the door open, I went upstairs. He was waiting inside his door, wearing a neat silk robe, and slippers.

He said hello as we shook hands.

“Thought I'd drop in for a few minutes,” I said.

“Fine, fine. Having breakfast. Join me?”

I shook my head, took off my coat and hat. Francis was a health bug. While I sat and watched him he ate a bowl of red jello in which I could see sardines, chopped celery, and string beans suspended. He was a little gray-haired man, eccentric as hell, but full of life for a person well over 70.

“Try some, you'll like this,” he said, pointing to the mess.

“I doubt if I would.”

“Utter nonsense. Consider the contradiction: You'd eat a sardine sandwich, a salad, and take jello for dessert—and think nothing of it. But mix them all together, as they will become inside your stomach, and you turn it down.”-

“I certainly do!”

He ate a few spoonfuls of the stuff, chewing it thoroughly. “Now isn't that stupid, afraid to look at what's in your belly? You're hiding your head in your intestines, to paraphrase the ostrich and the sand business.”

I didn't answer and he finished his 'meal' in silence. I glanced about the room. He had heavy, old-fashioned furniture, with a big bronze statute of Man o' War on the ugly old mahogany sideboard.

Henderson washed his food down with a glass of carrot juice, took the dishes into the kitchen. I picked up his Times, read the front page. “Going to have Joe and some of the boys in for poker this week?” he called out.

I said I guess so and went into the kitchen. He was pouring heavy sour cream and bits of chocolate-covered graham crackers into an electrical mixer.

“Any night you wish,” he said, starting the mixer, which didn't make much noise. “Be sure Joe is there. That Joe, drawing to straights and flushes—a slow living.”

Through the door I could see the statue of Man o' War. Francis F. Henderson was a quiet, reserved old man who lived off an income. He had no visitors or family, and played a capable, if cautious, game of poker, always quitting when he lost over eight dollars. He paid his rent promptly, saw all the Broadway plays, dressed plainly, and seemed to live pretty close to the cuff. I had an idea his income was about a hundred and fifty a month—he counted his pennies and played poker to win, not for the game.

Our relation was much more than a landlord-tenant affair, but we were never really friends. I thought there was always a certain reserve, almost a cunning aloofness, about him. I knew very little about him, he picked his words when he talked, except that he had worked for many years in a bank. Once when I asked about the statue of the horse that dominated the living room, he said, “The Man—great money horse. Did a lot for me.”

And once when there was a story in the papers about some bank teller arrested for dipping in the till and losing the money on the horses, we had been making small talk about it when Henderson looked at me with a faint smile, asked, “Ever think of the number of tellers that—eh—borrow funds and aren't caught? Of course you'll never read 'bout them in the papers. In the movies and papers the teller always bets on the wrong horse. That's ridiculous—some of them must win. Same percentage for tellers as for anybody else....”

That was as much as I knew about him, but I had a fairly clear picture of a bank teller following Man o' War's career, perhaps from the very first time he raced, betting ten bucks, then a hundred, then a thousand... then retiring from the bank. If he had an income of $150 a month and was getting 5 percent on his money, that meant about $40,000 stacked away. I wondered why he had stopped at that, but when I once saw him throw in a full house because he was pretty sure I had four of a kind—which I had—I could easily picture him stopping with forty grand, careful not to push his luck too far. Which is the smart way to play anything.

I went back to the living room, not wanting to see what came out of the mixer. I picked up the sports section and, as I was reading it, he came in, sat down with a contented sigh, asked, “How you doing with the horses?”

“Still a little ahead, I guess.”

He shook his head. “Hunch player—craziest creature on God's earth. By the way, I'm glad your wife is back.”

“Ex-wife, and she's gone,” I said, annoyed. My affairs were really in the street.

“Too bad.” He put on his old gold-frame glasses, wet a pencil, and started working on the cross-word puzzle. I turned to the theatrical section. Jose Limon was dancing on Wednesday, and Pearl Primus was giving a recital the following Sunday at the 92nd Street Y. I made a note to see both, felt a little better. I reached over to put the paper back on the table and felt the stiff envelope in my inside pocket. I took up the sports page again. Big Esther, a favorite, was running on Monday. On form, she couldn't lose. Seven thousand on the nose would almost be a sure three or four thousand for me.

I quickly picked up the book section. It was a wild idea. Anyway, I didn't know where to place that kind of a bet. I usually bet a dollar or two; it gave me a reason to look forward to the end of the afternoon.

I glanced at my watch. It was only eleven-twenty.

The old man looked up. “What's the plural of a land measure in five letters?”

“Miles? Acres?” Cross-words bored me.

“No, second letter is an V—if 'to be mistaken' in five letters is 'wrong.' Joe still downstairs with the girl?”

“What do you do, live by that window?”

Henderson chuckled. “Why not? She has an interesting body—although I suppose any woman's body is interesting, in the proper background. When you get my age, one of your pastimes is trying to decide if you had been a fool to be faithful to one woman. All those years—and chances—gone forever. What do you think a man hopes to find in a new woman—we're always searching, even though we know it will never be any different? Or am I talking like an old fool?”

“Everybody is constantly searching for something different—in friends, women, food, books—anything.”

He nodded. “But when you reach my age, one can be so damn objective about it all. Sometimes I wish I were a writer like you and...”

“I'm some writer,” I said, remembering the different tone to the word when Flo said it.

“... and be able to put down some of my thoughts. But then I realize that's only an old man's vanity. Or maybe a form of sour grapes, or going senile. I was thinking today, when I saw that woman with Joe, that she looked passionate. Yet, consider the fetish we make over passion, which is really only an odd name for selfishness and extreme personal satisfaction. Tell you, George, the more I ponder humans, less I think of them.”

“You ought to talk to my brother-in-law, Eddie, or ex-brother-in-law. He has only contempt for us humans,” I said, thinking. That's wrong, the kid really has a great love for humanity.

“The thin one who was wounded in the war?”

I said yes.

“Wars, hunger, depression—man's greatest insult to humanity. Wonder if I'm so morbid today because I'll probably die soon. I dreamt I was dying last night.”

“What talk.”

“Average life span is about 67, I believe. I've been on velvet for a lot of years now.”

“Nonsense, you'll live to be a hundred and seventy—way you live, no strain or worries.”

He stared at me with big eyes, almost like a kid, said gently, “Let's stop this kind of talk. Give me the racing page.”

I handed him the sports section and he studied it for a while. “There's a good nag in the third, tomorrow, Salad Days. Hasn't won in the last three times out, but I have a feeling they're holding him for a killing.”

“Why don't you play it—with money, instead of on paper?”

“Money is only paper,” Henderson said, chuckling at his little joke. “I can't risk the money. Besides, I'd have to leave the house before noon, and you know how I love to sleep late. Now let's see what else is good tomorrow....”

We talked about horses for a while. He was like Joe: knew the horse's mother, father, color of the jockey's hair, and everything except the number of times the jockey went to the bathroom. Joe didn't know the Preamble to the Constitution (who does?), but he could recite various details about horses for hours. Of course the horses kept him broke.

The fancy clock near the china closet chimed once and Henderson said, “Eleven-thirty. And I was about to go to the toilet. Wonderful to be like clockwork, especially at my age. You see the silly things one can be proud of in his old age.”

I grinned, wondering if I would be like that in another twenty-five years. I stood up. “Think I'll move on. I'll talk to Joe about a poker game, let you know.”

In the hall I touched the envelope in my pocket, to be sure it was there, then walked down and over to the French tea room on 75th and Lexington and had some pastry and a cup of coffee.

When I returned home, Joe and Stella were reading my Times over some beer. They looked quite domestic. “No bottle?” Joe asked as I came in.

“Sorry, I don't seem to be a man of distinction or influence.”

“Too bad, I was feeling ripe for a shot,” Joe said.

We sat around and I was waiting for them to leave, but Joe kept talking: small talk about some horribly clever things he'd heard in a bar, a couple of old dirty jokes, plus comments about a murder headline. Stella had Slob stretched across her lap, stroking his neck; both of them looking rather contented. After jabbering for what seemed like hours, Joe suddenly jumped to his feet in what I'm sure he thought was the “executive manner,” he actually practiced that sort of thing, said, “I'll get a bottle—afternoon is dying on us. I know a bartender... downtown... may take me an hour.” He turned to Stella. “You wait here, doll.”

“I haven't any place to go,” she said, yawning. She had quite a few gold fillings, and her teeth looked old.

“Okay, everybody stays pat till poppa returns,” Joe said, putting on his coat. When his back was to Stella, he winked at me.

When he left Stella said, “A big kid, lot of noise and wind.”

“One way of looking at him,” I said.

She was sprawled on a big leather chair Flo had bought in a second-hand store on 53rd Street for twenty dollars, and paid three hundred to have repaired and recovered. I had an idea it wouldn't take much coaxing to get Stella back in the bedroom, but I wasn't up to that. And with seven grand in my pocket I certainly wasn't fooling with any strays. She kept staring at me, an amused smile on her sensual lips. I asked if she wanted more beer and she said she did. When I bent over her to pick up her glass, she said, “George—you don't mind if I call you George?”

“Of course not.”

“You're handsome. Not really pretty but... well, distinctive. Yes, you're tall and lean and your face is long and thin, and that gray at the edge of your hair. You know, you look like a writer.”

I laughed and brought two glasses of beer. This was a great day for writers, it seemed, and the afternoon wasn't going to be too dull after all.

“What do you write about? I mean, are you working on a book?” she asked after a sip of beer. “Big mouth said you're the editor of the magazine his company puts out.”

“That's about all I write,” I said, surprised at Joe's carelessness. I got out a few copies of the Sun I had about and gave them to her. We went in for a lot of good photography—full-page pictures that not only gave the mag a touch of class and beauty, but also took up a good deal of space.

She glanced through the magazines quickly. “They're beautiful. Ever sell anything to the movies? I work for Warners—merely a typist. Five days a week I pound a damn typewriter and go to sleep early. Some week-ends I go on a merry-go-round, let off steam.”

“I haven't published much, the magazine keeps me on my toes,” I lied. “Had a few stories in the pulps, a yarn in Story magazine.”

“You must be good,” Stella said, impressed. The only time I ever actually struck Flo was when she reminded me during one of our spats that my published yarns had been ghosted. I never could decide if they were—the ideas and rough had been mine, but why bother with polishing when you could get a rewrite done for a few dollars? At the time I actually had been busy covering a convention, or at least that was my excuse.

Stella said, “Why don't you write a book, something with a young psychiatrist and a big-busted gal—sure sale to the movies. Big upstairs like me,” she added, without smiling.

I let that invitation pass. “I have been outlining a novel, working on it for several years. A fantasy—we awake one day to find all the alcohol in the world has turned to water.”

“You're ribbing me.”

“I'm serious. You can see the dramatic complications; first the effect on industry and medicine... that's the secondary theme. Real idea is to show how much we drug our lives with liquor, what happens when that disappears.”

She finished her beer. “You a Prohibitionist?”

“Me? I'm almost a lush. It's a big idea—I have a whole file full of notes.” And I really had. All my book ideas were big, so big I never started writing them.

She thought about it for a moment. “That would be something, a Lost Weekend in reverse. What happens?”

“I don't know, exactly. Some sort of mass suicide, world revolution, I suppose. Then after a few weeks with everybody taking a forced cure, the world settles down—and k's a much better world. Such a thing would be more effective than the atomic bomb.”—

“And all from a lousy shot of whiskey?”

“Alcohol is our number one escape valve, only once you get in the habit of escaping, it no longer becomes an escape, it becomes a chain,” I said, wondering why I was making all this polite talk.

She was silent for a while, stroking Slob. Every now and then when she bent over to scratch his head, I could see the rise of her heavy breasts, and from the way she had her legs, a good deal of long plump thigh was visible. Of course she knew all that. What she didn't know was I could see the brief line where her panties ended on her thigh through her dress, and that was getting me excited. Not too excited—in my own way, as the famous line goes, I was faithful to Flo. It was sort of an unwritten law between us, mostly because we were too set in our ways, and too lazy, to become involved with anybody else.

Stella said, “George, I like you. I don't know what you think of me, coming here like this with Joe, but I...”

“I'm most understanding... and a little hungry,” I cut in, not wanting to hear the story of her life. “Ham and eggs interest you?”

She nodded, held out her hand. I got up pulled her to her feet. Slob tumbled to the floor, landing on his back. For a cat his reflexes were lousy. He stretched and walked off with stiff dignity.

As we walked into the kitchen Stella squeezed my hand, said, “Thanks.”

I didn't quite get that, but I squeezed her hand back. As I opened the ice-box, she said, “Here, let me do that.”

She made ham and eggs and coffee, moving about the little kitchen with easy efficiency. We ate and smoked a few cigarettes without much talk, then she washed the dishes and I dried.

Back in the living room I sat on the couch and she stared at me oddly, and for a second I thought she was going to cry. “What's the matter?”

“Matter?” she repeated, her voice full of forced cheerfulness. “Nothing is the matter. Wonderful little domestic scene we just had.” She went over to the radio, opened it, said, “Oh God, a Capehart! How do you work this?”

“What do you want to hear—radio or records?” I asked, going over before she threw things out of whack.

“Records—jazz.”

I put on a few Ellingtons, and some Artie Shaw and Stan Kenton. Stella held out her arms. I hesitated for a split second, thinking of the money in my pocket, then we danced. At first she leaned her weight all over me, but when she forgot the rub-down, gave in to the rhythm, she wasn't too awkward or slow for a big woman.

When the record changed we stopped and she was puffing a little. “Say, I thought I was a good dancer, but you're something.”

“Used to make my living at it,” I said, pleased at the lie.

“Well now,” she said, looking at me with new respect. I still had my arms around her and I felt bad, acting the tease, but Stella had troubles and I spent my life avoiding other people's problems.

We finished the records and I kicked the rugs back into place. She fell into a chair, sighed, “I'm pooped.” There were dark blotches of sweat on her dress under her armpits, and I could feel the sweat running down my back, but I wasn't taking off my coat. Even then, at the very start, the money was beginning to be a liability... but nothing like it damn soon became.

Stella looked at me through half-closed eyes, said, “I feel tired and so wonderfully sleepy.”

“Why don't you lie down, get some sleep?” I said, aware of how comical and silly it all sounded.

She got up and walked to the bedroom door, turned and gave me a puzzled look, or maybe it was a hurt look, then stretched out on the bed. I wondered if she had removed her shoes.

It was nearly two and Joe wasn't back. I considered whether he was dumping Stella on me, and what I should do, although giving a girl to another guy, no matter what she looked like, was strictly not in keeping with Joe's conception of the SOP of “romance.”

I put on more records, tuned them down low. I could hear her snoring softly in the bedroom and I had to fight to keep dozing off myself. I wanted Joe to return and take Stella, let roe change the linen and get some sleep.

Joe would return.

Joe, the big I am, proud as punch he was a “department head.” Joe, who could get on a tearful drunk telling about his wife who died in childbirth, or about his boy who was now completing three years of occupation duty in Germany. When Sky Oil had a small building over on East 38th Street, Joe was a slum kid roaming the streets there. According to him, he once chased a ball into the lobby of the building only to have a guard boot him out. I usually heard this story every time he hit a horse and went on a good binge. He swore then, if you could believe him, that he would become a part of the company. When he left high-school he took a job in the mailroom, “worked his way up” to head of the maintenance department, which meant he was a sort of glorified janitor in charge of the company's offices, and the two small buildings and tanks we had in the Bronx. According to Joe, he never forgot the guard and finally had him fired, though of course the guard didn't remember him. The fellow was a year away from the two-bit pension the company handed out, so Joe, in a fit of righteous forgiveness, rehired him and became the old man's savior.

He was paid seventy-five per week, spent about a hundred, and was fairly amusing with his great lies and big talk, his absolute worship of his job and complete satisfaction with his own “success,” his tremendous energy and ego, his great vulgarity. But he also had certain loyal, earthy qualities I envied—in my snobbish way. He actually burst into tears—cold sober—when we wrote him up as the “executive of the month,” an apple-polishing job I did every month in the Sun.

And in my own way I was nearly as content with my job as was Joe. I had a good deal—I suppose “racket” might be a better word. I put out a neat, slick little mag every month—very dull of course—but it was the sort of thing stockholders could read with ease and not become disturbed, one way or the other. There were always a lot of pictures, an easy-on-the-eyes format, and we were constantly patting somebody on the back. Editing a house organ is horribly frustrating work if you take the job seriously, or kid yourself that it is keeping you from that “serious writing.” Happily, I had no need to fool myself... I knew I'd never get around to any real writing. My salary was peanuts for the type of company we had and the rag we published, but I played that smart—using our budget mostly to get good photographers and artists, to “pretty up” the book. With my oh-so-correct address and cool manner—as if I was doing Sky Oil a terrific favor by editing their magazine, plus a conscientious assistant editor named Harvey Harris who did most of the writing—we came out once a month and nobody worked very hard. Harvey and I had a perfect understanding. He was an eager beaver who only wanted to be left alone, do his work. We wrote speeches for the big shots now and then, carried fairly intelligent and educational articles on oil and selling, never forgot the stockholders, and in general were... “mild” would describe the Sun best. In return for his hard work, I let Harvey have the out-of-town trips, which he enjoyed, and since both he and our stenographer were writing like mad, trying to get a break in the slicks, our office always had a hum of activity. All in all, it was about as good as any job can be.

I listened to the radio for a while, gave Slob chopped kidneys for lunch, and it was a few minutes after three. I was bored and considering whether I should wake Stella and take her home, or lock the door, put the money in the panel, and go to bed with her. I kept thinking of Flo and how ludicrous my explanations would seem if she should return and find Stella in the bedroom. I decided to wait till four, then take Stella home. I sat around, reading some old copies of Dance magazine. When the bell rang and I opened the door, Joe came breezing in, held up his wrist watch, said, “Only ten to four. Not bad time, hey kid?” He threw his overcoat on the couch, started opening a package. “Where's the doll?”

“In the bedroom, sleeping.”

“Puts down some fine stuff, doesn't she?” he said, as I knew he would.

“Stop it. Where the hell have you been?”

“Tell you in a minute. Hey doll, come see what poppa's got!” Joe yelled. Stella came out of the bedroom looking bleary-eyed. Joe put an arm around her, slapped her loudly on the backside and she said sharply, “Damn it, cut that out.”

“Wait till you sec what I got,” he said, tearing open the package. He held up the biggest bottle of whiskey I ever saw. “This is a half a gallon.”

“Never saw that before,” Stella said, yawning. She started for the bathroom but Joe stopped her, said proudly, “Read this—name of the store.” He pointed to a little blue sticker on the back of the bottle.

She said, “Washington, D.C.... For Christsake!”

“That's me,” Joe said happily. “Took a cab out to the airport, grabbed a plane to Washington. Got the bottle from a barkeep I know down there. What the hell, all I have to do is show the airline my travel card—charge it to the company as an inspection trip.”

“Big shot,” Stella said, impressed. “Now let me go to the John, I'm too big to wet myself.”

Joe and I went to the kitchen for ice and ginger ale. I asked, “You actually fly to Washington and back?”

“Sure, had to get a bottle,” Joe said, a little too casually. He was so very pleased with himself. “Raining down there. Listen, well have a couple drinks, then I'll take Stella home—if she doesn't live in Brooklyn. Then we call for the kid's aunt and uncle, take them out to King of the Sea for a shell dinner...”

“We?”

“Come along, I got to take them out, and the simple bastards drive me crazy. We'll ditch 'em right after we eat. Okay, pal?”

We sat around and Joe told a couple of jokes he claimed to have heard on the plane—every place he went he seemed to hear dirty jokes, old and stupid ones. Stella didn't say much, went to work on the bottle, she was trying to get tight again. She seemed a bit bored with us. But when Joe took her home, she gave me a big smile as we shook hands, squeezed my hand.

I could do much worse than Stella.

I straightened up the house a little, was changing my shirt, when I heard a cab stop. Joe came in, said, “That was luck, only lived on 83rd and Columbus. Not bad, may give her another tumble some day. Come on, the cab's waiting.”

Joe lived in a renovated railroad flat on 55th Street and Second Avenue. His sister and brother-in-laws, whose names I never did get straight, were a couple of fat hicks, with plain faces that looked pretty blank and suspicious. Joe gave me a big introduction as though I was the head of Sky Oil, and pointed to a framed copy of the article I had written about him. It hung on the wall beneath a heavy, gold-framed picture of his dead wife: a pert, pretty, young woman, with a pug nose and big, interesting eyes.

Joe went to the bathroom to run an electric razor over his face, and the aunt who had a sloppy bosom—even for a woman her age—said to me, “We must seem so stupid to you, Mr. Jackson—making a mistake of a whole month. My! So silly, but we were just sure Walt was coming home today.”

I didn't say anything as to whether she was or wasn't stupid, and after waiting, for me to make some remark, she added, “Walt is such a little fellow to be in the army.”

“Make a man of him,” the uncle chimed in. A few more veins in his thick nose and it would be mistaken for a surrealist painting.

Over the small noise of his razor Joe yelled, “Best thing in the world for the boy. Shame folks forget about the boys holding our first line of defense—now. No welcome parades or nothing for Walt, like they had after the war.” He put his razor down, stepped into the living room, as if to emphasize the point.

“No bonus from the states, either,” the uncle added.

“Yeah, but at least he'll go to college under the G.I. Bill,” Joe said. His voice softened and he looked up at the picture of his wife in the hideous frame. Joe said with sincere tenderness, “That's the thing Mady wanted most—see the kid through college.”

“My little baby sister,” the aunt said.

“Way prices are, it would have been an awful squeeze on my salary,” Joe went on softly. “There was Walt, 17, would of been drafted anyway. I had some inside dope from one of the big shots in the office who has his ear open in Washington, that they weren't going to extend the GI Bill. So I said, 'Walt, smart thing is to get in now. You'll come out still a kid, and you can go to the Wharton School of Finance, Harvard, any place you like for four years. World's your oyster.' Walt took my advice and I'm sure glad. And I bet... so is Mady.”

We all looked up at the picture for a moment as though we expected Mady to talk or smile. The uncle said, “Walt grown any? Always was so small, like his dear mother.”

“Well he looks heavier. Didn't I show you this picture?” He ran into the bedroom, came out with a snap of a sharp-faced kid, his hat at a rakish angle.

“Looks fine,” the aunt said. “Glad there was no real trouble over there, now he's coming home safe and sound.”

“Don't know why we got our boys all over the world,” the uncle said, handing the photo back to Joe. “What they doing in Germany but protecting a lot of Jew-bastards.”

His wife turned on him. “You stop that talk, and on Sunday too. Told you about swear words—like bastard.”

“Let me tell you, wasn't for kids like Walt, Joe Stalin would be in France by now. Walt is putting the fear of God in the Reds,” Joe said, going back to the bathroom.

I listened to the buzz of the razor, thought of Walt. Joe was funny with his son. He was strict with the kid, and although Joe would stay away from the house for days—with his women and bottle-emptying—long as the kid was home he never brought a bottle or a girl in the house. The boy called me Uncle George and once or twice I took him to the movies. He was a shy, moody kid, about five feet tall, and considering the way he was more or less dragged up, he'd turned out pretty well. At first I thought the army might make him more moody, but from the letters that Joe always read me, the kid seemed to take to army life. In one sense it was a break: Joe would never have put him through school.

We went out and had a lobster dinner and it was all very dull. Joe told them they could have the apartment for the night, we were going to sleep in a Turkish bath. But when we dropped them off, I gave the cabbie my address and Joe said, “What's the matter? Come on to the baths. I got to sweat out all the booze, be in shape for the morning.”

“I'll skip this one. I'm too tired.”

“First time I ever saw you turn down the baths.”

I wanted to go but where do you leave an envelope with seven grand in a Turkish bath?

Once in the house I put the money behind the panel, cleaned up the place, changed the sheets, fed the cat, and went into a sound sleep. The next thing I knew the alarm was ringing.

After dressing and shaving I bought the Times and a scratch sheet at a stand three blocks from the house, walked over to Fifth and took a bus downtown. I had the scratch sheet open inside the Times. Salad Days was running at 6 to 1, Henderson had liked her. But there was a horse named Sad Gal at 3 to 1. I thought of Stella and that was enough “hunch” for me. At Radio City I got off and walked over to a luncheonette on 6th Avenue (who calls it the Avenue of the Americas?), had my orange juice and coffee and crisp toast. As I finished my coffee the counterman said, “Anything else, Mr. Jackson?”

“Sad Gal in the fourth,” I said, pushing change for the breakfast toward him, and two singles.

“On the nose?” he said, dead-pan.

“Of course,” I said, wondering if I ought to give Salad Days a play too. I went over to the bank and put the seven thousand into my checking account, which gave me a balance of $7,210—two hundred being the required minimum. I felt honestly relieved when the money was out of my hands, and the balance perked me up as much as if it was all really mine.

I was fairly busy most of the day, but in the afternoon I stepped into the office of Jake Webster, a retired cop who headed the company guards and therefore (just why I never really knew) had a radio in his office. Joe came in a few seconds later, and one or two other horse players. Sad Gal won but the track odds were only 2 to 1. Salad Days paid 5 to 1. As Joe was cursing about some nag that “Was absolutely due to win, sure as hell. Why I got this tip from...” I went down for my afternoon coffee—and six dollars. (I only had afternoon coffee when my horse came in.) I kept thinking of Salad Days and suddenly it occurred to me that it had been a hunch horse after all—I'd forgotten all about collecting my nine dollars in the coffee pot! As I made a note to get the money before stopping for my pre-supper cocktails, I thought how odd it was that Hank's money had made me so jumpy.

Seven thousand isn't small change, but neither was I the type to get excited about money—I'd spent many times seven thousand in my life; I once went through eleven thousand in a year—when I was younger. And here this money—which wasn't mine—had rooked me out of a hunch on Salad Days, by causing me to forget my money in the coffee pot. (This is how a hunch player's mind works.)

A few months later I was going to be bitterly cursing the money for turning my life inside out, making it a nightmare of unreality.