— All right, kid. Thanks.
— But thank you, I… Merry Christmas. Otto was left, the packet clutched against his parts, sniffing the delicious aroma of lavender, only half aware that the table had four legs. A fly landed on his hand, and he simply stared at it.
Two men went out the revolving door, the second a figure in a checked suit, who had been waiting for some time in the lobby. He caught the other by the arm. — This is you, isn't it?
— What do you mean?
— You're Frank? They told me I was going to meet you in the lobby. They kept me half an hour late, but you're an hour. Have you got the stuff? Five G's in queer?
— Jesus and Mary.
— I'm the pusher they sent, you know? Have you got the queer?
— Jesus Mary and Joseph.
— What's the matter with you, for Christ's sake?
— That kid. That fairy. He took every bit of it. He sat there rubbing his ankle against my leg. .
— Where'd he go? We'll go in and get him. He's got the queer on him?
— We'll wait out here. We'll get him when he comes out.
— Where you going now?
— Right here in this doorway. The coat came off, was reversed, the black wig went into one pocket, green muffler and glasses into the other, and the sandy mustache appeared, stuck to his upper lip. — It's cold, said Mr. Sinisterra. — And stop calling it "the queer."
Otto had appeared at the desk briefly, to put down a ten-dollar deposit on his bill. He was taken to a room. There he sat on the edge of the bed. He tore the wrapping from the money, and started to count it. The sling got in his way. He ripped it off and threw it on the floor. Then he made piles of ten bills each, fanned out alternating backs and faces, on the bed cover. He stood looking at it, and then turned to the mirror, and ran his fingertip over his mustache. He called downstairs, and waited for the bellboy to come with a razor and "anything else that might come in handy," passing the time counting the money, in various positions. When the razor arrived, he shaved quickly and dressed. He reeled a little, putting four twenties with his change (which included a ten), and the rest into a drawer, hurriedly, for he heard stirring next door, remembering his neighbor. He turned off the light, closed his door, and stood outside 666, where he knocked and, unable to restrain himself, and as surprised to find the door unlocked, threw it open.
— Who. . what do you want? Jean cried, pulling a sheet to her throat, uncovering her neighbor, whose light gray flannel suit lay on the floor.
— Why you. . why…
— Get out, get out of here, what do you mean coming in a lady's room like that.
The door banged.
— Now just who the devil was that?
— Don't worry, honey, it's only a fairy I met down in the bar.
— A fairy?
— You know, queer. He said he was a writer, and they're always queer nowadays.
— There he goes, said the man in the checked suit. — Out the side door. Look out of the way, you dumb bastard.
— That's no way to talk to Santa Glaus.
— Well get out of our way,
— Merry Christmas. Have you got a dime for old Saint Nick?
— Get the next cab in the line and follow him.
The two cabs pulled away from the curb half a minute apart, and a police car drew up before the hotel.
— I could sue you for false arrest, Mr. Pivner said when he got into the lobby, with a policeman, — if that would do any good. Do you know what you've done?
Behind him the policeman talked with the tall bellboy, who said, — Well Jesus, / thought he was drunk. The guy with him was. The policeman said, — We got him down to the station house and found a needle on him. We thought he was a junkie. He's real pissed-off.
— Do you know what you've done? Did you see him? A boy with a scarf like this on, he came here to meet me, that was my son, my son…
The policeman turned to the revolving door, and the tall bellboy said to him, — While you're at it, take Santy Glaus along. He's driving us nuts out there.
The controversy in the sky, by this time, was no nearer settlement; there was really no promise of armistice at all, though the haggling might continue, precipitating fine rain for periods of monotonous variance, broken by impatient bursts of sleet. The skyline of the city was reduced to two dimensions. There was no depth; accustomed to mass, and there was no such sensation, but instead buildings in immediate isolation, their heights'awhirl in the weather, their lights incredible in the night, their feat un-diminished by comparison with the mass which had clung to their sides pretending support, cowering now out of sight, would be there next day if it were fair, pretending, and sharing the steep triumph of these hampered giants tonight abandoned in trial to their integrity.
The first cab turned into Jones Street; the second waited at the corner. — He's going into that doorway where all those cops are. What's he doing there. — How should I know what he's doing there. I never should have trusted him. — I wouldn't trust a fairy. — He's not a Catholic. I should have known. They watched Otto talk with one of the policemen, and get back into his cab. — How'd'ya ever do a thing like that? — It was pride, it was the deadly sin of pride, I was so proud of those. . those. . O Mary, pray for me… If I hadn't been so proud I would have watched my step. . — Let's just let him go, said the man in the checked suit as Otto's cab left the curb. — The hell with him.
— Let him go? with all that? You think it's worthless, that paper? You think it's a cheap job I did? Driver follow that cab.
The juke-box played Return to Sorrento.
Someone said, — Have you read this? It's by a woman who spent the entire winter last year in Rome, she tells all about it here.
At hand, a limp wrist hung on air. — I was in Florida for two fearfully rainy weeks, and I didn't get browned very much. . Laughter sprinkled up around him.
— I'm a drunkard, said one of two young men sitting at a table with Victoria and Albert Hall. — Nothing but a drunkard, he repeated despondently. — You think that's bad, I'm a drunk and I'm queer too, said the other, — an alcoholic and a homosexual. — So? demanded the paterfamilias. — I'm a drunk, a homosexual, and a Jew.
She looked them over calmly, and finished her drink. — I'm alcoholic, homosexual, and a Jew, she stated. -And I'm crippled. When the next round of drinks arrived, she was the toast.
— Have you heard the one about the muscular fellow named Rex? who had minuscular organs of sex?
— Do you know, II y avail une jeune fille de Dijon?
— Es gibt ein Arbeiter von Linz?
—'The whole gripping story is founded on fact. Look at the beautiful girl shown in the accompanying cut. ." Anselm read aloud. — Are you listening? "Note the cruel marks cut in her tender body by the lash of the cat-o'-nine-tails wielded by the hands of a heartless and Christless Mother Superior in whose heart all human sympathy had been assassinated by the papal system. ." He lowered The Moan of the Tiber to look up at Stanley. — You're still brooding over that thing? he asked, seeing the torn strip of newspaper in Stanley's hand. — That's yesterday's paper, the whole of Saint Mark's is probably under water by now. What are you drinking so much coffee for?
— I have to stay awake, when I get home to work, Stanley said and looked anxiously at his wrist watch.
— To work! Anselm muttered. — What are you waiting for? But he appeared to have no interest in what Stanley might answer, or not. He sat slumped, looking sullenly out from the table at the evening victims of the Viareggio. The spots on his face were dulled, his eyes lit with a smoldering rancor now and then as he watched them, but his tone was vague when a tall girl with dark hair reaching her furpiece said to someone, — Well I have yet to see an animal reading a book. . and Anselm mumbled, — How'd you like to get your hand in her muff? Then he brought a hand up, fingers turned in upon the palm, and commenced to bite his nails. A minute later he had slumped again, motionless, and started to whistle, dull and rasping through his teeth.