The Lilac Time was brightly lighted and full of people, and as Richard Gordon went in he saw the gambling room was crowded, the wheel turning and the little ball clicking brittle against metal partitions set in the bowl, the wheel turning slowly, the ball whirring, then clicking jumpily until it settled and there was only the turning of the wheel and the rattling of chips. At the bar, the proprietor who was serving with two bartenders, said “‘Allo, ‘Allo. Mist’ Gordon. What you have?”
“I don’t know,” said Richard Gordon.
“You don’t look good. Whatsa matter ? You don’t feel good?”
“No.”
“I fix you something just fine. Fix you up hokay. You ever try a Spanish absinthe, ojen?”
“Go ahead,” said Gordon.
“You drink him you feel good. Want to fight anybody in a house,” said the proprietor. “Make Mistah Gordon a ojen special.”
Standing at the bar, Richard Gordon drank three ojen specials but he felt no better; the opaque, sweetish, cold, licorice-tasting drink did not make him feel any different.
“Give me something else,” he said to the bartender.
“Whatsa matter? You no like a ojen special?” the proprietor asked. “You no feel good?”
“No.”
“You got be careful what you drink after him.”
“Give me a straight whiskey.”
The whiskey warmed his tongue and the back of his throat, but it did not change his ideas any, and suddenly, looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar, he knew that drinking was never going to do any good to him now. Whatever he had now he had, and it was from now on, and if he drank himself unconscious when he woke up it would be there.
A tall, very thin young man with a sparse stubble of blonde beard on his chin who was standing next to him at the bar said, “Aren’t you Richard Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Herbert Spellman. We met at a party in Brooklyn one time I believe.”
“Maybe,” said Richard Gordon. “Why not?”
“I liked your last book very much,” said Spellman. “I liked them all.”
“I’m glad,” said Richard Gordon. “Have a drink?”
“Have one with me,” said Spellman. “Have you tried this ojen?”
“It’s not doing me any good.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Feeling low.”
“Wouldn’t try another?”
“No. I’ll have whiskey.”
“You know, it’s something to me to meet you,” Spellman said. “I don’t suppose you remember me at that party.”
“No. But maybe it was a good party. You’re not supposed to remember a good party, are you?”
“I guess not,” said Spellman. “It was at Margaret Van Brunt’s. Do you remember?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m trying to.”
“I was the one set fire to the place,” Spellman said.
“No,” said Gordon.
“Yes,” said Spellman, happily. “That was me. That was the greatest party I was ever on.”
“What are you doing now?” Gordon asked.
“Not much,” said Spellman. “I get around a little. I’m taking it sort of easy now. Are you writing a new book?”
“Yes. About half done.”
“That’s great,” said Spellman. “What’s it about?”
“A strike in a textile plant.”
“That’s marvellous,” said Spellman. “You know I’m a sucker for anything on the social conflict.”
“What?”
“I love it,” said Spellman. “I go for it above anything else. You’re absolutely the best of the lot. Listen, has it got a beautiful Jewish agitator in it?”
“Why?” asked Richard Gordon, suspiciously.
“It’s a part for Sylvia Sidney. I’m in love with her. Want to see her picture?”
“I’ve seen it,” said Richard Gordon.
“Let’s have a drink,” said Spellman, happily. “Think of meeting you down here. You know, I’m a lucky fellow. Really lucky.”
“Why?” asked Richard Gordon.
“I’m crazy,” said Spellman. “Gee, it’s wonderful. It’s just like being in love only it always comes out right.”
Richard Gordon edged away a little.
“Don’t be that way,” said Spellman. “I’m not violent. That’s is, I’m almost never violent. Come on, let’s have a drink.”
“Have you been crazy long?”
“I think always,” said Spellman. “I tell you it’s the only way to be happy in times like these. What do I care what Douglas Aircraft does? What do I care what A. T. and T. does? They can’t touch me. I just pick up one of your books or I take a drink, or I look at Sylvia’s picture, and I’m happy. I’m like a bird. I’m better than a bird. I’m a—” he seemed to hesitate and hunt for a word, then hurried on. “I’m a lovely little stork,” he blurted out and blushed. He looked at Richard Gordon fixedly, his lips working, and a large blonde young man detached himself from a group down the bar and coming toward him put a hand on his arm.
“Come on, Harold,” he said. “We’d better be getting home.”
Spellman looked at Richard Gordon wildly. “He sneered at a stork,” he said. “He stepped away from a stork. A stork that wheels in circling flight—”
“Come on, Harold,” said the big young man. Spellman put out his hand to Richard Gordon.
“No offence,” he said. “You’re a good writer. Keep right on with it. Remember I’m always happy. Don’t let them confuse you. See you soon.”
With the large young man’s arm over his shoulder the two of them moved out through the crowd to the door. Spellman looked back and winked at Richard Gordon.
“Nice fella,” the proprietor said. He tapped his head. “Very well educate. Studies too much I guess. Likes to break glasses. He don’t mean no harm. Pay for everything he break.”
“Does he come in here much?”
“In the evening. What he say he was? A swan?”
“A stork.”
“Other night was a horse. With wings. Like a horse on a white horse bottle only with pair a wings. Nice fella all right. Plenty money. Gets a funny ideas. Family keep him down here now with his man- ager. He told me he like your books, Mr. Gordon. What you have to drink? On the house.”
“A whiskey,” said Richard Gordon. He saw the sheriff coming toward him. The sheriff was an extremely tall, rather cadaverous and very friendly man. Richard Gordon had seen him that afternoon at the Bradleys’ party and talked with him about the bank robbery.
“Say,” said the sheriff, “if you’re not doing anything come along with me a little later. The coast guard’s towing in Harry Morgan’s boat. A tanker signalled it up off Matacumbe. They’ve got the whole outfit.”
“My God,” said Richard Gordon. “They’ve got them all?”
“They’re all dead except one man, the message said.”
“You don’t know who it is?”
“No, they didn’t say. God knows what happened.”
“Have they got the money?”
“Nobody knows. But it must be aboard if they didn’t get to Cuba with it.”
“When will they be in?”
“Oh, it will be two or three hours yet.”
“Where will they bring the boat?”
“Into the Navy Yard, I suppose. Where the coast guard ties up.”
“Where’ll I see you to go down there?”
“I’ll drop in here for you.”
“Here or down at Freddy’s. I can’t stick it here much longer.”
“It’s pretty tough in at Freddy’s tonight. It’s full of those Vets from up on the Keys. They always raise the devil.”