from school that he had left France with the intention of bringing Christianity to the heathen.
On the opposite corner there was a palsied neon sign: “Liquor Store.” Above it were three stories of flats. Five or six of the windows on the top floor were lighted, but all the blinds were drawn. They weren’t drawn tight enough to contain the shouts and laughter which I heard. It was high, wild laughter, definitely not merry, but I didn’t mind. Merry laughter would have conflicted with my mood.
I crossed the street and found the entrance to the flats beside the store front. The narrow stairs were lit, or unlit, by red twenty-watt bulbs, one to each flight. The bulb at the top of the fourth flight was white but grimy. It cast a bad light on a sky-blue door trimmed with red by an amateurish hand. The same hand had painted “F. Garland” on the door in tall, red letters which bled a little.
The sounds of the party came through the thin panels like water through a sieve. I had listened to a lot of parties, and I knew that mixed parties sound like a monkeyhouse, female parties like an aviary, and stag parties like a kennel. This party sounded like a kennel, though some of the voices were lap-dog voices, high and querulous.
I knocked on F. Garland’s door, wondering where the girls were. The yapping and whining and howling and barking went right on. A fire-siren laugh climbed little steps all the way up to a high, idiot cackle, and teetered shakily down. I knocked again.
A small man came to the door and opened it, still buttoning up his clothes. The smudge of lipstick on his narrow chin was the only spot of color in his face. It was a patheticlittle face, with hollow cheeks, high, thin temples, a young, sensitive mouth, whose upper lip overlapped the lower lip a trifle. His voice was soft and pleasant:
“I don’t think I know you, do I?”
“The loss is mine. Is Joe Sault here?”
“Joey is occupied at present.” He uttered a shameful, little, lilting laugh. His gray eyes were as amiable as ground glass.
“Will you tell him I’d like to see him for a minute? Out here will do.”
“Is it business?”
“Call it that.”
“He’s not doing business yet tonight. He’s waiting for more stock.”
“Not that kind of business. I have to talk to him.”
“What name shall I give him, fellow?”
“John Weather. You his secretary?”
An angry flush pumped a little color into his phthisical cheeks. He sneered at me with his expressive nostrils. “My name is Garland,” he said softly. “Maybe you’d better remember that.”
“Delighted, I’m sure. Convey my respects to Mr. Sault, and tell him I await his pleasure in the antechamber.”
“A gagman,” he chirped. He shut the door, but before it closed I saw the scrambled bodies inside the room. They were live bodies, but I had experienced stronger fellow feeling with corpses.
A minute later the handsome boy came to the door. He had sideburns, dimples, swimming black eyes. He had chocolate-brown high-rise trousers with three pleats oneach side, and scarlet silk suspenders to hold them up under his armpits. His shirt was made of beige silk. He had the rank masculinity of a tomcat, but his dark face was emotionally versatile. The cigarette between his slender brown fingers burned unevenly and did not smell like tobacco.
“Joe Sault?”
“You’ve got me.” He smiled engagingly. “Garland doesn’t like you.”
“I like Garland ever so much.”
“He’s screwy, but he’s got a good nose. When he don’t like ’em, I often don’t like ’em.”
“And here I was thinking my personality was irresistible. You’re destroying my dream.”
“You talk too much, like Garland says.” His expression shifted easily from boyish friendliness to blank hostility. “If you got something to say to me, say it.” His cigarette had burnt down to his fingers. He ground it out on the doorjamb and put the butt in his pocket.
I drew back on my right foot and
On the opposite corner there was a palsied neon sign: “Liquor Store.” Above it were three stories of flats. Five or six of the windows on the top floor were lighted, but all the blinds were drawn. They weren’t drawn tight enough to contain the shouts and laughter which I heard. It was high, wild laughter, definitely not merry, but I didn’t mind. Merry laughter would have conflicted with my mood.
I crossed the street and found the entrance to the flats beside the store front. The narrow stairs were lit, or unlit, by red twenty-watt bulbs, one to each flight. The bulb at the top of the fourth flight was white but grimy. It cast a bad light on a sky-blue door trimmed with red by an amateurish hand. The same hand had painted “F. Garland” on the door in tall, red letters which bled a little.
The sounds of the party came through the thin panels like water through a sieve. I had listened to a lot of parties, and I knew that mixed parties sound like a monkeyhouse, female parties like an aviary, and stag parties like a kennel. This party sounded like a kennel, though some of the voices were lap-dog voices, high and querulous.
I knocked on F. Garland’s door, wondering where the girls were. The yapping and whining and howling and barking went right on. A fire-siren laugh climbed little steps all the way up to a high, idiot cackle, and teetered shakily down. I knocked again.
A small man came to the door and opened it, still buttoning up his clothes. The smudge of lipstick on his narrow chin was the only spot of color in his face. It was a patheticlittle face, with hollow cheeks, high, thin temples, a young, sensitive mouth, whose upper lip overlapped the lower lip a trifle. His voice was soft and pleasant:
“I don’t think I know you, do I?”
“The loss is mine. Is Joe Sault here?”
“Joey is occupied at present.” He uttered a shameful, little, lilting laugh. His gray eyes were as amiable as ground glass.
“Will you tell him I’d like to see him for a minute? Out here will do.”
“Is it business?”
“Call it that.”
“He’s not doing business yet tonight. He’s waiting for more stock.”
“Not that kind of business. I have to talk to him.”
“What name shall I give him, fellow?”
“John Weather. You his secretary?”
An angry flush pumped a little color into his phthisical cheeks. He sneered at me with his expressive nostrils. “My name is Garland,” he said softly. “Maybe you’d better remember that.”
“Delighted, I’m sure. Convey my respects to Mr. Sault, and tell him I await his pleasure in the antechamber.”
“A gagman,” he chirped. He shut the door, but before it closed I saw the scrambled bodies inside the room. They were live bodies, but I had experienced stronger fellow feeling with corpses.
A minute later the handsome boy came to the door. He had sideburns, dimples, swimming black eyes. He had chocolate-brown high-rise trousers with three pleats oneach side, and scarlet silk suspenders to hold them up under his armpits. His shirt was made of beige silk. He had the rank masculinity of a tomcat, but his dark face was emotionally versatile. The cigarette between his slender brown fingers burned unevenly and did not smell like tobacco.
“Joe Sault?”
“You’ve got me.” He smiled engagingly. “Garland doesn’t like you.”
“I like Garland ever so much.”
“He’s screwy, but he’s got a good nose. When he don’t like ’em, I often don’t like ’em.”
“And here I was thinking my personality was irresistible. You’re destroying my dream.”
“You talk too much, like Garland says.” His expression shifted easily from boyish friendliness to blank hostility. “If you got something to say to me, say it.” His cigarette had burnt down to his fingers. He ground it out on the doorjamb and put the butt in his pocket.
I drew back on my right foot and
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