the offices of Marine Life irritated and beginning to suffer the first pangs of a hangover. She'd been kept waiting while Mr. Peale read, waiting while Mr. Peale conferred with Miss Macintosh, waiting while Miss Macintosh talked to Mr. Blutt, waiting while Mr. Blutt wrote out a check and gave it to Miss Macintosh who gave it to Mr. Peale who gave it to Chris. Then she had to wait for the elevator.
She went into a drugstore on the corner.
"Bromo," she said to the counterman.
"Bromo it is."
She swallowed the bubbles quickly, dropped a dime on the counter and went back out to the street.
She decided against a cab. Her head was in no condition. She turned west on Forty-Sixth and walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue.
People hurried all around her, bent on lunch hour shopping and business. A fat greasy woman in a yellow coat collided with her and swore at Chris over her shoulder. Chris sighed and walked a little faster.
A bus. She'd take a bus to Washington Square. The ride down Fifth was the only one in the city she could tolerate on a bus. Maybe if she closed her eyes...
She took a seat at the rear of the bus, next to the window. She rested her elbow on the window ledge and her head in her hand. The man behind her was reading the Times , folded lengthwise like you fold it hanging on to a strap in the subway. Every time the bus stopped, the edge of the paper hit her just below the neck. Stop, bump. Stop, bump.
She counted thirty-eight bumps before the bus rolled around Washington Square circle and stopped. The thirty-ninth came on schedule.
Chris walked to the ladies' room in the park. She got some paper from one of the booths, wet it at the sink, and pressed it against her eyes and her forehead. By now her head was not splitting—it had split. She took a small bottle of aspirin out of her pocket and shook out four. Then she scooped them into her mouth. She cupped her hands under the cold water, took a long drink and swallowed.
West on Fourth, south on MacDougal, west on Third, south on Sixth Avenue. Slow, walk slow, walk slow.
At the junction of Sixth, Bleecker and Carmine she went into a luncheonette and sat on a stool at the counter.
"Bromo," she said.
"Bromo it is."
She was beginning to feel about half human. It wouldn't pay to be shaky around Max. That boy was a shrewdie. He was out for money and plenty of it. You had to be with it to get what you came for.
She followed up the bromo with a cup of thick black coffee. She took her time. She raised a hand and looked at it. It was steady. When the rest of her felt the same way, she stood up.
She paid the man and went to the phone booth at the back of the shop. She dropped a dime in the slot and dialed Max's number.
After the tenth ring a voice croaked, "Yeah?"
"Max? This is Chris Hamilton."
"Where are you?"
"Downstairs."
"You got money?"
"Yes, I've got money."
"C'mon up."
Chris hung up the phone and left the store. She walked faster now, the headache for the moment forgotten.
CHAPTER 8
Chris turned left on Bedford and into the entrance of an apartment house next to an Italian grocery. White X’s on some of the windows marked the building condemned. In the store the fat grocer was exclaiming loudly in broken English about how he'd been here thirty years. His fat wife singsonged in mawkish chorus.
Inside was the smell of thirty years of garlic and more years of cabbage and grease and no garbage cans. The floor was grey with filth and smudged where someone had tracked a dog turd down the hall and up the stairs. Somebody else or maybe the same somebody had puked here long ago. The yellowish mess had dried to a crust on the wall and floor. A little boy stood among the ruins in grave dignity, relieving himself against the wall.
Chris swallowed hard. Every year it got worse. The first time she'd come here it was like being dropped into a garbage dump in July. That was eight years ago. There were no words anymore.
She climbed to the fifth floor and stopped at
She went into a drugstore on the corner.
"Bromo," she said to the counterman.
"Bromo it is."
She swallowed the bubbles quickly, dropped a dime on the counter and went back out to the street.
She decided against a cab. Her head was in no condition. She turned west on Forty-Sixth and walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue.
People hurried all around her, bent on lunch hour shopping and business. A fat greasy woman in a yellow coat collided with her and swore at Chris over her shoulder. Chris sighed and walked a little faster.
A bus. She'd take a bus to Washington Square. The ride down Fifth was the only one in the city she could tolerate on a bus. Maybe if she closed her eyes...
She took a seat at the rear of the bus, next to the window. She rested her elbow on the window ledge and her head in her hand. The man behind her was reading the Times , folded lengthwise like you fold it hanging on to a strap in the subway. Every time the bus stopped, the edge of the paper hit her just below the neck. Stop, bump. Stop, bump.
She counted thirty-eight bumps before the bus rolled around Washington Square circle and stopped. The thirty-ninth came on schedule.
Chris walked to the ladies' room in the park. She got some paper from one of the booths, wet it at the sink, and pressed it against her eyes and her forehead. By now her head was not splitting—it had split. She took a small bottle of aspirin out of her pocket and shook out four. Then she scooped them into her mouth. She cupped her hands under the cold water, took a long drink and swallowed.
West on Fourth, south on MacDougal, west on Third, south on Sixth Avenue. Slow, walk slow, walk slow.
At the junction of Sixth, Bleecker and Carmine she went into a luncheonette and sat on a stool at the counter.
"Bromo," she said.
"Bromo it is."
She was beginning to feel about half human. It wouldn't pay to be shaky around Max. That boy was a shrewdie. He was out for money and plenty of it. You had to be with it to get what you came for.
She followed up the bromo with a cup of thick black coffee. She took her time. She raised a hand and looked at it. It was steady. When the rest of her felt the same way, she stood up.
She paid the man and went to the phone booth at the back of the shop. She dropped a dime in the slot and dialed Max's number.
After the tenth ring a voice croaked, "Yeah?"
"Max? This is Chris Hamilton."
"Where are you?"
"Downstairs."
"You got money?"
"Yes, I've got money."
"C'mon up."
Chris hung up the phone and left the store. She walked faster now, the headache for the moment forgotten.
CHAPTER 8
Chris turned left on Bedford and into the entrance of an apartment house next to an Italian grocery. White X’s on some of the windows marked the building condemned. In the store the fat grocer was exclaiming loudly in broken English about how he'd been here thirty years. His fat wife singsonged in mawkish chorus.
Inside was the smell of thirty years of garlic and more years of cabbage and grease and no garbage cans. The floor was grey with filth and smudged where someone had tracked a dog turd down the hall and up the stairs. Somebody else or maybe the same somebody had puked here long ago. The yellowish mess had dried to a crust on the wall and floor. A little boy stood among the ruins in grave dignity, relieving himself against the wall.
Chris swallowed hard. Every year it got worse. The first time she'd come here it was like being dropped into a garbage dump in July. That was eight years ago. There were no words anymore.
She climbed to the fifth floor and stopped at
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