Read Online Moloch: Or, This Gentile World by Henry Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: Henry Miller
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brilliant. You go ahead and present it. Anyway, I believe in letting every man be his own Jesus.”
“G’wan, you bastards! G’wan!” Prigozi was recovering his verve.
At this moment the telephone rang. Matt answered it gruffly, but changed his tone immediately. With his hand on the mouthpiece, he handed the instrument to Moloch, whispering as he did so: “It’s the old man— Houghton himself. There’s a strike brewing.”
Moloch listened respectfully but with a growing irritation. He punctuated his silences with a subdued, resentful “Yes, sir. Yes sir!” Toward the end, realizing that his protests were ineffectual, he grew red and stammered a bit. He was trying desperately to control his anger. “Very well,” he said finally, “if you insist. But I think it’s a great mistake.” He slammed the receiver down with a growl.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Prigozi immediately.
Moloch looked perplexed, harassed.
“A fine muddle we’re in now,” he said gloomily. At which Prigozi became positively morose.
“What’s up?” piped Matt. Everytime Houghton rang up he thought it meant his job. Moloch was too damned stiff-necked to get along with a gang of polite crooks. He didn’t know how to play the game, that was Matt’s idea. They’d both be out in the street before long.
“We’ve got to fire the niggers—that’s what!” said Moloch.
“Niggers?” Matt repeated.
“Oh, the Hindus… the Egyptians, the whole flock of Oriental students we put on lately.”
Matt gave a long low whistle and screwed his face up like a gargoyle.
“I’d like to take Twilliger and hack his guts out!”
“Easy, Mister Moloch, easy now!” cried Prigozi, no longer alarmed over the situation, now that it proved to be nothing more than the dismissal of a few Hindus … “black buggers,” as he called them.
“What started the rumpus?” said Matt.
“It was that long-haired gazook in Chinatown. Seems he muffed a couple of death messages. Twilliger must have raised hell with the old man. He was screeching mad. ‘I want every one of them out,’ he says. ‘Every damned shine you’ve got on the force.’ There was no telling him anything. Twilliger’s got the Indian sign on him. God, though, if I were in Houghton’s place I’d show a little fight. It’s indecent to back down that way.... The worst of it is, the old man’s in such a fury he won’t let me do a thing for the poor dubs. I haven’t got the heart to let them out like a lot of cattle.”
“I wouldn’t weep about it, if I were you,” Prigozi spoke up. “They won’t starve to death. Let Providence take care of ‘em. These black bastards are a lot of crybabies— that’s what I think . ”
There was more than a grain of truth in Prigozi’s indictment. The only ones who showed any guts were the Chinese students. The others were merely children for whom Moloch acted as a wet nurse.
Matt broke in suddenly. “Didn’t old man Houghton say something about a strike?”
“Christ, yes! I almost forgot about the strike. Grab your hat, Matt, and rush uptown to Carducci’s office—that’s where the trouble lies.”
Matt bolted to the door in a jiffy.
“Hold on a minute,” shouted Moloch. “The old man says …”
“Says what?” yelled Matt.
“You’re not to talk too much—get that?”
“Tell the old man to go crucify himself!” Matt dashed out.
“There’s a loyal servant,” sneered Prigozi. “He acts first and thinks about it later.”
At this juncture, the squat little figure at the switchboard got up and approached Moloch with mingled deference and humility.
“I’m going home now,” he said. He had been saying this every day for the last ten years at five o’clock sharp. His tone never varied. It was like a servant announcing “Dinner is ready, sir!”
“Did you take your cathartic pill?” asked Moloch.
Dave’s face lit up like a Halloween pumpkin. He enjoyed this five-o’clock raillery. For the best part
“G’wan, you bastards! G’wan!” Prigozi was recovering his verve.
At this moment the telephone rang. Matt answered it gruffly, but changed his tone immediately. With his hand on the mouthpiece, he handed the instrument to Moloch, whispering as he did so: “It’s the old man— Houghton himself. There’s a strike brewing.”
Moloch listened respectfully but with a growing irritation. He punctuated his silences with a subdued, resentful “Yes, sir. Yes sir!” Toward the end, realizing that his protests were ineffectual, he grew red and stammered a bit. He was trying desperately to control his anger. “Very well,” he said finally, “if you insist. But I think it’s a great mistake.” He slammed the receiver down with a growl.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Prigozi immediately.
Moloch looked perplexed, harassed.
“A fine muddle we’re in now,” he said gloomily. At which Prigozi became positively morose.
“What’s up?” piped Matt. Everytime Houghton rang up he thought it meant his job. Moloch was too damned stiff-necked to get along with a gang of polite crooks. He didn’t know how to play the game, that was Matt’s idea. They’d both be out in the street before long.
“We’ve got to fire the niggers—that’s what!” said Moloch.
“Niggers?” Matt repeated.
“Oh, the Hindus… the Egyptians, the whole flock of Oriental students we put on lately.”
Matt gave a long low whistle and screwed his face up like a gargoyle.
“I’d like to take Twilliger and hack his guts out!”
“Easy, Mister Moloch, easy now!” cried Prigozi, no longer alarmed over the situation, now that it proved to be nothing more than the dismissal of a few Hindus … “black buggers,” as he called them.
“What started the rumpus?” said Matt.
“It was that long-haired gazook in Chinatown. Seems he muffed a couple of death messages. Twilliger must have raised hell with the old man. He was screeching mad. ‘I want every one of them out,’ he says. ‘Every damned shine you’ve got on the force.’ There was no telling him anything. Twilliger’s got the Indian sign on him. God, though, if I were in Houghton’s place I’d show a little fight. It’s indecent to back down that way.... The worst of it is, the old man’s in such a fury he won’t let me do a thing for the poor dubs. I haven’t got the heart to let them out like a lot of cattle.”
“I wouldn’t weep about it, if I were you,” Prigozi spoke up. “They won’t starve to death. Let Providence take care of ‘em. These black bastards are a lot of crybabies— that’s what I think . ”
There was more than a grain of truth in Prigozi’s indictment. The only ones who showed any guts were the Chinese students. The others were merely children for whom Moloch acted as a wet nurse.
Matt broke in suddenly. “Didn’t old man Houghton say something about a strike?”
“Christ, yes! I almost forgot about the strike. Grab your hat, Matt, and rush uptown to Carducci’s office—that’s where the trouble lies.”
Matt bolted to the door in a jiffy.
“Hold on a minute,” shouted Moloch. “The old man says …”
“Says what?” yelled Matt.
“You’re not to talk too much—get that?”
“Tell the old man to go crucify himself!” Matt dashed out.
“There’s a loyal servant,” sneered Prigozi. “He acts first and thinks about it later.”
At this juncture, the squat little figure at the switchboard got up and approached Moloch with mingled deference and humility.
“I’m going home now,” he said. He had been saying this every day for the last ten years at five o’clock sharp. His tone never varied. It was like a servant announcing “Dinner is ready, sir!”
“Did you take your cathartic pill?” asked Moloch.
Dave’s face lit up like a Halloween pumpkin. He enjoyed this five-o’clock raillery. For the best part
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