waitress brought his breakfast and the coffee. He ate slowly and silently; his stomach seemed acutely conscious of the food. She stirred her coffee for a long while before she began sipping at it.
When he had finished the breakfast he began to feel more alive. There was still a sense of pain in him somewhere, the scars of the knife in his stomach; but now he felt tighter, more aware of what was happening. The ache in his right shoulder remained, however—a reminder of what the night’s work had been.
He decided to try the girl again, for what she was worth. “Could I bum a cigarette?” he said.
“Sure.” She handed him the case from her pocket. “You press the button at the end.”
The case was heavy and plain; turning it over in his hand he saw the word “Sterling” stamped on its bottom. “This is nice,” he said, opening it and taking out a cigarette. He handed it back to her.
When he lit the cigarette he noticed with surprise that his fingers were still trembling. His matches said BENNINGTON’S BILLIARD ROOM on them, in green letters.
The cigarette tasted like tar. He coughed from it, and then looked at it more closely. On it was printed GITANES . “What did you give me,” he said, “marijuana?”
She smiled the faint smile again. “They’re French.”
“What for?”
She seemed to think a moment. “I don’t know,” she said, “to impress my friends, probably.”
It was a peculiar answer, but sufficient. He continued smoking, gingerly. It did not taste so bad when he inhaled it gently.
When he stubbed out the cigarette and looked at his watch, it was a quarter of six. He looked at the girl; she was absorbed in studying her coffee again, stirring the remains of it idly with her spoon. This irritated him slightly and he thought,
What the hell
. He got up and said, “Have a good trip.”
She looked up at him. “Thanks. I will.” And as he was paying the check, “Thanks for the coffee.”
Outside it was dirty, silver daylight and traffic sounds. The air was already becoming warm and moist. He felt neither sleepy nor hungry nor yet fully awake, and did not know what to do. He began walking, and a block from the bus station found a painted sign that said HOTEL FOR MEN . Inside, a fat Negress gave him a key to a seventh-floor cubicle. The room was surprisingly clean. He sat on the bed for more than an hour and thought and tried not to think about Minnesota Fats. This produced nothing. He did not feel like sleeping, got up finally, and went back out. There was more daylight, more traffic, more fast-walking people. He could think about Minnesota Fats—about the fat man, the pool game, and what they had all meant—later. Maybe in a few days, when he felt more like thinking it all out.
There had been a bar across the street from the bus station, closed before. It would probably be open now.
It was open, and there was a customer in it. In the back of the room, in a booth, the girl from the bus station. The lights were softer but it was the same scene, except that she was sipping a highball this time.
It seemed very strange, and for a moment it shook him. Then he walked back to her. She watched him coming, with the gesture of looking up at him. “Hello,” he said, grinning. “Have a nice trip?” She looked much better, with the softer light on her face.
“Fair.”
“Can I sit down?”
She did not smile; but her face did not seem so severe. “Why not,” she said. “Already we know each other’s secrets.”
He eased into the seat, wondering what she had meant. Then he signaled the bartender for bourbon and water. He looked back to her, noticed that her drink was almost gone, and said, “Look, if I buy you a drink will you tell me why you didn’t catch that bus?”
She looked at him a moment, and then for the first time smiled, wryly. “You can buy me a drink,” she said, “but I’d tell you anyway.”
He called to the bartender, “Another for the lady.” Then he looked
When he had finished the breakfast he began to feel more alive. There was still a sense of pain in him somewhere, the scars of the knife in his stomach; but now he felt tighter, more aware of what was happening. The ache in his right shoulder remained, however—a reminder of what the night’s work had been.
He decided to try the girl again, for what she was worth. “Could I bum a cigarette?” he said.
“Sure.” She handed him the case from her pocket. “You press the button at the end.”
The case was heavy and plain; turning it over in his hand he saw the word “Sterling” stamped on its bottom. “This is nice,” he said, opening it and taking out a cigarette. He handed it back to her.
When he lit the cigarette he noticed with surprise that his fingers were still trembling. His matches said BENNINGTON’S BILLIARD ROOM on them, in green letters.
The cigarette tasted like tar. He coughed from it, and then looked at it more closely. On it was printed GITANES . “What did you give me,” he said, “marijuana?”
She smiled the faint smile again. “They’re French.”
“What for?”
She seemed to think a moment. “I don’t know,” she said, “to impress my friends, probably.”
It was a peculiar answer, but sufficient. He continued smoking, gingerly. It did not taste so bad when he inhaled it gently.
When he stubbed out the cigarette and looked at his watch, it was a quarter of six. He looked at the girl; she was absorbed in studying her coffee again, stirring the remains of it idly with her spoon. This irritated him slightly and he thought,
What the hell
. He got up and said, “Have a good trip.”
She looked up at him. “Thanks. I will.” And as he was paying the check, “Thanks for the coffee.”
Outside it was dirty, silver daylight and traffic sounds. The air was already becoming warm and moist. He felt neither sleepy nor hungry nor yet fully awake, and did not know what to do. He began walking, and a block from the bus station found a painted sign that said HOTEL FOR MEN . Inside, a fat Negress gave him a key to a seventh-floor cubicle. The room was surprisingly clean. He sat on the bed for more than an hour and thought and tried not to think about Minnesota Fats. This produced nothing. He did not feel like sleeping, got up finally, and went back out. There was more daylight, more traffic, more fast-walking people. He could think about Minnesota Fats—about the fat man, the pool game, and what they had all meant—later. Maybe in a few days, when he felt more like thinking it all out.
There had been a bar across the street from the bus station, closed before. It would probably be open now.
It was open, and there was a customer in it. In the back of the room, in a booth, the girl from the bus station. The lights were softer but it was the same scene, except that she was sipping a highball this time.
It seemed very strange, and for a moment it shook him. Then he walked back to her. She watched him coming, with the gesture of looking up at him. “Hello,” he said, grinning. “Have a nice trip?” She looked much better, with the softer light on her face.
“Fair.”
“Can I sit down?”
She did not smile; but her face did not seem so severe. “Why not,” she said. “Already we know each other’s secrets.”
He eased into the seat, wondering what she had meant. Then he signaled the bartender for bourbon and water. He looked back to her, noticed that her drink was almost gone, and said, “Look, if I buy you a drink will you tell me why you didn’t catch that bus?”
She looked at him a moment, and then for the first time smiled, wryly. “You can buy me a drink,” she said, “but I’d tell you anyway.”
He called to the bartender, “Another for the lady.” Then he looked
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