Read Online William F. Buckley Jr. by Brothers No More - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brothers No More
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in Oz, because he had just read a book about the magic kingdom, and surely it was about Times Square?
He walked about, looking for a restaurant that would tune in on the big fight. Perhaps they all would. But he spotted the likeliest of them all on the corner of Broadway near Fiftieth Street.Where better than the restaurant founded by and, he once read, still presided over by the great king of the sport, Jack Dempsey? He remembered the picture in
Life
magazine when he was a freshman, Gene Tunney dining with Jack Dempsey at Dempsey’s bar.
He got the last free table, in the corner of the room. Most of Dempsey’s patrons were standing along the bar, their ties loose, half of them wearing seersucker jackets, some of them white jackets and khaki pants left over from army days. They consumed a lot of beer and soon were concentrating intensely on what was being said on the radio by Don Dunphy. Henry ordered the deluxe steak dinner at $3.25. The man at the bar nearest him, wearing a Dodgers baseball cap and a loose-fitting blue jacket, complained that the radio wasn’t on loud enough, though Henry had no problem in hearing what the excited commentator was saying as it became clearer and clearer, after the second-round knockdown, what would soon now happen. The kibitzers were demonstrative, and when the champ knocked out the challenger, in the fourth round, the old, imperious lady in dressy satin at the corner gave the signal to the bartender, who acknowledged it by announcing that there would be a beer on the house. Could that be Mrs. Jack Dempsey? The detail would be good in the story he would write, so he motioned to the waiter and asked, and the answer was no, that was Jenny, and “What Jenny says around here goes.” Henry drank happily with the crowd, then picked up his little overnight bag and walked out into the sultry heat of Broadway, headed for the Yale Club five blocks east.
“Where you going with that bag, handsome?”
She was slim; her hair covered one of her eyes in the style of Veronica Lake. She swung about her glittery handbag as she approached him, her hips swaying. “How about a little drink before you go to bed? Before we go to bed?”
Henry could not quite believe what he heard himself saying: “Where?” The heat in his loins had been instantaneous, as though his single word were a switch lighting up a huge dynamo.
“I know a place just a couple of blocks away, nice private place.We can have anything handsome wants—beer, wine, Scotch, gin, sixty-nine.” She smiled broadly, her eyes large, brown, alert.
Henry walked with her, nervous but resolute. She had her arm around his. He was surprised that, with his left arm, he was lightly rocking the overnight bag. Like Gene Kelly getting ready to tap-dance. Night-out-on-the-town stuff! He cleared his throat. “Okay, you guide me. What’s your name?”
“Lena. What’s yours, handsome?”
“I’m Henry.”
“I like that. Do they call you Hank?”
“No, just Henry.” They came by an old man stirring chestnuts over coals. He had attached a piece of cardboard to a leg of his roasting oven. It said all that needed to be said: “10¢.”
“Buy me some,” Lena said.
Henry handed the old man fifty cents and opened his hand, displaying two fingers. Under the street light Henry looked down at Lena. She was young—about his own age, Henry guessed—dark, her breasts tumescent. She did not need that much makeup, he surmised. He handed her one bag of hot chestnuts, stuffing the second one in his pocket. She took one, pulled off the shell, tugged Henry to get moving and began daintily to nibble.
“It’s hot. But so am I. Are you hot, handsome?”
She moved Henry toward the door of a dark gray building and with her index finger counted down five call buttons from the top. She depressed it, signaling, dash-dot-dash. He could hear the door lock snap open. At the elevator she pushed the button for the fourth floor. Inside the elevator she kneaded
He walked about, looking for a restaurant that would tune in on the big fight. Perhaps they all would. But he spotted the likeliest of them all on the corner of Broadway near Fiftieth Street.Where better than the restaurant founded by and, he once read, still presided over by the great king of the sport, Jack Dempsey? He remembered the picture in
Life
magazine when he was a freshman, Gene Tunney dining with Jack Dempsey at Dempsey’s bar.
He got the last free table, in the corner of the room. Most of Dempsey’s patrons were standing along the bar, their ties loose, half of them wearing seersucker jackets, some of them white jackets and khaki pants left over from army days. They consumed a lot of beer and soon were concentrating intensely on what was being said on the radio by Don Dunphy. Henry ordered the deluxe steak dinner at $3.25. The man at the bar nearest him, wearing a Dodgers baseball cap and a loose-fitting blue jacket, complained that the radio wasn’t on loud enough, though Henry had no problem in hearing what the excited commentator was saying as it became clearer and clearer, after the second-round knockdown, what would soon now happen. The kibitzers were demonstrative, and when the champ knocked out the challenger, in the fourth round, the old, imperious lady in dressy satin at the corner gave the signal to the bartender, who acknowledged it by announcing that there would be a beer on the house. Could that be Mrs. Jack Dempsey? The detail would be good in the story he would write, so he motioned to the waiter and asked, and the answer was no, that was Jenny, and “What Jenny says around here goes.” Henry drank happily with the crowd, then picked up his little overnight bag and walked out into the sultry heat of Broadway, headed for the Yale Club five blocks east.
“Where you going with that bag, handsome?”
She was slim; her hair covered one of her eyes in the style of Veronica Lake. She swung about her glittery handbag as she approached him, her hips swaying. “How about a little drink before you go to bed? Before we go to bed?”
Henry could not quite believe what he heard himself saying: “Where?” The heat in his loins had been instantaneous, as though his single word were a switch lighting up a huge dynamo.
“I know a place just a couple of blocks away, nice private place.We can have anything handsome wants—beer, wine, Scotch, gin, sixty-nine.” She smiled broadly, her eyes large, brown, alert.
Henry walked with her, nervous but resolute. She had her arm around his. He was surprised that, with his left arm, he was lightly rocking the overnight bag. Like Gene Kelly getting ready to tap-dance. Night-out-on-the-town stuff! He cleared his throat. “Okay, you guide me. What’s your name?”
“Lena. What’s yours, handsome?”
“I’m Henry.”
“I like that. Do they call you Hank?”
“No, just Henry.” They came by an old man stirring chestnuts over coals. He had attached a piece of cardboard to a leg of his roasting oven. It said all that needed to be said: “10¢.”
“Buy me some,” Lena said.
Henry handed the old man fifty cents and opened his hand, displaying two fingers. Under the street light Henry looked down at Lena. She was young—about his own age, Henry guessed—dark, her breasts tumescent. She did not need that much makeup, he surmised. He handed her one bag of hot chestnuts, stuffing the second one in his pocket. She took one, pulled off the shell, tugged Henry to get moving and began daintily to nibble.
“It’s hot. But so am I. Are you hot, handsome?”
She moved Henry toward the door of a dark gray building and with her index finger counted down five call buttons from the top. She depressed it, signaling, dash-dot-dash. He could hear the door lock snap open. At the elevator she pushed the button for the fourth floor. Inside the elevator she kneaded
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