The Beautiful and Damned
as Tony, at other times it was Dan. To him all Anthonys must sail under
one of these diminutives.
"Sit down. What'll you have?"
On the subway Anthony had counted his money and found that he had almost
four dollars. He could pay for two rounds at fifty cents a drink--which
meant that he would have six drinks. Then he would go over to Sixth
Avenue and get twenty dollars and a pawn ticket in exchange for
his watch.
"Well, roughnecks," he said jovially, "how's the life of crime?"
"Pretty good," said Allison. He winked at Pete Lytell. "Too bad you're a
married man. We've got some pretty good stuff lined up for about eleven
o'clock, when the shows let out. Oh, boy! Yes, sir--too bad he's
married--isn't it, Pete?"
"'Sa shame."
At half past seven, when they had completed the six rounds, Anthony
found that his intentions were giving audience to his desires. He was
happy and cheerful now--thoroughly enjoying himself. It seemed to him
that the story which Pete had just finished telling was unusually and
profoundly humorous--and he decided, as he did every day at about this
point, that they were "damn good fellows, by golly!" who would do a lot
more for him than any one else he knew. The pawnshops would remain open
until late Saturday nights, and he felt that if he took just one more
drink he would attain a gorgeous rose-colored exhilaration.
Artfully, he fished in his vest pockets, brought up his two quarters,
and stared at them as though in surprise.
"Well, I'll be darned," he protested in an aggrieved tone, "here I've
come out without my pocketbook."
"Need some cash?" asked Lytell easily.
"I left my money on the dresser at home. And I wanted to buy you another
drink."
"Oh--knock it." Lytell waved the suggestion away disparagingly. "I guess
we can blow a good fella to all the drinks he wants. What'll you
have--same?"
"I tell you," suggested Parker Allison, "suppose we send Sammy across
the street for some sandwiches and eat dinner here."
The other two agreed.
"Good idea."
"Hey, Sammy, wantcha do somep'm for us...."
Just after nine o'clock Anthony staggered to his feet and, bidding them
a thick good night, walked unsteadily to the door, handing Sammy one of
his two quarters as he passed out. Once in the street he hesitated
uncertainly and then started in the direction of Sixth Avenue, where he
remembered to have frequently passed several loan offices. He went by a
news-stand and two drug-stores--and then he realized that he was
standing in front of the place which he sought, and that it was shut and
barred. Unperturbed he continued; another one, half a block down, was
also closed--so were two more across the street, and a fifth in the
square below. Seeing a faint light in the last one, he began to knock on
the glass door; he desisted only when a watchman appeared in the back of
the shop and motioned him angrily to move on. With growing
discouragement, with growing befuddlement, he crossed the street and
walked back toward Forty-third. On the corner near Sammy's he paused
undecided--if he went back to the apartment, as he felt his body
required, he would lay himself open to bitter reproach; yet, now that
the pawnshops were closed, he had no notion where to get the money. He
decided finally that he might ask Parker Allison, after all--but he
approached Sammy's only to find the door locked and the lights out. He
looked at his watch; nine-thirty. He began walking.
Ten minutes later he stopped aimlessly at the corner of Forty-third
Street and Madison Avenue, diagonally across from the bright but nearly
deserted entrance to the Biltmore Hotel. Here he stood for a moment, and
then sat down heavily on a damp board amid some debris of construction
work. He rested there for almost half an hour, his mind a shifting
pattern of surface thoughts, chiefest among which were that he must
obtain some money and get home before he became too sodden to find
his way.
Then, glancing over toward the Biltmore, he saw a man standing directly
under the overhead glow of the porte-cochère lamps beside a woman in an
ermine coat. As Anthony watched, the couple moved forward and signalled
to a taxi. Anthony perceived by the infallible identification that lurks
in the walk of a friend that it was Maury Noble.
He rose to his feet.
"Maury!" he shouted.
Maury looked in his direction, then turned back to the girl just as the
taxi came up into place. With the chaotic idea of borrowing ten dollars,
Anthony began to run as fast as he could across Madison Avenue and along
Forty-third Street.
As he came up Maury was standing beside the yawning door of the taxicab.
His companion turned and looked curiously at Anthony.
"Hello, Maury!" he said, holding out his hand. "How are you?"
"Fine, thank you."
Their hands dropped and Anthony hesitated. Maury made no move to
introduce him, but only stood there regarding him with an inscrutable
feline silence.
"I wanted to see you--" began Anthony uncertainly. He did not feel that
he could ask for a loan with the girl not four feet away, so he broke
off and made a perceptible motion of his head as if to beckon Maury
to one side.
"I'm in rather a big hurry, Anthony."
"I know--but can you, can you--" Again he hesitated.
"I'll see you some other time," said Maury. "It's important."
"I'm sorry, Anthony."
Before Anthony could make up his mind to blurt out his request, Maury
had turned coolly to the girl, helped her into the car and, with a
polite "good evening," stepped in after her. As he nodded from the
window it seemed to Anthony that his expression had not changed by a
shade or a hair. Then with a fretful clatter the taxi moved off, and
Anthony was left standing there alone under the lights.
Anthony went on into the Biltmore, for no reason in particular except
that the entrance was at hand, and ascending the wide stair found a seat
in an alcove. He was furiously aware that he had been snubbed; he was as
hurt and angry as it was possible for him to be when in that condition.
Nevertheless, he was stubbornly preoccupied with the necessity of
obtaining some money before he went home, and once again he told over on
his fingers the acquaintances he might conceivably call on in this
emergency. He thought, eventually, that he might approach Mr. Howland,
his broker, at his home.
After a long wait he found that Mr. Howland was out. He returned to the
operator, leaning over her desk and fingering his quarter as though
loath to leave unsatisfied.
"Call Mr. Bloeckman," he said suddenly. His own words surprised him. The
name had come from some crossing of two suggestions in his mind.
"What's the number, please?"
Scarcely conscious of what he did, Anthony looked up Joseph Bloeckman in
the telephone directory. He could find no such person, and was about to
close the book when it flashed into his mind that Gloria had mentioned a
change of name. It was the matter of a minute to find Joseph Black--then
he waited in the booth while central called the number.
"Hello-o. Mr. Bloeckman--I mean Mr. Black in?"
"No, he's out this evening. Is there any message?" The intonation was
cockney; it reminded him of the rich vocal deferences of Bounds.
"Where is he?"
"Why, ah, who is this, please, sir?"
"This Mr. Patch. Matter of vi'al importance." "Why, he's with a party at
the Boul' Mich', sir."
"Thanks."
Anthony got his five cents change and started for the Boul' Mich', a
popular dancing resort on Forty-fifth Street. It was nearly ten but the
streets were dark and sparsely peopled until the theatres should eject
their spawn an hour later. Anthony knew the Boul' Mich', for he had been
there with Gloria during the year before, and he remembered the
existence of a rule that patrons must be in evening dress. Well, he
would not go up-stairs--he would send a boy up for Bloeckman and wait for
him in the lower hall. For a moment he did not doubt that the whole
project was entirely natural and graceful. To his distorted imagination
Bloeckman had become simply one of his old friends.
The entrance hall of the Boul' Mich' was warm. There were high yellow
lights over a thick green carpet, from the centre of which a white
stairway rose to the dancing floor.
Anthony spoke to the hallboy:
"I want to see Mr. Bloeckman--Mr. Black," he said. "He's up-stairs--have
him paged."
The boy shook his head.
"'Sagainsa rules to have him paged. You know what table he's at?"
"No. But I've got see him."
"Wait an' I'll getcha waiter."
After a short interval a head waiter appeared, bearing a card on which
were charted the table reservations. He darted a cynical look at
Anthony--which, however, failed of its target. Together they bent over
the cardboard and found the table without difficulty--a party of eight,
Mr. Black's own.
"Tell him Mr. Patch. Very, very important."
Again he waited, leaning against the banister and listening to the
confused harmonies of "Jazz-mad" which came floating down the stairs. A
check-girl near him was singing:
_"Out in--the shimmee sanitarium
The jazz-mad nuts reside.
Out in--the shimmee sanitarium
I left my blushing bride.
She went and shook herself insane,
So let her shiver back again--"_
Then he saw Bloeckman descending the staircase, and took a step forward
to meet him and shake hands.
"You wanted to see me?" said the older man coolly.
"Yes," answered Anthony, nodding, "personal matter. Can you jus' step
over here?"
Regarding him narrowly Bloeckman followed Anthony to a half bend made by
the staircase where they were beyond observation or earshot of any one
entering or leaving the restaurant.
"Well?" he inquired.
"Wanted talk to you."
"What about?"
Anthony only laughed--a silly laugh; he intended it to sound casual.
"What do you want to talk to me about?" repeated Bloeckman.
"Wha's hurry, old man?" He tried to lay his hand in a friendly gesture
upon Bloeckman's shoulder, but the latter drew away slightly.
"How've been?"
"Very well, thanks.... See here, Mr. Patch, I've got a party up-stairs.
They'll think it's rude if I stay away too long. What was it you wanted
to see me about?"
For the second time that evening Anthony's mind made an abrupt jump, and
what he said was not at all what he had intended to say.
"Un'erstand you kep' my wife out of the movies."
"What?" Bloeckman's ruddy face darkened in parallel planes of shadows.
"You heard me."
"Look here, Mr. Patch," said Bloeckman, evenly and without changing his
expression, "you're drunk. You're disgustingly and insultingly drunk."
"Not too drunk talk to you," insisted Anthony with a leer. "Firs' place,
my wife wants nothin' whatever do with you. Never did. Un'erstand me?"
"Be quiet!" said the older man angrily. "I should think you'd respect
your wife enough not to bring her into the conversation under these
circumstances."
"Never you min' how I expect my wife. One thing--you leave her alone.
You go to hell!"
"See here--I think you're a little crazy!" exclaimed Bloeckman. He took
two paces forward as though to pass by, but Anthony stepped in his way.
"Not so fas', you Goddam Jew."
For a moment they stood regarding each other, Anthony swaying gently
from side to side, Bloeckman almost trembling with fury.
"Be careful!" he cried in a strained voice.
Anthony might have remembered then a certain look Bloeckman had given
him in the Biltmore Hotel years before. But he remembered nothing,
nothing----
"I'll say it again, you God----"
Then Bloeckman struck out, with all the strength in the arm of a
well-conditioned man of forty-five, struck out and caught Anthony
squarely in the mouth. Anthony cracked up against the staircase,
recovered himself and made a wild drunken swing at his opponent, but