 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
III
About nine o'clock of the same night two human
beings came out of a cheap restaurant in Sixth Avenue.
They were ugly, ill-nourished, devoid of all except the
very lowest form of intelligence, and without even that
animal exuberance that in itself brings color into life;
they were lately vermin-ridden, cold, and hungry in a
dirty town of a strange land; they were poor, friendless;
tossed as driftwood from their births, they would be
tossed as driftwood to their deaths. They were dressed
in the uniform of the United States Army, and on the
shoulder of each was the insignia of a drafted division
from New Jersey, landed three days before.
The taller of the two was named Carrol Key, a name
hinting that in his veins, however thinly diluted by
generations of degeneration, ran blood of some potentiality.
But one could stare endlessly at the long, chinless
face, the dull, watery eyes, and high cheek-bones,
without finding a suggestion of either ancestral worth
or native resourcefulness.
His companion was swart and bandy-legged, with
rat-eyes and a much-broken hooked nose. His defiant
air was obviously a pretense, a weapon of protection
borrowed from that world of snarl and snap, of physical
bluff and physical menace, in which he had always
lived. His name was Gus Rose.
Leaving the café they sauntered down Sixth Avenue,
wielding toothpicks with great gusto and complete detachment.
"Where to?" asked Rose, in a tone which implied
that he would not be surprised if Key suggested the
South Sea Islands.
"What you say we see if we can getta holda some
liquor?" Prohibition was not yet. The ginger in the
suggestion was caused by the law forbidding the selling
of liquor to soldiers.
Rose agreed enthusiastically.
"I got an idea," continued Key, after a moment's
thought, "I got a brother somewhere."
"In New York?"
"Yeah. He's an old fella." He meant that he was
an elder brother. "He's a waiter in a hash joint."
"Maybe he can get us some."
"I'll say he can!"
"B'lieve me, I'm goin' to get this darn uniform off
me to-morra. Never get me in it again, neither. I'm
goin' to get me some regular clothes."
"Say, maybe I'm not."
As their combined finances were something less than
five dollars, this intention can be taken largely as a
pleasant game of words, harmless and consoling. It
seemed to please both of them, however, for they reinforced
it with chuckling and mention of personages
high in biblical circles, adding such further emphasis
as "Oh, boy!" "You know!" and "I'll say so!" repeated
many times over.
The entire mental pabulum of these two men consisted
of an offended nasal comment extended through
the years upon the institution—army, business, or poorhouse—which
kept them alive, and toward their immediate
superior in that institution. Until that very
morning the institution had been the "government"
and the immediate superior had been the "Cap'n"—
from these two they had glided out and were now in the
vaguely uncomfortable state before they should adopt
their next bondage. They were uncertain, resentful,
and somewhat ill at ease. This they hid by pretending
an elaborate relief at being out of the army, and by
assuring each other that military discipline should never
again rule their stubborn, liberty-loving wills. Yet,
as a matter of fact, they would have felt more at home
in a prison than in this new-found and unquestionable
freedom.
Suddenly Key increased his gait. Rose, looking up
and following his glance, discovered a crowd that was
collecting fifty yards down the street. Key chuckled
and began to run in the direction of the crowd; Rose
thereupon also chuckled and his short bandy legs
twinkled beside the long, awkward strides of his companion.
Reaching the outskirts of the crowd they immediately
became an indistinguishable part of it. It was composed
of ragged civilians somewhat the worse for liquor,
and of soldiers representing many divisions and many
stages of sobriety, all clustered around a gesticulating
little Jew with long black whiskers, who was waving his
arms and delivering an excited but succinct harangue.
Key and Rose, having wedged themselves into the
approximate parquet, scrutinized him with acute suspicion,
as his words penetrated their common consciousness.
"—What have you got outa the war?" he was crying
fiercely. "Look arounja, look arounja! Are you rich?
Have you got a lot of money offered you?—no; you're
lucky if you're alive and got both your legs; you're
lucky if you came back an' find your wife ain't gone
off with some other fella that had the money to buy
himself out of the war! That's when you're lucky!
Who got anything out of it except J. P. Morgan an'
John D. Rockerfeller?"
At this point the little Jew's oration was interrupted
by the hostile impact of a fist upon the point of his
bearded chin and he toppled backward to a sprawl on
the pavement.
"God damn Bolsheviki!" cried the big soldier-blacksmith
who had delivered the blow. There was a
rumble of approval, the crowd closed in nearer.
The Jew staggered to his feet, and immediately went
down again before a half-dozen reaching-in fists. This
time he stayed down, breathing heavily, blood oozing
from his lip where it was cut within and without.
There was a riot of voices, and in a minute Rose and
Key found themselves flowing with the jumbled crowd
down Sixth Avenue under the leadership of a thin civilian
in a slouch hat and the brawny soldier who had summarily
ended the oration. The crowd had marvellously
swollen to formidable proportions and a stream of more
non-committal citizens followed it along the sidewalks
lending their moral support by intermittent huzzas.
"Where we goin'?" yelled Key to the man nearest
him.
His neighbor pointed up to the leader in the slouch
hat.
"That guy knows where there's a lot of 'em! We're
goin' to show 'em!"
"We're goin' to show 'em!" whispered Key delightedly
a man on the other side.
Down Sixth Avenue swept the procession, joined here
and there by soldiers and marines, and now and then by
civilians, who came up with the inevitable cry that
they were just out of the army themselves, as if presenting
it as a card of admission to a newly formed Sporting
and Amusement Club.
Then the procession swerved down a cross street and
headed for Fifth Avenue and the word filtered here and
there that they were bound for a Red meeting at Tolliver
Hall.
"Where is it?"
The question went up the line and a moment later
the answer floated back. Tolliver Hall was down on
Tenth Street. There was a bunch of other sojers who
was goin' to break it up and was down there now!
But Tenth Street had a faraway sound and at the
word a general groan went up and a score of the procession
dropped out. Among these were Rose and Key,
who slowed down to a saunter and let the more enthusiastic
sweep on by.
"I'd rather get some liquor," said Key as they halted
and made their way to the sidewalk amid cries of "Shell
hole!" and "Quitters!"
"Does your brother work around here?" asked Rose,
assuming the air of one passing from the superficial to
the eternal.
"He oughta," replied Key. "I ain't seen him for
a coupla years. I been out to Pennsylvania since.
Maybe he don't work at night anyhow. It's right along
here. He can get us some o'right if he ain't gone."
They found the place after a few minutes' patrol of
the street—a shoddy tablecloth restaurant between Fifth
Avenue and Broadway. Here Key went inside to inquire
"He ain't here no more," said Key emerging. "He's
a waiter up to Delmonico's."
Rose nodded wisely, as if he'd expected as much. One
should not be surprised at a capable man changing jobs
occasionally. He knew a waiter once—there ensued a
long conversation as they walked as to whether waiters
made more in actual wages than in tips—it was decided
that it depended on the social tone of the joint wherein
the waiter labored. After having given each other
vivid pictures of millionaires dining at Delmonico's
and throwing away fifty-dollar bills after their first
quart of champagne, both men thought privately of
becoming waiters. In fact, Key's narrow brow was secreting
a resolution to ask his brother to get him a
job.
"A waiter can drink up all the champagne those
fellas leave in bottles," suggested Rose with some relish,
and then added as an afterthought, "Oh, boy!"
By the time they reached Delmonico's it was half
past ten, and they were surprised to see a stream of taxis
driving up to the door one after the other and emitting
marvelous, hatless young ladies, each one attended by a
stiff young gentleman in evening clothes.
"It's a party," said Rose with some awe. "Maybe
we better not go in. He'll be busy."
"No, he won't. He'll be o'right."
After some hesitation they entered what appeared to
them to be the least elaborate door and, indecision
falling upon them immediately, stationed themselves
nervously in an inconspicuous corner of the small dining-room
in which they found themselves. They took
off their caps and held them in their hands. A cloud
of gloom fell upon them and both started when a
comet-like waiter who streaked across the floor and
vanished through another door on the other side.
There had been three of these lightning passages before
the seekers mustered the acumen to hail a waiter.
He turned, looked at them suspiciously, and then approached
with soft, catlike steps, as if prepared at any
moment to turn and flee.
"Say," began Key, "say, do you know my brother?
He's a waiter here."
"His name is Key," annotated Rose.
Yes, the waiter knew Key. He was up-stairs, he
thought. There was a big dance going on in the main
ballroom. He'd tell him.
Ten minutes later George Key appeared and greeted
his brother with the utmost suspicion; his first and
most natural thought being that he was going to be
asked for money.
George was tall and weak chinned, but there his resemblance
to his brother ceased. The waiter's eyes
were not dull, they were alert and twinkling, and his
manner was suave, in-door, and faintly superior. They
exchanged formalities. George was married and had
three children. He seemed fairly interested, but not
impressed by the news that Carrol had been abroad in
the army. This disappointed Carrol.
"George," said the younger brother, these amenities
having been disposed of, "we want to get some
booze, and they won't sell us none. Can you get
us some?"
George considered.
"Sure. Maybe I can. It may be half an hour,
though."
"All right," agreed Carrol, "we'll wait."
At this Rose started to sit down in a convenient chair,
but was hailed to his feet by the indignant George.
"Hey! Watch out, you! Can't sit down here!
This room's all set for a twelve o'clock banquet."
"I ain't goin' to hurt it," said Rose resentfully.
"I been through the delouser."
"Never mind," said George sternly, "if the head
waiter seen me here talkin' he'd romp all over me."
"Oh."
The mention of the head waiter was full explanation
to the other two; they fingered their overseas caps nervously
and waited for a suggestion.
"I tell you," said George, after a pause, "I got a
place you can wait; you just come here with me."
They followed him out the far door, through a deserted
pantry and up a pair of dark winding stairs,
emerging finally into a small room chiefly furnished by
piles of pails and stacks of scrubbing brushes, and illuminated
by a single dim electric light. There he left
them, after soliciting two dollars and agreeing to return
in half an hour with a quart of whiskey.
"George is makin' money, I bet," said Key gloomily
as he seated himself on an inverted pail. "I bet he's
making fifty dollars a week."
Rose nodded his head and spat.
"I bet he is, too."
"What'd he say the dance was of?"
"A lot of college fellas. Yale College."
They both nodded solemnly at each other.
"Wonder where that crowda sojers is now?"
"I don't know. I know that's too damn long to walk
for me."
"Me too. You don't catch me walkin' that far."
Ten minutes later restlessness seized them.
"I'm goin' to see what's out here," said Rose, stepping
cautiously toward the other door.
It was a swinging door of green baize and he pushed
it open a cautious inch.
"See anything?"
For answer Rose drew in his breath sharply.
"Doggone! Here's some liquor I'll say!"
"Liquor?"
Key joined Rose at the door, and I ked eagerly.
"I'll tell the world that's liquor," he aid, after a moment
of concentrated gazing.
It was a room about twice as large as the one they
were in—and in it was prepared a radi nt f a t of spirits.
There were long walls of alternating bottl s set along
two white covered tables; whiskey, gin, brandy, French
and Italian vermouths, and orange juice, not to mention
an array of syphons and two great empty pun h bowls.
The room was as yet uninhabited.
"It's for this dance they're just starting," whispered
Key; "hear the violins playin'? Say, boy, I wouldn't
mind havin' a dance."
They closed the door softly and exchanged a glance of
mutual comprehension. There was no need of feeling
each other out.
"I'd like to get my hands on a coupla those bottles,"
said Rose emphatically.
"Me too."
"Do you suppose we'd get seen?"
Key considered.
"Maybe we better wait till they start drinkin' 'em.
They got 'em all laid out now, and they know how many
of them there are."
They debated this point for several minutes. Rose
was all for getting his hands on a bottle now and tucking
it under his coat before any one came into the room.
Key, however, advocated caution. He was afraid he
might get his brother in trouble. If they waited till
some of the bottles were opened it'd be all right to take
fellas.
While they were still engaged in argument George
Key hurried through the room and, barely grunting at
them, disappeared by way of the green baize door. A
minute later they heard several corks pop, and then the
sound of cracking ice and splashing liquid. George was
mixing the punch.
The soldiers exchanged delighted grins.
"Oh, boy!" whispered Rose.
George reappeared.
"Just keep low, boys," he said quickly. "I'll have
your stuff for you in five minutes."
He disappeared through the door by which he had come.
As soon as his footsteps receded down the stairs, Rose,
after a cautious look, darted into the room of delights
and reappeared with a bottle in his hand.
"Here's what I say," he said, as they sat radiantly
digesting their first drink. "We'll wait till he comes up,
and we'll ask him if we can't just stay here and drink
what he brings us—see. We'll tell him we haven't got
any place to drink it—see. Then we can sneak in
there whenever there ain't nobody in that there room
and tuck a bottle under our coats. We'll have enough
to last us a coupla days—see?"
"Sure," agreed Rose enthusiastically. "Oh, boy!
And if we want to we can sell it to sojers any time we
want to."
They were silent for a moment thinking rosily of
this idea. Then Key reached up and unhooked the
collar of his O. D. coat.
"It's hot in here, ain't it?"
Rose agreed earnestly.
"Hot as hell."
| Tales of the jazz age | |