Half a dozen more people had drifted into the restaurant — two or three workmen, the newsdealer from over the way — and Edna was too busy for a few minutes to be bothered with attentions. Suddenly Charles Stuart became aware that the sour-eyed Greek had raised his hand and was beckoning him. Somewhat puzzled he left his desk and approached the table.
“Say, fella,” said the Greek, “what time does the boss come in?”
“Why — two o’clock. Just a few minutes now.”
“All right. That’s all. I just wanted to speak to him about something.”
Stuart realized that Edna was standing beside the table; both men turned toward her.
“Say, girlie,” said the young man, “I want to talk to you. Sit down.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. The boss don’t mind.” He turned menacingly to Stuart. “She can sit down, can’t she?”
Stuart did not answer.
“I say she can sit down, can’t she?” said the young man more intently, and added, “Speak up, you little dummy.”
Still Stuart did not answer. Strange blood currents were flowing all over his body. He was frightened; anything said determinedly had a way of frightening him. But he could not move.
“Sh!” said the Greek to his companion.
But the younger man was angered.
“Say,” he broke out, “some time somebody’s going to take a paste at you when you don’t answer what they say. Go on back to your desk!”
Still Stuart did not move.
“Go on away!” repeated the young man in a dangerous voice. “Hurry up! Run!”
Then Stuart ran. He ran as hard as he was able. But instead of running away from the young man he ran toward him, stretching out his hands as he came near in a sort of straight arm that brought his two palms, with all the force of his hundred and thirty pounds, against his victim’s face. With a crash of china the young man went over backward in his chair and, his head striking the edge of the next table, lay motionless on the floor.
The restaurant was in a small uproar. There was a terrified scream from Edna, an indignant protest from the Greek, and the customers arose with exclamations from their tables. Just at this moment the door opened and Mr. Cushmael came in.
“Why you little fool!” cried Edna wrathfully. “What are you trying to do? Lose me my job?”
“What’s this?” demanded Mr. Cushmael, hurrying over. “What’s the idea?”
“Mr. Stuart pushed a customer in the face!” cried a waitress, taking Edna’s cue. “For no reason at all!”
The population of the restaurant had now gathered around the prostrate victim. He was doused thoroughly with water and a folded tablecloth was placed under his head.
“Oh, he did, did he?” shouted Mr. Cushmael in a terrible voice, seizing Stuart by the lapels of his coat.
“He’s raving crazy!” sobbed Edna. “He was in jail last night for pushing a lady in the face. He told me so himself!”
A large laborer reached over and grasped Stuart’s small trembling arm. Stuart gazed around dumbly. His mouth was quivering.
“Look what you done!” shouted Mr. Cushmael. “You like to kill a man.”
Stuart shivered violently. His mouth opened and he fought the air for a moment. Then he uttered a half-articulate sentence:
“Only meant to push him in the face.”
“Push him in the face?” ejaculated Cushmael in a frenzy. “So you got to be a pusher-in-the-face, eh? Well, we’ll push your face right into jail!”
“I — I couldn’t help it,” gasped Stuart. “Sometimes I can’t help it.” His voice rose unevenly. “I guess I’m a dangerous man and you better take me and lock me up!” He turned wildly to Cushmael, “I’d push you in the face if he’d let go my arm. Yes, I would! I’d push you — right-in-the-face!”
For a moment an astonished silence fell, broken by the voice of one of the waitresses who had been groping under the table.
“Some stuff dropped out of this fella’s back pocket when he tipped over,” she explained, getting to her feet. “It’s — why, it’s a revolver and — “
She had been about to say handkerchief, but as she looked at what she was holding her mouth fell open and she dropped the thing quickly on the table. It was a small black mask about the size of her hand.
Simultaneously the Greek, who had been shifting uneasily upon his feet ever since the accident, seemed to remember an important engagement that had slipped his mind. He dashed suddenly around the table and made for the front door, but it opened just at that moment to admit several customers who, at the cry of “Stop him!” obligingly spread out their arms. Barred in that direction, he jumped an overturned chair, vaulted over the delicatessen counter, and set out for the kitchen, collapsing precipitately in the firm grasp of the chef in the doorway.
“Hold him! Hold him!” screamed Mr. Cushmael, realizing the turn of the situation. “They’re after my cash drawer!”
Willing hands assisted the Greek over the counter, where he stood panting and gasping under two dozen excited eyes.
“After my money, hey?” shouted the proprietor, shaking his fist under the captive’s nose.
The stout man nodded, panting.
“We’d of got it too!” he gasped, “if it hadn’t been for that little pusher-in-the-face.’’
Two dozen eyes looked around eagerly. The little pusher-in-the-face had disappeared.
The beggar on the corner had just decided to tip the policeman and shut up shop for the night when he suddenly felt a small, somewhat excited hand fall on his shoulder.
“Help a poor man get a place to sleep — “ he was beginning automatically when he recognized the little cashier from the restaurant. “Hello, brother,” he added, leering up at him and changing his tone.
“You know what?” cried the little cashier in a strangely ominous tone. “I’m going to push you in the face!”
“What do you mean?” snarled the beggar. “Why, you Ga — “
He got no farther. The little man seemed to run at him suddenly, holding out his hands, and there was a sharp, smacking sound as the beggar came in contact with the sidewalk.
“You’re a fakir!” shouted Charles Stuart wildly. “I gave you a dollar when I first came here, before I found out you had ten times as much as I had. And you never gave it back!”
A stout, faintly intoxicated gentlemen who was strutting expansively along the other sidewalk had seen the incident and came running benevolently across the street.
“What does this mean!” he exclaimed in a hearty, shocked voice. “Why, poor fellow — “ He turned indignant eyes on Charles Stuart and knelt unsteadily to raise the beggar.
The beggar stopped cursing and assumed a piteous whine.
“I’m a poor man, Cap’n — “
“This is — this is horrible!” cried the Samaritan, with tears in his eyes. “It’s a disgrace! Police! Pol — !”
He got no farther. His hands, which he was raising for a megaphone, never reached his face — other hands reached his face, however, hands held stiffly out from a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound body! He sank down suddenly upon the beggar’s abdomen, forcing out a sharp curse which faded into a groan.
“This beggar’ll take you home in his car!” shouted the little man who stood over him. “He’s got it parked around the corner.”
Turning his face toward the hot strip of sky which lowered over the city the little man began to laugh, with amusement at first, then loudly and triumphantly until his high laughter ran out in the quiet street with a weird, elfish sound, echoing up the sides of the tall buildings, growing shriller and shriller until people blocks away heard its eerie cadence on the air and stopped to listen.
Still laughing the little man divested himself of his coat and then of his vest and hurriedly freed his neck of tie and collar. Then he spat upon his hands and with a wild, shrill, exultant cry began to run down the dark street.
He was going to clean up New Yo
rk, and his first objective was the disagreeable policeman on the corner!
They caught him at two o’clock, and the crowd which had joined in the chase were flabbergasted when they found that the ruffian was only a weeping little man in his shirt sleeves. Someone at the station house was wise enough to give him an opiate instead of a padded cell, and in the morning he felt much better.
Mr. Cushmael, accompanied by an anxious young lady with crimson hair, called at the jail before noon.
“I’ll get you out,” cried Mr. Cushmael, shaking hands excitedly through the bars. “One policeman, he’ll explain it all to the other.”
“And there’s a surprise for you too,” added Edna softly, taking his other hand. “Mr. Cushmael’s got a big heart and he’s going to make you his day man now.”
“All right,” agreed Charles Stuart calmly. “But I can’t start till to-morrow.”
“Why not?”
“Because this afternoon I got to go to a matinee — with a friend.”
He relinquished his employer’s hand but kept Edna’s white fingers twined firmly in his.
“One more thing,” he went on in a strong, confident voice that was new to him, “if you want to get me off don’t have the case come up in the Thirty-fifth Street court.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he answered with a touch of swagger in his voice, “that’s the judge I had when I was arrested last time.”
“Charles,” whispered Edna suddenly, “what would you do if I refused to go with you this afternoon?”
He bristled. Color came into his cheeks and he rose defiantly from his bench.
“Why, I’d — I’d — “
“Never mind,” she said, flushing slightly. “You’d do nothing of the kind.”
ONE OF MY OLDEST FRIENDS
All afternoon Marion had been happy. She wandered from room to room of their little apartment, strolling into the nursery to help the nurse-girl feed the children from dripping spoons, and then reading for a while on their new sofa, the most extravagant thing they had bought in their five years of marriage.
When she heard Michael’s step in the hall she turned her head and listened; she liked to hear him walk, carefully always as if there were children sleeping close by.
“Michael.”
“Oh — hello.” He came into the room, a tall, broad, thin man of thirty with a high forehead and kind black eyes.
“I’ve got some news for you,” he said immediately. “Charley Hart’s getting married.”
“No!”
He nodded.
“Who’s he marrying?”
“One of the little Lawrence girls from home.” He hesitated. “She’s arriving in New York to-morrow and I think we ought to do something for them while she’s here. Charley’s about my oldest friend.”
“Let’s have them up for dinner — “
“I’d like to do something more than that,” he interrupted. “Maybe a theater party. You see — “ Again he hesitated. “It’d be a nice courtesy to Charley.”
“All right,” agreed Marion, “but we musn’t spend much — and I don’t think we’re under any obligation.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“I mean,” went on Marion, “we — we hardly see Charley any more. We hardly ever see him at all.”
“Well, you know how it is in New York,” explained Michael apologetically. “He’s just as busy as I am. He has made a big name for himself and I suppose he’s pretty much in demand all the time.”
They always spoke of Charley Hart as their oldest friend. Five years before, when Michael and Marion were first married, the three of them had come to New York from the same Western city. For over a year they had seen Charley nearly every day and no domestic adventure, no uprush of their hopes and dreams, was too insignificant for his ear. His arrival in times of difficulty never failed to give a pleasant, humorous cast to the situation.
Of course Marion’s babies had made a difference, and it was several years now since they had called up Charley at midnight to say that the pipes had broken or the ceiling was falling in on their heads; but so gradually had they drifted apart that Michael still spoke of Charley rather proudly as if he saw him every day. For a while Charley dined with them once a month and all three found a great deal to say; but the meetings never broke up any more with, “I’ll give you a ring to-morrow.” Instead it was, “You’ll have to come to dinner more often,” or even, after three or four years, “We’ll see you soon.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly willing to give a little party,” said Marion now, looking speculatively about her. “Did you suggest a definite date?”
“Week from Saturday.” His dark eyes roamed the floor vaguely. “We can take up the rugs or something.”
“No.” She shook her head. “We’ll have a dinner, eight people, very formal and everything, and afterwards we’ll play cards.”
She was already speculating on whom to invite. Charley of course, being an artist, probably saw interesting people every day.
“We could have the Willoughbys,” she suggested doubtfully. “She’s on the stage or something — and he writes movies.”
“No — that’s not it,” objected Michael. “He probably meets that crowd at lunch and dinner every day until he’s sick of them. Besides, except for the Willoughbys, who else like that do we know? I’ve got a better idea. Let’s collect a few people who’ve drifted down here from home. They’ve all followed Charley’s career and they’d probably enjoy seeing him again. I’d like them to find out how natural and unspoiled he is after all.”
After some discussion they agreed on this plan and within an hour Marion had her first guest on the telephone:
“It’s to meet Charley Hart’s fiancee,” she explained. “Charley Hart, the artist. You see, he’s one of our oldest friends.”
As she began her preparations her enthusiasm grew. She rented a serving-maid to assure an impeccable service and persuaded the neighborhood florist to come in person and arrange the flowers. All the “people from home” had accepted eagerly and the number of guests had swollen to ten.
“What’ll we talk about, Michael?” she demanded nervously on the eve of the party. “Suppose everything goes wrong and everybody gets mad and goes home?”
He laughed.
“Nothing will. You see, these people all know each other — “
The phone on the table asserted itself and Michael picked up the receiver.
“Hello . . . why, hello, Charley.”
Marion sat up alertly in her chair.
“Is that so? Well, I’m very sorry. I’m very, very sorry… I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Can’t he come?” broke out Marion.
“Sh!” Then into the phone, “Well, it certainly is too bad, Charley. No, it’s no trouble for us at all. We’re just sorry you’re ill.”
With a dismal gesture Michael replaced the receiver.
“The Lawrence girl had to go home last night and Charley’s sick in bed with grip.”
“Do you mean he can’t come?”
“He can’t come.”
Marion’s face contracted suddenly and her eyes filled with tears.
“He says he’s had the doctor all day,” explained Michael dejectedly. “He’s got fever and they didn’t even want him to go to the telephone.”
“I don’t care,” sobbed Marion. “I think it’s terrible. After we’ve invited all these people to meet him.”
“People can’t help being sick.”
“Yes they can,” she wailed illogically, “they can help it some way. And if the Lawrence girl was going to leave last night why didn’t he let us know then?”
“He said she left unexpectedly. Up to yesterday afternoon they both intended to come.”
“I don’t think he c-cares a bit. I’ll bet he’s glad he’s sick. If he’d cared he’d have brought her to see us long ago.”
She stood up suddenly.
“I’ll tell you one thin
g,” she assured him vehemently, “I’m just going to telephone everybody and call the whole thing off.”
“Why, Marion — “
But in spite of his half-hearted protests she picked up the phone book and began looking for the first number.
They bought theater tickets next day hoping to fill the hollowness which would invest the evening. Marion had wept when the unintercepted florist arrived at five with boxes of flowers and she felt that she must get out of the house to avoid the ghosts who would presently people it. In silence they ate an elaborate dinner composed of all the things that she had bought for the party.
“It’s only eight,” said Michael afterwards, “I think it’d be sort of nice if we dropped in on Charley for a minute, don’t you?”
“Why, no,” Marion answered, startled, “I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Why not? If he’s seriously sick I’d like to see how well he’s being taken care of.”
She saw that he had made up his mind, so she fought down her instinct against the idea and they taxied to a tall pile of studio apartments on Madison Avenue.
“You go on in,” urged Marion nervously, “I’d rather wait out here.”
“Please come in.”
“Why? He’ll be in bed and he doesn’t want any women around.”
“But he’d like to see you — it’d cheer him up. And he’d know that we understood about to-night. He sounded awfully depressed over the phone.”
He urged her from the cab.
“Let’s only stay a minute,” she whispered tensely as they went up in the elevator. “The show starts at half past eight.”
“Apartment on the right,” said the elevator man.
They rang the bell and waited. The door opened and they walked directly into Charley Hart’s great studio room.
It was crowded with people; from end to end ran a long lamp-lit dinner table strewn with ferns and young roses, from which a gay murmur of laughter and conversation arose into the faintly smoky air. Twenty women in evening dress sat on one side in a row chatting across the flowers at twenty men, with an elation born of the sparkling Burgundy which dripped from many bottles into thin chilled glass. Up on the high narrow balcony which encircled the room a string quartet was playing something by Stravinski in a key that was pitched just below the women’s voices and filled the air like an audible wine.
Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated) Page 312