He did not take the bicycle but walked down the street. The moon was up now and the trees were dark against it, and he passed the frame houses with their narrow yards, light coming from the shuttered windows; the unpaved alleys, with their double rows of houses; Conch town, where all was starched, well-shuttered, virtue, failure, grits and boiled grunts, under-nourishment, prejudice, righteousness, inter-breeding and the comforts of religion; the open-doored, lighted Cuban bolito houses, shacks whose only romance was their names; The Red House, Chicha’s, the pressed stone church; its steeples sharp, ugly triangles against the moonlight; the big grounds and the long, black-domed bulk of the convent, handsome in the moonlight; a filling station and a sandwich place, bright-lighted beside a vacant lot where a miniature golf course had been taken out; past the brightly lit main street with the three drug stores, the music store, the five Jew stores, three poolrooms, two barbershops, five beer joints, three ice cream parlors, the five poor and the one good restaurant, two magazine and paper places, four second-hand joints (one of which made keys), a photographer’s, an office building with four dentists’ offices upstairs, the big dime store, a hotel on the corner with taxis opposite; and across, behind the hotel, to the street that led to jungle town, the big unpainted frame house with lights and the girls in the doorway, the mechanical piano going, and a sailor sitting in the street; and then on back, past the back of the brick courthouse with its clock luminous at half-past ten, past the whitewashed jail building shining in the moonlight, to the embowered entrance of the Lilac Time where motor cars filled the alley.
The Lilac Time was brightly lighted and full of people, and as Richard Gordon went in he saw the gambling room was crowded, the wheel turning and the little ball clicking brittle against metal partitions set in the bowl, the wheel turning slowly, the ball whirring, then clicking jumpily until it settled and there was only the turning of the wheel and the rattling of chips. At the bar, the proprietor who was serving with two bartenders, said “‘Allo, ‘Allo. Mist’ Gordon. What you have?”
“I don’t know,” said Richard Gordon.
“You don’t look good. Whatsa matter ? You don’t feel good?”
“No.”
“I fix you something just fine. Fix you up hokay. You ever try a Spanish absinthe,
“Go ahead,” said Gordon.
“You drink him you feel good. Want to fight anybody in a house,” said the proprietor. “Make Mistah Gordon a
Standing at the bar, Richard Gordon drank three
“Give me something else,” he said to the bartender.
“Whatsa matter? You no like a
“No.”
“You got be careful what you drink after him.”
“Give me a straight whiskey.”
The whiskey warmed his tongue and the back of his throat, but it did not change his ideas any, and suddenly, looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar, he knew that drinking was never going to do any good to him now. Whatever he had now he had, and it was from now on, and if he drank himself unconscious when he woke up it would be there.
A tall, very thin young man with a sparse stubble of blonde beard on his chin who was standing next to him at the bar said, “Aren’t you Richard Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Herbert Spellman. We met at a party in Brooklyn one time I believe.”
“Maybe,” said Richard Gordon. “Why not?”
“I liked your last book very much,” said Spellman. “I liked them all.”
“I’m glad,” said Richard Gordon. “Have a drink?”
“Have one with me,” said Spellman. “Have you tried this
“It’s not doing me any good.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Feeling low.”
“Wouldn’t try another?”
“No. I’ll have whiskey.”
“You know, it’s something to me to meet you,” Spellman said. “I don’t suppose you remember me at that party.”
“No. But maybe it was a good party. You’re not supposed to remember a good party, are you?”
“I guess not,” said Spellman. “It was at Margaret Van Brunt’s. Do you remember?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m trying to.”
“I was the one set fire to the place,” Spellman said.
“No,” said Gordon.
“Yes,” said Spellman, happily. “That was me. That was the greatest party I was ever on.”
“What are you doing now?” Gordon asked.
“Not much,” said Spellman. “I get around a little. I’m taking it sort of easy now. Are you writing a new book?”
“Yes. About half done.”
“That’s great,” said Spellman. “What’s it about?”
“A strike in a textile plant.”
“That’s marvellous,” said Spellman. “You know I’m a sucker for anything on the social conflict.”
“What?”
“I love it,” said Spellman. “I go for it above anything else. You’re absolutely the best of the lot. Listen, has it got a beautiful Jewish agitator in it?”
“Why?” asked Richard Gordon, suspiciously.
“It’s a part for Sylvia Sidney. I’m in love with her. Want to see her picture?”