The Beautiful and Damned F. Scott Fitzgerald (top novels to read TXT) 📖

“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 upstairs⁠—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 upstairs⁠—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 anyone 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 upstairs. 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