COCKTAIL
He looked at her questioningly, puzzledly, as the last of the drink went down.
“You—you didn’t put any vermouth in mine?” he asked inquiringly.
“Hell no!” she said. “You said not to.”
“But it tasted odd—as though—”
“But I didn’t,” she assured him. “’Twas the particular bitters I use. They seem to taste different to each person. A fact! But I’ll let you mix the next cocktail yourself.” She set her glass down. “Well now, dea—darling, tell me about your famous aunt, will you? The one who died? Your Aunt Sophronia?”
“Aunt Sophronia?” he echoed. “Oh, just a queer woman, that’s all.”
“Well, what was your particular sentimental bequest from her? For I read that—”
“Mine,” he said smilingly, “was the rubber ball that Buster, her beloved kitty-cat, frolicked with in the long long ago—20 years ago!”
A sudden warm glow surging through his entire being appraised him that there’d been a “kick,” all right, in that Manhattan—or rather vermouthless Manhattan!—cocktail that he’d downed.
She was laughing uproariously at his answer to her question. “My God! I wonder—I wonder if your fond auntie thought you’d frolic around the floor the rest of your life—with dear Buster’s ball?” She grew serious. “And what, honey—that is, if you don’t mind telling me—was your valuable bequest which, of course, you turned into cash within 60 minutes after you received it—oh, yes, you did!—yes, you did!—I know human nature!—what was it?”
“A completely paid-in-full—though, alas, nonconvertible, and nonsalable—private vault in the famous Westchester Mausoleum,” he lied gracefully. “Finished in black Arabian marble—trimmed with hand-hammered bronze fittings—two stained-glass windows instead of the usual one—worth ten grand.”
“Tell that to Sweeney!” she taunted him. “A bequest like that would have been the high spot of that caption under your phiz.”
“I can’t help it,” he expostulated—though realizing how unconvincing he was. “For it—” But at this point an odd phenomenon—in a purely ocular sense, that is—took place in his being. For his eyes had been resting on her cheap brassy alarm clock, ticking away on the wall next her bed, and noting that its hands showed the time to be 9:20. And now—of a sudden—he found he could not see the hands any longer—it was as though the clock had been drawn out of his range of vision. He rubbed his eyes energetically with the knuckles of both hands, like a little boy getting sand in the eyes. “Axcoos,” he began facetiously, “but I fear your brand of alky goes to my glims, and—”
“Oh, I don’t think so, darling. You’re sleepy—maybe?”
“Sleepy?” He marveled at the slowness with which his brain seemed to grasp that single simple word. “Oh—sleepy?” He had it now. “Sleepy?” he repeated. “Yes, by gosh—sleepy. I’ll bet. Yes.” He tried manfully to raise his lids which were trying to drop over his eyes. “Yes—one gets sleepy fast—when one gets sleepy.” Damn the word! It kept bounding about in his brain. Were there no synonyms for it? “Sleepy because—” There was the fool word again! “—because I had—short ni’—las’ ni’—” He caught sight of his own arm lying on the table. And nothing, strangely, had ever looked so inviting. “Min’—if I lay ol’ hea’—” What in hell was wrong with his lips?—he had a strange illusion that he was talking with lips sewed loosely together. “—on ol’ arm? Jus’ min’. Only—one min’.” And on his arm he did lay it. Looking backwardly up at her. The lids not quite so heavy in this recumbent position. “Tire’—is—ri’!” he said. “Or—alky kicks—on em’y stom’k. Ax—coose?—” He closed his eyes a bare minute, so that he could sit erect again. They felt so good that way, however, that he decided to leave them thus for a few seconds. And then, as from a long distance, he heard his own voice: “Tire’—be ri’—wi’ ya—min’—wher’hell get alky?—kicks like mu’.”
If there were any more words from his own lips, he didn’t hear them. For he felt himself falling—falling—falling gently. A sweet feeling! He must be on a wonderfully cushioned elevator. Gangway!
But once, after he had gone down what he hazily estimated must have been a full thousand feet, he reflected foggily: “She—fe’—dow’—wi—me!” For he’d felt a hand shake him. A hand that seemed to come from ’way, ’way out in space—or something! And he was conscious of a voice in his ears that was hers.
“Hey—wake up!”
He knew now that he wasn’t standing in that elevator—as he’d thought he was; that he’d lain down on a feather mattress on the floor of it. For he realized that he simply turned over on the mattress then and there. And let the elevator fall another thousand feet! And just left that bothersome metallic voice behind. But no!—she was still in the elevator! For he felt a hand exploring his side coat pocket.
“No!” was all he said. Or possibly he didn’t actually say it—with his lips. And, if he did, it meant only, “Go ’way—le’slee’.”
And that was quite all he ever did remember—about that wonderfully cushioned elevator with the soft mattress on its floor. For complete darkness had descended on him.
A darkness from which, nevertheless, he emerged, pronouncedly conscious, as he did so, that it had lasted almost fully five minutes, and conscious also—due to the fact that he had been blinking his eyes for some seconds irritatedly against certain light that was trying to pry viciously into and under their very lids—that he was not in any elevator, by any manner of means, but sitting in a chair—and that his head was on his arm, and his arm, therefore, on—what? He opened his eyes as wide as he could get them. And sat stupidly erect. And, still blinking, stared in front of him.
Only to find himself gawking at a brass alarm clock which sagged drunkenly back and forth into the focus of his eyes—then out—but which, each time it passed through the focus, showed the time to be 25 minutes to 12. By utter sheer force, he pulled his gaze from that fascinating oscillating clock face, and cast it about. Only to find himself surveying a scene that had a decided flavor of familiarity—but of which he could make nothing definite. He was seated at a table. All alone. In a small room. On the left opposite corner of the table stood a Mexican hat. A hat with Gargantuan cartlike metal wheels around its sides and crown—wheels which seemed to be ever, ever revolving! Atop the conical top of the hat, reposed a bright new silver dime. The dime was so bright, however, lying face upward against the overhanging light, that a stab of pain went through his eyes. And he had to remove them quickly. And so took in the rest of the table’s contents: To empty cocktail glasses—one overturned—two oblongs of paper, bearing typewriting and—and stenciling—and handwriting—the residual liquor from the overturned glass spilled over and onto one of the two as well as the table surface next it. The other oblong had escaped submergence by the liquor. Sub—mergence? Where had he heard that word bef—Funny! The whole setup. What was it about? Where was it? Why—
Oh, yes—yes! Bit by bit the events of the evening commenced to come back to him. Though he was conscious that he was considering events—time—space—everything—through a weirdly distorting mirror of some sort—worse, a mirror with great holes in the silvering!—for the picture just wouldn’t form—stay—become clear—tie together. Christ’s name—what now? There had been a girl—in a doorway—yes—and so he’d gone out on a story—hell no!—he’d been out on a story—oh, yes—and there’d been a girl in a doorway—and they’d gone up to Harlem to—to call on some Mexican—why, yes, a Mexican named Nick—no, no, no, Nick ran an art museum—now where did they go?—why—they went upstairs—yes—and they sat down at a table—and they—He stared solemnly at the table top. His head pounded. And his face burned. But he kept at the puzzle. They had sat down at a table—but—why—this was the table, of course! But what—what did the two of them do, then?—oh, yes—they had talked—and she’d said she would give him a story—a story about his Aunt Sophro—oh, no, no, not that—a story about a rotogravure sect—no, that was wrong, too!—what in hell had they talked abou—anyway they’d had a drink—he remembered the taste—’twas on his tongue this minute—yes, they’d had a—but these were the very glasses—yes—but where the devil was she?
His eyes swung helplessly rightward toward her bureau. A bag that he seemed somehow to remember having been on it—was gone! The drawers were all pulled out, too. And the toilet articles—yes, there’d been celluloid toil—well, they were gone, whatever they’d been. He swung his gaze leftward. The key of the room was, at least, inside the lock of the door!
Now this girl—this girl—who was she, anyway?—well, anyway, had she tak—she was a brunette—yes, keen black eyes—well now, had she taken a run-out powder on him? Because—because—but now he realized that that Mexican hat was his own—therefore, had she—oh yes, he’d dressed for his story before going out—well, had she taken a run-out powder on him—because he was a poor “would-be” newspaperman—and clad in a costume in which he couldn’t very well take her out to a swell “jernt”? Why—’twould have done—to go up to Harlem in? He looked ruefully down at his clean bright new costu—
Then gasped!
For his Mexican jacket was unbuttoned from top to bottom. So also his pink silk shirt, and the underwear beneath—for he saw his own skin! But that was not all he saw—by any manner or means.
Every pocket in his clothing, bar none, was inside out!
Side coat pockets—even the slit-like ’kerchief pocket built in the very edging of the coat—pants pockets—he cocked an eye backwardly, sidewisedly downward—saw his right hip pocket hanging out like a sleeve—good gosh!—he surveyed his unbuttoned jacket and unbuttoned shirt again—
And now his breath left him in a sharp jerk—as he caught sight of a pocket, inside out, that lay on the interior of that jacket instead of the exterior—the breast pocket!—why! good heavens!—that was the pocket in which, earlier tonight, he’d put Aunt Sophronia’s double-bequest—the $50,000 diamond necklace with the pendant $100 gold piece encased in its silver rim—and the rubber ball that Buster had played with—
Gone!
Gone! Unless, perchance, ’twas a joke—and that girl was laughing at him in a corner. He turned hastily about. But nobody was in any corner. His eyes fell on the washbowl standing out from the wall in back of him. And at that moment, strangely, everything came suddenly clear—the curtain snapped away from his mind.
Leaden-armed, he reached out for that bright dime, atop that cartwheel-studded hat, and put it snugly inside his right-hand coat pocket, turning the lining back inside by the very action. Equally as leaden-armed, he tugged at the oblong of paper that was glued down—blearily saw now that it was the Pedro Lopez check—sensed that it was hopelessly stuck tight—would not come—and so took possession of the other one—Montesquez!—Ramon de Montesquez—it wasn’t glued down, and was quickly freed—and he transferred it to his pocket. Still and ever as leaden-armed, he reached now for the tall hat, and put it on his head. Then he rose, stiffly—achingly. Leaden-leggedly.
And, a bit staggeringly, went straight to that washbowl. Where he reached down, with his left fingertips, under the surface of the brown-stained, soapsudsy, pink-tinged water that was blocked in it. Till they touched something lying on the bottom of the bowl—something hard and crystalline. Which he seized, and pulled out. And held up. Solemnly. Reflectively. A necklace it was, from which hung a yellow disk—itself now dripping sudsy drops!—but something which, God willing, unlike a certain spurious check in his pocket, could be made to buy passage on a plane. He shook the necklace—once—twice—thrice—and then inserted it back in that breast pocket. And turned from the bowl. Though, a step away, he turned back. And reaching again down in, withdrew something that lay over the drain hole—something that was forcibly held there by a sort of suction. He had to pull hard—to pluck it out. But got it out. Out of even the water. A rubber ball! Buster’s playball! Dear Aunt Sophro—the water even now was gurgling gaily, merrily, out of the bowl. Was gone!
He tossed the ball away—where, he knew not. And staggered to the door. Unlocked it. Staggered downstairs. Honky-Tonk Row was almost deserted. Outside, directly in front of the place, at the curb, stood a long green bus—with no passengers in it. A number on it said just “Special No. 3.” He staggered across the sidewalk, and up into it, back of where the driver sat.
The latter turned—foot on starting pedal—hand on wheel.
“Listen, brother,” he said, “I fear you’re drunk. And if you are, you’d better learn here and now that this bus don’t go down to Mextown!—it goes to Arrow Airfield uptown—and, before going there, stops for 20 full minutes in front of the Upper New York Night Safe Repository and Bank. So if you want Mextown, you’d better—”
He stopped, as Derek Wingblade’s bright new dime, going into the dime-receiver, made a loud jingling sound.
“Okay, brother!” the latter was saying. “I may be a bit drunk—yes!—but not veree drunk! And whether or no, I happen to be going to both of those places you mention. Drive on!”