Plexus (18 page)

“Don't you think I had better finish that copy?” I put in, addressing the old man.

“Take it easy,” he said, “we have lots of time.… Tell me, what did you do before you began writing?”

I gave him a brief account of my youthful adventures. When I began relating my experiences in the cosmococcic realm he sat up. From here on it was one interruption after another. He kept forcing me to go into more and more detail. Presently he was on his feet again, moving about with tigerish strides. “Go on, go on!” he urged, “I'm listening.” He swallowed avidly every word. He demanded more and more. “Bully, bully!” he kept exclaiming.

Suddenly he stopped dead in front of me. “Have you written about this yet?”

I shook my head.

“Good! Now, supposing you were to write a serial for me.… Do you think you could write it the way you were telling it a moment ago?”

“I don't know, sir. I could try.”

“Try?
Shucks! Do it, man. Do it right away.…
Here!”
and he handed Ned the pages I had written. “Don't let this man waste his time on this nonsense. Get somebody else to do it.”

“But there's nobody to do it,” said Ned, delighted and crestfallen at the same time.

“Go out and find someone, then,” bellowed McFarland. “Copywriters aren't hard to find.”

“Yes sir,” said Ned.

Once again McFarland drew close to me, this time pointing his finger right in my face. “As for you, young man,” he said, almost snorting now, “I want you to go home and start that serial tonight. We'll start you off in the first issue. But don't get literary on me, do you understand?
I want you to tell your story just as you related it to me a minute ago. Can you dictate to a stenographer? I suppose not. Too bad. That would be the best way to get it out of you. Now listen to me.… I'm not a spring chicken any more. I've had lots of experience and I've met lots of men who thought themselves geniuses. Don't worry about whether you're a genius or not. Don't even think of yourself as a writer. Just pour it out—easy and natural—as if you were telling it to a friend. You'll be telling it to
me
, see? I'm your friend. I don't know if you're a great writer or not. You've got a story to tell, that's what interests me.… If you do this chore satisfactorily, I'll have something more exciting for you to tackle. I can send you to China, India, Africa, South America—wherever you please. The world is big and there's room in it for a lad like you. By the time I was twenty-one I had been around the world three times. By the time I was twenty-five I knew eight languages. By the time I was thirty I owned a string of magazines. I've been a millionaire twice over. Doesn't mean a thing. Don't let money occupy your thoughts! I've been broke too—
five times
. I'm broke now.” He tapped his bean. “If you have courage and imagination there'll always be people to lend you money.…”

He looked at Ned sharply. “I'm getting hungry,” he said “Could you send someone for sandwiches? I forgot all about lunch.”

“I'll go myself,” said Ned, starting for the door.

“Bring enough for all of us,” shouted McFarland. “You know what I like. And bring some coffee too—
strong coffee.”

When Ned returned he found us carrying on like old pals. A glow of delight swept his features.

“I've just been telling Mr. McFarland that I wasn't in North Carolina at all,” I said. Ned's face fell. “Besides, he knows the very house I'm living in. The judge who used to own the apartment—well, they're old friends.”

“I think,” said McFarland, “I'm going to send this young
man to Africa, after he writes that serial for us.
To Timbuktu!
He says he's always had a hankering to go there.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Ned, spreading the food on the big desk and serving the coffee.

“The time to travel is when you're young,” McFarland continued. “And with little money. I remember my first trip to China.…” Here he began munching a sandwich. “When you forget to eat you know you're alive.”

It was an hour or so later when I left the office. My head was spinning. Ned had made me promise to finish the copy at home, on the q.t. He said the old man had sure fallen for me. In the hall, as I was waiting for the elevator, he caught up with me. “You won't let me down, will you? Mail it to me tonight special delivery. Stay up all night if you have to. Thanks!” He squeezed my hand.

The place was in darkness when I arrived home. I was so drunk with excitement that I had to swallow a few tumblers of sherry to calm myself. I wondered what Mona would say on hearing about my splurge. I forgot all about the copy in my coat pocket—all I could think of was Timbuktu, China, India, Persia, Siam, Borneo, Burma, the great wheel, the dusty caravan routes, the odors and sights of the Far East, boats, trains, steamers, camels, the green waters of the Nile, the Mosque of Omar, the souks of Fez, outlandish tongues, the jungle, the veldt, the
bled
, beggars and monks, jugglers, mountebanks, temples, pagodas, pyramids. My brain was in such a whirl that if someone didn't appear soon I would go mad.

There I sat, in the big chair at the front window. The light of a candle flickered unsteadily. Suddenly the door opened softly. It was Mona. She came over to me, put her arms around me and kissed me tenderly. I felt a tear run down her cheek.

“You're still sad? What on earth's the matter?”

For answer the threw herself in my lap. In a moment her arms were about me. She was sobbing. I let her weep for a while, comforting her silently.

“Is it so very terrible?” I asked after a time. “Can't you even tell
me?”

“No, Val, I can't. It's too ugly.”

Little by little I succeeded in worming it out of her. Her family again. She had been to see her mother. Things were more desperate than ever. Something about a mortgage—had to be paid at once or they would lose the house.

“But it isn't that,” she said, still sniffling, “it's the way she treats me. As though I were dirt. She doesn't believe I'm married. She called me a whore.”

“Then for Christ's sake let's stop worrying about her,” I said angrily. “A mother who talks like that is no goddamned good. Anyway, it's fantastic. Where would we get three thousand dollars in a hurry? She must be out of her mind.”

“Please don't talk that way, Val. You only make it worse.”

“I despise her,” I said. “I can't help it if she's your mother. To me she's just a leech. Let her go drown herself, the stupid old bitch!”

“Val! Val!
Please
.…” She began to weep again, more violently than before.

“All right, I won't say another word. I'm sorry I let my tongue run away with me.”

Just then the bell rang, followed by a few quick taps on the windowpane. I jumped up and ran to the door. Mona was still weeping.

“Well, I'll be damned,” I exclaimed, when I saw who stood there.

“You ought to be damned, hiding away from a bosom friend all this time. Here I am living around the corner and neither hide nor sight of you. Same old bastard, aren't you? Well, how are you anyway? Can I come in?”

He was the last person I wanted to see at that moment—MacGregor.

“What's up… someone die?” he exclaimed, seeing the candle and Mona huddled in the big chair, the tears streaming
down her face. “Been having a tift, is that it?” He went up to Mona and held out his hand, thought better of it, and stroked her head. “Don't let him get you down,” he mumbled, trying to display a little sympathy. “A nice thing to be doing at this time of day. Have you folks had dinner yet? I thought I'd stop by and invite you out. I didn't dream I was going to enter a house of mourning.”

“For God's sake, can it!” I begged. “Why don't you wait till I explain things.”

“Please don't say anything, Val,” said Mona. “I'll be all right in a moment.”

“That's the way to talk,” said MacGregor, sitting down beside her and putting on a professional air. “Nothing is ever as bad as you imagine it to be.”

“For Christ's sake, must we listen to that crap? Can't you see she's in trouble?”

At once his manner altered. Rising to his feet he said solemnly: “What is it, Hen, is it something serious? I'm sorry if I put my foot in it.”

“It's all right, just don't say anything for a while. I'm glad you came. Maybe it would be a good idea to go out for dinner.”

“You two go, I'd rather stay here,” pleaded Mona.

“If there's anything I can do…” MacGregor began.

I burst out laughing. “Sure there's something you can do,” I said. “Raise three thousand dollars for us by tomorrow morning!”

“Jesus, man, is that what's worrying you?” He pulled a big cigar from his breast pocket and bit the end off. “I thought it was something tragic.”

“I was kidding you,” I said. “No, it's got nothing to do with money.”

“I can always lend you ten bucks,” said MacGregor cheerily. “When it comes to thousands you're talking a foreign language. Nobody has three thousand dollars to hand out right off the bat, don't you know that yet?”

“But we don't want three thousand dollars,” I said.

“Then what's she crying for—the moon?”

“Please go and leave me alone, won't you?” said Mona.

“We couldn't do that,” said MacGregor, “it wouldn't be sporting. Listen girlie, whatever it is, I swear it isn't as bad as you think. There's always a loophole, remember that. Come on, wash your face and put your duds on, eh? I'll take you to a
good
restaurant this time.”

The door suddenly swung open. There stood O'Mara, slightly boiled. He looked as though he were delivering manna from above.

“How did
you
get in?” was MacGregor's greeting. “The last time I laid eyes on you was at a poker game. You swindled me out of nine bucks.
How are you?”
He stuck out a paw.

“O'Mara's living with us,” I hastened to explain.

“That settles it,” said MacGregor. “Now you've really got something to worry about. I wouldn't trust this guy even in a straitjacket.”

“What's up?” said O'Mara, suddenly aware of Mona all hunched up in the big chair, her face streaked with tears. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing serious,” I said. “I'll tell you later. Have you had dinner?”

Before he could say yes or no MacGregor piped up: “I didn't invite
him
. He can come if he pays his own way, sure. But not as my guest.”

O'Mara simply grinned at this. He was in too good a mood to be upset by a little plain talk.

“Listen, Henry,” he said, making a beeline for the sherry, “I've got lots to tell you. Wonderful things. I had a great day today.”

“So did I,” said I.

“Do you mind if I help myself to a drink too?” said MacGregor. “Seeing as how it was such a good day for you guys, maybe a drink will do me good.”

“Are we going out for dinner?” asked O'Mara. “I don't want to spill the beans till we get set somewhere. There's
too much to tell, I don't want to spoil it going off half-cocked.”

I went over to Mona. “You're sure you don't want to come with us?”

“Yes, Val, I'm sure,” she said weakly.

“Oh come on,” said O'Mara, “I've got grand news for you.”

“Sure, pull yourself together,” said MacGregor. “It's not everyday I invite people to eat with me—especially in a
good
restaurant.”

The upshot was that Mona finally consented to go. We sat down to wait for her while she tidied up. We drank some more sherry.

“You know, Hen,” said MacGregor, “I have a hunch I may be able to do something for you. What are you doing these days? Writing, I suppose. And broke, eh? Listen, we need a typist in our office. It doesn't pay much, but it may tide you over.
Until you're recognized
, I mean.” He finished this off with a leer and a chuckle.

O'Mara laughed in his face. “
A typist
! Haw Haw!”

“That's mighty white of you, Mac,” I said, “but right now I don't need a job. I just landed a big one today.”

“What
?” yelled O'Mara. “Cripes, don't tell me that! I just fixed one up for you myself—a beauty too. That's what I wanted to tell you about.”

“It isn't really a job,” I explained, “it's a commission. I'm going to write a serial for a new magazine. After that I may be going to Africa, China, India.…”

MacGregor couldn't restrain himself. “Forget it, Henry,” he burst out, “somebody's been taking you for a ride. The job I'm talking about pays twenty a week.
Real money
. Write your serial on the side. If it turns out O.K. nothing's lost. Right? But honest, Henry, aren't you old enough to know that you can't count on such things? When are you going to grow up?”

Mona now joined in. “What's this I hear about a job?
Val doesn't want a job. You're talking nonsense, all of you.”

“Come on, let's go,” urged MacGregor. “The place I'm taking you to is in Flatbush. I've got a car outside.”

We piled in and drove to the restaurant. The proprietor seemed to know MacGregor well. Probably a client of his.

I was astounded to hear MacGregor say: “Order anything you like. And how about a cocktail first?”

“Has he any good wine?” I asked.

“Who's talking about wine?” said MacGregor. “I asked you if you'd like a cocktail first.”

“Sure I would. I'd like to see the wine card too.”

“Just like you. Always making it difficult for me. Sure, go ahead, order wine if you must. I never touch it. Makes my stomach sour.”

They served us a good soup first and then came a luscious roast duckling. “I told you it was a good place, didn't I?” crowed MacGregor. “When did I ever let you down, tell me, you bastard.… So a typist's job isn't good enough for you, is that it?”