A Clowny Night in the Red-Eyed World

As Jimmy Mc Clain sat by the time clock waiting for the brunette starter, he stared at the cigarette that trembled in his hand and wondered at the mystery of his own nature. Why should a terrible accident cause him to invite out Vera? Why should sudden and violent death cause him to look at Vera and decide she was not an insensitive and malicious hoyden, but a warm, attractive and charming person?

"Oh, ho ho. Your first choice is out, so now you come to me, huh? Well, aren't you cute!"

It was a subliminal, mysterious reaction for which there could be no rational accounting, just as there was no reasonable explanation for his instant dislike of Vera in the first place. She was a very pretty girl with an excellent figure, but Jimmy had taken one look at her and loathed her. Why? There was something unpleasant in the expression of her eyes and there was something wrong in the cast of her mouth. So he felt in the beginning. Now, in some strange way, brains and blood on the floor of the hotel elevator had transformed his dislike of Vera into something else.

"The answer is a drink yes, I can use it. I'd have a drink right now with a nigger midget if it asked me. But dinner?--sorry, the answer is no. I'm not your second fiddle."

Vera said she wouldn't change, she'd have the drink first then come back to the hotel where they worked, but when she got downstairs she felt better so she decided to change and get it over with. She came from the women's locker down the gray corridor wearing a black rayon suit with gray gloves and a hat and veil. For a moment, Jimmy didn't recognize her, then he stood from the bench by the time clock, smiled, and took her arm. They went to a bar on Wabash and had two double ryes, then Vera said she had to toddle home. But she didn't.

"Irene's a baby. She asks all the time if she ought to be a nun. How do you like that, a young girl like her asking such a question? It's hypocrisy, pure and simple. She talks about it day and night--but are you a Catholic?"

"No," said Jimmy.

"When I say anything about Catholics the person I say it to always turns out to be one. Between you and me, I can't stand them. I'm not prejudiced, I just don't like them. They have such a know-it-all attitude. Try and argue with one. You're talking to a deaf person. They don't listen. But what really burns me is the whole idear of a Pope in a skirt telling Americans what to do. Irene wouldn't even go to the little girls' room unless the Pope told her it was OK. But she's crazy about a young priest, that's what her secret is. I can't see her as a hooded sister in a thousand years, that's the worst make-believe I ever heard of and frankly I'm sick of it. The aggravation I have from that little dumb blonde--and this afternoon such hysterics and carrying-on! Who blames her for being upset, we were all upset, but going off to church to pray for the guy's soul? Oh, ho ho, isn't she the pious angel. And God almighty, did she have to scream like that? I'm telling you you never heard such a scream. If a wild gorilla grabbed the little bitch she couldn't of made more noise, and she didn't see anything, anyhow, 'cause the whole elevator was filled with dust. She screamed because of the noise, that was all, and I should think a grown woman could have a little more self-control. Christ, I was there and I was plenty upset, let me tell you! Anybody would be. But I didn't let myself go like that, because right or wrong, Jimmy boy, my idear is you gotta have a little control in life."

Vera finished her third double rye, then took a cigarette from the pack Jimmy had placed on the booth table. With a pensive, satisfied frown she stared in uncertain focus at the cigarette and tapped it against the side of a glass, a small trick hitherto outside Jimmy's experience. The whiskey had put color in her cheeks and a vagueness in her eyes. The accident evidently had jolted and shocked her profoundly; she had gulped the whiskey like a fish. Jimmy made a church of his fingers, rested his elbows on the table, and stared at her, struggling to comprehend her. Was it dim misery in her eyes or just malignant confusion? Where was the human substance of this wretched girl?

"That's a pretty hat you've got on," said Jimmy. "I like it; it's very becoming to you."

Vera looked up, startled, then suddenly bit her lip and turned aside as her eyes welled with tears. "God," she said, "I don't know ... Jesus, what's the matter with me? Am I drunk or something? I haven't eaten. This stuff has hit me a ton."

Jimmy nodded, dizzy from the horror of her outburst. But the girl was human. The look of gratitude in her eyes could not have come from Mars and the blush in her cheeks was almost virginal. The hat on her head--although now, in 1943, out of vogue--actually was attractive; it was black and made in the style of hats Napoleon wore, with a little veil and triangular fronds of felt stuck out on either side of her head. A long hatpin with a pearl was thrust through the crown. She looked more attractive than in her starter's uniform. The top three buttons of her rayon shirt had come undone and a fleshy white notch between her breasts was visible. He had believed it was impossible to feel more attracted to her than he had in the lobby of the hotel, but not so. As he stared at her across the booth, he felt an attraction so powerful it was frightening. Her husband, she had said, was playing in a band in Kansas City and the baby was at her mother's.

"It's not eating," said Vera, as the blush faded and the look in her eyes became unpleasant once more. "That and being upset. Of course it was horrible, I don't deny that. Brains were all over the place and it was just like they'd poured buckets of blood on everybody in the elevator. Irene didn't see that, she'd run off by then, sobbing and crossing herself and muttering Hail Mary or whatever they say."

"Well, I'm not exactly religious myself," said Jimmy. "But why not give Irene the benefit of the doubt? Maybe she's sincere."

"Sincere? She's only talking. That's how they are, those Catholics. It's all talk with them. I hate to say it, but they're hypocrites. They do what they want to, then talk--talk to the priest, Father, I did so and so, fix it for me upstairs. Don't think Irene doesn't do what she wants. Take her out and you'll see. She'll give you another date, she likes you, she thinks you're a gentleman and all that because you went to college. You see, she wants gentleman treatment. Ho ho, gentleman treatment--I guess that's different, huh?"

"I don't know," said Jimmy. "There's been argument about that for a couple of hundred years, but it's kind of dying down."

Vera gazed at him with ironic amusement. "You know sun'thin', honey? Yo' accent's real cute. But what does a high-type Southern gentleman like you see in a common-as-mud elevator starter like me or Irene, huh?"

Jimmy smiled. "Well, you know the old saying, 'The son of God looks upon the daughter of man and finds her fair.' "

"You think you're the son of God? Are you crazy. A dropout bellhopping while he waits to be drafted?"

The smile muscles of Jimmy's face were beginning to ache. He shrugged helplessly. "Well, it's a kind of sarcastic quotation. It means that men take themselves pretty seriously, with principles and ideals and everything, but when they see a nice-looking girl, all that goes out the window."

"Well, thanks for educating me. In my ignorance, I appreciate it."

"Oh, you understood the quotation in the first place, Vera. I'm not educating you."

"You're not? Do you think I'm smart?"

"Sure," said Jimmy.

"Um-hm, that's fascinating. Do you think I'm smarter than Irene?"

"I don't really know Irene."

"Well, I'll tell you--I am smarter than Irene. And I'll tell you something else, since you're so interested in Irene. You ask her out again, see, then repeat the Pope's last words and give her a nice mint julep like a real Southun gentleman. She'll collapse. You'll have one limp blonde on you-all's hands, honey."

"OK," smiled Jimmy, "I'll do that."

"Be sure you repeat the Pope's last words, too. That's even more important than a good ole Southun mint julep. It was in Italian, see, and what he said was, 'To hell with orange juice, let's have a party.' "

"Oh?" smiled Jimmy.

Laughing, Vera put a red-nailed hand on his wrist. "That's it, honey. Those were his words."

The smile muscles in Jimmy's face were aching painfully. "If you keep on about the Catholics, you'll drive me to Rome, Vera."

"What? What's that?"

Baffled eyes. She really seemed to believe her blind abomination of the American South and the Catholic Church had a rare charm. "Well, it would solve all my problems, anyhow. If I were a good Catholic like Irene, I wouldn't be out tonight chasing after a married girl."

Vera laughed--first uncertainly, then with confidence. Flirtation she understood. "Are you chasing me?"

"Sure," said Jimmy, "and I aim to catch you, too."

"Well, well, well! Listen to him. Pretty conceited, aren't you? What makes you think I'd be interested?"

Jimmy smiled softly into her eyes. "I just have a feeling."

Vera was pale. "Is that so? You have a feeling. Well, you are just about the most conceited person I ever met in my life, and if you think I'm going to hop in bed with you, you're out of your mind. For your information, I don't do such things."

"You didn't understand me. All I said was I'd catch you. I didn't necessarily mean you'd hop in bed. That's incidental."

"Incidental, huh?"

"Well, I've always thought so. Love is an expression of a relationship, isn't it? I mean, an expression of how people feel toward each other? That's all it is, so you never catch people by going to bed with them, you catch them before you ever get to bed."

"Jesus!" said Vera. "What a line you Southerners throw!''

"Why do you call that a line? It's the truth."

"The truth? Sure, sure. Ha! Next thing you'll be telling me you're madly in love with me."

"I am madly in love with you," said Jimmy.

"You're what?"

"I'm madly in love with you, Vera."

Despite herself, Vera stared solemnly at him, her dark and close-set eyes intent upon him and her mouth twisted dubiously to one side. "Huh," she said, "don't be silly."

"It's the truth," said Jimmy. He reached across the booth table and put his hand over her wrist, which was thin and cold. Eyes still fastened upon him. Vera moistened her lips and swallowed. The expression of her face was once again transformed. Jimmy took her hand, turned it over, rested his fingers across her palm, then squeezed her hand, which was very small and very cold. "Do you have a kitchen?" Vera nodded. "We'll get a steak then. It's early, the markets aren't closed. We'll get a steak and a bottle of wine and go up to your place and I'll help you cook us some dinner. Would you like to do that?"

Again, Vera nodded. "OK. All right, we'll do that--but on one condition. (continued overleaf) Promise you won't touch me. I'm serious. Promise you won't even hold my hand like you're doing now. I can't stand it if you touch me, I just can't. Will you promise not to touch me?"

"Sure," said Jimmy.

Vera pulled free her hand and brushed at the tears that for the second time had welled in her eyes. "I'm not just saying that. I mean it. I can't stand it. I can't. Do you promise not to bother me?"

"I promise," said Jimmy.

Vera lived in a small apartment on the fourth floor of a walk-up on the Near North Side. At her insistence, they took a streetcar rather than a taxi. She said almost nothing to him during the ride; hunched down on her side of the seat, she gazed out of the window at the gray buildings and the slate-colored water of the Chicago river. In the A & P, she was even quieter. With downcast eyes, she waited while he bought two small steaks and coffee cream. Nothing else, she said, was needed, unless he wanted vegetables and all kinds of stuff. However, she brightened when he bought a fifth of rye, instead of wine, at the liquor store. Wine, she said, made her "nauseous."

"It isn't much," said Vera, "but make yourself at home. I'll fix a drink."

Jimmy took off his coat, tie and shoes and then sat on the couch, which evidently opened up to make a bed; he could see part of a blanket and sheet under a tear in the cover. Later, he learned that Vera slept in this room, the living room, when her child was with her. When the child was at her mother's, she slept in the bedroom.

"Well," said Vera, "here we are. Now you remember what you said. I really mean it, Jimmy. You believe that, don't you?"

"Sure, I believe it."

A cheap floor lamp cut the darkness and gloom of the tiny apartment, which was furnished with absolute tastelessness and had no character of any kind. There was not a book or even a magazine anywhere in the living room. Vera sat at the end of the couch, as far from Jimmy as possible. "Don't get me wrong," she said. "I don't mean to be unfriendly or anything." Head bowed, she stared at her drink. The floor lamp threw an unflattering light over her shoulder. In the bathroom, she had not only taken off her stockings and girdle, she had also washed off her pancake make-up and under the light of the lamp the lines of worry and loneliness in her face were plainly visible. Vera sighed. "Well, all I can tell you is that I don't really mean to be unfriendly, and that's the truth."

"You aren't being unfriendly."

"If I meant to be unfriendly, Jimmy boy, you'd know it. I'd kick you out of here so fast it would make your head swim."

"Sure," said Jimmy.

"Well, don't get any idears, just because I took off my stockings and girdle. I was uncomfortable, that's all."

Jimmy took a new package of cigarettes from his pocket and carefully opened it. "Well," he said, "I don't know why you need a girdle, anyhow, Vera, as young as you are. Why do you wear one?"

Vera laughed. "To hold up my stockings, you jerk. Didn't that idear ever occur to you?"

"Well, yeah, I guess there's that," he answered.

Vera held her glass cupped in both hands and gazed moodily at the ice cubes floating in her whiskey. She had poured herself an enormous drink. "I just don't want any misunderstanding. Sometimes guys are bitter."

Jimmy gently moved his glass back and forth, tinkling the ice cubes in the tiny drink she had given him. He asked, "Why should I be bitter?"

"Oh, having you here at my place, and everything. Some guys will draw a wrong conclusion. But I told you. I warned you. Look but don't touch, Jimmy boy. Hands off. The truth is, I just didn't feel like going out to dinner. And I always do what I want to. Always. Believe me, Jimmy boy."

"Um-hmmm," said Jimmy. "Where are you from, Vera? Were you born here in Chicago?"

"Ho ho ho. You're not interested in me, you're interested in Irene. Did you know that one of her breasts is smaller than the other? Really. I swear it. Not much smaller, but it's smaller. She puts Kleenex or toilet paper in one of her bra cups to make up for it. Ha ha ha! And did you know that girl hasn't got any nipples at all? None! They're about the size of BBs, little tiny, tiny BBs stuck in pink dimes."

"Sounds cute," said Jimmy.

"Cute? Huh. I don't know how she'll ever nurse babies."

"Who does these days?"

"Well, I did. Until I got nervous and lost my milk, but that was because of my husband. I had plenty of milk, loads of it. The baby would turn loose for a second to catch her breath, and it would just keep coming, a tiny fine sprinkle right over her head, like a little white fountain. I used to leak all the time, too. It was awful. But this doesn't interest you. Would you rather talk about Irene?"

"No."

"You think I'm being catty to say one of her breasts is smaller than the other, don't you?"

"Well ... I heard somewhere or other that most women aren't exactly equal in that respect."

"Are you saying I'm like her? Ha ha ha. I'm sorry, darling, I've got news for you. I'm not."

"Tell me about your husband," said Jimmy. "What kind of guy is he?"

"I'd rather talk about Vera. Vera has lovely, even, equal breasts. Ha ha ha ha."

Jimmy smiled. "With big nipples?"

"Not too big, not too little. Jes' right, honey chile, jes' right."

"Well, that's the best kind," laughed Jimmy. "Tell me about your husband. He's a musician, isn't he?"

"I'd rather talk about Irene. Do you think she's going to be a nun?"

"I have no idea. I don't know her."

"She's no more going to be a nun than Betty Boop. It's that priest. He's young and good-looking and puts bedroom idears in her mind, that's why she goes and jabbers with him about it. He wants her to be a nun for a reason of his own. Don't tell me those priests don't have their problems. They get tired of holy water. He wants her to be a nun so nobody else can have it. The truth is she was going with a sailor and she was a bad girl. What are you smirking about, doesn't that interest you, a Southerner like you?"

"Maybe it looks like a smirk," said Jimmy, "but it isn't. Believe me, it isn't."

Vera calmly took a large swallow of her drink, then leaned forward, an amused shine in her eyes. "The sailor isn't around. She's getting bored with the priest, because there's nothing in it."

"I wish you'd tell me about yourself, instead of Irene."

"OK, but there really and truly isn't anything in it for her. And flattering as it is for a priest to care, she's bound to get tired of that pious jazz after a while. In my opinion, that's why she gave you a date. Her sailor's gone and she's bored with religion. You can get her, Jimmy. Easy."

Jimmy sighed heavily. "May I have another drink?"

"We'll eat in a minute. You want to hear some real gossip?"

"No. I want another drink."

"All right, but listen--if you really want to know the truth about sweet little innocent Irene who wants to be a nun, I can tell you. She was in the bushes every night with that sailor. A nun! What a laugh! Listen, I'm a woman myself and I know what a woman feels and thinks. That sailor wasn't the first. Every guy comes in the foyer, Irene's sweet little innocent eyes look him up and down. You can get her, Jimmy. Easy!"

During the conversation, Vera had moved by gradual stages down the couch toward Jimmy--shifting her position as if in discomfort, adjusting and readjusting the pillow behind her, crossing her legs and uncrossing them, and in one way or another closing the distance between them. In the meanwhile, by similar methods Jimmy had moved closer to her. As she said, "You can get her, Jim-(continued on page 74)Clowny Night(continued from page 70) my. Easy!" she crossed her legs in the manner of an Indian squaw and the fleshy part of her hip moved against his knee. She was now very close to him. Her dark-brown eyes stared intently into his own.

"Aren't you going to give me a drink?" he asked.

Vera put a small, trembling hand on his arm. "Sure," she said, "but don't get drunk."

"Good God!" laughed Jimmy. "There's not much chance of that around here."

Another red-nailed hand reached toward him and squeezed his fingers. Vera continued to stare intently at him, as if trying with desperation to see into his mind and soul. She made no effort now to conceal her violent nervousness. The tic in her cheek was wholly uncontrolled and her hand was squeezing his fingers with wild, repeated, spasmlike contractions. For the third time, her lip trembled and her eyes brimmed with tears. In a tiny and lost voice, she asked, "Do you really like me?"

Jimmy touched her hair. "I love you," he said.

"Oh, don't!" she cried. "Please, please don't! You shouldn't say such a thing to me, that's insane! You couldn't possibly love me, not in a million years! Oh, God!" Vera put her hand over her eyes, as the brimming tears ran down her cheeks and her face was distorted by despair. "Oh, God! This is ridiculous! Completely ridiculous! You don't even like me, much less love me! Oh, God! God!"

Jimmy put his arm around her shoulders. "I'm not lying to you," he said. "I love you, Vera." Again, he touched her hair. She laid her head on his chest and tightened her thin arms like iron bands around him, as if the world itself would dissolve if she let him go. Again and again, she said, "Oh, God! Oh, God!" There was no doubt of the appalling and terrifying depth of her wretchedness, and Jimmy felt sure he had by no means yet seen the limits of it. The skin of his face tingled with fear and expectation.

A few minutes later, Vera stood up, pulled the cover off the couch, unzipped her skirt, stepped out of it. took off her slip and her bra, then stood before him, a faint smile on her tear-streaked face. "Well, I guess I knew this would happen," she said. "But you're not fooling me, Jimmy. You're a liar."

Quite a while thereafter, Jimmy sat slightly drunk on the edge of the couch and smoked a cigarette while Vera walked back and forth in the kitchenette cooking the steaks. She was drunker than he and totally without self-consciousness. But it was not the whiskey that relieved her of fear and shame; from the moment he had touched her hand in the bar on Wabash, there had been no barrier between them. The ineffable wall between man and woman simply was not there. In an interlude of the wild hours, she had said to him: "I'm a tramp, Jimmy, you know that, don't you. I cheat all the time. Guys in bars, even guys on the street sometimes. But I don't call this cheating. I even have a crazy idear Jeff wouldn't mind." Jeff was her husband, a Benzedrine-chewing and pot-smoking saxophone player. "Never in my life, Jimmy, never in my life. Stay with me tonight, OK? Just stay with me tonight, that's all I ask."

Never in her life, never in his. Jimmy shook his head and put out his cigarette by blind touch. He could not move his eyes from her and it made no sense whatsoever. The evaluation of a woman's body was obviously formed in a spiritual matrix far removed from vulgar objectivity, but for the sake of a brief game he could look at her with a predatory detachment and say that her figure actually was not very good. She was a tall, long-boned girl and very thin. Her breasts were as "lovely, even and equal" as she had claimed, but had the unfortunate effect of emphasizing that the rest of her body was starved. Her ribs showed and her hipbones were prominent. Despite the full breasts and small, beautiful, delicate hands, she was not womanly. From behind she really looked like a boy, and Jimmy did not like boys. Brief and foolish game, indeed! The fact was that he literally could not take his eyes from her, even for a moment to put out a cigarette. An ache came again in his throat and blood thumped in his ears as he stared at her in deep bewilderment.

"Come on in," she said. "They're ready, and ruined. I don't know what I'm doing, I burned them."

"They look OK," said Jimmy.

"I don't know anything I hate worse than well-done steaks. But my broiler doesn't work right, it flares up and down. God, I don't know. Everybody in my family dies of accidents; it'll probably blow up some time and kill me. That's what happened to my mother--a gas stove. And my father was killed in an accident, too. That's not all, my brother besides. Ha ha. It runs in the family."

Jimmy sat in trousers and undershirt at the oilcloth-covered table, his feet on the cold linoleum of the kitchenette floor. Stark naked, Vera sat across from him and poured coffee with a genteel dignity, her spine arched and her shoulders back. Curls of steam rose from each cup.

"Aren't you cold sitting there with nothing on?" asked Jimmy.

"Cold? No, I'm not cold."

"I think the heat went off. Don't you want me to get you a bathrobe or something?"

"I said I'm not cold." Vera dropped her eyes and bit her lip. "I seem to remember you telling me an hour ago how beautiful I am. 'Beautiful, beautiful Vera,' isn't that what you said? Does it bother you now? You don't like me naked, now that you've had your fun, huh?"

"I just thought you might be cold."

"Well, I'm not."

"OK." Jimmy reached across the oilcloth table and put his hand on her arm. "But you do bother me," he said, "you bother me plenty. And what's more, you are beautiful."

Vera smiled. "So you're not sick of me yet, huh? I guess this is my lucky night."

The steaks were indeed burned. So were the baked potatoes she'd been roasting off and on in the oven. They'd gotten up twice before to eat, but each time he had kissed her or touched her and dinner had been postponed. It was almost midnight. The radiators had clanked and the heat had gone off at least an hour before.

"It's lousy, isn't it? I'm sorry."

"It's OK. It's fine."

"Well, I never said I could cook. I'm a lousy wife, a lousy mother, and a lousy everything."

"I still don't know where you're from, Vera. You weren't born here in Chicago, were you?"

"I was born in Indiana, not that it matters where I was born."

"Have you lived here long?"

"Since right after Pearl Harbor. Jeff was supposed to be drafted and I'd live here on my allotment, but ha ha they turned him down. Psycho, they said--not crazy but half-crazy. I could have told them that. Anyhow he got a job here and we stayed, except he lost the job six months later. He's a third-rate bum. So that's luck for you. He's running around the country having fun in the middle of a war, and my brother is dead."

"Your brother was killed in the war?"

"Not exactly in the war, but because of it. Hitler never shot him and neither did that bald-headed wop from Italy. It was a so-called accident. But it was really murder. Cold-blooded murder. You shouldn't have got me started, but my kid brother was a big strong boy, blond and real handsome, and this goddamn kike killed him."

"Kike?" asked Jimmy.

"Yeah. A so-called accident. My brother always loved cars and everything and they had him working on this truck, doing something or other underneath it. So this Jewish sergeant from New Jersey came along and started the motor. My brother yelled but that murdering Jew didn't hear him, or he claimed he didn't. So he drove off the truck and my brother was caught and thrown under the wheels (continued on page 128) (continued from page 74) and the back tires rolled on his head. They didn't do a thing to that sergeant. They didn't even take his goddamn rank away. And do you know why? A lieutenant in that company was a Jew, too. Those kikes between them killed my brother. They're the lice of this earth! And how I hate them! Oh, God, I hate them, I hate them!"

Jimmy paused, forcing himself to take a swallow of coffee. The air in the tiny apartment was colder. Goose flesh stood on Vera's breasts and arms. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry to hear about it, Vera."

"They stick together, you know. That's one thing you can say for those goddamn kikes. They stick together."

Jimmy nodded, eyes down upon his coffee cup. "Yeah," he said, "yeah, I guess so." With difficulty, he forced himself to look up at the fear and hatred in her eyes. "Maybe they think they have to, Vera, with the whole world against them."

"It isn't that at all," she answered. "Their religion says they're the chosen people. Gentiles are just dirt to them. What was my brother to those Jews? Dirt, that's all. Oh, God, I hate them! I'd like to see every Jew in this world burn in hell for what they did to my brother! He was just a boy and they killed him, Jimmy. It was cold-blooded murder."

The steak was inedible and Jimmy stopped pretending to try to eat it. He took the last cigarette from his pack, struck a match, then stared at the yellow flame until it almost burned his fingers. He shook out the match, lighted another one and held it to his cigarette. Finally, he managed to look at Vera. "Listen," he said. "You mustn't believe all of that stuff about the Jews and the Catholics, Vera. None of it's true and it hurts you."

"It's all true and it doesn't hurt me," she answered. "The one it hurt was my brother."

"Look, your brother was killed in an accident, and you know it. The Jews didn't kill your brother and neither did the Pope."

Vera smiled with a wry, bitter amusement and rubbed at the goose flesh on her arms. "An accident, huh?" Let me tell you something, it was no accident. That Jew knew my brother was under that truck. A week before, my brother called him a kike and knocked him down three times. He hated my brother's guts and he wanted to kill him. Don't tell me it was an accident, I know better."

"I doubt very much if you're right. The Army wouldn't have let that sergeant off if there'd been the faintest doubt about it, especially in view of the fight they had. But even if you're right you're wrong. Maybe that sergeant knew deep in his subconscious mind your brother was there and maybe he wanted to kill him. If so, hatred killed your brother, Vera. His own hatred. He caused it himself by calling the sergeant a kike and beating him up."

"Uh-huh. So it was my brother's fault he got killed--he shouldn't have called that kike a kike, huh?"

Jimmy shrugged. "I'm not saying your brother deserved to be killed, but it's a dirty word, Vera."

"Jesus, are you ever a bleeding heart?! The poor little kikes, what a shame! He called him a dirty word, well isn't that just too bad? I never heard such bullshit in my life. My brother called that son of a bitch a kike because that's what he was, a dirty little kike. And I can prove it. He was running a crooked dice game and taking money off of everybody in the company, then giving part of it to that lieutenant. What's more, he was lending money at interest of ten percent a week. So help me God, this is the truth. Ten percent a week. Do you know how much interest that is in a year?"

"OK. Why did they borrow from him, then?"

"They borrowed from him because he'd won all their money in a crooked dice game."

"Why did they play in the dice game, if they knew it was crooked?"

"They didn't know. He swore it wasn't."

"Maybe it wasn't."

"Sure, it was. That's why my brother beat him up. He caught him red-handed with phony dice and proved it by dropping them in a glass of water. The dice were tilted."

"OK! Suppose this sergeant was a complete swine--there're plenty of crooks in this world. Let me ask you this. Where are you getting hating Jews?"

In bewilderment at his anger, Vera huddled in the chair, goose flesh on her arms and shoulders and a look of frightened worry in her eyes. "Well," she said, "you couldn't be Jewish yourself."

"No, I'm not Jewish, Vera. If I was, I'd have got the hell out of here long ago."

"I guess that's what you want, isn't it, and that's why you're fighting with me. OK, go ahead, leave. I don't give a damn. But why make an excuse, why not just leave?"

"Listen, you stupid idiot, I'm trying to help you. I asked you a question. Where are you getting hating Jews?"

Vera moistened her lips, totally bewildered. "Where am I getting?"

"You run into one Jew who's a crook, and you're going to spend the rest of your life hating all Jews?"

"Do you think it's just that sergeant? The man who owns this apartment building is a Jew, a big fat Jew with a greasy smile and hair on the tops of his hands. OK, last year I was sick and didn't work for two months. If you want to know, I had a miscarriage. My husband wasn't working, either, and we didn't have any money. I got two months, or maybe it was three months, behind in the rent, and this big fat Jew came up here with his greasy smile and he said to me he just hated to do it but he had to get us evicted for nonpayment. OK, I got so upset I began to cry and he put his hand on my leg and licked his lips, then he smiled his greasy smile and he says--"

"OK, OK," said Jimmy. "I know what he said."

"All right, so you know. A helpless, sick girl, with a no-good husband and a baby. Fine. But what am I to him? Dirt, that's all. Their religion teaches that. It's what they believe."

"No, the man was a son of a bitch," answered Jimmy. "The Jewish religion doesn't teach any such thing."

"The hell it doesn't. They're the chosen people and the rest of the world is dirt. Would he do that to one of his own kind? Never. Because then the rabbi would get on him."

"Well, I'm sure the rabbi would get on him for what he tried to do to you."

"Tried?" asked Vera with a bitter smile. "You don't think I did what he wanted?"

Jimmy glanced at her, an ugly chill racing up his legs from the cold and bare linoleum floor. But no; she could not possibly have done such a thing and then boast about it. She was merely reproaching him for his unsympathetic rejection of the hate she lived by. Jimmy was certain of it, yet something in her eyes made him hesitate. "No," he said, "I don't think you did what he wanted."

Vera laughed. "Well, you're right for once. I told him to get the hell out of my apartment and I'd pay him his goddamned rent in an hour. So I went out and borrowed a hundred fifty dollars from another Jew, a nice sweet loan shark with teeth seven miles wide. I paid him a hundred dollars interest for his hundred and fifty."

"OK, so the Jews are no damn good. You run into two crooks and that proves it. They're all bad."

"They are all bad," answered Vera, "and everybody knows it but bleeding hearts like you."

"What the hell is a bleeding heart? Will you explain that goddamn ridiculous expression to me?"

"Sure, I'll explain it. A bleeding heart is soft in the head and won't face facts. I tell you Jews are bad, they're no damn good, but you're a bleeding heart so you argue with me. Anybody who's been around them knows they're lousy. Completely lousy. Oh, sure, if you're a member of the family, they'll give you anything. Jewish kids are the worst spoiled brats in the world. But if you're an outsider, they'll cheat you out of your last nickel and that's a fact."

"The imbecilic clichés fell from her lips like toads and hopped about in the cold, cold air, and she huddled and shivered and her nipples were blue."

Vera stared vacantly for several seconds, then frowned. "I said I wasn't cold. Are you still harping on that?"

"It was just a mental note. I don't want to forget any of these brilliant things you're telling me."

"OK, I'll tell you something else, while we're on the subject. If you've got any American blood in you, it should make a difference to you. They're all pinkos, in case you don't know it."

"Oh, God!"

"It's true. They're all Reds."

"Aw, for Christ's sake," laughed Jimmy. "How can they be money-crazy and pinkos at the same time? You can't have it both ways, Vera. Find one good solid reason to hate the Jews and stick to it."

"But there's more than one reason. Why should there be just one?"

"OK, but you can't have reasons that are mutually exclusive. If Jews are moneygrubbing cheats who exploit the free enterprise system, how can they also be subversive Reds who destroy the free enterprise system?"

"Ha," said Vera, "very simple. Don't you think those Reds have plenty of money? Look at Russia, they got the whole country. If they want money, they just print some. And that's what they plan for this country, to take it over and own everything. We'd be their slaves, that's all."

"You seriously believe the Jews are planning to take over this country?"

"Are you kidding? There're loads of 'em in Washington already. What's more, they own all the banks and practically all the newspapers and there isn't one gentile in Hollywood."

"Jesus in heaven," sighed Jimmy, "take me back where the snow-white cotton grows. You make the South seem downright progressive."

"Yeah, uh-huh--well, frankly I'm surprised to see a Southerner like you taking up for the Jews. After all the trouble you've had down there with niggers, I should think you'd know better."

"Do you hate Negroes, too?"

"No, I don't hate them. Why should I hate them? They're animals, that's all. And so are the Jews, but they're worse because they're smarter."

Jimmy searched in the empty pack for a cigarette, but found none. There was nothing wrong with Vera's basic intelligence; surely there must be some way to reason with her. "Look, did you ever really know anybody who was Jewish? I don't mean a landlord or a guy you borrowed money from, I mean a friend. Did you ever actually know a Jew in your life?"

"Sure. In the ninth grade, my best girlfriend was Jewish."

"Your best girlfriend?"

"By far my best girlfriend. I was in her house a million times. I was almost like a member of that family. I even went to a special big dinner there, a thing kind of like Thanksgiving that they call a Seder, and they don't let gentiles come to that, it's meant to be for relatives only. It's a special dinner and very religious, but the mother let me come because she said I had a Jewish heart."

"A Jewish heart, huh?" With grim amusement, Jimmy stared at the huddled and naked girl on the other side of the oilcloth-covered table. "You've got a Jewish heart like Hitler, that's the kind of Jewish heart you've got."

"Hitler only says the truth about them," answered Vera primly.

"Jesus in heaven! How can you say such a thing, when that maniac is murdering Jews all over Europe?"

"Well, if you ask me, they've got it coming to them."

Jimmy gazed at her in wonder, then ran a hand through his hair. It had been an hour since his last drink and the effect was wearing off. He had a splitting headache. "You really puzzle me, Vera. You honestly think a whole group of people deserve to be murdered--

"What I meant was, I can understand it. Me, I wouldn't kill them. Not really."

"Well, thank God for a ray of dim light in this murk. You wouldn't really kill them."

"No, but I'd kick them out of Germany, if I was Hitler."

"You are Hitler. You don't know it, honey, but you're Hitler." Again, Jimmy reached to the empty pack for a cigarette, then winced and sighed. The headache was now so bad it was difficult for him to see in clear focus the hunched, naked girl on the kitchen chair. Vera was a pale blur of crossed arms and bowed shoulders with a brunette head of hair on top. "I don't understand you," he said. "This girl in the ninth grade was your best friend, right? And you knew her mother and father?"

"Sure I did. I knew them very, very well."

"And they fit your notion of monsters with horns? You think they'd cheat you and steal money from you?"

"Money? Ha ha ha ha. You're damn right they would. In fact, they did. The father sold me a little gold bracelet for twenty-five dollars, except it wasn't gold. The guy at the pawnshop, another Jew, wouldn't lend me fifty cents on it." Huddled in the cold, Vera gave a shiverlike shrug of ironic indifference. "Good business. Sell a little schoolgirl a worthless bracelet for twenty-five dollars. I saved for months to pay for that thing."

Jimmy stood up. "Can I borrow your bathroom?"

"Sure, right down the hall." Vera was shivering and blue with cold. It was at least one o'clock and what little heat there had been in the apartment was gone. Why had she sat there in freezing discomfort? Because her breasts were "lovely, even and equal" or was the ice of her hatred so cold she could not feel ordinary frost?

"I've got a little headache," said Jimmy. "Do you have any aspirin?"

"Yeah, in the medicine cabinet," she replied. "But that's not all, I'll tell you something else. He didn't only sell me a worthless bracelet for twenty-five dollars, he sat me on his lap one day and tried to feel me up. In fact, he didn't just try, he did. He put his hand right up my dress. I was fourteen years old, a child, but did he care? No. You see, Jimmy boy, there're two things Jews like. One is money and the other is sex. The men, I mean. The women just like money and food, that's why they're all fat as pigs. But all Jewish men are lecherous. I never saw one yet that wasn't."

"To hell with it," said Jimmy. "You're impossible."

Vera stood up from the table in alarm. "Right," she said, "to the right, Jimmy. The bathroom's not that way."

"I'm not going to the bathroom. I'm getting the hell out of here."

"You want to leave?"

"You're damned right I want to leave."

"Just because I don't like Jews?"

"That's right, just because you don't like Jews."

Silence. Angrily, Jimmy dressed. As he yanked at the strings of his shoes, he heard a thin voice. "I thought you said you would stay tonight. You said you would stay. Didn't you? Isn't that what you said?"

"I don't give a damn what I said."

Silence again. Then calm indifference: "OK, go ahead and leave. I couldn't care less. Heh! If a bunch of Jews mean more to you than me, why should I care? But that's only an excuse, anyhow. You're not fooling me and you never have."

"Why don't you shut up?" asked Jimmy. As he hurled pillows to one side looking for his tie, he heard Vera's bare feet pad into the living room and then heard a faint sniffle behind him. Another sniffle, louder. Her hand touched his shoulder and he turned around. The light was behind her and he could not see her face, but she was not crying. Jimmy switched on the lamp, folded his arms and said, "Look, spare us both a ridiculous scene."

Vera stared calmly at him, dry-eyed. "All right, I'm crawling," she said. "That's what you want, isn't it, for me to crawl? I take it back, everything I said. I'm crawling, Jimmy. Please don't go. I don't want you to go."

"The hell you don't. You've been trying to get rid of me for an hour." He turned and began to look for his tie. A moment later, Vera switched off the lamp.

"Jimmy ... Jimmy, don't go. Turn around for a minute, huh? Listen, I'm sorry, I take it back. I didn't mean to make you mad. Jimmy, don't leave me here, I can't sleep when I'm alone. Please, Jimmy, you said you would stay. Won't you stay?"

Jimmy pulled back the couch from the wall and peered down in the gloom at the dusty floor. "Where in the hell is that tie?" he asked.

"OK, then, leave me," said Vera.

"I've had enough," he answered. Behind him he heard the pat of her bare feet as she returned to the kitchenette. On his knees, he found his necktie under the couch and hung it around his neck, then grabbed his coat and walked toward the hall door.

"Jimmy," said Vera. Hand on the door, he looked back. She was standing pale and naked under the kitchenette light, a stiff smile on her face. There was a guttural tone in her voice as she spoke. "I just want you to know that I hate you for what you've done to me. You're a dirty, lousy, rotten son of a bitch and don't you ever dare speak to me again, or I'll spit in your face." Jimmy turned to go and an enraged screech came after him. "You hear that, you bastard! I'll spit on you! Don't ever speak to me! Don't ever look at me! I hate you, you liar! You liar! You liar!"

Jimmy shut the hall door and leaned back against it, dizzy. A moment later, he felt a shattering crash on the panel by his head. He was too exhausted even to flinch. Evidently, she had thrown a coffee cup or a plate at him, probably a plate from the sound of it. As he looked down the dim and sleazy stairs, the thought occurred to him that he was lucky to get out of that apartment alive. The girl was perfectly capable of taking a butcher knife and killing him. Why not commit murder in a world of such absolute horror?

Why not, indeed? Jimmy wearily descended the iron-capped stairs, his hand on the grimy banister. He had always considered himself a pretty good hater, but Vera put him in the shade. He was a rank amateur compared to her; there was absolutely nothing she didn't hate. Monsters stalked the corridors of her mind with a total reality: cheating and lecherous Jews, hypocritical and idiotic Catholics, animalistic niggers, Reds and pinkos, snakes and spiders and sharks and wolves--a monster world, and Vera lived in it. She really lived in it and for that reason it was totally impossible to communicate with her. The opinions she expressed were only a hundredth part of it; the really terrifying thing was the remorseless and fanatical look in her eyes, the twisted and frightened expression of her mouth, and the soft continuing conviction of her voice, a conviction beyond even the possibility of doubt. Nothing would ever change her mind that the world was full of monsters and that life itself was a hideous, horrifying dream.

The hour was much earlier than he had thought. It was only ten minutes of twelve when Jimmy walked into a drugstore on Dearborn Street. There, he bought a newspaper and cigarettes, and took three aspirin tablets. Then he went to a diner and had coffee and bacon and eggs. Vera had told him she and a bell captain had talked to a reporter over the telephone, at the request of an assistant manager. While he ate, Jimmy looked for the story.

It took a long time to find it. The story was buried on a back page of the paper and that surprised him. He'd expected to see a big headline with numerous interviews and pictures. Jimmy read the drab words with dismay. Didn't they realize the significance of what had happened? What bald-headed and cigar-chewing night reporter had traced with indifference this shock of death? It was nothing at all, a microseismic echo in banal journalese of the earthquake of brains and blood on that elevator floor. But there was one interview in the story, an interview of sorts, and if it did not satisfy Jimmy's need for knowledge of the disaster, it did return him to his clowny night. Something, he was sure, would have done that anyhow. He had known when he walked down those iron-capped stairs he would walk up them again.

Hotel Engineer Killed in Elevator Fall

John Charles O'Neill, aged 54, of 1220 Blue Island Avenue, was killed instantly in an accidental fall down an elevator shaft of the Hotel Manchester at 4:15 P.M. today.

The cause of the tragedy has not been determined, but the hotel management states that Mr. O'Neill was probably the victim of electric shock. The maintenance engineer, an experienced and long-term employee of the Hotel Manchester, was working on a short circuit in the elevator tower when he lost his footing on a repair catwalk and plunged 33 stories clown shaft number 11. The body of Mr. O'Neill landed upon an elevator at rest on the lobby floor and crashed through the panels of the roof, severely injuring the elevator operator, Miss Judith Sterne, of 1904 Cottage Grove Avenue.

Six hotel guests, who were in the elevator at the time of the accident, are reported to have escaped with minor injuries, although several required treatment for shock and hysteria. Miss Sterne, who is reported to have suffered a broken arm and possible concussion and internal injury, was taken by ambulance to Memorial Hospital. Guests injured in the accident were treated at the Hotel Manchester infirmary and have been released. According to an eyewitness of the tragedy, Miss Vera Koltanowski, chief elevator starter of the Hotel Manchester: "It was a miracle of God nobody else in that car was killed. His body tore the roof of the elevator to bits. I never saw anything so terrible and awful."

The dead man is survived by his wife, Clara, and three children, John Charles, Jr., Margaret and James.

Koltanowski? That was not Vera's name. Her name was Johnson or Johnston, an ordinary English name. Jimmy looked again at the newspaper story, but there it was--Miss Vera Koltanowski. How could that be? He rubbed his forehead in an eerie bewilderment. Could this be her maiden name? Was it possible for Vera, a hater of the Catholic Church, to be a Polish Catholic herself?

Jimmy had a second cup of coffee and thought it over. She had sounded downright ignorant on the subject of Catholicism. Not that he himself knew very much about it, but her anti-Catholicism had seemed naïve. Could it be that her father was a renegade Catholic and she herself had not been brought up in the Church? That was very possible, if the mother was of some other faith. Her mother could be a Protestant, or anything else, even ... a sudden shock made Jimmy almost drop his coffee cup. How had this anti-Semitic girl ever been invited to a Seder? Of course it was possible, but that whole story of the "best girlfriend in the ninth grade" had had a faint air of fabrication. Could it be that Vera, hater of the Pope and rabid anti-Semite, was herself both Catholic and Jewish?

No fog could equal that of Chicago, melting pot of the wheatland and hog butcher to the world; dim headlights and dim pedestrians passed before him like ghosts in the mist. On a wet bench in Lincoln Park, Jimmy wondered again at the mystery of his own nature. How had the death of an unknown man precipitated this incredible affair with a girl he had always despised? Why had he felt in the bar on Wabash a rush of love for her? Why had the sight of her naked body overwhelmed him with pity and desire?

But there were deeper mysteries; in seven hours, the puzzle had ramified, not (continued overleaf) simplified. If the truth be told, had he not been more than a little self-righteous and pious in his attitude toward her? After accepting the embrace of her body, should he not feel a greater human obligation toward her soul? Was he himself so far removed from all sin? Had he never looked in sour rejection at the skirts of a nun, or frowned with distaste at an alien Jew, or shrugged at the abasement of helpless Negroes in his homeland? Was his own bleeding heart so pure? And most of all: was he a liar? Was it predatory, young-man lust that made him tell Vera he loved her? Had he merely wanted a woman in his arms to distract him from the fear of death and oblivion? Was that the only meaning of his pity for this wretched and miserable girl? If so, then he was a liar, indeed. Jimmy smiled and threw his cigarette in a fiery arc into the fog. It was ridiculous, it was clowny, but there really was no alternative. An infuriated butcher knife in his belly would be better than leaving Vera Koltanowski all alone with nothing but monsters for company on a cold Chicago night.

"Me, half-Jewish? Ha ha ha ha! Whatever put that idear in your head? And half-Catholic, that's even funnier. Ha ha ha ha! You're nutty as a fruitcake, Jimmy boy. I never met such a nut as you. Never in my life, Jimmy, never in my life."

After half an hour under two blankets in Jimmy's arms, Vera had finally begun to get warm. But she was still crying. He had found her at the kitchenette table, the bottle of rye almost empty beside her and her head on her arm sobbing in the cold. Although she had had more than her share of the whiskey, she was not drunk. Half-drunk maybe, but not enough to help. Whiskey, she said, didn't have much effect on her, perhaps because she drank so much of it. Until a year or two ago, it had helped her sleep, but not anymore. The only thing that helped now was to have someone in her arms, that was the only way she ever got any rest, and it was a problem because most of them wanted to get up and leave.

"OK, you're not Catholic and you're not Jewish," said Jimmy with a smile. "It was a bright but inaccurate idea. I'm full of theories, and some of them are bound to poop instead of pop."

"You're nuts," said Vera, head on his shoulder and arm tight around his waist. "You must be nuts, to come back to me. Oh, Jimmy, I'm so glad you did, I'm so glad! I never dreamed you would, I was sure you hated me. But you don't, do you?"

The newspaper had made an error in calling her Miss. Actually, Koltanowski was Vera's married name. Where the name "Johnson" or "Johnston" had come from was a mystery; evidently, Jimmy had invented it out of whole cloth for his own emotional purposes. Her maiden name was Mueller, and her father was a German Lutheran and so was her mother. Her husband was a Polish Catholic, but never went to church. There really had been a Jewish "best friend in the ninth grade" and Vera really had attended a Seder. So much for Jimmy's theory, but it had brought him back to the cold apartment and in the last analysis it was not really wrong.

Since she was obviously exhausted and they had already made love over a period of many hours, Jimmy thought she would go to sleep. However, as she warmed in his arms, she continued to weep and talk to him. Finally, she said it: "Aren't you going to make love to me?"

Jimmy winced. "Is that what you want?"

"I always want that," she answered. "Anyhow, isn't that what you came back for?"

"No, I came back because I said I would stay with you, honey."

"But don't you want me?"

"Well, it's late, and we're both very tired." Jimmy kissed her cheek, which was still wet with tears. "Why don't you go to sleep, Vera, and stop crying? You'll ruin your eyes if you keep on like that."

She was silent for a while, but the tears continued to fall on his chest and shoulder. Twice, she took a deep breath and sighed. "I guess you think I'm oversexed or something, don't you? Well, I'm not. It's just that that's the only way I can relax."

Jimmy, who still had a headache, patted her shoulder and again kissed her cheek. "It's very late, Vera. You just shut your eyes and stop crying and go to sleep, OK? Imagine little goats jumping over a bush in a pasture and you'll drift right off."

"Huh," she answered. "Goats are nothing for me to think about right now, but OK."

The tears did finally stop and for a long time Vera was quiet. Jimmy himself was half in a dream when he heard a small voice in his ear: "I just don't think I can get to sleep, if you don't."

"Oh, God," said Jimmy. An hour later, he lay back on the pillow in utter exhaustion, a fiery stitch in his side and a generalized ache in every muscle of his body. A headache pounded violently in his temple. Spots danced in the dark before his eyes. "Honey," he said, "I hope you can get to sleep, I really do. I hope that."

Vera laughed. "It's your own fault. What did you come back for? I can't help it, Jimmy. I'm not to blame."

"OK, honey. Fine. We'll sleep, huh?"

"All right."

But Vera didn't sleep, she talked.

"Hey, I tell you something. I have to admit something. I laid the landlord."

"Did you? I thought you borrowed money from a loan shark."

"I borrowed from a loan shark, but that was for something else. I laid the landlord for the rent. Ten dollars a time, but you know what? When I'd worked it all off, he gave me a coat. Cloth, but nice. It must have cost him sixty or seventy bucks and he didn't have to do that."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Well, it shows Jews aren't all bad. He was kind of nice to me, and I guess I led him on in the first place. I just didn't have the money for the rent, that's all. But believe it or not, that's the only time I ever took any money. Ha ha. I'm for free, Jimmy. Hey, and I'll tell you something else. You know Becky's father? I said he felt me up? When I was fourteen and everything? Well, he did, but I led him on, too, just like the landlord. I always was a tramp. Do you believe that?"

"Yeah, I believe it," said Jimmy.

"Even at fourteen, I was a tramp. I sat in his lap myself, as a matter of fact. You can't blame him completely for what he did and it was nothing much, anyhow. Does this surprise you?"

"No."

"Ha ha. You're smart, aren't you, Jimmy? But you were wrong about my being a Catholic and a Jew."

"Yeah, that was a wild swing."

"There was something else I wanted to tell you. About that bracelet my girlfriend's father sold me. Well, that was crap. Where would I get twenty-five dollars when I was fourteen?"

Jimmy laughed. "Well, you fooled me that time. I believed that one."

"I fooled you on something else, too."

"Well, let's see. Your brother? Is he still alive somewhere despite that murdering sergeant?"

Vera smiled in the dim light that came from the open bathroom door. "Close, but no kewpie doll," she answered. "I never had a brother. I'm an only child."

Jimmy sat up in the bed. "You have no brother at all?"

"Nah. And that was bullshit about Irene going in the bushes with a sailor. The little fool's a virgin, and I guess she really believes her religion, too. A lot of those Catholics do. It's not just hypocrisy with them."

"Uh-huh," said Jimmy. "Next you'll be admitting Negroes are human beings."

"Sure, they're human. In fact, a colored person will help you quicker'n a white. They're more kindhearted."

Jimmy nodded. "In other words, practically everything you've told me tonight has been a lie of one sort or another. What's the point? Why did you make up all those stories and tell all those lies?"

Vera shrugged. "Well, you kept picking on me about the goddamn Jews. I was defending myself, that's all. And I always have had a good imagination."

"You admit all your stories were lies or at least distortions, and you still call them the goddamn Jews?"

"Let's don't get on that again. We'll just never see eye to eye on that, Jimmy. You like them, and I don't. But I told you all this to kind of agree with you, and meet you halfway."

"Out of gratitude for my coming back, huh?"

"Yeah, that's right, gratitude. And I'll tell you something else, too. You think I'm a tramp, don't you? You believed that, didn't you? You think I'm in bed with a million guys. Well, that was the biggest lie of all, Jimmy. I been married six years, and before tonight I cheated on my husband one time. Just one time, Jimmy, that's all."

"Um-hmmm. The Jewish landlord, I presume?"

"Oh, what the hell. All right, so I am a tramp. What's the use? I'll never see you again after tonight, anyhow."

Jimmy laughed. "Why don't you go to sleep, Vera? It must be damn near four o'clock."

"It isn't really my fault and my husband understands it even if you don't. I was born that way. Some women just "can't help themselves, and I'm one of them. And I've fought it, too, I've tried. The best I can do is not get involved where I work. You see, I've got to have men, Jimmy, I'm a tramp. I'm a worthless, lying tramp and naturally you're not going to want to see me anymore. Of course not! You'll run the other way just like all the rest and I don't blame you! But do you know something? I swear, Jimmy, I swear it to God, that if anybody in this world really loved me I wouldn't be like that! Do you believe me?"

"Yes, I believe you," said Jimmy.

"All right, then stay here with me. Move in, live with me! I'll write my husband, I'll divorce him if you want, I'll marry you. I'll do anything, if you stay with me, and I swear before God I'll never look at another man! Never, never, Jimmy! If you'll just love me, my troubles will be over!"

Again, Vera was weeping. How was it possible for tear ducts to produce such an enormous quantity of fluid? Jimmy shook his head in the gloom. It was too much. But he made a final effort. "What you need, Vera, is not for somebody to love you, but for you to love somebody."

"But how can I love somebody, when nobody loves me? That's the trouble, Jimmy, nobody loves me! You're the only person I ever met who cares anything about me! People don't like me! They never have! Everybody hates me!"

"You hate yourself," said Jimmy, with the last of his strength, or so he thought.

"But why should I hate myself? Why? Why, Jimmy?"

"God knows," he answered. "Now go to sleep. Be quiet. Stop crying. Shut your eyes. Lay your crazy head on my shoulder and go to sleep, or I'll get up and leave. I mean it! I'm not bluffing, Vera--I can't stand another word out of you! Now shut your eyes and go to sleep! Do you understand me?"

Vera nodded. For five minutes or so, she sniffled and tears damply trickled on his shoulder, then for a long time she was silent in his arms, breathing soft and slow. Jimmy was once again halfway in a dream when he heard a small voice at his ear: "You got me all wide awake. And besides, I'm in love with you. Jimmy. Jimmy. Please ... put your arms around me again ... kiss me ... please, Jimmy, I can't ever get to sleep, if you don't."

The clowny night lasted until red-eyed and dreary dawn. When Jimmy walked down the iron-capped stairs at seven A.M., he felt a spiritual liberation so enormous he almost wept with joy. But if he had done so, if the tears of Jimmy McClain had splashed on those iron stairs in the red-eyed dawn, then not a single one would have fallen for Vera Mueller Koltanowski. Not a single, solitary, salty tear. She was a drunken, half-crazy bitch and to hell with her.