flushed, tears welling up, his lips slavering.
“What I say”—he slammed the desk with his clammy fist— “what I say,” he repeated vociferously, “is this: you ought to hang that poor bugger up to dry … hang him up in the toilet, he won’t know the difference. Or say, I tell you what—send him up to Dr. Nussbaum in the morning. I’ll tip the old codger off. Cripes, we haven’t had a decent case for the last two weeks. Nothing but paranoids … and cretins.”
Restive because Moloch was paying no attention to him, he threw the remains of a voice to the ceiling.
“Gonna doll that guy up in a uniform tomorrow, eh? You ought to make a wardrobe attendant out of him.”
Moloch appeared to be absorbed in his papers.
“I say, Mister Moloch! Feelin’ pretty good now … satisfied with the world, heh? Jesus, but you like to play the good Samaritan!”
Prigozi was now fairly launched on his pet theme: playing the good Samaritan. It was his favorite instrument of torture, for Moloch could stand most any other gaff but being dubbed a little Jesus. He was inclined to look upon his charitable impulses as a weakness. Prigozi understood this thoroughly. What he wanted was to see Moloch reduced to a soft, pulpy, Christian mass of flesh and principles. In the ordinary Gentile he saw no hope of resuscitating the Christ spirit. Moloch he recognized as a Christian “sport,” a case of religious atavism, one might say. This callous shell in which Moloch encased his tender spirit could not deceive Prigozi. Oh, no. He knew a real Christian when he met one. And the flesh of a real Christian was ever so much more succulent than a priest’s or a pope’s.
Moloch listened to Prigozi’s tirades for a while with mild amusement. That irritated Prigozi, took the wind out of his sails, as it were. Finally Moloch turned to Matt:
“Look here, Matt, do me a favor, will you? Chase this dirty Grand Street savant out of here. Send him home to his wife and guinea pigs.”
“There you go!” Prigozi exclaimed, rubbing his hands like Lady Macbeth. “Now that’s what I call a normal reaction. You’re not psychotic— yet , Mister Moloch.” He chuckled as though he had made a quick sale.
“No,” said the other, “I suppose my behavior is indicative of nothing more than a mild neuroticism. Take yourself now … you’re a healthy specimen of the ‘normal.’ How about it, Matt?”
“Slightly tainted,” responded Matt.
“Gwan, gwan!” ranted Prigozi, waving his hands excitedly as if he were shooing away a swarm of horseflies. “Someday I’m gonna submit my plan to Twilliger, and then you guys better watch out or you’ll be losing your jobs.”
This eternal question of normality versus abnormality was intimately linked with the messenger problem. Prigozi had certain unique theories about the status of the messenger boy with which Moloch entirely disagreed. In order to give Prigozi material with which to formulate his theories, Moloch had permitted him to don the uniform for a few months as a part-time messenger. Prigozi found the experience thrilling. His solution to the problem could be boiled down to one word: Revolution .
Matt Reardon found Prigozi’s ideas stimulating and entertaining. He hadn’t an ounce of faith in them, but he made it a principle to encourage Prigozi in order to take some of the conceit out of Moloch. At the same time he utilized this ceaseless strife to enlarge his afternoon’s recreation. He commenced usually by twitting Prigozi about his various schemes.
“That plan of yours,” he said, “what plan is that? You don’t mean the idea of substituting pigeons for messengers, do you?”
“Get out of here!” Prigozi snarled. “Where do you get that stuff? I know the guy who invented that pigeon stunt… that crazy manager of yours up in the third district, that guy with the big belly, looks like a eunuch. What’s his name again, Dion?” He snapped his fingers to jog his memory.
“You
“What I say”—he slammed the desk with his clammy fist— “what I say,” he repeated vociferously, “is this: you ought to hang that poor bugger up to dry … hang him up in the toilet, he won’t know the difference. Or say, I tell you what—send him up to Dr. Nussbaum in the morning. I’ll tip the old codger off. Cripes, we haven’t had a decent case for the last two weeks. Nothing but paranoids … and cretins.”
Restive because Moloch was paying no attention to him, he threw the remains of a voice to the ceiling.
“Gonna doll that guy up in a uniform tomorrow, eh? You ought to make a wardrobe attendant out of him.”
Moloch appeared to be absorbed in his papers.
“I say, Mister Moloch! Feelin’ pretty good now … satisfied with the world, heh? Jesus, but you like to play the good Samaritan!”
Prigozi was now fairly launched on his pet theme: playing the good Samaritan. It was his favorite instrument of torture, for Moloch could stand most any other gaff but being dubbed a little Jesus. He was inclined to look upon his charitable impulses as a weakness. Prigozi understood this thoroughly. What he wanted was to see Moloch reduced to a soft, pulpy, Christian mass of flesh and principles. In the ordinary Gentile he saw no hope of resuscitating the Christ spirit. Moloch he recognized as a Christian “sport,” a case of religious atavism, one might say. This callous shell in which Moloch encased his tender spirit could not deceive Prigozi. Oh, no. He knew a real Christian when he met one. And the flesh of a real Christian was ever so much more succulent than a priest’s or a pope’s.
Moloch listened to Prigozi’s tirades for a while with mild amusement. That irritated Prigozi, took the wind out of his sails, as it were. Finally Moloch turned to Matt:
“Look here, Matt, do me a favor, will you? Chase this dirty Grand Street savant out of here. Send him home to his wife and guinea pigs.”
“There you go!” Prigozi exclaimed, rubbing his hands like Lady Macbeth. “Now that’s what I call a normal reaction. You’re not psychotic— yet , Mister Moloch.” He chuckled as though he had made a quick sale.
“No,” said the other, “I suppose my behavior is indicative of nothing more than a mild neuroticism. Take yourself now … you’re a healthy specimen of the ‘normal.’ How about it, Matt?”
“Slightly tainted,” responded Matt.
“Gwan, gwan!” ranted Prigozi, waving his hands excitedly as if he were shooing away a swarm of horseflies. “Someday I’m gonna submit my plan to Twilliger, and then you guys better watch out or you’ll be losing your jobs.”
This eternal question of normality versus abnormality was intimately linked with the messenger problem. Prigozi had certain unique theories about the status of the messenger boy with which Moloch entirely disagreed. In order to give Prigozi material with which to formulate his theories, Moloch had permitted him to don the uniform for a few months as a part-time messenger. Prigozi found the experience thrilling. His solution to the problem could be boiled down to one word: Revolution .
Matt Reardon found Prigozi’s ideas stimulating and entertaining. He hadn’t an ounce of faith in them, but he made it a principle to encourage Prigozi in order to take some of the conceit out of Moloch. At the same time he utilized this ceaseless strife to enlarge his afternoon’s recreation. He commenced usually by twitting Prigozi about his various schemes.
“That plan of yours,” he said, “what plan is that? You don’t mean the idea of substituting pigeons for messengers, do you?”
“Get out of here!” Prigozi snarled. “Where do you get that stuff? I know the guy who invented that pigeon stunt… that crazy manager of yours up in the third district, that guy with the big belly, looks like a eunuch. What’s his name again, Dion?” He snapped his fingers to jog his memory.
“You
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