us we was free .
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Three
For the better part of four and one half hours, a superlatively-trained corps of yawn-makers had dispensed boredom by means of platitude, homey homily, grandiose visions of Kentucky futures, and soggy reminiscence.
The testimonial dinner had been a walloping success.
Shelly Morgenstern contemplated killing himself.
There had to be easier ways to go. Boredom was such a slow, despicable demise. "Oh, God, oh for a barrel of absinthe and free passage to dissolution," he burbled into the too-sweet martini. "Bartender, give me another fruit punch." He indicated the martini glass.
When the bartender brought the refill, Shelly stared at his bald head for a long instant and refrained from saying: Your head, sir, is shining in my eyes .
That's pretty damned cornball, Morgenstern , he chided himself.
I know , he snapped the reply, but I'm not nearly drunk enough to be quick and clever. Oh, God, this town!
"Where's the action tonight, fella?" he asked the passing bartender. The man paused on his way to the orange squeezer and assayed the questioner.
"What are you looking for?"
Shelly shrugged. He was too tired for wenching. Maybe a good cool game of cards. He relayed his desire.
The bartender said, "Wait a minute." He moved up to the other end of the bar, took out a pad and pencil, and jotted down a quick address. He came back, handed it to Shelly and said, "Ask for Luther. He'll know what's on tonight."
Shelly thanked him, paid for the drinks, and slid off the barstool. The note said: Dixie Hotel, 5th and Broadway .
Louisville at night was a combination of Coney Island at ten PM and deepest Brooklyn at five in the morning. A short stretch of naked neon insensibly wiggling — and then silence. The centerstripe rolled up like a long tongue. The fleshpots, and the closed shops. He walked quite steadily, waiting for the right recognition symbol to be tripped in his head.
Ding!
The sign was a bilious green. DIXIE HOTEL — ROOMS.
He pushed through the revolving door, finding himself in one of those B-movie sleazy lobbies cut from the same cheap pattern. Brass lamps with hanging beaded pull-chains, sofas that gave off small puffs of dust when sat upon, a long oak table from some esoteric period covered with copies of The Farmer's Weekly, Look from seven months before and three battered copies of Radio-TV Mirror . The three Radio-TV Mirrors had subscription stickers on their covers. One of them had been left out in the rain; it was wrinkled.
"Room, buddy?" The voice drifted to Shelly from behind the high plywood counter. He turned and saw the top of a balding head.
Stepping closer, the head-top became only the top of a head that topped a shrunken, yellowed body barely in the same species with Morgenstern. "Where can I find — uh—" he consulted the slip of paper, "somebody named Luther?"
"Luther?" The room clerk sighed resignedly. "Wait a minute." He reached across with a foot and jabbed a red button on the board. "He'll be right down."
The little man continued to stare at Shelly from dark eyes with yellow rings under them. "Is my monkey bothering you?" Shelly asked.
"What?"
"The one on my back."
The clerk looked disgusted. "Comedian," he mumbled. Shelly lit a cigarette, staring at those obscure places in every room that seldom command attention: the juncture of ceiling and wall, ornate filigree along the upper walls, worn spots on the seedy rug. I should have gone with Freeport to that business conference. Couldn't have been any worse than this .
The elevator sighed open, and a tall, thin kid with too much hair came out. He wore a faded blue bellhop's uniform, and the most monumentally bored expression Shelly had ever encountered.
The boy walked to the check-in desk. "George-O," he said, and the balding dwarf jerked a thumb at Shelly. "He asked for ya," George-O said. The boy turned to stare at Shelly. His eyes narrowed.
Morgenstern could see the question
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Three
For the better part of four and one half hours, a superlatively-trained corps of yawn-makers had dispensed boredom by means of platitude, homey homily, grandiose visions of Kentucky futures, and soggy reminiscence.
The testimonial dinner had been a walloping success.
Shelly Morgenstern contemplated killing himself.
There had to be easier ways to go. Boredom was such a slow, despicable demise. "Oh, God, oh for a barrel of absinthe and free passage to dissolution," he burbled into the too-sweet martini. "Bartender, give me another fruit punch." He indicated the martini glass.
When the bartender brought the refill, Shelly stared at his bald head for a long instant and refrained from saying: Your head, sir, is shining in my eyes .
That's pretty damned cornball, Morgenstern , he chided himself.
I know , he snapped the reply, but I'm not nearly drunk enough to be quick and clever. Oh, God, this town!
"Where's the action tonight, fella?" he asked the passing bartender. The man paused on his way to the orange squeezer and assayed the questioner.
"What are you looking for?"
Shelly shrugged. He was too tired for wenching. Maybe a good cool game of cards. He relayed his desire.
The bartender said, "Wait a minute." He moved up to the other end of the bar, took out a pad and pencil, and jotted down a quick address. He came back, handed it to Shelly and said, "Ask for Luther. He'll know what's on tonight."
Shelly thanked him, paid for the drinks, and slid off the barstool. The note said: Dixie Hotel, 5th and Broadway .
Louisville at night was a combination of Coney Island at ten PM and deepest Brooklyn at five in the morning. A short stretch of naked neon insensibly wiggling — and then silence. The centerstripe rolled up like a long tongue. The fleshpots, and the closed shops. He walked quite steadily, waiting for the right recognition symbol to be tripped in his head.
Ding!
The sign was a bilious green. DIXIE HOTEL — ROOMS.
He pushed through the revolving door, finding himself in one of those B-movie sleazy lobbies cut from the same cheap pattern. Brass lamps with hanging beaded pull-chains, sofas that gave off small puffs of dust when sat upon, a long oak table from some esoteric period covered with copies of The Farmer's Weekly, Look from seven months before and three battered copies of Radio-TV Mirror . The three Radio-TV Mirrors had subscription stickers on their covers. One of them had been left out in the rain; it was wrinkled.
"Room, buddy?" The voice drifted to Shelly from behind the high plywood counter. He turned and saw the top of a balding head.
Stepping closer, the head-top became only the top of a head that topped a shrunken, yellowed body barely in the same species with Morgenstern. "Where can I find — uh—" he consulted the slip of paper, "somebody named Luther?"
"Luther?" The room clerk sighed resignedly. "Wait a minute." He reached across with a foot and jabbed a red button on the board. "He'll be right down."
The little man continued to stare at Shelly from dark eyes with yellow rings under them. "Is my monkey bothering you?" Shelly asked.
"What?"
"The one on my back."
The clerk looked disgusted. "Comedian," he mumbled. Shelly lit a cigarette, staring at those obscure places in every room that seldom command attention: the juncture of ceiling and wall, ornate filigree along the upper walls, worn spots on the seedy rug. I should have gone with Freeport to that business conference. Couldn't have been any worse than this .
The elevator sighed open, and a tall, thin kid with too much hair came out. He wore a faded blue bellhop's uniform, and the most monumentally bored expression Shelly had ever encountered.
The boy walked to the check-in desk. "George-O," he said, and the balding dwarf jerked a thumb at Shelly. "He asked for ya," George-O said. The boy turned to stare at Shelly. His eyes narrowed.
Morgenstern could see the question
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