and seven,” Margie chirped.
Frank leaned against the shut door and birds with heated wings buffeted at his face.
“Monstrous,” he said with a gulp. “Oh,
m-mon-strous
.”
“
Again
?” asked Sylvia.
“But with a difference,” he said vengefully. “I have traced them to their lair and tomorrow I shall lead the police there.”
“Oh, Frank!” said Sylvia, embracing him. “You’re wonderful.”
“Th-thank you,” said Frank.
W hen he came out of the house the next morning he found the card on one of the porch steps. He picked it up and slid it into his wallet.
Sylvia mustn’t see it, he thought.
It would hurt her.
Besides, he had to keep the porch neat.
Besides, it was important evidence.
That evening he sat in a shadowy Cyprian Room booth revolving a glass of sherry between two fingers. Jukebox music softly thrummed; there was the mumble of post-work conversation in the air.
Now
, thought Frank.
When Margie arrives, I’ll duck into the phone booth and call the police, then keep her occupied in conversation until they come. That’s what I’ll do. When Margie
—
Margie arrived.
Frank sat like a Medusa victim. Only his mouth moved. It opened slowly. His gaze rooted on the jutting opulence of Margie as she waggled along the aisle, then came to gelatinous rest on a leather-topped bar stool.
Five minutes later he cringed out of a side door.
“Wasn’t
there
?” asked Sylvia for a third time.
“I
told
you,” snapped Frank, concentrating on his breaded cutlet.
Sylvia was still a moment. Then her fork clinked down.
“We’ll have to move, then,” she said. “Obviously, the authorities have no intention of doing
anything
.”
“What difference does it make
where
we live?” he mumbled.
She didn’t reply.
“I mean,” he said, trying to break the painful silence, “well, who knows, maybe it’s an inevitable cultural phenomenon. Maybe—”
“
Frank Gussett
!” she cried. “
Are you defending that awful Exchange
?”
“No, no, of course not,” he blurted. “It’s execrable. Really! But—well, maybe it’s Greece all over again. Maybe it’s Rome. Maybe it’s—”
“I don’t care
what
it is!” she cried. “It’s
awful
!”
He put his hand on hers. “There, there,” he said.
39-26-36
, he thought.
That night, in the frantic dark, there was a desperate reaffirmation of their love.
“It
was
nice,
wasn’t
it?” asked Sylvia, plaintively.
“Of course,” he said.
39-26-36
.
T hat’s right!” said Maxwell as they drove to work the next morning. “A cultural phenomenon. You hit it on the head, Frankie-boy. An inevitable goddamn cultural phenomenon. First the houses. Then the lady cab drivers, the girls on street corners, the clubs, the teenage pickups roaming the drive-in movies. Sooner or later they had to branch out more; put it on a door-to-door basis. And naturally, the syndicatesare going to run it, pay off complainers. Inevitable. You’re so right, Frankie-boy; so right.”
Frank drove on, nodding grimly.
Over lunch he found himself humming, “
Margie. I’m always thinkin’ of you
—”
He stopped, shaken. He couldn’t finish the meal. He prowled the streets until one, marble-eyed. The mass mind, he thought, that evil old mass mind.
Before he went into his office he tore the little card to confetti and snowed it into a disposal can.
In the figures he wrote that afternoon the number 39 cropped up with dismaying regularity.
Once with an exclamation point.
I almost think you
are
defending this—this
thing
,” accused Sylvia. “You and your cultural phenomenons!”
Frank sat in the living room listening to her bang dishes in the kitchen sink. Cranky old thing, he thought.
MARGIE
(
specialties
)
Will you stop!
he whispered furiously to his mind.
That night while he was brushing his teeth, he started to sing, “
I’m just a poor little
—”
“Damn!” he muttered to his wild-eyed reflection.
That night there were dreams.
Frank leaned against the shut door and birds with heated wings buffeted at his face.
“Monstrous,” he said with a gulp. “Oh,
m-mon-strous
.”
“
Again
?” asked Sylvia.
“But with a difference,” he said vengefully. “I have traced them to their lair and tomorrow I shall lead the police there.”
“Oh, Frank!” said Sylvia, embracing him. “You’re wonderful.”
“Th-thank you,” said Frank.
W hen he came out of the house the next morning he found the card on one of the porch steps. He picked it up and slid it into his wallet.
Sylvia mustn’t see it, he thought.
It would hurt her.
Besides, he had to keep the porch neat.
Besides, it was important evidence.
That evening he sat in a shadowy Cyprian Room booth revolving a glass of sherry between two fingers. Jukebox music softly thrummed; there was the mumble of post-work conversation in the air.
Now
, thought Frank.
When Margie arrives, I’ll duck into the phone booth and call the police, then keep her occupied in conversation until they come. That’s what I’ll do. When Margie
—
Margie arrived.
Frank sat like a Medusa victim. Only his mouth moved. It opened slowly. His gaze rooted on the jutting opulence of Margie as she waggled along the aisle, then came to gelatinous rest on a leather-topped bar stool.
Five minutes later he cringed out of a side door.
“Wasn’t
there
?” asked Sylvia for a third time.
“I
told
you,” snapped Frank, concentrating on his breaded cutlet.
Sylvia was still a moment. Then her fork clinked down.
“We’ll have to move, then,” she said. “Obviously, the authorities have no intention of doing
anything
.”
“What difference does it make
where
we live?” he mumbled.
She didn’t reply.
“I mean,” he said, trying to break the painful silence, “well, who knows, maybe it’s an inevitable cultural phenomenon. Maybe—”
“
Frank Gussett
!” she cried. “
Are you defending that awful Exchange
?”
“No, no, of course not,” he blurted. “It’s execrable. Really! But—well, maybe it’s Greece all over again. Maybe it’s Rome. Maybe it’s—”
“I don’t care
what
it is!” she cried. “It’s
awful
!”
He put his hand on hers. “There, there,” he said.
39-26-36
, he thought.
That night, in the frantic dark, there was a desperate reaffirmation of their love.
“It
was
nice,
wasn’t
it?” asked Sylvia, plaintively.
“Of course,” he said.
39-26-36
.
T hat’s right!” said Maxwell as they drove to work the next morning. “A cultural phenomenon. You hit it on the head, Frankie-boy. An inevitable goddamn cultural phenomenon. First the houses. Then the lady cab drivers, the girls on street corners, the clubs, the teenage pickups roaming the drive-in movies. Sooner or later they had to branch out more; put it on a door-to-door basis. And naturally, the syndicatesare going to run it, pay off complainers. Inevitable. You’re so right, Frankie-boy; so right.”
Frank drove on, nodding grimly.
Over lunch he found himself humming, “
Margie. I’m always thinkin’ of you
—”
He stopped, shaken. He couldn’t finish the meal. He prowled the streets until one, marble-eyed. The mass mind, he thought, that evil old mass mind.
Before he went into his office he tore the little card to confetti and snowed it into a disposal can.
In the figures he wrote that afternoon the number 39 cropped up with dismaying regularity.
Once with an exclamation point.
I almost think you
are
defending this—this
thing
,” accused Sylvia. “You and your cultural phenomenons!”
Frank sat in the living room listening to her bang dishes in the kitchen sink. Cranky old thing, he thought.
MARGIE
(
specialties
)
Will you stop!
he whispered furiously to his mind.
That night while he was brushing his teeth, he started to sing, “
I’m just a poor little
—”
“Damn!” he muttered to his wild-eyed reflection.
That night there were dreams.
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