84. "20 C-notes"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo* 

illustrations by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

**Assistant Professor of American Studies, Scrabble Team Coach, Olney Community College; editor of Journey into Angst: Seven Previously Uncollected Novellas of the American Intelligentsia, by Horace P. Sternwall; Olney Community College Press; available exclusively at Thrifty™ drug stores.

click here for previous episode, here to begin at the beginning

click here for synopsis of all chapters so far

The failed hipsters Alice “Sniffy” Smith and Landon “Rooster” Crow sit across from each other at a small corner table in the Automat just across the alley from the revered Hotel St Crispian, each with a cup of coffee and a lit cigarette... “Okay,” said Rooster, “now let’s see those C-notes, Sniffy. But be discreet.” “I’ll be discreet,” said Sniffy. “Take them out under the table.” “I’m not an idiot, Rooster. You think I’m gonna flash twenty C-notes in this joint?” Putting her purse on her lap, Sniffy opened it, reached in and pulled out a sheath of hundred-dollar bills. “How do they look?” said Rooster. “They look good to me.” “The ink doesn’t rub off on your fingers?” “Nope.” “Oh, dear God!” said Rooster. “Pass them to me under the table, I want to see.” Sniffy, after only a slight hesitation, and not before taking a quick glance around the Automat, went ahead and passed the money to Rooster under the table.  “Oh, dear God,” said Rooster. “What?” said Sniffy. “Dear God in heaven.” “What? They’re not counterfeit, are they?” “No,” said Rooster. “That’s just it. They’re really real. Two thousand bucks. That’s more money than I make in a year.”  “You and me both, pal.” “Now I can quit that stupid fact-checking job at the stupid New Yorker. You can quit your stupid teaching job at the stupid New School. Just think, we can concentrate on our writing. I’ll write my poems, you’ll write your novel, and no more punching a stupid time-clock. No more Mr. Ross always getting my name wrong. No more —”  “And what about when the two grand runs out?” said Sniffy. “Well, Sniffy, by then I’ll probably have completed my proposed epic poem of the rise of the American working class, and I daresay you will have completed at least a first draft of your novel, and, and —” “Nuts.” “Nuts?” “Nuts,” said Sniffy. “Now give me back that wad. I don’t trust you not to lose it.” “Can’t I keep just one C-note?” “Give. If it wasn’t for me playing hardball with those weirdos back at the St Crispian we wouldn’t even have the two Gs. Now fork it.” “Oh, all right.” Rooster put the bills neatly back together, and, after looking nervously around the Automat, he reached under the table and handed the bills back to Sniffy. “Great,” said Sniffy. She dropped the money into her purse and clicked it shut. “Now here’s the plan. Neither of us is going to quit our jobs.”  “We’re not?” “We’re not. Not yet. And here’s the other thing, we’re not gonna burn those two goofballs at the St Crispian.” “We’re not?” “We’re not. We’re going to get them the lid we agreed to get them.” “We are?” “Yes,” said Sniffy. “And then we’re going to make them another offer.” “We are?” “Stop saying that.” “Sorry, Sniffy.” “We’re going to carry out our part of the bargain, and then we’re going to make them another offer.” “We —” “Don’t say it,” said Sniffy. “Sorry,” said Rooster. “You saw that wad of centuries that one guy pulled out of his wallet.”  “Yeah,” said Rooster. “It was at least five grand.” “At least,” said Sniffy. “And he didn’t bat an eyelash at laying out two whole grand for an ounce of tea. If these guys are that loaded and that stupid, why should we settle for just making two thousand off them? Why not offer to get them a whole pound? We’ll offer it to them for, say, okay, how many ounces in a pound?” “Sixteen.” “Okay. And we’re getting them a lid for two grand. So for a pound we’ll charge them —” “That’s thirty-two thousand!” said Rooster. “Look at Mr. Math Whiz here,” said Sniffy. “No, we’ll give them a discount for buying in bulk. Let’s say —” “Twenty thousand?” “Make it twenty-five,” said Sniffy. “Gee,” said Rooster. “Twenty-five grand.” “Twenty-five big ones,” said Sniffy. “Freedom,” said Rooster. “Yeah,” said Sniffy. “Twenty-five grand’s worth of freedom.” “We could go to Paris.”  “Why not?" “Or Rome. Or Greece,” said Rooster. “Or, no, Tangier!”  “We can go to all those places,” said Sniffy. “But first things first. We’ve got to score those morons their ounce of tea, then we’ll let them get high again and then we’ll make our proposition.” “What proposition?” “The pound of tea. For twenty-five grand.” “Oh, right,” said Rooster. “I’m sorry. I’m still pretty high myself, actually.” “I know you are,” said Sniffy. “But where can we score an ounce this late on a Friday night?” “I know just where,” said Sniffy. “Look over to your right there.” “Oh,” said Rooster. “Yeah. Bill Leighton. And Bill Gray. It’s funny, you hardly even notice those guys, even when you’re staring right at them.” “They blend into the background,” said Sniffy. “Almost like inanimate objects,” said Rooster. “They almost are inanimate objects,” said Sniffy. “The two Bills,” said Rooster. “So why did you tell me to look at them?” “Because,” said Sniffy, “if anybody in this town knows where we can score an ounce of tea past midnight on a Friday, it’s those two walking corpses.” “Swell! Let’s go talk to them,” said Rooster. “Sure,” said Sniffy. “But Rooster —” “Yes, Sniffy?” “Let me do the talking.” “Oh, okay.” Rooster and Sniffy picked up their cups and saucers, got up and headed towards the window table where the two Bills sat over cups of coffee (with careworn but neatly folded handkerchiefs placed under their cups), smoking cigarettes and staring silently out the window into the unquiet nighttime street... (To be continued.)

85. further adventures of jake

83. "girl friday"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

for previous chapter, click here

to begin at the beginning, click here

click here for synopsis of all chapters so far

let us return to the collinson residence on east 86th st, where the private detective francis fortescue has been conferring with cosima collinson about the scheduled exhibition of pete palomine's works at her uptown art gallery. "well, miss collinson, i am certainly amenable to taking the assignment, since you seem to think there might be legitimate reason for concern."  "excellent. shall we talk price - get that out of the way?"  fortescue hesitated. he put his coffee cup down. "let us first get straight exactly what you want me to do. you want me to in effect provide security for the exhibition?" "you can assist in that when the time comes. but i have a security service that i use from time to time. i intend to have them provide a little more than usual in this case."  "i see. so what you must want from me is the discovery of the source of the threats - or supposed threats - to mr palomine."  "exactly."  "you realize it is still possible that mr palomine himself is the source." cosima shrugged. "of course it is possible. i just don't think that it is." "but you accept it as a possible outcome." "yes, yes," cosima answered a little impatiently.  "and you say the exhibition is in about two weeks?'"  "yes. let me see - two weeks from tomorrow night."  fortescue leaned back in his chair and thought briefly. "in that case, i can commit myself to working full time on it from now until the date. and to assist in security for the first couple of days of the exhibition."  cosima nodded.  "for three hundred a day - including expenses."  "well, that is certainly reasonable. including expenses - are you sure?" "oh, i always include expenses up front - saves any skepticism or unpleasantness later." "very good. why don't i give you a check for the first week when you leave?"  "yes. that's settled then. now, unless you have something else to show me, perhaps i should get on to talking to mr palomine. does he know you are talking to me? " "oh, yes. well, not you particularly, but we discussed hiring someone."  "you must have his address and phone number." fortescue turned and looked out the window. "it is a little late, isn't it? i will give him a call tomorrow." he looked back at cosima. "does he keep late hours, do you know? perhaps not so late as this, but i probably shouldn't call him too early." "i really don't know. i get the impression he keeps 'all hours'. he spends a lot of time in times square - i don't suppose you want to search times square for him." "no, that doesn't sound very practical."   i can give you his phone number, and his agent's. that might be the best way to contact him." "then i guess we are all set." "i will get you the phone numbers and a check. and i will have williams get you a cab." ***** "road work ... very important .... we can start on that.... even if we can't line up a trainer right away..... left jabs..... right hooks.... work on that .... work on that...." johnny and conrad went on and on, completely ignoring her. carol was suddenly very tired. she got up again and looked out the window. she had a headache. she didn't even want another drink. or another cigarette, if she had any left. she just wanted to get out of there, and get some sleep, even if it meant going back to michael. she would have go back to peter and estelle's and hope they were still awake - and listen to estelle! and all that about finding stan slade.... what had she been thinking? she tried to laugh, but couldn't. maybe some day. i am the world's biggest idiot, she thought. "excuse me," she said aloud. conrad and johnny ignored her. "excuse me!" she said again, louder. conrad looked up, startled. "i think i will be going, " carol told him. "thank you for a lovely evening. it was a pleasure meeting you, talking to you." "uh, sure. you want a nightcap? williams will get you one." "no thank you, i've had quite enough." "well, have him get you a cab then." conrad hesitated. "i will get him." "no, i am sure i can find him." great, carol thought, a cab. i hope he pays for it too. she was afraid to look in her purse. conrad was staring at her blankly, as if trying to place her. "good night, then. it was a pleasure meeting you. if you can't find williams, come back here and i will find him." "thank you." carol nodded and left the room. she could hear conrad and johnny resuming their conversation as she closed the door behind her. she saw williams right away, at the end of the hall. he showed no surprise when she asked about a cab. "of course, miss. i just called a cab for the detective. perhaps you and he could share it. he is headed downtown." detective? "yes, i am going downtown myself. around washington square." "here he is now. sir, this young lady is heading downtown also. might she share your cab?" "of course." fortescue nodded politely to carol. "it should be here shortly," williams informed them. "why don't we wait outside?" fortescue looked at carol. "it's not a bad night." "yes, i could use some fresh air." williams smiled. "let me get your coat then, miss." ***** "a pleasant night indeed," fortescue observed when they were out on the street. "one might almost walk." yeah, sure, thought carol. "uh, listen, mister ..." "fortescue. my name is fortescue. how rude of me not to introduce myself. and you are..." "carol. my name is carol." "pleased to meet you, carol." "likewise. look, mister fortescue, i just looked in my purse and i noticed i am a little short...." "oh no problem, i was not expecting a passenger. you can just hitch on." "to washington square?" "i am going a little further than that." "thanks, i really appreciate it." "you're welcome." "you're a detective, huh?" fortescue turned from looking down the street. "yes, yes i am." "must be pretty exciting." "sometimes." fortescue smiled absently at her. "more exciting than what most people do, anyway." "perhaps." "i bet you have a girl friday who does all the boring stuff for you. so you can concentrate on exciting things." "a girl friday? oh, you mean a secretary?" "yeah." "i'm still not completely attuned to all american idioms. i'm british, as you may have noticed." "i thought you talked - i noticed you had an accent." "but, to answer your question, no i can't afford a secretary." he laughed. "i sometimes wish i could, i'll grant you that." "suppose you could find someone who would work cheap enough." "oh?" "like for nothing. like for a place to sleep." fortescue smiled politely. "and you know such a person?" "yeah, me. listen, mister fortescue, i'm desperate. i need a place to sleep tonight. do you have an office?" "of course. though not much of one. but one must keep up some appearances." "does it have a sofa?" "it has a rather ragged divan." "then let me sleep on it tonight. we can talk about me being your girl friday tomorrow." fortescue laughed again. "it all sounds rather irregular." "come on, just give me a chance! it's the american way!" "ah, here is our cab now." "so you'll let me sleep in your office tonight? on your di-van?" "oh, i hardly think that will be necessary. but here is the cab. we can discuss all this as we ride." 84. "20 C-notes"

82. "the gen"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo* 

illustrations by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

*Associate Professor of Pompeiian Literature, Assistant Checkers Club Coach, Olney Community College; editor of A Ghost Named Gerald and Seven Other Short Novels of the Supernatural by Horace P. Sternwall; Olney Community College Press; made possible in part by a generous grant from General Electric: “Tomorrow’s products today!”

click here for previous episode, here to begin at the beginning

click here for synopsis of all chapters so far

Let’s return to the Automat just next door to the hallowed Hotel St Crispian, where the young cashier and aspiring novelist Polly Powell pretends to read George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda as a young lady approaches the counter…  “Hey, doll.” Polly looked up. “Yes?” “Doing a little light reading, huh?” “Yes, I quite like to read.” “You think you could sell me a pack of Luckies?” “Of course.” Polly handed the young lady the cigarettes, took her proffered dollar bill, opened the register, and gave the young woman her change. “Thanks, doll.” The young woman tapped the pack of cigarettes on the counter, smartly tapping first one end of the pack and then the other. “What’s your name, sister?” “Polly. Polly Powell.” “I’m Flossie. Flossie Flanagan.” She began to peel the cellophane from the cigarettes. “I’m a reporter for the Federal-Democrat.” “Oh! I’ve read your articles! I loved your hard-hitting series on the reefer dens of Harlem.” “Thanks, Polly.”  Miss Flanagan flicked the cellophane to the counter top, and Polly picked it up and dropped it into the waste basket by her stool. Instead of going back to her table the girl reporter gazed at Polly a moment, then gave her pack of cigarettes a shake; one and only one popped up a half-inch, and she extricated it using only her lips. Suddenly Polly did something she had never done for anyone before.  She took a book of matches from the cardboard box on the counter, tore off a match, and after a few unsuccessful tries, she struck it, and then, leaning across the counter, she gave Miss Flanagan a light. This was a procedure she had witnessed many times in real life, and in movies and plays, but it was actually one of the few times in her life when she had ever actually struck a match. She waved it out thoroughly and dropped it into the tin ashtray on the counter top. “Thanks, Polly,” said Miss Flanagan. “How long you been working here?” “Since the summer of 1945.” “I guess you’ve seen a lot of people come and go.” “Oh, thousands. A virtual panoply of humanity.” “A virtual panoply, huh?” Miss Flanagan looked at Polly, not saying anything. Polly felt herself beginning to perspire. “Tell me something, Polly, that lady I’m sitting with, do you know her?” “I know who she is. She’s Hyacinth Wilde. The actress.” “That’s right. You seem pretty on the ball, Polly. How’s your memory for faces?” “Oh, excellent. You see, I want to be a novelist, and so I study people’s faces all the time.” “Except when you’re reading George Eliot.” “Yes, except for then.” Miss Flanagan opened her purse and dropped the cigarettes into it. “Now listen, Polly, be discreet, but take a look at this picture.” She took a photograph out of her purse and laid it on the counter. “Don’t pick it up, but just look at it. Do you recognize this man?” Polly bent over the photograph and studied it. “He looks familiar. But then I see so many people.” “Do you think you ever saw this fellow with Miss Wilde, maybe a few years back?” “You know I think I might have. He was always very well-dressed, and they always came in late at night, after her performances I suppose. Is he another actor?” “Not exactly,” said Flossie. “His name is Slade, Stanley Slade. And he’s a jewel thief.” “Oh! How thrilling! Isn’t he the one who escaped from Sing Sing?” “He sure is, Polly,” said Miss Flanagan. Polly glanced over to Table 27, where Miss Wilde was eating a sandwich with one hand while holding a newspaper with the other, apparently reading it quite intently. “Well, thanks, Polly,” said Miss Flanagan. “For the cigarettes and the gen.” “The gen?” “The dope.” “The dope?” “The info on this guy.”  She tapped the photograph lying on the countertop with her fingernail, which Polly noticed was painted the exact same shade of red as Miss Flanagan’s lips. She must begin to take note of such details if she were going to write a truly classic novel. Smiling, Miss Flanagan picked up the photograph and slipped it back into her purse, clicked the purse shut. “Catch you on the way out, Polly,” she said, and she turned and headed back to Table 27. Polly thought she knew what was going on here. Miss Flanagan and Miss Wilde were indeed lesbians, except that Miss Wilde had once not been a lesbian and had dated this Stan Slade fellow, and Miss Flanagan was jealous now that Slade had escaped. How absolutely thrilling! She reached under the counter and took out the leather-bound notebook which she always kept on the shelf down there next to the Lifesavers. She laid the notebook on the counter and opened it up. The only thing she had written in it so far was: AUTOMAT DREAMS a novel of the great city by Polly Powell She reached under the counter again and took out her purse, which she always kept next to the Wrigley’s. She opened it up, scrabbled around in it, and found her fountain pen. She closed up her purse and put it away, then uncapped the pen and replaced the cap on its barrel. Polly began to write... 83: "girl friday"

81. "Automat Dreams"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo* 

illustrations by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

*Associate Professor of Sumerian Literature, Assistant Glee Club Coördinator, Olney Community College; editor of The Sheriff Wore a Petticoat and 43 Other Previously Uncollected Tales of the Wild West, by Horace P. Sternwall; Olney Community College Press; available exclusively at Woolworth’s stores nationwide.

click here for previous episode, here to begin at the beginning

click here for synopsis of all chapters so far

Meet Polly Powell, aged twenty-six, the cashier at the Automat just across the alleyway from the venerable Hotel St Crispian.   Polly has worked here at the Automat ever since she came to the city, shortly after graduating summa cum laude from Bryn Mawr, in that glorious summer of 1945, when the world seemed full of promise and hope.  Her intention upon moving to the city had been to follow in the footsteps of Jane Austen, of the Brontës, of the Georges Sand and Eliot, of Colette, of Virginia Woolf, and to create a “body of work” that would establish her as the American equivalent of the aforementioned authoresses.  For far too long in Polly’s opinion the American literary world had been dominated by men. It was time for a woman to assume a place in the front rank, and not as a writer of mere “women’s fiction”, but of so-called “literary fiction”, fiction that would one day be a mainstay of American Literature departments, and not just in women’s colleges like Bryn Mawr and Mount Holyoke and Smith, but even in Harvard and Yale and Princeton. Only one obstacle stood in the way of Polly’s ambitions as she got off the bus at the Port Authority that first sunny day in June, and that was her almost complete ignorance of the world outside of books and movies. She had spent most of her girlhood reading books in her bedroom in her family’s sprawling comfortable stone house in Gladwyne, Pennsylvania, a house which the people in the town called a mansion, but which her father (Irving St. John Powell, the noted professor of epistemology, and heir to the Powell Shipping Company fortune) called a “cottage”, and her education at the Shipley School and at Bryn Mawr had done little to teach her the ways of the world beyond the Main Line. And so, in order to learn the ways of the world, and despite the fact that she received two hundred dollars-a-week allowance from her family — more than enough to allow her to live quite comfortably in her own apartment on Jane Street — she had worked for the past five years at the Automat. Polly always worked the night shift, and she preferred it that way. For one thing, the restaurant was slower at night, especially late at night, which meant she had to spend very little time actually doing her job. For another thing working nights allowed her to sleep late, and to go to matinées at the movies or the theatre. And lastly, and perhaps most important of all, the people who came in to the Automat at night were simply more interesting than the daytime clientèle. These people, the night people, these were the people she needed to watch and to observe and listen to if she were ever to finish her groundbreaking first novel, which she had tentatively titled Automat Dreams. Polly envisioned this book as a mammoth verbal tapestry of life in the big city, and by extension, of all life everywhere, perhaps even on other planets or in other dimensions. So far she had not actually written a single word of this proposed epic, but that didn’t matter, because in the meantime she was taking it all in, gathering material, listening, watching, absorbing. And when she got bored with observing and listening she could always just read a book, for instance the one she was reading now, one of her favorites, George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda. Suddenly Polly had a brainwave, and she closed the book on her carefully manicured finger. Daniel Deronda. Daniel Deronda was a man, even if George Eliot was a woman. A man.   Suddenly it had come to Polly, a great revelation: nearly every one of her favorite books had men in them, in fact many of them had men as their central characters. And so it stood to reason that if Polly were to write a great novel herself, then she would have to learn something about men, which was another subject that Shipley and Bryn Mawr had taught her precious little about. Perhaps she had been wrong to spend all her free time since she came to the city in reading books and going to movies and plays. Perhaps she had been wrong to turn down the dozens of young men (and old men) who had asked her for a date or who had simply made her a bold and brazen proposition.  Perhaps it would be good for her art if she were to go out on a date, or even “dates”, with one or more of these men.   Polly decided then and there she would agree to the next request for a date she received, provided the man was not too ugly or too seemingly boring. Hopefully she cast her eye around the Automat. Unfortunately she saw only the usual outcasts from life’s rich feast, for instance those two seedy men who addressed each other mutually as “Bill”, that ragged woman called “Bowery Betty”, and the usual assortment of louche late-night habitués — with the exception of those two young women over there at Table 27.   She didn’t recognize the one woman, but the other one was the actress Hyacinth Wilde, whom Polly had seen in several plays, e.g., How Grey Was the Sky, Gasoline Rainbow, Moonbeams on the Hudson, and Ramparts of Destiny. The other woman looked like a career-girl of some sort, but of what sort Polly hadn’t the faintest idea. Both the young women were eating quite heartily, pausing between bites to smoke cigarettes, and it seemed to Polly that the career-girl was questioning the actress.   Could it be that they were lesbians?   Polly had heard overheard whispers about suspected lesbians, both at Shipley and at Bryn Mawr. What exactly did lesbians do with one another? Polly had no idea, just as she had only the vaguest notion of what men and women “did” with one another. Perhaps she should consider becoming a lesbian? At least then one wouldn’t be expected to go to football games. However, if she became a lesbian then she wouldn’t learn anything about men… Oh, but wait, the career-girl was getting up, and approaching the cash register.  Polly quickly opened up Daniel Deronda and pretended to read. 82. "the gen"