estelle's party, conclusion

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

part three of three

for part one, click here

for part two, click here

dooley's face felt funny. he had gone two whole two days without shaving. he had shaved every day since he was old enough. he had always been a clean cut young man, even before his four years in the army and five on the police force. and he never went too long without a haircut. his teachers in school, his superior officers in the army and his superiors on the force, the priests and chaplains he had known all his life, and above all his mother, none of them could even imagine him looking like a bum. which was good, because it made for a cheap and easy disguise. along with the shiny suit and the slightly oversized battered fedora that was always tilted over the face of - "slim mccarthy" - the moniker he had adopted to go "undercover" in search of the mysterious "mrs big". taking to heart the unstated but not too subtle warnings of captain callaghan about the - accommodating tendencies - of the fellow officers he would encounter in the ninth precinct, he had so far gone it alone in his search for the mysterious queen of crime, relying on his observations as "slim mccarthy" and not taking up the captain's offer of additional manpower. even the car at his disposal he had so far left parked in a lot on houston st, because a bum like slim would be unlikely to have a car. slim mccarthy had been hanging around the automats and bars in the precinct, keeping his "ear to the ground" and striking up the most casual of conversations when possible - but not arousing suspicion by asking outright questions. slim even cadged an occasional drink at bob's bowery bar and the other watering holes he frequented. dooley didn't drink as a rule, so slim was able to nurse his beers with a verisimilitudinous patience. dooley/slim had one ace up his sleeve that he had not mentioned to captain callaghan. he had been truthful with the captain in saying he did not drink - he didn't , except a very occasional beer to be sociable. he had been truthful with the captain in saying he did not smoke - assuming, correctly - that the captain was referring to smoking tobacco. but what he did not mention - because the captain did not ask about it - was that he was not unfamiliar with other smokable substances - weed, gage, hemp, mary jane, tea, etc - and since "mrs big" was apparently in the business of providing such, slim could knowledgeably engage in their pursuit, while actually pursuing "mrs big" herself. dooley had become familiar with these products of satan after meeting a young woman one evening at the library on 42nd street and starting an on and off romance with her. her name was dolly mainwaring and she was richer than the pope and could afford to hang out with anyone she pleased - from the highest society to the lowest dregs and from the most respectable old school mollusks to the most up to date bohemians - like dooley's main rival for her affections, the notorious painter pete palomine. but all that, dear reader, is a story for another day. * slim mccarthy pushed open the door of bob's bowery bar. bob's - and the all night automat on bedford street - were the best places for encountering the closest thing to a good connection he had made so far. a fellow named landon "rooster" crow whom slim had tapped for small amounts of gage and who seemed to have been mixed up lately in some rough dealings involving the same. for now he "just wanted to forget it" but slim had patience and didn't push him. rooster himself claimed to be a poet and did not seem like a bad fellow, though a bit on the nervous side and perhaps would not have been an ideal companion at saipan or okinawa. slim entered the bar. was it completely deserted? it seemed to be. the only person in evidence was the bartender. and the bartender was not bob. there were some empty glasses and full ashtrays at two tables close together just in front of the bar. as slim came closer he saw the bartender was scaramanga, the leftist poet, looking like his dog and his goldfish died on the same day. as there was no one to cadge a drink from, slim decided to buy one, which he could nurse all afternoon if he had to. "you're just in time," scaramanga told slim as he took a seat. slim rose affably to the bait. "in time for what?" "in time not to go to the party." "oh? what party?" "i'll tell you all about it. what'll you have?" "what's the cheapest thing you've got?" "um - how about a small rheingold draft?" "sounds like it has my name on it." "sure you don't want a house bock? fresh brewed. but aged in the wood." "i'm a rheingold man." scaramanga gave slim his draft, then proceeded to tell him about estelle's visit, and how she had invited all the poets - including rooster - to a party at her place. but poor scaramanga was stuck here, unless he wanted to risk the wrath of bob for deserting the post he had been entrusted with. slim took a tiny sip of the rheingold. "she looked rich?" he asked scaramanga. "well, probably not rich rich. rich enough. bourgeois. very very bourgeois." slim didn't want to start scaramanga down that road. "she say exactly where they were going?" scaramanga shrugged. "if she did, i didn't catch it. why, you want to try to catch up with them? " slim hesitated. "not if i don't know where they're going." too bad, he thought, i'll catch up with rooster some other time. i'll just finish this beer and move on. and then it hit him. this rich - or "bourgeois" woman - she might be mrs big! he had missed his chance! darn! "hey, mccarthy. how's it going?" slim looked up. hector phillips stone the romantic poet was standing in front of him. "what, you decided not to go to the party?" scaramanga asked him. "sure, i'm going. i just had to hit the head." "oh. well, take mccarthy with you, i can see he's a good time guy with a twinkle in his eye." scaramanga sighed. "and leave me all alone." "you want to go?" hector asked slim. "uh - yeah, i guess so. you know where they're going?" "yeah, they were headed for the liquor store on 2nd st and then going to her place." "you got the address?," slim asked hector. "someplace on lafayette. i wrote it down. but we can catch them anyhow before they get there. slow as studebaker walks. or fagen." "hey," said scaramanga, "why don't you give me the address? maybe i can come over if maureen gets here early." slim waited impatiently while hector wrote the address down on a copy of the new york federal-democrat that bob had behind the bar. "there you go," hector told scaramanga. "we hate to leave you here." "i know you do." "it will be nice and quiet. maybe you can find the time to write a nice poem." "very funny." * what was that? mrs wagner froze, her pencil poised over the new york times crossword. it sounded like a gang of chimpanzees outside in the hall. she was almost afraid to crack open the door and look outside. ohh! it was that horrible nasty tongued chalmers woman - no surprise there. but who - or what - did she have with her? they looked like the kind of raggedy fellows mrs wagner sometimes saw being loaded in or out of a wagon in front of the police station when she walked past it on her way to the drugstore or the cleaners. one big purple faced fellow - an irishman! - was so ferocious looking she thought she would faint. even in her agitated state mrs wagner realized that the others crowding the corridor while mrs charmers opened her door were rather harmless, even pathetic looking. the irishman turned and shouted down the hall. "hey, mccarthy, i thought you said yer could carry that by yerself!" "coming, sergeant!" a sarcastic response floated up. mrs wagner poked her head out a bit more. a young man balancing a big cardboard case on his shoulder drew level with the irishman. although he was as raggedy as the others and needed a shave, somehow he still looked young and handsome and reminded mrs wagner of - - of carl - carl, whom she still thought of almost every day… mrs wagner closed the door. of course she would eventually make her way across the hall and confront the odious chalmers woman - she was not to be intimidated! and call the police if need be - and obviously it would need be - but there was something about the young man with the case on his shoulder… * "all you sinners gather round! this is the main attraction!" estelle had never completely sobered up from the night before, and now she was in full bloom. "i'm going to do my salome dance! make some room! i need some room for my salome dance!" the radio was blasting. estelle had tried to find some dizzy gillespie or charlie parker but had settled for stan kenton. played as loud as the radio could be turned up. seamas mcseamas began clapping his big hands - he could clap pretty loud - and laughing. "salome dance!" shouted seamas. "yeah! salome dance!" fagen the nature poet and hector and studebaker the western poet all started clapping half-heartedly. "damn, it's hot in here!" estelle took her dress off over her head and started doing her salome dance in her slip. seamas kept up his loud clapping. the music stopped and the disc jockey said something and then played something by duke ellington. slim took a sip of one of the beers from the case he had hauled up. it wasn't very cold. he glanced back at the door. he had already made up his mind that estelle was not mrs big. estelle was doing her salome dance with a bottle of schenley's in her left hand. so far she was keeping her slip on. but she stopped to kick her shoes off. "can't do my salome dance with these clunkers on!" as she did she seemed to notice slim for the first time. "ohhh - who are you?" "heh, heh. i'm just along for the ride, ma'am." "what a cutie! even though you could use a nice shave. and maybe a bath." estelle took a swig from the bottle of schenley's. "want to dance?" "i -um- don't know how to do the salome dance, ma'am." "oh, but i bet you can do the foxtrot, can't you, sweetie? come on, i can warm up for my salome dance with a nice foxtrot." "but, ma'am, you're already doing your salome dance." "awww . don't be like that, sweetie. we're having a party!" seamas was choking with laughter. he took a big swig of his warm beer. suddenly there was a knock on the door. "who can that be?" estelle asked. "who can that possibly be?" she went over and opened the door, still holding the bottle of schenley's. mrs wagner stood there. "veronica!" shouted estelle. "it's veronica, my best friend." she threw her arms around veronica and gave her a big sloppy kiss. "come on in, veronica, we're having a party!" mrs wagner squirmed in estelle's grasp. her eyes fell on slim, seated on one of the couches estelle had pulled into the center of the room. "yes," mrs wagner heard herself say. "i think i will come in just for a little bit." * reader, we can not do justice to the further proceedings of the afternoon in the space allotted us. what wassail they made, and what merriment ensued, it would take a veritable homer or rabelais to delineate. suffice to say that the police were eventually summoned, that slim and his friend rooster managed to slip away without being arrested - for which cleverness slim was much applauded by his fellows, giving him great credit amongst them - and all the other participants were taken to the station. estelle and veronica were released on personal recognizance and later paid some fines for disturbing the peace. the other poets were not so fortunate, and did a few days in "the pokey" before being set free to make room for new miscreants. except for seamas, who was charged with resisting arrest and attempted assault on a police officer, and whose shoes did not hit the hallowed pavement of the bowery for eleven months. peter divorced estelle, and later married mr ferguson's oldest daughter, a young woman who shared his devotion to the lord and the holy scriptures. as part of the divorce settlement, estelle kept the rent-stabilized apartment on lafayette street. estelle and veronica wagner became truly the best of friends and spent long mornings and afternoons together watching television and getting wasted . but neither of them ever saw slim mccarthy, or any of the poets, again. ***

estelle's party, part 2

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

part two of three

for part one, click here

it was the slowest time of the morning - ten thirty - on a slow day at bob's bowery bar. bob himself was behind the bar, gazing morosely over the dreary scene. the only customers in the place were a bunch of six poets clustered jabbering at a couple of tables in the center of the room. they had bought three drinks between the six of them in an hour. their conversation as it floated over the empty space was giving bob a headache. but what could he do? they were both the worst - spending the least money per hour of any customers - and the best - they were always in the place - patrons he had. outside it was a cold, brisk day. but apparently not cold enough to drive people indoors. a nice day to take a walk. bob felt like taking a walk. maureen, the afternoon bartender, was not due for her shift for an hour and a half. bob wondered if he could trust any of the poet-bums to handle the bar in that time if he gave him a couple of dollars to do so. he settled on scaramanga, the leftist poet. who was the least likely to buy himself or anybody else a drink anyway. "hey, scaramanga!" scaramanga, who was sitting between seamas mcseamas the irish poet and hector philips stone the romantic poet but not paying much attention to either, immediately jumped up. scaramanga and the others knew the drill, but bob went over it anyway in a voice loud enough for them all to hear. scaramanga was to get two dollars for covering the bar until maureen showed up. but he was not to spend it until she arrived and he was not to give free drinks - or food or anything else - to his pals or put anything on their tabs. and he meant it! all six - in addition to scaramanga, hector philips stone and seamas mcseamas , there were fagen the nature poet, howard paul studebaker the western poet, and "rooster" the whatever he was poet who usually only showed up at night with his girl friend but was here this morning with a bandage covering his face - listened sadly but respectfully to the familiar admonitions. the cold morning air felt good on bob's face. he put his hands in his pockets and headed toward broadway. he passed a skinny well dressed woman with an aggrieved air. not really rich looking, but well off enough to be slumming. was she headed for the bar? bob turned after she passed him. she was indeed entering the hallowed portal of bob's venerable bowery bar. if she was looking for excitement, she was in for some bitter disappointment. * estelle had awakened that morning with the battle of waterloo and the battle of new orleans fighting for space in her skull. peter had long since left for work. when estelle finally got into the kitchenette, she found a brief note from peter on the table. wine is a mocker, strong drink a brawler, and whoever is led astray by it is not wise. - proverbs 20:1 you don't say. estelle made herself a cup of coffee. the conversation of the night before came back to her. about her great idea for a party. well, why not? if she could manage to get dressed and down the elevator. i'll show you wine is a mocker, petey boy. and maybe strong drink a brawler, too. * mrs wagner had just finished her fourth cup of tea of the morning but had not quite finished reading the new york times when she heard estelle's door slam. the chalmerses - peter and estelle - had not had a really loud party for - what? - almost a month. nor had anyone else in the building, the building in which mrs wagner was the oldest inhabitant and considered herself the rightful ruling spirit. although it might have surprised the other tenants, mrs wagner had no illusions about the fact that she enjoyed the parties, and the opportunities it gave her to raise a fuss about them. a body needed to do something besides drink tea and read the new york times and time and life magazines. if things didn't pick up, she might have to break down and buy herself a television. even though she hated anything new. * estelle paused outside mrs wagner's door and stuck her tongue out at it. disgusting, hypocritical old toad! i'll show you. going to have a party! * when estelle got to the bowery, she was surprised at how deserted it looked. she had expected to see the sidewalks lined with colorful "bums" and "hoboes". she decided they must all be inside in their "flophouses". come on, fellows, it's not that cold out. maybe she should have gone up to broadway instead. she found herself beside a bar. bob's bowery bar. the sign outside said "be of good cheer." yeah. good cheer. just what the doctor ordered. some good cheer. and then i'll go over to broadway and find some colorful characters for my party. estelle pushed open the door of bob's bowery bar. what a dump! was it deserted? now she needed some good cheer more than ever. there was a seedy looking character behind the bar, not even wearing a bartender's white shirt or apron. and yes, there were some patrons, a bunch of sad looking personages all huddled together at two adjoining tables and looking like they could sure use some good cheer. they watched estelle as she approached the bar. "good morning, madam, what will you have this morning?" scaramanga greeted estelle. "um - what have you got?" estelle seated herself very carefully on the well-patched bar stool. "allow me to recommend the house bock." "sure, why not?" estelle looked around as she took her cigarettes out of her purse. with her eyes accustoming to the gloom, it all looked even crumbier than before. "would you like something to eat?" scaramanga asked her. "perhaps you would like to try bob's world famous scrambled eggs with hash?" "i think i'd rather not." "suit yourself." scaramanga took a few seconds to find the cleanest glass available, and began drawing the bock. the five characters together at the tables had been gazing at estelle with the sad eyes of fish on ice. feeling her return stare some of them turned away and began mumbling to each other. estelle lit her cigarette and took a sip of the bock scaramaga had put in front of her. ahhhh. not bad. not bad at all. "who are those guys?" she asked scaramanga. "they look kind of down in the dumps." "why - they are poets , madam. heh, heh. being down in the dumps is their stock in trade, you might say." "poets! i hate poetry." "poetry does not enjoy the esteem it did in ages past." "i hated poetry more than anything in school. except maybe algebra and trigonometry." estelle took another small sip of her bock, then a bigger one. she was starting to feel better already. sitting here with a nice cold drink, where nobody knew who she was, without a care in the world. all by herself. no petey boy with his bible, no mrs wagner with her complaints to the police, no mr ferguson scaring poor petey to death, none of her so called friends who couldn't take a joke, none of those people who never wanted to have any fun… the poets didn't look so unhappy now. they were starting to look like … colorful characters. now the ugliest one of the five, a big ginger-headed fellow with a soft cap on the back of his head, got up and approached the bar. "top of the morning to you, milady," he addressed estelle. estelle took a big drag of her cigarette and blew a couple of smoke rings. "can i ask you something?" she asked the red haired man. "why, surr-tainly, madam." "are you a colorful character?" "why, madam, for sure i can be as colorful as you might want me to be." "and your friends over there, are they colorful characters too?" "ha ha! why, i could whip some colorfulness into them, my lady, if you but say the word." estelle took another big sip of her bock, then drained it. she put the glass on the bar. "another, please," she told scraramanga. she spoke up loud enough for the four poets left at the tables to hear her. "let's have a party." part 3

estelle's party

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

part one of three

estelle's last parties had been disasters. such disasters that peter was a little surprised when she suggested having another one. peter supposed that some of his friends who were bachelors or who might come without their wives might show up, but none with their wives, who had all had more than enough of estelle, and her nasty tongue and drunken antics. but he did not say so out loud when she first brought up the subject. he marked his place in his book, placed it carefully on the wide arm of his favorite chair, and cleared his throat. "a party, dear? and - ah - who would you suggest we invite?" "you mean - who would possibly come? i can see what you are thinking." "not at all. the last few parties have been quite - eventful. i would think anybody craving a little excitement would jump at the chance to come." "always so tactful, aren't you, petey boy? why don't you use a little of that soft soap on mister ferguson, and get that raise? huh?" "now, estelle, we've been over that before. about this party - who did you have in mind to invite?" "oh -" estelle pretended to think - "how about michael chandler?" "michael? well, at least we haven't heard from him in a while." meaning, thought peter, that he had not been present at the latest besotted outrages perpetrated by estelle. "yes, the poor boy might be lonely. his little wife never went back to him, you know." "no, i did not know," peter replied, in a tone that implied that he was not interested in lowly womanly gossip. liar, thought estelle. she hated the way men pretended to stick up their noses at gossip, when they were even worse than women, though they didn't call it gossip, they were just keeping track of things, knowing the lay of the land, or some crap like that. but she only said, "yes, the last anyone heard of her, she was still working "- estelle rolled her eyes - "for that private detective she ran off with." "hmm. well, bully for her. might be a little more interesting than hanging around the house all day." "oh, really? meaning, why don't i get out of the house and get a job? is that what you are trying to say, petey?" peter sighed. "you know i am not saying any such thing. even if i thought you might like it - which we both know you would not - you know mister ferguson does not like the wives of the senior brokers - or anybody's wife in the world, really - working. so what is the sense of even thinking about it?" "but what about you, petey - wouldn't it embarrass you to have your poor little wifey out in the big bad world where you couldn't protect her? where other men - younger, stronger men with a little hair on their chests might actually get to talk to her? hmm?" peter glanced down at the book sitting on the arm of his chair. "we will probably never know, will we? now about that party - maybe i could invite some of the younger fellows at the office - i am sure they wouldn't turn down an invitation from a senior broker - " "the younger fellows who haven't seen what a bitch and a crazy person i am yet, you mean." "did i say that?" peter looked down at his book again. "i can read your mind - as you know." "look, if you want me to invite the regular crowd, i will -" "i don't think i heard you say ' oh no, you're not a bitch or a crazy person'" peter finally turned a little pink. "estelle, it wasn't me who threw drinks in people's faces or starting taking my clothes off - " "oh, forget it, we won't have any party. we'll never have any fun any more!" estelle moved away toward the radio and the bar. as she did she noticed the book peter was picking up. "what's that stupid book you keep looking at - don't tell me - " she moved back toward him. "it is! it's the bible! the bible again! you cheeseparing milksop, what did i tell you about reading the goddamned bible!" "now don't start that again." peter clutched his bible as if afraid estelle would rip it out of his hands. "we all have our ways. i find that reading the good book gives me solace -" "solace from me, you mean! no wonder you'll never make any real money or amount to anything. aaargh! what next ? are you going to go out and preach in the streets like a loony bird instead of going to work and making money!" estelle turned away . "oh, i give up! i just hope you can read your bible, mr holy joe, and listen to some be-bop at the same time! and i need a drink!" she turned on the radio. "symphony sid, save me!" "now, estelle, keep it at a reasonable volume. we don't need the neighbors complaining again." * two hours, and four martinis for estelle later. "you know what i have, petey?" "no, estelle, what do you have?'" "i have an idea." "oh." "don't you want hear my idea? it's a good one." "i am sure it is." "it's a way we can have a party. and you can be a holy joe at the same time." "really?" "yes, here's my plan." "well, let's hear your plan , estelle." "it's a great plan - my plan. when i get a plan in my head i get a plan, petey boy." "spit it out, my dear." "it's a way to get back at these neighbors like mrs wagner and mr - mr crawfish - who are always complaining about the noise - and - and - thinking we are bringing riffraff into the building. well, we'll show them them riffraff!!" "i'm afraid i don't follow you. what has this got to do with my being a 'holy joe' as you so charmingly put it." "here's my plan." "yes?" "we go out in the street - down broadway - and find the most hopeless drunken bums we can find and invite them up here for a big shindig! booze, booze, and more booze! and maybe a few hot dogs." "very funny." "i'm serious!" "what does all this have to do with being a holy joe?" "isn't it obvious, petey boy? it's what jesus would do, isn't it? go out into the highways and byways and find the lowliest of his brethren and solace them or some such crapola?" "please, estelle, don't take the name of the lord in vain." "all right, john the baptist then, or st francis or somebody. and i'll do my salome dance! wait till those sinners see my salome dance!" "um - maybe you should lie down." "and then you can be a holy joe, holy moe, and preach them a sermon. they won't mind, they're used to it. come on, petey boy, it's a great idea, admit it!" "at least you still have a sense of humor, i have to admit that." "but i'm serious!" part 2