A Singular Man Part 3

"No no, it doesn't matter."

"Miss Tomson, it does matter. It matters to me now."

"It was nothing."

"Matilda will put it all out on a big platter. There's a silver one in the alcove."

"It doesn't matter what it's on."

"She'll give you a tray."

"It doesn't matter now."

Miss Tomson sitting, bending her head forward. Her book opened with the pages curled back, scribbling with her pencil. World of woe. Couldn't tell her. And I can't tell her now. She's hurt. Now I'll be blamed for hating children. I don't like them but I don't hate them. Miss Tomson, remember what you said, it's you they're after. I don't expect you to examine every little thing for signs of hostility. But how do I know this b.a.s.t.a.r.d watching me get the letter from the doorman didn't send these kids as a decoy. If I told you this you'd ridicule me for imagining things. For getting scared out of all proportion to the threat. Take the d.a.m.n platter, rip open the cupboards, load it all on. Get Hugo up here to help. We'll all march down.

"You'd like to go home now, wouldn't you Miss Tomson."

"I've got my pad ready and pencil poised."

"You're upset."

"I'm just waiting for the dictation."

"Well I'm so upset I can't dictate."

"Well maybe we better leave it till another day then, Mr. Smith."

"Miss Tomson, I apologise for not letting you go out to those children with a platter of chicken."

"Let's forget it."

"And see you sitting there miserable. Miss Tomson I'm not in the habit of asking people their feelings about me but because of this, do you think I hate singing."

"Mr. Smith you're making a mountain out a mole hill, just a whim. Just a plain ordinary whim."

"O.K.".

Smith turning abruptly crossing into that s.p.a.ce the management likes to call the dining foyer. Sound of Matilda moving out of the kitchen. Smith pulling a cape over the shoulders. Opening the mechanically a.s.sisted door. Matilda's voice in the sitting room, talking to Miss Tomson.

"You upset Mr. Smith, what about."

"None of your business."

"Don't talk to me like that."

"Look Gertrude."

"Don't call me Gertrude, don't call me Matilda either."

"Get off my ear."

"Don't you talk to me like that. I'll pull that blond mop right out of your head."

"You come near me you black b.i.t.c.h. Just dare."

George nimbly stepping outside the door. Let that situation simmer. Pausing for the elevator. Flashing down the stairs instead Whoosh. By Hugo out the front gla.s.s doors.

"Anything the trouble Mr. Smith."

"Just fetching somebody."

"Can I help."

"No thanks. Just up the street. Only a second."

George moving forward, elbows well in, ankles supple, chin up, fingers flapping and well relaxed. Loping past tenement stoops and garbage pails on the other side of the street. Lungs gasping as Smith cleverly switched to mental power to give the muscles a rest. Stopping to ask a slow moving pedestrian.

"Pardon me, see any little kids up this direction."

"You want a fight bud."

"No thank you."

George hurried on. Overt good fellowship everywhere. Peering into the beer saloon on the corner. I've got to get them. If they climb onto a bus I'm whipped. Hold on heart, I hear the voices of urchins. Thin little sounds. Coming up out of warm young hearts in the distance.

Further on the avenue between the remains of two derelict buildings, the urchins standing together on a pile of rubble. Embers of a fire glowing from the wreckers. George stepping from brick to brick and up on an unwieldy plank. One two three four five six of them. Two sizeable girls and a small one. Three rather tough looking boys.

"Excuse me kids, weren't you just singing around the corner."

"Who says so."

"I heard you. What are you singing here for, there's no one to hear you."

"We don't want to be heard."

"Look I've got a proposition. You, are you the oldest."

"Yeah I'm the oldest."

"Look will you come back to my apartment and sing forme."

"Hey what do you want mister. You a pervert, mister."

"I've got my girl friend there."

"We read in a book that don't mean nothing."

"I see. Well she thinks you're all a bunch of swell singers. She'd just like to hear you close up. And there's cold chicken and lemonade."

"We want dough."

"O.K. I'll give you money as well as cold chicken and lemonade."

"You live in that sw.a.n.k apartment round the corner."

"Yes."

"Hey you must be rich. We want a whole lot of dough from you. You sure you're not kidding us."

"Come and see."

"O.K. Come on. I give the order follow this guy."

Smith leading this youthful rank and file. Past the beer saloon where inmates jerked their thumbs out at the parade. To this apartment which may be given over to mayhem. Miss Tomson and Matilda, what a match. The dark solid heft against the light tall sylph. Be a certain amount of head banging on the parquet, an entrance hall alive with tufts of hair, and torn foundation garments. No whalebone on Miss Tomson but perhaps a lot on Matilda.

Smith moving with military bearing, calling left flank in under the orange canopy of Merry Mansions.

"Hey mister you talcing us really right into your house."

"Yes."

"Hey we're going in."

Hugo steps forward. Head a little askance. Mouth tight.

"Mr. Smith I don't know about this."

"What do you mean, Hugo."

"Well. I think maybe you better use the service entrance."

"These young people are my guests."

"I had to kick them out of here just a quarter of an hour ago."

"At the moment they're my guests."

"I'm sorry but if you bring these little b.u.ms in here I'm going to report it to the management."

"Come on kids, follow me."

"I'm telling you Mr. Smith."

"You've told me, onward kids."

"It's not permitted on the premises. It's a rule of the management."

The platoon making its way across the blue lobby. Two kids pausing for perus.e.m.e.nt in the big mirror. Smith instantly ordering these stragglers to take up the rear. As the spokesman warned Smith to watch the dirty language, his little brother was with them.

Platoon halt. At the top of the landing the military commander facing the white chilly faces outside the thick steel door of Flat 14.

"You, what's your name son."

"Snake."

"I see. Well look, here's some money, divide it up later."

"Hey wow, this is a lot."

"Well you're good singers."

"Well give us more then."

"Wait a minute kids, I'm not made of money. Here, now this is all I've got. Now when I open the door you're to a.s.semble in the hall in two rows and sing."

"What do you want us to sing, mister."

"What you were singing in the street."

"If you give us some more money we'll sing you a dirty song."

"Not tonight, boys and girls."

"You mean we come back sometime and sing real dirty ones."

"Thanks kids, but just go in the door now. And sing a carol or two. I'd prefer for the sake of my girl friend if you kept it clean. More of a friend than a girl friend, you know what I mean."

"We know mister."

George inserting his key. Gently making way through for these good little kids. Snake practicing the scales. Rather froglike. Girl blinking and taking deep breaths. Kids I beg of you to keep it clean.

Miss Tomson standing with her coat on to go. Sound of Matilda crashing delf. The expense of keeping happiness. I can't possibly get down on my knees in front of all these kids and beg her to stay. And the racket in the kitchen.

"Kids, sing."

All lined up. Not a bad bunch of little boys and girls. Could get them some publicity and send them touring somewhere. The singing paupers. Matilda just bust something big then.

Silent nightHoly night.

"Please Miss Tomson, don't go. Please stay and listen, the children will be disappointed."

"I'm too mad. You ought to get somebody civilized to work for you."

"Miss Tomson aren't you going to watch them cat die chicken"

The slam of the door sent a neat crack zigzagging to the ceiling. Together with the Goldminer's parties upstairs and Miss Tomson, this little nest I've outfitted here at considerable expense is not going to last long. The management's representative Mr. Stone will no doubt bring this up in due course. I've got to stop her.

"Hey kids, keep singing."