"Putting Down the Moro"

Yet anotherte tale of the louche life, by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode made possible in part through the Husky Boy™  Tobacco Company's Foundation for the Humanities

"Don't we all sometimes awaken in the dead of night, stricken with an unnameable, soul-chilling terror? That's when a soothing Husky Boy cigarette (made with our proprietary blend of the finest Virginia tobaccos) comes in handy!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "searing"* new novel The Girl at the End of the Bar

*Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat

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One of the big double doors opened and a little old man in an old-fashioned black suit was there. "Oh," he said. "Mr. Lovechild. Out in this inclement weather." "Well, you know me, Stokes," said Livingston. "It'll take a lot more than a raging blizzard to stay me from my appointed rounds." "Ha ha, yes, sir, and I see you have brought a friend." "I have indeed," said Livingston. "Stokes, I would like you to meet Mr. Beachcroft." "I am very pleased to meet you, sir," said the old man to Harry. "I, um, am pleased to meet you, Mr., uh, Stokes," said Harry. "Just Stokes, sir," said the little old man. "It is not my place to be addressed by the honorific 'mister'." "Okay, uh, 'Stokes'," said Harry. "But do come in, gentlemen," said the old man called Stokes, stepping to one side. "You must be perishing from the cold." "Thanks, Stokes," said Livingston, and he waved Harry on to go first. Stokes closed the door behind them, and they were standing in a gloomy marble foyer, with a cracked vase full of umbrellas, and hooks on the walls with coats and hats. "May I take your outer garments and headgear, gentlemen?" said Stokes. "Don't bother, Stokes," said Livingston, removing his mittens. "We're just going to have a quick one at the bar and then we'll be on our way." "Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen," said Stokes. "Oh, I'm sure we shall, Stokes," said Livingston, and with his mittens he brushed some snow off the sleeves of his mackinaw. "Come on, Harry, stick with me." They left the old man behind, and Livingston led Harry out of the foyer, down a short dim hallway decorated with paintings gloomy with age and into a great room thick with tobacco smoke and warmth and the smells of whiskey and gin and burning wood from a roaring fireplace. The room was furnished with comfortable looking plush chairs and sofas and in them sat old men who looked up to see who had come in and then looked away again. "This is the lounge," said Livingston, "but let's just head right on into the bar." "Okay," said Harry. They forged through the large room filled with old men and smoke, Livingston nodding and saying hello to some of these senior citizens. One of the old men said, or croaked, "Young Lovechild, how is your old man? Haven't seen him lately." "Dead, I'm afraid, General Poormouth {at least that's what it sounded like to Harry}, for, lo, these past dozen years or so." "Dead you say?" "Yes, I'm afraid so, General." "I hope he died peacefully." "Keeled over from a massive cardiac infarction while hunting grouse out on the island," said Livingston. "I doubt he even knew what hit him, and both hammers of his beloved old Purdey gun were still cocked when they found him." "Then he went the way he should have preferred, I daresay," said the old man called General something. "Very much so," said Livingston. "And who is your companion?" "This is Mr. Harry Beachcroft," said Livingston. "The famous author." "Harold Peachcough?" said the general. "Beachcroft," said Livingston. "Harry Beachcroft, sir." "Excuse me for not rising, Mr. Peachcraft" said the general. "It's my artharitis. Exacerbated by a spear wound in the groin from my time in the Philippines, putting down the Moro." "That's quite all right, sir," said Harry. "Please don't get up." "What books have you written? Anything I might have heard of?" "Well, uh," said Harry. "Did you ever read The Black Dwarf, by Sir Walter Scott?" "Well, I've been meaning to get to that one," said Harry. "What about some of these more recent books, like Daniel Deronda I think it is, by George Eliot?" "That one is definitely on my reading list," said Harry. "But you know who's a good author?" said the general. "Who?" said Harry. "Arthur Conan Doyle." "Him I've read," said Harry. "That man wrote like a motherfucker," said the general. "Pardon my barracks-room language but it's true. You should read his Sherlock Holmes stories." "I, um," said Harry. "Always a pleasure, General," said Livingston, "but, uh –" "Name me a book you've written," said the general to Harry. "Um, I've written quite a few, actually," said Harry. "What's a good one to start with?" "Well, I have a soft spot for a novel called Gin Mill Molly. It's about this girl –" "Named Molly who works in a gin mill?" "Uh, yes –" "I'll ask for it next time I visit Brentano's." "So, if you will excuse us, general," said Livingston. "Yes, say hello to your father for me," said the general.  "I will do that, General," said Livingston. "He's a good man." "That he is, sir." "I knew your grandfather, too. Joe Lovechild. There was a man. Built his factory from scratch after his old man old Pete Lovechild had blown the family fortune on the nags and faro. But so it goes. You live a while, stomp the earth doing whatever you do, and then you die in the end. May I give you young pups some advice." "Please do, General," said Livingston. "Fuck a lot. Drink a lot. Eat a lot. Stay up all night gambling. If you see an ass, kick it. If any man insults you, slap his face. Grab life by the balls, before it grabs yours. And get all the sleep you can." "We will try to do all that, General," said Livingston. "Someday, if you don't croak first, you will wind up like me, sitting in a chair in this club, left only with your memories. So make sure you've got some good ones." "We will, General," said Livingston. "And you, Mr. Peachums," said the general to Harry. "You are a writer. So write well, as if your very life depended on it. Don't write arrant shit. Try to write as well as Arthur Conan Doyle if you can manage it." "I will try, sir," said Harry. "Won't you gentlemen sit and have a drink with me? On my tab, of course." "We would, General," said Livingston, "but we're supposed to meet some people at the bar." "Oh, of course. Fellow young scamps like yourselves I'll warrant. And, when you're sufficiently oiled, probably heading off en masse to some merry bawdy house." "One never knows," said Livingston. "Best times of my life were spent in bawdy houses. Now Havana, there's a town had some good bawdy houses. And Manila, my word. Vera Cruz, too. Also, believe it or not, Gallup, New Mexico. Lovely place there they used to call Salt Chunk Mary's, I visited there often when I was on the border with Pershing chasing Pancho Villa over hill and dale. To no avail." "Well, nice chatting with you, General," said Livingston. "If it weren't for this artharitis I'd be right there with you. Of course I can't remember the last time I've had an erection, but it might be fun just to caress an alabaster thigh, and to breathe a tart's Woolworth's perfume." "Till we meet again," said Livingston. "Go, go," said the General. "And when you get to that bawdy house tonight I want you to do just one thing for me, Livingston." "What's that, sir?" "Shove it in once for me, lad. Just once." "I will, sir," said Livingston. "Only once. Just say, 'This one's for the old general.'" "Right, okay," said Livingston. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Peachbaum," said the general to Harry. "Nice meeting you, too, sir," said Harry. "All right," said the general. "Run along now, boys, but remember what I told you." "We will, sir," said Livingston. "Good night now." "You only get one life. Waste it at your peril." "We will bear that in mind, General." "God I wish I could go with you, but, you know." "Your arthritis," said Livingston. "Yes, and that spear wound. The little bastards would smear the spear heads with shit. They knew what they were doing." "We'll see you on our way out," said Livingston. "I'll be here," said the general. "Unless I'm in the latrine." "Shall we go?" said Livingston, to Harry, touching his elbow. "Yes, okay," said Harry. Livingston pulled on Harry's arm, and they headed off. "Livingston!" came the general's croaking thin voice, and Livingston and Harry stopped and turned. "Just once!" cried the general. "Just one stout goodly thrust. For me." Livingston paused, then nodded. "At least one, General!" he called. He pulled on Harry's arm again, and they continued across the smoky room, redolent of smoke, of whiskey and gin, and half-remembered memories of bygone wars, of bawdy houses and moist alabaster thighs. "Old guys," said Livingston. "They never miss a chance to impart a bit of hard-earned wisdom, do they? Ah, the bar, at last." They passed into another room, dimmer and even smokier than the one they had left, with a long bar filled with men and the babble of voices and the tinkling of glassware, and the glinting of bottles ranged on shelves and beckoning.

"Tosspots"

Another strange but true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode brought to you the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Many doctors recommend Husky Boy cigarettes with our patented 'Benzo-Tip™' filters for that mid-day pick-me-up we all need on occasion!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Gal with a Gun Named Sal: a "Rip Tyde, Private Detective" Mystery

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"Do be careful, Livingston," said Mrs. Lovechild. "I shall try," said Livingston. She adjusted his muffler around his neck. "No fights," she said. "Again, I'll try," said Livingston. She turned to Harry. "Please keep an eye on Livingston, Mr. Peachnut," she said. "I, um," said Harry. "It's Beachcroft, Mother, not Peachnut," said Livingston. "Oh, I  beg your pardon, Mr. Peachcraft," said Mrs. Livingston. "Do those Wellingtons fit you?" "Yes," said Harry. His old Thom McAn brogans were still drying on the hearth, and he had been supplied with these sturdy rubber boots. "My late husband used to wear them, trolling the marshes hunting duck and pheasant with his beloved Purdey shotgun. He was a real man." "Let's go, Harry," said Livingston. "It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Poshworth," said Gwendolyn to Harry. "You too, Miss Lovechild," said Harry. "Please do come and visit us again." "I would like that," said Harry. "Here, old man," said Ralston to Harry, and he handed him a heavy implement covered in black leather and shaped like an elongated teardrop, with a looped thong at the narrow end. "What's this?" said Harry. "It's a cosh, a sap, a blackjack if you will, with a tensile stainless steel handle and a head of molded lead, the whole encased in the finest Moroccan leather. Use it if you have to." "I really don't think," said Harry. "Take it," said Ralston. "If you're going out on the town with Livingston, just take it. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it." "Go ahead, chum," said Livingston, "take it. Me, I have my trusty old brass knuckles," he patted a side pocket of his mackinaw, "just in case." "I really don't," said Harry. "Look," said Ralston, "just put it in your pocket." "Yes," said Gwendolyn, "put it in your pocket, Mr. Peachfast. You never know." "Well," said Harry. "It's just a precaution, Mr. Beachbum," said Mrs. Lovechild.  "Well, all right," said Harry, and he slipped the blackjack into his coat pocket. "Thank you, Mr., uh, Lovechild," he said to Ralston. "Just give it back to Livingston when you bring him home," said Ralston. "If you bring him home." "I, uh," said Harry. "All right, let's bust a move," said Livingston. "'Night all, and don't wait up for us." "Oh, we shan't," said Ralston. Livingston opened the door, letting in a powerful gust of snow and freezing wind. "Goodbye!" said Gwendolyn. "Um," said Harry. "And good luck," said Ralston. "Uh," said Harry. "It was delightful meeting you, Mr. Peachfrost," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Uh, um," said Harry. "Let's shake a leg, Harry," said Livingston. "We're letting the blizzard in. You first." Harry stepped through the doorway and Livingston followed him, closing the door behind them. Even up here in the entranceway the snow was drifted almost to the tops of Harry's boots, and the hillock of snow sloped smoothly down to the sidewalk. "The steps are somewhere under this nonsense, so mind how you go," shouted Livingston over the howling wind. "Grab hold of the railing and slow and easy does it." They managed to get down to the sidewalk without falling, and now the snow was above Harry's knees. "Livingston," he shouted, "if you don't mind my saying so, on second thought, I think it's insane to go out in this blizzard. I think I'll just try to make my way home. It's not really that far." "Balderdash," said Livingston. "Don't crap out on me now, Harry. We have not even started to have fun." "Well –"  "Let's go, first stop is just right up the street." "First stop?" "Yes, only the first. But, God willing, it won't be the last." Livingston put his arm in Harry's and pulled, and Harry allowed himself to be pulled, holding his hat down on his head with his free hand. Fortunately the woolen mittens he had borrowed were thick and warm, almost like small boxing gloves. They trudged on, slowly and awkwardly, arm in arm through the drifted snow, through the thick snow falling and blowing all around them. What am I doing? thought Harry. Where is my willpower? Am I not a grown man? A professional author? Why do I let myself be led about by this madman? All I want is to be back on my barstool at Bob's, drinking my bock until it is time to stagger out and go around the corner to my tiny apartment and to bed. Why is this asking too much? "What are you thinking about, old man?" Livingston shouted into Harry's ear. "Oh," said Harry, shouting back over the howling blizzard, "I was just thinking how, uh, bracing it is to walk in the snow." "Yes, I suppose it is," yelled Livingston, "but, you know, a little of it goes a long way. Fortunately, we have reached our first rest stop and refueling station." "Really?" "Yes, right here," said Livingston, and he pointed to a plaque under a stone lion next to the front steps of a large old brick house. The plaque was crusted with snow, but its engraved legend was still somewhat visible. The Noble Society  of  Convivial Tosspots est. 1832 "That's the official name," said Livingston, "but everybody just calls it the Tosspot Club. Members only of course, but don't worry, you're with me. Come on, pal, you're gonna dig this joint the most." What could Harry do? But then it occurred to him that all of this evening could be written off as research, for stories and novels not yet written. What did he have to lose? Except for possibly his life? "All right," said Harry. "Let's do it." The stoop of the house had apparently been shoveled sometime this day, and so the snow was only about a foot deep on the steps. Harry and Livingston ascended to the entrance area successfully. There were two tall and elaborately carved double doors, on one of them a brass knocker shaped like a man's grotesque grinning rictus, and Livingston took hold of it and knocked, stoutly, five times. "Now we wait," he said. "But ne t'en fais pas, it'll be worth it." Harry hoped it wouldn't be too long of a wait.  He shoved his mittened hands into his coat pockets, and in the right pocket he felt the hard heavy sturdiness of Ralston's cosh.  Would he need it?  And if he needed it, would he have the courage to use it? Or would he instead turn and run?  Either way, mutatis mutandis, it could be good material for a story.  If he lived to write it.

"Blood Red"

Yet another sad but true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode made possible in part through a grant from the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company's Foundation for the Humanities

"Please don't ask me to say anything coherent until I've had my first cup of morning coffee, accompanied by a fine Husky Boy cigarette, now available at vending machines all throughout this great land of liberty!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Gal, a Pal, and a Bookie Named Al; a "Rip Tyde, Private Investigator" Mystery

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

Harry had come to the end of the page, and he turned it over. "So?" said Livingston. "Yes?" said Harry. "You've now read two pages," said Livingston. "What's the verdict?" "My verdict?" "Yes." "Um." "Your considered opinion." Harry found himself taking another deep drag on the marijuana cigarette. "Take your time," said Livingston.  Harry exhaled the thick smoke, a smoke full of dreams.  "I think," he said. "Yes?" said Livingston. "I think –" "Yes. You think?" "I think this is unlike anything I've ever read," said Harry. "Well, that's good, I suppose," said Livingston, "but, more to the point, is it rubbish?" Harry took pause again. "Take another toke," said Livingston. "Toke?" said Harry. "That's hepcat talk for a drag of tea. Go ahead, take another hit." "Hit?" "Boy, you really are a square, ain't you, Harry?" "A square?" "I mean you're not hep to the jive." "Um, no, no, I suppose I'm not," said Harry. "We need to take you out to some 'happening' jazz joints." "Maybe," said Harry.  "No two ways about it, man. Now take another good toke." Harry took another good toke. "Now hold it in," said Livingston. Harry held it in. He looked out the window on the other side of the desk. The snow continued to fall and swirl in the light of a street lamp, and the world outside rumbled and whooshed. What was the meaning of it all? He had no idea, and if he had ever thought he knew the meaning, he had been wrong, horribly wrong, there was no meaning… "Okay, you can let it out now," said Livingston. And Harry let the smoke escape from his lungs, up through his throat and out of his mouth. "So?" said Livingston. "Yes?" said Harry. "Is it rubbish?" said Livingston. "My book. Or would you say garbage. Or, if you will, complete and utter shite?" Harry turned to look at the little fellow sitting next to him, with his thick horn-rimmed glasses and his carefully trimmed moustache on his red, somewhat bloated face. It only dawned on Harry now that Livingston no longer wore the billed mackinaw cap with the buttoned-up earflaps, and he saw that the man's hair was curly and slick with some sort of pomade. The magnified eyes behind the lenses of his glasses were blue and bloodshot and somehow pathetic and pleading, but in them also was the undeniable spark of sentient life. "I think," said Harry, speaking slowly, as if the words had to be squeezed from his brain, and trying to be truthful, or at least not to, to – to tergiversate? "I think that what I've read thus far is, in its own unique way, excellent." "Oh wow," said Livingston. "Really?" "Yes," said Harry. There was more that he could say, much more, the words swirling in his brain like the snow outside the window, but he left them all unsaid. "You know what you have just done, Harry?" said Livingston, after a brief but intense pause. "What's that?" said Harry. "You have justified my existence." "Well," said Harry, not knowing what else to say. "One moment I was just another, what, a clown," said Livingston. "An unemployed drunkard, wasting both his days and nights, but now, now I am a – dare I say – a writer?" "Yes," said Harry, glancing again at the enormous stack of pages before him. "No one can say you are not a writer, Livingston." "Do you want to read another page?" "Um –" said Harry. "Just one more page, just to make sure." "All right." "Take another toke first." "Okay," said Harry, and he took another toke, then picked up the page at the top of the pile and read. Which brings me to my major habit in life, to wit: boozing.  In my days of boyhood I looked on the world with bewilderment. What was it all in aid of, all these people coming and going, doing things? I think I was about thirteen when it occurred to me that people did things so that they could eat, and have a roof over their heads. But what if you didn't need to do anything in order to eat and have a roof? What was the purpose of life then? It had no purpose that I could see. But then at Yale I discovered booze, glorious booze, in all its varieties. Now everything was different, because after a few drinks it all began to make sense. The purpose of life was to be drunk. To have a drink, and then another. To have the unprepossessing fellow sitting next to you at the bar gradually become interesting, or at least not crashingly boring. To have one's own thoughts become steeped in significance, even if that significance disappeared or transmuted utterly by the time the next drink was drunk. To tumble out of the bar and down the street to another bar, and to the next stranger sitting on the neighboring stool, with his own unique wisdom and insights. And so on, ad infinitum.  Let's see, what other habits?  Oh, yes, my club. Because so often I just don't have the energy to go wandering the island in search of alcoholic adventure, no, so much easier just to go up the block to the club and spend the afternoon and sometimes the evening there, sitting in the lounge with the movers and shakers, the men who rule the world, these men who somehow accepted me even though I neither toiled nor spun, but simply because I was my father's son and my grandfather's grandson and my great-grandfather's great-grandson, the progeny of these hardworking industrialists who had built and maintained the fortune I now enjoyed. It wasn't fair, none of it was, but even a fool like myself had learned at an early age (I think I was six or seven) that nothing about life was fair. Did these men at the club think me, at bottom, nothing more than a wastrel? I'm sure they did, and do. But what did I care what they thought? Did I tell them how to run their law and brokerage firms, how to run their factories, how to lead their regiments into battle? Of course not. They did what they felt they should do, and I did what I did. Which was nothing. Except to drink, and to talk nonsense. Hey, don't knock it until you've tried it. Being a lazy idle drunken loafer is not a bad way to live, and it is the life I've chosen. When I lie on my deathbed I shall have no regrets, except perhaps the single regret of having lived at all. Harry had come to the end of yet another page, and he turned it over. "Well?" said Livingston.  "Yes?" said Harry. "Has it gotten boring yet?" "No," said Harry. "There's only about fourteen hundred more pages to go." "I see." "But you don't have to read them all now." "Yes, uh –" "Maybe we've read enough for one night," said Livingston. "Maybe," said Harry. "Because, you know, reading is fine, but it's no substitute for real life." "Maybe," said Harry. "I think so," said Livingston. "And even now I feel that call. The call to life. I suggest that we set forth once again. Out there." He pointed with his chubby little finger to the window and to the blizzard raging implacably outside it. "The night is yet young, and we, if not quite young, are yet not quite old. Let us go and find the madness." "I should really go home," said Harry, knowing of course he had no intention of going home. "Nonsense," said Livingston. "We have the rest of our lives to go 'home'." He gave Harry a light slap on the shoulder. "Get up, old buddy. We are going to paint this town red. Blood red." "Um," said Harry. "We might regret it, tomorrow," said Livingston. "But tomorrow is tomorrow, and now is now." "Uh," said Harry. "And tomorrow may never come. Someday, indeed, it won't come. Now let us go." "Okay," said Harry.  It was too late to turn back now. The only way to go was forward, forward with this madman. Harry took one last drag on the reefer, now burnt down to its last quarter-inch, and he let it drop into the ashtray before him, the ashtray full of the butts of a dozen or so other reefers, the ashtray emblazoned on its rim in chipped golden paint with the legend The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell