"The Damned of the Damned"

Another 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 by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"People often ask me how I manage to be so prolific, and don't I ever run out of ideas? Of course I do, but here is my secret, just between you and me and the lamp post. When I do run up against one of those blank brick walls in my writing, I simply light up a fine Husky Boy™ with the patented Benzo-Tip© 'cork' filter, and before the cigarette is half-finished I find myself tapping merrily away at my typewriter with renewed vigor!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Father Mike" mystery A Corpse in the Confessional.

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You were wrong, Thad," said Martha. "You were wrong in Grosse Pointe and you were wrong in Gstaad." "But, dear –" "You were wrong in Palm Beach and you were wrong in Palm Springs, too." "I beg your pardon, I admit I may have been wrong in Palm Beach, but in Palm Springs–" "You were wrong." "But –" "Don't 'but' me, you swine. You were wrong." "But –" "Terribly wrong." "But." "Wrong." "May I say one thing in my defense," he said. "Go ahead," she said. "Lie. Lie again." "The one thing I have to say," said Thad, "is that I love you." "Ha." "I have always loved you." "Tell it to the marines." "You really know how to hurt a guy, Martha." "Swine." "Gee, Martha." "Oh, don't 'gee, Martha' me, you weak, alcoholic, mewling, son-of- Harry Beachcroft pulled the page out of his battered old second-hand Royal portable and laid it on the stack of paper to the right of the machine. He took a fresh sheet of paper from the stack on the left and rolled it into the typewriter, and then he sighed. Harry's daily quota was ten pages, and once he finished that tenth page, he knocked off for the day, even if, as today, he was in the middle of a sentence.  And now was that very special time of the day: time for a bock at Harry's "local", Bob's Bowery Bar… It was a snowy late afternoon, one might even say a blizzardy one, but, no matter, it wasn't as if Harry had far to go, just out the door of his tenement building on Bleecker, left past Mr. Morgenstern's cobbler shop, and around the corner to the entrance of Bob's.  A train passed on the elevated tracks up above, heading down to the Houston stop, filled with huddled masses on their way home from their mundane jobs, and Harry opened the door to the only home he had. Inside the bar was the usual crowd of drunks, the place was thick with smoke and the warm rich smells of beer and booze, of unwashed human bodies and damp woolens, and a sad song played on the jukebox. It was a Monday, but every day was a Friday at Bob's Bowery Bar. Harry found a seat down at the right, in between a small chubby man and Gilbey the deranged mystic. "How are you today, Gilbey?" "I ain't seen God lately, Harry, but I ain't given up yet." "Maybe someday, Gilbey." "Yeah, maybe someday," said Gilbey. "Meantime I'll be waiting." Bob was down at the other end of the bar, so Harry took out his Philip Morrises. This is what cigarettes were for. The waiting times. He shook one out and put it in his lips, then patted his pockets for matches. "May I ignite your cigarette, sir?" This was the little fellow to Harry's left, who was extracting a match from a box of Ohio Blue Tips. "Thank you," said Harry, and he accepted a light. The man could have been a prematurely decayed twenty-five or an alcohol-preserved forty on the verge of a heart attack, it was hard to say, and he was smoking a pipe. He wore a red-and-black  checked mackinaw coat and a matching billed cap with buttoned-up earflaps. He looked at Harry through thick horn-rimmed glasses, and he had a moustache trimmed top and bottom like an actor in 1930s movies. He definitely looked like a lush, but not the usual sort of lush you saw in Bob's. "Do you come here often?" said the man. "Only every day," said Harry. "First time for me," said the man. "A delightful establishment, I must say." "I like it," said Harry. "I usually like to drink at my club, but sometimes one feels the need to wander, to explore the city in all its richness and variety. You know how it is." "Um," said Harry, who had no idea how it was. "Do you know there are at least thirty-seven bars and cafés just within three blocks of my familial manse?" "I, uh –" Harry was on the verge of saying how could he possibly know how many bars and cafés were within three blocks of the fellow's familial manse, but he restrained himself. "Normally," continued the man, "I never go beyond the three-block limit, I call it 'easy stumbling distance'. Get it? Three blocks, and even if you don't find a cab you can usually find your way home without waking up dead in an alleyway. Usually." "Um, yes, that sounds reasonable," said Harry. "But today I felt the need to go farther, despite the snowstorm, who knows, perhaps because of the snowstorm. Call it the call of the wild. Or was it something else. Do you remember the words of the gallant Captain Oates of the ill-fated Scott south polar expedition? He knew he couldn't go on, and so he hobbled out of their tent into a roaring blizzard to his certain death, with the parting words, "I am just going outside and may be some time." "Um," said Harry. "My name," said the man, "is Livingston P. Lovechild." "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lovechild." Bob was there, and about time. "Oh, hello, Bob," said the man to Bob. "I shall have another one of your delicious house bocks, and I would like to buy my new friend here whatever he's drinking." "Thanks," said Harry, who had never turned down a drink in his life, and he wasn't about to start now. "Bock for me, too, Bob." Bob went away, and the man looked at Harry through his thick horn rims. "I wonder may I possibly know your name, sir?" "Beachcroft," said Harry. "Harry Beachcroft." The man took the stem of his pipe out of his mouth. "Harry Beachcroft you say?" "Yes," said Harry. "Are you perhaps by any wild chance a writer?" "In fact I am." "Harry Beachcroft the novelist?" "Yes, my name is Harry Beachcroft, and I have written novels." "Not the author of Last Train from Poughkeepsie?" "Yes, I'm afraid so." "And The Damned of the Damned?" "Yes, that was me," said Harry. "Good God, may I shake your hand, sir?" "Of course," said Harry. Harry took the man's hand. It was small and plump, the hand of a man who had never done physical labor in his life, but then neither had Harry. The hand was also sticky, presumably with Bob's basement-brewed house bock. The fellow held onto Harry's hand even after a rather prolonged shake, and it seemed that he was holding onto it as if he did not want to let go, ever. Not wanting to appear rude, Harry allowed the man to grip his own for half a minute as the fellow beamed, revealing smoke-stained teeth or dentures. Bob was there with two glasses of bock, and he laid them down. The man quickly disengaged his hand from Harry's with a faint sucking sound and tapped a pile of bills and change in front of him. "Take it from here, Bob," he said, "and do keep them coming." Bob took a dime and went away. The man turned again to Harry, his eyes alight behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "You don't know what an honor this is for me, Mr. Beachcroft. I have read all your books. At least all the books I could find." "Really?" "Yes," said the man."Riders of the Savage Moon. Give My Love to Caroline. Steamer Bound for Bombay. A Gal, a Pal, and a Dog  Named Al. Three Lads on a Quest. Dead End Street in a Two-Bit Burg. Chums From the Slums. I've read them all." "Well, I'm very impressed," said Harry. "I myself barely remember some of those books." "How many books have you written?" "I'm not sure," said Harry. "Thirty-five? Forty? Some I've written under other names." "Why?" "Well, publishers don't want to flood the market with a particular author, so sometimes it's deemed best to use a pen name." "Such as?" "Well, let's see, I've written a series of gothic romances under the name of Gwendolyn St. Jacques, and then there were a few science fiction titles I put out as Jack Henry Hildenburg, and then I wrote a couple of the 'Congo Mike' novels under the house name of Herbert Penn Blake, and –" "You must write all these titles down for me, Mr. Beachcroft, because I want to read them all!" "Oh, okay," said Harry. "I mean, not this very second, but later." "Okay, sure, if I can remember them." "I'm sure you'll be able to remember them if you set your mind to it." "Um," said Harry, who was not at all sure, having written some of these novels in a couple of weeks and then never thought about them again. "I want to read all of them," said the man, what was his name? "I want to read every word you've published." "Gee," said Harry, "you might have trouble finding everything, especially stories I've written that only appeared in magazines." "I'll find it all," said the man. "I'm your biggest fan. Yes, I will find those books and magazines, every one of them, just as I have now found you, their esteemed author." "Gee," said Harry, not knowing what else to say, never having met anyone who had read his work before, outside of Sid Scheinberg, the publisher of A-One Publications, the firm that had published most of his work, both books and stories. "Do you know what I think you are, Mr. Beachcroft?" said the little man. "Um, no," said Harry. "I think you are the finest American writer of fiction since Robert W. Chambers!" Harry had barely even heard of Robert W. Chambers, but he was discreet, and so he said, "Well, that's pretty high praise, Mister, uh –" "Lovechild, Livingston P. Lovechild, but, please, call me Livingston." "Okay, Livingston." "And may I call you Harry?" "Of course," said Harry. And thus began a friendship – if that was the word, and it probably wasn't – which was to change the course of Harry Beachcroft's bleak and drudging existence, and plunge him into a world stranger than any he had created in his forty-odd novels and dozens of stories written under both his real name and various noms de plume.

"Heroes"

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

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

This episode sponsored by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company Foundation for the Furtherance of the Arts

"Smoke 'em if you got 'em, boys – especially if they're Husky Boys!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of the smash new stage production, Horace P. Sternwall's The Lady Was No Lady >

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"Well, thank you, Jim," said Addison. "Yes, thank you," said Milford. "Oh, it was nothing," said Diamond Jim. "Just another pack of hyenas in the night, but stand up to them and they turn tail every time. Or nearly every time. And if they do try to gang up on you, that's when a good stout stick like this one comes in handy." He raised his cane and gave it a twirl. "Well, we appreciate it," said Addison. "Take my advice," said Diamond Jim. "I know walking sticks are out of fashion, but get yourself a sturdy leather sap, the kind with good tensile steel encased in it, or high-quality ball-bearings. And a set of brass knuckles fits nicely in a gentleman's pocket." "Um," said Addison, knowing he would never spend money on a sap or brass knuckles that could have been spent on whiskey or beer. "Uh," said Milford, wondering where one even went to buy a sap or a set of brass knuckles.  Diamond Jim's cigarette in its shiny black holder had gone out, and he extricated the stub and flicked it away. Once again he produced his gem-studded cigarette case and clicked it open, and Addison and Milford tossed away their own dwindled butts and accepted fresh Husky Boys from the big man, as well as lights from his Ohio Blue Tip wooden match. "You'll note that I tempt fate by lighting three on a match," said Diamond Jim, igniting his own cigarette. "Superstitions are for fools." He blew out the match with a thick cloud of Husky Boy smoke, and then flicked it away. "Or do you chaps disagree? Appleton?" he said, addressing Addison. "Oh, no," said Addison. "I think life is quite confusing enough without bringing superstition into it." "And you, Gilbey?" said Jim, to Milford. "Yes, I agree," said Milford. "But I myself am a fool, and so my opinion matters little." Diamond Jim smiled.  "I like you, Gilroy," he said to Milford. "And you too, Thatcherton," he said to Addison. "Some people might look at you fellas and think, oh, a couple of boring nonentities, but I look at you both and see, yes, I'll tell you what I see. Heroes. Heroes, God damn it." "Gee," said Addison. "Heroes," said Diamond Jim. He cast his gaze on Milford. "You remain silent, my lad. Do you think me wrong in my assessment?" "I wouldn't presume to say," said Milford. "I beg you, presume. We are all friends here. Do you or do you not agree with me that you and Bartleson here are heroes?" "I agree that we are both the heroes of our own sad little lives," said Milford. "As are all human beings." "So," said Diamond Jim after a brief pause, "you are not only a hero, but, yea, a philosopher." Milford said nothing to this. Who was he to argue with a man who had just saved them from a gang of douchebags, and a man who, furthermore, was supplying them with cigarettes? "Shall we now continue our journey?" said Diamond Jim. "Yes," said Addison. "Muggins?" said Diamond Jim to Milford. "Yes?" said Milford. "I say, shall we continue?" "Oh, yes, of course," said Milford. "To the Hideaway then!" boomed Diamond Jim. "Come, lads, and do try to keep up with me." And off he went again, down the dim corridor, and Addison and Milford did their best to try to keep up. Amazingly, not five minutes later, perhaps ten, they came to the familiar door, on which hung the hand-painted sign reading "THE HIDEAWAY" Leave your cares behind and your bullshit too. Ring the bell and wait. "See, boys?" said Diamond Jim. "I told you I knew the way." "Indeed you did, Jim," said Addison. They could hear music from behind the door, and singing, and the sound of laughing and shouting voices "Are you excited, Heatherington?" asked Jim. "Yes, I must say I am," said Addison. "Bugford?" said Diamond Jim to Milford. "You up for a good time?" "Yes," said Milford.  "You don't seem entirely sure." "I'm not entirely sure of anything," said Milford. "Ha ha, you slay me, Bumfort," said Diamond Jim, and he pressed his great forefinger, the only kind of forefinger he had, against the door button. While they waited for someone to answer the door, Diamond Jim turned to Milford and Addison. "By the way, have you boys tried the food here?" "I haven't actually," said Addison. "Is it good?" "To die for," said Diamond Jim. "What about you, Dilbert?" "Yes?" said Milford. "Have you sampled the chow in this joint?" "Uh, no." "You have to try the possum stew." "Um," said Milford. "Get it with some hush puppies on the side, for dipping." "Uh," said Milford. "The squirrel stew is good too, don't get me wrong, but the possum stew, you gotta try it." "Um," said Milford, who preferred Bond white bread toasted and lightly spread with oleomargarine over all other foods, but he didn't want to seem rude or ungrateful. The door opened, our friends turned, and there stood the enormous Negro, John Henry, in his railroad man's overalls and cap, and with an enormous cigar in one hand. Behind him the music and shouting and laughter surged and pulsed like the promise of happiness on earth. "Well, look who the fuck it is," he said, smiling broadly. "Diamond Jim his own bad self. And these two sad-ass motherfuckers." "How's it hanging, John Henry?" said Diamond Jim. "Not bad, big man, not bad. How you doing?" "Never better, John Henry," said Diamond Jim, and he extended his enormous hand, which was taken by John Henry's own enormous hand. Both Milford and Addison felt very small witnessing this meeting of two giants, each so full of life, and they glanced at each other, seeing the same thing in each other's eyes, the knowledge that the best they could do was to bear witness, and to try not to be trampled underfoot. Milford looked past the two titans trading friendly witticisms, into the crowded noisy and smoky barroom, and there with a flutter in his heart he saw sitting at their table laughing among themselves Mistress Bradstreet, Miss Harriet, Miss Emily, and, yes, Miss Louisa. Beyond them he glimpsed Miss Blackbourne and Mr. Whitman dancing vigorously on the small crowded dance floor as Jelly Roll pounded the piano and sang these words: Dance the Black Bottom, mama, dance it like there ain't no tomorrow. Dance that Black Bottom, little mama, and make me forget my grief and sorrow… Diamond Jim turned from John Henry and looked at Addison and Milford. "Well, lads," he said, "are you ready to live a little?" "Yes," said Addison. "I think it's time." Milford too was ready, as ready as he was ever likely to be.

"That's How You Do That"

Another 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 by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company'a Foundation for the Arts & Humanities

"There are few things more delightful than to step out into the bustling city streets, and, pausing as the great stream of humanity swarms to and fro, to light up a fine Husky Boy King Size Benzo-Tip™ cigarette (now available in vending machines throughout this land of liberty), its delightful rich smoke merging with the exhaust of passing trucks and automobiles, and thence to set forth again, glad to be part of the universe's unknowable plan." – Horace P. Sternwall, author of You Don't Say! (1,001 Quips for All Occasions)

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Neither Addison or Milford were used to not walking slowly, Addison because he was constitutionally languid and lazy, and Milford because as much as he never liked being where he was, he was never in a hurry to go someplace else. And yet, taking quick puffs from their cigarettes and coughing as they went, they did their best to keep up with Diamond Jim, who stomped forth holding his cane upright as if it were a sword and he was storming into battle, all the while still smoking his cigarette in its holder and trailing a stream of smoke behind him.  After a couple of minutes the big man stopped and turned, about thirty paces ahead of them. "Am I going too fast for you, lads?" "Well, just a little perhaps," panted Addison. Milford said nothing, merely gasping and coughing in response. "Well, come on then and catch up," said Diamond Jim, and he waited, smoking, until the two friends staggered abreast of him. He looked at them, smiling, and shaking his head. "My goodness, as old as I am, and as stout as I am, I daresay I could still beat the pair of you in a walking race!" "I have no doubt," said Addison, squeezing the words out between labored breaths. "When I was young like you fellows I thought nothing of tramping from the Battery to Harlem and back again of an evening, not forgetting to stop into various and sundry taverns and saloons along the way for a refreshing pitcher of steam beer and a sampling of the  spécialités des maisons, be it a hot roast beef sandwich or two with lashings of gravy and a side basket of crispy fried potatoes, or perhaps a few frankfurters liberally blanketed with sauerkraut, or, say, a brace of croque-monsieurs, oozing with fragrant melted Gruyère and béchamel – but fear not, if my calculations are correct, we should reach the Hideaway any minute now." "Oh, thank God," said Addison. "And what about you, young Gilbert," said Diamond Jim to Milford. "Do you not thank God that your wanderings are almost at an end." "If I believed in God," said Milford, breathing laboriously, "I would thank him, possibly." "Only possibly?" said Diamond Jim, with a straight face. "Yes," said Milford, "because after all it was he who put me in this state of existence in the first place, when I never asked for it." Diamond Jim smiled again. "I like you, Philbert," he said. "And you too, Pattison," he said, addressing Addison. You chaps may not be – how shall I put it – you may not be the most vibrant fellows, and yet, in your own particular ways, you are your own men. A rare quality, and I think we shall be good friends. And, now that we've rested a bit, do you think you are ready to resume our perambulations?" "Yes, I think so," said Addison. "Milforth?" said Jim to Milford. "Yes, I'm ready," said Milford. "Onward then," said Diamond Jim. "And I shall attempt to keep to a moderate stride." "Thank you, Jim," said Addison. "Yes, thank you, Jim," also said Milford, who, despite his distaste for life, still harbored a deep-seated fear of suffering a massive or even minor heart attack. "Hey, it's them!" echoed a voice ahead of them down the dim corridor. And there perhaps a fifty yards away, turning a corner, surged a group of a dozen or so men. "Now we've got them!" yelled another voice. "They got Diamond Jim with them!" yelled yet another voice. "Fuck them and fuck Diamond Jim too!" yelled a fourth voice. "Now what the hell do we have here?" said Diamond Jim. "Jim," said Milford, "we have to run." "Yes," said Addison. "I think we should beat a hasty retreat." "Nonsense," said Diamond Jim. "I have never retreated in my life, and I'm not about to start now." "But there's too many of them," whined Milford. "I'll be the judge of that," said Diamond Jim, as the gang of men approached, carrying baseball bats, nightsticks and blackjacks, and even bicycle chains. "What's their beef, anyway?" "They're from this place called the D.B. Club," said Addison. "The douchebag bar?" said Jim. "Yes," said Addison. "We went in there just to ask directions, but they wanted us to join their club, and then when we said we didn't want to join they wouldn't let us leave." "So how'd you get out of there?" "Addison threw his cigarette in the head douchebag's eye," said Milford, "and in the ensuing confusion I grabbed the door key and unlocked the door and we escaped." "And they've been after you ever since, hey?" "Yes," said Milford. "So we'd really better run." "The hell with that," said Diamond Jim, and he raised his cane and brandished it at the approaching men. "You there!" he shouted. "You douchebags! Stop right there!" Amazingly, the gang stopped, maybe twenty yards away. At their center was the big corpulent man with the cigar, the one called Big Daddy, carrying what looked like a shillelagh, and to his right was the corpselike man named Cerberus, the one with a face the color of an old potato sack, and who wielded a large monkey wrench. "This ain't your concern, Diamond Jim," bellowed Big Daddy, whose right eye was swollen shut. "Now step aside!" "Yeah, step aside, Diamond Jim," said Cerberus. "We got no grudge with you." "Fuck you don't," said Diamond Jim. "What do you mean?" yelled Big Daddy. "You heard me, Big Daddy," said Diamond Jim. "Fuck you don't, and I'll say it again, fuck you don't and fuck you and your douchebag pursuivants." "Now, Jim," said Big Daddy, "you ain't got to be like that." "Yeah," said Cerberus. "You ain't got to be like that, Diamond Jim." "Look what they done to my eye," said Big Daddy, pointing to his swollen eye with a fat finger, the only kind of finger he had. "If I know you, Big Daddy," said Diamond Jim, "you were asking for that swole-up eye, and more." "Hey, wait a minute," said Cerberus, "Big Daddy didn't ask for the swole-up eye, no sir!" "That's right," said Big Daddy, "I most certainly did not!" Diamond Jim pointed the engraved steel ferrule of his cane at Big Daddy. "Did you or did you not refuse to let my friends leave your establishment?" "Well, technically, yes," said Big Daddy, "but you see, Diamond Jim, they are obviously douchebags, just like us, but they was acting like they was too good to be members of the Douchebag Club!" "And they ain't too good!" said Cerberus. "They's douchebags just like us, maybe even worst than us!" "Douchebags, my dear Cerberus," said Diamond Jim, "they well may be, and God love them. However, douchebags or not, they are my friends. So fuck off, you walking cadaver, and you too, Big Daddy, you blustering tub of lard, or I shall set to thrashing you and your toadies with this very sturdy blackthorn stick," he raised his cane in a menacing manner, "both one and all and severally, but first you, Big Daddy, then you, Cerberus, and finally all your other cowering epigones." "Once again, Diamond Jim, sir," said Big Daddy, "our fight is not with you. And anyways we promise just to rough those two d-bags up a little." "Yeah, just rough 'em up a little," said Cerberus. "You will do no such thing," said Diamond Jim. "And you'll have to get past me to even try to do it. Now who wants to try it first? Take a step forward if you dare." None of the gang took a step forward. "Come on, you pack of jackals," said Diamond Jim, raising his cane higher, and stepping forward himself. "Step forward I say!" "Look, Diamond Jim –" said Big Daddy. "You look, you fat fuck," said Diamond Jim, "you and your little mob got approximately one second to turn around and go back to that stinking hole you crawled out of, or you'll see what's coming to you, and it's gonna be a hell of a lot worse than a swole-up eye." "Ah, the hell with this," said Big Daddy, after less than one second's pause. "It ain't worth it. We was just having a little fun. Or trying to. Come on, boys, let's go back to the club. I'm thirsty." "Yeah, let's go back to the club," said Cerberus. "I'm thirsty, too." "Yeah, we're all thirsty," said another guy, "I'm thirsty as hell," said a fourth guy. And as one the gang turned around the way they had come, quickly, and silently, tumbled past the far corner, and then they were gone. "And that," said Diamond Jim, lowering his cane, "is how you deal with douchebags like that."