"The Ancestral Manse"

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 brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"Oftentimes on my speaking tours across this great land of liberty, I am asked what do I do when I reach one of those seemingly impassable virtual brick walls in my writing, and my answer is always the same: I light up a fresh Husky Boy cigarette (produced from a blend of the finest Virginia tobaccos), sit back in my chair, and very soon I find myself sailing over that wall into the glorious land of inspiration, and I am typing away to beat the band!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of First You'll Need Some Paper: How to Write for Fun and Profit.

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Again Harry yanked on Livingston's arm. "Come on, Livingston, let's go." And again Livingston's small eyes opened. "Where are we going?" "Home," said Harry. "We're at your house." "Oh," said Livingston. He sat up straight, blinking. "Splendid. What do we owe you, my good man?" he said, addressing the driver. "Nothing," said the driver. "Your buddy already paid me." "Oh, thank you, Harry," said Livingston. "It was your money," said Harry. "I took the liberty of taking it from your wallet." "Splendid, splendid," said Livingston. "I put the wallet back in your trousers," said Harry. "Yes, of course you did," said Livingston. "Shall we disembark then?" "Yes," said Harry. Livingston was sitting on the street side of the back seat, and he turned, depressed the door handle, opened the door, and fell out into the street. Exactly one minute later Harry was pulling Livingston to his feet as the cab pulled away into the blizzard, belching exhaust into the falling snow and groaning like a dying elephant. "Home at last," said Livingston, looking up at the snow-shrouded house before them, with a tall leafless snow-whitened tree in front it, its branches reaching up into the blizzard. "The ancestral manse." "Yes," said Harry. "Are you all right to walk?" "Right as rain," said Livingston. "I can't wait to introduce you to la famille." "There's no need for that," said Harry. "What do you mean?" said Livingston. "I mean I'm going to get you up the steps and into your house, and then I'm going home." "But you can't mean that!" Actually Harry didn't mean it, because what he really wanted to do was to make his way back to Bob's Bowery Bar and get a quiet peaceful load on, vowing all the while never to go on such a fool's expedition again. Nevertheless, "Yes," he lied. "I think I just want to go home." "I won't hear of it," said Livingston. "You must stay for dinner." "Look, Livingston, let's just get you up there, okay?" "Yes, of course. We can't just stand out here in this blizzard, can we?" "No," said Harry. He took Livingston's arm and guided him out of the street and onto the sidewalk to the snow-covered stoop of the tall house that loomed above them. "Mind the steps now," said Livingston. "They're under this snow, somewhere. Keeping his left arm on Livingston's right, and his right hand on the snow-caked iron railing, Harry pulled and yanked and slogged them both up the five or six steps to the landing and into the front doorway, which was flanked by fluted weatherworn columns. A stained-glass fanlight above the door glowed with various colors.  "Do you have your key, Livingston?"  "My key, yes," said Livingston, and it only took him three minutes to remove his thick wool mittens, shove them into the pockets of his mackinaw, and then, after patting and probing various pockets, to produce a large old tarnished skeleton key attached to a ratty rabbit's foot, and then it took him another full minute to insert the key into the keyhole in the door. "Now here comes the tricky part," he said. "You have to turn the key while you simultaneously turn the door knob, jiggling both key and knob in unison." "Okay," said Harry.  "Like this," said Livingston, turning the key and knob and jiggling. "Voilà!" He pushed against the doorknob, but nothing happened. "Oh, dear," he said. "That usually works." Another minute of turning and jiggling and pushing passed, and then Harry said, "Look, let me try." "Yes," said Livingston, "you try, Harry." Harry had never been good with keys and door locks, but he did his best, and he failed, and failed again, and again. "You have to jiggle it, old chap," said Livingston. "Simultaneous with sort of pushing." "That's what I'm doing," said Harry. "Let me try again," said Livingston. "Can't we just ring the door bell?" "Oh, my dear fellow, that door bell has been en panne since as long as I can remember." "Okay, fine, then what about the door knocker." There was indeed a heavy engraved bronze knocker on the door. "Yes," said Livingston, "I suppose we could do that. Here, give me the key and let me try it just once more." "All right," said Harry, thinking, Never again. He pulled the key from the lock and handed it to Livingston, who stared at it, and then put it in a pocket of his mackinaw.  "Well, then," said Livingston. "Shall we go?" "What?" said Harry. "Shall we hie us hence, old man? Where are we going anyway? Shall we start at the San Remo? It's only just up the corner, and we can be there in a trice. I don't know if you've ever been there, but it's a delightful establishment, and quite popular among the bohemian set." "Livingston," said Harry, "we're not going anywhere. We're trying to get you into your house." "Oh, bother my house," said Livingston. "I've spent my whole life in that dump. Come, the great pulsing city awaits! Women, wine, and, yes, perhaps even a song or two!" He turned to face the street, and then turned his head to look at Harry. "It's a veritable winter wonderland, old boy!" He took a step forward and then fell to his knees. He quickly got up and then fell forward again, tumbling down the snow-covered steps. And then he lay there facedown in the deep snow, perhaps alive, perhaps not.  Harry turned and put his cold bare hand on the cold bronze heavy knocker, and knocked.   He continued to do so for for perhaps two minutes and then finally the door opened. An old Negro woman in a black and white housemaid's uniform and cap stood there. "What's this commotion?" she said. "My name is Harry Beachcroft," said Harry, "and I have brought Livingston home." "Mr. Livingston?" said the old woman. "Where is he?" "He's down there at the bottom of the steps," said Harry. The old woman stepped forward and raised her chin to look down at the sidewalk. "Is he alive?" "I don't know, to be quite honest," said Harry. "Well, I suppose we'll have to get him up here. Won't you wait a moment, and I'll go get Mr. Ralston to help." "Who's Mr. Ralston?" "He is Mr. Livingston's younger brother. He's not very strong I'm afraid, but he's the only man in the house, so he'll have to do. Wait here, please." "All right," said Harry.  The old woman went away, leaving the inner door of the foyer open behind her. Beyond the door were shadows and in the shadows was a carpeted staircase leading up to somewhere. Harry waited. What else could he do? He could just leave, but what if this Mr. Ralston was too weak to get Livingston up the steps by himself? Surely that frail old woman wouldn't be much help.  Harry stood there in the foyer, which was dimly lit from an overhead multicolored fixture. The walls were tiled, old and faded and stained, and the tiles seemed to illustrate fawns and naked nymphs in a sylvan paradise. There was a hat rack on the right wall, with hats on it, and a coat rack on the left wall, with coats on it. To the right was a great cracked vase in a floral motif, with several old umbrellas and walking sticks in it. A dozen or so pairs of boots and galoshes were ranged along the wainscoting of both walls, and there was an ancient rubber runner on the floor. There was also an old wooden stool, as well as a small table with a yellowed tattered lace cover over it, with a pile of gloves and mittens, a chipped ceramic dish with a collection of keys and coins and envelopes, and a glass ashtray with some cigarette butts in it, emblazoned on its side with the slogan The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell.  Harry stepped back into the falling snow and looked down the steps. Livingston was still there, and he was either dead or alive. If he was dead, Harry hoped there wouldn't be an inquest.  "Hello, there," said a slightly masculine voice. Harry turned, and the old Negro woman was there, with a young pale man wearing an embroidered garnet and gold smoking jacket, and holding a cigarette in a black holder. "Hello," said Harry. "My name is Ralston Lovechild," said the young man. "At your service. And you are?" "Harry Beachcroft," said Harry. "I've brought your brother home." "So Matilda tells me," said the young man. He stepped forward and looked down the steps. "Oh, dear. Not again. All right, just give me a mo to get my rubbers on, and we'll get him inside." Harry waited while the young man sat on the stool and pulled a pair of galoshes on over his house slippers, then got up and put a great Russian fur hat on his head, and finally the old woman helped him on with a a fur coat of some sort. Another old woman appeared, this one was a white woman, and with her was a younger woman, who looked like a younger version of the older woman, but with dark hair that looked natural, whereas the older woman's hair looked dyed. They were both smoking cigarettes. "Ralston, you're letting all the hot air out," said the older woman. "I know, Mother," said Ralston, taking his cigarette from its holder, and stubbing it out in the ashtray, "but this gentleman and I must bring Livingston up into the house." "Where is he?" "Passed out on the pavement," said Ralston. "Hi, there," said the young woman, to Harry. "What's your name?" "Harry Beachcroft," said Harry. Oddly enough, she was not unattractive, at least not by Harry's modest standards. "A friend of Livingston's?" she said. "Not really," said Harry. "I just met him a couple of hours ago." "Livingston could use a friend," said the young woman. "My name is Gwendolyn, by the way. I am Livingston's sibling." "Please to meet you, miss," said Harry.  "And this is our mother," said the young woman, indicating the older woman. "You may address her as Mrs. Lovechild." "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lovechild," said Harry. "And you as well," said Mrs. Lovechild. "I suppose we should thank you for bringing Livingston home." "It was the least I could do," said Harry. "Well, are we going to spend all evening gabbing here in the chill, or shall we bring the prodigal inside?" said Ralston. He had pulled on a pair of sturdy-looking leather gloves. "I hope he's not dead," said Gwendolyn, who had stepped forward to peer down at the sidewalk. "Well, if he is dead," said Ralston, "he will have gone out the way he would have wanted. Drunk as a skunk. Shall we, Mr. Peachcraft?" "Yes," said Harry. "I'm ready." "And then afterwards," said Gwendolyn, "whether Livingston is alive or dead, you must dine with us, Mr. Peachtree. Are you fond of Chicken à la King?" Harry had only ever had the kind of Chicken à la King that you got in automats or diners, and it had never seemed as good as it was touted up to be, but he didn't want to appear rude, so he said yes, he was actually very fond of Chicken à la King.

"Eight Billion Stories in the Naked City"

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 brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"Heading off 'down the shore' for a weekend of relaxation? Don't forget to pack a carton of Husky Boys!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the 'searing'* new novel, The Blonde at the End of the Bar

*Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat

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Slowly the cab forged through the blizzard. There were no pedestrians to be seen on the sidewalks. Who but madmen and cabdrivers would be out in this frozen chaos? At a red light the driver slid open the glass partition. "You all right back there?" "Yes," said Harry. "Thank you." "Your buddy still breathing?" "Yes, sleeping peacefully." "You think this is bad?" "What?" said Harry. "This," said the driver. "This snowstorm." "Oh," said Harry. "Yes, I suppose it's pretty bad." "This ain't bad," said the driver. "It isn't?" "No," said the driver. "It ain't." "Oh?" said Harry.  This was a good thing about being too impoverished to take cabs anywhere (even though Harry rarely wanted to go anywhere anyway). If you never took cabs you didn't have to listen to cabdrivers talk. Now if he could only find a way not to have to listen to barbers. Perhaps he should start shaving his skull? The light changed, the driver yanked the gear shift, the cab shuddered and groaned and began to move again. "You know what was bad?" said the cab driver. "What?" said Harry. "You know what was bad?" "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," said Harry. The driver turned around in his seat, still driving. He took the cigar out of his mouth and gestured expansively with it. "I'm talking about this," he said. "This goddamn blizzard. That's what I'm talking about. What the hell did you think I was talking about?" "I'm sorry," said Harry. "I didn't know." "Then pay attention," said the driver. "This is the problem with people. Nobody pays attention to nobody." "I'm very sorry," said Harry, "but –" "But what?" "Do you think you could watch the road while you're driving?" Probably despite himself the driver took a brief glance ahead at the snowy street, and then turned back to Harry. "Don't tell me how to drive this cab," said the man. "I can drive this cab with my eyes closed." "Okay," said Harry. "Sorry. It's just I would feel safer if you would keep your eyes on the road." "You just leave the driving to me, pal. I know what I'm doing." Suddenly the car jolted with a dull loud thump and Harry's face was thrust into the leather of the seat-back in front of him. "Ow," he said. "Now look what the fuck you made me do," said the driver. "What happened?" said Harry, touching his nose with his cold fingers. "You made me bump into a parked car, that's what happened." "Okay," said Harry, "look, just let us out here, okay?" "Bullshit," said the driver. "I said I'd take you to Sullivan Street, and I'm taking you to Sullivan Street." The car's internal mechanisms whined and growled as the driver shifted gears again, reversing and then once again plowing forward. "Just please keep your eyes on the road," said Harry. "I told you before," said the taxi driver, and he turned around to look at Harry again, "don't tell me how to drive this hack." "Okay, fine," said Harry. "Good," said the driver, but at least he turned once more to face the road. "That is all I ask." He drove in silence for a minute, and then he said, again, "Yeah, this ain't bad." Harry said nothing. The drive would be over soon. Maybe they wouldn't crash, and after all, even if they did crash, they were driving very slowly. "You know what was bad?" said the driver. "What?" said Harry. "You know what was really bad?" "I know many things that were bad," said Harry. "Don't crack wise with me, pal," said the driver. "You crack wise with me I'll kick you right out of this cab, and keep the sawbuck you give me. Now you want to know what was really bad?" "Okay," said Harry. "What was really bad?" "Napoleon's retreat from Moscow," said the driver. "That was bad. A hunnert thousand Frenchmen started out that cold winter. You know how many made it back to France?" "Not off hand," said Harry. "Not too many, pal," said the driver. "Not too many at all. How many? I don't know. A thousand? Couple o' thousand? Three thousand, tops. Not too many, buddy. And the ones that did make it back? They was never the same. Scarred for life. And not just physically, but mentally. Psychologically. Shattered. Mere husks of men, crippled in body, mind and soul. Standing on street corners shaking tin cups. 'Cept for old Napoleon of course. What did he care? Just another walk in the park for old Napoleon, he didn't give a shit. What do you do?" "Pardon me?" "What do you do for a living?" "Oh, I'm a writer." "A writer?" said the driver, and he adjusted his rearview mirror, so he could see Harry's face. "Like a journalist?Newspaper guy? Sportswriter?" "No, I write stories, novels." "What kind of stories?" "All sorts." "You know what kinda stories and novels I like?" "No," said Harry. "I like stories about guys who get like caught in a web of deceit and violence, and betrayal. You write them kind of stories?" "Sometimes," said Harry. "You ever need any story ideas, you come to me." "Okay," said Harry. "I got a million of them." Harry said nothing. Everyone had a million stories. "A million of them," the driver said again. They were stopped at another light. The cab's motor hummed and coughed, and outside the cold wind and snow roared and whined as snowflakes drummed on the roof of the cab like frozen plagues of locusts. The light changed, the driver shifted the gear and the cab lurched forward. "They say there's eight million stories in the naked city," he said. "That's a lie. There's eight billion stories in the naked city. And every one of them stories ends the same. You know how they end?" "What?" said Harry. "I said you know how every one of them eight billion stories in the naked city ends?" "With somebody dying?" The driver turned around and looked at Harry. "How'd you know that?" "Just guessed, I guess," said Harry. The driver continued to stare at Harry. Harry knew he should tell the man to watch the road, but he had been down that conversational cul-de-sac before, so he held his tongue. Finally, after half a minute, the driver turned to face the road again, of his own volition. "You ain't so dumb," he said. "Not so dumb as you look, anyway." He drove on, and after another minute, he stopped the car.  "Sullivan Street," he said. "You want me to cross the street or stop here." "I think it's 175 Sullivan." "That's acrost the street, on the right." "Okay," said Harry, "across the street then." The driver took them across the snowy street and stopped. Through the snow-shrouded window Harry could see only more snow, and beyond it what must have been a house, with dim yellow rectangles that must have been windows. The driver turned around again. "Give me a fin, and I help you get your buddy into the house." "No thanks," said Harry. "Two bucks," said the driver. "I think I can manage," said Harry. "Suit yourself, pal," said the driver. "You probably think I'm only in this for the money. And you know what? You're right. But I got bills to pay. Expenses. They say life is cheap, but you know something? Life ain't cheap. Life is expensive. Very expensive. Give me a buck and I'll help you get your friend up to the house." "Thank you," said Harry, "but I think I can handle it." "That's what Napoleon said," said the driver. "And you know what happened to him." "Yes," said Harry. "So you know what happened to Napoleon?" "I think so," said Harry. "What happened to him?" "He met his Waterloo?" The driver paused. "That's right. He met his Waterloo. Maybe you and your chum are gonna meet your Waterloo tonight." "That's quite possible," said Harry. He shook Livingston's shoulder. "Livingston, wake up. You're home." Livingston opened his little eyes.  "Um?" "Yes," said Harry. "You're home." "Um," said Livingston, again, and he closed his eyes. "You woulda thought Napoleon woulda learnt his lesson after that retreat from Moscow," said the cab driver. "But oh, no, not Napoleon. He weren't happy. Just like you guys. Just like everybody." Harry shook Livingston's arm again. "Livingston," he said. "Wake up." "Yeah," said the cab driver. "Wake up, Livingston. Meet your fucking Waterloo."

"Satori"

Yet 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

Whenever I get those occasional 'pre-show jitters', I simply light up a fine Husky Boy™ cigarette with the patented new Benzo-Tip© 'cork' filter, and in a matter of seconds I am ready to go out there and 'knock 'em dead'!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of the smash new musical comedy hit, Say There, Sailor Boy! (book and lyrics by Horace P. Sternwall, music by Igor Stravinsky), now playing at the Demotic Theatre on MacDougal Street (group rates available)


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The cab ground to a halt, its motor humming through the falling snow. Its roof and hood were white with snow, and Harry could see the shadowed form of a driver behind the wheel. "Can you help me, sir?" he yelled. "My friend has fallen!" The driver didn't budge, so Harry trudged through the snow around the front of the car to the driver's window and knocked on the crusted glass with his cold bare knuckles. The man inside rolled down the window a few inches. He had an ear-flapped leather cap on his head and a cigar in his mouth. "You want a cab, or don'tcha?" "Yes, sir," said Harry, "I would like a cab, but you see, my friend has collapsed into that snowbank over there, and I wonder if you could help me get him up?" "What do I look like, a good Samaritan?" "Please, sir, if you could just help me get him into your cab, we'll leave you a nice tip." "How far you going?" "Just straight up Bleecker, to Sullivan." "Sullivan," said the man. "I make that like eight blocks." "Whatever you say, sir." "That's what I say," said the cab driver. "Ain't nobody knows this town like I do." "I'm sure that's so," said Harry. "Now would you please help me get my friend into the cab?" "What's he doing lying in that snowbank?" "He, uh, he fell," said Harry. "He fell down, in a snowbank." "Yes," said Harry. "And may I ask why he fell down?" "He, um, uh –" "He's drunk, ain't he?" "Well, it's true he's had a few bocks, but –" "What if he tosses his cookies in my back seat?" "I'm sure he won't." "And what makes you so sure exactly?" "Well, I can't be entirely sure." "He throws up in my back seat who's gonna clean it up? You?" "Look, sir, I believe my friend is fairly well off. If you agree to take us just as far as Sullivan Street, I'm sure he'll make it worth your while." "What's on Sullivan Street anyway?" "His house, he lives in a house at the corner of Bleecker and Sullivan." "One of them big houses?" "Yes, I think so." "You think so?" "I've never been there. I only met him a couple of hours ago." "Sounds a little fishy to me." "Please, sir, he could freeze to death out here." "Ten bucks." "What?"  "Ten bucks, flat fee." "Ten dollars to go eight blocks?" "Take it or leave it, pal. I ain't got all night." "Yes, but –" "Ten bucks, up front. Fork it over and I'll even help you get your pal in the cab." "I don't have ten dollars." "How much you got?" "I don't know, a couple dollars maybe, some change." "You say your buddy's well off, lives in one of them big houses." "Yes." "So get a sawbuck offa him, then I'll give yez a ride. Also you don't even got to tip me." "Wow, thanks." "Don't be sourcastic with me, mac. You talk like that to me, I leave you here, you and your swell buddy." "I'm sorry," said Harry. "Look, please, help me get him into the cab, and I'm sure he'll gladly give you ten dollars." "He'll give it to me all right," said the driver. "I don't know how glad he'll be about it." "Please, sir." "Awright, awright," said the driver. "Jesus H. Crackers. Now get away from the door so's I can open it." "Thank you, sir," said Harry, and he backed away from the door. The cab driver opened the door and disembarked. He was short and squat, wearing a leather jacket with a fur collar. He still had the cigar in his mouth.  "Awright," he said, "let's get this so-called friend of yours." He shut the door, and then he looked up at Harry and pointed his leather-encased stubby finger at him. "But know this. Your buddy throws up on my back seat the price goes up." "Okay," said Harry. "Fine." "Double sawbuck." "What?" said Harry. "You hard of hearing? I said double sawbuck. Twenty simoleons, U.S. currency." "Great," said Harry. "Now please, sir." "Let's go," said the driver. He turned and slogged through the snow around the front of the cab, and Harry followed him to the corner. Livingston still lay face down in the snowbank, and his small but fat body had already been covered almost completely with snow, with just a few patches of his red-and-black checked mackinaw and matching cap visible in the dim light of a streetlamp. "If he's dead the deal is off," said the driver. "I drive a hack, not a hearse." "I doubt he's dead," said Harry. "Make sure," said the driver. "Turn him over." "Can you help me?" "I ain't touching him if he's dead. You turn him over." Harry squatted down, put his cold hands on Livingston's upper arm and shoulder, and after only forty-five seconds and several heaves and pushes, managed to turn him over onto his back. Livingston's face was wet and mottled with crystals of snow, but his eyes opened. "Oh, hello, Harry," he said. "Livingston," said Harry. "Get up. I've got us a cab." "A cab?" "Yes, see? There's the driver." Harry gestured with his thumb at the driver who stood behind him. "Splendid," said Livingston.  "But you have to get up," said Harry. "I'm actually very comfortable here," said Livingston. "It's so soft, and I love the snowflakes falling down into my face and my eyes. I feel as if I could lie here forever, one with God and all the universe. I feel as if I have achieved what the orientals call satori." "This guy is nuts," said the driver. "You take the cab, Harry, my friend," said Livingston. "I shall just lie here, and let myself be covered up and be subsumed by the falling snowflakes. I have no regrets. No, none worth speaking of." "Look," said Harry, "let's get you on your feet." "Really, old man, no need," said Livingston. "You take the cab. Take it straight up Bleecker to the San Remo Café. An establishment in which I have passed untold happy hours. Go inside and stride manfully up to the bar, and, yes, order not one bock but two. One for you, and one for me. And drink both of them. In my memory." Livingston half-closed his eyes against the falling snow, a slight smile on his face, and Harry turned to look up at the cabby. "Look, sir, you get one arm, and I'll get the other, and we'll pull him up." "I'm quite happy here," said Livingston. "He says he's happy here," said the driver. "Yes, but we can't leave him here," said Harry. "He'll freeze to death." "Sounds to me like he don't mind freezing to death." "Look," said Harry, "if we leave him here to freeze you won't get your ten dollars." "You got a point," said the driver, and he plodded through the drift to the other side of Livingston. "Okay, here's what we do, I take one arm, and you take t'other, and we pull him up." "Yes, good idea," said Harry, but his sarcasm apparently was lost on the man. Not more than five minutes later, they managed to get Livingston into the back of the cab, where he immediately slumped over on his side and fell asleep. The driver went around the cab, opened the door and got in behind the wheel. He turned around, taking his cigar out of his mouth, and slid open the wired-glass divider window. "Ten bucks," he said. "Oh, yes, sorry," said Harry. Livingston was out cold, so there was nothing for Harry to do but to go through his friend's pockets until he found his wallet, and when he found it – a handsome brown leather wallet embossed with the cursive initials LPL – it was filled with cash, well over two hundred dollars in twenties, tens, fives, and singles. In fact it was more money than Harry had ever seen at one time in his life. He extricated a ten, and, although he was tempted, that was all he took. "Here you are, sir," he said, handing the bill through the opening in the glass. "Remember," said the driver, "he throws up, that's another ten." "Yes, sir," said Harry, "I remember." The driver closed the partition window, and Harry took one last look at the contents of the wallet, then replaced it into Livingston's back pocket. The cab moaned heavily and then jolted as the driver pulled the gear shift, and off they went, the taxi's motor grumbling and the chains on its tires crunching slowly through the snow, the wipers on the windshield moving grudgingly up and down, smearing the glass with the snowflakes that dropped heavily out of the black sky above, and all that Harry could see through the thick smoke of the driver's cigar and beyond the headlights of the cab were the vague dark shapes of buildings and the pale glowing blotches of windows, behind which, presumably, human beings lived in warmth and safety. Where the hell was he going, and what was he doing? Why had he not remained in the warm smoky confines of Bob's Bowery Bar? He turned and looked at Livingston, slumped in the shadows against the door and sleeping, snoring gently, like a large fat baby, oblivious, and perhaps even happy.