income tax Inspectors were also in evidence in the area but refused Inspectors comment.
"Waiter."
"Yeah, mister."
"Another lime juice and one more baclawa."
Big trucks rumbling up and down the avenue. Passing shadows of public people by the half curtained window. High up over the entrances to the piers, ship's funnels poking. Bottles of soda pop and cardboard images of frolicsome girls, mouths full of teeth ready to be refreshed. Shoulders just like Sally Tomson's. As they were in my arms, so neat and smooth under her hair. Please see me in my recent romantic antic. Generously scattering a drop of my fortune on an early morning sea breeze. Should have jumped after it. Grabber at life's banquet follows a fortune to doom. As folk fleece and fisticuff in street.
"Waiter. Check."
George Smith at the counter. Reaching and digging in his pockets. Back ones, front, the waist coat. Empty wallet. I am without funds. Just two coins the person gave me at the fountain. My God. And these are not enough. When I could have bought the whole street last night.
"Look."
"Yeah, mister."
"I'm sorry, but it seems I'm a little short."
"Yeah."
"I can pay for one baclawa, and one lime juice."
"You had two baclawas, and two lime juice."
"I can only pay for one."
"Cash. Guys been coming in here all day trying to pass torn bills."
"I understand."
"Hey, Lucifer, come out here a second."
Two swarthy persons viewing Smith with his little box tucked under the arm. A couple of whispers. Lips dry under the lip mask. Umbrella flapping at his side.
"O.K. bud. We have fifteen cans of garbage back there, need to go on street."
Lucifer lifting up the flap of the counter. Smith following with umbrella, parcel, into a back steamy interior. On chopping boards, mounds of sliced onions, carrots split in four, and potatoes ready for hot fat. Don't fight it. Go with it. Till there's a chance to go elsewhere.
Through a door into an alley. Smith apostate, darkly noble, nostrils flared to the sweet reek. Lucifer jerking thumb towards a green shed. Up the dim narrow alley the light of the street. Distantly above, a square patch of sky. Under which I work for the first time. In foot-poundals. To lift with a hand. The satisfaction deep. The rewards are small. The smell overpowering. Taste brandy in the sweat dripping down my nose.
Lucifer standing watching. George Smith staring stiffly back. Driving him into the kitchen door with aloof chill distaste. Adjusting his lip mask. Kneeling to retie tightly each shoe. To look like one is making ready to work, instead of run.
Smith wafting his hanky, taking a scent of attar of roses up the nostrils. Wheeling out a barrel of banana skins. Raising a foot up. A push. Leave a little skating rink behind.
Smith spun around the corner. Briefly looking over a shoulder at the two hefty proprietors standing shirt sleeved in the street. After a struggle up a slippery alley. Sorry gentlemen, must rush to a board meeting. With my gavel, crystal pitcher of water and newly sharpened pencils. To announce a regrettable deficit. And avoid a woeful winding up.
Smith sitting heart thumping on a bench in the wide open space of the park. A little boy with a jumping toy on a string. Mother rocking a baby carriage ten feet away. To take him by the hand. Too near the strange man. True madam.
Room to look out. Across the harbor. Grey water chopped up by ferry and barge. Over there stands a little round fort I could use. After free refreshment. Lose one's self for a moment in fancy figments and land arse first in reality. Miss Martin mounting a machine gun in Dynamo, In the cabin in the woods, nature tells you go ahead put it in. Rest it there in softness. Off it went like a cannon. Didn't mean to pull the trigger. Bonniface in the morning paper, me in the afternoon. Both of us in a noose. Miss Martin please don't tell your mother.
Here on this little bench. You left me wretched, Sally Tomson. You left me sad. Last night on Her Majesty's balcony couldn't you see me wave. In the light breeze weeping. Her Majesty sleeping. Laughed lightly letting treasury notes slip out from fingers. Down over the city, separating away in the dark. Fell so silently. Without pomp in the crazy circumstance. I thought let urine be followed by gold.
Just
For
A
Change.
20
ON the corner of Eagle Street near the river, this chilly autumnal evening, Smith leaning back against a dead wall,