Goldy Simpson!--proprietor of the “Alhambra of Mystic marvels and
Persian Beauty Show” that had a large and gaudy entrance on one of the
Island’s “avenues” and an inconspicuous exit on a neighboring walk.
Its promises of entertainment were as lavish as the paint on its front
canvas, and its fulfilment of them as shabby as the bleached pine of
its back door. Its whole staff, in fact, was employed in drawing the
public past its ticket office. Once inside the booth, you found nothing
but three scrawny “Persian Beauties” posed on a curtained stage; the
eloquent Simpson rose to make more promises of what was to be seen,
for another payment, still further in, where the police could not
interfere; and the “boosters” led those who paid, down a dark passage,
to the exit--and laughed at them in the street.
It was to this cave of robbers that “Shine” was led--led by the promise
that if he assisted the “show” for the afternoon, he would be paid off
at night with 25 cents for car fare, a pair of old shoes, a cap and
a coat in which to return to town. He had to accept the offer; there
was nothing else to be done; and he was in no condition to think of
anything else even if there had been anything.
They dressed him to represent a Hindoo snake-charmer, in a white
cotton undershirt, baggy chintz trousers, Turkish bath-slippers and
a turban made of several twisted towels. Still half-stupefied by
Doherty’s “knockout drops,” he was shoved out on a platform before the
“Alhambra,” heard muffled voices around him, saw upturned faces below
him in a sort of crowded nightmare, and went out into the sunlight
and came back into the dark, without understanding the orders he
obeyed--dazed and sullen, and all the time groping in the uproar of a
drugged brain for a thought that moved somewhere in the obscurity every
time Doherty’s face flashed across his memory.
He could not recall what had happened. He knew that he had been with
Doherty--but that was all.
When the costumed staff of the “Alhambra” sat down, inside the booth,
to a supper that had been brought in from a neighboring New England
kitchen--to save the necessity of changing clothes and going out to an
eating house--“Shine” found himself with Simpson, Simpson’s wife, who
was the cashier of the ticket office, a boy called “Butts,” who turned
the crank of the mechanical piano, and three flaxen-wigged “Queens of
the Harem” wrapped in faded dressing robes. Frankfurters, sandwiches
and beer had been laid out like a picnic on a trestle-table of rough
boards. In the dim light that filtered through a dirty skylight
overhead, the powdered shoulders of the women were wanly white and
their unpowdered hands were _not_. “Shine” sat humped over his food,
unable to eat.
Several times he looked up with a momentary blink of intelligence,
and then frowned about him in a helpless return of his stupor, his
head aching as if it would split. He put his hand to his forehead and
cleared his throat. He asked, in a husky and uncertain voice: “Where’s
... Doherty?”
Simpson was enjoying the situation. “I guess he’s blowed. I ain’t seen
him since mornin’.”
“What’d he tell yuh?”
“He said yuh was over at Timmin’s lookin’ fer a job.”
“Shine” looked up under his eyebrows with a bloodshot glower. “He
sloughed me fer ev’rythin’ I had on me.”
“I guess you’re right,” Simpson said. “He looked like he had.”
“Shine” put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his
hands. Simpson winked at his wife. The Queens of the Harem smiled
appreciatively, but with care--on account of their “makeup.”
After a long silence, “Shine” said weakly, “I got to get back to the
boat, I’m off without leave. Gi’ me a pair o’ boots an’ le’ me go.”
“Sure thing,” Simpson promised. “There’s a fullah promised he’d be here
t’night. I’ll let yuh go as soon ’s he comes.”
“I got to go now.”
“Long way to walk--in bare hoofs, too. Better work out yer contrac’.”
“Shine” tried to focus a wavering eye on him. “Yuh’re in this with
Doherty,” he said. “Yuh damn double-crosser. Yuh dirty back-capper!”
Simpson replied, with meaning, “D’ yuh mind the time yuh handed me over
to Pikey Moffat? Think about it.” He got up from the table. “Think
about it,” he said as he went out.
His wife brushed the crumbs from the lap of her flowered satin evening
gown, and followed him. The beauties in the bath robes trailed off to
their dressing-room. The boy began to gather up the beer mugs.
He looked commiseratingly at “Shine.” “Wish yuh had _my_ job,” he said.
“I dreamt I was a music box las’ night, an’ they wound me up by the
arm. I got a cramp in ’t this mornin’, an’ he says he’ll dock me ten
cents fer slowin’ down to rub it.”
“Shine” did not speak.
The boy looked after the Queens of the Harem. “Wish I was a woman,” he
said, “an’ didn’t have to do nuthin’ but look picturesquew.”
He sighed. He pinched off the lighted end of his cigarette, put the
butt in his pocket, and went out, grumbling, with the beer mugs.
“Shine” remained hunched over the table, staring at nothing and slowly
gathering venom. When he went out to the platform, he was full of it,
bitter with it, almost indeed sober and clear-headed with it.