It was a mistake. Belcher said, "Not at all. O'Brien fought in the
Civil War. He was with the Thirty-seventh Georgian Rifles, I believe. A
captain. He--"
I nudged Joey so hard he yelped, but he said, "I tell you I never
received any such story!"
Then Mallison grunted and sipped his drink. He started to talk and
we missed the first few words. It's always that way with Mallison.
He's white-haired, incredibly ancient-looking, and he acts half dead.
He used to be in the navy so he writes sea stories now. They say he
acquired a peculiar disease in the tropics that makes him mumble most
of the time. He turns out a damned good yarn.
Finally we figured out Mallison was calling Joey a liar.
"Say, what is this?" Joey said indignantly. "Are you kidding?"
Mallison mumbled something about Joey stealing a story of his that
never got paid for and never showed up. Belcher nodded and poured wine
from a bottle. He always drinks a cheap kind of stuff with the greatest
ostentation. He acts as though it makes you more important if your
drink comes out of a bottle instead of from a glass on a tray.
He said, "I'll bet some mag paid two cents for it, Joey, and you're
holding out."
Joey snorted. "You better look in your desk, Belcher. You probably
forgot to give me the yarn."
Belcher shook his head. "I know I haven't got it. I can't think how I
lost it--"
* * * * *
He broke off and glanced up at some people who were threading through
the restaurant toward our table. There came a man followed by a couple.
The lone man I knew, although I never remember his name. He's a quiet
little fellow who smokes what looks like his father's pipe. Joey says
he's past forty and still lives with his folks, who treat him like a
child.
One of the pair was Jinx MacDougal. He turns out a fantastic quantity
of detective fiction. None of his yarns are outstanding; in fact
they're all on a consistent pulp level. That happens to be why he sells
so much. Editors can always depend on Jinx never to fail them.
Jinx had a stranger with him. He was a tall, slender young man with
scanty, tow-colored hair. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look
blurry and he was dressed in a sweater and ridiculously tight little
knickers. He smiled shyly, and I could swear his teeth were false, they
were so even.
I said, "You've got a helluva nerve, Jinx, if this guy's an editor."
And I really meant it. Editors are taboo at the luncheon, it being the
only chance we get to knock them in unison.
Jinx said, "Hi, everybody! This here's a white man that'll interest
you. Name of Dugan. Found him up in one of the publishing offices
trying to locate the pulp slaves. Says he's got a story."