I got to my feet, too--not by leaping, and stood in front of him.
"You'll grab no cab, Paul. Sit down--or shall I sit you down?"
"Go on--" he said. "Tell me, then."
"Marcia is up at Hattie's--working."
He looked at me dementedly and snatched the phone.
"You won't get them to put her on," I said. "She doesn't want to talk
to you."
"I'm calling the cops," he answered. "I'll bust that joint wide open
and get her out, if it's the last thing--!"
I hung up his telephone by reaching out with my foot. "Listen, Paulo.
Listen good, once. You've made a lot of mistakes. Some, you admit.
Some, you haven't caught on to--in spite of the infallible, scientific
mind. And others--you haven't the empirical data to guess."
"For the love of God, say what you're going to say!"
"Marcia is a whore. Was, is, and always will be. Sit still. I am
giving you the advantage of a certain amount of background. And I am
not the kind of guy who says that a girl who sells her body always
sells her soul. You know it! The trouble with you isn't Marcia--it's
neurotic stubbornness. Trying with all your might to make a cheesy
setup turn beautiful. Chopping yourself down at the knees. Then--when
you're on your knees--chopping off the stump where your manhood ought
to be. And so on up--through the guts and the heart. All that's left
is a crazed beezer. I had a long talk with your Marcia yesterday. If
you'll try to stay in one piece, I'll tell you about it, in a sec.
But--meanwhile--somebody ought to brief you on the fact that there may
be only one kind of love in the folklore of the U.S.A.--but there are
five thousand kinds in people. Marcia had a kind for you that didn't
match your sentiments for her. Look at it that way."
Then I told him about my séance with his lambent, incorrigible girl
friend.
He did listen.