Reggie smiled--a toothy, vacant, comedy-relief smile. "Fine. The Good
Book says a little wine is good for a man, or something like that. I
don't remember exactly."
Of course he didn't, Infield knew. Why should he? It was useless to
learn his Bible lessons to save his father, because it was obvious his
father was dead. He would never succeed because there was no reason to
succeed. But he had to try, didn't he, for his father's sake? He didn't
hate his father for making him study. He didn't want him to die. He had
to prove that.
Infield sighed. At least this device kept the man on his feet, doing
some kind of useful work instead of rotting in a padded cell with a
probably imaginary Bible. A man could cut his wrists with the edge of a
sheet of paper if he tried long enough, so of course the Bible would be
imaginary.
"But, Georgie," the waiter complained, "you know you won't drink it.
You ask me to bring you drinks and then you just look at them. Boy, do
you look funny when you're looking at drinks. Honest, Georgie, I want
to laugh when I think of the way you look at a glass with a drink in
it." He did laugh.
Price fumbled with the cigarette stub in the black iron ashtray,
examining it with the skill of scientific observation. "Mr. Infield is
buying me the drink and that makes it different."
Reggie went away. Price kept dissecting the tobacco and paper. Infield
cleared his throat and again reminded himself against such obvious
affectations. "You were telling me about some organization of the
Cured," he said as a reminder.
* * * * *
Price looked up, no longer interested in the relic of a cigarette. He
was suddenly intensely interested and intensely observant of the rest
of the cafe. "Was I? I was? Well, suppose you tell me something. What
do you really think of the Incompletes?"