something fine. I feel sick, sick as a dog. I feel sick and I would like to shoot my lunch and I would like indeed to shoot my lunch but I will be damned if I want to move out of this bed, and if you don t stop being nasty to servants I said r. I said a word with r in it, and that makes me stop this silly business. I wonder why? I wonder why r? Oh, I guess I better get up. There s nothing to be gained by lying here in bed and feeling sorry for myself. It s nothing new or interesting or novel or rare or anything. I m just a girl who just feels like dying because the man I love has done me wrong. I m not even suffering any more. I m not even feeling anything. At least I don t think I am. No, I m not. I m not feeling anything. I m just a girl named Caroline Walker, Caroline Walker English, Caroline W. English, Mrs. Walker English. That s all I am. Thirty-one years old. White. Born. Height. Weight. Born? Yes. I always think that s funny and I always will. I m sorry, Julian, but I just happen to think it s funny and you used to think so too, back in the old days when I knew you in an Eton collar and a Windsor tie, and I loved you then, I loved you then, I love you now, I love you now, I ll always love you to the day I die and I guess this is what they call going to pieces. I guess I ve gone to pieces, because there s nothing left of me. There s nothing left for me of days that used to be I live in mem-o-ree among my souvenirs. And so what you did, what you did was take a knife and cut me open from my throat down to here, and then you opened the door and let in a blast of freezing cold air, right where you had cut me open, and till the day you die I hope you never, never know what it feels like to have someone cut you open all the way down the front of you and let the freezing blast of air inside you. I hope you never know what that means and I know you won t, my darling that I love, because nothing bad will happen to you. Oh, lovely Callie, your coat is so warm, the sheep s in the meadow, the cows in the corn. No, I don t think I ll get up for a while, Mrs. Grady.
It was inevitable that every time Al Grecco went to the garage in which Ed Charney kept his private cars, be should think of a photograph one of the boys from the west had shown around. Probably a great many men and the women of those men in Al Grecco s line of work had the same thought, inspired by the same photograph (there were thousands of copies of the photograph), whenever they looked inside an especially dismal garage. The photograph showed a group of men, all dead, but with that somehow live appearance which pictures of the disfigured dead give. The men were the victims of the St. Valentine s Day massacre in Chicago, when seven men were given the Mexican stand-off against the inside wall of a gang garage. It d be a nice wall for it, Al said, as he opened the garage door. He went upstairs and lugged a case of champagne down the steps. Then he went up again and lugged a case of Scotch down, and then he lifted them into a dull black Hudson coach, which was used for deliveries. He backed the car out into the street, Railroad Avenue, and then got out and slid the garage doors shut. He took one more look at that blank wall before he finally closed the door. Yes. It sure would be a nice wall for it, he said. No man could call him what Ed Charney had called him and get away with it. Not even Ed Charney. He thought of his mother, with the little gold earrings. Why, he could remember when she didn’t own a hat. She would even go to Mass on Sunday with that scarf over her head. Often in the far past he had told her she was too damn lazy to learn English, but now, thinking of her, he thought of her as a good little woman who had had too much work to learn much English. She was a wonderful woman, and she was his mother, and if Ed Charney called him a son of a bitch, all right; if he called him a bastard, all right. Those were just names that you called a guy when you wanted to make him mad, or when you were mad at him. Those names didn’t mean anything anyhow, because, Al