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“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rinaldo Cantabile. “What game?”

“You can’t remember? We were playing at George Swiebel’s apartment.”

“Since when do you book guys play poker?” said Mike Schneiderman.

“Why? We have our human side. Poker has always been played at the White House. Perfectly respectable. President Harding played. Also during the New Deal. Morgenthau, Roosevelt, and so on.”

“You sound like a West Side Chicago boy,” said Bill.

“Chopin School, Rice and Western,” I said.

“Well, put away your dough, Charlie,” said Cantabile. “This is drink time. No business. Pay me later.”

“Why not now, while I think of it and have the bills out? You know the whole thing slipped my mind, and last night I woke up with a start thinking, ‘I forgot to pay Rinaldo his dough.’ Christ, I could have blown my brains out.”

Cantabile said violently, “Okay, okay, Charlie!” He snatched the money from me and crammed it without counting into his breast pocket. He gave me a look of high irritation, a flaming look. What for? I could not imagine why. What I did know was that Mike Schneiderman had power to put you in the paper and if you were in the paper you hadn’t lived in vain. You were not just a two-legged creature, seen for a brief hour on Clark Street, sullying eternity with nasty doings and thoughts. You were—

“What’cha doing these days, Charlie,” said Mike Schneider-man. “Another play maybe? A movie? You know,” he said to Bill, “Charlie’s a real famous guy. They made a terrific flick out of his Broadway hit. He’s written a whole lot of stuff.”

“I had my moment of glory on Broadway,” I said. “I could never repeat it, so why try?”

“Now I remember. Somebody said you were going to publish some kind of highbrow magazine. When is it coming out? I’ll give you a plug.”

But Cantabile glared and said, “We’ve got to go.”

“I’ll be glad to phone when I have an item for you. It would be helpful,” I said with a meaning glance toward Cantabile.

But he had already gone. I followed him and in the elevator he said, “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“I can’t think what I did wrong.”

“You said you wanted to blow your brains out, and you know damn well, you creep, that Mike Schneiderman’s brother-in-law blew his brains out two months ago.”

“No!”

“You must have read it in the paper—that whole noise about the phony bonds, the counterfeit bonds he gave for collateral.”

“Oh, that one, you mean Goldhammer, the fellow who printed up his own certificates, the forger!”

“You knew it, don’t pretend,” said Cantabile. “You did it on purpose, to louse me up, to wreck my plan.”

“I didn’t, I swear I didn’t. Blowing my brains out? That’s a commonplace expression.”

“Not in a case like this. You knew,” he said violently, “you knew. You knew his brother-in-law killed himself.”

“I didn’t make the connection. It must have been a Freudian slip. Absolutely unintentional.”

“You always pretend you never know what you’re doing. I suppose you didn’t know who that big-nosed fellow was.”

“Bill?”

“Yes! Bill! Bill is Bill Lakin, the banker who was indicted with Goldhammer. He took the forged bonds as security.”

“Why should he be indicted for that? Goldhammer put them over on him.”

“Because, you bird-brain, don’t you understand what you read in the news? He bought Lekatride from Goldhammer for a buck a share when it was worth six dollars. Haven’t you heard of Kerner either? All these grand juries, all these trials? But you don’t care about the things that other people knock themselves out over. You have contempt. You’re arrogant, Citrine. You despise us.”

“Who’s us?”

“Us! People of the world . . .” said Cantabile. He spoke wildly. It was no time for argument. I was to respect and to fear him. It would be provoking if he didn’t think I feared him. I didn’t think that he would shoot me but a beating was surely possible, perhaps even a broken leg. As we left the Playboy Club he thrust the money again into my hand.

“Do we have to do this over?” I said. He explained nothing. He stood with