nothing better to do he went out for a walk. He headed for the center of town and went into the lobby of the Mayflower to buy a package of cigarettes and to look around at a place that, for all its intended elegance, only reminded him of the vastness of his native land. Moses loved the lobby of the Mayflower. A convention was meeting and red-necked and self-respecting men from country towns were gathering in the lobby. Listening to them talk made him feel closer to St. Botolphs. Then he left the Mayflower and walked deeper into the city, and hearing music and being on a fool’s errand he stepped into a place called the Marine Room and looked around. There were a band and dance floor and a girl singing. Sitting alone at a table was a blonde woman who seemed pretty at that distance and who looked as if she didn’t work for the government. Moses took the table beside her and ordered a whisky. She did not see him at first because she was looking at herself in a mirror on the wall. She was turning her head, first one way and then another, raising her chin and taking the tips of her fingers and pushing her face into the firm lines that it must have had five or six years ago. When she had finished examining herself Moses asked if he could join her and buy her a drink. She was friendly—a little flurried—but pleased. “Well, it would be very nice to have your company,” she said, “but the only reason I’m here is because Chucky Ewing, the band leader, is my husband and when I don’t have anything better to do I just come down here and kill time.” Moses joined her and bought her a drink and after a few farewell looks at herself in the minor she began to talk about her past. “I used to vocalize with the band myself,” she said, “but most of my training is operatic. I’ve sung in night clubs all over the world. Paris. London. New York …” She spoke, not with a lisp, but with an articulation that seemed childish. Her hair was pretty and her skin was white but this was mostly powder. Moses guessed that it would have been five or six years since she could be called beautiful but since she seemed determined to cling to what she had been he was ready to string along. “Of course, I’m really not a professional entertainer,” she went on. “I went to finishing school and my family nearly died when I started entertaining. They’re very stuffy. Old family and all that sort of thing. Cliff dwellers.” Then the band broke and her husband joined them and was introduced to Moses and sat down.
“What’s the score, honey?” he asked his wife.
“There’s a table in the corner drinking champagne,” she said, “and the six gentlemen by the bandstand are drinking rye and water. They’ve each had four. There’re two tables of Scotch and five tables of bourbon and some beer drinkers over on the other side of the bandstand.” She counted the tables off on her fingers, still speaking in a very dainty voice. “Don’t worry,” she told her husband. “You’ll gross three hundred.”
“Where’s the convention?” he said. “There’s a convention.”
“I know,” she said. “Sheets and pillowcases. Don’t worry.”
“You got any hot garbage?” he asked a waiter who had come over to their table.
“Yes sir, yes sir,” the waiter said. “I’ve got some delicious hot garbage. I can give you coffee grounds with a little sausage grease or how about some nice lemon rinds and sawdust?”
“That sounds good,” the band leader said. “Make it lemon rinds and sawdust.” He had seemed anxious and unhappy when he came to the table but this leg-pulling with the waiter cheered him up. “You got any dishwater?” he asked.
“We got all kinds of dishwater,” the waiter said. “We got greasy dishwater and we got dishwater with stuff floating around in it and we got moth balls and wet newspaper.”
“Well, give me a little wet newspaper with my sawdust,” the band leader said, “and a glass of greasy dishwater.” Then he turned to his wife. “You going home?”
“I believe that I will,” she said daintily.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “If the convention shows I’ll be late. Nice to have met you.” He nodded to Moses and went back to the bandstand, where