"Putting Down the Moro"

 

 

One of the big double doors opened and a little old man in an old-fashioned black suit was there.

"Oh," he said. "Mr. Lovechild. Out in this inclement weather."

"Well, you know me, Stokes," said Livingston. "It'll take a lot more than a raging blizzard to stay me from my appointed rounds."

"Ha ha, yes, sir, and I see you have brought a friend."

"I have indeed," said Livingston. "Stokes, I would like you to meet Mr. Beachcroft."

"I am very pleased to meet you, sir," said the old man to Harry.

"I, um, am pleased to meet you, Mr., uh, Stokes," said Harry.

"Just Stokes, sir," said the little old man. "It is not my place to be addressed by the honorific 'mister'."

"Okay, uh, 'Stokes'," said Harry.

"But do come in, gentlemen," said the old man called Stokes, stepping to one side. "You must be perishing from the cold."

"Thanks, Stokes," said Livingston, and he waved Harry on to go first.

Stokes closed the door behind them, and they were standing in a gloomy marble foyer, with a cracked vase full of umbrellas, and hooks on the walls with coats and hats.

"May I take your outer garments and headgear, gentlemen?" said Stokes.

"Don't bother, Stokes," said Livingston, removing his mittens. "We're just going to have a quick one at the bar and then we'll be on our way."

"Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen," said Stokes.

"Oh, I'm sure we shall, Stokes," said Livingston, and with his mittens he brushed some snow off the sleeves of his mackinaw. "Come on, Harry, stick with me."

They left the old man behind, and Livingston led Harry out of the foyer, down a short dim hallway decorated with paintings gloomy with age and into a great room thick with tobacco smoke and warmth and the smells of whiskey and gin and burning wood from a roaring fireplace. The room was furnished with comfortable looking plush chairs and sofas and in them sat old men who looked up to see who had come in and then looked away again.

"This is the lounge," said Livingston, "but let's just head right on into the bar."

"Okay," said Harry.

They forged through the large room filled with old men and smoke, Livingston nodding and saying hello to some of these senior citizens.

One of the old men said, or croaked, "Young Lovechild, how is your old man? Haven't seen him lately."

"Dead, I'm afraid, General Poormouth {at least that's what it sounded like to Harry}, for, lo, these past dozen years or so."

"Dead you say?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, General."

"I hope he died peacefully."

"Keeled over from a massive cardiac infarction while hunting grouse out on the island," said Livingston. "I doubt he even knew what hit him, and both hammers of his beloved old Purdey gun were still cocked when they found him."

"Then he went the way he should have preferred, I daresay," said the old man called General something.

"Very much so," said Livingston.

"And who is your companion?"

"This is Mr. Harry Beachcroft," said Livingston. "The famous author."

"Harold Peachcough?" said the general.

"Beachcroft," said Livingston. "Harry Beachcroft, sir."

"Excuse me for not rising, Mr. Peachcraft" said the general. "It's my artharitis. Exacerbated by a spear wound in the groin from my time in the Philippines, putting down the Moro."

"That's quite all right, sir," said Harry. "Please don't get up."

"What books have you written? Anything I might have heard of?"

"Well, uh," said Harry.

"Did you ever read The Black Dwarf, by Sir Walter Scott?"

"Well, I've been meaning to get to that one," said Harry.

"What about some of these more recent books, like Daniel Deronda I think it is, by George Eliot?"

"That one is definitely on my reading list," said Harry.

"But you know who's a good author?" said the general.

"Who?" said Harry.

"Arthur Conan Doyle."

"Him I've read," said Harry.

"That man wrote like a motherfucker," said the general. "Pardon my barracks-room language but it's true. You should read his Sherlock Holmes stories."

"I, um," said Harry.

"Always a pleasure, General," said Livingston, "but, uh –"

"Name me a book you've written," said the general to Harry.

"Um, I've written quite a few, actually," said Harry.

"What's a good one to start with?"

"Well, I have a soft spot for a novel called Gin Mill Molly. It's about this girl –"

"Named Molly who works in a gin mill?"

"Uh, yes –"

"I'll ask for it next time I visit Brentano's."

"So, if you will excuse us, general," said Livingston.

"Yes, say hello to your father for me," said the general. 

"I will do that, General," said Livingston.

"He's a good man."

"That he is, sir."

"I knew your grandfather, too. Joe Lovechild. There was a man. Built his factory from scratch after his old man old Pete Lovechild had blown the family fortune on the nags and faro. But so it goes. You live a while, stomp the earth doing whatever you do, and then you die in the end. May I give you young pups some advice."

"Please do, General," said Livingston.

"Fuck a lot. Drink a lot. Eat a lot. Stay up all night gambling. If you see an ass, kick it. If any man insults you, slap his face. Grab life by the balls, before it grabs yours. And get all the sleep you can."

"We will try to do all that, General," said Livingston.

"Someday, if you don't croak first, you will wind up like me, sitting in a chair in this club, left only with your memories. So make sure you've got some good ones."

"We will, General," said Livingston.

"And you, Mr. Peachums," said the general to Harry. "You are a writer. So write well, as if your very life depended on it. Don't write arrant shit. Try to write as well as Arthur Conan Doyle if you can manage it."

"I will try, sir," said Harry.

"Won't you gentlemen sit and have a drink with me? On my tab, of course."

"We would, General," said Livingston, "but we're supposed to meet some people at the bar."

"Oh, of course. Fellow young scamps like yourselves I'll warrant. And, when you're sufficiently oiled, probably heading off en masse to some merry bawdy house."

"One never knows," said Livingston.

"Best times of my life were spent in bawdy houses. Now Havana, there's a town had some good bawdy houses. And Manila, my word. Vera Cruz, too. Also, believe it or not, Gallup, New Mexico. Lovely place there they used to call Salt Chunk Mary's, I visited there often when I was on the border with Pershing chasing Pancho Villa over hill and dale. To no avail."

"Well, nice chatting with you, General," said Livingston.

"If it weren't for this artharitis I'd be right there with you. Of course I can't remember the last time I've had an erection, but it might be fun just to caress an alabaster thigh, and to breathe a tart's Woolworth's perfume."

"Till we meet again," said Livingston.

"Go, go," said the General. "And when you get to that bawdy house tonight I want you to do just one thing for me, Livingston."

"What's that, sir?"

"Shove it in once for me, lad. Just once."

"I will, sir," said Livingston.

"Only once. Just say, 'This one's for the old general.'"

"Right, okay," said Livingston.

"Nice meeting you, Mr. Peachbaum," said the general to Harry.

"Nice meeting you, too, sir," said Harry.

"All right," said the general. "Run along now, boys, but remember what I told you."

"We will, sir," said Livingston. "Good night now."

"You only get one life. Waste it at your peril."

"We will bear that in mind, General."

"God I wish I could go with you, but, you know."

"Your arthritis," said Livingston.

"Yes, and that spear wound. The little bastards would smear the spear heads with shit. They knew what they were doing."

"We'll see you on our way out," said Livingston.

"I'll be here," said the general. "Unless I'm in the latrine."

"Shall we go?" said Livingston, to Harry, touching his elbow.

"Yes, okay," said Harry.

Livingston pulled on Harry's arm, and they headed off.

"Livingston!" came the general's croaking thin voice, and Livingston and Harry stopped and turned. "Just once!" cried the general. "Just one stout goodly thrust. For me."

Livingston paused, then nodded.

"At least one, General!" he called. 

He pulled on Harry's arm again, and they continued across the smoky room, redolent of smoke, of whiskey and gin, and half-remembered memories of bygone wars, of bawdy houses and moist alabaster thighs.

"Old guys," said Livingston. "They never miss a chance to impart a bit of hard-earned wisdom, do they? Ah, the bar, at last."

They passed into another room, dimmer and even smokier than the one they had left, with a long bar filled with men and the babble of voices and the tinkling of glassware, and the glinting of bottles ranged on shelves and beckoning.

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

"Tosspots"

 

"Do be careful, Livingston," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"I shall try," said Livingston.

She adjusted his muffler around his neck.

"No fights," she said.

"Again, I'll try," said Livingston.

She turned to Harry.

"Please keep an eye on Livingston, Mr. Peachnut," she said.

"I, um," said Harry.

"It's Beachcroft, Mother, not Peachnut," said Livingston.

"Oh, I  beg your pardon, Mr. Peachcraft," said Mrs. Livingston. "Do those Wellingtons fit you?"

"Yes," said Harry. His old Thom McAn brogans were still drying on the hearth, and he had been supplied with these sturdy rubber boots.

"My late husband used to wear them, trolling the marshes hunting duck and pheasant with his beloved Purdey shotgun. He was a real man."

"Let's go, Harry," said Livingston.

"It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Poshworth," said Gwendolyn to Harry.

"You too, Miss Lovechild," said Harry.

"Please do come and visit us again."

"I would like that," said Harry.

"Here, old man," said Ralston to Harry, and he handed him a heavy implement covered in black leather and shaped like an elongated teardrop, with a looped thong at the narrow end.

"What's this?" said Harry.

"It's a cosh, a sap, a blackjack if you will, with a tensile stainless steel handle and a head of molded lead, the whole encased in the finest Moroccan leather. Use it if you have to."

"I really don't think," said Harry.

"Take it," said Ralston. "If you're going out on the town with Livingston, just take it. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it."

"Go ahead, chum," said Livingston, "take it. Me, I have my trusty old brass knuckles," he patted a side pocket of his mackinaw, "just in case."

"I really don't," said Harry.

"Look," said Ralston, "just put it in your pocket."

"Yes," said Gwendolyn, "put it in your pocket, Mr. Peachfast. You never know."

"Well," said Harry.

"It's just a precaution, Mr. Beachbum," said Mrs. Lovechild. 

"Well, all right," said Harry, and he slipped the blackjack into his coat pocket. "Thank you, Mr., uh, Lovechild," he said to Ralston.

"Just give it back to Livingston when you bring him home," said Ralston. "If you bring him home."

"I, uh," said Harry.

"All right, let's bust a move," said Livingston. "'Night all, and don't wait up for us."

"Oh, we shan't," said Ralston.

Livingston opened the door, letting in a powerful gust of snow and freezing wind.

"Goodbye!" said Gwendolyn.

"Um," said Harry.

"And good luck," said Ralston.

"Uh," said Harry.

"It was delightful meeting you, Mr. Peachfrost," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Uh, um," said Harry.

"Let's shake a leg, Harry," said Livingston. "We're letting the blizzard in. You first."

Harry stepped through the doorway and Livingston followed him, closing the door behind them. Even up here in the entranceway the snow was drifted almost to the tops of Harry's boots, and the hillock of snow sloped smoothly down to the sidewalk.

"The steps are somewhere under this nonsense, so mind how you go," shouted Livingston over the howling wind. "Grab hold of the railing and slow and easy does it."

They managed to get down to the sidewalk without falling, and now the snow was above Harry's knees.

"Livingston," he shouted, "if you don't mind my saying so, on second thought, I think it's insane to go out in this blizzard. I think I'll just try to make my way home. It's not really that far."

"Balderdash," said Livingston. "Don't crap out on me now, Harry. We have not even started to have fun."

"Well –" 

"Let's go, first stop is just right up the street."

"First stop?"

"Yes, only the first. But, God willing, it won't be the last."

Livingston put his arm in Harry's and pulled, and Harry allowed himself to be pulled, holding his hat down on his head with his free hand. Fortunately the woolen mittens he had borrowed were thick and warm, almost like small boxing gloves.

They trudged on, slowly and awkwardly, arm in arm through the drifted snow, through the thick snow falling and blowing all around them.

What am I doing? thought Harry. Where is my willpower? Am I not a grown man? A professional author? Why do I let myself be led about by this madman? All I want is to be back on my barstool at Bob's, drinking my bock until it is time to stagger out and go around the corner to my tiny apartment and to bed. Why is this asking too much?

"What are you thinking about, old man?" Livingston shouted into Harry's ear.

"Oh," said Harry, shouting back over the howling blizzard, "I was just thinking how, uh, bracing it is to walk in the snow."

"Yes, I suppose it is," yelled Livingston, "but, you know, a little of it goes a long way. Fortunately, we have reached our first rest stop and refueling station."

"Really?"

"Yes, right here," said Livingston, and he pointed to a plaque under a stone lion next to the front steps of a large old brick house.

The plaque was crusted with snow, but its engraved legend was still somewhat visible.

The Noble Society

 of

 Convivial Tosspots

est. 1832

"That's the official name," said Livingston, "but everybody just calls it the Tosspot Club. Members only of course, but don't worry, you're with me. Come on, pal, you're gonna dig this joint the most."

What could Harry do? But then it occurred to him that all of this evening could be written off as research, for stories and novels not yet written. What did he have to lose? Except for possibly his life?

"All right," said Harry. "Let's do it."

The stoop of the house had apparently been shoveled sometime this day, and so the snow was only about a foot deep on the steps. Harry and Livingston ascended to the entrance area successfully. There were two tall and elaborately carved double doors, on one of them a brass knocker shaped like a man's grotesque grinning rictus, and Livingston took hold of it and knocked, stoutly, five times.

"Now we wait," he said. "But ne t'en fais pas, it'll be worth it."

Harry hoped it wouldn't be too long of a wait. 

He shoved his mittened hands into his coat pockets, and in the right pocket he felt the hard heavy sturdiness of Ralston's cosh. 

Would he need it? 

And if he needed it, would he have the courage to use it? 

Or would he instead turn and run? 

Either way, mutatis mutandis, it could be good material for a story. 

If he lived to write it.

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}