character and name. He had just arrived, and the previous occupier of the table had left a copy of The New York Times lying open on the table. Suddenly Court seemed to stiffen, or so the story goes, stiffen as though he had been shot. And just as suddenly one hand crumpled the top few sheets of the paper, and the rest of him collapsed. He let his head rest on the table and he cried. Long, uncontrolled sobs from deep within; the tears of agony unrequited. That was the only sound in the quiet bar, and it seemed to go on forever.
No one stopped him, no one tried to interfere with the drunk's private hell. At last he lurched to his feet and stumbled out into the miserable night as though trying to escape from a horrible nightmare. But none of them there or any of the others that were told afterwards ever found out what motivated the scene. All they can tell you is that the wrinkled newspaper pages were carefully smoothed out, and the bartender and the customers looked over the top pages to see if the answer could be found.
The pages were the beginning of the social news. There was a half-page spread about a debutante's impending marriage, and an account on the balance of the two open sheets of a very large, very posh benefit party given by one Mark Marlowe at his Dartmoor ancestral mansion. The benefit was for a foundation interested in studying the close ties between man and other mammals, something to do with heredity and evolution, though the men who read the account in that bar were none too clear on the details.
And there was a picture, of course, showing some of the guests. The picture had taken the brunt of Neal Court's viscous fist, but it was still clear enough to see that in the foreground was a very lovely blonde woman regally clothed and being escorted by the host, Lord Marlowe. Her arm was linked with the Lord's and her other hand held a gold chain leash. The leash was attached to a young, virile looking ape the paper reported a pet which the young woman, Mrs. Sharon Court, had raised since birth and was seen very often with in the social swirl of upper-crust London.
The men all admired the woman, for she was quite a dish, as they said, and old Marlowe was damned lucky to latch onto such a find. They never connected the lady with their fellow drinking bum, never suspected he had ever been to England.
For Neal Court never gave his name. Not to anybody; he was and still is too wretched of soul to even allow that gesture.
