literally embodies death. It would also yield an earth-bound spirit—an incubus dedicated to reproducing that particular form of death.
I took a Nembutal and finally slept.
Someone was murdered in this room a long time ago. How long ago ... the empty safe .. the bloody pipe threader? His partner must have done it. They never caught him. Easy to disappear in those days, when a silver dollar bought a good meal and piece of ass. Smell of dust and old fear in the room. Someone is at the back door. Quien es? The hall is dark.
It's Marty come to call ... gaslight now on the yellow pock-marked face, the cold gray eyes, the brilliantined black hair, the coat with fur trimming at the collar, the purple waistcoat beneath....
'We had a hard time finding you.' His drunken driver there can hardly stand up. 'Wore himself out getting here, he did.'
'He made a few stops along the way.'
'Come along to the Metropole and have some bubbly. It's my treat.'
Now Broadway's full of guys who think they're mighty wise, just because they know a thing or two
'No, thanks.'
'What do you mean, no thanks? We had a long way to find you.'
You can see them every day, strolling up and down Broadway, boasting of the wonders they can do
'I'm expecting someone from the Palace.'
'Your old pals aren't good enough anymore? Is that it?'
'I don't remember we were exactly pals, Marty.'
There are con men and drifters, Murphy men and grifters, and they all hang around the Metropole
'Let me in, Dalford. I've come a long way.'
'All right, but ...'
But their names would be mud, like a chump playing stud, if they lost that old ace down in the hole
'Nice place you got here. Plenty of room. You could put the Metropole in here if it came to that....' He is sitting on the bed now.
They'll tell you of trip that they're going to take, from Florida up to the old North Pole
'Look, Marty ...'
I wake up. Jim is covered with white foam. I can't wake him. 'Jamie! ... Jamie! ...' Cold white foam.
I wake up. Jim is standing with a pipe threader in his hand, looking towards the back door.... 'I thought someone was in the room.'
I got up and dressed and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. It tasted disgusting. The Everson questionnaire and picture had arrived, and I looked through them as I drank coffee. The pictures were quite ordinary. The Everson boy looked like the clean-cut American Boy. I wondered why he had taken up such an esoteric subject as Mayan archeology.
Jim came in and asked if he could take the day off. He does that occasionally, has an apartment of his own in the East Village. After he left, I sat down and went carefully through the Everson case: the boy had been in Mexico City doing some research in the library preparatory to a dig in Yucatan. In his last letter he said he was leaving for Progreso in a few days and would write from there.
After two weeks, his family was worried. They waited another week then called the U.S.
