reaching his hand towards the board as if he intended to make a move. Schlemiel went into convulsions finally.
'Did you ever have the good fortune to see the Italian master Tetrazzini perform?' Lee lit Mary's cigarette. 'I say 'perform' advisedly, because he was a great showman, and like all showmen, not above charlatanism and at times downright trickery. Sometimes he used smoke screens to hide his maneuvers from the opposition—I mean literal smoke screens, of course. He had a corps of trained idiots who would rush in at a given signal and eat all the pieces. With defeat staring him in the face—as it often did, because actually he knew nothing of chess but the rules and wasn't too sure of those—he would leap up yelling, 'You cheap bastard! I saw you palm that queen!' and ram a broken teacup into his opponent's face. In 1922 he was rid out of Prague on a rail. The next time I saw Tetrazzini was in the Upper Ubangi. A complete wreck. Peddling unlicensed condoms. That was the year of the rinderpest, when everything died, even the hyenas.'
Lee paused. The routine was coming to him like dictation. He did not know what he was going to say next, but he suspected the monologue was about to get dirty. He looked at Mary. She was exchanging significant glances with Allerton. 'Some sort of lover code,' Lee decided. 'She is telling him they have to go now.' Allerton got up, saying he had to have a haircut before going to work. Mary and Allerton left. Lee was alone in the bar.
The monologue continued. 'I was working as Aide-de-camp under General Von Klutch. Exacting.
A hard man to satisfy. I gave up trying after the first week. We had a saying around the wardroom: 'Never expose your flank to old Klutchy.' Well, I couldn't take Klutchy another night, so I assembled a modest caravan and hit the trail with Abdul, the local Adonis. Ten miles out of Tanhajaro, Abdul came down with the rinderpest and I had to leave him there to die. Hated to do it, but there was no other way. Lost his looks completely, you understand.
'At the headwaters of the Zambesi, I ran into an old Dutch trader. After considerable haggling I gave him a keg of paregoric for a boy, half Effendi and half Lulu. I figured the boy would get me as far as Timbuktu, maybe all the way to Dakar. But the Lulu-Effendi was showing signs of wear even before I hit Timbuktu, and I decided to trade him in on a straight Bedouin model. The crossbreeds make a good appearance, but they don't hold up. In Timbuktu I went to Corn Hole Gus's Used-Slave Lot to see what he could do for me on a trade- in.
'Gus rushes out and goes into the spiel: 'Ah, Sahib Lee. Allah has sent you! I have something right up your ass, I mean, alley. Just came in. One owner and he was a doctor. A once-over-lightly, twice-a- week-type citizen. It's young and it's tender. In fact, it talks baby talk . . . behold!'
''You call those senile slobberings baby talk? My grandfather got a clap off that one. Come again, Gussie. '
''You do not like it? A pity. Well, everyone has a taste, feller say. Now here I have a one-hundred-percent desert-bred Bedouin with a pedigree goes straight back to the Prophet. Dig his bearing.
Such pride! Such fire!'
''A good appearance job, Gus, but not good enough. It's an albino Mongolian idiot. Look, Gussie, you are dealing with the oldest faggot in the Upper Ubangi, so come off the peg. Reach down into your grease pit and dredge out the best-looking punk you got in this moth-eaten bazaar.'
''All right Sahib Lee, you want quality, right? Follow me, please. Here it is. What can I say?
Quality speaks for itself. Now, I get a lotta cheap-type customers in here wanna see quality and then scream at the price. But you know and I know that quality runs high. As a matter of fact, and this I swear by the Prophet's prick, I lose money on this quality merchandise.'
''Uh huh. Got some hidden miles on him, but he'll do. How about a trial run?'
''Lee, for christ sake, I don't run a house. This joint is strictly package. No consumption on premises. I could lose my license.'
''I don't aim to get caught short with one of your Scotch-tape and household-cement reconditioned jobs a hundred miles from the nearest Soukh. Besides, how do I know it ain't a Liz?'
''Sahib Lee! This is an ethical lot!'
''I was beat that way one time in Marrakesh. Citizen passed a transvestite Jew Lizzie on me as an Abyssinian prince.'
''Ha ha ha, full of funny jokes, aren't you? How is this: stay over in town tonight and try it out. If you don't want it in the morning, I refund every piaster. Fair enough?'
''O. K., now, what can you give me on this Lulu-Effendi? Perfect condition. Just overhauled. He don't eat much and he don't say nothing.'
''Jesus, Lee! You know I'd cut off my right nut for you, but I swear by my mother's cunt, may I fall down and be paralyzed and my prick fall off if these mixed jobs ain't harder to move than a junky's bowels.'
''Skip the routine. How much?' 'Gus stands in front of the Lulu-Effendi with his hands on his hips.
He smiles and shakes his head. He walks around the boy. He reaches in and points to a small, slightly varicose vein behind the knee. 'Look at that,' he says, still smiling and shaking his head.
He walks around again. . . . 'Got piles too.' He shakes his head. 'I don't know. I really don't know what to say to you. Open up, kid. . . . Two teeth missing.' Gus has stopped smiling. He is talking in low, considerate tones, like an undertaker.
''I'm going to be honest with you, Lee. I've got a lotful of this stuff now. I'd rather just forget this job and talk cash on the other.'
''What am I going to do with it? Peddle it on the public street?'
''Might take it along as a spare. Ha, ha. . . .'
''Ha. What can you give me?'
''Well . . . now don't get mad . . . two hundred piasters.' Gus makes a skittish little run as if to escape my anger, and throws up a huge cloud of dust in the courtyard.'
The routine ended suddenly, and Lee looked around. The bar was nearly empty. He paid for his drinks and walked out into the night.
