"Les sanglots longs d'un violon d'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur monotone—"
The flat on Washington Street was bare. Wooden chairs. An iron army cot. Where Verne lived.
"That's Verlaine," said Dennett. "Nice, too. Onomatopoeia."
Another in the room. A tawny negro. Picked him up on Sixth Avenue.
"Nothing cheaper than a thrill," Dennett said. "Drink."
The door opened.
"It's Feathers," said Verne. "How's trade?"
Feathers was pale. A black shirt. White suspenders. Bell-bottom trousers. A ragged white dog on a leather thong.
"Zigzag," muttered Ken, swallowing gin.
"He comes not from the Boul' Miche, Ella—he drops into the Silver Pig for trade where Zigzag is the name of a movement—and I'm not saying what kind."
"I met a sailor in Willie's, but he'd spent last night with a slut," Feathers explained.
"Dear Willie, couldn't he steer you to anything worth while?"
Feathers flicked ashes from an imaginary cigarette.
"Willie is sorta offa me and I can't explain why."
"Did you pay your percentage, lover?"
"Old Auntie Willie eats regular. She makes plenty in that tea-room of hers. Who's this?"
He pointed to the negro.
"Margie Mills, of the Harlem Mills. Margie changed her name to Mills when Florence died, didn't you, Margie?"
