Free Max by Howard Fast Page A

‘Now what the divil were you screeching about?’
    â€˜He stole my money,’ she said, pointing to Max.
    â€˜Me? Me? Me?’ Max cried indignantly.
    Bert poked him with the nightstick. ‘Give it back, ye dirty scut, or I’ll turn yer head into a trap drum.’
    â€˜I never took nothing. She’s crazy.’
    â€˜And what’s that bulge in yer pocket?’
    â€˜Bulge?’ Max stood up, staring, puzzled, at the bulge in his pocket.
    â€˜My money!’ the woman cried, and thrust her hand into Max’s pocket. Then she collapsed in a faint.
    â€˜What have ye done to her, ye dirty swine?’ Bert shouted.
    â€˜Me? Nothing.’
    â€˜What’s in your pocket?’
    â€˜Pocket? Who’s got pockets?’ turning out the ragged fringe that was left of each pocket.
    The curtain dropped to a roar of applause and laughter, and Sally rose and left the theatre. On the street outside, she hailed a hansom cab, hoping that she had enough money in her purse for the fare. She did, and when she reached Tenth Street and walked up the stoop of the brownstone in which she rented a furnished room, she sighed with relief and said, ‘And that’s the end of Mr Britsky.’
    But, of course, it was not. An hour and a half later, Max knocked at her door.
    â€˜What do you want?’ she demanded angrily. She had changed into a long quilted robe, and her rich brown hair, combed out, reached almost to her waist.
    From below, her landlady’s voice called out, ‘Is everything all right, Miss Levine?’
    â€˜Yes, Mrs Schwartz.’
    â€˜It’s eleven o’clock. That’s too late for callers. I trust I rented your room to an honest and moral person.’
    â€˜It’s my brother, Mrs Schwartz,’ and then she whispered to Max, ‘Please get out of here before you ruin my reputation entirely.’
    â€˜I would have come before, but I had to do the second show.’
    â€˜Please go.’
    â€˜I want to talk to you,’ Max pleaded. ‘I must talk to you.’
    â€˜No. We have nothing to say to each other.’
    â€˜Let me come inside for five minutes. That’s all I ask, five minutes.’ She appeared to hesitate, and he pressed the point. ‘Only five minutes. Since you’ve decided never to see me again, five minutes can’t be so terrible.’
    â€˜Very well, five minutes.’
    She opened the door and then closed it behind him. The room was small but not unpleasant; and to Max it was full of color and invention and unlike any room he had ever stepped into. On the walls were three oversized posters by Parrish and Mucha. The Mucha was of Sarah Bernhardt, while in the gardens on the Parrish posters, people of the art nouveau frolicked improbably in flowing gowns. Yet the posters were bright and charming, as was the pink and yellow bedspread and the rag rug on the floor. Max guessed that these and other pleasant touches did not come with the furnished room but spelled out the taste of Miss Levine, and he entered the room tentatively, more abashed than ever before in her presence.
    â€˜I know I struck out,’ he said. ‘I messed things up, and I guess the one thing in the world I wanted was to make a good impression with you, and don’t think I don’t know how dirty that shtick was, but I swear to God I never intended to play the cop and tramp shtick tonight, but there was a guy in from the Alderman Circuit, which is eleven theatres around the country, and Bert and Guttman, who runs the Bijou, promised him we’d do it and there just wasn’t no way out of it, and all right, if you think I’m a cheap bum, there’s nothing else I can say – what are you laughing at?’
    â€˜That is –’ She choked again with laughter. ‘That is absolutely the longest run-on sentence I ever heard and possibly the least intelligible.’
    He stood facing her, silent, his lips