Page:Levenson - Butterfly Man.djvu/285

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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?"