Page:Levenson - Butterfly Man.djvu/287

Rh In the shadow, against the door, a large man. Deep voice …

"It's Willie."

Feathers jumped up. "Sit right here, darling," he urged. Willie was small, stoop-shouldered. Body like a girl. Down on the upper lip. Voice soft and girlish.

"I'm with the Captain."

"It cost me enough to close down the joint for the night," said the Captain. "Willie, behave."

"You're through with me, then?" Feathers stood at Willie's side.

"I'm with the Captain," Willie repeated, voice pleading.

Feathers' hands, nails pointed, streaked across Willie's face. Willie shrieked. The little white dog yipped.

"Sit down, my lovely ones," Verne calmly said. "Marge is ready."

Willie wept a little on the Captain's shoulder. Feathers trembled. The dog snapped.

"And put that dog in the closet," Verne ordered.

"Not Rover," Feathers pleaded. "He'll howl."

"Let him howl. Let him be the voice in the wilderness calling to you, my children."

Ken poured straight gin into his cup.

"You'll all be happy soon," the poet smiled. "Take your places. Marge, pass the cigarettes."

Marge sighed and obeyed. Ken placed a cigarette at the side of his mouth. "I'll light it, Bud," Verne slipped beside him. The little white box went from hand to hand.

"No music," complained Verne. "No divine music. No silvery strains of the strings, no sobbing dulcet moan of the basses, not even the bassoon choir nor the angelic tinkling of the harp—"