Miss Lonelyhearts and a Cool Million

by Nathanael West

  “Mr. Hazelton will then bow you out of the shop.

  “Until you receive further instructions from Mr. Hainey, you are to stay away from the near vicinity of Hazelton Freres.

  “On the day following your visit to the shop call the Ritz Hotel and ask for Mr. Hainey’s secretary. Tell him whether or not everything went off in accordance with these instructions. The slightest deviation on the part of Mr. Hazelton from the prescribed formula must be reported.”

  16

  Lem’s job was a sinecure. He had merely to enact the same scene over one morning a week, each time in a different store. He soon had his part by heart, and once he had lost his embarrassment over having to say that he knew the Spanish Ambassador, he quite enjoyed his work. It reminded him of the amateur theatricals he had participated iii at the Ottsville High School.

  Then, too, his position permitted him a great deal of leisure. He used this spare time to good advantage by visiting the many interesting spots for which New York City is justly famous.

  He also made an unsuccessful attempt to find Mr. Whipple. At the Salvation Army post they told him that they had observed Mr. Whipple lying quietly in the gutter after the meeting of the “Leather Shirts,” but that when they looked the next day to see if he were still there they found only a large blood stain. Lem looked himself but failed even to find this stain, there being many cats in the neighborhood.

  He was a sociable youth and quickly made friends with several of the other guests of the Warford House. None of them were his age, however, so that he was pleased when a young man named Samuel Perkins spoke to him.

  Sam worked in a furnishing goods store on lower Broadway. He was very fond of dress and indulged in a variety of showy neckties, being able to get them at reduced rates.

  “What line are you in?” he asked our hero in the lobby one evening while they were waiting for the supper bell to ring.

  “I’m in the glass business,” Lem answered cautiously, for he had been warned not to explain his duties to anyone.

  “How much do you get?” was the forward youth’s next question.

  “Thirty dollars a week and found,” said Lem, honestly.

  “I get thirty-five without keep, but it’s too little for me. A man can’t live on that kind of money, what with the opera once a week and decent clothes. Why, my carfare alone comes to over a dollar, not counting taxicabs.”

  “Yes, it must be rather a tight squeeze for you,” said Lem with a smile as he thought of all the large families who lived on smaller incomes than Mr. Perkins’.

  “Of course,” Sam went on, “the folks at home allow me another ten dollars a week. You see the old gent has money. But I tell you it sure melts away in this town.”

  “No doubt,” said Lem. “There are a good many ways to spend money here.”

  “Suppose we go to the theater tonight?”

  “No,” Lem replied, “I’m not as fortunate as you are. I have no wealthy father to fall back on and must save the little I earn.”

  “Well, then,” said Sam, for that youth could not live without excitement of some sort, “what do you say we visit Chinatown? It’ll only cost us carfare.”

  To this proposition Lem readily agreed. “I’d like very much to go,” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Warren would like to join us.”

  Mr. Warren was another guest whose acquaintance Lem had made.

  “What, that crank!” exclaimed Sam, who was by way of being somewhat of a snob. “He’s soft in his upper story. Pretends that he’s literary and writes for the magazines.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?”

  “Very likely, but did you ever see such shabby neckties as he wears?”

  “He hasn’t your advantages for getting them,” said Lem with a smile, for he knew where the young man worked.

  “How do you like the tie I have on? It’s a stunner, isn’t it?” asked Sam complacently.

  “It’s very striking,” said Lem, whose tastes were much more sober.

  “I get a new necktie every week. You see, I get them at half price. The girls always notice a fellow’s necktie.”

  The supper bell sounded, and the two youths parted to go to their own tables. After eating, they met again in the lobby and proceeded to Chinatown.

  17

  Lem and his new friend wandered through Mott Street and its environs, observing with considerable interest the curious customs and outlandish manners of that neighbor-hod’s large oriental population.

  Early in the evening, however, an incident occurred which made our hero feel sorry that he had ventured out with Sam Perkins. When they came upon an ancient celestial, who was quietly reading a newspaper under an arc lamp, Sam accosted him before Lem could interfere.

  “Hey, John,” said the youth mockingly, “no tickee, no washee.” And he laughed foolishly in the manner of his kind.

  The almond-eyed old man looked up from his newspaper and stared coldly at him for a full minute, then said with great dignity, “By the blessed beard of my grandfather, you’re the lousiest pimple-faced ape I ever did see.”

  At this Sam made as though to strike the aged oriental. But that surprising individual was not in the least frightened. He took a small hatchet out of his pocket and proceeded to shave the hair from the back of his hand with its razor-sharp edge.

  Sam turned quite pale and began to bluster until Lem thought it best to intervene.

  But even his lesson in manners had no effect on the brash youth. He so persisted in his unmannerly conduct that our hero was tempted to part company with him.

  Sam stopped in front of what was evidently an unlicensed liquor parlor.

  “Come on in,” he said, “and have a whisky.”

  “Thank you,” said our hero, “but I don’t care for whisky.” “Perhaps you prefer beer?”

  “I don’t care to drink anything, thank you.”

  “You don’t mean to say you’re a temperance crank?” “Yes, I think I am.”

  “Oh, go to the devil, you prude,” said Sam, ringing a signal button that was secreted in the door of the “blind pig.”

  To Lem’s great relief, he at last found himself alone. It was still early, so he decided to continue his stroll.

  He turned a corner not far from Pell Street, when, suddenly, a bottle smashed at his feet, missing his skull by inches.

  Was it intentional or accidental?

  Lem looked around carefully. The street was deserted and all the houses that faced on it had their blinds drawn. He noticed that the only store front on the block carried a sign reading, “Wu Fong, Wet Wash Laundry,” but that meant nothing to him.

  When he looked closer at the bottle, he was surprised to see a sheet of notepaper between the bits of shattered glass and stooped to pick it up.

  At this the door of the laundry opened noiselessly to emit one of Wu Fong’s followers, an enormous Chinaman. His felt slippers were silent on the pavement, and as he crept up on our hero, something glittered in his hand.

  It was a knife.

  18

  Many chapters earlier in this book, we left our heroine, Betty Prail, in the bad house of Wu Fong, awaiting the visit of a pockmarked Armenian from Malta.

  Since then numbers of orientals, Slays, Latins, Celts and Semites had visited her, sometimes as many as three in one night. However, so large a number was rare because Wu Fong held her at a price much above that of the other female inmates.

  Naturally enough, Betty was not quite as happy in her situation as was Wu Fong. At first she struggled against the series of “husbands” that were forced on her, but when all her efforts proved futile she adapted herself as best she could to her onerous duties. Nevertheless, she was continuously seeking a method of escape.

  It was Betty, of course, who had authored the note in the bottle. She had been standing at her window, thinking with horror of the impending visit of a heavyweight wrestler called Selim Hammid Bey, who claimed to be in love with her, when she suddenly saw Lem Pitkin turn the corner and pass
in front of the laundry. She had hastily written a note describing her predicament, and putting it into a bottle had tossed it into the street.

  But, unfortunately, her action had not gone unobserved. One of Wu Fong’s many servants had been carefully watching her through the keyhole, and had immediately carried the intelligence to his master, who had sent the enormous Chinaman after Lem with a knife.

  Before I take up where I left off in my last chapter, there are several changes in Wu Fong’s establishment which I would like to report. These changes seem significant to me, and while their bearing on this story may not be obvious, still I believe it does exist.

  The depression hit Wu Fong as hard as it did more respectable merchants, and like them he decided that he was over-stocked. In order to cut down, he would have to specialize and could no longer run a “House of All Nations.”

  Wu Fong was a very shrewd man and a student of fashions. He saw that the trend was in the direction of home industry and home talent, and when the Hearst papers began their “Buy American” campaign he decided to get rid of all the foreigners in his employ and turn his establishment into an hundred per centum American place.

  Although in 1928 it would have been exceedingly difficult for him to have obtained the necessary girls, by 1934 things were different. Many respectable families of genuine native stock had been reduced to extreme poverty and had thrown their female children on the open market.

  He engaged Mr. Asa Goldstein to redecorate the house and that worthy designed a Pennsylvania Dutch, Old South, Log Cabin Pioneer, Victorian New York, Western Cattle Days, California Monterey, Indian, and Modern Girl series of interiors. In general the results were as follows:

  Lena Haubengrauber from Perkiomen Creek, Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Her rooms were filled with painted pine furniture and decorated with slip ware, spatter ware, chalk ware and “Gaudy Dutch.” Her simple farm dress was fashioned of bright gingham.

  Alice Sweethorne from Paducah, Kentucky. Besides many fine pieces of old Sheraton from Savannah, in her suite there was a wonderful iron grille from Charleston whose beauty of workmanship made every visitor gasp with pleasure. She wore a ball gown of the Civil War period.

  Mary Judkins from Jugtown Hill, Arkansas. Her walls were lined with oak puncheons chinked with mud. Her mattress was stuffed with field corn and covered by a buffalo rope. There was real dirt on her floors. She was dressed in homespun, butternut stained, and wore a pair of men’s hoots.

  Patricia Van Riis from Gramercy Park, Manhattan, New York City. Her suite was done in the style known as Biedermeier. The windows were draped with thirty yards of white velvet apiece and the chandelier in her sitting room had over eight hundred crystal pendants attached to it. She was dressed like an early “Gibson Girl.”.

  Powder River Rose from Carson’s Store, Wyoming. Her apartment was the replica of a ranch bunkhouse. Strewn around it in well-calculated confusion were such miscellaneous articles as spurs, saddle blankets, straw, guitars, quirts, pearl-handled revolvers, hayforks and playing cards. She wore goatskin chaps, a silk blouse and a five-gallon hat with a rattlesnake band.

  Dolores O’Riely from Alta Vista, California. In order to save money, Wu Fong had moved her into the suite that had been occupied by Conchita, the Spanish girl. He merely substituted a Mission chair for the horsehide one with the steer-horn arms and called it “Monterey.” Asa Goldstein was very angry when he found out, but Wu Fong refused to do anything more about it, because he felt that she was bound to be a losing proposition. The style, he said was not obviously enough American even in its most authentic forms.

  Princess Roan Fawn from Two Forks, Oklahoma Indian Reservation, Oklahoma. Her walls were papered with birch bark to make it look like a wigwam and she did business on the floor. Except for a necklace of wolf’s teeth, she was naked under her bull’s-eye blanket.

  Miss Cobina Wiggs from Woodstock, Connecticut. She lived in one large room that was a combination of a locker in an athletic club and the office of a mechanical draughtsman. Strewn around were parts of an aeroplane, T-squares, callipers, golf clubs, books, gin bottles, hunting horns and paintings by modern masters. She had broad shoulders, no hips and very long legs. Her costume was an aviator’s jumper complete with helmet attached. It was made of silver cloth and fitted very tightly.

  Betty Prail from Ottsville, Vermont. Her furnishings and costume have already been described, and it should suffice to say here that they remained untouched.

  These were not the only vital changes Wu Fong made in his establishment. He was as painstaking as a great artist, and in order to be as consistent as one he did away with the French cuisine and wines traditional to his business. Instead, he substituted an American kitchen and cellar.

  When a client visited Lena Haubengrauber, it was possible for him to eat roast groundhog and drink Sam Thompson rye. While with Alice Sweethorne, he was served sow belly with grits and bourbon. In Mary Judkins’ rooms he received, if he so desired, fried squirrel and corn liquor. In the suite occupied by Patricia Van Riis, lobster and champagne wine were the rule. The patrons of Powder River Rose usually ordered mountain oysters and washed them down with forty-rod. And so on down the list: while with Dolores O’Riely, tortillas and prune brandy from the Imperial Valley; while with Princess Roan Fawn, baked dog and firewater; while with Betty Prail, fishchowder and Jamaica rum. Finally, those who sought the favors of the “Modern Girl,” Miss Cobina Wiggs, were regaled with tomato and lettuce sandwiches and gin.

  19

  The enormous Chinaman with the uplifted knife did not bring it down, because he had been struck by a sudden thought. While he debated the pros and cons of his idea over in his mind, the unsuspecting youth picked up the note Betty had thrown at him.

  “Dear Mr. Pitkin—” he read. “I am held captive. Please save me. Your grateful friend, Elizabeth Frail.”

  When our hero had thoroughly digested the contents of the little missive, he turned to look for a policeman. It was this that made the Chinaman decide on a course of action. He dropped the knife, and with a skillful oriental trick that took our hero entirely by surprise pinned Lem’s arms in such a way as to render him helpless.

  He then whistled through his nose in coolie fashion. In obedience to this signal several more of Wu Fong’s followers came running to his assistance. Although Lem struggled valiantly, he was overpowered and forced to enter the laundry.

  Lem’s captors dragged him into the presence of the sinister Wu Fong, who rubbed his hands gleefully as he inspected the poor lad.

  “You have done well, Chin Lao Tse,” he said, praising the man who had captured Lem.

  “I demand to be set free!” expostulated our hero. “You have no right to keep me here.”

  But the crafty oriental ignored his protests and smiled inscrutably. He could well use a nice-looking American boy. That very night, he expected a visit from the Maharajah of Kanurani, whose tastes were notorious. Wu Fong congratulated himself; the gods were indeed good.

  “Prepare him,” said he in Chinese.

  The poor lad was taken to a room that had been fitted out like a ship’s cabin. The walls were paneled in teak, and there were sextants, compasses and other such gear in profusion. His captors then forced him to don a tight-fitting sailor suit. After warning him in no uncertain terms not to try to escape, they left him to his own devices.

  Lem sat on the edge of a bunk that was built into one corner of the room with his head buried in his hands. He wondered what new ordeal fate had in store for him, but being unable to guess he thought of other things.

  Would he lose his job if he failed to report to Mr. Hainey? Probably, yes. Where was his dear mother? Probably in the poorhouse, or begging from door to door, if she were not dead. Where was Mr. Whipple? Dead and buried in Potter’s Field more than likely. And how could he get a message to Miss Prail?

  Lem was still trying to solve this last problem when Chin Lao Tse, the man who had captured him, entered the room, carrying a savage-lookin
g automatic in his hand.

  “Listen, boy,” he said menacingly, “see this gat? Well, if you don’t behave I’ll drill you clean.”

  Chin then proceeded to secrete himself in a closet. Before closing the door, he showed Lem that he intended to watch his every move through the keyhole.

  The poor lad racked his brains, but could not imagine what was wanted of him. He was soon to find out, however.

  There was a knock on the door and Wu Fong entered followed by a little dark man whose hands were covered with jewels. It was the Maharajah of Kanurani.

  “My, wath a pithy thailer boy,” lisped the Indian prince with unfeigned delight.

  “I’m extremely happy that he finds favor in your august eyes, excellency,” said Wu Fong with a servile bow, after which he backed out of the room.

  The Maharajah minced up to our hero, who was conscious only of the man in the closet, and put his arm around the lad’s waist.

  “Thom on, pithy boy, giff me a kith,” he said with a leer that transfigured his otherwise unremarkable visage into a thing of evil.

  A wave of disgust made Lem’s hair stand on end. “Does he think me a girl?” the poor lad wondered. “No, he called me a boy at least twice.”

  Lem looked towards the closet for instructions. The man in that receptacle opened his door and poked his head out. Puckering up his lips, he rolled his eyes amorously, at the same time pointing at the Indian Prince.

  When our hero realized what was expected of him, he turned pale with horror. He looked again at the Maharajah and what he saw of lust in that man’s eyes made him almost swoon.

  Fortunately for Lem, however, instead of swooning, he opened his mouth to scream. This was the only thing that could have saved him, for he spread his jaws too wide and his store teeth fell clattering to the carpet.