In a private dining-room, on a table draped in black, sat a huge bowl of punch floating with ice and sliced fruit.
Beside it leaned a fat man in a shapeless greenish suit, from the sleeves of which dirty cuffs fell upon hands rimmed with black nails.
The soiled collar was wilted about his neck in limp folds, knotted by a greasy black tie with an imitation ruby stud.
His face gleamed with moisture and he adjured the throng about the bowl in a harsh voice:
“Come on, folks.
It’s on Gene.
It dont cost you nothing.
Step up and drink.
There wasn’t never a better boy walked than him.”
They drank and fell back, replaced by others with extended cups.
From time to time a waiter entered with ice and fruit and dumped them into the bowl; from a suit case under the table Gene drew fresh bottles and decanted them into the bowl; then, proprietorial, adjurant, sweating, he resumed his harsh monologue, mopping his face on his sleeve.
“Come on, folks.
It’s all on Gene.
I aint nothing but a bootlegger, but he never had a better friend than me.
Step up and drink, folks.
There’s more where that come from.”
From the dance hall came a strain of music.
The people entered and found seats.
On the platform was the orchestra from a downtown hotel, in dinner coats.
The proprietor and a second man were conferring with the leader.
“Let them play jazz,” the second man said.
“Never nobody liked dancing no better than Red.”
“No, no,” the proprietor said.
“Time Gene gets them all ginned up on free whiskey, they’ll start dancing.
It’ll look bad.”
“How about the Blue Danube?” the leader said.
“No, no; dont play no blues, I tell you,” the proprietor said.
“There’s a dead man in that bier.”
“That’s not blues,” the leader said.
“What is it?” the second man said.
“A waltz.
Strauss.”
“A wop?” the second man said.
“Like hell.
Red was an American.
You may not be, but he was.
Dont you know anything American?
Play I Cant Give You Anything but Love.
He always liked that.”
“And get them all to dancing?” the proprietor said.
He glanced back at the tables, where the women were beginning to talk a little shrilly.
“You better start off with Nearer, My God, To Thee,” he said, “and sober them up some.
I told Gene it was risky about that punch, starting it so soon.
My suggestion was to wait until we started back to town.
But I might have knowed somebody’d have to turn it into a carnival.
Better start off solemn and keep it up until I give you the sign.”
“Red wouldn’t like it solemn,” the second man said.
“And you know it.”
“Let him go somewheres else, then,” the proprietor said.
“I just done this as an accommodation.