"There ain't no difference, Jake."
"There has to be. Otherwise wouldn't have two different names," Lennox said. "That's relentless logic."
"No," Chris said. "I keep 'em. I ought to know. Doves is white pigeons. You sure you want all this garbage in your old fashioned, Jake?"
Lennox nodded. "My system needs ascorbic acid. Where could I buy some doves, Chris?"
"Down to the poultry market. Just ask for white pigeons," Chris added stubbornly.
Lennox took a cab down to the poultry market which adjoined the Chambers Street Food Market. In the former he purchased twelve doves (white pigeons). In the latter he consumed six banana fritters and a quart of a dangerous brew called Still Ale. The doves in their cage refused the fritters and the ale, but they partook of breadcrumbs with joy.
He carried them up to Greenwich Village, found Gabby's apartment house and rang the downstairs bell. There was no answer. He located the superintendent, bribed him, and was escorted up to Gabby's apartment by that careful man to leave the cage within. Lennox was not permitted to enter more than three steps where he was directed to put the cage down. He did so, but opened the door. He was gratified to see the studio living room fill with doves.
"Make her happy," he chuckled. "Make em all happy, huh? How?"
He thought it over in a basement bar where he drank Moscow Mules not, he explained to the bartender, because he was sympathetic to the Soviet cause, but because he admired the copper mugs. How to spread joy? Three Mules led him to the light.
He went back to Sixth Avenue and entered the premises of a sign painter. To him he entrusted four sheets of notebook paper on which he had printed carefully.