Flapping at the sides of the cave-in were innumerable thicknesses of linoleum, and between each one an incredible accumulation of filth and debris—O. Henry candy bar wrappers, a cover from a Collier's, a booklet on the new Packard ("Ask the Man Who Owns One"), a newspaper article on Flo Ziegfield's girls (stop thinking in slogans), but mostly just dirt—dust, webs, lint, filth. There had been no boards under the table; the ends of the exposed boards weren't freshly broken but old and rotted porously smooth. Only the linoleum and the dirt had supported the table for years.
Malloy edged closer and saw some broken sticks lying on a jagged pile of coke standing out black in the darkness far below.
The redhead pulled him back from the edge, her fingers digging into his biceps, writhing with a strange passionate intensity, as if she were trying to knead him into a layer for a pie.
"With you're a REAL Jockey, He, a REAL Jockey, a REAL ONE. Truth! I'm going to take you to the Commissioner, He, the Commissioner in his saddle."
Somehow, uncertain, yet surely, Malloy was dimly pleased at this.
"Don't say it," the fat man remarked, glancing up for an instant, then lowering his eyes to the splay of papers on his desk. "No esoteric jargon, please."
"All right," Malloy said readily. "Shall I sit down?"
"By all means, saddle up." A second chin trembled. "Damn it, there I go. Have a chair."
Malloy took the only chair not piled down with books, or maps, or correspondence, or manuscripts, or notes. It had a straight back and a plastic seat, piously uncomfortable.