Floyd said “Thank you,” and shot across the town. He was held up and questioned. No, he hadn’t seen anybody. He had no compunctions. He wouldn’t give the guys away; that wasn’t sport. Then he took the car back to the garage, and went home in the subway. He had thirty dollars. He put fifteen in an envelope, addressed it to Tom, and wrote on a slip of paper:
Dear Tom: Here is half the boodle. It was a great experience. Ready to help out at any time.
Tom got back early to the garage, washed his khaki suit, hung it up to dry, cleaned his car, looked over the motor. He waited for Floyd, but he didn’t show up; he was sure the car would come back damaged. He expected that, but he hoped Garrison wouldn’t get hurt. Then he grew impatient. It didn’t matter to ‘that guy’ how long he stayed out—his wife wasn’t waiting for him. He said good night to the man in the garage, told him to look out for a ‘green-hand,’ and showed him where the bandages were. Then for a bit of exercise he walked up to the Bronx, taking a drink now and then to ease his mind. It was two o’clock when he opened the door of the little flat. The kitchen was spotless, the blue and white oilcloth shone like marble tiles. There was a tray on the table, with cold corned beef and three large baked potatoes; the coffee was gurgling on the gas stove. He devoured everything in sight, washed up the dishes, then went into the next room and stood at the bed. Maudy was in a deep sleep, how pretty she was. She must have been very tired or she would have heard him come in. She’d been scrubbing that damn kitchen floor again. She couldn’t wait till Sunday morning; that was his job. He looked at her small hands. They were rough from the washing soda, and the nails were not manicured. He had to kiss them, he couldn’t help it. She opened her eyes, smelt the hootch.
“Tom, you’re going it; you’ll break your neck one night, and I’ll be a widow—take a bath.” The sleepy eyes closed, she dropped off again.
Tom put a roll of bills under her pillow, slipped out of his clothes and fell on the sofa. He didn’t take a bath, he’d gotten over that pastime; he had something better to do.
30
Floyd woke up the next morning, his head aching, his limbs weary. The experience had battered his body, but shook up his mind. His share of the “boodle” lay on the table—three five-dollar bills. He examined them curiously, turning them over and over—the first money he had ever earned. Was it money? No—he threw away much more than that paltry sum every day. But this was different; he had worked for it with the “sweat of his brow.” He felt the pressure of the masses, who were earning their bread. This meant money to them. He remembered how the Colonel looked at him, when he told him to sell something—they were needing more and more. “You’re destroying capital,” said the Colonel. “You should preserve it, it’s your only source of income.”
Capital! capital! He wondered if they had blown in all his father had left—blown in, where?—into the air like soap bubbles, which glittered for a moment in the sun, then burst and disappeared.
He put his hand to his head. Where could he go to pass the morning? Julie was not visible until twelve. She was lucky; the day was only half as long for her. Then that queer feeling came again; he went to see Dr. McClaren.
“How’s your wife?” said the doctor.