He looked at me dementedly and snatched the phone.
"You won't get them to put her on," I said. "She doesn't want to talk to you."
"I'm calling the cops," he answered. "I'll bust that joint wide open and get her out, if it's the last thing—!"
I hung up his telephone by reaching out with my foot. "Listen, Paulo. Listen good, once. You've made a lot of mistakes. Some, you admit. Some, you haven't caught on to—in spite of the infallible, scientific mind. And others—you haven't the empirical data to guess."
"For the love of God, say what you're going to say!"
"Marcia is a whore. Was, is, and always will be. Sit still. I am giving you the advantage of a certain amount of background. And I am not the kind of guy who says that a girl who sells her body always sells her soul. You know it! The trouble with you isn't Marcia—it's neurotic stubbornness. Trying with all your might to make a cheesy setup turn beautiful. Chopping yourself down at the knees. Then—when you're on your knees—chopping off the stump where your manhood ought to be. And so on up—through the guts and the heart. All that's left is a crazed beezer. I had a long talk with your Marcia yesterday. If you'll try to stay in one piece, I'll tell you about it, in a sec. But—meanwhile—somebody ought to brief you on the fact that there may be only one kind of love in the folklore of the U.S.A.—but there are five thousand kinds in people. Marcia had a kind for you that didn't match your sentiments for her. Look at it that way."
Then I told him about my séance with his lambent, incorrigible girl friend.
He did listen.
I have to say that.