Conway wondered how much of this constant tearing down, this repeated belittling, a man could take.
“Not that I wouldn’t get a lot of pleasure out of seeing you in jail, but it wouldn’t pay my rent. No — I want cash. Not very much, but I want it now.”
“What’s your idea of not very much?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Her calmness had puzzled him from the beginning, and now he was bewildered. She had something in mind, he knew, but what it was he could not imagine.
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather have than five thousand dollars to give you. Have you any ideas as to how I might obtain that paltry sum?”
She looked at him judicially. “One of the most repulsive things about you is that cheap sarcasm you’ve become addicted to. I suppose it makes you think you’re a wit.”
Conway had no illusions about being a wit, but he did wish that occasionally he might be able to produce a comeback to some of her more devastating remarks. But his retorts had been getting more and more feeble, less and less frequent.
“Naturally I know how you can get five thousand. I wouldn’t expect you to.” Conway looked at her blankly. “I’ve made up a list of a few friends of yours back East,” she said as she took a slip of paper from her bag. “They’re all doing very nicely. And they’re all very fond of you — respect you because you’re a writer, and they’re only businessmen. They all thought you were going to write that great American novel, too. And they haven’t seen you for a couple of years, so they haven’t found out what a phoney and a flop you are. It’ll be a cinch to get five thousand out of them.”
“You’re out of your mind!”