Part 3
The gray-haired man, his nostrils dilating, appeared to take a fairly deep breath.
"We're all animals," he said. "Basically, we're all animals."
"Like hell we are. I'm no goddam animal. I may be a stupid, fouled-up twentiethcentury
son of a bitch, but I'm no animal. Don't gimme that. I'm no animal."
"Look, Arthur. This isn't getting us--"
"Brains. Jesus, if you knew how funny that was. She thinks she's a goddam
intellectual. That's the funny part, that's the hilarious part. She reads the theatrical
page, and she watches television till she's practically blind--so she's an intellectual. You
know who I'm married to? You want to know who I'm married to? I'm married to the
greatest living undeveloped, undiscovered actress, novelist, psychoanalyst, and allaround
goddam unappreciated celebrity-genius in New York. You didn't know that,
didja? Christ, it's so funny I could cut my throat. Madame Bovary at Columbia
Extension School. Madame--"
"Who?" asked the gray-haired man, sounding annoyed.
"Madame Bovary takes a course in Television Appreciation. God, if you knew how--"
"All right, all right. You realize this isn't getting us anyplace," the gray-haired man
said. He turned and gave the girl a sign, with two fingers near his mouth, that he
wanted a cigarette. "In the first place," he said, into the phone, "for a helluvan
intelligent guy, you're about as tactless as it's humanly possible to be." He straightened
his back so that the girl could reach behind him for the cigarettes. "I mean that. It
shows up in your private life, it shows up in your--"
"Brains. Oh, God, that kills me! Christ almightyl Did you ever hear her describe
anybody--some man, I mean? Sometime when you haven't anything to do, do me a favor
and get her to describe some man for you. She describes every man she sees as `terribly
attractive.' It can be the oldest, crummiest, greasiest--
"All right, Arthur," the gray-haired man said sharply. "This is getting us nowhere. But
nowhere." He took a lighted cigarette from the girl. She had lit two. "Just incidentally,"
he said, exhaling smoke through his nostrils, "how'd you make out today?"
"What?"
"How'd you make out today?" the gray-haired man repeated. "How'd the case go?"
"Oh, Christ! I don't know. Lousy. About two minutes before I'm all set to start my
summation, the attorney for the plaintiff, Lissberg, trots in this crazy chambermaid with
a bunch of bedsheets as evidence--bedbug stains all over them. Christ!"
"So what happened? You lose?" asked the grayhaired man, taking another drag on his
cigarette.
"You know who was on the bench? Mother Vittorio. What the hell that guy has
against me, I'll never know. I can't even open my mouth and he jumps all over me. You
can't reason with a guy like that. It's impossible."
The gray-haired man turned his head to see what the girl was doing. She had picked
up the ashtray and was putting it between them. "You lose, then, or what?" he said into
the phone.
"What?"
"I said, Did you lose?"
"Yeah. I was gonna tell you about it. I didn't get a chance at the party, with all the
ruckus. You think Junior'll hit the ceiling? Not that I give a good goddam, but what do
you think? Think he will?"
With his left hand, the gray-haired man shaped the ash of his cigarette on the rim of
the ashtray. "I don't think he'll necessarily hit the ceiling, Arthur," he said quietly.
"Chances are very much in favor, though, that he's not going to be overjoyed about it.
You know how long we've handled those three bloody hotels? Old man Shanley himself
started the whole--"
"I know, I know. Junior's told me about it at least fifty times. It's one of the most
beautiful stories I ever heard in my life. All right, so I lost the goddam case. In the first
place, it wasn't my fault. First, this lunatic Vittorio baits me all through the trial. Then
this moron chambermaid starts passing out sheets full of bedbug--"
"Nobody's saying it's your fault, Arthur," the grayhaired man said. "You asked me if I
thought Junior would hit the ceiling. I simply gave you an honest--"
The gray-haired man, his nostrils dilating, appeared to take a fairly deep breath.
"We're all animals," he said. "Basically, we're all animals."
"Like hell we are. I'm no goddam animal. I may be a stupid, fouled-up twentiethcentury
son of a bitch, but I'm no animal. Don't gimme that. I'm no animal."
"Look, Arthur. This isn't getting us--"
"Brains. Jesus, if you knew how funny that was. She thinks she's a goddam
intellectual. That's the funny part, that's the hilarious part. She reads the theatrical
page, and she watches television till she's practically blind--so she's an intellectual. You
know who I'm married to? You want to know who I'm married to? I'm married to the
greatest living undeveloped, undiscovered actress, novelist, psychoanalyst, and allaround
goddam unappreciated celebrity-genius in New York. You didn't know that,
didja? Christ, it's so funny I could cut my throat. Madame Bovary at Columbia
Extension School. Madame--"
"Who?" asked the gray-haired man, sounding annoyed.
"Madame Bovary takes a course in Television Appreciation. God, if you knew how--"
"All right, all right. You realize this isn't getting us anyplace," the gray-haired man
said. He turned and gave the girl a sign, with two fingers near his mouth, that he
wanted a cigarette. "In the first place," he said, into the phone, "for a helluvan
intelligent guy, you're about as tactless as it's humanly possible to be." He straightened
his back so that the girl could reach behind him for the cigarettes. "I mean that. It
shows up in your private life, it shows up in your--"
"Brains. Oh, God, that kills me! Christ almightyl Did you ever hear her describe
anybody--some man, I mean? Sometime when you haven't anything to do, do me a favor
and get her to describe some man for you. She describes every man she sees as `terribly
attractive.' It can be the oldest, crummiest, greasiest--
"All right, Arthur," the gray-haired man said sharply. "This is getting us nowhere. But
nowhere." He took a lighted cigarette from the girl. She had lit two. "Just incidentally,"
he said, exhaling smoke through his nostrils, "how'd you make out today?"
"What?"
"How'd you make out today?" the gray-haired man repeated. "How'd the case go?"
"Oh, Christ! I don't know. Lousy. About two minutes before I'm all set to start my
summation, the attorney for the plaintiff, Lissberg, trots in this crazy chambermaid with
a bunch of bedsheets as evidence--bedbug stains all over them. Christ!"
"So what happened? You lose?" asked the grayhaired man, taking another drag on his
cigarette.
"You know who was on the bench? Mother Vittorio. What the hell that guy has
against me, I'll never know. I can't even open my mouth and he jumps all over me. You
can't reason with a guy like that. It's impossible."
The gray-haired man turned his head to see what the girl was doing. She had picked
up the ashtray and was putting it between them. "You lose, then, or what?" he said into
the phone.
"What?"
"I said, Did you lose?"
"Yeah. I was gonna tell you about it. I didn't get a chance at the party, with all the
ruckus. You think Junior'll hit the ceiling? Not that I give a good goddam, but what do
you think? Think he will?"
With his left hand, the gray-haired man shaped the ash of his cigarette on the rim of
the ashtray. "I don't think he'll necessarily hit the ceiling, Arthur," he said quietly.
"Chances are very much in favor, though, that he's not going to be overjoyed about it.
You know how long we've handled those three bloody hotels? Old man Shanley himself
started the whole--"
"I know, I know. Junior's told me about it at least fifty times. It's one of the most
beautiful stories I ever heard in my life. All right, so I lost the goddam case. In the first
place, it wasn't my fault. First, this lunatic Vittorio baits me all through the trial. Then
this moron chambermaid starts passing out sheets full of bedbug--"
"Nobody's saying it's your fault, Arthur," the grayhaired man said. "You asked me if I
thought Junior would hit the ceiling. I simply gave you an honest--"
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