Tales of the Jazz Age. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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resolution to ask his brother to get him a job.
“A waiter can drink up all the champagne those fellas leave in bottles,” suggested Rose with some relish, and then added as an afterthought, “Oh, boy!”
By the time they reached Delmonico’s it was half past ten, and they were surprised to see a stream of taxis driving up to the door one after the other and emitting marvelous, hatless young ladies, each one attended by a stiff young gentleman in evening clothes.
“It’s a party,” said Rose with some awe. “Maybe we better not go in. He’ll be busy.”
“No, he won’t. He’ll be o’right.”
After some hesitation they entered what appeared to them to be the least elaborate door and, indecision falling upon them immediately, stationed themselves nervously in an inconspicuous corner of the small dining-room in which they found themselves. They took off their caps and held them in their hands. A cloud of gloom fell upon them and both started when a door at one end of the room crashed open, emitting a comet-like waiter who streaked across the floor and vanished through another door on the other side.
There had been three of these lightning passages before the seekers mustered the acumen to hail a waiter. He turned, looked at them suspiciously, and then approached with soft, catlike steps, as if prepared at any moment to turn and flee.
“Say,” began Key, “say, do you know my brother? He’s a waiter here.”
“His name is Key,” annotated Rose.
Yes, the waiter knew Key. He was up-stairs, he thought. There was a big dance going on in the main ballroom. He’d tell him.
Ten minutes later George Key appeared and greeted his brother with the utmost suspicion; his first and most natural thought being that he was going to be asked for money.
George was tall and weak chinned, but there his resemblance to his brother ceased. The waiter’s eyes were not dull, they were alert and twinkling, and his manner was suave, in-door, and faintly superior. They exchanged formalities. George was married and had three children. He seemed fairly interested, but not impressed by the news that Carrol had been abroad in the army. This disappointed Carrol.
“George,” said the younger brother, these amenities having been disposed of, “we want to get some booze, and they won’t sell us none. Can you get us some?”
George considered.
“Sure. Maybe I can. It may be half an hour, though.”
“All right,” agreed Carrol, “we’ll wait.”
At this Rose started to sit down in a convenient chair, but was hailed to his feet by the indignant George.
“Hey! Watch out, you! Can’t sit down here! This room’s all set for a twelve o’clock banquet.”
“I ain’t goin’ to hurt it,” said Rose resentfully. “I been through the delouser.”
“Never mind,” said George sternly, “if the head waiter seen me here talkin’ he’d romp all over me.”
“Oh.”
The mention of the head waiter was full explanation to the other two; they fingered their overseas caps nervously and waited for a suggestion.
“I tell you,” said George, after a pause, “I got a place you can wait; you just come here with me.”
They followed him out the far door, through a deserted pantry and up a pair of dark winding stairs, emerging finally into a small room chiefly furnished by piles of pails and stacks of scrubbing brushes, and illuminated by a single dim electric light. There he left them, after soliciting two dollars and agreeing to return in half an hour with a quart of whiskey.
“George is makin’ money, I bet,” said Key gloomily as he seated himself on an inverted pail. “I bet he’s making fifty dollars a week.”
Rose nodded his head and spat.
“I bet he is, too.”
“What’d he say the dance was of?”
“A lot of college fellas. Yale College.”
They, both nodded solemnly at each other.
“Wonder where that crowda sojers is now?”
“I don’t know. I know that’s too damn long to walk for me.”
“Me too. You don’t catch me walkin’ that far.”
Ten minutes later restlessness seized them.
“I’m goin’ to see what’s out here,” said Rose, stepping cautiously toward the other door.
It was a swinging door of green baize and he pushed it open a cautious inch.
“See anything?”
For answer Rose drew in his breath sharply.
“Doggone! Here’s some liquor I’ll say!”
“Liquor?”
Key joined Rose at the door, and looked eagerly.
“I’ll tell the world that’s liquor,” he said, after a moment of concentrated gazing.
It was a room about twice as large as the one they were in—and in it was prepared a radiant feast of spirits. There were long walls of alternating bottles set along two white covered tables; whiskey, gin, brandy, French and Italian vermouths, and orange juice, not to mention an array of syphons and two great empty punch bowls. The room was as yet uninhabited.
“It’s for this dance they’re just starting,” whispered Key; “hear the violins playin’? Say, boy, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a dance.”
They closed the door softly and exchanged a glance of mutual comprehension. There was no need of feeling each other out.
“I’d like to get my hands on a coupla those bottles,” said Rose emphatically.
“Me too.”
“Do you suppose we’d get seen?”
Key considered.
“Maybe we better wait till they start drinkin’ ’em. They got ’em all laid out now, and they know how many of them there are.”
They debated this point for several minutes. Rose was all for getting his hands on a bottle now and tucking it under his coat before anyone came into the room. Key, however, advocated caution. He was afraid he might get his brother in trouble. If they waited till some of the bottles were opened it’d be all right to take one, and everybody’d think it was one of the college fellas.
While they were still engaged in argument George Key hurried through the room and, barely grunting at them, disappeared by way of the green baize door. A minute later they heard several corks pop, and then the sound of cracking ice and splashing liquid. George was mixing the punch.
The soldiers exchanged delighted grins.
“Oh, boy!” whispered Rose.
George reappeared.
“Just keep low, boys,” he said quickly. “I’ll have your stuff for you in five minutes.”
He disappeared through the door by which he had come.
As soon as his footsteps receded down the stairs, Rose, after a cautious look, darted into the room of delights and reappeared with a bottle in his hand.
“Here’s what I say,” he said, as they sat radiantly digesting their first drink. “We’ll wait till he comes up, and we’ll ask him if we can’t just stay here and drink what he brings us—see. We’ll tell him we haven’t got any place to drink it—see. Then we can sneak in there whenever there ain’t nobody in that there room and tuck a bottle under our coats. We’ll have enough to last us a coupla days—see?”
“Sure,”