Frenzied Fiction | Page 7

eyes followed my glance toward his shoes.
"For the fox-trot," he said. "The old ones were no good. Have a cigarette? These are Armenian, or would you prefer a Honolulan or a Nigerian? Now," he resumed, when we had lighted our cigarettes, "what would you like to do first? Dance the tango? Hear some Hawaiian music, drink cocktails, or what?"
"Why, what I should like most of all, Father Knickerbocker--"
But he interrupted me.
"There's a devilish fine woman! Look, the tall blonde one! Give me blondes every time!" Here he smacked his lips. "By gad, sir, the women in this town seem to get finer every century. What were you saying?"
"Why, Father Knickerbocker," I began, but he interrupted me again.
"My dear fellow," he said. "May I ask you not to call me Father Knickerbocker?"
"But I thought you were so old," I said humbly.
"Old! Me old! Oh, I don't know. Why, dash it, there are plenty of men as old as I am dancing the tango here every night. Pray call me, if you don't mind, just Knickerbocker, or simply Knicky--most of the other boys call me Knicky. Now what's it to be?"
"Most of all," I said, "I should like to go to some quiet place and have a talk about the old days."
"Right," he said. "We're going to just the place now--nice quiet dinner, a good quiet orchestra, Hawaiian, but quiet, and lots of women." Here he smacked his lips again, and nudged me with his elbow. "Lots of women, bunches of them. Do you like women?"
"Why, Mr. Knickerbocker," I said hesitatingly, "I suppose--I--"
The old man sniggered as he poked me again in the ribs.
"You bet you do, you dog!" he chuckled. "We all do. For me, I confess it, sir, I can't sit down to dinner without plenty of women, stacks of them, all round me."
Meantime the taxi had stopped. I was about to open the door and get out.
"Wait, wait," said Father Knickerbocker, his hand upon my arm, as he looked out of the window. "I'll see somebody in a minute who'll let us out for fifty cents. None of us here ever gets in or out of anything by ourselves. It's bad form. Ah, here he is!"
A moment later we had passed through the portals of a great restaurant, and found ourselves surrounded with all the colour and tumult of a New York dinner a la mode. A burst of wild music, pounded and thrummed out on ukuleles by a group of yellow men in Hawaiian costume, filled the room, helping to drown or perhaps only serving to accentuate the babel of talk and the clatter of dishes that arose on every side. Men in evening dress and women in all the colours of the rainbow, decollete to a degree, were seated at little tables, blowing blue smoke into the air, and drinking green and yellow drinks from glasses with thin stems. A troupe of cabaret performers shouted and leaped on a little stage at the side of the room, unheeded by the crowd.
"Ha ha!" said Knickerbocker, as we drew in our chairs to a table. "Some place, eh? There's a peach! Look at her! Or do you like better that lazy-looking brunette next to her?"
Mr. Knickerbocker was staring about the room, gazing at the women with open effrontery, and a senile leer upon his face. I felt ashamed of him. Yet, oddly enough, no one about us seemed in the least disturbed.
"Now, what cocktail will you have?" said my companion. "There's a new one this week, the Fantan, fifty cents each, will you have that? Right? Two Fantans. Now to eat--what would you like?"
"May I have a slice of cold beef and a pint of ale?"
"Beef!" said Knickerbocker contemptuously. "My dear fellow, you can't have that. Beef is only fifty cents. Do take something reasonable. Try Lobster Newburg, or no, here's a more expensive thing--Filet Bourbon a la something. I don't know what it is, but by gad, sir, it's three dollars a portion anyway."
"All right," I said. "You order the dinner."
Mr. Knickerbocker proceeded to do so, the head-waiter obsequiously at his side, and his long finger indicating on the menu everything that seemed most expensive and that carried the most incomprehensible name. When he had finished he turned to me again.
"Now," he said, "let's talk."
"Tell me," I said, "about the old days and the old times on Broadway."
"Ah, yes," he answered, "the old days--you mean ten years ago before the Winter Garden was opened. We've been going ahead, sir, going ahead. Why, ten years ago there was practically nothing, sir, above Times Square, and look at it now."
I began to realize that Father Knickerbocker, old as he was, had forgotten all the earlier times with which I associated his memory. There was nothing left but the cabarets, and