Short Stories: Five Decades by Irwin Shaw Page A

couldn’t read tonight. He went to the door and looked out. The legs, silk and skin and firm muscle, were still there. Enders took a deep breath and walked back toward the desk.
    “Look,” said Josephine, “the shuttle’s back.”
    “I forgot to ask.” He looked straight at Wysocki. “Is there any mail for me?”
    “No mail,” said Wysocki.
    “I’ll tell you frankly, friend,” Josephine said. “You should’ve stayed in Davenport, Iowa. That’s my honest opinion. New York City will break you like a peanut shell.”
    “Nobody asked for your opinion,” Wysocki said, noticing Enders peering uneasily at Miss Zelinka to see what impression Josephine’s advice had made on her. “He’s a nice boy, he’s educated, he’s going to go a long way. Leave him alone.”
    “I’m only giving him my honest opinion,” Josephine said. “I’ve been in New York a dozen years. I see them begin and I see them wind up in the river.”
    “Will you, for Christ’s sake, stop talking about the river?” Wysocki slammed his hand on the desk.
    Gratefully, Enders noticed that Miss Zelinka was listening to the conversation, that her head tilted just a little, a shade went across her disdainful, beautiful eyes.
    “I come from Fall River,” Josephine said. “I should’ve stayed there. At least when you’re dead in Fall River they bury you. Here they leave you walk around until your friends notice it. Why did I ever leave Fall River? I was attracted by the glamor of the Great White Way.” She waved her red and white umbrella ironically, in salute to the city.
    Enders noticed that a hint, a twitch of a smile, played at the corner of Miss Zelinka’s mouth. He was glad that she’d heard Wysocki say he was educated, he was going to go a long way.
    “If you’d like,” he heard his voice boom out suddenly in the direction of Miss Zelinka, “if you’d like, if you’re waiting for someone, you can wait in my room. It’s not so noisy there.”
    “No, thank you,” Miss Zelinka said, speaking curiously, her lips together, not showing her teeth. Her voice, behind the closed, beautiful lips, was deep and hoarse and moving, and Enders felt it grip at his throat like a cool, firm hand. He turned to Wysocki, determined now that he was not going back to his room.
    “I was curious,” he said. “Where did Bishop get that chicken he wants to sell me?”
    Wysocki looked behind him carefully. “Don’t buy those chickens, Enders,” he said in a low voice. “I advise you as a good friend. Bishop picks them up on Tenth Avenue, alongside the railroad tracks.”
    “What’re they doing there?” Enders asked.
    “The trains bring them in from the farms, from the country,” Wysocki said. “The ones that died on the trip for one reason or another, the trainmen throw them off the cars and they’re piled up alongside the tracks and Bishop picks out the ones that look as though they died most peaceful and he tries to sell them.” Wysocki slid back to the office door, listened guiltily for a moment for Bishop, like a spy in the movies. “I advise you not to buy them. They’re not the most nourishing articles of food in the world.”
    Enders smiled. “Bishop ought to be in Wall Street,” he said. “With talent like that.”
    Miss Zelinka laughed. Feeling twice as tall as he had felt a moment before, Enders noticed that Miss Zelinka was laughing, quietly, and without opening her mouth, but true laughter. He laughed with her and their eyes met in friendly, understanding amusement.
    “May I buy you a cup of coffee?” hurled out of his throat, at Miss Zelinka’s head, like a hand grenade.
    The light of thought, consideration, appeared in the large gray eyes, while Enders waited. Then Miss Zelinka smiled. “All right,” she said. She stood up, five feet six inches tall, graceful as a duchess.
    “I’ll be right back,” Enders said, quickly. “Just have to get my coat.”
    He fled lightly down the hall toward his room.
    “That’s