"Well are you married yet?" was the first thing Congo asked when Emile opened the door to him. Emile was in his undershirt. The shoebox-shaped room was stuffy, lit and heated by a gas crown with a tin cap on it.
"Where are you in from this time?"
"Bizerta and Trondjeb. . . . I'm an able seaman."
"That's a rotten job, going to sea. . . . I've saved two hundred dollars. I'm working at Delmonico's."
They sat down side by side on the unmade bed. Congo produced a package of gold tipped Egyptian Deities. "Four months' pay"; he slapped his thigh. "Seen May Sweitzer?" Emile shook his head. "I'll have to find the little son of a gun. . . . In those goddam Scandinavian ports they come out in boats, big fat blond women in bumboats. . . ."
They were silent. The gas hummed. Congo let his breath ou
