Boil and simmer everything together until it's thick again. Add salt, pepper, and the blood of one lime. Pour this over white squares of cooked lobster meat…and may the memory of George Corey never be forgotten!
“Well?” said George, as we did justice to our filled plates.
“Fine…has my son Mike been in?”
George looked down at his beer rag. “I'm not saying yea or no…for it was him here this morning…and yet not himself…if you know what I mean.”
“Starched?” said Gramp.
“Would you be caring for another toss of the curry, suh? “The condition of the gentleman is hard to place. But your son Mike was…what I might call… yeas, suh, he was starched…right to the ears!”
From Corey's we went east to the river bank. Non one had heard of anyone's falling in. Uncle Mike wasn't a river jumper anyway. He was always at his best when well starched. …“Polite as hell,” he used to say, tipping his hat to any lady and collecting, sometimes, a black eye for the attention.
We were crossing 23rd Street, when suddenly Gramp gripped my arm so hard I almost dropped the ice cream cone I was torturing to a wet end.
“Look—Sara!”
“Mama?”
Gramp pointed his cane…sure enough, there was Mama walking along as if she had lost a kite and was hunting for it…which was silly, since Mama never flew a kite. She was following someone, and being very small, she would stop every now and then to stand on tip-toe to peek at her prey, somewhere in the mob ahead.
“It's Lord Belka,” said Gramp.
And sure enough, about twenty feet ahead was Lord Belka under a square derby, hurrying along with a very guilty look over his beard. We caught up with Mama…and Gramp took her arm, so quickly she almost, as she said later, “jumped our of her shoes.”
“Oh…you!”
“Who else?” said Gramp.
“I'm following someone.”
Gramp winked at me. “No! At your age, Sara?”
Mama said, “It's Lord Belka.”
“I hear he's married and has six daughters…all ugly.”
“I'm following him because I don't trust him.”
“Why?” asked Gramp.
Mama shook her head. “It's very strange. I was crossing the street when I saw him…and I'm sure he saw me…and then suddenly he acted as if he hadn't and he pulled his hat down over his eyes and ran away from me.”
“I would, too,” said Gramp, “if I wore a hat like that.”
“Now I've lost him.”
“I can still see him,” said Gramp. “What do you suspect him of?”
“I don't think he's a real Win-the-Peace man.”
“Oh, come now, Sara…don't be part of the spy hunt mob.”
“Once I saw a spy,” I said.
“What was he doing?” asked Mama.
“Watching the cook take a bath.”
“Yes,” said Gramp, changing the subject very quickly. “But to get back to Lord Belka.”
“He's gone,” said Mama.
“No,” saod Gramp, “he's just gone into 'Arry's place.”
“The Melted Butter at this time! It's hours before dinner.”
“He'll ruin his dinner,” I said.
“Let's see, Sara, what he's there for.”
There was nobody braver than Mama. “Let's go.”
The eating place was doing a dull business to a few flies who had become dope fiends in the sugar bowls. The Bottom was reading a paper-backed novel with the title in French Condamnée. 'Arry had his jacked off and was punching holes in a racing form trying to pick a good thing at Belmont. The waiters, or bus boys, were nowhere in sight.
'Arry leaped to his feet (bare of shoes and with a hole in his right big stocking toe) and hunted for his footwear. “Concombre that I am…I forget to latch the door!”
Mama said, “Where is Lord Belka?”
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