“Excuse me,” Mr. Bobby said. He took a quick one himself. “How the hell am I to keep track of you goddam delinquents? All I ask is you get that Hudson out of here when I’ve got decent trade.”
“I’m drinking quietly,” Thomas Hudson said.
“You better.” Mr. Bobby corked the bottle in front of Roger and put it back on the shelf.
Young Tom nodded to him approvingly and whispered to Roger. Roger lowered his head on his hands. Then he raised his head and pointed to the bottle. Young Tom shook his head. Bobby picked up the bottle, uncorked it, and set it down in front of Roger.
“Drink yourself to death,” he said. “I won’t lose any sleep.”
By now the two groups were watching this pretty closely; but still politely. They were slumming all right but they were polite and they seemed nice people.
Then Roger spoke for the first time.
“Give the little rat a drink,” he said to Bobby.
“What will you have, son?” Mr. Bobby asked Andy.
“Gin,” Andy said.
Thomas Hudson was careful not to watch the people. But he could feel them.
Bobby put the bottle in front of Andy and set a glass by it. Andy poured the glass full and lifted it to Bobby.
“Here’s to you, Mr. Bobby,” he said. “The first one all day.”
“Drink up,” said Bobby. “You come in late.”
“Papa had his money,” David said. “His birthday money from mother.”
Young Tom looked up in his father’s face and started to cry. He kept himself from actually crying but it was sad to see and it was not overdone.
Nobody spoke until Andy said, “I’d like another gin, please, Mr. Bobby.”
“Pour your own,” said Bobby. “You poor unfortunate child.” Then he turned to Thomas Hudson. “Hudson,” he said. “Have another and get out.”
“I can stay as long as I’m quiet,” Thomas Hudson said.
“If I know you, you won’t be quiet for long,” Bobby said, vindictively.
Roger pointed toward the bottle and young Tom hung onto his sleeve. He’d controlled his tears and he was being brave and good.
“Mr. Davis,” he said. “You don’t have to.”
Roger did not say anything and Mr. Bobby put the bottle in front of him again.
“Mr. Davis, you have to write tonight,” young Tom said. “You know you promised to write tonight.”
“What do you think I’m drinking for?” Roger said to him.
“But, Mr. Davis, you didn’t have to drink this much when you wrote The Storm.”
“Why don’t you shut up?” Roger said to him.
Young Tom was patient and brave and long-suffering.
“I will, Mr. Davis. I only do it because you asked me to. Can’t we go back to the house?”
“You’re a good kid, Tom,” Roger said. “But we’re staying here.”
“For very long, Mr. Davis?”
“To the goddam end.”
“I don’t think we need to, Mr. Davis,” young Tom said. “Really I don’t. And you know if you get so you can’t see you won’t be able to write.”
“I’ll dictate,” Roger said. “Like Milton.”
“I know you dictate beautifully,” young Tom said. “But this morning when Miss Phelps tried to take it off the machine it was mostly music.”
“I’m writing an opera,” Roger said.
“I know you’ll write a wonderful opera, Mr. Davis. But don’t you think we ought to finish the novel first? You took a big advance on the novel.”
“Finish it yourself,” Roger said. “You ought to know the plot by now.”
“I know the plot, Mr. Davis, and it’s a lovely plot but it has that same girl in it that you had die in that other book and people may be confused.”
“Dumas did the same thing.”
“Don’t badger him,” Thomas Hudson said to young Tom. “How can he write if you badger him all the time?”
“Mr. Davis, couldn’t you just get a really good secretary to write it for you? I’ve heard that novelists did that.”
“No. Too expensive.”
“Do you want me to help you, Roger?” Thomas Hudson asked.
“Yes. You can paint it.”
“That’s wonderful,” young Tom said. “Will you truly, papa?”
“I’ll paint it in a day,” Thomas Hudson said.