Ambient 06 - Going, Going, Gone

slicing off.«
    »Now, Mister Smith –«
    »I’m passing. Thanks anyway.« Easing myself up slowly, I aimed a finger at the timepiece hanging on the wall. »Got to roll, I fear, New York’s waiting.«
    »You strike me as an infinitely adaptable fellow of subtle resources,« Hamilton said. The smile he gave me would have shamed a wax museum. »Martin knows you’re the man for the job. Perhaps we should agree to leave the matter open. It seems to me you should be considerably more interested in hearing us out than you’ve yet understood.«
    I understood he could probably corner the market in nasty if he wanted, but I didn’t want to wait around and find out. »Tally ho, my brothers, that train’s at the gate.«
    »I’ll be calling you,« Martin said.
    Didn’t look back as I strolled but I knew they kept me in the crosshairs. Took the long way out through the lobby, to tell the world I was in no rush. Soon as I was out of range I let my feet do their business. Had the admiral outside whistle up a cab, and two minutes later I was cruising up Connecticut en route to DuPont Circle. Neglecting to stop by the stationhouse to give the gang my regards I bounded down the escalator and hopped the noon express. Settling into a crowded car I switched off the seat’s radio and settled back, trying to put breakfast, that song, those ghosts, everything out of mind. In two hours I’d pipeline straight into Penn Station’s warm marble barn and then it’d be hello, New York. I couldn’t wait.
     
    Once I was back in the free world I wasted no time heading for my castle. No sooner did I get there, though, than I realized I might as well have left the drawbridge down. My greeting committee floated above the corner of the living room, near the window and to the left of the hi-fi.
    Help.
    What really made my bag rise this time was my quietude in the face of this species of unnatural. Bad pennies are forever turning up but not being surprised when you find them is another matter indeed. There was only one thing left to try. Hair of a different dog taken in ideal conditions proves an unfailing remedy in most cases of aftershock, and I could see no reason it wouldn’t work here. I have to be truthful and say I don’t know how hard I looked. Unplugging the phone, I greased and papered my Victrola’s spinner and slid a new needle in the tone arm. Thumbed through the C shelf until I spotted the right man. Lay down the shellac, grooved the point and let it spin. No crime in listening. Never was.
    » Pastafazoola, Tallullah –«
    No crime in singing along, though the neighbours might disagree.
    » Pass me a pancake, Mandrake –«
    No doubt about it, these palefaces weren’t hep to the jive. My two ghosts took the hint and condensed. Suspected they’d be back but that was then and this was now.
    Alone again I stashed the cash Martin’d slipped me for my efforts in the strongbox, then pulled down my humidor to keep a date with Mary Jane. Dressed her in something tight and kissed her down to her toes. Got a Pepsi out of the fridge and lent Cab my ears. Though I don’t teetotal I’m not one for putting on the boozebag. Body trips leave me too full of that old ennui. The ideal agents as I see it are the ones that take your head off and let you hold it awhile. I cooped inside, content, till delirious night came creeping through the streets. Then, after a quick rinse and shave, I snatched up my wrapper and ankled downstairs.
    Two blocks west on the slum end of Park was my crib away from crib. Those up on their long-gone New York know the tale of McGurk's Suicide Hall, famed Bowery hotspot of the gay nineties, a most favoured lure for the addled and unsavoury, whilom HQ of the fearsome Coney Boys. If you soaked McGurk's in cheap black and Chinese red you'd get Max's. All the ambience of an opium den full of Dada girls, though louder. El perfecto, in the vernacular. No Packards lined the curb two deep so I suspected the night's talent didn't attract the riffraff. When I checked the marquee I saw that I was right, WELCOME THE VELVET UNDERGROUND AND NICO TO MAX'S KANSAS CITY. I'd head upstairs to revel after I perambulated the lower depths to see who was where. Before I could go in I noted out of the corner of one eye some character in a Rogers Peet suit, passing out flyers at the corner. He had a small table set up and a sign hung on the front, MAX YOUR PO INSTEAD, Some kind of anti-war gig I figured, and headed inside.
    Smoke of all