The Last Gentleman

who wore a furry alpine hat which was too small for him.
    â€œWhat number did you say it was?” he asked the pseudo-Negro.
    â€œOne forty-two.”
    â€œThen here it is,” said the engineer, circling the block a second time and pulling up at the same group of householders. He followed the pseudo-Negro up the walk, the latter as garrulous and shaky as ever and noticing nothing, his nerve ends firing at the slightest breeze, even nodding to the householders on the next lawn, whom he fancied to be well-wishers of some sort. They were not well-wishers. They stood about silently, hands in pockets, and kicking the turf. Next to the burly alpiner the engineer spied trouble itself: a thin fierce-eyed damp-skinned woman whose hair was done up in plastic reels, a regular La Pasionaria of the suburbs. He ventured another look. Beyond a doubt, she was glaring straight at him, the engineer!
    Mort Prince met them in the deep-set cathedral door, beer in, hand, a pleasant slightish fellow with twirling black hair which flew away in a banner of not absolutely serious rebellion. He wore a black leather wristlet and, as he talked, performed a few covert isometrics on the beer can. The engineer liked him at once, perceiving that he was not the mighty fornicator of his novels but a perky little bullshooter of a certain style, the sort who stands in the kitchen during parties, suspended from himself so-to-speak, beer can in hand and matter forming at the corner of his mouth, all the while spieling off some very good stuff and very funny. One would like to get him going (and the engineer was just the one).
    One glance past him into the house and he knew also how it stood with the house and how the writer lived in it. Their voices echoed on bare parquet floors. There was no furniture except a plastic dinette and an isomorphic bar in a doorway. So that was how he did it, standing clear of walls suspended within himself and disdaining chairs because chairs were for sitting and therefore cancelled themselves.
    He shook hands with the engineer with a strong wiry grip, pronating his elbow.
    â€œThis is the guy that’s going with us,” said the pseudo-Negro, linking arms with them. “He knows everybody down there and the ones he doesn’t know he’s kin to.”
    â€œNo,” said the engineer, frowning and blushing.
    â€œYou from down South?” asked Mort Prince, squeezing the beer can and not quite looking at him.
    â€œYes.” Though the pseudo-Negro had led him to believe that Mort Prince would welcome him with open arms, he couldn’t help noticing that the writer wore an indifferent, if not unfriendly, expression.
    â€œTell him where you’re from.”
    The engineer told him.
    But Mort Prince seemed abstracted and gloomy and did not respond. He said nothing and went back to pressing the beer can.
    â€œThat’s where the festival is,” said the pseudo-Negro, giving the writer several meaningful nudges.
    â€œNo, I’m sorry,” said the engineer, looking at his watch. He was anxious to be on his way. He didn’t like the look of things. Through the open doorway—Mort had not quite invited them in and they were standing barely beyond the sill—the engineer noticed that the householders were closer. Yes, beyond a doubt they were bearing down upon Mort Prince’s house.
    â€œI really appreciate it but as I told Mr. Aiken—” began the engineer, already nodding to the new arrivals to prepare Mort Prince and the pseudo-Negro—but it was too late.
    â€œHey, you,” called the burly man in the alpine hat, pointing with his chin and resting his hands lightly on his hips.
    The engineer looked at him twice. Beyond any question, the stranger was addressing him. His heart gave a single dread leap. Adrenalin erected his hair roots, could it have come at last, a simple fight, with the issue clear beyond peradventure? “Are you speaking to me?”
    â€œYou from Haddon Heights?”
    â€œSir?” The engineer cupped a hand to his ear. The burly man’s T-shirt had the legend Deep Six printed on it. No doubt he belonged to a bowling league. He reminded the engineer of the fellows he used to see around bowling alleys in Long Island City.
    â€œYou heard me.”
    â€œSir, I don’t believe I like your tone,” said the engineer, advancing a step with his good ear put forward. Perhaps the time had come again when you could be