George Ryan moved with the lunch hour crowds along Madison Avenue. He had refused an invitation to lunch with his colleagues in the Motivational Research Department of his advertising agency. Like most New Yorker - after two years in Manhattan he considered himself a New Yorkers - George did not really hear the noises which surrounded him. A fire truck rushed by, going against the streams of fast moving traffic. The big engine roared past - unnoticed. An ambulance screamed its way cross town, and pneumatic drills suddenly began their ear-splitting rat-a-tat on the corner pavement.
He did not even glance in their direction.
The dirt of the streets and the sidewalks, constantly kicked up by the wheels of the traffic and pushed by capricious gusts of wind as they swept around the sharp corners, did not find their way into George's eyes. He had developed the New York pedestrian's squint, the unconscious, lightning quick reflexes of the eyelids which automatically veiled the eye at a thousandth of a second from particles of matter which were not actually seen.
It was a merciful adjustment, a metropolitan mutation which deprived the denizens of all great cities of conscious or thoughtful sight and hearing. George heard the awful cacophony, but his mind turned the amplifier way down. His eyes saw the dirt and filth, the beggars, the derelicts, the buildings crowding out the sun and the sky. His nose smelled the polluted air and the great unwashed public, but in both cases his brain refused to register compassion or disgust.
George Ryan, because of his training as a social psychologist, may have been somewhat more aware of this mental diminution of his senses than others. He knew, for example, that sanity had come to be considered a relative condition - relative to one's environment. For New Yorkers to survive, to function without depressants or medical attention, the dulling of the aforementioned senses was essential.
Whatever else he may have been, George Ryan considered himself sane. In fact, he made a point of being very sane. He did not have much faith in what he chose to term social sanity.
If pressed, he would come right out and say society, every society, was insane. His arguments were uncomfortably convincing.
George, at thirty, was still unmarried. He was tall, even handsome in a large featured way. His sexual interests were normal, and the objects of his desire were always definitely above average in beauty and intelligence. Since he courted them one at a time and enjoyed their charms exclusively until they got married or moved away, George did not consider himself a philanderer. His refusal to consider marriage was a matter of principle. With society the way it was - insane - he simply could not accept responsibility for a wife, children, the PTA and Cub Scouts.
There was an important threat to his principle waiting for him now at La Petite Cigale, an expensive little restaurant on 57th Street. George quickened his pace at the thought of her. His musing cut out all sound and conscious sight entirely.
Janet Dewhurst’s initial charms were obvious. The fact that she had her own income and a very attractive apartment was also an asset. She turned out to be very intelligent and perceptive which made the courtship interesting but uncertain, and at times, frustrating. It was not that she made any demands. On the contrary, Janet was very generous and very accomplished. The big trouble was she really seemed to love him. She was very affectionate, looked up to him, asked him for advice, yet made no demands whatsoever, and never showed the slightest sign of possessiveness or jealousy. The more he told her of his convictions against marriage, for George was an honest man even with women, the more she appeared to agree with him and was even more generous. She did not talk about giving, she just gave and George was beginning to feel very frustrated. He knew he was in love. If only, he thought, she weren't so damn sweet.
However, society was insane. There was no doubt about that, and he was a man of principle. Still---.
George was wearing, inconsistent with his Madison Avenue attire, a green velour Tyrolean hat. It was not one of those practically brimless, perfectly blocked, imitation jobs manufactured domestically for the local sports.
George was a big man with prominent features. Such a practically brimless hat would have looked ridiculous. He had purchased his in Berchtesgaden during the fall of his year at the University of Munich. This hat was a rich, deep green. The velour nap was thick and smooth, and the brim was wide enough to offer some shade for the eyes and protection from the rain. Even the gemsbock ornament was honestly come by. He had personally shot the gemsbock. He had heard that this was the local custom, and so he had gotten a permit, hired a guide, tramped for miles in the German Alps and killed his animal. Of course, in wet weather the "shaving brush" smelled extremely gamy, but it was authentic.
George arrived at the corner of 57th Street and Madison Avenue at 12:50. The light was against him so he took the opportunity to get a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and let it dangle there while he fished through his pockets for a match - he had lost the slim, gold Dunhill which Janet had given him on his birthday - but there was no match. He brought his eyes into conscious focus and regarded the faces of the crowd waiting to cross the street. He wondered not only which one of these faces smoked, but which of them would not resent being asked for a light.
The traffic light changed just as he had been about to make an approach, and George found himself standing indecisively on the corner, for a brief moment at least, by himself. Several people brushed past him. His eyes took on the pedestrian squint. They went back out of conscious focus. As he started to cross the street, the light went against him again and so he stood back on the curb, oblivious to the cigarette still dangling from his lips. He felt a tap on his shoulder.
George frowned, turned and saw a short, poorly dressed, mild looking man wearing thick glasses which made his eyes seem enormous. "You vant a leidt, Mister?"
George refocused.
The man's clothes looked secondhand. He had on an old brown cardigan underneath a badly stained vest. George had forgotten about the cigarette. He now took it out of his mouth.
"No, thanks. Very nice of you to ask. I'm really trying to give up the habit. I wanted a light desperately a moment ago, but the urge has passed."
George had started to turn back to the curb. The light was once again with him, and people had begun brushing past both him and the little foreign type.
"You are a liddle early."
The owl man insisted doggedly.
"I beg your pardon?"
George looked puzzled.
"You are a liddle early."
The owl eyed man insisted doggedly.
George shrugged.
"Better early than late?"
He said it as if it were a question.
"Ja, dot's reidt."
The man regarded George intently for a moment.
"Okay," he said finally. "Here is it."
He thrust a large white envelope into George's hands. George left it there.
"Pudt it avay so somebody shouldn't see it. It's all there. You could belief me. Pudt it in your pocket!"
The little man had become quite agitated.
George did as he was told, and glanced furtively at the crowd. He didn't want anyone to think he was letting this little fellow intimidate him, but he didn't want to create a scene.
"Dot's bedder. You go now."
"Well."
George shrugged. The light was with him.
George stepped into the street and strode rapidly across Madison Avenue. A man couldn't even stand around with a cigarette in his mouth without attracting all the nuts in the neighborhood. He looked back at the corner. The little owl eyed character was still there. George made off into the crowd. He was late for his date with Janet.
It was now 1:00 PM and another heavily built man, wearing a green velour Tyrolean hat, arrived at the southeast corner of Madison Avenue and 57th Street. He too placed a cigarette in his mouth and appeared unable to find a match. From his left, he was facing west, he was being carefully observed by the little, owl eyed man. The stout little foreigner pulled a large, gold, pocket watch from a vest pocket, consulted it and frowned. He shook his head, shrugged his fat little shoulders and approached the man.
"You vant a leidt, Mister?"
The man looked down at him.
"No," he said quickly "I've changed my mind."
He threw his cigarette away. The fellow's accent was definitely Slavic, probably Russian.
The little man looked dumbfounded. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.
"Vell," said the man in the green velour Tyrolean hat, "Vere is it?"
"Vere is vot?"
"Envelope, of course."
"There muss be a mistake."
The hapless little man tried to avoid the big man's furious stare.
The heavy set man looked uneasily at the crowd, and grabbing the agitated little fellow by the arm, conducted him into the nearest bar. He found an empty table near the back and sat down.
"Vhat has gone wrong? Tell me."
"How do I know you are who?"
"Vhat do you mean how do you know I am who? I vas at right place exactly right time. I refused offer of light. I am varing silly, goddamn hat!"
"Nodt so loudt." The little fellow tried to swallow again.
"Dere vass - anudder who had reidt hat and cigarette from mouth. He said no to leidt. He vass early - fife, ten minutes."
He bit his lip.
"Did you give him envelope?"
The little man nodded dumbly.
"You are fool!"
"He vass agent from enemy! I vill be liqvidated!"
"It vass coincidence. He couldn't have been agent. Some idiot varing green hat stopped at corner at approximately right time and refused offer of light. Any other explanation is impossible."
He regarded the terrified little man for a moment.
"Vhat vere man's exact vords vhen he refused light? Did he say, "I've changed my mind?"
"Nodt exzacktly. He said he vass tryink to give op smokink. I thought his vay ov refusink vass much bedder."
"Don't you know that ve must be exact?"
"Yes, yes, but I thought —"
"You thought!"
"I vill be liqvidated! I know it! I —"
"Shut up!"
The heavy set man seized the little fellow's wrist and squeezed it hard.
"Ow! Dot hurdts!
"Get hold of yourself. Now, you must remember exactly vhat he looked like."
"Ja, ja."
The little owl eyed man nodded, eager to please.
"Vell. He vass big, like you, and he vass varing green velour Tyrolean hat."
"I know that, you bloody fool!"
