CHAPTER 5

IN THE DRUNKEN COCKROACH

We got the Aardvark settled quickly in a hotel near the center of town and then decided to go out and eat someplace. Hawser Dawson wanted to go along till he got his money and since he wanted it in cash and the banks didn't open till the next day we decided to let him tag along. There was but one stipulation: that he take a bath. This almost broke Stinky's heart but he consented and when he met us in the lobby a few hours later, he was (as he termed it) "disgustingly filthy clean."

Rubin was looking quite elegant in a rented tux which was a size sixty-seven. The Schwartz girls were absolutely ravishing in their two evening gowns that were strapless, hemless, backless, topless, bottomless, frontless, and with a plunging neckline.

But the really dashing one was Cassius Q Aardvark. He was decked out in a conservative green and red suit with a yellow tie, spats, a cane, top hat and the perennial lavender earmuffs. We could never understand it but the newspapers said the next day that about fifty cases of color blindness and shock were brought into the hospital raving about an Aardvark with a top hat and earmuffs.

That was really a queer night. We started out at the Stork Club. Sherm Billingsley had gotten wind of the Aardvark and had a special room reserved with a wall knocked out for the elephant Rubin. The men were practically fawning all over the Schwartz Valkyries who calmly broke Champagne bottles over their heads and continued to stay by their erstwhile pal, the Aardvark. After we had gotten well well placed I looked at the Aardvark. He was holding sway like a royal Sultan, complete with dancing girls. The young blade was surrounded by the chorus line and was having a rough time with them. But he had eyes only for the Schwartz sisters. They sat there exchanging guttural sounds.

After we got finished at the Stork we took in rapid succession the Mocambo, the 21, 22, 23, 24, and 25 Clubs, the Noire Pansy Club, and the Hi, Low, Top, and Homburg Hat Clubs.

About nine o'clock we were just about pooped out when we noticed that we had lost Hawser someplace. It was quite a relief to us as he had poured the contents of a potted palm over himself at the Noire Pansy Club to make himself feel more at home and he had begun to reacquire the odor that was peculiar only to his body.

It was then that Cassius remarked, "Look at the neighborhood we're in. This is lower than low."

Truer than true were his words. We were in a neighborhood that looked like the inside of a shell-shocked oyster shell. We were surrounded by broken down houses and buildings that looked as though they had been old when Moxie's Army was chewing on rattles. At the end of the street that we were on was a building that was a little better; just a little. By better, I mean it was standing. There was a sign over the door that proceeded to tell us in no uncertain terms that this was the "Drunken Cockroach Nightclub."

I was all for turning back as was Cassius Q, but the Valkyries, Olga and Ketanya who had consumed a great deal of wine (they learned how in Valhalla, they told us) ran on ahead and without a backward hiccough vanished into the rickety building which threatened at any moment to fall on their heads.

With a shrug to the Gods of Chance Rubin, Cassius and myself proceeded to the Spirit Hostelry, or as you choose, Beer Parlor.

The inside of the Drunken Cockroach was worse than the outside. It looked like a nightmare by Dali on a night when he had run out of brushes and had started using his feet.

The bar, which ran across the back of the smoke-filled room, was of a seasick green color while the walls were a burnt umber tinged with beige. The floor was ornamented with a five-pointed star that showed several crawly type animals such as the kind that "... go bump in the night." They were of various hues and were, in all, quite sickening. The bartender was the worst. A small sign above the door related to the fact that he was Oliver Absinthe. He was not only repulsive, he was nauseating. A large bald head encased in folds of pink flesh was what surmounted the largest bay window in the country, outside of Rubin's. He was wearing an apron that showed the demise of many a martini. There were also spaghetti, dirt, milk, coffee, and gravy stains on the apron besides a group of green blotches that I couldn't quite place. It looked like the remains of last week's spinach.

Have you ever heard a sick Hippo tell you about his operation? Well, if not try to imagine how it would sound, since that was what this fellow's voice sounded like. "What's ya pleasure," he said.

"Nothing much," I answered, looking for a quick way to get out if it was needed.

We seated ourselves in a booth next to the Valkyries who were fast at work guzzling beer. Rubin just stood with one foot on the brass rail, which at the application of his weight, bent. He ordered another double double scotch and in one gulp downed it. It was then that the elephant began screeching in an unelephantlike way and kicking himself in his more than ample posterior. We started shaking him by the trunk and asked him what the trouble was and he yelled that the last drink was one too many. He was seeing pink people.

After this outburst I returned to the booth to see that the Aardvark was gone. My attempts at locating him were halted suddenly by the screaming of another person. It seems as though that evening was open season on howling. The person yelling was Oliver Absinthe, the bartender, who was yelling at Cassius who was in turn yelling and alternately beating with his fists and a cuspidor, a slot machine that was not acting in the way Cassius expected it to. With a resounding howl the machine exploded showering colored lights, nickels, pieces of wire, and an Aardvark at me. The last was caught by Ketanya Schwartz in one hand while downing a beer with the other. Absinthe was jumping up and down behind his seasick green bar while the rather shady looking patrons were scrambling for the nickels.

Absinthe, who had been systematically withdrawing each strand of hair from his chest (his head was bald), let loose a barrage of verbal abuse that even singed my ears. Besides that, he let loose a string of whiskey bottles that sailed across the room and felled, one at a time, the clientele on the opposite side. The bodies began piling up as Oliver the bartender became not only bald on his head, but upon his barrel chest also. I for one dove for safety under the table, and there was pleasantly surprised to find the half-pickled Olga Schwartz still swilling spirits. I raised my head in time to see the Aardvark swinging across the nearly-ruined room on the trunk of Rubin, who was sitting in the middle of the floor hitting himself and repeating, "Go away, go away." Giving out a sound like Tarzan with the gout, he flew through the murky smoke-filled air and with a sidearm that would do Bob Feller credit, hit the still-bellowing bartender a resounding clunk in the cranium. Absinthe fell like a poled ox.

By this time there was much yelling and hollering by everyone within a radius of two blocks. In the distance we heard the mournful wail that signals the entrance of the blue coated gendarmes. With a significant look we aroused Rubin, whose moustache had begun to droop sadly, climbed upon his back, and amidst the clatter and crash of beer bottles, escaped the "Drunken Cockroach Nightclub." Like I said, what a night!