Moloch: Or, This Gentile World by Henry Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

maundering flow of inanity that started off at random and kept going like an eight-day clock. Despite the fact that it was afternoon, almost evening, he was under the impression that it was still morning.
    “Just a moment,” said Moloch solicitously, rising and extending his hand in greeting. “Do you mind telling these gentlemen your name?”
    “Luther, sir. Luther Becklein. I’m a Presbyterian. My wife, she was Catholic; we both belong to the Second Presbyterian Church of Hoboken “
    “But I thought you came from Paterson,” Prigozi wheezed, pretending that he had misunderstood.
    “No, friend….” Luther was as placid as a lake. “I used to live in Paterson years ago. We had three nice rooms there on Second Avenue, three lovely rooms. Tillie was just five years old then— and smart as a Jew.…”
    Moloch tittered. “As a Jew, you say?” That’s right, friend. I have no religious prejudices. I took her out of the kindergarten later and put her in a parochial school. That was when I lost my job with the window-shade people and we had to move to Hoboken. The missus had to take a jani-tress job, but I used to help her with the dishes and little things… ,”
    “Like rushing the growler, I suppose,” Matt remarked in a sedate manner, meaning to imply that such a custom was eminently respectable—quite the proper thing, in fact.
    But Prigozi refused to permit the conversation to drift into such channels. He was for dredging at once, to see what lay buried in the rich silt at the bottom. He moved closer to the man and laid a sweaty affectionate paw on his shoulder.
    “You said a minute ago, Luther, that you used to belong to the Christian Endeavor Society once. Is that right?”
    He spoke in an ominous, threatening tone, as though to convey the impression that such an admission constituted a breach of the law.
    But Luther was impervious—to cajolery and threats alike.
    Meanwhile, unnoticed by the others, Matt Reardon had invited Moloch’s secretary to join the group and report the conversation verbatim.
    “Never mind the Christian Endeavor Society,” said Moloch, suddenly taking a hand in the pleasantries, and radiating a warm, protective assurance which increased Prigozi’s aggravation.
    “Is he your office boy?” asked Luther, indicating Prigozi.
    “No,” said Moloch dryly, “he’s an undertaker—a friend of mine. He just dropped in to pay me a visit.”
    While this had been going on, Luther was busy fumbling in his pockets, evidently in search of some object of vital importance. As he emptied one pocket after the other a collection of miscellaneous trifles spilled on to the floor. Among them were two stale ham sandwiches, a pair of pliers, a vest-pocket dictionary, some tacks, three yacht-club buttons which had been polished assiduously, a harmonica, hairpins, marbles … God knows what unthinkable gimcracks he might have exhumed if he hadn’t fortunately come across the object of his search.
    Tenderly he placed a worn-looking gilt-edged book in Moloch’s hands. The New Testament!
    “They gave it to me at the hospital,” Luther began, in his unruffled, habitually detached manner. “I always keep it with me so as I can read a few lines before going to bed … to keep me good . I don’t really need it, friend, because I never did a wrong in my life, but I believe in bein’ a good Christian…. There ain’t nobody can take my religion away from me, ain’t that right, friend?”
    Moloch nodded.
    “You see, friend, everything was all right after I got out of the hospital, only Tillie got wronged up account of her mother’s bad example. The judge himself said it was bad for the missus to be sittin’ on the coal scuttle all day when she oughter been scrubbing floors....”
    “You mean she drank?”
    “Exactly, friend.” The same placid demeanor—impossible to ruffle him. One might have said “murdered” instead of “drank.”
    “My wife wasn’t exactly a good woman,” Luther