The Road to Wellville Read Online Free Page A

Sturman look into it, and be prepared to take dictation in my office at eleven P.M. sharp, will you?”
    Dab was a short large man with an unfortunate waddle; the more he hurried after his Chief, the more pronounced it became. “Dr. Kellogg,” he was saying, his voice harsh and breathless, and there seemed to be some sort of urgency stuck in the craw of it, “Dr. Kellogg—”
    The Doctor pulled up short in the middle of the wide gleaming corridor that stretched five hundred thirty feet from the Grand Parlor to the lobby, the corridor set in the spotless Italian marble he’d chosen himself, and spun round to face his secretary. Over Dab’s shoulder he could see the people filing out of the Grand Parlor, a parade of the distinguished, the celebrated and the wealthy. A group of nurses passed by, beautiful girls all, smiling shyly. “Evening, Doctor,” they murmured. “Evening, girls,” he replied grandly. “And now, Poult, what in God’s name is it that’s got you so worked up?”
    But the doctor didn’t have to wait for his secretary’s response: there it was, slouching indolently against the wall not ten feet away, there itwas, staring him in the face. All at once his mood shattered like a windowpane. He could feel the rage take hold of him. “How dare you!” he choked, storming up to the ragged figure propped against the wall. “Haven’t I told you—”
    But the figure moved and spoke and cut him off. The words seemed to come from deep inside him even as the sparkling audience flowed through the doors of the Grand Parlor and made their way in a knot toward them; the words spat themselves out like a curse, twisted by the unshaven lips, forced from the stinking rags and the feverish eyes: “Hello, Father. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

   Chapter 2   
Scavengers
of the
Sea

    I gnoring the dainty little three-pronged fork, Charlie Ossining lifted the oyster to his mouth, tipped the shell forward and with a quick practiced pursing of the lips, allowed it to become one with himself. Before him, atop a bed of crushed ice, lay eleven others,’ glistening with the juice of life. He lingered over the second, garnishing it with a dash of cocktail sauce and a squeeze of lemon before sending it off to bed with its brother, the moment settling round him in a warm gastric glow as he took a leisurely sip of his Pommery & Greno ’96, and contemplated the snug green neck of the bottle peeking out from its icy cradle. This was living, all right, he thought, patting his lips with a swath of snowy linen and letting his gaze fall idly over the glittering depths of the car.
    Outside, the scenery beat by the windows, as cold and cheerless as an oyster’s gullet—did oysters have gullets? he wondered briefly before downing another—but here, in the softly lit grip of the diner, it was all mahogany and crystal. Amazing, really. You’d hardly think they were rocketing along at nearly forty miles an hour—the car barely trembled, the champagne clinging to the rim of the glass even as the potted palm swayed serenely over the table. He could feel the vibration of the rails, of course, but it was nothing, a distant throb, as if threads of silk were pulling him gently through the bleak countryside.
    He was halfway through the plate of oysters—six shells denuded, six to go—when the Negro waiter pranced up the aisle, a pair of menus clutched to his chest, a cadaverous-looking couple following in his wake. Casting a quick look round him, Charlie saw to his dismay that his was the only table for four occupied by a single diner, and saw further that they were headed straight for him. So much for solitary pleasures.
    “’Scuse me, sir,” the Negro said, dipping his head in extenuation, and then he drew out the chair opposite Charlie for the lady (thirtyish, too pale, too thin, nice eyes, a three-tiered hat built up like the Tower of Pisa with artificial fruit, lace, ribbon, assorted gewgaws and a pale little dead