"But then part of my decision happened early on. I knew-I swear I did!-the quality of my own thespian performance!

"I heard it from every decent beggar in Dublin when I was nine days old. 'What a beggar's babe that is!' they cried.

"And my mother, standing outside the Abbey Theatre in the rain when I was twenty and thirty days old, and the actors and directors coming out tuning their ears to my Gaelic laments, they said I should be signed up and trained! So the stage would have been mine with size, but size never came. And there's no brat's roles in Shakespeare. Puck, maybe; what else? So meanwhile at forty days and fifty nights after being born my performance made hackles rise and beggars yammer to borrow my hide, flesh, soul, and voice for an hour here, an hour there. The old lady rented me out by the half day when she was sick abed. And not a one bought and bundled me off did not return with praise. 'My G.o.d,' they cried, 'his yell would suck money from the Pope's poor box!'

"And outside the cathedral one Sunday morn, an American cardinal was riven to the spot by the yowl I gave when I saw his fancy skirt and bright cloth. Said he: That cry is the first cry of Christ at his birth, mixed with the dire yell of Lucifer churned out of Heaven, and spilled in fiery muck down the landslide slops of h.e.l.l!'

"That's what the dear cardinal said. Me, eh? Christ and the devil in one lump, the gabble screaming out my mouth half lost, half found-can you top that?" "I cannot," I said.

"Then, later on, many years further, there was this old wise church bishop. The first time, he spied me, took a quick look, and . . . winked! Then grabbed my scabby fist and tucked the pound note in and gave it a squeeze and another wink, and him gone. I always figured, whenever we pa.s.sed, he had my number, but I never winked back. I played it dumb. And there was always a good pound in it for me, and him proud of my not giving in and letting him know that I knew that he knew.

"Of all the thousands who've gone by in the grand ta-ta, he was the only one ever looked me right in the eye, save you! The rest were all too embarra.s.sed by life to so much as gaze as they paid out the dole.

"Well, I mean now, what with that bishop, and the Abbey Players, and the other beggars advising me to go with my own natural self and talent and the genius busy in my baby fat, all that must have turned my head.

"Added to which, my having the famines tolled in my ears, and not a day pa.s.sed we did not see a funeral go by or watch the unemployed march up and down in strikes . . . well, don't you see? Battered by rains and storms of people and knowing so much, I must have been driven down, driven back, don't you think?

"You cannot starve a babe and have a man; or do miracles run different than of old?

"My mind, with all the drear stuff dripped in my ears, was it likely to want to run around free in all that guile and sin and being put upon by natural nature and unnatural man? No. No! I just wanted my little cubby, and since I was long out of that, and no squeezing back, I just squinched myself small against the rains. I flaunted the torments.

"And do you know? I won."

You did, Brat, I thought. You did.

"Well, I guess that's my story," said the small creature there perched on a chair in the empty saloon bar.

He looked at me for the first time since he had begun his tale.

The woman who was his sister, but seemed his gray mother, now dared to lift her gaze also.

"Do," I said, "do the people of Dublin know about you?"

"Some," the babe said. "And envy me. And hate me, I guess, for getting off easy from G.o.d and his plagues and fates."

"Do the police know?"

"Who would tell them?"

There was a long pause.

Rain beat on the windows.

Somewhere a door hinge shrieked like a soul in torment as someone went out and someone else came in.

Silence.

"Not me," I said.

"Ah, Christ, Christ ..."

And tears rolled down the sister's cheeks.

And tears rolled down the sooty strange face of the babe.

Both of them let the tears go, did not try to wipe them off, and at last they stopped, and they drank up the rest of their gin and sat a moment, and then I said: "The best hotel in town is the Royal Hibernian-the best for beggars, that is."

"True," they said.

"And for fear of meeting me, you've kept away from the richest territory?"

"We have."

"The night's young," I said. "There's a flight of rich ones coming in from Shannon just before midnight."

I stood up. "If you'll let ... I'll be happy to walk you there now."

"The saints' calendar is full," said the woman, "but somehow we'll find room for you."

Then I walked the woman McGillahee and her brat back through the rain toward the Royal Hibernian Hotel, and we talked along the way of the mobs of people coming in from the airport just before twelve, drinking and registering at that late hour, that fine hour for begging and, with the cold rain and all, not to be missed.

I carried the babe for some part of the way because she looked tired, and when we got in sight of the hotel, I handed him back, saying: "Is this the first time, ever?"

"We was found out by a tourist? Aye," said the babe. "You have an otter's eye."

"I'm a writer."

"Nail me to the Cross," said he. "I might have known! You won't ..."

"No," I said. "I won't write a single word about this, about you, for another thirty years or more."

"Mum's the word?"

"Mum."

We were a hundred feet from the hotel steps.

"I must shut up here," said Brat, lying there in his old sister's arms, fresh as peppermint candy from the gin, round-eyed, wild-haired, swathed in dirty linens and wools, small fists gently ges-ticulant. "We've a rule, Molly and me, no chat while at work. Grab ahold."

I grabbed the small fist, the little fingers. It was like holding a sea anemone.

"G.o.d bless you," he said.

"And G.o.d," I said, "take care of you."

"Ah," said the babe, "in another year we'll have enough saved for the New York boat."

"We will," she said.

"And no more begging, and no more being the dirty babe crying by night in the storms, but some decent work in the open, do you know, do you see, will you light a candle to that?"

"It's lit." I squeezed his hand.

"Go on ahead."

"I'm gone," I said.

And walked quickly to the front of the hotel, where airport taxis were starting to arrive.

Behind, I heard the woman trot forward, I saw her arms lift, with the Holy Child held out in the rain.

"If there's mercy in you!" she cried. "Pity . . . !"

And heard the coins ring in the cup and heard the sour babe wailing, and more cars coming and the woman crying Mercy and Thanks and Pity and G.o.d Bless and Praise Him, and wiping tears from my own eyes, feeling eighteen inches tall, somehow made it up the high steps and into the hotel and to bed, where rains fell cold on the rattled windows all the night and where, in the dawn, when I woke and looked out, the street was empty save for the steady-falling storm . . .

24.

The incredible news came by cable.

The National Inst.i.tute of Arts and Letters was proud to award me a special prize in literature and a cash stipend of five thousand dollars. Would I please appear in New York City on May 24 to receive the Award, the plaudits, and the check?

Would I?!

My G.o.d, I thought. At last! G.o.d! For years people have called me Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon. People have said no rockets would ever be built. People have claimed we won't go to Mars or the Moon. But now, maybe someone will call me by my right name.

I took the news with me out to a late breakfast at Courtown. Late breakfast, h.e.l.l, all of the breakfasts were late. It was ten thirty by the time I got there with the cable folded in my pocket. I walked in on Ricki and John and Jake Vickers over their eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Jake was over visiting, helping John figure out Kipling's The Man Who Would Be King for a film up ahead. John must have smelled the cable in my shirt, for he studied my face as I regrouped my omelette on my plate and made faces on the eggs with ketchup.

"Well, if that doesn't look like the cougar that ate the boa constrictor, head and tail. Cough it up, kid."

"Naw," I said, pleased.

"Come on, son, tell!"

I took the cable from my shirt and tossed it across the table.

John read it thoughtfully and then handed it over to Jake.

"Well, now, if I won't be d.a.m.ned. We've got a b.l.o.o.d.y genius under the roof."

"I wouldn't say that."

"Nor would I, kid. A figure of speech. Did you read that, Jake?"

"Sure did." Jake pa.s.sed the cable to Ricki, with a look of stunned surprise. "G.o.d! You write literature, do you?"

"For Dime Detective and Weird Tales," I said, to take the edge off everyone's attention.

"Read that out loud, Ricki," said John.

"You already read it." Ricki laughed and ran around the table to give me a hug. "Congratulations!"

She stood by my side and read the cable out loud. That was a mistake. John hadn't really intended for her to do so. He went back to cutting his ham and b.u.t.tering his toast. "Now, now, kid," he said, gazing at his food, "you made up your mind, just what you're gong to do with all that money?"

"Do?"

"Yes. Do. Spend. How do you figure to get rid of that astounding sum, O Son of Jules Verne?"

"I don't know," I said, flushed with joy, glad for their attention. "I've only had the cable for about three hours. I'll talk it over with Maggie. We've been in our new tract house three years. Some of the rooms still don't have furniture. And I work out in the garage where we don't have a car, so I have an old Sears Roebuck sixty-dollar desk. Maybe I'll buy me more bookcase s.p.a.ce. Maybe a set of golf clubs for my dad, who's never had a decent set in his life-"

"Jesus, G.o.d, what a list!" shouted Huston.

I glanced up, thinking he was praising me. Instead, I saw that he had collapsed back in his chair in a misery of concern for my future.

"Jake, did you just heart"

"Yep," said Jake.

Hold on, I thought. Wait- "Isn't that the d.a.m.nedest dumbest list you ever heard? My G.o.d," cried John, "you are a great writer of science fiction, are you not? And a fine and superb writer of fantasy and the imagination?'' "I try," I said.

"Try! My G.o.d," said John, "use your head! All of sudden you've got moola, money, cash! You're not going to put that stuff in the bank and let it rot there, are you?" "I had imagined-" "h.e.l.l, you didn't imagine anything^ Ricki had been standing beside me during all this. Now I felt her fingers clutch the back of my neck, urging will power and strength. Then, sure that her act had been unseen, she marched back to her place at the head of the table, to douse her bacon with ketchup.

"Well, it sure looks like you're going to have to leave the investment of your Grand Prize Award to people who know how to live, which means Jake and me. Don't you agree, Vickers?" said John.

Jake nodded and gave me a big wink.

"Son, we'll put our minds to it," said John. "We really will. Okay, Jake? And by sunset today, we'll have found a way for you to invest . . . how much was it-?" "Five thousand dollars," I said, weakly. "Five thousand smackeroos! How much would you figure, Jake, we could earn for Flash Gordon's b.a.s.t.a.r.d brother here?" "Twenty thousand, maybe ..." said Jake, his mouth full. "Let's figure fifteen to be fair. Let's not get greedy." John lay back like a scarecrow in his chair. "The main thing is, you can't let money sit. It rots. Right after breakfast, kid, first thing we do, the three of us, is find a way for you to get really rich this week, no waiting, no delays!" "I_"

"Shut up and eat your mush," smiled John. We ate in silence for a time, everyone casting glances at everyone else. John watching me, Jake watching John, me watching both of them, and Ricki, in the odd moment, giving me a brave nod to hold fast and fight fair in the midst of foul.

John watched me stir my food into a slow maelstrom and push it back. Then he changed the subject completely. "What sort of reading do you do, kid?"

"Shaw. Shakespeare. Poe. Hawthorne. The Song of Songs which is Solomon's, the Old Testament. Faulkner. Steinbeck-"

"Uh, huh," said John, lighting a cigarillo. He sipped his coffee. "I see."

And at last, he dropped the other riding boot.

"Havelock Ellis?" he said.

"s.e.x?" I said.

"Well, now, he's not all s.e.x and ten yards wide," said John, casually. "You got any opinions on same?"