Caught Between a soul in every stone unturned under the inexhorable Goldman's Sack

[alice wellintown]

Ian Livingston <igrlivingston at gmail.com> wrote:
> Uh, that, too. Why else would I pay $5 for a pie any banker can bake for $1?

So the banker can go bake 5 more. Remember, Tom pays $10.00 for a
bitch for his mistress to a dude who looks like Jon D. Rockefeller.

Fitzgerald contrasts Myrtle's essential oil with Jon D's (Tom's place
on the gold coast was once owned by an oil man too. Of course, as I've
noted before, the dynamo cuts down the virgin in the valley of ashes
or wasteland.  Well, as every Jorden  Baker knows, it takes two to
make an accident.   ;-)


We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John
D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very
recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.

"What kind are they?" asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly as he came to the taxi-window.

"All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?"

"I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you got that kind?"

The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and
drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck.

"That's no police dog," said Tom.

"No, it's not exactly a police dog," said the man with disappointment
in his voice. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the
brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog
that'll never bother you with catching cold."

"I think it's cute," said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How much is it?"

"That dog?" He looked at it admiringly. "That dog will cost you ten dollars."

The airedale--undoubtedly there was an airedale concerned in it
somewhere though its feet were startlingly white--changed hands and
settled down into Mrs. Wilson's lap, where she fondled the
weather-proof coat with rapture.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked delicately.

"That dog? That dog's a boy."

"It's a bitch," said Tom decisively. "Here's your money. Go and buy
ten more dogs with it."