Shadow Ticket

by Thomas Pynchon

They met at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago, near the el, half a clam to get in, cork, felt, and spring-cushioned floor, palm trees, archways, tile, the Spanish palace courtyard treatment, secret tunnel to nearby Capone hangout The Green Mill, only white people allowed in.

“Boynt. No. We had a deal, you said, I heard you say it, no more out-of-town jobs from now on, nothing further than half a pack of smokes down the Dubuque, Madison & Waukesha.”

“No, no, Ojibwe, see, instead of the werewolf, we have the Windigo. Maybe human, maybe not, nobody ever likes to look too close…turns out to have a human flesh habit for one thing, which fifty, sixty years ago began to create a dilemma for the white man, whose normal policy up till then had been whenever possible just shoot the Indian, except that Wisconsin back at that moment happens to be going through one of these bleeding-heart reform situations, loony bins state and county being constructed by the dozen at public expense, taking the ‘humane’ approach that whenever any member of any tribe even so much as thinks about nibbling on a gingerbread man, this should right away be labeled early-onset cannibalistic ‘Windigo Psychosis’ and the offending redskin locked up for mental treatment and preferably for good.”

“Still an active ticket around here, I see.” “No kiddin, Crater was pals with Arnold Rothstein and Legs Diamond, both as you’ll recall recent recipients of the bump, and it’s not only the crime syndicates, not just Tammany Hall, but worst and least merciful…” lowering his voice.