One On The House (15 page)

“I betcha them hot-dogs was your supper.”

“Nope. She fixed ’em for you fellers.” Mrs. Feeley smiled at him. “What we need is a breather. Just a chance to get off our feet a minute an’ have a beer on our own account. Got a big day tomorrow.”

The man put down a dollar.

“Treat the other ladies for me, will you? An’ yourself. There’s never been a bar like this in my time. It’s plain heartwarmin’. Nobody squeezin’ you, scowlin’ if you don’t buy. An’ on top of it, give you chow!” He shook his head.

“Y’ain’t mad, are you?” Mrs. Feeley said.

“I’m all for it! You’ll be seein’ a lot of me.” He walked back to the booth with the beers.

“Drink up, fellers. These ladies haven’t had their supper.”

The four rose and started for the door. “Save them seats for us regular, will you?”

Mrs. Feeley waved ‘goodnight’. “First come, first served.”

Mrs. Rasmussen sat down with her feet sticking out in front of her. Miss Tinkham fanned herself with her apron. Mrs. Feeley sat on the stool back of the bar and leaned on her elbows. “If we’d a worked this hard for ourselfs, we’d a been millionaires!” she sighed.

“I ain’t gonna bother stuffin’ that haddock at this hour o’ the night,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, rubbing her legs.

“I think Mrs. Rasmussen plans to cast him on the waters tomorrow, along with some bread-dressing,” Miss Tinkham said.

“Gawd!” Mrs. Feeley emptied her beer. “If she does half as good as she done tonight, she’ll get her bread back in Grade A milk.”

“Hot dogs is all gone. I could spread what’s left o’ the chile an’ onion on some rolls.”

“I’m too pooped to eat,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Just give us a bite o’ somethin’ to keep us from havin’ the whirlies.”

There was a noise at the door.

“We’re closed!” Mrs. Feeley yelled.

It was Old-Timer. He was tired and dusty and there was black car-grease on his hands.

“Where you been?” Mrs. Feeley handed him a glass of beer. He finished it at a gulp, fished in his pocket, and laid down a dollar bill and two quarters.

“How’d you come by that?”

From a back pocket he produced a painter’s red cap. On the front in bold white letters were the words:
S
OL
’
S
F
OR
C
AR
P
ARTS
.

“Get you a job?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

Old-Timer nodded.

“A man needs jingling money.” Mrs. Feeley handed him the two quarters.

“Here’s a sandwich,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “We gotta eat better tomorrow or we’ll all be sick! Nothin’ but hamburgers an’ mess this day. If I only had them bowls! I could give ’em bean soup tomorrow.”

“We’ll get them before long,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’m too tired to even count the money. Gotta get hold of Beauty Boy bright an’ early. Think of it! An’ tomorrow only Friday.”

Miss Tinkham came out of the washroom and dragged herself wearily to her bunk under the bar. Mrs. Rasmussen came in wearing her nice flowered seersucker pajamas.

“Don’t care if the joint burns down! I ain’t sleepin’ in my clothes tonight.”

Old-Timer snored in the back room. Mrs. Feeley went over and locked the door and clicked off the radio.

Then she climbed up on top of the bar and stretched out.

From below the bar Miss Tinkham intoned:

My clay with long oblivion is gone dry!

Mrs. Feeley chuckled.

“I know what you mean! Hand me up the glasses. I can reach the taps from here.”

“T
HIRTY
DOLLARS
AN’ TEN CENTS
.
”
M
RS
. F
EELEY
spooned up a big hunk of bread and butter from her coffee Friday morning.

“What about the tips?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

“Some o’ the tips is in here, like when they set us up to a drink, an’ we was too busy.”

“Most of the tip-money is on the round tray under the bar.” Miss Tinkham got up to get it and found that, after the appearance of the sandwiches, she and Mrs. Rasmussen had garnered seven dollars and twenty cents in silver.

“I gotta go to the stores,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

“The beer’s the first thing,” Mrs. Feeley announced. “Gimme the card. I gotta get Beauty Boy.”

“And we simply must persuade those hospital people to let us visit Timmy.”

“That’s a mighty poor breakfast for a workin’-man,” Mrs. Rasmussen said to Old-Timer. “Long as you’re only round the corner, be here at twelve sharp for your dinner. The beer-feller an’ the cop’ll eat it up on you if you’re late.”

“Please get the brewery, Miss Tinkham. I ain’t no good with them dials. When you get ’em, I’ll talk to ’em. We got enough to pay for three more barrels, but I’m only takin’ two. I’m pretty sure Saturday is a half-day at these here factories.”

“What about Saturday night and Sunday?”

“There won’t be no trade Saturday nights till we make these fellers late for their supper a few more times. Then their wives’ll make ’em bring ’em down here to see what was keepin’ ’em …where their men found such a soft seat!”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “I’ll have somethin’ better an’ better every night. It breaks my heart to hafta give ’em stuff they can eat outa hand…”

“If we only had some bowls!” Miss Tinkham laughed.

“As for Sunday,” Mrs. Feeley said, “we don’t know if he has a Sunday license or what. But even if he had a license to keep open four hundred an’ ten days a year, I wouldn’t keep it open Sundays. Even God had to rest one day a week!”

“Since our sleeping accommodations are not of the most luxurious variety,” Miss Tinkham said, “the rest is doubly necessary. We simply must get out into the fresh air some part of the day.”

“We’ll get sunshine an’ flowers when we get back to San Diego,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Won’t it be swell to walk down to the foot o’ Broadway an’ watch the liberty boats come in? All them nice saloons?”

“The brewery!” Miss Tinkham went to the phone. Mrs. Feeley took over the receiver.

“I’ll need two half-barrels right away. Infantry Bar, corner of Street an’ Avenue. What do you mean, he ain’t there? If he ain’t here an’ them kegs installed by nine o’clock, I’m takin’ my business elsewhere.” The telephone sputtered for a second. “So what if we did have three half-barrels yesterday? Is that any skin off…are you in the business to sell beer, or ain’t you? Oh, you are? Well, lemme tell you I don’t think much o’ your beer or your methods. You shanghai him somewhere along his route an’ get that beer over here. That’s all, for now!”

Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen went into the kitchen to wash the beer glasses and polish them. Miss Tinkham came in beaming: “Timmy can see visitors on Sunday for a very short while! Isn’t that lovely?”

“It is that!” Mrs. Feeley agreed. “Gawd, how we need dishtowels! Ain’t hardly nothin’ we couldn’t use around here. Ol’-Timer’d be a whole lot more use if he stayed in an’ helped us with the washin’ up…we can’t hire nothin’ done. But bein’ a man, he feels more important piddlin’ around some junky ol’ car. Most men is car-happy. Wish he could get the loan of a jaloppy to ferry you back an’ forth to the market.”

“We’ll take a taxi home,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “It ain’t far, but the weight o’ them bags takes it out of a person. Taxi saves time, too.”

“That’s usin’ the ol’ calabash! Try to think o’ the light cord for the lamp, will you? It’ll look awful pretty lit up.”

“I spent over three dollars for the eats yesterday. I want to catch up on it today. We’ll treat the beer-boy an’ the cop to some of our stuffed fish for dinner, but we can’t give no free lunch at noon, not till we…”

“Not till we get the bowls!” Mrs. Feeley grinned. “Sounds like the Litany.”

“I observed that they had their luncheons with them yesterday,” Miss Tinkham said. “Mrs. Rasmussen is psychologically sound in giving them the best treat at five, when they are really hungry. Perhaps a bowl of inexpensive soup at noon…”

“I’m gettin’ six more pounds o’ haddock, that ain’t but ninety cents, an’ makin’ a lot o’ them little fish balls an’ a bowl of my hot mustard—be sure to save me a drop o’ stale beer to make it—an’ a big bowl o’ ketchup. I’ll need a box o’ toothpicks. Mark it down on the list.”

“Take enough money so you can get our grub for the week-end,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Make one trip do.”

“Reckon we could stretch to a fresh-killed chicken to make soup for Timmy?”

Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham began to laugh.

“Gawd! Now it’s Timmy she’s feedin’! They’re probably feedin’ the poor critter through his…”

“Intravenously,” Miss Tinkham said.

“I’d wait till after we see him. We’ll take him some flowers.”

“When we start chippin’ our teeth, don’t the time fly? Gotta go.”

“Ain’t that the beer truck?” Mrs. Feeley perked up. “Hurry back. I’ll take care o’ Muckles.”

“Jeez! I never expected no call so soon,” the big driver said.

“I told you yesterday. Get them empties out.”

The driver went meekly to the basement and soon had the two fresh kegs hooked up.

“I could pick up the money Monday, if you want,” he said.

“Now you’re so bright you even tell me how to run the business, huh? Twenty-three dollars. Don’t we get no bonus?”

“Well, they don’t usually give none ’cept in the real big cocktail lounges.” He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“Don’t use that kinda language in my place o’ business!” Mrs. Feeley banged down the money in front of him. “Tell ’em I want my pilon Monday.”

“What’s pee-lawn?”

“Lagniappe! Cumshaw! Bonus…what you get thrown in free.”

“I’ll tell ’em,” he said meekly.

“A fine help you are,” Mrs. Feeley scowled. “Ain’t found us a pie-anna!”

“Tell you what, if you find one, I’ll help you move it, ’cause I love to sing. Yessir, I’ll carry it for you.”

“That wouldn’t be no chore at all for a stack o’ meat like you. I can see you shoulderin’ it an’ prancin’ in like it was a crate o’ eggs you was carryin’. Have a beer. Mrs. Rasmussen’s expectin’ you for dinner.”

“If it’s eatin’, you don’t have to ask me twice. Say, how’s Timmy?”

“We’re goin’ to see him Sunday. Get outa here an’ stop wastin’ my time. Can’t you see I got work to do?”

Mrs. Feeley lined up the glasses within easy reach. Then she scoured the bar thoroughly. While she was sweeping the floor a taxi drew up and Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham got out, loaded with bundles.

“It don’t seem possible after all these years, but food is comin’ down a few cents,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “We done real good.”

“Yeup,” Mrs. Feeley said, “you don’t know the value of a dollar, but you figure it roughly at one ninety-eight!”

“We got most artistic paper napkins,” Miss Tinkham said.

Mrs. Rasmussen started for the back room, donning her apron on the way. Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley hooked up Aphrodite and turned on the radio.

“Let’s go help Mrs. Rasmussen, long as we’re squared away here.”

The chef set them to rolling little fish balls. Just before noon she showed them her masterpiece. The stuffed haddock was in the skillet, garnished with parsley and lemon slices. Using empty tin cans for pots, she had cooked mashed potatoes and buttered cabbage.

“How’d you get it brown without no oven,” Mrs. Feeley drooled.

“Browned the crumbs an’ chipped onion, before I slathered ’em over the steamed fish. Right now I want us to eat a little, before the rush.” Mrs. Feeley drew three beers for them.

“While you an’ Miss Tinkham waits on ’em, I’ll feed Ol’-Timer an’ the cop. I gotta hurry an’ finish these fish balls.” She put her empty plate in the dishpan and went back to her task. Every available surface was covered with the balls made of fresh flaked haddock, mashed potato well-seasoned and mixed with beaten egg.

“Them fish so cheap, I made plenty. I’ll dip ’em in egg an’ crumbs now…then at five I’ll fry ’em. Hated to give two-bits for the wire basket, but I’d o’ never finished without it.”

“Save us a coupla dozen apiece this time,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“I aim to. Raw. Then they’ll be fried fresh when we eat ’em.”

“You’ll never get rid o’ them guys that way! Here they come! They musta been out beatin’ the bushes for customers. I don’t think we’ve got enough glasses!”

By eight o’clock Friday night Mrs. Feeley and her friends found themselves the possessors of seventy-two dollars and three empty beer kegs.

“Not a drop o’ beer on the place,” Mrs. Feeley moaned. “I wanted to have it fresh for Monday, but not so fresh we’d run out.”

“It don’t spoil in them barrels,” Mrs. Rasmussen said hopefully, “don’t go flat or nothin’—just gets good an’ cold.”

“It would seem improvident to be without a supply over the week-end,” Miss Tinkham said. “The ox that treads out the corn is not to be muzzled!”