One On The House (21 page)

“Mine’s in Heavenly Rest,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “He got hit in Saint My Heel an’ he was always puny after that.”

“I am the only pauper in l’amour!” Miss Tinkham smiled. “But life is good! Admitting, of course, the great central lack! Love may be just around the corner…and if not, I have composed my epitaph to be carved on my headstone adorned with cupids: ‘Who says you can’t take it with you?’”

“Say!” Blondelle put a fat white hand on Miss Tinkham’s shoulder. “That’s all right! Can’t understand how you never hooked one! How is it you two never married over again?”

Mrs. Feeley winked at Miss Tinkham.

“One was breathin’ hard down the back o’ Mrs. Rasmussen’s neck just about a week ago in New York! He was sure stuck on her! What was it he wanted you to do with him? Go hand and hand into the sunset?”

“Damn fool!” Mrs. Rasmussen laughed. “‘I open safes!’ That was all he could say, every two minutes!”

“Was he a real safe-cracker?” Blondelle’s blue eyes were round with respect.

“Hell, no!” Mrs. Feeley said, “Only some kinda lock-expert. He was after Mrs. Rasmussen with a can opener!”

“Vaults and time-locks were his specialty,” Miss Tinkham said. “He was really most entertaining in a pitiable sort of fashion.”

“Characters is what you meet the most of,” Blondelle said.

“I loathe that expression!” Miss Tinkham cried. “To me a character is nothing but a jerk with a personality!”

“Speakin’ o’ jerks,” Mrs. Feeley said to Blondelle, “tell your friend I wanna see him tomorrow evenin’. We gotta go to bed now, but anytime you get left waitin’ at the church, come in an’ see us! At least it’d be a change from him.”

“I wish I had the nerve…an’ the money…to be independent! Christmas an’ holidays,” Blondelle’s voice thickened, “Always alone! Sometimes I could…” The whites of her eyes were bloodshot.

“Keepies is only different from tarts in one way,” Mrs. Feeley said. “They think people don’t know they’re tarts!”

Blondelle nodded and finished her beer. “An” the wear an’ tear on your nerves when a younger an’ prettier girl comes to work in the office.”

“I’d kill the son of a bitch,” Mrs. Feeley said calmly.

The door opened and Old-Timer came in covered with car-grease and paint. He started to back out when he saw Blondelle.

“C’mon in!” Mrs. Feeley said. “It’s only a girl name Blondelle. This here’s Ol’-Timer.”

He nodded at her and pulled his mustache.

“Well.” Blondelle held out her hand. “Thanks for everything! Can’t I pay for my beer, at least?”

Mrs. Feeley shook hands with her.

“You just come in again soon. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted on the deal. We gotta get started for the Coast. I don’t see exactly eye to pig’s-eye with McGoon about the price. After what we learned about the way he treats you, I wouldn’t put it past him to try to rook Timmy. You oughta get the lease in your name. Make him set you up in business for your old age.”

“I’ll let you know what he tells me,” Blondelle smiled. “But as for puttin’ nothing in my name: he is the type that would never put anything in writing!”

She waved good-bye from the door. Old-Timer came from behind the bar and stared after her.

“Hey!” Mrs. Feeley yelled at him. “If you got any money, put it in the kitty!”

“T
HIS
IS
W
EDNESDAY
,
AIN’T IT
?”
M
RS.
F
EELEY SAID
over her coffee. “I gotta see Timmy right away. There’s plenty beer hooked up to see you through the noon hour an’ you can call Ol’-Timer from the car-lot if you need extra.”

“Visiting hours do not begin until two,” Miss Tinkham said.

“They’ll have to change the rules some. I’m takin’ a cab. Hold the fort till I come back.”

“I’ll save your lunch,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Them chicken necks an’ backs was simmered all night with a handful o’ dried mushrooms an’ a speck o’ saffron. When I put in that rice an’ Italian cheese, it’ll sure be tender!”

“This ain’t no social call,” Mrs. Feeley explained to the nurse in charge. “It’s a matter of a man’s place of business bein’ sold out from under him if I don’t get to talk to him.”

“We can’t make any exception. You’d have to have a note from the doctor.”

“Then just turn your head the other way for a second, girlie. I’m bigger’n you…an’ I’m goin’ in!”

“He’s in the solarium.” The nurse pointed to a set of glass doors and began sorting papers in a bottom drawer of the desk.

“How’d you get in?” Timmy grinned.

“Never mind! Are you really goin’ to let McGoon have the place?”

“What else can I do?” Timmy said.

“That ain’t the question!” Mrs. Feeley said. “All I want is your promise not to do no dickerin’ or signin’ till I say okay. We want you to get a fair price.”

“Suits me,” Timmy said. “I’m all set to go to the Veteran’s for what they call a post-operative rest. But Barbara’s folks have a summer camp up on the Cape and they want me to come up for a month.”

“Forget the Vet’rans!” Mrs. Feeley urged. “Miss Tinkham says that girl’s the rale ding-dong! Hold on to her an’ don’t let her outa your sight! Drink lot’s o’ beer, eat good, an’ lie out in the sun. Gawd, I wish Mrs. Rasmussen could have the feedin’ of you for a month. You’d be in fine shape to get married an’ go to college!”

“You’ve got the cart before the horse!” Timmy laughed.

“What’s Sam Miller’s boy got that you ain’t got? A wife an’ baby! That’s what! An’ he’s goin’ to college too! If you’re married, you can keep your mind on your books! You won’t be out courtin’ till all hours of the night. You mustn’t put pen to paper or even pass your word to the Goon till we make him listen to reason on the price. Besides, he owes somethin’ to that sten-africa o’ his.”

“I promise,” Timmy said. “When he comes, I’ll tell him to deal with you.”

“We gotta act fast, or we’ll have to be payin’ out another month’s rent. I’d like it settled before you go on your visit. You oughta be out in a few days, huh?”

“That’s what they tell me,” he said. “You’ve been detained so long on my account…”

“Don’t worry about us!” Mrs. Feeley waved a fat hand. “We’ll be gettin’ our checks any day now. You’ll need money for your holiday. We been clearin’ close to thirty a day, between the lunch hour an’ the after-work-snack gang. Mrs. Rasmussen’s got ’em guessin’ what’s she gonna have the next day.”

“They said I could come out for a while Saturday. I’m going to bring Barbara down to see you.”

“Bring her! Where could we get extra chairs if we need ’em?”

“Try Hogan, the undertaker. Angel will give you the number.”

“He’s the last guy I want to see!” Mrs. Feeley laughed, “but borrowin’ his chairs for a party is the best way to get even with him! We’re gonna move the beer so fast the rest o’ the week, there won’t even be a stale breath left for McGoon.”

“Something tells me he’s getting the hole in the doughnut!”

“I wouldn’t give him all the flies he could eat, if he killed them himself! I gotta go, love! I kinda bulldozed my way past that girl out there, an’ I don’t want her to be in trouble. Bring Barbara Saturday!”

She hustled out like a small tank and went to the sidewalk to get a cab.

A
T
FIVE O’CLOCK M
c
G
OON AND
B
LONDELLE CAME
in. He wore an obsequious smirk, but his eyes looked like the end of a pistol barrel…cold and round.

Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham were carrying trays of beer to their customers, who were licking their fingers as they consumed Mrs. Rasmussen’s big square toasted cheese puffs, golden brown, buttery, and puffy outside; toasty and crisp on the bottom, melting and juicy inside.

“Eat! Eat!” she said, “I told you I’d make somethin’ nice when we got a oven.” Beauty Boy was pumping the pianola wildly. He had discovered a roll called “Horses! Horses! Horses!”

“Tear that goddam thing up,” Mrs. Feeley yelled, “before I break out in hay-fever. I want to talk to Whitey.” She sat down in the booth beside him and spoke to the man who was with him.

“This here’s private, Flannagan. Buzz off like a fly with a speck o’ work to do, will you?”

“I was just lookin’ for you,” Whitey said. He saw that McGoon was watching them and lowered his voice.

“My bowling gang has heard so much about the eats, they was wonderin’ if Mrs. Rasmussen would make a plate dinner for ’em when they have their beer-session tomorrow. They’d pay good.”

Mrs. Feeley studied for a minute. “You know the law about sellin’ eats! But she’ll give ’em a bellyful, or my name ain’t Feeley! It might just fit in with what I had gnawin’ on my mind to say to you.” She leaned over and whispered in his ear.

“Got just the guy! Good front, prosperous as hell! Real promoter.”

“Does Fallen Arches there know him?” she jerked her head in McGoon’s direction.

“Not a chance.”

“Swell!” Mrs. Feeley got up. “How many in the bunch?”

“About twenty, countin’ their old buffalos,” Whitey grinned.

“Better not let them women hear you say that! Thursday night?”

“Lay in plenty of beer, an’ you better invite Angel or he’ll pinch the place when he hears the guys singin’!”

“It’s a pleasure to do anythin’ for you, Whitey!” She whirled on McGoon who was leaning over her.

“What’s eatin’ you?”

“Blondelle said you wanted me.”

“Look, bub! Things is tough all over these days, but I ain’t ever reached that near the bottom o’ the barrel!”

“I had it in mind to talk to you about the place here,” he said.

“Me?” Mrs. Feeley looked innocent, “What would I know about it?”

“I was thinking of offering Rafferty twenty-five hundred for the lease and the fixtures.”

“I can’t hear you,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“Two thousand five hundred dollars.”

“Speak louder.”

“It’s a hold-up! That’s what it is!” McGoon blustered.

“You ain’t offered a cent for the good will.”

“I’ll take care of that myself! Those that patronize my club will get favors. The rest…well, I have my methods!”

“That’s the one thing I’m really sure of!” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’m a busy woman. Big party tomorrow, an’ the night after, an’ Saturday. I have no time to waste on the likes of you. A gentleman has made a fair bid, an’ I’m askin’ you for the last time, not because I think you have the money to make a bid, but outa common decency—somethin’ you wouldn’t understand—what’s your figger?”

McGoon rolled his cigar between his lips furiously. “It’s highway robbery,” he snarled. “But I want the spot. Three thousand dollars, and not a penny more!”

“I’ll take it under consideration,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“That’s more than it’s worth! Rafferty’s lucky to get a price like that! I want my answer right now.”

“You’ll not get it,” Mrs. Feeley snapped. “Look at ’em. Spendin’ hand over fist. This deal’s goin’ to the highest bidder: cash on the barrel head. An’ the papers turned over legal, by a lawyer. You’ll get no answer till all the bids is in! A Republican’s comin’ in to bid tomorrow!”

Mrs. Feeley walked over to talk to Blondelle. Her magenta lipstick was runny from having been in contact with Mrs. Rasmussen’s hors d’oeuvres.

“You’re sure busy today!” Blondelle said.

“Every day o’ the week it’s like this! Fine piece o’ property. Come in Friday an’ Saturday if you can…big doin’s! Got to go speak to Sam Miller.”

Blondelle looked after Mrs. Feeley wistfully.

“Come on. Sweets. Let’s go up to the apartment,” McGoon said.

“I like it here,” Blondelle said. “Could I have some more beer, miss?” She caught at Miss Tinkham’s sleeve.

“Indeed you may!” Miss Tinkham hurried with the beer, fascinated by the disgruntled look on McGoon’s face. She turned her back discreetly after she set down the glass, but her ears were out like wind-scoops.

“Come on,” McGoon insisted. “You know I gotta go up to the country with the family Saturday.”

“That’s ducky,” Blondelle said. “And while you’re there: take a long walk on a short dock until your hat floats!”

“You ought not to talk to me that way, Blondelle, after all I have done for you.” McGoon’s voice was injured. “You know how much these scenes take out of me! And you’ll queer this deal! I want to get it all set before I leave Saturday. When you come to your senses, you’ll find me at the apartment.”

Miss Tinkham fluttered over to Mrs. Feeley and Sammele. “I detect,” she murmured, “a rift within the lute! All is not sunshine and roses with the vile seducer of womanhood.” Mrs. Feeley turned in time to see McGoon stomping out the door, his feet turned out at an angle of forty-five degrees, the heels of his shoes banging against each other with every step.

“Damn bowlegged bastard!” Mrs. Feeley smiled happily. “I hope she fixes his wagon…but good!”