One On The House

by Mary Lasswell

  “Rasmussen! Not Rat-mutton, Slope Head!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “That sure didn’t boost your stock any!”

  “Pardon me,” he said. “It is Mrs.?”

  “Mrs.,” she said.

  “I’m the only one that missed: Miss Agnes Harriet Tinkham!”

  Mr. Flink’s eyes, the shape and color of the erasers on lead pencils, slid back to Mrs. Rasmussen. He picked up his beer mug and drained it, still peering at her over the rim. When he set it down, he emitted an eructation that had everything in it but kettledrums.

  “Par’on me,” he said.

  Even Mrs. Feeley was taken aback.

  “That’s better out than your eye,” she said at last.

  “Really, you could understudy Lionel Barrymore in Rasputin.” Miss Tinkham put up her lorgnette.

  “I missed my dinner,” Mr. Flink said.

  The ladies looked at each other. He had followed them since five o’clock in the afternoon. They had filled themselves generously with lobster and French fries while he stood emptily outside on the chance that the beautiful lady of his mind would appear.

  “Aw, the poor little man!” Mrs. Feeley cried.

  “I could do with a bite myself,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “My treat,” Mr. Flink said.

  Mrs. Feeley stared hard at him for a moment.

  “You’re always bringin’ up the subject o’ payin’: nobody’s ever liked you for anythin’ but to pay the bill, have they? That’s why money’s so important to you, ain’t it? Like a feller I used to know that always had to have a couple thousand on him in case he suddenly had to run away somewheres. When you’re runnin’ away from yourself, they ain’t no place that far.”

  “True, his feeling of security comes from money,” Miss Tinkham said, “but whose doesn’t? It’s an inopportune time to psychoanalyze him when he’s fainting…”

  “Strictly from hunger!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Now was we home in San Diego, we’d take you right to the Ark an’ I can just see Mrs. Rasmussen fixin’ you one o’ them omu-lets o’ hers, with the whites an’ yolks all beat separate, tender as a mother’s kiss!”

  “Oyster stew, half milk an’ half cream, is what he needs,” Mrs. Rasmussen said calmly.

  “There is a very refined place near here,” he said. “We could have a light repast if you would accompany me.”

  “Let’s get goin’,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’ll be as refined as a tart at the Ladies’ Aid.”

  Mr. Flink had not exaggerated; the place was refined and the food excellent. Mrs. Rasmussen’s prescription of oyster stew restored his self-confidence as well as the condition of his stomach. He embarked on two extra-thick lamb chops. Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham enjoyed Welsh rabbit. Mrs. Rasmussen had Crab Imperial.

  “Couldn’t o’ made it better myself.” She bestowed the accolade with the modesty of the true artist.

  “You can make that?” Mr. Flink pointed with the knife he raised from his lamb chop.

  “Can she make that!” Mrs. Feeley said. “She can make that, or a paddle de foy, or a Long Island Hurrah. She can make anythin’ better than anybody else.”

  “As we say in French, Mr. Flink…Mrs. Rasmussen’s cooking is something to put yourself on your knees before. That loses a little something in the translation, but I’m sure you get my meaning!” Miss Tinkham beamed on her host.

  “You are all related?” Mr. Flink gazed in wonder from one face to another.

  “Hell, man! Anybody can see we ain’t related: we get along too good!”

  “You all live together?”

  “Sure. At the Ark.”

  “The Ark?”

  “Mrs. Feeley’s estate in San Diego,” Miss Tinkham explained.

  “And what does Mr. Feeley do, if I may inquire?”

  “Mr. Feeley? He holds up the birdbath in the front yard.” Mrs. Feeley winked at her companions.

  “Where is Mr. Rasmussen?” Mr. Flink was bound to find out at least one thing for sure.

  “He’s gone,” Mrs. Rasmussen said sadly.

  “He never went off and abandoned you?” Mr. Flink oozed sympathy.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Don’t you ever hear from him?” Mr. Flink asked.

  Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head.

  “Have you filed for a divorce?”

  “That’d be goin’ a little far.” Mrs. Rasmussen’s face was solemn.

  “Now that’s where ladies make the mistake! There is no use going through life chained to a man who does not support you. He does not care what happens to you. The world is full of men who could make you happy, men who would be good to you. Give you charge accounts. It hurts me to see a refined lady like yourself in a position where she cannot accept the honorable intentions of a man who would know how to appreciate her. You must file at once.” Mr. Flink spoke with firmness.

  Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley were gulping into their napkins.

  “Well,” Mrs. Rasmussen said slowly with meekly downcast eyes, “It’d be a sheer waste o’ money in this case.”

  “Waste of money? Why, little lady, surely the man of your choice would defray the expenses.”

  “Still be a waste o’ good money.”

  “Why?” Mr. Flink leaned forward avidly.

  “’Cause he’s been dead fifteen years.”

  Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham laughed immoderately. Mr. Flink looked as though he might be going to cry.

  “I have been quite a few places and met quite some few persons,” he said. “In opening vaults and safes that get locked by mistake I have met persons in all sorts of varying situations, but I have never met anyone who acted like you ladies.”

  “Ain’t you been lucky up to now!” Mrs. Feeley said. “But you asked for it! You was the one that wanted to play!”

  “Sometimes we play rough,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “And for keeps!” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Suits me,” Mr. Flink looked sidewise at Mrs. Rasmussen, “May I term you Erna?”

  “Be a mite familiar,” she said.

  “I would like to entertain you ladies in a befitting manner,” he said. “Show you what kind of a man I am. There is a very exclusive place in Hoboken…”

  “Ain’t that in Jersey?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  The little man nodded.

  “Can’t go.” Mrs. Rasmussen drew into her shell. “Violatin’ the Mann Act. We’re goin’ to the races tomorrow.”

  The mention of the Mann Act rankled Mr. Flink. “Mesdames, my intentions are not immoral.”

  “Stick to the King’s English,” Mrs. Feeley said, “even if you do murder it!”

  “I only want a chance to get better acquainted with this lady; a chance to prove to her that we…we might go hand and hand into the sunset together. I am a good provider. I make around two hundred dollars a week, sometimes more, aside from my retirement and my three pensions.”

  “Listen, Buster,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “don’t get no ideas like that just because we let you buy us a coupla beers.”

  “That should be fairly conclusive, Mr. Flink,” Miss Tinkham said. “May I trouble you for the correct time?”

  The ladies were surprised to know that it was getting on for two o’clock.

  “Which races are you going to?” Mr. Flink ventured, his hopes undimmed.

  “We’re goin’ with sailor friends,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We don’t know where but ’long as it’s sailors, we’re safe.”

  “God loves the American sailor because his heart is pure,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Even if it ain’t always true of his blood-stream!” Mrs. Feeley said. “We had a nice time…and thanks! Tomorrow bein’ Saturday we got a big day: races, shoppin’, an’ packin’…”

  “Packing!” Mr. Flink’s voice was anguished. “You’re not going! I’ve only just met you!”

  “Too bad, bud.”

  “Surely you will give me the privilege of entertaining you once before you leave!�
�

  “That’s nice of you,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “but we gotta get the tickets, an’ go shoppin’ an’ course our own friends wants to give us a send-off.”

  Mr. Flink looked so crestfallen that Mrs. Feeley added:

  “Tell you what: if we have a spare minute, we’ll call you up at your hotel. You got the number on the card, ain’t you, Mrs. Rasmussen?”

  Mr. Flink hastened to present each lady with a card of her own.

  “Promise?” He took Mrs. Rasmussen’s hand and held it lingeringly.

  “The best won’t be any too good for you…don’t get tired tomorrow,” he said tenderly.

  “Doin’ what?” Mrs. Rasmussen said crispy-voiced.

  “Going through shopping and all that,” he said. “You won’t get too tired?”

  “Too tired to what?”

  “To call me up and let me see you just once again.”

  Mrs. Feeley put her arm through Mrs. Rasmussen’s and took hold of Miss Tinkham’s sleeve:

  “Good-bye, Mr. Flink,” she said. To her companions she muttered, “Too bad we hadn’t brung the pie-anna! Miss Tinkham could o’ give us a chorus o’ ‘Hearts an’ Flowers’.”

  Chapter 3

  THE RACE-TRACK BAND BLARED THROUGH THE loud-speakers. The crowd milled up and down the enclosure jostling each other and waving dope-sheets.

  Mrs. Feeley held court under one of the brightly striped umbrellas. Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham sat with a Chief Petty Officer on either side and beamed fondly at their hosts.

  “Sure nice, ain’t it?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Hasn’t even started,” Dusty said. “We’re early. Got to make sure of the daily double, and then it’s always fun to watch the crowd.” On the track, the horses and riders made a colorful picture. The color guard advanced as the bugle sounded. A quick breeze sprang up and rippled the flag to the top of the flagpole. The chiefs and the ladies stood stiffly at attention.

  “By God,” Mrs. Feeley muttered, “there’s somethin’ about a flag! I get a lump in my throat big as a ostrich egg every time I see the stars an’ stripes h’isted!”

  “Sure is!” Dusty said. “Now let’s get down to cases. Here’s the skinny: I have reason to believe that this fellow and this one are going to win the daily double.” He marked two names on his racing program.

  “How do you know?” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’ll take Free Strider! Sounds like a lot more horse to me!”

  The young man nodded. “Yeah? Horse what? You be smart and bet on Shadow Shot in the first and Broom Race in the second! You won’t be sorry. They’re long-shots…but I know what I know!”

  Mrs. Feeley scratched her chin. “How do you know?”

  “The first law of common sense, ma’am, is: Never reveal a source of information…otherwise you won’t get any the next time.”

  “Sounds sensible,” she said. “Here’s my six bucks…go place it the way you think best, son.”

  “Atta girl!” Dusty turned to Mrs. Rasmussen. “What do you say?”

  “I ain’t riskin’ but two dollars worth, on Broom Race. Anythin’ about a broom an’ cleanin’ up appeals to me!”

  “Don’t you want the double? You’ve got to buy it now to get the advantage when they come in.”

  “Ol’ Broom Race is all right…I don’t take much stock in this.”

  “How about you, Miss Tinkham?” Spud Murphy smiled at her. “We’ve got to get over to that window before the daily double closes.”

  “The mystic realm of shadows has always appealed to me,” she smiled. “I’ll place two dollars on Shadow Shot, win, place, or show!”

  “What about the second?”

  “I shall keep my four dollars until we see what the stars decree on Shadow Shot! This is delightful beer!”

  “Order some more. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Sure swell havin’ them to stand in line for us,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Buyin’ us beer an’ everythin’! Don’t expect to win nothin’, but a few dollars won’t make us nor break us. You said not more than six dollars apiece, didn’t you?”

  “We can’t hardly afford that,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “You know what? Even with The Creep payin’ lor us last night, we ain’t got quite enough to get home! I’m just talkin’ about bus fare alone without beer! I asked this mornin’ an’ the fare to San Diego is sixty-one forty with tax…apiece! We’re over fifty-one dollars short.”

  “What on earth shall we do?” Miss Tinkham gasped. “I know! I’ll return Aphrodite.”

  “Hell, once they seen you comin’ an’ sold you that, they’d never take it back! Besides, it wouldn’t be enough: you never give fifty dollars for that?”

  Miss Tinkham shook her head. “Four.”

  “Well, we’ll save out what we need for beer,” Mrs. Feeley said, “an’ buy tickets as far as we can with what’s left, an’ walk the rest o’ the way!” Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head.

  “You forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “Your parkin’-lot check from the boy, my pension check, an’ Miss Tinkham’s rent check…we’ll soon be gone a month.”

  “Gawd, ain’t you The Brain! The difference will just about be met. But it don’t leave no leeway for the present for Katy an’ Danny.”

  “Not unless we win a coupla bucks today,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “We’ll have to send home for the checks,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Take a week or more for Darleen to send ’em,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “an’ we can’t bet no more today.” The waiter came up with the beer. He was a shifty youth with eyes like little heaps of iron filings. He snatched up the five empty bottles and set down the full ones.

  “That’ll be twelve dollars.”

  “That’ll be what?” Mrs. Feeley grated.

  “Twelve dollars.”

  “We had five beers, an’ this makes ten. Even at fifty-cents a throw, that don’t come to but five dollars. Lemme see that check!”

  “Just a minute.” The weasel-face closed up and he fished around in his pocket and brought up a different check.

  “It was a mistake.”

  “It was a mistake tryin’ it here,” Mrs. Feeley said. “You’re dealin’ with a different breed o’ cats this time.”

  Dusty and his friend came up.

  “What’s the beef?”

  “Twelve dollars for ten beers? What does that bastard take us for?”

  “Watch your language, ladies! There are sailors present!”

  “A bastard is anyone of whom we disapprove,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “It was smart of you,” Dusty said.

  “Mrs. Rasmussen’s The Brain, an’ Miss Tinkham’s The Body, an’ I’m knowed as The Bottle!” Mrs. Feeley said.

  The announcer caught their attention. The horses were lining up at the post and the boys got to their feet for a better look. “That’s one swell cockroach we got in the first race! Look at him lift those feet!”

  “All the varmints I ever bet on seemed to think they was in a sack-race,” Mrs. Feeley said. “That’s how they run, anyway.”

  “They’re off!” the microphone roared. The horses pounded wildly around the track. Mrs. Feeley could see nothing for the herd milling in front of her. Racing-forms waved and people yelled encouragement at their favorites. Mrs. Rasmussen sensibly climbed up on a chair and Miss Tinkham followed suit.

  “Which horses are we betting on?” she cried.

  “That gibberish he’s yellin’ don’t make sense to me…have to wait till it’s over an’ the boys tell us.”

  Dusty and Spud were down at the fence, shouting and gesticulating wildly. They were red in the face and sweating. The announcer roared:

  “Shadow Shot wins! By a length and a half!”

  Most of the crowd stamped and swore. They threw their papers to the ground and then picked them up again, recovering from their first disappointment. All eyes were directed at the illuminated board; figures began appearing in colored light: $31.20…$13.6
0…$7.20. The two chiefs were smiling broadly.

  “We won half of it anyway,” Dusty said.

  “What do you mean, half of it?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “My old Broom horse lost.”

  “No, Mrs. Rasmussen. He hasn’t run yet. He’s in the next race. We both won, and Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham won…you didn’t pick a horse in the first.”

  “We won?” Mrs. Feeley said. “How much?”

  “Let’s see: You and Miss Tinkham won thirty-one twenty apiece and Spud and I won three hundred and twelve each because we had ten-dollar tickets.”

  Miss Tinkham almost fainted.

  “May I bet on the second horse now?” she gasped, fishing in her bag.

  “Too late,” Dusty said. “I told you.”

  The boys went off to collect and Mrs. Feeley looked smugly at her companions.

  “Just how long has this been goin’ on?” She rubbed her hands.

  “With a lousy four dollars we won sixty-two forty. If we shot the wad, we’d really clean up! Just like lickin’ it up off the grass!”

  “Nothin’ to it,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “Here we was worryin’!”

  “Our troubles are over,” Miss Tinkham caroled, “No wonder they call it the sport of kings!”

  Dusty and Spud came back waving fistfuls of the long green.

  “The beer’s on us,” Mrs. Feeley cried, reaching for her share.

  “Your money’s no good today, ma’am,” Dusty said. “Your job is to keep an eye on Jean LaFitte here.” The waiter brought more beer and Mrs. Rasmussen took hers down to the fence with her.

  “My roach is runnin’ in this race! Better go down an’ keep him in the straight an’ narrow!”

  “Hell, he’s runnin’ for me too!” Mrs. Feeley said.

  The icy beer was having its effect along with the general ferment of the crowd. After such a long-shot coming in, the excitement was doubled. Crowds poured down to the fence after the horses left the post.

  “I get so excited I can’t tell one from the other,” Mrs. Feeley said. She pushed her way down to the rail. Elbows were pushed in her eyes and her feet were trampled like a Japanese flag at a VFW convention. She shoved her way back to the table using the beer bottle as a prow:

  “Call me when it’s time to collect the money!” She sat down and signaled for more beer. A sad wail rose from the crowd. They seemed to wilt individually and collectively. Not so Dusty and Spud. They threw their hats into the air and pounded Mrs. Rasmussen on the back.