One On The House

by Mary Lasswell

  “Don’t it make you kinda quivery inside when you think how we just walked in cold, right outa the street, an’ started runnin’ a beer joint for a guy we don’t know nothin’ about? We ain’t never heard the sound of his voice!” Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head in wonder.

  “Seems like we been here since the Year One,” Mrs. Feeley snorted, “I most forgot what it was like ’fore we got here!”

  “This is definitely a crisis,” Miss Tinkham said. “A Chinese philosopher defined a crisis as danger plus opportunity. There was an opportunity for us to find a place to sleep and a chance to work for our food. Naturally there will be danger! Especially since there was no one to brief us on the actual situation.”

  “Yeup! We don’t even know if the rent’s paid or not. ’Spose his license was to run out on us? We don’t know if he’s in the union, or what. We have to feel our way along. I ain’t scared, ’cause one thing’s sure: we couldn’t leave the place in no worse shape than it was, no matter what we done.” Mrs. Feeley looked up. “Never go huntin’ for trouble, but look what’s comin’ in the door!”

  A large policeman with red hair and rabbits for eyebrows saluted the ladies with his club.

  “Where’s Timmy? Yesterday was my day off and I didn’t get a chance to see him. Heard somebody stove-in the fire-alarm.”

  “What’d you want with him?” Mrs. Feeley asked.

  “Pass the time o’ day. We was in the Air-Borne together.”

  “Now that bein’ the case, sit down an’ take a load off them feet,” Mrs. Feeley said. She went over and drew a glass of beer for him. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”

  The big policeman looked sheepish.

  “Angel,” he said.

  Mrs. Feeley prudently suppressed a desire to giggle.

  “Not a very common name for a cop.” She put her hand out. “I’m Mrs. Feeley an’ this here’s Miss Tinkham an’ this other lady’s Mrs. Rasmussen.” The policeman took Mrs. Feeley’s hand in a bone-crushing grip.

  “Hey, when you’re through with that thing,” she laughed, “it belongs to me.”

  “You’re new around here. Timmy’s relatives?”

  Mrs. Feeley decided to come clean with the law.

  “Just between ourselfs, I’ll give you the straight dope. We was just goin’ by, not goin’ nowheres in particular, an’ we come in for a beer. What do you think we found? Timmy lyin’ there for dead, all by his lone-self behind the bar.”

  “Dead?” Angel got up.

  “Sit down an’ finish your beer. He ain’t dead, just awful dangerous ill. But he may live, thanks to Miss Tinkham bustin’ in the fire-alarm an’ gettin’ them firemen here on the double.”

  “That’s fierce,” the policeman said. “He never complained about feeling bad. Must have been sudden.”

  “Ruptured appendix in a gangrenous state,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s at the General Hospital, but he ain’t allowed to see nobody. Too sick,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “And you came back today to keep the place open for him?”

  “Sort of,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Seemed a pity, since we wasn’t doin’ nothin’ at the moment. Shame to let the boy’s place go to wreck an’ ruin, him here all alone. He don’t seem to have been doin’ so hot.”

  Angel shook his head. “A shame, too. Awful nice fellow, Timmy. Only quiet. He’s not aggressive. And he’s got funny ideas.”

  “Such as?”

  “Not wanting to belong to the union, or hire a bartender. He don’t want to join the Democratic Club. You know how it is, in every precinct there’s one or two grafters. To get the little favors, you got to grease a few palms now and then. I don’t believe in using the badge, myself, but Timmy can’t get it through his head that you can’t fight City Hall. I know protection’s a racket. But show me any place today where you won’t find them peddling it!”

  “You mean you don’t believe in swipin’ no bananas off fruitcarts?” Mrs. Feeley grinned. “Have a beer!” She drew a fresh one for Angel and three for her friends and herself.

  “When the individual no longer has the right to stand alone for his beliefs, without banding into herds and packs, America is no longer America!” Miss Tinkham said. “Every citizen is guaranteed freedom of choice in such matters under the Constitution of the United States. This country was founded on the belief of personal and business freedom. On the robust and stimulating principle of individual enterprise.”

  “Do you hear that?” Mrs. Feeley whacked Angel between the shoulders raising a cloud of dust.

  “She’s right,” he said. “The trouble is that too many people doing the hiring and firing lose sight of that principle.”

  “Fear!” Miss Tinkham said. “Fear of facing the consequences of independent action! That’s what makes them mob-up! Wavering and vacillating people, the weak twigs and sticks tie themselves into bigger bundles, hoping for strength. Then you have fascism.”

  “They do that,” Angel agreed. “It’s easier to go along with the gang.”

  “The strength of the State can be no greater than the strength of the individuals that go to make it up!” Miss Tinkham finished her beer.

  “Now, Angel,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Will you go out an’ spread the Gospel? Tell every mother’s-son on the beat what he gets free with a ten-cent beer at Timmy’s!”

  “Where’d you know Timmy? I never heard him mention you.”

  “We don’t.” Mrs. Feeley grinned.

  Angel shook his head.

  “That’s one for the book,” he said. “But I’m all for you. I’m pretty sure the owner of this building can get a whole lot more money from a guy that’s the Head Grafter of the Fifth Ward. He has connections, too. Timmy barely made ends meet the last few months.”

  “A blind man runnin’ for his life could see that,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Credit’s gone, and he used the last of his savings thirty days ago. Wonder how soon I could see him?”

  “We’ll let you know as soon as we are notified,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “You’re going to stay till he gets well?”

  “We’re not in any position to leave him,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Damn white of you,” Angel said. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  “Timmy hasn’t got no evenin’ trade at all, has he?”

  Angel shook his head.

  “Lunch-hour crowd of regulars and a few that stop on the way home. This is all factory and distributing places around here. No residences. They live far away and don’t come back nights.”

  “You wouldn’t know how much beer he sold a week?”

  “Three, four half-barrels at the most.”

  “Gawd, how’d he pay the rent?”

  “He’s about to chuck the lease up now. I hate to see it. He is one right guy. Got the Bronze Star.”

  “Our dear Timmy?” Miss Tinkham said forgetting that she had never seen the young man with his eyes open or in full possession of his wits.

  “You know,” Mrs. Feeley mused, “them guys had to get wounded or smashed to bits to get any advantages. Don’t seem right.”

  “No,” Angel said. “Them that wanted, could go to college, and some got loans to go into business. But Timmy’s a quiet duck. Said he just wanted time to sit and think things over.”

  “It looks like time was the thing he had the most of!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “I ain’t that type myself. Action! That’s what I like.”

  The door opened and the boy from the brewery came in. Mrs. Feeley looked at the clock.

  “Kinda jumpin’ the gun, ain’t you, Buster?”

  “I had to go by this way. Could you let me have that now instead of at five?”

  “Just sit down a minute, and I’ll pay you.” She went back of the bar to the cigarbox and took out the money that Whitey’s gang had donated and the nine dollars and sixty cents she took in at noon.

  “Count this,” she said.

  “Ain’t but
twenty-two dollars!”

  “Keep your shirt on! An’ nine-sixty…”

  “That’s only thirty-one-sixty. You owe me thirty-four fifty!”

  “Honest, you’re tryin’ my patience somethin’ fierce!” Mrs. Feeley warned. “Here’s the other three bucks. Gimme back a dime.”

  The driver pocketed the money with obvious relief:

  “Jeez! I was sweatin’ gum-drops for a while there!”

  “Just remember that when we tell you somethin’, it’s so. When’ll you be back?”

  “Middle o’ next week….Timmy don’t buy but that little bit, them three half-barrels, hardly worth the bother.”

  “If we need more, an’ we will by tomorrow,” Mrs. Feeley bluffed, “we can always call another brewery. One that sells beer cheaper an’ has better treatment for its customers! One that ain’t so goddam snotty!”

  “Jeez, lady! Don’t get mad on me! We appreciate the trade. Here’s the phone number.” He fished in his unionalls for a card. “I’ll have the salesman stop in tomorrow.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll send for you when I need you. We ain’t got no time to sit around listenin’ to no drummer’s dirty stories.”

  The giant was sweating from his mental effort.

  “How about buyin’ youse a beer?” he said.

  Mrs. Feeley drew five beers.

  “One for Mr. Angel,” she said.

  “Man bites dog!” Miss Tinkham said.

  Mrs. Rasmussen sized the driver up. “Stop in at noon tomorrow.”

  “Beauty Boy’s no piker!” Mrs. Feeley pocketed the fifty-cent piece he laid down. “Keep an eye out for any pie-anna you see lyin’ around. We need one bad.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “I’ve got to be going along,” Angel said. “I was just on my way home, when the sign in the window brought me in. Draw us a round.” He reached in his pocket.

  “By God, I seen everythin’ now: a cop an’ a beer driver buyin’ a drink in the same day!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “But your money’s no good in here, Angel.”

  “You married?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  Angel shook his head.

  “Stop in around noon tomorrow,” she said.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Miss Tinkham smiled. “Mrs. Rasmussen mothers everything up to and including doorknobs.”

  Angel finished his beer and rose.

  “You’re welcome, drunk or sober,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but don’t go bringin’ in no more cops, or we’d never make a dime!”

  “Don’t let me catch you putting high-bottoms in the beer glasses!”

  Mrs. Feeley patted him on the back. “You know me: honest as the day is long! I always give ’em back their glass eye.”

  When Angel left, Mrs. Feeley picked up the cigarbox and started for the bar.

  “Cleaned out…like the sleeves of a vest! One thin dime…”

  “Three ninety-five from the tips,” Miss Tinkham pointed to the coins in the saucer.

  “Three ninety-seven,” Mrs. Rasmussen put down the two cents change from her marketing. “You know what? We ain’t marked down the beers we had.”

  Mrs. Feeley scratched her head:

  “That’s right. You said we had over four dollars in tips. That’s forty beers. We ain’t had ten apiece…not yet,” she grinned. “Wouldn’t it simple-ize the bookkeeping if we just put the tips in the cashbox to cover our beers? Seems like takin’ it outa one pocket an’ puttin’ it in the other this way.”

  “It would seem entirely fair,” Miss Tinkham said. “Of course, we do serve quite a lot of beer with the compliments of the house.”

  “Best investment ever!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Gift-gaffs make good friends.”

  “We got plenty to eat for ourselfs, the next coupla days,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “I’d like to sneak down to the stores an’ get a little somethin’ to set out for those fellers case they do come in.” She looked longingly at the pile of tip-money.

  “Why not?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Some pretzels or salted peanuts,” Miss Tinkham suggested.

  “Get them anywhere!” Mrs. Rasmussen went for her mesh shopping bag. “Cramps my style, not havin’ no oven. But I’ll stir up somethin’. Might be like singed-cat an’ taste better than it looks.”

  “That’s the half-past four whistle,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’ll just freshen up in case them fellers do come by.”

  Miss Tinkham turned the radio on. The news was as monotonous and uninformative as ever.

  “Pap! Pap for the morons…all the truth strained and colored to suit the weak stomachs of the public. Be-bop makes more sense!” A wild clatter of sound emerged from the radio. The sound might have been a crooner trying to swallow a bowling ball, but the rhythm was gay, and Miss Tinkham swung her hips as she wiped the top of the bar.

  “Hand me the clout, while you go put your face on,” Mrs. Feeley said. She had fluffed out her springy white curls and dusted her face with powder.

  “No one would guess that you had slept on top of a bar last night,” Miss Tinkham smiled.

  “Reckon Mrs. Rasmussen will think to spend a dime for the light cord for the lamp?” Mrs. Feeley called.

  “I doubt it greatly,” Miss Tinkham said with her mouth full of bobby-pins. “When she has that creative gleam in her eye about food…”

  “Don’t see how she’ll have time to do much tonight, but watch her smoke tomorrow…”

  A group of men, a dozen or more, came in laughing and banging a lean, taciturn man on the back.

  “Beer for all hands,” he said. His sardonic face kept breaking into a little spasm that might have been a gas-pain, but Mrs. Feeley saw it was a smile when one of the men said:

  “Smiley’s old lady just had a boy. They phoned.”

  Mrs. Feeley was not one to let an opportunity like that slip by. “Here’s to the son an’ heir! An’ a quick recovery to the mother! The beer’s on the house.”

  “Say…now!” Smiley was touched. How could this lady know what a boy meant to him after fathering three girls?

  Miss Tinkham came out of the washroom radiant in fresh pancake make-up, lipstick, and even mascara. She had on her lovely beads carved like the heads of Egyptian mummies.

  “Have a cigar.” Smiley solemnly offered her one from the box he unwrapped.

  “Thanks, I will!” Miss Tinkham took one graciously. “Perhaps if I smoke it, the mantle of Miss Amy Lowell’s imagery will descend upon me!”

  “Toney, huh?” Mrs. Feeley said as she helped herself to two cigars, “You never expected to hear nothin’ like that, did you? Stick around, bud! Liberal education.”

  Miss Tinkham put on her apron and began carrying glasses of beer to the men at the tables. The proud father stood gaping at her with his foot on the rail.

  “Don’t take money from none of ’em,” he whispered to Mrs. Feeley. “This had ought to cover it,” he handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Keep track, an’ if it don’t, there’s plenty more where that come from. Nothin’ too good for my son!”

  Whitey and his crowd came in.

  “Any word about Timmy?”

  “He’s some better. We’re awful pleased,” Mrs. Feeley said. Mrs. Rasmussen slipped in the door so quietly that the men scarcely noticed her. When she saw the crowd, she hurried to the kitchen.

  “I’ll be right out,” she whispered to Mrs. Feeley.

  “You know the first barrel’s finished?” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’m startin’ the second one. What the hell do you s’pose Ol’-Timer’s doin’? I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since we et.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen had no time to speculate on the whereabouts of Old-Timer. She was unwrapping parcels and setting out rows of small paper plates. She had six packages of hot-dog rolls, which she split. She heated water in a bucket and dropped in the three pounds of plump hot-dogs she purchased. When they were at the boiling point, she took the sole respectable saucepan and poured into it two cans of chile. She thinned it down with water and added half a smal
l cellophane package of crushed red hot peppers. While the frankfurters were plumping out even more in the boiling water, she heated the chile. Then she chopped up some pungent white onions into very fine chips. She stuck her head out the door to size up the situation. Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham were drawing beer and running from the bar to the tables with loaded trays. Some men stood up at the bar.

  Smiley protested loudly against anyone else treating.

  Whitey stood right up to him.

  “I appreciate your sentiments, Papa!” he grinned. “An’ I thank you for the beers. But you’re not gonna refuse me the right to set up a few…how many are we, Mrs. Feeley?…to drink to Timmy’s good health, are you? Timmy made a little gain today. Beer all around, please ma’am.”

  Mrs. Feeley knew there were twenty-three men in the place. Apparently they came early and stayed late. Since she had started the treating, she thought it was only fair to Timmy to charge for the beer that she and Miss Tinkham were treated to. She also planned to make up the arrears to Mrs. Rasmussen, slaving away over one miserable gas-burner. She took her a cool glass of beer.

  “Somethin’ smells good,” she said.

  Mrs. Rasmussen wrinkled her nose.

  “Done the best I could. I’m glad I chanced it. Just had a feelin’…but they ain’t near enough. Have to split the hot-dogs in two so’s the guys can have two apiece.”

  She set her glass down and went back to the kitchen. She split the rolls, put margarine on them, then placed half a frankfurter in the roll, sprinkled it liberally with chopped onion, then ladled a big spoonful of the hot chile gravy on it.

  “Gimme a hand while they’re hot, Miss Tinkham!” They both carried trayfuls of the rolls into the bar.

  The first man that saw the rolls said: “Will you sell one o’ those? I’m starved!”

  “They ain’t for sale,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Help yourself.”

  The men got up from the tables and helped themselves. They looked at each other in embarrassment.

  “Feel like a heel, not payin’ for the dogs,” one said.

  The first customer let out a yell that would have raised gooseflesh on one of Satan’s own imps.