Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham eyed him like the twin cobras in a snake-charmer’s act. The customers continued to bellow “Mother In Ireland.”
“Why don’t you write to her?” shouted one of the less musical patrons.
No one offered McGoon a chair or moved over to make room for him anywhere.
“What’s the matter with the service around here?” he said.
“They don’t allow no barmaids in Jersey! Get it yourself!” Mrs. Feeley held out her hand for the money.
“Smooth operator! That’s what you are, little lady!” He shook his finger playfully at Mrs. Feeley. “You’d be a big help to the Democratic Party.” He went over to the bar and looked at the taps as though they might bite him.
“Afraid of ’em, McGoon?” Whitey laughed. “They ain’t got no soap in ’em!”
McGoon’s lady-friend sat down at the table Mrs. Feeley had abandoned when she got up to protect her domain.
“Meet Blondelle Mahone.” McGoon waved his hand in the direction of his friend and went into the washroom.
“Blondelle?” Mrs. Feeley said. “What saint is that?”
“It was Agnes,” Miss Mahone explained, “but Blondelle sounds more glamorous.” Mrs. Feeley eyed Blondelle’s transparent blouse of shirred pink nylon and her blue ballerina skirt.
“Stick out your other leg,” she ordered.
Blondelle did. Mrs. Feeley nodded, completely satisfied. “I knew you’d have it! Never seen nothin’ left over from the Burlesque that didn’t wear a ankle-bracelet!”
“I’m his stenographer now,” Blondelle said.
“You got a taste for roughness!” Mrs. Feeley said. “What you doin’ in a decent beer joint? You look more like the sloe-gin-fizz type.”
“I like beer,” Blondelle said blandly. “It’s good for my eye-strain.”
“If you have to look at him much, I can see how you’d get it bad.” Mrs. Feeley grinned in spite of herself. McGoon came up with two beers, largely foam. Mrs. Feeley froze up. She signaled Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham. She picked up the cashbox ostentatiously. “C’mon!” she said and the three went into the back room.
“He must be gettin’ ready to pull a fast one,” she said. “Wish I knew what it was! The nerve o’ him: bringin’ his sten-africa in here!”
“I don’t like no soft, white fat,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Them soft white women feel like two bits worth o’ tripe done up in a cellophane bag,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Her disposition is extremely bland,” Miss Tinkham said. “Something placid and bovine about her.”
Mrs. Feeley cocked an eyebrow.
“Cow-like,” Miss Tinkham said.
“J’ever see one o’ them jelly-fish when they get mad?” Mrs. Feeley dipped a slice of bread in what was left of the mustard sauce. “What I’m tryin’ to do is figger out his next move.”
“We better go back out,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “but I ain’t givin’ them no crabs!”
“I came in this morning out of the goodness of my heart,” McGoon said to Mrs. Feeley, “to protect the good voters of this ward and to give you some advice on running this business. You ought to hire a bartender, all regular and proper from the Union, till Rafferty gets well enough to conclude a little deal we’re working out.”
“We can’t afford to hire nobody. An’ besides none of us belongs to no unions of any kind. We ain’t joiners! They wouldn’t none o’ them work with us if we’d have ’em!”
“Like I was saying,” McGoon waved his cigar, “none of that will be necessary.”
Mrs. Feeley looked at Miss Tinkham.
“Here’s the pitch!” she said.
“Right the very first time!” McGoon beamed. “I am going to do the right thing and take the place off Rafferty’s hands. I might even do something about getting him into the Veteran’s hospital for a rest-cure.”
“By God, you’re gonna die of enlargement of the heart! But I don’t believe you.”
“You will when I bring the transfer papers on the lease…and the bill of sale to the business, just as soon as Rafferty signs.” Mrs. Feeley stared at Blondelle, who was looking into her empty beer glass.
“I’m going now, Sweets.” McGoon laid a pudgy hand on Blondelle’s shoulder. “See you at the office in the morning.”
“I got cold-cuts at the apartment,” she said.
“Not tonight. I got to meet with a committee.” With a casual wave he went into the street.
“Did he pay for my beer?” Blondelle said. Mrs. Feeley nodded.
“Have one with us,” she said. “We gotta get organized.”
She turned to Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Rasmussen.
“Long as we’re gonna get closed out anyway, we can go back to servin’ out the beer ourselfs. They been a whole lot better than I thought they would,” she grinned. The men were talking quietly since Beauty Boy had forsaken the pianola. He followed Miss Tinkham about wistfully.
“Tomorrow, dear!” Miss Tinkham said. “Just now we have matters of vital importance to occupy us. The enemy has been miraculously delivered into our hands and we must strike while the iron is hot.”
“I’ll bring the notes tomorrow.” He mauled Miss Tinkham’s shoulder with one of his big paws. “I’ll bring the notes to ‘I Hear You Calling Me.’ I sing it purty.”
“I’m sure it will be a truly memorable performance!”
“Whitey,” Mrs. Feeley yelled. “Can you change some o’ this silver and singles into bigger bills? Kinda unhandy with no bank near here.” When the exchange was completed, Mrs. Feeley had forty-nine dollars without the tips. “Regular gold mine, this place!” she said to Blondelle, shoving the bills into her broad bosom. “Guess you’ll be helpin’ out here when your friend starts his club…if Timmy does sell.”
“He likes me to stay pretty much in the background when his friends are around,” Blondelle said.
“Ain’t that too bad!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Is he all the better you can do? You wouldn’t be so bad if you taken a little exercise to toughen yourself up some.”
“I got stenographer’s spread,” Blondelle laughed. It wasn’t the only kind of spread Blondelle had, but Mrs. Feeley didn’t want to make her feel bad.
“Good-bye!” Mrs. Feeley called out as the last group left.
“Chicken an’ rice tomorra!” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Guess you’re closing up now.” Blondelle pushed her chair back. “I always hate to go back to the apartment alone…”
“Stay an’ have a bite,” Mrs. Feeley said. Mrs. Rasmussen brought four beers to the table and Miss Tinkham joined them.
“The pianola intrigued them!”
“We done a land-office business,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Good thing I hid out a few crabs for us.”
“Timmy’s got a little bonanza here.” Mrs. Feeley kicked Mrs. Rasmussen on the ankle. “Not a day but what we take a wad that’d choke a billy-goat. Reckon you could stir up a bite for Blondelle here? Fancy Pants went off an’ left her!”
“Say, don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Blondelle said.
“You’ll take pot-luck like the rest of us.”
“Thanks to our dear friends, the Millers, we should be able to produce some tasty viands without overworking Mrs. Rasmussen. She goes to such lengths to give us the exotic!”
The lunch was set out and beer flowed freely.
“This is delicious,” Blondelle said.
“Glad to have you,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We always hate to see a woman get a brush-off.”
“He don’t mean to,” Blondelle said. “He’s real good to me…when he’s in the mood. He gives me charge accounts, only he don’t like me to go to the same stores his wife does. He gave me this diamond!” Blondelle held up a microscopic gem of what Mrs. Feeley judged to be around the sixth water. “I mean he gave me the money to go buy it. He’s got awful high ideals about things like that.”
Mrs. Feeley closed her gums over a short sibilant word
.
“Of all the…”
“Scatological skunks!” Miss Tinkham finished indignantly.
“Fixed pretty good then, ain’t he?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Say! He does all right! But all right.” Blondelle winked.
“What do you figger he offered Timmy? Drink your beer! It’s gettin’ flat.” Mrs. Rasmussen got up and refilled the glasses.
“He hasn’t seen him yet, but he’s going to get it as cheap as he can. He thinks he can get it for around twenty-five hundred.”
Mrs. Feeley said nothing.
“Have a slice of the pastrami,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Where are your men-folks?” Blondelle asked.
“Mine’s sleepin’ under the bird-bath in San Diego,” Mrs. Feeley laughed.
“I heard they lived outdoors a lot in California,” Blondelle said.
“God rest his ashes,” Mrs. Feeley added.
“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!”
Chapter 19
“THIS IS WEDNESDAY, AIN’T IT?” MRS. FEELEY 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.
Chapter 20
AT FIVE O’CLOCK McGOON AND BLONDELLE 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.”
One On The House Page 15