“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!”
Mrs. Rasmussen brought over some beer and sat down.
“My legs hurt! We musta made a mint! Drawin’ beer all day.”
“I enjoy it when business is rushin’,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but it’s got one awful drawback. It don’t give time for just the three of us to socialize! Turnin’ the key in that ol’ padlock on the Ark is gonna be a grand feelin’!”
“Take the bus, when the checks come?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Any way! Long as we get there! Say, Whitey’s got a big crowd tomorrow night an’ they want eats. Don’t spare the horses! They’ll pay…an’ you take a taxi.”
“What about a great big tender beef stew? With big fluffy dumplings. Melt in your mouth; an’ a couple big batches o’ my big French-fried onions?”
“Stop!” Mrs. Feeley wiped off her chin. “You’re killin’ me!”
“Ask Mr. Miller to bring Sadie,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Might’s well put the little pot in with the big one…ask Blondelle. She ain’t a bad sort.”
“Okay with the chef?” Whitey said.
“If I could only buy my stuff tonight, sure make things easier,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“My car’s runnin’ good now. I’ll take you,” Whitey said. “That Old-Timer is one whiz of a mechanic.”
Mrs. Feeley handed out twenty dollars.
“Reckon it’ll be enough?”
“Even with meat at these prices,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “I’m goin’ to cook it all night over a slow burner.”
“Sam Miller an’ his family is comin’,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Then gimme another five dollars, gotta be extra good!”
Mrs. Rasmussen went out the door with Whitey, both smiling at the wolf-whistles provided by the customers.
Chapter 21
THURSDAY MORNING, IN HONOR OF WHITEY’S bowling gang, Mrs. Feeley purchased and strung up two dozen Japanese lanterns.
“We need more bowls an’ spoons,” Mrs. Rasmussen said as she dished out the split-pea soup with ham-bone in it.
“I could relieve you of that much effort,” Miss Tinkham said. “Immediately after the luncheon rush, I shall buy them at the Château Cinq et Dix.”
“Come again?”
“French for the Five and Ten. I am also going to invest in some song sheets. Everyone knows the tunes, but the lyrics do escape one! Mrs. Feeley, do you think that my black chiffon negligée would serve as a hostess gown if I put my black slip under it?”
“Don’t holler to me for help when the ruction starts!” Mrs. Feeley laughed.
“In spite of your flattering remark, I think that men can gaze upon me and still retain their senses!”
“Okay, dearie. Anything you say!”
“Wearin’ my seersucker myself,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Place looks classy.” Whitey waved at the lanterns.
“The mob is champin’ at the bit. They’re all comin’!”
“The more, the merrier. I ordered six extra barrels this mornin’.”
“Reckon it’ll reach?” Whitey wrinkled his brow.
“Hell, man! That’s twelve hundred glasses o’ beer.”
“Them little thimbles? You don’t know them guys.”
“Well, I’ll get a coupla more. We can use it up the next day.”
Mrs. Feeley looked up to see a postman entering the door.
“Anybody here named Tinkham? Miss Agnes Harriet?”
“Sure! Miss Tinkham, here’s the letter!” Mrs. Feeley called.
Miss Tinkham came from the back room and opened the letter. A brown government envelope fell out, also a white envelope, and a blue money order. “Such wealth! Shall I read it now?”
“Call Mrs. Rasmussen.”
Miss Tinkham put up her lorgnette:
Dear Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley
and Mrs. Rasmussen:
We was sure surprised to hear from you in Newark, New Jersey. I thought that was practically in New York City. Expected you home by this time. Everything here is just the same. Johnny was home for two weeks. We painted the house and put up awnings. I am sending the checks which was all the mail you got. Wanted to wait till the new ones came and send them all at once. But Johnny said do what Miss Tinkham said and send them now. The boy at the parking lot says the money order is for a few days over a month. It is sixty dollars. He said tell Old-Timer hello he sure misses him to fix the old cars. The Ark is fine only the weeds has took the place between the pretty colored stepping stones. The gardenias are loaded but some buds is dropping off. I am fine and longing to see you soon. The place is never the same without you. Everybody asks for you most every day. I have a secret for you when you get back. You know I thought I wasn’t going to get to have a baby?
Yours with much love,
Darleen
“She’s gonna have a baby.” Mrs. Rasmussen guessed it. “I’m gonna crochet her a african.”
“Dammit! Them gardenias need aluminum sour-powder! Don’t she know they gotta have acid? I forgot to buy it, but I told her!” Mrs. Feeley fumed. “She must be over-waterin’ ’em! Gawd, it don’t seem like we’ll ever get home! Where’s Ol’-Timer? He’ll want to hear. I’ll bet he’s as crazy to get home as we are! Goddam! If it wasn’t for promisin’, I’d start home this minute!”
“Aw, stop jumpin’ up an’ down, Mrs. Feeley!” Whitey put his hand on her shoulder. “We’re all gonna miss you somethin’ fierce. Might be some time before you get back this way again. Why hurry?”
“I know it, Whitey. We always have a hell of a good time wherever we go. Seems like we make so many friends so fast, it’s a wrench to leave! But home is best…an’ you never miss it so much as when you’ve had fresh news like them goddam weeds between the stones! Never had a weed on the place!”
“Old-Timer’s in love with that 1926 Cadillac. He’s been at it for over a week. Boy, what a job they did on cars in them days! He was showin’ me how it works: everythin’ custom built, hand-made, and put together by hand. Them little details in that sedan…”
“Well, he can drop what he’s doin’! We’re haulin’ outa here on the first bus not later than Sunday mornin’. The good politician better close the deal fast, ’cause my feet’s itchin’!”
“You oughta get off your feet…take a little rest, if you can, before the jamboree tonight! Mrs. Rasmussen’s been slavin’ too, an’ Miss Tinkham’s gonna get corns on her fingers from playin’ the piano,” Whitey said. He picked up a loaded tray. “I’ll take these over for you,” he distributed the beer and brought back the money. “You gotta be in the groove tonight. We have to have you fresh for the party!”
“Fresh? I’ll be downright insultin’!” Mrs. Feeley said.
Chapter 22
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK MRS. FEELEY ROLLED OUT one of the folding beds to be used as a sofa. The booths and tables were jammed.
“No use callin’ the undertaker at a time like this! His dirty chairs would only gloom the joint!”
Whitey’s friends were a gay lot, and what was more to the point, free spenders. One of the men was in sentimental mood and was making love to his wife.
“What do you think this is? Field-day?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“The Ford feel!” the man grinned, “between the wheels! Not over them!”
“Yeup! In a year or two, it’ll have done away with the old-fashioned Christmas goose! How about a song?” Mrs. Feeley hustled the loving couple over to the piano.
“Give ’em somethin’ lovey-dovey,” she whispered to Miss Tinkham.
“What about ‘Night and Day’?” the man said.
“Ah yes! The working man’s ‘Liebestraum’!” Miss Tinkham beamed.
Over and over the droning monotonous notes, the man and his wife moaned their constancy.
Mrs. Feeley could stand it no longer: she went over with two big glasses of beer.
“Here’s somethin’ for the hungry yearny-burny inside o’ you…Shut up now, an’ let’s have somethin’ with some life to it!”
“‘Take it off! Take it off!’” Whitey and Mrs. Feeley bellowed the ‘Strip Polka.’ He grabbed her around the substantial middle and tried to find room to do a few polka steps.
“We ain’t got no license for dancin’!” Mrs. Feeley gasped. “Or no breath!”
“‘I Had A Dream, Dear!’” someone shouted. Soon the whole barroom was harmonizing.
“Switch into ‘Girl O’ My Dreams,’” Whitey suggested.
The door swung open and Blondelle and McGoon came in. The beer-truck driver was right behind them. He had a pretty girl with him, but left her to her own devices in his haste to get to the piano to lift his voice high above the crowd.
“Jeez!” Whitey said respectfully, “Morton Downey’ll be lookin’ for a job next week!”
“My old lady wants to sing ‘Indian Love Call,’” one of the customers said. “Would you play it, lady?”
Miss Tinkham consented graciously.
Blondelle must have been well-primed with sloe-gin fizzes for halfway through the doleful rendition she got up and pushed the unprotesting singer out of the way.
“She don’t sing with a beat!” Blondelle complained. “Play ‘There’ll Be Some Changes Made!’”
Blondelle sang not only with a beat but with the vocal equivalent of grinds and bumps. The applause was tumultuous. Blondelle did not have to be coaxed.
“Can you play ‘Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives To Me?”
Miss Tinkham could, and did.
McGoon was not impressed. He was counting the take. His beady eyes darted over the crowd. Mrs. Feeley watched him like a cork-bob on a fish-line.
“Miss Tinkham’s awful tired,” she roared into the din, “An’ I seen Mrs. Rasmussen droppin’ the dumplin’s in the stew! How’s to quieten down a little, so’s we can serve you? Then you’ll get your second wind an’ can beller all night, if you’ve a mind to!”
She went over to join Sadie and Sammele. They were sitting quietly taking in the show.
“Mrs. Freelig, make Sammele sing ‘When I Get You Alone Tonight,’” Sadie said.
“Gawd! That’s an oldie!”
“First words English I learned when I came from the other side,” Sammele laughed. “An’ such words!”
Mrs. Feeley saw Whitey giving her the high-sign. He approached with a handsome man.
“I ain’t tryin’ to crowd you, Mrs. Feeley. A party ain’t no place for business dicker, but Mr. McGillicuddy’s goin’ to the Coast tomorrow, an’ would appreciate a moment of your time!” He spoke loud enough for McGoon to hear.
“You got a terrific angle here,” McGillicuddy said warmly. “I’ll give you four thousand, spot cash…and a hundred a week to you to run it! I’d want the same chef kept on! Terrific!”
“We’re goin’ home to San Diego Sunday at the latest,” Mrs. Feeley said, “so we couldn’t take your proposition. But I’ll consider your bid on the bar.”
“When can I know? I’m prepared to raise the ante if needs be,” Mr. McGillicuddy said confidentially.
“I’m sure o’ that!” Mrs. Feeley looked at him admiringly. “Anyone with half an eye can see you’re no piker.” She saw McGoon edging up closer. “Hot or cold, I’m closin’ the deal Saturday mornin’. I’d like to see you get it…be in good hands!”
“May I offer you some refreshment?” McGillicuddy said.
“Now that’s very gentlemanly of you,” Mrs. Feeley beamed at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched McGoon chewing his cigar-stub violently. He went over to the beer-truck driver’s girl and began playing with a lapel pin on her suit. Blondelle left the group she was drinking with and came over to him.
“Roaming hands again, huh? They’re gonna get you into trouble yet!” She dragged him over to the crowd she had left. “Buy some beer for the people, you cheap sponge!”
&nbs
p; Mrs. Rasmussen signaled Mrs. Feeley to come to the back room.
“Put this somewhere.” She opened the cash box. It was almost full of bills. “They get four or five beers, put down a dollar an’ say ‘Keep the change!’ Don’t have to twist my arm!”
“Right in the First National Bank!” Mrs. Feeley wadded up the bills and stuck them in her stocking. “Won’t do to leave this around loose! You didn’t take pay from Sam Miller?”
Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head:
“Gotta dish the stew now. You take over the bar.”
Mrs. Feeley went to help Miss Tinkham.
“It’s just one grand party, that’s what it is!” a man at the bar said.
“Hell,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Ain’t no party where you take money for it!”
“You’re forgetting Elsa Maxwell!” Miss Tinkham shook a playful finger.
“Never heard of it!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Want some stew?”
“I’m famished,” Miss Tinkham admitted. “I don’t know where they are all going to sit.”
Mrs. Feeley went over to sit with Sammele and Sadie. Mrs. Rasmussen served them extra-large helpings of stew.
“Don’t guess this is kosher, like your house!” she said.
Sadie dismissed such scruples with a shrug.
“I keep a kosher house, but when I’m out…I eat what they’re putting in front of me!”
“Damn sensible idea,” Mrs. Feeley said. “You know,” she whispered, “We’re selling out! Gotta go home now. What do you want did with the stove and pie-anna?”
“What we gave you, we gave you! Keep it, sell it…throw it away. We only hate to think you’re going!”
“We won’t forget you!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Take the address, ’cause friends meet before mountains do!”
Two customers were involved in a noisy argument at the bar. Mrs. Feeley put down her spoon and went over to quell them with the bung starter. “This is what I give advice with,” she said. “My advice to you two is to lower your voices an’ don’t start no bickerin’…otherwise that quiet gent with the mustache will have to lower the boom!”
“He don’t believe I can play ‘The World Is Waiting For The Sunrise’ on a big blowed-up balloon by letting the air out real slow! I been practicing for years and I can do it, too!”
One On The House Page 16