One On The House

by Mary Lasswell

  “Come around tomorrow,” Mrs. Feeley said. “It’s amateur night. Got a guy with a swinette comin’ in!”

  The drunks stared at her. “What’s a swinette?”

  “Where you guys been all your lives? Don’t know what a swinette is! It’s a long board with holes bored in it: you line up eight pigs, from bass to sopranner, an’ pull their tails through the holes. Then you play music by pullin’ their tails, high notes or low ones, dependin’ on what the tune calls for. Takes a good man to play one: long legs an’ big feet to kick the right pigs to make ’em squeal good an’ loud!”

  The wranglers stared at her silently. Then they finished their beer. Then they stared at each other solemnly.

  “I hear my mother calling me,” the first one said.

  “Past my bed-time, too.” Arm and arm they walked out into the night.

  Miss Tinkham was indulging in mild hysterics.

  “Give ’em a fresh idea to work on,” Mrs. Feeley said. “All the world the matter with drunks is they got a single-track mind. Give ’em somethin’ else to think about an’ they handle like lambs.”

  McGoon came up to the bar.

  “I may have been just a shade low in my figure,” he said. “I want to close the deal before I go away for the week-end.”

  “You’re a shade low, but it ain’t just in your figger. I’m not closin’ before Saturday.”

  “Just remember I made the first offer! I’m entitled to a little extra consideration after all I’ve done for Rafferty.”

  “Extra, hell! Your offer’s topped now by a grand! Go on home an’ get you some shoelaces to peddle, Small Stuff! McGillicuddy’s installing television! Not just one lousy set…but one in each booth. This place is goin’ on the map…an’ it ain’t for a cheap grifter like you!”

  “Now you can’t talk to me like that, Mrs. Feeley! I asked you first and you can forget my original price…I’ll make it four and you take it ahead of his bid.”

  Mrs. Feeley gave in gracefully. She raised her voice to a pitch suitable for hog-calling or “The Ride of the Valkyrie.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Rasmussen! Whitey! Listen here, Blondelle!” She took hold of McGoon’s sleeve.

  “You’re offerin’ me four thousand dollars, spot cash, for the lease, fixtures, an’ good will o’ this place in Timmy Rafferty’s name…is that straight?”

  “It is,” McGoon admitted. “But that’s my last and final offer. Do you take it?”

  “Well, now…I can’t rightly say. We gotta give Mr. McGillicuddy a chance to better his offer. Where is he, anyway?”

  Whitey sailed up. “He had to leave for the Airport.”

  “Ain’t he the humdinger? No grass growin’ between his toes!”

  “Then it’s mine,” McGoon said.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Whitey said. “He told me to see that he gets the property…and to hell with the price! Excuse me for swearin’, Mrs. Feeley!”

  “McGoon here has bid four thousand out loud in front o’ all these people,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Long as it’s a party, you shouldn’t settle no business,” Whitey said. “Wait till Monday. He can phone from the Coast by then.”

  “That’s sensible,” Mrs. Feeley was quickly convinced. “I never do no serious business when I been imbibin’,” she laughed. “Too hard on the other party! When they say four, I say five…right on up!”

  “Come on, Blondelle!” McGoon said. “I’m saying my last word: forty-five hundred dollars and to hell with all meddling old women! That bid’s in before McGillicuddy’s…he only offered four. I heard him!”

  “That’s fair enough,” Mrs. Feeley conceded. The only thing Mrs. Feeley had that Talullah Bankhead might envy was her lung-power and she made full use of it:

  “Everybody hear what Mr. McGoon’s sayin’: forty-five hundred dollars an’ if McGillicuddy don’t top it by Monday, the baby’s yours!”

  “I want it settled before Saturday…”

  “Keep your shirt on! How’d you like it if we was to treat you that way? Everybody’s gettin’ a fair shake!” She winked at Whitey.

  “I’ll give you the cash Friday night,” McGoon insisted. “It’s in my strong-box down at headquarters.”

  “Monday,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “We’ll see!” McGoon took Blondelle’s arm and dragged her off.

  Mrs. Feeley laughed and banged Whitey on the back.

  “Give McGillicuddy the Oscar! This is turnin’ out to be a real party! Miss Tinkham, I’ll just sing something for the folks! How about ‘I’m Saving Green Coupons For Mother To Purchase A Tombstone For Pa’?” As an encore, she obliged with ‘When Maggie Dooley Does The Huley Huley,’ including a hula hula which left her a quivering mass sitting on the floor. When she got her breath she said:

  “Now comes the highspot of the evenin’…Miss Tinkham’s solo!”

  “I shall play,” Miss Tinkham said tucking up her long black angel-sleeves, “‘The Rustle Of Spring.’” Beauty Boy politely raised the lid of the piano and propped it open with the telephone book. Even the beer glasses were kept decorously on the tables during Miss Tinkham’s performance. She swept into a cascade of notes that suggested an advancing hurricane rather than the rustle of spring. The customers loved it.

  “That’s classical,” Mrs. Feeley roared over the applause. “Pretty, too!”

  Miss Tinkham bowed graciously and accepted fresh beer.

  Angel came in the door in civilian clothes.

  “What’s going on?” he smiled. “For a minute I thought you were holding an Elk’s ball!”

  “Jazzy, ain’t it?” Mrs. Feeley agreed. “Have a beer. Mrs. Rasmussen’s bound to o’ saved you some stew.”

  “We’re sorta closin’ things out with a bang,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Our incomes come today,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We gotta hit the road. Been swell, but Timmy’s gotta go to school an’ we’re leavin’ soon as we sell the lease. Take our address! If you ever come out, we’ll give you a warm an’ rowdy welcome!”

  “You’ve only been here about ten days,” Angel said, “but all of us will miss you.”

  “We like people,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Man is the animal that most resembles man.” Miss Tinkham swayed slightly. The evening had been long and moist. Beauty Boy followed her like a slave, hoping for one more chance to sing.

  “I’m checkin’ the barrels for you,” he said to Mrs. Feeley, and went down to the basement. In a short while he was back.

  “You know what?” he said. “I already hooked up three fresh ones about ten o’clock, an’ there wasn’t but about half a barrel left! I had to hook up the last two!”

  “Then there sure as hell better be over a hundred bucks in the till! Or I’m gonna knock the haslett outa somebody!”

  “It’s a good thing there aren’t any residences around here,” Angel said.

  “There’s only one!” Mrs. Feeley said. “This is it…an’ there’ll be no complaints!”

  “This battered caravanserai has been a pleasant oasis on our journey towards the hills of home,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “A toast to the Queen Bee!” Whitey stood up. All the customers got up: some by one means of levitation, some by another.

  “Mrs. Feeley, God bless her!”

  The toastmaster turned to Miss Tinkham.

  “Miss Tinkham. The Poet of the Pianola!”

  Lurching slightly, he signaled out Mrs. Rasmussen.

  “Mrs. Rasmussen, At Home On Any Range!”

  The ladies were as pleased as punch. Mrs. Feeley stood up.

  “I thank you, an’ my friends thank you. Let’s all have a drink together while we can!” She held a full glass of beer up to the light and recited:

  The bubble winked at me an’ said

  “You’re gonna miss me when you’re dead!”

  Drink up! This is one on the house!” She and Angel filled the big bucket from the kitchen and went around filling the empty glasses and pouring heads on
the half-full.

  From a far corner came a plaintive sound, nostalgic and wistful. Old-Timer was seated on the floor holding a large four-note automobile horn. On either side of him, Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham lifted up their voices in harmony:

  How dry I am!

  How dry I am!

  Nobody seems to give a damn!

  Chapter 23

  FRIDAY MORNING MRS. FEELEY DID NOT WAKE till the sun was high in the sky.

  “Most as high as we was last night!” she said to Mrs. Rasmussen.

  “We’ll have some job sweepin’ out the mud, blood, an’ corruption!” The floor was covered with empty cigarette packs, paper napkins, crumbs, and beer stains.

  “The invariable aftermath of the Bacchanale,” Miss Tinkham sighed. “I’d like a glass of cold beer and a slice of cheese, if there is any.”

  “You’re goin’ to drink before me!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Remember when we first got acquainted, you wasn’t in favor o’ no beer the mornin’ after!”

  “That, dear lady, was several hundred hog’s-heads ago!”

  Mrs. Rasmussen came in with the cash box. “We got a hundred an’ seventy-six dollars in here. Just what did we do last night?”

  Mrs. Feeley dismissed the thought.

  “They was payin’ double for most all of it…didn’t take no change at all. That Whitey put ’em up to it. You forgot the thirty-six dollars I got in my sock?”

  “Sure funny,” Mrs. Rasmussen smiled, “That friend o’ Whitey’s boostin’ the price on McGoon.”

  “In the parlance of the underworld,” Miss Tinkham said, “he was a perfect shill.”

  “I’ll feel better when I see the color o’ his money an’ Timmy gives him a receipt.”

  “Sure gettin’ homesick,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “I’m takin’ them pots home that Mrs. Miller give us. They’re sure fine an’ I like a little momento o’ her.”

  “Where the hell is Ol’-Timer?” Mrs. Feeley said. “He’s gotta get off an’ help us clean out this pigsty.” Whitey came in the door.

  “Gawd, man!” Mrs. Feeley groaned. “It’s too early.”

  “I don’t want nothin’ but some beer,” he said. “Large evenin’.”

  “We done all right,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but how I hate cleaning up all that dur-biss.”

  “Débris,” Miss Tinkham murmured.

  “Dur-biss. I seen it in the paper. Means trash.”

  Miss Tinkham was in no condition to undertake the correction of Mrs. Feeley’s unique system of reading. Progressive education had produced some weird and wonderful results to Miss Tinkham’s way of thinking.

  Whitey finished his beer and put down a dime.

  “Put that in your pocket,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Leave it for the sweepers!”

  “Speakin’ o’ sweepers…would you step to the car-lot an’ get Ol’-Timer? He’s gotta help swab down.”

  “I bet he won’t come,” Whitey said. “He’s paintin’ the Caddy bright Easter-egg blue. Musta cost sixteen thousand when it was new, twenty-five years ago, almost.

  Seven passenger, cut-glass vases for flowers, an’ that motor! Musta been ordered special for some fly-jane or other. Ol’-Timer’s gonna sell it. Sol told him he could keep what he gets for it…over the price o’ the car, o’ course. God, they made ’em in them days! A person couldn’t afford to drive one of ’em a block with gas the price it is today.”

  “Them days is gone forever,” Mrs. Feeley said. “He can just drop it, ’cause we got our money to go home now, soon as we turn the whole thing over to Timmy. Guess McGoon’ll be around.”

  “Think we give him enough of a hot-foot?”

  “Sure!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Please get Ol’-Timer! I can’t stand the dirt another minute!”

  “No lunch today, Whitey,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Who could eat it?”

  Chapter 24

  BY FIVE O’CLOCK THE ROAD TO RUIN SALOON WAS restored to something like its usual neatness. Mrs. Rasmussen laid out some pickled herring and smoked salmon. She sliced some red onions into a bowl of French dressing and passed it around with hunks of dark bread. The beer-truck driver stuck his head in the door.

  “Six halfs,” Mrs. Feeley said, “an’ if you sing a note, I’ll murder you.”

  Miss Tinkham came out of the washroom looking fresh and cool in her Roman-striped jersey dress.

  “I’ll just scour myself,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Make me feel better, not to mention what it’ll do to my looks.”

  “I’m leveled off.” Mrs. Rasmussen was calmly eating an onion sandwich. Miss Tinkham waited on the customers in the cool quiet bar. No one touched the pianola.

  “The cathedral hush of a funeral parlor or an art gallery,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “An’ could we stood it!” Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.

  Mrs. Feeley emerged washed and dressed. Her black voile dress showed no sign of the wear and tear of the previous evening. She handed a roll of money to Mrs. Rasmussen.

  “Keep this in your bag. If we take in twenty dollars today an’ tomorrow, we’ll have almost three hundred an’ fifty dollars for Timmy, we done so good last night.”

  “We’re gonna be short on the bus fare,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “If the deal goes through,” Mrs. Feeley said after a moment’s thought, “Timmy can lend us the difference. We’ll send it outa the other checks when we get home. Don’t mind borrowin’ from him if he has this cash and the four thousand odd from McGoon.”

  Whitey and his gang came in, quelled by the night before.

  “Wonder why we ain’t heard from the Goon?” Mrs. Feeley said. “’Spose we overplayed our hand?”

  “He’s probably got his fingers caught in the lid of his strong-box, diggin’ out the cash,” Whitey said.

  “Turn the radio on, Miss Tinkham,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Turn it down nice an’ slow an’ bring us a nice cold beer. I think I’m gonna live!”

  “It was fun,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “but now it’s time to go…”

  “The time has come…” Miss Tinkham said.

  “To speak of many things!” Timmy Rafferty came in so quietly that the convivial three did not hear him. Beside him stood a lovely girl with shining red hair.

  “Timmy!” Mrs. Feeley shrieked, “How’d you get out?”

  “They let me out in Barbara’s custody! I’m better!”

  “Pleased to meet you!” Mrs. Feeley shook Barbara’s hand warmly, “We’re waitin’ to make the kill any minute, Timmy. Had a sort o’ dummy-run last night.”

  Whitey came over and was introduced to Timmy’s girl.

  “So you’re going to school! More power to you,” he said.

  “You’ve been swell,” Timmy said. “Mrs. Feeley said you were her right-bower.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Whitey laughed, “Hate to see ’em go.”

  “You’ll have a scrambled egg with cream, the way I make ’em?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “I couldn’t, honest!” Timmy said. “They made me drink a big eggnog before they’d let me out.”

  “But you’ll have a beer?” Mrs. Feeley said. Timmy shook his head.

  “Barbara will.”

  Mrs. Feeley went over to Whitey.

  “It’s after six. I’d a thought sure he’d be round pesterin’ me about the deal. Hope I ain’t over-reached myself.”

  “He’ll be along.”

  “It’d be so rotten for Timmy to have the deal go sour an’ lose even the twenty-five hundred! Ain’t she a darlin’?”

  “Built like a high-boy with the top drawer open,” Whitey smiled.

  “Wasn’t none o’ you guys ever weaned?” Mrs. Feeley got up. “If I had teeth I’d be bitin’ my fingernails…got the willies.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen had Barbara’s hand in hers and Miss Tinkham was deep in conversation with Timmy.

  “It’s quite certain that he will produce the price; he really wants it. I can’t understand what’s keeping him! So much
is at stake…not just the filthy lucre, bless it, but your future and dear Barbara’s. We are going to leave nothing, absolutely nothing for him. Mrs. Rasmussen suggested to me that Millers install the gas stove in back of their tailoring establishment so Mr. Miller can have his tea. It is unlikely that he will be frequenting Mr. McGoon’s Passion Pit! That leaves only the pianola to be disposed of.”

  “Miss Tinkham,” Barbara said, “will you sell it?”

  “Dear child, we wouldn’t dream of selling it! All we want is to find a good home for it!”

  “Could we have it for the rumpus room at the Cape?”

  “Nothing could please us more, unless it would be to dance at your wedding!”

  “My brother will come and take it whenever you say. Thanks so much!”

  There was a loud banging at the door, a sound of someone trying to batter down a door that was already open. Everyone in the saloon turned to stare. Mrs. Feeley got up on her feet in case of an emergency. The door swung open and Blondelle lurched in, totally and majestically drunk. She had her stockings drawn up over her arms like long gloves and wore her shoes on her hands.

  “Hi!” she said, “I’m loaded!”

  “Great gobs o’ sheet metal!” Mrs. Feeley yelled, “What do you call this?”

  “I did it an’ I’m glad!” Blondelle gloated.

  “Did what? Speak up, girl!” Mrs. Feeley shook her.

  Blondelle sat down with the quiet determination of a drunk.

  “He hit her.”

  “Who hit who? C’mon!” Mrs. Feeley urged.

  “He hit her. With the shaft of his glasses he hit her. On the tit.”

  “Who?” Mrs. Rasmussen tried her powers of persuasion.

  “He tapped her with it. On the tit. Everything got red in front of me like they slapped me in the eyes with a bowlful of raspberry Jello. And then I did it.”

  “Goddamit, girl, you’re drivin’ us nuts!” Mrs. Feeley shouted.

  “Was Mr. McGoon by any chance philandering?” Miss Tinkham said.

  “In the vault. On the tit with his glasses. I saw him.”