One On The House (20 page)

“Who said that?” Mrs. Feeley strode over to the booth.

“I did.” The speaker was a huge man with red hair.

“Is there anybody in here bigger’n you?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Anybody in here uglier’n you?”

The man grinned.

“Then get up off your duff an’ get it yourself! That goes for all of you. Orderly, too. An’ no cheatin’!”

The men were paralyzed for a moment. They looked at Mrs. Feeley for a lead. She sat down at a table and drank her own beer in stony silence. At last Smiley went behind the bar and drew a beer.

“Where do I ring it up?” he said.

“Gimme the dime,” Mrs. Feeley said. She put it in the cashbox.

“Bring the brew for the lot of us, Smiley,” a man called out from the booth. Smiley loaded a tray with full glasses and carried it to his friends.

“Classy!” he said. “Jus’ like a private club!”

Mrs. Rasmussen brought out two tin trays loaded with scarlet crabs. Miss Tinkham carried a tray with bowls of pungent buttery sauce and a big pile of paper napkins.

“Ain’t them elegant?” Smiley said.

Beauty Boy put his crab and beer on top of the pianola. He produced a mighty avalanche of sound, pumping at a furious rate. The roll he had selected was “Dardanella.”

“Oh, sweet darling Ella!” Mrs. Feeley reared back in her chair, “Mr. Feeley’s favorite piece! Don’t any of you guys try anythin’, ’cause I know down to the last drop how many glasses o’ beer to a barrel! If we come up short in the cashbox I’ll take it outa your hides!” She beckoned to Mrs. Rasmussen: “Gimme a crab, like a good girl. Then come sit down. Ain’t this the life o’ Reilly?”

Miss Tinkham finished her crab and beer. “I think,” she whispered to Mrs. Feeley, “in as much as Beauty Boy there at the piano was the originator of this marvelous idea, I should encourage him artistically.”

Mrs. Feeley nodded: “Sure! Let him blow his guts!”

Whitey and Mrs. Rasmussen came in from the kitchen. By the expression on Mrs. Rasmussen’s face, Mrs. Feeley knew that the gas stove was in working order.

“Draw yourself a couple on the house, Whitey!” Mrs. Feeley said.

Miss Tinkham was playing “Down by the Old Mill Stream.”

“Something we can all sing,” she said over her shoulder.

“Kinda limber up our pipes,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

The three ladies began to harmonize rather rustily.

“We’re outa practice!” Mrs. Feeley said. “C’mon! What’s the matter with you guys? Lost your bronnick-al tubes?”

“Seems kinda funny to be harmonizin’ in broad daylight!” Whitey said.

“Typical American inhibition about diurnal pleasure!” Miss Tinkham said. She played the introduction once more. “All ready? ‘Down by the…’”

“‘old mill stream!’” the customers bellowed. Beauty Boy could possess his soul in patience no longer. His boy-soprano came as a shock to the ladies who were expecting a bass-baritone, at least. High, clear, and fluting he descanted above the rougher voices.

“And now you know,” Mrs. Feeley said, “why the Irish believe in fairies!”

T
HE
DIMES
AND QUARTERS PELTED ENCOURAGINGLY
into the cashbox. From time to time, Mrs. Feeley scooped the box clean for the psychological effect on the buyers.

“They ain’t hogs,” she said to Miss Tinkham in a brief lull while someone changed the roll on the pianola. “They’re drawin’ smaller beers than we do!”

“Tippin’ good, too,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

The amount of extra oxygen the customers took in through their vocal exercises must have gone to their heads. Perhaps the beer had something to do with it. The men filled the room with sounds they fondly imagined to be music. Groups of three and four were giving each other severe competition, producing an effect reminiscent of a music conservatory at practice time. Through the singing of a quartet that sounded like a cook grating dry bread, the pianola gave out the machine-gun fire of “Valencia.”

Mrs. Feeley noticed there was no one tending bar. She banged with her gavel.

“We don’t drink water here! They need it to make the atom bomb! Dig down in them jeans.” She was about to sit down when the door opened and McGoon sidled in accompanied by what could be nothing but his lady-friend.

“He’s fixin’ to slip us one,” Mrs. Feeley muttered. “Comin’ in here with that smile like the busted scum on a slop-bucket!”

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.