One On The House (26 page)
“Mrs. Rasmussen has ’em in her satchel.”
“Bring them out. I’ll cash them. Banks all closed. You’ll need the money for your tickets.” Mrs. Feeley looked back over her shoulder at Timmy as she went to get Mrs. Rasmussen.
Mrs. Rasmussen came in with her hand-bag and Miss Tinkham stepped out of the washroom, fresh and clean.
“Dear Timmy!” she cried, “so wonderful to see you…”
“Spare me the emotional scene, Miss Tinkham.”
She backed off nearer to her friends.
“The checks, please. Are they endorsed?” Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head and sat down to endorse hers. Mrs. Feeley signed hers painfully, sticking her tongue out between her gums and chewing on it for every letter. Miss Tinkham gave the proper flourish to her signature and handed the checks to Timmy.
“One hundred and forty-four dollars,” Timmy counted. “Now an IOU for the sixty you are borrowing.”
He wrote it out and the three signed in silence.
“That should take you home.” Timmy handed Miss Tinkham the money.
“I resent being addressed in that Rudy Vallee tone of voice!” she said.
“The key, please!” Timmy held out his hand.
Mrs. Feeley pointed to the front door. As she pointed a four-note automobile horn caroled gaily: “How Dry I Am!”
Mrs. Feeley and her friends walked slowly to the door and peered out.
Drawn up at the curb was a 1926 seven passenger Cadillac sedan the length of a Greyhound bus, bright poisonous blue. The wheels boasted white-walled tires, two extra wheels strapped to the side of the hood. Old-Timer sat proudly behind the wheel with Barbara at his side.
“Take your hand off that goddam horn, an’ start explainin’!” Mrs. Feeley shouted, exasperated by Timmy’s tone and Old-Timer’s fatuous grin.
“The Super-Chief!” Timmy laughed, “The San Diego Cannon-Bail! Your own private bus-line, the loving gift and small token of appreciation from Barbara and Timmy to the swellest gals in town!”
For once Mrs. Feeley was speechless.
“We’re to motor from Coast to Coast!” Miss Tinkham burbled.
“You damn, high-handed brat!” Mrs. Feeley threw herself around Timmy’s neck. “I love you!”
“Be careful of his incision!” Miss Tinkham said.
“I’m next!” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “You hadn’t oughta done it.”
“The car’s the love of Old-Timer’s life,” Timmy said. “He did all the work himself. It’s old but it’s beautiful, like ‘The Hat Me Father Wore!’ Made to order for you. Good for a hundred thousand miles, at least!”
“Them tires ain’t old,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I know a little somethin’ about tires myself!”
“Oh, those were a present from Barbara! She thought they looked so pretty with the blue.”
Mrs. Feeley went over and opened the rear door.
“Look at the room in this hearse!” she pointed to the jump-seats. “What’s that?” On the floor there was a large round tin, like a hundred-pound lard can, tightly covered and painted the same blue as the car.
“Open it,” Timmy said.
“It’s cold,” Mrs. Feeley took the top off. There was a twenty-five-pound chunk of ice in the can and all around the sides were cans of beer, tightly and neatly packed.
“By God, that’s the wow-finish!” Mrs. Feeley said.
“We can put our feet up on them seats in front of us. One of us can put our feet on the beer can an’ we won’t hardly have to stop nights!” Mrs. Rasmussen was turning the car into a trailer already.
“So aesthetic,” Miss Tinkham said. “Red roses in the cut-glass vases! Dear Timmy! Hyacinths to feed our souls!”
“Pipe the tile!” Mrs. Feeley spied Old-Timer’s new cap with the shiny badge.
“Chauffeur! Such elegance!” Miss Tinkham shrieked.
Mrs. Rasmussen was around in back investigating the enormous trunk and luggage rack.
“Plenty o’ room for the pots Mrs. Miller give us.”
Mrs. Feeley began jumping up and down on the sidewalk.
“Timmy, don’t be sore; but we wanna go! I’m dyin’ to start! What about the license an’ the tags?”
“They’re okay just like they are. Sol had all the transfer papers and Old-Timer has the pink slip in his wallet. Put it in this envelope, Old-Timer,” Timmy said.
Old-Timer brought out the ownership slip and reached for the envelope. “I made it out in Mrs. Feeley’s name, on account of being a property owner, in case anything happens,” Timmy explained.
“Mrs. Rasmussen is the custodian of cash and documents,” Miss Tinkham said.
“That’s right!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Put ’em away!”
Mrs. Rasmussen took the two hundred and four dollars Timmy had given them from a side pocket of her bag and put it with the pink slip. She started to place it in the envelope.
“There’s somethin’ in here, Timmy.” She pulled out the two checks and the money order, plus the IOU.
Mrs. Feeley shook her head at Timmy.
“I learned about bull-dozing from you,” he laughed. “Be careful of those! They’re endorsed.”
Beauty Boy drove up in the beer truck.
“How many today?”
“Don’t need a one, son!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Timmy’s sold out, an’ at a very decent price, too! He give us this present here…ain’t it somethin’? Ever see a chariot like that in your life? We’re leavin’ today. You ain’t got a road map on you, by any chance?”
“We can pick one up on the way!” Miss Tinkham said. “See America first! The Lincoln Highway will do very well for a while!”
“Don’t stand there gassin’!” Mrs. Feeley said, “We gotta pack an’ hit the trail. Gotta drink up what’s left o’ the beer…don’t want to leave nothin’ for McGoon. You’ll say good-bye to all the fellers for us, won’t you, Timmy?” Mrs. Feeley started in the door.
“I think they’ll attend to that themselves,” Timmy said.
Whitey and his gang were coming around the corner, carrying cartons that could only contain canned beer.
“Load her up!” Whitey shouted. The gang piled the cases on the luggage rack and were about to lash them in place.
“How we gonna get our bags in if you do that now?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Hell, they’re only small!” Mrs. Feeley said, “We’ll put ’em on the floor by our feet. We need room for the beer!”
“Darling Aphrodite can ride in the front seat beside Old-Timer.” Miss Tinkham came out carrying her treasure. “How does poor, benighted Mr. McGoon ever hope to make a success without her?”
“Lunch’d be handy to have along,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Yeup. Let’s finish the beer.” Everyone piled into the saloon and Mrs. Rasmussen went into the kitchen to slice up what remained of the pot-roast to make sandwiches. She packed a carton with crackers and cheese and took all the staple groceries and condiments she had bought.
“Knowin’ us,” she muttered, “they’s no tellin’ when these’ll come in handy.” She joined the crowd in the bar. Mrs. Feeley was drinking beer, beaming at everyone.
“Just one more song,” Beauty Boy pleaded. He and Miss Tinkham sang “Till We Meet Again.”
“I hate to see you go!” Whitey said. “We took off two hours early just to give you this send-off. There ain’t many we’d do that for.”
“You’ll see that Sam Miller gets the stove hooked up…for free?” Mrs. Feeley reminded him.
“Word of honor. Here’s the address. Drop us a line.”
Beauty Boy and Miss Tinkham were singing “Aloha Oe.”
Mrs. Feeley headed for the lavatory.
“If I go in there, maybe it’ll save me cryin’!”
“Still some beer left,” Smiley reported. “Gotta clean it all up!”
“Down to the very last drop!” Mrs. Feeley came back and put her arms around Timmy and Barbara. “We’ll never drink in finer company!” She drained her glass.
“Well, kids…this winds it up. You got the address. Keep in touch. It’s been a pleasure knowin’ you, but now it’s time to get on board.”
Beauty Boy and Miss Tinkham were singing “Now Is The Hour” with tears streaming down their faces.
“I’m thinking,” Timmy said putting his hand on Barbara, “of all I might have missed if I hadn’t burst that little gut just when I did!”
Whitey brought over the last round of beer. Everyone stood up.
“Friends,” Mrs. Feeley wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “This is one for the road!”
Silently they filed out and loaded into the car, Old-Timer in front with Aphrodite. Mrs. Rasmussen was first in the back seat. Miss Tinkham turned to the group on the sidewalk.
“I have not been so moved since the battle of Agincourt.” She stood with one skinny leg on the running board and lifted an arm high in farewell. “God for Harry! For England! And Saint…”
“Patrick!” Mrs. Feeley shouted, pushing her in ahead of her.
“Ol’-Timer, point her nose to the West!”
THE END
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1949 by Mary Lasswell
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3705-1
Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution
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New York, NY 10038
