One On The House (5 page)

“All the varmints I ever bet on seemed to think they was in a sack-race,” Mrs. Feeley said. “That’s how they run, anyway.”

“They’re off!” the microphone roared. The horses pounded wildly around the track. Mrs. Feeley could see nothing for the herd milling in front of her. Racing-forms waved and people yelled encouragement at their favorites. Mrs. Rasmussen sensibly climbed up on a chair and Miss Tinkham followed suit.

“Which horses are we betting on?” she cried.

“That gibberish he’s yellin’ don’t make sense to me…have to wait till it’s over an’ the boys tell us.”

Dusty and Spud were down at the fence, shouting and gesticulating wildly. They were red in the face and sweating. The announcer roared:

“Shadow Shot wins! By a length and a half!”

Most of the crowd stamped and swore. They threw their papers to the ground and then picked them up again, recovering from their first disappointment. All eyes were directed at the illuminated board; figures began appearing in colored light: $31.20…$13.60…$7.20. The two chiefs were smiling broadly.

“We won half of it anyway,” Dusty said.

“What do you mean, half of it?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “My old Broom horse lost.”

“No, Mrs. Rasmussen. He hasn’t run yet. He’s in the next race. We both won, and Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham won…you didn’t pick a horse in the first.”

“We won?” Mrs. Feeley said. “How much?”

“Let’s see: You and Miss Tinkham won thirty-one twenty apiece and Spud and I won three hundred and twelve each because we had ten-dollar tickets.”

Miss Tinkham almost fainted.

“May I bet on the second horse now?” she gasped, fishing in her bag.

“Too late,” Dusty said. “I told you.”

The boys went off to collect and Mrs. Feeley looked smugly at her companions.

“Just how long has this been goin’ on?” She rubbed her hands.

“With a lousy four dollars we won sixty-two forty. If we shot the wad, we’d really clean up! Just like lickin’ it up off the grass!”

“Nothin’ to it,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “Here we was worryin’!”

“Our troubles are over,” Miss Tinkham caroled, “No wonder they call it the sport of kings!”

Dusty and Spud came back waving fistfuls of the long green.

“The beer’s on us,” Mrs. Feeley cried, reaching for her share.

“Your money’s no good today, ma’am,” Dusty said. “Your job is to keep an eye on Jean LaFitte here.” The waiter brought more beer and Mrs. Rasmussen took hers down to the fence with her.

“My roach is runnin’ in this race! Better go down an’ keep him in the straight an’ narrow!”

“Hell, he’s runnin’ for me too!” Mrs. Feeley said.

The icy beer was having its effect along with the general ferment of the crowd. After such a long-shot coming in, the excitement was doubled. Crowds poured down to the fence after the horses left the post.

“I get so excited I can’t tell one from the other,” Mrs. Feeley said. She pushed her way down to the rail. Elbows were pushed in her eyes and her feet were trampled like a Japanese flag at a VFW convention. She shoved her way back to the table using the beer bottle as a prow:

“Call me when it’s time to collect the money!” She sat down and signaled for more beer. A sad wail rose from the crowd. They seemed to wilt individually and collectively. Not so Dusty and Spud. They threw their hats into the air and pounded Mrs. Rasmussen on the back.

“My horse won,” she said, coming up to the table.

“Her horse won!” Dusty laughed. “Mrs. Feeley and both of us won the daily double! The odds are something terrific! We can retire for good! You just sit down with some beer for sustenance while we go get the swag!”

“Guess we don’t have to skimp on that little old television set now,” Mrs. Feeley crowed.

“Plenty beer on the road home!” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

Apparently the winners of the daily double had been few. The two chiefs returned promptly.

“Twelve-forty for Mrs. Rasmussen; twelve-forty for Mrs. Feeley…plus the daily double: four hundred and thirty-five dollars and eighty centavos!”

“Gawd! We’re rich!” Mrs. Feeley said, kissing the two young men.

“Five hundred and twenty-three dollars and no cents,” Mrs. Rasmussen did lightning calculation, and bussed Spud expertly.

“What a delightful vista opens before us,” Miss Tinkham said. “Just what the horoscope predicted; a change both pleasurable and profitable! What a future there is in it for us! As we grow older we can follow the sun—and the horses!”

Dusty looked at her for a minute. “You want to be careful at this, Miss Tinkham. It’s easy to lose your shirt.” He began to stow away his money in his wallet.

“You had ten dollars on the double too?” Mrs. Feeley was goggle-eyed. “I never seen that much money in my life.”

“There ain’t that much,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

“No? Well this better not turn out to be cabbage,” Dusty laughed.

“Four thousand three hundred and eighty dollars.”

Spud spread out the crisp new bills. “I’m going to buy me a house in San Diego down towards National City where I can see those Mexican hills…just as fast as I can send this home to my folks.”

“What about the income tax?” Miss Tinkham asked.

“That tote-ticket didn’t have a name on it! The most revenue they’re going to get from me is liquor tax…what about some more beer?”

“What you goin’ to buy, Dusty? You goin’ to invest your money in houses and lots? Whore-houses an’ lots o’ liquor?”

“I’ll just settle for that Cadillac,” Dusty said when the noise died down.

“We sure got more than we ever expected…an’ thanks!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Besides, this is only the beginnin’…only the beginnin’!”

“Now, Mrs. Feeley…I want to make myself clear: long-shots like this don’t happen very often. Sometimes they don’t happen by chance, either.”

“Sure! Sure!” she cried, “I ain’t askin’ for no trade secrets. We’ll just ride along with our own luck, same as we always do, won’t we?”

Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham smirked complacently.

“I hope I may be forgiven,” Miss Tinkham clutched her thirty-one dollars and twenty cents, “but I seem suddenly to have lost interest in this sport!”

Mrs. Feeley looked at the young men thoughtfully.

“You know, that ain’t such a bad idea. Let’s get outa here before some o’ them reporters or the bum-bailiffs comes round askin’ impident questions…ain’t every day two sailors wins four thousand apiece, an’ us five hundred an’ some!”

“There is no substitute for genius, Mrs. Feeley!” Dusty Rhodes finished his beer and started herding his party out to the street.

“We’re going to pick up Katy and Danny and go out on the town this night! Taxi!” he yelled. “Taxi! The biggest and blackest one you have!”

S
UNDAY
MORNING
THE ONLY SOUND HEARD IN THE
Malone apartment was the crashing of an alka-seltzer in a glass of cold water. The heat filtered through the windows and was blown into a reluctant current by the droning electric fan Danny placed on the floor. He and Katy lay on a pallet in front of the windows sipping what they hoped were restoratives. Mrs. Feeley padded into the kitchen on her bare little feet in search of beer.

“We drank outa the big end o’ the egg-cup last night, didn’t we?”

Miss Tinkham nodded limply and snapped off a beer-cap.

Give me my scallop shell of joy,

My bottle of salvation.

“Gawd, don’t go mentionin’ scallops at a time like this!”

“Not a happy thought, was it?”

“You’ve had better.”

Mrs. Rasmussen came walking in as though her hips were made of glass.

“We tied on some good ones in our time, but this is the first time my comb ever up an’ snapped at me.”

“Some spenders, them guys!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Good thing Ol’-Timer took the baby to the Zoo. Reckon we’ll survive? Look at Katy an’ Danny…I knew that soda in them Scotches would give ’em a awful hangover.”

“Hungover or standin’ up, I’m gonna eat!” Mrs. Rasmussen downed a beer at a gulp and began to investigate the icebox. The celebration of the day before had interfered with Katy’s usual Saturday cooking. Mrs. Rasmussen eyed the luscious cut of prime ribs…that would take too much time the way she roasted it in a slow oven closed up in a paper bag.

“Plenty of eggs an’ cheese,” she mumbled. “Ol’-Timer musta baked them potatoes for him an’ the baby.” She saw lamb-chop bones left in the sink and felt better that Little Danny had not been neglected.

“Now if I can just find some o’ them cans o’ hot green Mexican peppers we brought Katy, I’ll be able to save us all yet.” She found the small can of peppers in brine, then peeled and chopped the baked potatoes. She melted some butter in a copper pan and put the potatoes on the back of the stove to make a good crust on her hash-browns.

Mrs. Feeley raised her head from the kitchen table and smiled.

“I didn’t think nothin’ would ever smell good to me again.”

Mrs. Rasmussen poured herself another beer.

She broke a dozen eggs into a large bowl, added salt and ground in some black pepper. Then she added six tablespoons of water. She opened the hot peppers and cut six large triangles of sharp Cheddar cheese. Under the sink she found Katy’s largest copper frying pan and heated it. Into it, with reckless abandon, she dropped a quarter of a pound of butter. With great care she placed the triangles of cheese in the pan with the points meeting in the center. She lowered the heat carefully, then placed half of a thin green pepper between the triangles, one in each space. From the pan the aroma of toasting cheese and green pepper must have reached the living room, for Katy and Danny appeared in the door.

“No mass suicide today?” Danny asked.

Mrs. Rasmussen grinned and shook her head. She was dipping French rolls in cold water. She put them in a paper bag tightly twisted shut and put them in the oven.

“These eggs’ll be good for our rigor mortis,” she said to Katy. “You know better than to be fiddlin’ with that alka-seltzer! Swallow a beer down quick like a good girl…it’ll just give me time to whip these eggs into the pan.” Mrs. Feeley crawled to her feet and started moving chairs up to the kitchen table. Miss Tinkham set out plates and forks.

“We don’t need knives,” she moaned. “Only more dishes to wash!”

“The cleaning lady comes tomorrow,” Katy said.

“Glory be to God!” Mrs. Feeley rolled her eyes piously.

Mrs. Rasmussen beat the eggs to a froth and poured them over the cheese and peppers. She tilted the pan and loosened the mixture with the spatula until the omelet was set. Then she turned it out upside down on a large hot plate. Around the sides she arranged the hash-brown potatoes.

“Ten minutes ago,” Mrs. Feeley said pouring out the beer, “I thought if I never ate again, it would be too soon. Be sure to give me plenty!”

W
HEN
THE DISHES WERE WASHED AND PUT AWAY
Miss Tinkham rescued the Sunday paper from oblivion and brought it into the bedroom. Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen were sitting on the floor counting the money.

“Close the door,” Mrs. Feeley whispered. “We don’t want them to get wind o’ this.”

“We got seven hundred an’ two dollars…an’ plenty more where that come from,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “That’s countin’ what we had before we went to the races, o’ course.”

“What’d we do with the rest?” Mrs. Feeley said.

“Don’t you remember? We give Ol’-Timer twenty-five dollars to keep in his pocket Saturday night.”

“My head’s like a ten-cent sieve!” Mrs. Feeley said.

“Gimbels!” Miss Tinkham exclaimed. “Gimbels have magnificent television sets…just look! And such values!”

“First thing in the mornin’ we’ll hot-foot it down there an’ get the finest one in the country. We don’t have to get one o’ them measly little two hundred and fifty sets now that we know where we can go right out an’ pick money off the bushes!”

“The best is good enough for them!” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Like the feller said when he give you them two free loads o’ manure for your flowers: You deserve it.”

“Now here’s how we gotta work it,” Mrs. Feeley spoke softly. “We’ll get the set delivered an’ tell ’em we hate to go, but we just gotta go home.”

“The television set will soften the blow of our departure,” Miss Tinkham agreed.

“They’re bound to have things they want to do at the last minute, but havin’ us here they’re too polite to say so. Katy can’t get her stuff packed with us usin’ the extra beds an’ linen. Soon’s the set comes, we’ll take what we saved out to bet with and run right out to the races. Soon as we clean ’em out, we’ll hop the train. Anythin’ I hate, it’s a long-drawn-out partin’!”

“Yeah. We’ll be all packed an’ get right on the train,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Now that we know how to get all the money we need, we don’t never have to ride them buses! I hate ’em.”

“Heaven! It’s been sheer heaven!” Miss Tinkham said. “But what joy to get back to dear San Diego…in less than a week we’ll be home! Just think of it!”