One On The House (4 page)

Mrs. Feeley stared hard at him for a moment.

“You’re always bringin’ up the subject o’ payin’: nobody’s ever liked you for anythin’ but to pay the bill, have they? That’s why money’s so important to you, ain’t it? Like a feller I used to know that always had to have a couple thousand on him in case he suddenly had to run away somewheres. When you’re runnin’ away from yourself, they ain’t no place that far.”

“True, his feeling of security comes from money,” Miss Tinkham said, “but whose doesn’t? It’s an inopportune time to psychoanalyze him when he’s fainting…”

“Strictly from hunger!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Now was we home in San Diego, we’d take you right to the Ark an’ I can just see Mrs. Rasmussen fixin’ you one o’ them omu-lets o’ hers, with the whites an’ yolks all beat separate, tender as a mother’s kiss!”

“Oyster stew, half milk an’ half cream, is what he needs,” Mrs. Rasmussen said calmly.

“There is a very refined place near here,” he said. “We could have a light repast if you would accompany me.”

“Let’s get goin’,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’ll be as refined as a tart at the Ladies’ Aid.”

Mr. Flink had not exaggerated; the place was refined and the food excellent. Mrs. Rasmussen’s prescription of oyster stew restored his self-confidence as well as the condition of his stomach. He embarked on two extra-thick lamb chops. Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham enjoyed Welsh rabbit. Mrs. Rasmussen had Crab Imperial.

“Couldn’t o’ made it better myself.” She bestowed the accolade with the modesty of the true artist.

“You can make that?” Mr. Flink pointed with the knife he raised from his lamb chop.

“Can she make that!” Mrs. Feeley said. “She can make that, or a paddle de foy, or a Long Island Hurrah. She can make anythin’ better than anybody else.”

“As we say in French, Mr. Flink…Mrs. Rasmussen’s cooking is something to put yourself on your knees before. That loses a little something in the translation, but I’m sure you get my meaning!” Miss Tinkham beamed on her host.

“You are all related?” Mr. Flink gazed in wonder from one face to another.

“Hell, man! Anybody can see we ain’t related: we get along too good!”

“You all live together?”

“Sure. At the Ark.”

“The Ark?”

“Mrs. Feeley’s estate in San Diego,” Miss Tinkham explained.

“And what does Mr. Feeley do, if I may inquire?”

“Mr. Feeley? He holds up the birdbath in the front yard.” Mrs. Feeley winked at her companions.

“Where is Mr. Rasmussen?” Mr. Flink was bound to find out at least one thing for sure.

“He’s gone,” Mrs. Rasmussen said sadly.

“He never went off and abandoned you?” Mr. Flink oozed sympathy.

“In a manner of speaking,” Miss Tinkham said.

“Don’t you ever hear from him?” Mr. Flink asked.

Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head.

“Have you filed for a divorce?”

“That’d be goin’ a little far.” Mrs. Rasmussen’s face was solemn.

“Now that’s where ladies make the mistake! There is no use going through life chained to a man who does not support you. He does not care what happens to you. The world is full of men who could make you happy, men who would be good to you. Give you charge accounts. It hurts me to see a refined lady like yourself in a position where she cannot accept the honorable intentions of a man who would know how to appreciate her. You must file at once.” Mr. Flink spoke with firmness.

Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley were gulping into their napkins.

“Well,” Mrs. Rasmussen said slowly with meekly downcast eyes, “It’d be a sheer waste o’ money in this case.”

“Waste of money? Why, little lady, surely the man of your choice would defray the expenses.”

“Still be a waste o’ good money.”

“Why?” Mr. Flink leaned forward avidly.

“’Cause he’s been dead fifteen years.”

Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham laughed immoderately. Mr. Flink looked as though he might be going to cry.

“I have been quite a few places and met quite some few persons,” he said. “In opening vaults and safes that get locked by mistake I have met persons in all sorts of varying situations, but I have never met anyone who acted like you ladies.”

“Ain’t you been lucky up to now!” Mrs. Feeley said. “But you asked for it! You was the one that wanted to play!”

“Sometimes we play rough,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

“And for keeps!” Miss Tinkham said.

“Suits me,” Mr. Flink looked sidewise at Mrs. Rasmussen, “May I term you Erna?”

“Be a mite familiar,” she said.

“I would like to entertain you ladies in a befitting manner,” he said. “Show you what kind of a man I am. There is a very exclusive place in Hoboken…”

“Ain’t that in Jersey?” Mrs. Feeley said.

The little man nodded.

“Can’t go.” Mrs. Rasmussen drew into her shell. “Violatin’ the Mann Act. We’re goin’ to the races tomorrow.”

The mention of the Mann Act rankled Mr. Flink. “Mesdames, my intentions are not immoral.”

“Stick to the King’s English,” Mrs. Feeley said, “even if you do murder it!”

“I only want a chance to get better acquainted with this lady; a chance to prove to her that we…we might go hand and hand into the sunset together. I am a good provider. I make around two hundred dollars a week, sometimes more, aside from my retirement and my three pensions.”

“Listen, Buster,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “don’t get no ideas like that just because we let you buy us a coupla beers.”

“That should be fairly conclusive, Mr. Flink,” Miss Tinkham said. “May I trouble you for the correct time?”

The ladies were surprised to know that it was getting on for two o’clock.

“Which races are you going to?” Mr. Flink ventured, his hopes undimmed.

“We’re goin’ with sailor friends,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We don’t know where but ’long as it’s sailors, we’re safe.”

“God loves the American sailor because his heart is pure,” Miss Tinkham said.

“Even if it ain’t always true of his blood-stream!” Mrs. Feeley said. “We had a nice time…and thanks! Tomorrow bein’ Saturday we got a big day: races, shoppin’, an’ packin’…”

“Packing!” Mr. Flink’s voice was anguished. “You’re not going! I’ve only just met you!”

“Too bad, bud.”

“Surely you will give me the privilege of entertaining you once before you leave!”

“That’s nice of you,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “but we gotta get the tickets, an’ go shoppin’ an’ course our own friends wants to give us a send-off.”

Mr. Flink looked so crestfallen that Mrs. Feeley added:

“Tell you what: if we have a spare minute, we’ll call you up at your hotel. You got the number on the card, ain’t you, Mrs. Rasmussen?”

Mr. Flink hastened to present each lady with a card of her own.

“Promise?” He took Mrs. Rasmussen’s hand and held it lingeringly.

“The best won’t be any too good for you…don’t get tired tomorrow,” he said tenderly.

“Doin’ what?” Mrs. Rasmussen said crispy-voiced.

“Going through shopping and all that,” he said. “You won’t get too tired?”

“Too tired to what?”

“To call me up and let me see you just once again.”

Mrs. Feeley put her arm through Mrs. Rasmussen’s and took hold of Miss Tinkham’s sleeve:

“Good-bye, Mr. Flink,” she said. To her companions she muttered, “Too bad we hadn’t brung the pie-anna! Miss Tinkham could o’ give us a chorus o’ ‘Hearts an’ Flowers’.”

T
HE
RACE-TRACK BAND
BLARED THROUGH THE
loud-speakers. The crowd milled up and down the enclosure jostling each other and waving dope-sheets.

Mrs. Feeley held court under one of the brightly striped umbrellas. Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham sat with a Chief Petty Officer on either side and beamed fondly at their hosts.

“Sure nice, ain’t it?” Mrs. Feeley said.

“Hasn’t even started,” Dusty said. “We’re early. Got to make sure of the daily double, and then it’s always fun to watch the crowd.” On the track, the horses and riders made a colorful picture. The color guard advanced as the bugle sounded. A quick breeze sprang up and rippled the flag to the top of the flagpole. The chiefs and the ladies stood stiffly at attention.

“By God,” Mrs. Feeley muttered, “there’s somethin’ about a flag! I get a lump in my throat big as a ostrich egg every time I see the stars an’ stripes h’isted!”

“Sure is!” Dusty said. “Now let’s get down to cases. Here’s the skinny: I have reason to believe that this fellow and this one are going to win the daily double.” He marked two names on his racing program.

“How do you know?” Mrs. Feeley said. “I’ll take Free Strider! Sounds like a lot more horse to me!”

The young man nodded. “Yeah? Horse what? You be smart and bet on Shadow Shot in the first and Broom Race in the second! You won’t be sorry. They’re long-shots…but I know what I know!”

Mrs. Feeley scratched her chin. “How do you know?”

“The first law of common sense, ma’am, is: Never reveal a source of information…otherwise you won’t get any the next time.”

“Sounds sensible,” she said. “Here’s my six bucks…go place it the way you think best, son.”

“Atta girl!” Dusty turned to Mrs. Rasmussen. “What do you say?”

“I ain’t riskin’ but two dollars worth, on Broom Race. Anythin’ about a broom an’ cleanin’ up appeals to me!”

“Don’t you want the double? You’ve got to buy it now to get the advantage when they come in.”

“Ol’ Broom Race is all right…I don’t take much stock in this.”

“How about you, Miss Tinkham?” Spud Murphy smiled at her. “We’ve got to get over to that window before the daily double closes.”

“The mystic realm of shadows has always appealed to me,” she smiled. “I’ll place two dollars on Shadow Shot, win, place, or show!”

“What about the second?”

“I shall keep my four dollars until we see what the stars decree on Shadow Shot! This is delightful beer!”

“Order some more. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Sure swell havin’ them to stand in line for us,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Buyin’ us beer an’ everythin’! Don’t expect to win nothin’, but a few dollars won’t make us nor break us. You said not more than six dollars apiece, didn’t you?”

“We can’t hardly afford that,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “You know what? Even with The Creep payin’ lor us last night, we ain’t got quite enough to get home! I’m just talkin’ about bus fare alone without beer! I asked this mornin’ an’ the fare to San Diego is sixty-one forty with tax…apiece! We’re over fifty-one dollars short.”

“What on earth shall we do?” Miss Tinkham gasped. “I know! I’ll return Aphrodite.”

“Hell, once they seen you comin’ an’ sold you that, they’d never take it back! Besides, it wouldn’t be enough: you never give fifty dollars for that?”

Miss Tinkham shook her head. “Four.”

“Well, we’ll save out what we need for beer,” Mrs. Feeley said, “an’ buy tickets as far as we can with what’s left, an’ walk the rest o’ the way!” Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head.

“You forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“Your parkin’-lot check from the boy, my pension check, an’ Miss Tinkham’s rent check…we’ll soon be gone a month.”

“Gawd, ain’t you The Brain! The difference will just about be met. But it don’t leave no leeway for the present for Katy an’ Danny.”

“Not unless we win a coupla bucks today,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

“We’ll have to send home for the checks,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“Take a week or more for Darleen to send ’em,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “an’ we can’t bet no more today.” The waiter came up with the beer. He was a shifty youth with eyes like little heaps of iron filings. He snatched up the five empty bottles and set down the full ones.

“That’ll be twelve dollars.”

“That’ll be what?” Mrs. Feeley grated.

“Twelve dollars.”

“We had five beers, an’ this makes ten. Even at fifty-cents a throw, that don’t come to but five dollars. Lemme see that check!”

“Just a minute.” The weasel-face closed up and he fished around in his pocket and brought up a different check.

“It was a mistake.”

“It was a mistake tryin’ it here,” Mrs. Feeley said. “You’re dealin’ with a different breed o’ cats this time.”

Dusty and his friend came up.

“What’s the beef?”

“Twelve dollars for ten beers? What does that bastard take us for?”

“Watch your language, ladies! There are sailors present!”

“A bastard is anyone of whom we disapprove,” Miss Tinkham said.

“It was smart of you,” Dusty said.

“Mrs. Rasmussen’s The Brain, an’ Miss Tinkham’s The Body, an’ I’m knowed as The Bottle!” Mrs. Feeley said.

The announcer caught their attention. The horses were lining up at the post and the boys got to their feet for a better look. “That’s one swell cockroach we got in the first race! Look at him lift those feet!”