The Golden Goose (5 page)

“Since right now. My name is Coley Collins.”

“I'm Princess O'Shea, and if you say ‘Hello, Your Highness,' I'll get off this stool and you'll never see me again.”

“Hello, Prin.”

“You know my nickname!” Prin said.

“Then you
are
related to Mr. Slater O'Shea. He's spoken to me about you in glowing terms. I see now that he didn't glow brightly enough.”

“If you've met Uncle Slater professionally,” said Prin, “you must know he can glow like the working end of a Titan taking off from its pad. Yes, I'm Uncle Slater's niece. We all live with him—me, Aunt Lallie, my cousins Twig and Peet, and my brother Brady. We're freeloading, although I'm not doing quite so much of it as the others.”

“Damn it to hell!” said Coley Collins; and then he said, “Don't go,
please
. I have to get rid of this goddam customer.”

He sprang away, mixed a drink like Merlin, and was back practically before Prin could think of how to prolong the conversation.

“Where were we?” murmured Coley. “Oh, yes. Your Uncle Slater. Very fine man. Exquisite taste. Bourbon chiefly, and when he does seek contrast, it's the best Irish whisky, which I definitely approve. He takes his bourbon sometimes straight, sometimes with a dash of water, sometimes—when he feels sentimental—with vermouth and a cherry.”

“Basically, though, with Uncle Slater it's the whisky that counts.”

“Touché
. Your uncle possesses an infallible sense of the intrinsic. But now that we've been properly introduced, Miss O'Shea—Princess—Prin—is it permissible to tell you that you are far and away the most gorgeous thing in Coronado County?”

“Of course, although in the interests of record-straightening is it permissible for the most gorgeous thing in Coronado County to point out that a mere minute ago she was a mere pretty girl? It seems to me I've been promoted awfully fast, Mr. Collins.”

“Coley—
quid pro quo
, you know. Fast promoting is one of my numerous talents. But this is not a phony. It is my intention, hereby declared, to tell you over and over again, with gestures, if possible.”

“You've progressed a long way in a short time, haven't you, Mr. Collins?—Coley?”

“I'm really shy,” Coley confided. “But this has been a remarkable experience for me already. Something is flowing between us besides rum—don't you feel it?”

“I'm beginning to feel the rum,” said Prin evasively.

“After one daiquiri? I like that. May I ask you a personal question?”

“Please don't.”

“Have you ever considered marriage?”

“Why? Have you ever considered proposing it?”

A customer four stools removed chose that moment to request, in a loud voice, the drawing of one beer. Prin thought it unsporting of him. Apparently Coley thought so, too, because he slithered up to the beer tap like an aroused snake and drew the fastest beer in the Coronado taproom's history. Alas, he found an accumulation of other services due, and he set about fulfilling them rather sullenly. Meanwhile, Prin sipped the dregs of her perfect daiquiri, feeling that the day had suddenly turned perfect, too. Or at least it was the perfect ending to a day that had been, if not bad, certainly not good, either, since it had consisted largely in the dispensing of ice cream and sodas and egg salad sandwiches and sundries to Cibola City gluttons, young and old, for no reason that now seemed adequate.

The lights in the taproom soothed softly, strings were making a sweet shimmer in the juke box, behind her a few admirable people, male and female, were emitting amorous little noises at the tables, and Prin was warm, happy, elated and fiercely expectant all at once—as an effect of all this background, and no doubt of the rum, and of Coley Collins, too.

She watched his lean figure out of the corner of her eye as he executed his duties, admiring the deftness of his swift, fine hands and the economy of his manipulations, and she wondered the unworthy wonder: Why is such a plainly superior young male no more than a bartender?—as if being a bartender did not call for superiority in all sorts of departments. Well, perhaps he was being a bartender en route to being something more glamorous. This Prin thought she might reserve for later exploration, at the time she was exploring Mr. Coley Collins's talent for gestures.

But here he was again, almost skidding in his haste to return to her.

“Will you have another daiquiri?” he asked.

“I shouldn't,” said Prin.

“Ah,” said Coley, and he made her another daiquiri. This one she decided to sip cautiously.

“Very
good,” she said. “You
are
an excellent bartender.”

“All right,” he said, leaning far, far over the bar. “Then marry me.”

“If that's your standard opening,” said Prin, “what do you do for a finish?”

“I'm not kidding,” Coley Collins said intensely. “Marry me. Tomorrow. Tonight. Right now! Will you?”

“Do you think we know each other well enough? Marry in haste and repent at leisure, you know.”

“You read the wrong authors. Ben Franklin pointed out that a lot of people who marry at leisure repent in haste, and he was a pretty wise old owl. What do you say?”

“I haven't had much experience repenting,” said Prin, “or marrying either, for that matter. This
is
a marvelous daiquiri. However, I think it's just a wee bit too marvelous.” She opened her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

“Owe me! My God!” he said in horror. “Please. Can't you keep drinking my daiquiris till midnight, when the bar closes and I'm free? Oh,
no
, not again!” he groaned. “Don't go way yet. Promise me you won't go way till I'm through with these swilling swine?” And off he sped, like a harassed Mercury.

Prin was feeling warm. That kidding “I'm-not-kidding” part about marrying and all, of course that was the stale old line, but … then why did it seem to have a just-made taste, like freshly baked bread? And Prin was sure that the warmth she was feeling under her clothes was not entirely the result of the rum.

“Do you have to go?” He was back, a little out of breath.

“Yes.”

“Will you come back tomorrow?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Do you tend bar every day?”

“Every other day, from five to midnight. Sometimes I take the lunch shift, too.”

“I'm disappointed in you,” Prin said coldly. She felt cold, too. “Why ask me if I'll be here tomorrow when you won't be? You're pulling my leg.”

“Oh,
no,”
Coley Collins said urgently. “I
will
be here tomorrow, because the fellow whose turn it is has to be late for some reason and I'm spelling him.” The coldness melted out of Prin and slunk off. He was
sincere
. If any proof were needed, her leg-pulling phrase had not evoked from him the traditional response. “I'll be free at six, and you'll be here, and maybe something will come of it.”

“You mean, you're asking me for a date?”

“Yes! Yes?”

“I'll see,” said Prin with her most dazzling smile, and wriggled her little bottom off the bar stool, paid for her two drinks over his manly protests, and left.

All the way home, through the diminishing light, Prin warmed herself by the little fire the young man had kindled in the Coronado taproom. The air seemed remarkably soft, the scents and sounds of the summer evening remarkably sweet—softer and sweeter than summer air and scents and sounds had ever been in the world before.

Prin wondered if it would be good feminine policy to go to the Coronado tomorrow directly from work, as shortly after five as possible. It would give her an entire extra hour with Coley. Of course, the bar would be between them—a strong argument in favor of the move, since it would put the goodies he apparently found so desirable within reach and yet untouchable. But then Prin decided that this might make things a little difficult for her afterwards. It would be wiser to arrive on the dot of six, when he might be wondering whether she was coming after all.

So the next night she came on the dot of six and found a fuming young bartender who, at the sight of her, ripped off his bartender's mess jacket, disappeared through a door and was back with the speed of Superman in a neat if slightly threadbare sports coat in which he looked simply black-browed-divine.

Things were a little strained at first. But when Coley stopped fuming they were glorious—and they kept getting more so. Altogether, from first to last, it was an exceptional experience. Nothing happened that had not happened numberless times on any night anyone might designate, summer, fall, winter or spring; but the difference was—and
vive la différence!
—on any night anyone might designate it had happened to other people.

It was only ten o'clock when Coley escorted her to Uncle Slater's front steps; because it was only ten o'clock and a velvety night with a crystal of moon showing, they sat down on the steps and talked. Coley talked with gestures, proving that he had not exaggerated his talent one bit.

It came out between gestures that Coley, besides being a bartender every other night at the Hotel Coronado taproom, was a full-time student at Cibola City College, in the School of Business Administration.

“What are you studying?” asked Prin, secretly relieved, although she really had nothing against bartenders.

“Embezzlement,” Coley said sincerely.

“I beg pardon?”

“They're devious—
they
call it accounting. You know, you keep financial records and stuff for business firms. The opportunities in this field, as I see it, are simply staggering.”

“Yes?” said Prin doubtfully. She had nothing against accountants, either, but she had committed herself to thinking of Coley Collins in terms of vagabond adventure, and it was hard to fit accountancy into the picaresque life. “I suppose they are.”

Coley's teeth gleamed in the moonlight. “You bet they are! What I have in mind is to work myself into some big firm in a position of trust and then divert a horse-choking bankroll into my own pocket and take off. This is all in the future, of course—I'm hardly out of double entries—but you'll have to be prepared when the time comes to move on a moment's notice. We'd better go separately, I think. We can meet at the Cannibal Bar in the Bum-Bum in Acapulco.”

That was better, much better; it really topped the evening off.

In their next ten meetings Coley changed their rendezvous ten times. The one Prin liked best was his last choice.

“Papeete's out,” Coley said positively. “It's one of the first places they'd come looking for me. You know what, sweet Princess?”

“What?” Prin had mumbled, for they were conversing with their lips in juxtaposition at Coley's suggestion.

“We'll meet in the
last
place they'll think of looking.”

“Where's that?”

“In the Coronado taproom.”

That was the way things stood when Uncle Slater took the joy out of living by dying.

5

So there across the threshold stood Coley Collins; and Prin felt instantly better. With Coley there, everything that had looked so much like being wrong would now be surely right.

“Coley! Darling!” Prin cried. “You'll
never
know how glad I am to see you.”

“Why not?” said Coley, coming in and shutting the door. “A girl is supposed to be glad to see the man she loves, especially when she has a date with him.”

“Oh, my gosh,” wailed Prin. “I completely forgot you were coming tonight.”

“If so,” said Coley stiffishly, “it would have been more ladylike not to mention it.”

“Oh, Coley, I'm sorry. But when you hear what's happened, I'm sure you'll forgive me.”

By this time Dr. Appleton, who had lingered over the phone, had gone back into the living room, glancing suspiciously at Coley on the way. The moment he was out of sight Coley seized Prin and kissed her all over her face—eyes, nose, cheeks, lips, chin—and he was heading for her neck when Prin whispered, “Coley. Don't. I mean—don't you want to know what's happened?”

“All right,” said Coley sulkily. “What?”

“Uncle Slater is dead.”

Coley stood quietly, his head cocked as if he were repeating to himself what Prin had just said. “Did you say Mr. O'Shea is
dead?”

“Oh, Coley. I was the one who found him.” And she told him all about Slater O'Shea's return home at two o'clock, and the rest of it.

“You poor, poor kid,” muttered Coley. “Mr. O'Shea dead … Somehow, I assumed he would be around the Coronado taproom slugging it down to age eighty, at least.”

“We all did. The shock is bad enough, but Dr. Appleton's making things worse.”

“From all I hear about Dr. Appleton behind my bar, he's been making things worse in this town for years, especially the life expectancy of his patients. Though I can't see how he could do much harm to a dead man.”

“No, but he can make a lot of trouble for the rest of us, and he seems determined to do it. He claims there was nothing wrong with Uncle Slater to cause him to die so suddenly. Dr. Appleton is insisting on an autopsy.”

“He can't get an autopsy done without the consent of the next of kin.”

“He's making a case out of it, Coley. He just called the police.”

Coley whistled soundlessly. “You mean to tell me old Appleton actually suspects that somebody gave your uncle a nudge?”

“He didn't say so in so many words, but he certainly can't think Uncle Slater committed suicide. Nobody who knew Uncle Slater could think that. Besides, he had no
reason.”

“Hmm,” said Coley, frowning. He looked around and lowered his voice. “You say you found the body. How did you happen to do that?”

“Mrs. Dolan insists on the family eating dinner promptly, and it was ready, so I went upstairs to see why Uncle Slater hadn't come down, and there he was, lying dead on the floor.”