better change our clothes and rinse out what we have on while we have the chance?” Miss Tinkham had heard of sailors going into battle in clean clothes in case of wounds.
“Good idea,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but we ain’t leavin’ here. You gotta show Mrs. Rasmussen the stores…me an’ Ol’-Timer will do what we can, but we need more soap an’ Bon Ami. It’s so dingy an’ gloomy it don’t seem like a saloon at all!” She stomped around the room, trying to find a solution. “It’s them goddam Phoenician blinds!” She grabbed the cords and hoisted the blinds as high as they would go: “God’s own sunshine! Place looks better already!”
Miss Tinkham came in carrying Aphrodite and placed her in front of the mirror back of the bar.
“If we had a ten-cent extension, we could plug her in long side o’ the radio…damn if she don’t give the place a tone!”
“I’m ready,” Mrs. Rasmussen announced. She had a large net shopping bag with leather handles folded under her arm.
“First, phone the hospital, then buy the things!” Mrs. Feeley fished in the cashbox. “Can’t borrow more’n two dollars, ’cause I might have to make change. Stretch it as far as you can.”
“Seven cents for an air-mail envelope,” Miss Tinkham said, folding the note she had written Darleen asking to have the checks forwarded. “And a nickel for the telephone call.” In a few minutes she joined the group at the bar.
“Doing as well as could be expected, but still unconscious.”
“He’s in for a shock when he does come to,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Four people he never saw in his life, moved in an’ livin’ off him! Gotta break it to him easy.”
“We shall be back as soon as we possibly can,” Miss Tinkham said. “I feel so guilty leaving you to face that beer man alone…no moral support.”
“Don’t worry, dearie. If anybody needs moral support, it ain’t gonna be me!” She shoved a pail of hot water and the remains of the yellow soap into Old-Timer’s hand: “The chairs an’ tables, then the bar. But good!”
She climbed on a chair and pulled down all the old prize-fight notices and calendars with fly-specked Petty girls on them. Then she moved the portrait of General Patton to a more conspicuous place. That done, she took up a swab and began to mop the floor, in front of the bar, and behind it. When she had finished she took a small towel and began polishing the glasses. Does look neat, she thought. The back door opened and a huge creature with the map of Ireland on his face and handfuls of Brillo sticking out all over his chest came bellowing into the bar:
“Aw right! Cash on the barrel-head, Rafferty! Let’s see the color o’ your money!”
“Quiet, Fin McCool!” Mrs. Feeley bellowed back at him. “Where was you brought up, to come in shatterin’ the peace an’ residence of a respectable saloon at eight o’clock in the mornin’? Roarin’ like the bull o’ Bashan! What’s your trouble?”
“Where’s Timmy?” the giant asked in a quieter tone.
“Gone to his death! Done in by the cruelty an’ injustice of the likes o’ you! The hardhearted indifference o’ blood-suckin’ leeches, more shame to you.”
“Whadda you mean: gone to his death?”
“Lyin’ this minute at death’s door, them bustured appendix floatin’ ’round in him like rotten bait! Turnin’ green an’ yellow by the minute. Lucky if they don’t give him the Black Bottle! Now be a good lad an’ take out these empties an’ put the full kegs in. I’m crazy with worry over the poor lad…I wouldn’t advise you to cross me today, my bucko!”
“I gotta get the money before I can leave the beer. Them’s orders.”
“You’ll get the money, Judas! Get them kegs workin’, or you’ll get somethin’ you wasn’t lookin’ for. On the double!”
The giant started out the door and Mrs. Feeley muttered at his departing back:
“Don’t the damn fool know he’s got it backwards? He’s gotta
“Good idea,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but we ain’t leavin’ here. You gotta show Mrs. Rasmussen the stores…me an’ Ol’-Timer will do what we can, but we need more soap an’ Bon Ami. It’s so dingy an’ gloomy it don’t seem like a saloon at all!” She stomped around the room, trying to find a solution. “It’s them goddam Phoenician blinds!” She grabbed the cords and hoisted the blinds as high as they would go: “God’s own sunshine! Place looks better already!”
Miss Tinkham came in carrying Aphrodite and placed her in front of the mirror back of the bar.
“If we had a ten-cent extension, we could plug her in long side o’ the radio…damn if she don’t give the place a tone!”
“I’m ready,” Mrs. Rasmussen announced. She had a large net shopping bag with leather handles folded under her arm.
“First, phone the hospital, then buy the things!” Mrs. Feeley fished in the cashbox. “Can’t borrow more’n two dollars, ’cause I might have to make change. Stretch it as far as you can.”
“Seven cents for an air-mail envelope,” Miss Tinkham said, folding the note she had written Darleen asking to have the checks forwarded. “And a nickel for the telephone call.” In a few minutes she joined the group at the bar.
“Doing as well as could be expected, but still unconscious.”
“He’s in for a shock when he does come to,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Four people he never saw in his life, moved in an’ livin’ off him! Gotta break it to him easy.”
“We shall be back as soon as we possibly can,” Miss Tinkham said. “I feel so guilty leaving you to face that beer man alone…no moral support.”
“Don’t worry, dearie. If anybody needs moral support, it ain’t gonna be me!” She shoved a pail of hot water and the remains of the yellow soap into Old-Timer’s hand: “The chairs an’ tables, then the bar. But good!”
She climbed on a chair and pulled down all the old prize-fight notices and calendars with fly-specked Petty girls on them. Then she moved the portrait of General Patton to a more conspicuous place. That done, she took up a swab and began to mop the floor, in front of the bar, and behind it. When she had finished she took a small towel and began polishing the glasses. Does look neat, she thought. The back door opened and a huge creature with the map of Ireland on his face and handfuls of Brillo sticking out all over his chest came bellowing into the bar:
“Aw right! Cash on the barrel-head, Rafferty! Let’s see the color o’ your money!”
“Quiet, Fin McCool!” Mrs. Feeley bellowed back at him. “Where was you brought up, to come in shatterin’ the peace an’ residence of a respectable saloon at eight o’clock in the mornin’? Roarin’ like the bull o’ Bashan! What’s your trouble?”
“Where’s Timmy?” the giant asked in a quieter tone.
“Gone to his death! Done in by the cruelty an’ injustice of the likes o’ you! The hardhearted indifference o’ blood-suckin’ leeches, more shame to you.”
“Whadda you mean: gone to his death?”
“Lyin’ this minute at death’s door, them bustured appendix floatin’ ’round in him like rotten bait! Turnin’ green an’ yellow by the minute. Lucky if they don’t give him the Black Bottle! Now be a good lad an’ take out these empties an’ put the full kegs in. I’m crazy with worry over the poor lad…I wouldn’t advise you to cross me today, my bucko!”
“I gotta get the money before I can leave the beer. Them’s orders.”
“You’ll get the money, Judas! Get them kegs workin’, or you’ll get somethin’ you wasn’t lookin’ for. On the double!”
The giant started out the door and Mrs. Feeley muttered at his departing back:
“Don’t the damn fool know he’s got it backwards? He’s gotta
Similar Books
