Root of His Evil by James M. Cain Page B

but of course, after changing her mind for five minutes she had to have an old-fashioned and, just to make it good and complicated, it had to be an old-fashioned made with Scotch. I wanted to get away from her, so, having been audacious about my occupation once with some success, I thought I would try it again and appear to be exceedingly nice to her while at the same time removing myself from where she was. I said: “Oh, Mrs. Harris, do let me make you one. I know exactly how you want it and I’m an expert at old-fashioneds with Scotch —I used to make so many when I was a waitress at the Solon Cocktail Bar.”
    Her eyes opened wide, as though this was the most heavenly idea she had ever heard in her life. “Oh, darling— would you?” Then she looked around at everybody and exclaimed: “Isn’t that marvelous? Think of being an expert!” And then to me again: “There’s so much that you’ll have to teach me!”
    By that time the big table at one side of the room had been converted into a sort of bar and one of the housemen was mixing drinks while the other passed them around. But of course some of the guests were standing around getting their drinks direct from the bar, so when I stepped over, there was quite a gallery, some of them rather friendly toward me. An old-fashioned with Scotch was nothing new to me, so I put it together very quickly, and when I got through two or three men laughed and gave me a little hand. When I went over with it to Mrs. Harris she was again talking about place kicks, and kept me standing there, glass in my hand. But as though to be very friendly, she raised her hand and without looking around put it on my arm. There was an exclamation from somebody and there went the cocktail all over her dress, and the orange, cherry and ice all over the floor.
    I had served rush orders in a crowded cocktail bar with drunks elbowing me from every side and I assure you it is almost impossible to make me drop anything or do something clumsy like spilling a cocktail. That grip on my arm was like iron and it was deliberate. But there was nothing for me to do but get down and begin dabbing at her dress with my handkerchief, then call for a napkin and dry her off as best I could. All that time she talked a mile a minute, loudly proclaiming that it was all her fault, and that I mustn’t mind, as the dress was an old rag anyhow, but there I was, stooped in front of her, making a holy show of myself when I wanted to be at my best.
    It was Mr. Hunt who rescued me. He lifted me to my feet, patted my arm and drew me aside. Then for the first time Mrs. Harris became shrill. “But, Bernie, I’m wringing wet! Just look at my dress!”
    “That’s what we have dry cleaners for.”
    “And that’s what we have such dresses for.” It was Mrs. Hunt who said this, very grimly. “That’s the third cocktail that’s been spilled on it this year. Or was it a Tom Collins last time?”
    Mrs. Harris’ answer to this was to make a speech in which she said she didn’t know what people were coming to, the ill-bred way they got drunk and spilled drinks all over her, but Mrs. Hunt took me to another part of the room and that seemed to be the end of it. She gave me a cocktail and mumbled: “Don’t worry about her dress. It’s last color, quick-drying crepe, bought especially to have cocktails spilled on it and get women down on their knees and make them feel foolish. You behaved very well and you needn’t give it a thought.”
    The man who had been passing cocktails came up just then and said: “She’s here, Mrs. Hunt.”
    “Oh. Then you’d better take out some of those glasses and tell her to wash them up as quickly as she can, but don’t wait for her to get through with them. You come back to keep things moving here, and have her bring them in as soon as they’re ready.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Hunt.”
    She turned to me. “I did something I rarely do. I borrowed a maid from Mrs. Norris, but of course the children