Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out by Harry Kemelman

eyes small with the lids half-closed, as though he were peering at the sun, the nose was bulbous and a little askew at the tip, having been smashed once in a fight. But while not an attractive man, he was usually good-natured and friendly.
    He was not wearing his good clothes when Martha Peterson bumped into him at the supermarket downtown, and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek, which was why she refused his invitation to “come and have a soda” at the drugstore. But when he asked for a date, she said. “Well, I’m free tonight.”
    His face fell. “Aw. Marty, today’s Friday; they got a service at the temple tonight and I got to clean up afterward. I was thinking about tomorrow night.”
    Because she felt it was important for her to maintain her status as the arbitrary, even capricious, conferer of favors, she said loftily, “I’m sorry, but tonight is the only night I’m free.”
    And since the immediate was always more important to him than the responsibility of a later time, he said, “Okay, then. I guess I can make some arrangement at the temple. I’ll pick you up at your place around seven.”
    “No, you pick me up at work.”
    “Why can’t I pick you up at your place?”
    “On account I don’t want to go home by bus. I left my car to be serviced, so I won’t have it to go home with.”
    “Aw, gee, Marty.”
    “What difference does it make to you?” she asked.
    “Well, your boss, old man Jordon, him and me had a fight about some work I done for him, and I said I’d never set foot in his place again.”
    “You afraid of him?”
    “Afraid? But where I said I wouldn’t –”
    “Well, if you can’t. I guess there’s other fish in the sea.”
    He looked at her calculatingly through silted eyes. It occurred to him that in the light of the sacrifices he was making, she would feel obligated and make suitable recompense. “All right,” he said decisively. “I’ll pick you up at seven, but you be ready now, so when I ring the bell –”
    “I’ll be ready.”

Chapter Fifteen
    Lawrence Gore looked up inquiringly as Molly Mandell entered his office.
    “I know you don’t like me to bother you, but Mr. Jordon –”
    “Was he in this morning?” he asked quickly. “Did he – er – try to annoy you again?”
    She blushed. “No, he hasn’t been in. But the report –”
    He held up a finger. “Right, the Ellsworth Jordon quarterly report. It’s due today. I haven’t forgotten it, as a matter of fact. I spoke to him this morning.” He tilted back in his swivel chair. “And he invited me for dinner tonight.”
    “So he can go over the report with you?”
    “I suppose, and he’s letting me have his Peter Archer soup tureen.”
    “So he finally decided to let you borrow it for the exhibition?”
    “Oh, I think he was going to all along. It’s just his way. But I called him this morning and told him I was taking the collection to the museum tonight and it was now or never. So he said okay, I could pick it up this evening and he invited me to dinner.”
    “How are you taking it in?” she asked curiously.
    “In my beachwagon.”
    “You going alone?”
    “Sure. Why not?”
    “Because it’s very valuable, isn’t it?”
    “It sure is.”
    “You ought to have someone with you. You could get into an accident and –”
    “You’re right. Molly; as usual.” He thought for a minute. “I’ll ask Billy. Have him come in, will you, Molly.” When the young man appeared, he said. “I’m taking the Peter Archer silver into Boston, to the museum tonight. How would you like to come along and ride shotgun?”
    “Gee, that would be swell, Shall I meet you at your house? What time?”
    “Oh, I’m coming to your house, the old man invited me to dinner. I’m picking up his soup tureen –”
    “I knew he was going to let you have it, he had Martha shine it up the other day.”
    “So it’s all set, we’ll go back to my place right after dinner, and you can help me load the stuff in