“It was funny,” Timmy said. “When I got home I was badly mixed up. Anything calling for concentration was out, so far as I was concerned. I was used to having men around all the time and it seemed like a quiet, kind of easy way to sit and think.”
“Sounds so,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“I’m not enough of a diplomat to make a good tavern owner. That was clear after the first few months, but I’d sunk all my savings in the place. Just to show you what a keen businessman I am, I’m stuck with a five-year lease! If it wasn’t for that, I’d go to college on my GI Bill of Rights.”
“Ain’t you got no girl? You’re nice-lookin’.”
“There’s one I think a lot of, but I haven’t anything to offer her.”
Mrs. Feeley looked indignant.
“If you’re goin’ to take that meechin’ self-sympathy tone with me, Timmy Rafferty, I’m walking out an’ not comin’ back.”
“I’d feel different about it if I’d gone to college like I should. She’s going now. Forestry is the thing I’m interested in. Like those Forest Rangers, outdoors all the time! It would be swell.”
“Every dog’s got to hold his own tail up,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“I ain’t goin’ outa here without her phone number,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Bet she don’t even know you’re sick. You don’t give people a chance to do nothin’ for you, carryin’ on with yourself like that! Tell people what you want, an’ they’ll give it to you.”
“Fantastic as it may seem,” Miss Tinkham said, “we have found it to be the literal truth.”
“We’re not scoldin’ you,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’re grateful. We’ll settle up with you before we go.”
“I’m the one that ought to do the settling,” Timmy said, “but whatever you say is all right with me.”
“You get that lease at the low OPA price?” Mrs. Feeley asked.
Timmy nodded.
“It’s legal, all right. Guess McGoon, the Democratic-patronage guy, will ‘take it off my hands’! He’s offered to a couple of times. Wants it for one of his clubs. Some racket!”
“We’ll be havin’ a visit from him before long,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“That would be worth getting up out of bed to see,” Timmy said.
“Not, one would gather from your tone, a prepossessing individual!” Miss Tinkham said.
“Your statement is full of the milk of human kindness, Miss Tinkham.”
“Gas an’ light bills will be comin’ in,” Mrs. Feeley said: “We’ll pay ’em outa cash on hand.”
“The rent is paid for two more weeks,” Timmy said. “I have the receipt here. If you need to know about anything, ask Angel. He’s my real buddy.”
The mention of buddies made Mrs. Feeley become grave. “There’s just one thing, Timmy. It’s only fair you should know. We’re Navy…through an’ through!”
Timmy smiled.
“They were our allies, too, weren’t they?”
“Thank God you got a little laughter in you!”
“Look how white he is,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “We’re tirin’ him out somethin’ fierce. Let’s go.”
“Not before he tells us that girl’s name an’ phone number! Got your pencil. Miss Tinkham?”
“Her name is Barbara Leddy…Orange 2492.”
“Orange!” Mrs. Feeley made a face. “I’m only jokin’, love! Now that we’re all goin’ to heaven, it don’t make no difference!”
“Y
OU
GET THAT GIRL O
’ T
IMMY
’
S
ON THE PHONE
this mornin’?” Mrs. Feeley asked Miss Tinkham.
“Most charming voice!” Miss Tinkham said. “She was all concern for him and promised to go to visit him this afternoon.” The noisy clatter of the Monday lunch hour was music to Mrs. Feeley.
“They’re full o’ bliss an’ vinegar after the week-end’s rest! This is somethin’ like!”
The men crowded into the booths, three to a bench. The day was hot and dry.
“Perfect beer weather!” Miss Tinkham said.
Mrs. Rasmussen’s face shone like the buttons on a policeman’s coat at a Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Thirty new crockery bowls were filled with luscious lima bean soup, thick with chopped onion browned in butter and a sprinkling of cubed pimentos. On top of the soup were little islands of croutons and crisp bacon flakes. Chopped parsley and chives added zest to the nourishing dish. The customers were loudly appreciative of the treat.
“You was proud as a dog with a new tin tail when you come waggin’ them bowls in this mornin’,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Soup’ll take the curse off them ol’ sandwiches.” Mrs. Rasmussen paused for a beer.
“Any left in the pot?”
“Charity begins at home,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “I’ll just fix Mr. Miller’s tea. Here he comes.”
She came back in a few minutes carrying a tall glass of steaming tea on a plate with a quarter of a lemon.
“Here’s you some real tea, Mr. Miller.”
Sammele blinked rapidly.
“Such a woman!” he said. “Look. I was just coming to ask. Tonight by us is the b’rith from my grandson. My wife Sadie wants you should all come. Mrs. Freelig and Miss Tinkle. It’s not so far from here and you’ll have a good time. You don’t stay open late, ain’t it?”
“That’s real nice of you, Mr. Miller. I’ll tell Mrs. Feeley. What did you say you was havin’?”
“The circumcision of my grandson…the eighth day. We have a nice little party after.”
Mrs. Rasmussen’s eyebrows went up. She joined Mrs. Feeley who was still dispensing beer.
“Mr. Miller wants us to come to his house tonight for a party for his grandson.”
“Well!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Birthday party?”
Miss Tinkham came up and set her tray down.
“We got a invitation to a party from Mr. Miller.”
“It ain’t a birthday party,” Mrs. Rasmussen explained. “It’s a circumcision.”
“A christenin’!” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Mrs. Feeley, a Jewish christening is an impossibility. Dear, dear! How shall I explain the rite?” Miss Tinkham wrinkled her forehead.
Mrs. Rasmussen whispered something in Mrs. Feeley’s ear. She looked at her in dismay.
“They do what?”
Mrs. Rasmussen whispered again.
“Don’t you know?” Miss Tinkham said. “They did it just recently to Bonnie Prince Charlie, the darling! I wonder if it had anything to do with the Palestine situation?”
Mrs. Feeley shook her head slowly from side to side:
“By God, it’s somethin’ no Irishman would do! But if it’s a party, we’ll go!”
Mrs. Rasmussen went back to Sammele to get the address.
Mrs. Feeley looked up from washing glasses as a short figure approached the bar with a gait half strut, half swagger.
“What’s yours?” she said.
“Where’s Rafferty?”
“Timmy? He’s in the hospital with a bad operation.”
“Is that so?” the pompous puff-ball rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth.
“You wouldn’t be anybody but the ward-heeler,” Mrs. Feeley said without love in her voice.
“McGoon. Aloysius Francis McGoon. The word is chairman. You’re not registered!”
“Like hell I ain’t! But not in your bailiwick. I asked you once what you want.”
“What’s in the bowls?”
“Soup.”
“Operating without a victualing license. Heavy fine for that. We can close the place on you.”
“An” what exac’ly in your jargon is a vitchelin’ license?” Mrs. Feeley leaned on the bar calmly as though she expected to devote all day to the discussion.
“A license to sell food in a public place. That’s first class. Second-class license for boarding-houses. Rafferty’s got nothing but a beer and wine permit. No dispensing of spirits, no food…and no entertainment!”
“Now wouldn’t that make one goddam fine tavern?” Mrs. Feeley glared at him. “Do you need a license to play the radio?”
The chubby man backed away on his splayed feet like a purposeful duck. When he reached a safe distance he said:
“The principal infringement is selling food without a license. I’ll have to turn you in,” his voice was full of relish.
“Sellin’ food?” Mrs. Feeley reached under the bar and brought out the bung starter, her habitual gavel, and banged stoutly with it.
“Whitey, come over here a minute!” Attracted by the tone of her voice, Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham formed a flying-wedge in back of her ready for concerted action.
“Did you or anybody else ever buy so much as a nickel’s worth o’ food in this saloon?”
“You never sold any. Wouldn’t take one red cent for any of it.”
“Thanks. That oughta hold Big Dealer, here. He oughta be satisfied with your word.”
“Then you must have raised the price of beer,” the politician said.
“Same price.”
“It’s against the Union to lower the price. The sign in the window says beer is five cents.”
“That, Knucklehead, is a gag…what you had oughta have on the front o’ your face! ‘Tomorrow,’ the sign says, like the one you see over bars, ‘Tomorrow we give credit!’ If you’re through with your third degree, I’ll thank you to get the hell outa here before somebody steps on you an’ dirties the floor.”
“Now, lady…don’t get me wrong! No reason why you and me can’t be friends.” Mr. McGoon’s smile showed gleaming, gold-capped bicuspids. “I’m just protecting the voters. Just protecting the voters.”
“No reason at all! Only the same one that keeps me from bein’ friends with a pole-cat!” Mrs. Feeley motioned to the door. “Put a nickel in it…an’ get goin’!”
Mr. McGoon was washed out the door on a wave of laughter from the customers.
“This is the most business he’s ever seen in here,” Whitey said. “It sure burns him. He shakes down everybody in the district for at least a couple of bucks a week. They’re all scared of him.”
“I ain’t afraid o’ nothin’ but God!” Mrs. Feeley banged her fist on the bar. “The crust o’ that cheap tin-horn comin’ in here an’ threatenin’ us! He wants the place for hisself!”
“He’s got the patronage sewed up around here. You can’t get a traffic ticket fixed if he sees you in Timmy’s place. Been divertin’ the trade to them other joints to squeeze Timmy out.” Smiley spoke as though he had experienced Mr. McGoon’s methods.
“He can’t take away Timmy’s beer license, can he?” Mrs. Feeley said.
Whitey shook his head. “That’s up to the Liquor Commission. He can just be nasty an’ make things tough for Timmy.”
“He must want it pretty bad,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Musta killed him to see you fellers spendin’! Have some more soup!”
A
T
EIGHT O’CLOCK SHARP M
RS.
F
EELEY, DRESSED
in her good black voile and white shoes, locked the door of the ex-Infantry Bar.
“Reckon this’ll be swell enough that I’d oughta wear my teeth? Mr. Feeley always wore his sock-garters for a special shin-dig.”
“Just a family affair,” Miss Tinkham said. She wore a pink lace dress with puff sleeves. On her head she wore a turban made of three sections of jersey; one orange, one green one brown. The sections were shirred and drawn up into a mass resembling a doughnut on the top of her head. Through the doughnut she had thrust four long brown plastic pins such as Japanese ladies wear in their hair. She also wore her lorgnette on the fancy chain. She had been too busy to wear it lately.
“Turbans pack so well…and give an exotic touch!”
“You look real pretty,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. Her own taste ran a little to the plain side. No one could have guessed that her blue jersey shirtmaker had been innocent of contact with a hot iron for nearly a week.
“Mr. Miller will be real proud of us,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Where’s Ol’-Timer? I thought he was waitin’ for us out front?”
“He didn’t change his clothes,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “I guess he’s over in the lot tinkerin’ on some ol’ wreck.”
“Hold tight to that bag,” Mrs. Feeley said. “It’s got over seventy-two dollars in it.”
Sammele lived in an old-fashioned walk-up apartment house a ten-cent bus ride away from the saloon. Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham looked in vain for the name Miller on the mailboxes in the vestibule. The front door was off the latch so they went in anyway. The noise and smells of food coming from the second-floor rear seemed to indicate revelry by night. Mrs. Rasmussen knocked on the door. Sammele opened the door himself. His face was barely visible behind a cigar like the leg of a chair.
“Mrs. Freelig! Mrs. Rasmussen…come in. Miss Tinkle! Come in! Sadie! The ladies is here!”
Sadie was short and fat. Her hair was a kinky pink and she wore extremely thick bifocals which caused her to peer up at people from under her bangs like a poodle begging for sugar.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” She stuck out a work-worn, gaudily manicured hand.
“Likewise,” Mrs. Rasmussen replied.
“This is a most hospitable gesture, Mrs. Miller!” Miss Tinkham held her hand high and well arched in the approved Newport dowager grip.
“Gutstein,” Sadie said.