One On The House (25 page)

“Help! Let me out! I want my wife…”

“Sh! Sh!” Mr. Flink soothed him. “Quiet, please! You disturb my concentration.”

He twirled and he fiddled. He placed his ear to the lock and listened lovingly to the tumblers, listened with the expression of a mother listening to the breathing of her sleeping child. “If you have something to say…” he beckoned to Mrs. Feeley.

“Now?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“McGoon! It’s me…Mrs. Feeley! Can you hear me?”

“Let me out!”

“Not just yet…about the deal…”

“It’s not my fault! I couldn’t get there earlier! If I ever get my hands on that…”

“Have you got the money? Forty-five hundred?”

“Right here. That’s what I came in for when that…”

“Never mind! If it hadn’t been for her, you’d a rotted over the week-end. She came to us an’ we got Mrs. Rasmussen’s friend the lock-expert. He come in a taxi. That’ll be extra!”

“I don’t care what it costs! Let me out! I want to call my wife! I love my wife!”

“Have you enough to pay the man for openin’ the safe?”

Mr. Flink pulled Mrs. Feeley’s sleeve and shook his head.

“Shut up!” Mrs. Feeley whispered.

“Yes, I’ve got it! Hurry up before I suffocate!”

“It’ll be five hundred dollars,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“That’s nothing! Let me out! Quick!”

“Anybody in there with you?”

McGoon’s voice was barely audible:

“Yes.”

Mrs. Feeley waited several seconds.

“McGoon,” she said softly, “your wife’s outside in the car.”

There was a long silence.

“Timmy,” Mrs. Feeley said, “write out a receipt for the place for forty-five hundred dollars.”

“Forty-five hundred?” Timmy gasped.

“Do what I tell you!” Mrs. Feeley snapped. The group drew closer to the door. Mrs. Feeley was sure McGoon’s voice would be very weak.

“McGoon,” she said, “for another five hundred I could have Ol’-Timer drive her round the block an’ keep her outa the way while your little playmate gets the hell outa here! What do you say?”

“You win,” the muffled answer came at last.

“Don’t try nothin’ fancy, now…’cause we’re all here! You’re safe as long as you don’t try a double-x! We spared you the cops on account o’ the scandal. You sure you got the money? Or back in you go, if you don’t produce!”

“Open the door.”

The ladies made a wedge in back of Mr. Flink.

Timmy and Barbara stood behind them. The cab driver was holding Blondelle upright. Mr. Flink opened the door slowly. It swung back to reveal a pale disheveled McGoon. From behind him, a slender girl of about nineteen scuttled out and made for the front door like a jet-propelled plane.

“Ya-a-a-a-a-a-ah!” Blondelle taunted.

“Get her out of my sight.” McGoon looked murderously at Blondelle.

“Not so fast!” Mrs. Feeley cautioned, “Where’s the money?”

McGoon opened a brown envelope that was bulging with bills.

“Take forty-five of them.” He was pale and ready to faint. Mrs. Rasmussen counted them out.

“Give ’em to Timmy. Got the receipt?” Mrs. Feeley said. Timmy handed it over. She gestured to Mr. Flink. “Witness it.”

“Rafferty’s signature is all I want,” McGoon said.

“I’ll turn the lease over whenever you say,” Timmy said.

“Now the five for openin’ the safe,” Mrs. Feeley said.

McGoon took five bills from the envelope.

“An’ the five for your wife’s taxi-ride!”

McGoon handed over five more.

“An’ the goddam envelope’s still more’n half-full,” Mrs. Feeley yelled. “You cheap crook!”

McGoon folded the receipt and put it in his wallet along with the somewhat depleted envelope.

“I’m going to find my wife…” He started out the door.

“You’ll find her at home,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“I thought…”

“That money’s for Blondelle! Mr. Flink don’t want no money. He done the favor for us. Blondelle may be the one slammed the door on you, but you deserved it! An’ worse, if it’d a been me! If you ever come messin’ around her anymore, you’ll be sorry…”

“For my part, I wish she’d drop dead where she stands,” McGoon said. “Every time I have anything to do with a woman, it costs me dough!”

“You don’t think anybody would put up with you for your handsome build, do you? Go home to your poor, foolish wife!”

“Don’t you dare mention my wife! I love my wife!” McGoon blustered.

“Aw, dry up!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “An’ when she needs a new hat send her round to Blondelle’s hat-bar!”

He slammed the door as he went into the street.

Mrs. Feeley grinned.

“He’s in pretty good shape for the length o’ time he was in!”

Mr. Flink closed the door of the vault carefully.

“Blondelle,” Mrs. Feeley said, “are you sober?”

“Stone cold.”

“Okay. Here’s more money than you’ve ever saw at one time. Now get the hell outa here an’ start you a business o’ your own. An’ stay away from married men!”

“Why’d you do it?” Blondelle said.

“’Cause I hate to see a woman used for a convenience by a son-of-a-bitchin’ man! Goo’bye!”

The ride to the ex-Infantry Bar was a silent one. The taxi driver got out and came inside with the party.

“Jeez! I need a drink! Been here almost all night. What about my fare, Mac?”

“It’s on me,” Timmy said. “Anybody change one of these?”

“I can,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

“It’s all yours, anyway, Timmy,” Mrs. Feeley said. “There’s nearly three hundred an’ fifty o’ yours we took in. Nothin’ to pay but the gas bill…an’ we’ll leave that for McGoon!”

“Look,” Timmy said, “there are times when enough is too much! I had less than two thousand dollars when I set up shop. Look what you’ve done with it! If you think I’m taking that money, you’re crazy. Your tips alone must have come to that amount.”

“But we lived off you, Timmy! An’ good, too! It ain’t ours.”

“That remains to be seen,” Timmy said.

“I’m hungry,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. Timmy paid the taxi driver but Mr. Flink made no move to go.

“We’ll have a bite,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Got anythin’ put away, Mrs. Rasmussen?”

“Soup an’ pot-roast,” she said. “I was keepin’ it back for Sunday. Left it simmerin’ when we went out.”

Whitey came over and handed Mrs. Feeley the cashbox.

“Twenty-eight forty.”

“You’re a pal, Whitey! Won’t your wife worry?”

“I called her.”

“Then give us all a beer an’ stay for a bite o’ supper. I clean forgot my hangover with all this badger-fight goin’ on!”

“Where’d you dig up the lock-man?”

“He took a crush on Mrs. Rasmussen in New York. I knocked him flat in a bar an’ he’s been follerin’ us ever since. He’s out in the kitchen now drivin’ her crazy!”

“As for bein’ crazy,” Whitey said, “I don’t think any of you three would have far to go! You’re the craziest bunch o’ women I ever met, but God, how I wish there was more like you!”

“Yeup!” Mrs. Feeley finished her beer, “It’s the poor, sane droops that clabber up the batter!”

Miss Tinkham came in to set the table.

“He is pressing his suit,” she giggled.

“If he makes a pass, she’ll press his suit while he’s still in it!” Mr. Flink came in just as Mrs. Feeley finished speaking.

“She sent for me!” he said blissfully. “She sent for me.”

“It’s an ill wind!” Mrs. Feeley laughed.

He looked at Barbara and Timmy.

“You are enjoying the springtime of love. These Mesdames came into the autumn of my life and now my one ambition is to make Mrs. Rasmussen my widow, not my bride!”

“That’s a hell of a proposition!” Mrs. Feeley said. The lady in question came in carrying a tray with the pot-roast and pan-browned potatoes. She had a large bowl of asparagus salad and a bowlful of steamed red cabbage cooked with white wine from Timmy’s bar supply.

“Don’t touch none o’ that cabbage, Timmy! Too heavy for you after that operation.”

“They’re discharging me tomorrow…I never felt better.”

Mr. Flink loaded his plate, gazing prayerfully at Mrs. Rasmussen.

“Watch what you’re doin’, man! Gettin’ gravy all down the front of your shirt!”

“Stop moonin’ at her!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Make her nervous.”

“She sent for me. Who did she send for when she was in trouble? Gaylord Flink! That’s who!”

“Well, you’re a handy guy to have around a house,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“That’s what I’m trying to impress on Erna.” He leaned forward and his neat foulard tie dragged through the gravy.

“That’s the third time you’ve dragged your tie through the gravy,” Mrs. Rasmussen scolded, and moved the dish.

“I want you to be my widow, Erna. If you won’t have me, it will be a terrible waste! You see, I am entitled, or rather—my widow is entitled—to three separate pensions on my demise. It would be a pity to waste all that good money. It could be a marriage in name only, if you so desire…”

“I hardly think, Mr. Flink,” Miss Tinkham said, “this is quite the time or the place…”

“Have a beer!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Cool you off.”

Timmy and Barbara were struggling to conceal their laughter.

“I am desperate.” The Creep put down his knife and fork. “Make me the happiest of men, Erna: say you will be my widow!”

“How long you figgerin’ on livin’?” she grinned.

“I cannot but only wish I knew,” he said.

“That’s mighty white o’ you,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “But I can’t…I’m a widow already.”

Mr. Flink was silent for a long time. “I will never give up hoping. You could brighten the sunset slopes of my life. I could give you the luxuries you deserve. I would ask nothing of you…but of course, if we did lose our heads, it would be perfectly all right because we would be married.”

“That’s enough!” Mrs. Feeley banged her glass down. “What kind of talk is that in front of a young couple like this? Have some respect!”

Mr. Flink looked about to cry. “The flare of the autumn fires…”

“The last faint guttering of the candle,” Miss Tinkham explained.

“Gutter is right!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Timmy, it’s time you took Barbara home an’ went to bed yourself.”

“I’ll be in tomorrow to settle up,” Timmy said. “Early.”

“We’ll borrow sixty dollars from you to complete the bus fares,” Mrs. Feeley said, “An’ we’ll send it back as soon as we get home, but we’re not takin’ anythin’ else.”

“We’ll see,” Timmy said. “I learned something tonight about refined methods of blackmail and getting your own way about things.” The door opened and Old-Timer came in. He was covered with blue paint.

“You ain’t et.” Mrs. Rasmussen got up to get him a plate.

He shook hands with Timmy and stared at Barbara.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Timmy said to Old-Timer, “Yes, pal. I’ll see you.”

“Goodnight, love!” Mrs. Feeley said. “When Barbara sends for the pie-anna, be sure to give her them bottles o’ wine for the camp.”

Mr. Flink sat on, postponing the evil moment of his departure. “The light goes out of my life when you leave,” he said to Mrs. Rasmussen. “The address, please?”

S
ATURDAY
MORNING
AT TEN
M
RS
. F
EELEY
opened the door and found that it was Timmy Rafferty who was doing the banging.

“Gawd, you’re out early!” she said.

“Where is Mrs. Rasmussen? And Miss Tinkham?” Mrs. Feeley looked surprised at his tone of voice.

“Miss Tinkham’s titivatin’ an’ Mrs. Rasmussen’s gettin’ ready the lunch…why?”

Timmy was all authority. “Where are those checks of yours?”