“Pare me a pair of pears, Père!” she said.
“How’s that, ma’am?” Beaky Nose leaned forward.
“Pare me a pair of pears, Père. That’s French for father.”
“Say…you a colyoumist? That’s all right!” Miss Tinkham’s neighbor was impressed.
“No,” she said. “I have, nevertheless, abiding love and reverence for the King’s English, even though I find myself more and more constrained to the occasional use of the Queen’s English.”
“Didn’t know she had one,” said the owner of the newspaper clipping.
“Sure!” Mrs. Feeley piped up, out of things too long.
“Good Queen Bess,” Miss Tinkham said, “not the present Elizabeth.”
“Yeah.” Beaky Nose scratched his head. “I never did quite figure her out. She was supposed to be the Virgin Queen, but…”
“Relatively speaking,” Miss Tinkham rescued him, “for those days, we might say. After all, they ate whole chickens at a sitting and a roast lamb was nothing for Henry the Eighth. Ann Boleyn is reported to have eaten three pounds of boiled bacon the morning she was beheaded.”
“They’ll boil anything, won’t they, them English?” the redhead on the end said. “I was in England an’ I got hold of a decent steak from one o’ my buddies in the Quartermaster Corps an’ took it home to broil it over the coal fire in the grate in my room. I met my landlady when I was comin’ in and held the steak up to her an’ just for fun I said: ‘Would you boil that?’ ‘Ow, yes indeed,’ she says, pleased as Punch. I gave her one look an’ said, ‘You would, too, you limey son of a’…excuse me, ma’am. I almost swore in front of you.”
Mrs. Feeley giggled.
“I kinda get a kick out o’ bein’ took for a lady,” she whispered to Mrs. Rasmussen.
“Really, this is most pleasant,” Miss Tinkham said, “but we have a long road to travel. We have been gone over a month and are most anxious to get home.”
“What’s your line? You got a cult o’ some kind out there?” Beaky Nose asked.
Miss Tinkham smiled. “Not yet! But if prices get any higher…”
“Did you realize that the cost o’ livin’ has gone up over a dollar a case?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Mrs. Feeley is sole prop and chatelaine of Noah’s Ark.”
“Junk yard an’ parkin’ lot combined,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Old-Timer, he’s my handy-man. Miss Tinkham lives on her income, an’ Mrs. Rasmussen, she’s got the widow’s pension.”
“Mister was a Veteran…got shot in Saint My Heel.”
“So we just kinda take in the slack. Drink a little beer an’ sing a little bass.”
“You can tell right off that you sure know how to live,” the man with the tattoo said. “Not hurryin’ or crowdin’ the waitresses. Why don’t we move over to a booth?”
“That would be lovely,” Miss Tinkham said, “but we must carry on…another time, perhaps,” she smiled and held out her hand. The three boys shook hands with the ladies and Old-Timer.
“If you get out to San Diego, be sure to come to see us,” Mrs. Feeley said. Mrs. Rasmussen paid the bill and marked down five dollars and seventy-five cents on the map that served as expense book.
“Seventy-five for the tip…I hate a ten-percenter ever since we done that stretch at The Road to Ruin.”
“Nice girl; give us lots extra,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Ain’t them cute handkerchiefs they all got in their uniform pocket; that hand-crochet ’round ’em—reminds me of a nice kersarge. Gawd, reckon Darleen’s watered the gardenias an’ kep’ the mealy-bugs off ’em?”
“How about one for the road?” Beaky Nose came up to Mrs. Feeley. Miss Tinkham saw no cause to demur.
“It is our Golden Discovery for reaching the century mark: Never refuse a beer,” she said.
“It’s a fine idea,” the boy with the tattoo said, “but not when you have sixteen new Chevvies stacked up like that.” He pointed out the window to a hauler loaded down with new cars. Old-Timer went over to the window and stared ecstatically at them.
“Dave’s takin’ them to Columbus—that’s why he can’t have beer. I wouldn’t drive one of them loads for all the gold in Knox. They’re man-killers.”
“Pay’s good,” Dave said. “You get used to it, like everythin’ else.”
“Thank you for the beer.” Miss Tinkham wiped her mouth with a paper napkin.
“Didn’t you say you was goin’ to Pittsburgh?” Beaky Nose said.
“I believe we take the Turnpike just a short distance from here,” Miss Tinkham said.
Dave snapped his fingers. “You can follow me! I’ll take you right on down. The speedway’s grand. The lid’s really off. They put a seventy-mile speed limit on now, but that don’t mean nothin’, as long as you stop for the tollgates.”
Beaky Nose smiled, “You know somethin’—these ladies would sure get a belt outa The El Casablanca. Besides, they’d never find their way outa them detours in Pittsburgh in a month.”
Dave grinned.
“It’s quite a joint: motel, hotel, bar, floor-show—what you don’t see, ask for.”
“I have heard Pittsburg is a difficult city to traverse,” Miss Tinkham said.
“The rivers—you’d be back an’ forth across ’em all night like a ferry boat. An’ the detours! You never saw nothin’ like ’em. Lead you right up, full speed ahead to a precipice. You’d be hangin’ over it like the hero in a B picture.”
“One fellow ran his car full tilt right into the open door of a blast furnace,” Dave said. “You better follow me.”
Miss Tinkham nodded.
“It would seem to be the most prudent course.”
“We’ll hit The El Casablanca just in time for the floor-show. I’ll introduce you, so you’ll be sure to get a good cabin and then shove off. Don’t want to miss out on my bonus for getting these cars delivered on time.” Dave helped the ladies into the blue limousine and admired the white-wall tires.
“It was a present,” Mrs. Feeley said proudly.
“Now stay right behind me,” Dave cautioned. “Better fasten your safety belts.” He grinned as Old-Timer raced the motor. “Sounds to me like two carburetors and an overdrive.” Old-Timer grinned and held up three fingers.
“Hadn’t we better gas up?” Mrs. Feeley yelled. “An’ check the beer, Mrs. Rasmussen. Back her down to the pump, Ol’-Timer.” Dave nodded.
“We won’t stop for nothing but the tollgates once we hit the pike.” He got into his truck and started the motor.
“Them’s sure nice fellers,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“It’s comforting to think that their counterparts are to be found in similar resorts all over the country—the salt of the earth.” Miss Tinkham wished she were fifty again.
“No wonder them foreign bags nearly tore our American boys from limb to limb,” Mrs. Feeley snorted.
“Eight dollars and twenty-four cents,” Mrs. Rasmussen made a notation on the back of the map. “How far you say we gotta go, Miss Tinkham?”
“Roughly, three thousand miles.”
“By damn, we’ll have to cut the corners if this bankroll is gonna see us home. Gas so high an’ meals cost so much out.”
“If we run out, we’ll try fillin’ the tank with beer,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Dave’s givin’ you the highball, Ol’-Timer. Hoist the stallions, an’ let’s be off. At this rate,” she remarked smugly, “we’ll be home by Tuesday anyway. That’s my idea of travelin’—no bicycles, no baby-buggies, no hitch-hikers—just full steam ahead an’ damn the torpedoes.”
“Ain’t you sleepy, Ol’-Timer?” Mrs. Rasmussen handed him a can of beer. He shook his head.
“With Dave for a convoy, we’ve made record time,” Miss Tinkham said. “We’ll welcome food and a night’s sleep. In the excitement of our departure, we have been too stimulated to feel fatigue. It just occurs to me that since Wednesday night we have had almost no rest: first of all, the party. Then Blondelle locking her lover up in the va
ult on Friday, and this somewhat crowded day! It is fortunate that we all enjoy the most exquisite of human sensations: perfect health.”
Old-Timer began to slow down the Cadillac. He put his hand out to signal a left turn.
“Dave’s signaling to turn in,” Miss Tinkham said. “This must be the place he spoke of.” There could be no doubt about it. Around an open court more than a hundred small stucco cabins butted against each other. The entire block was outlined in neon rainbows and the name of the establishment was emblazoned in the same scourge in letters a yard high. BAR. BEDS. EATS. The succinct words had small fountains of colored light streaming from in back of them.
“Neon lights make me agree with Thomas Carlyle when he said ‘America’s mission is to vulgarize the world,’” Miss Tinkham said.
In the center of the court stood the bar and restaurant. It was made of cloudy glass blocks. Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen crawled out of the car and stretched their cramped legs.
“Glad I didn’t wear my corset,” Mrs. Feeley said.
Dave came towards them wiping his steaming face.
“How was that for a canter?”
“It was swell,” Mrs. Feeley said. “I could go for some grub an’ some o’ the heavy wet, myself. How about you?”
“Wish I could,” Dave laughed. “I’ll grab a quick shower and some strong coffee and eat something. That’ll put me over the last leg of my trip. Come on in—I’ll introduce you to the boss.”
Miss Tinkham was rubbing her eyes.
“Look at Old-Timer,” she said. “He is too weary to get out of the car. He’s driven over three hundred miles since noon.”
“Can’t none of you ladies spell him a little?” Dave asked.
“Mrs. Rasmussen can an’ me, if I have to, but I ain’t got no license. I’d rather ride with him drunk or sound asleep than I would anybody else sober an’ wide awake. He’s the best driver I ever seen, includin’ Mr. Feeley, an’ that’s sayin’ a lot.”
“He drives defensively, as if the other drivers were dangerous maniacs. He’ll be ready for anything after a night’s sleep,” Miss Tinkham said.
“The beds are good here; clean, too. You can get a double cabin with a shower and a gas stove,” Dave said.
“Stove?” Mrs. Rasmussen perked up. “Pots?”
“Everything,” Dave said and pointed out a small building with a sign that said: STORE…OPEN ALL DAY…OPEN ALL NIGHT…WE TRIM OUR MEATS…NOT OUR CUSTOMERS. “That’s the office where you register.” He pointed out a small building at the side of the entrance to the main building.
“That’s all well an’ good, but where’s the brew?” Mrs. Feeley said. They stumbled after Dave into the bar, feeling their way in the dark. “Gawd,” she whispered to Miss Tinkham. “Anything goes, huh? Blacker than the pit.”
“I wonder how they see their plates in front of ’em,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“I don’t think they come here to eat,” Miss Tinkham said. “I was in Ciro’s once. Be careful what you step on.”
“This here’s Crusher Dasey,” Dave said, introducing a man who merited the name.
“Glad ta meetcha,” he grinned hugely at Miss Tinkham in the faint light. “Hiya, girlie,” he ruffled Mrs. Feeley’s short white curls with a hand like a bunch of bananas. “Watch out for me, kid. I show ’em no mercy: crush ’em to death with my dimples.”
“Goddlemighty,” Mrs. Feeley murmured. “Tired as we are, a character we gotta meet up with.”
“Don’t mind him,” Dave said. “He’s a good joe. He’ll look after you. One thing they cater to here an’ that’s respectable trade.”
“What for?” Mrs. Feeley’s eyes were getting used to the darkness. “Alongside o’ this, the monkey-house at the zoo is refined.”
“They gotta make a livin,” Dave said. “But when they see decent people, especially a lady, they know how to act. You’ll see.” A large round table materialized out of the gloom and Mrs. Feeley’s friends slid onto the cool leather seats. Crusher Dasey himself passed out the menus and politely held a small flashlight for the patrons to read by.
“I’m starved,” Dave said. “Beer for everybody but me—unless you’d rather have a cocktail or highball?”
“Beer’s our drink; we never touch no alcohol,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Good idea. Bring us five orders of the chicken cacciatore.” Dave handed the menus back to Crusher.
“I’ll bring your coffee first,” he said. “The shower in my office is workin’ again—you’re welcome to use it. Where’d you get the dolls?”
“They’re going to San Diego,” Dave said. “Treat ’em right. I gotta shove off right after I get my eyes open.”
“You ladies an’ him want a cabin?” Crusher said. “They ain’t nothin’ left, but I know where there’s one’ll be empty before midnight an’ I could sorta…”
“Speed the parting guest?” Miss Tinkham said.
“Check, ma’am. He anybody’s husband?” His thumb like a maple éclair pointed at Old-Timer.
“We’re all footloose and fancy-free,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Maybe I could fix up…” Crusher pushed the button on the flashlight and changed his mind.
“Don’t get wise, mister.” Mrs. Feeley rose up. “If we tangle, there’ll be only two blows struck: I’ll hit you an’ you’ll hit the ground!”
“No offense, lady. We aim to please. What I meant was, maybe we can run in a fold-away for this gent.”
“That’d be fine; how much?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“For any friends o’ Dave’s: four dollars.”
“For the lot?”
“Sure.” Crusher waved a magnanimous hand.
“Damn white o’ you,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Seein’ as how whoever’s out there now has already paid the night’s freight.”
“Lady, am I gonna have trouble with you? You an’ me could be friends, but don’t never forget: I left yez in, an’ I can throw yez out!”
“We got suckers at home in bed as big as you. Whyn’t you let the top o’ your head down an’ bring us somethin’ to eat? Dave’s gotta get rollin’.” Crusher seemed to know when he met his match. Dave finished his coffee.
“I’ll take my shower and try to wash some of the sand out of my eyes while we wait for the chicken,” he said. “They cook it fresh to order. Tell Crusher to bring you all the beer you want. I won’t be long.”
Mrs. Feeley rubbed her hands.
“Drinkin’ beer in the dark here seems to perk us up better than sleep. Long as we can’t get to bed till past midnight, might’s well enjoy the sights. Sure nice o’ you to bring us,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“‘Fill me with the old familiar fluid.’” Miss Tinkham quoted Omar. “‘I think I might recover by and by.’ You won’t be long, will you?” She patted the rippling muscle of Dave’s arm. A waitress went by with a loaded tray and emitted a loud yelp as she passed Old-Timer.
“You put your hands on top o’ the table an’ keep ’em there till your eats come,” Mrs. Feeley said to him. “You ain’t tired.”
“You know,” Mrs. Rasmussen turned her beer glass slowly in her hands, “I’m puzzlin’ over in my mind about somethin’: why do you suppose they give Dave so much house around here? He’s a lovely boy, but that ain’t the answer. Them truckers is good spenders an’ all, but…”
“Perhaps they want delivery of a new car,” Miss Tinkham said. “It seems that’s the only way to get them these days, snatch them off the hauler.”
“You’re right,” Mrs. Feeley said. “It sure as hell ain’t for his pretty blue eyes. We won’t be here long enough to find out, but long as they don’t pilfer nothin’, an’ let no air outa our tires, or steal no gas, it don’t concern us a damn bit. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
A waitress brought a fresh supply of beer and a basket full of Melba toast covered with melted cheese. She set down a huge platter of antipasto and a stack of small plates.
“Want I should serve it?”
she said.
Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head and reached for the big spoon and fork. The darkness was no longer so thick. Mrs. Feeley looked around her with curiosity. Crusher Dasey was standing in a corner near the juke box deep in conversation with a man in a bowler hat. He saw Mrs. Feeley watching him and came over to the table.
“You havin’ it good here? Everything all right? Gloria,” he called to the waitress, “oh, Miss Astor!” he said when she came up, “Keep them beers comin’ an’ not so much foam. Gimme that chewin’ gum, honey.”
“Well, of all the cheap-skates—chew your own gum—there ain’t no penicillin in it, only Juicy Fruit.”
“You want I should take it away from you? I ain’t got time to jawr. Hand it here.” She did, and shook her head at the ladies as she set down the orders of chicken under their metal covers.
“Takin’ the breath right outa my mouth, you might say. He’s death on class, Crusher is.”
Mrs. Feeley nodded, almost fainting with desire for the chicken that smothered away under roasted peppers and onions and tomatoes beneath the metal cover.
“Garlic in it, too; plenty. Chef’s Eyetalian,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, sniffing. The waitress nodded.
“It was Crusher thought up them instructions for the help here. You gotta act refined or he’ll kick the bejeezus outa you. Like drunks, now. He makes us say, ‘If you will come with me, there is a friend in the lobby who would like to speak with you.’ When we get ’em out there, the bouncer saps ’em.”
“The essence of tact,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Take cryin’ babies,” Gloria said, “though we don’t get too many of ’em in a place like this. We walk over an’ say, ‘I am very sorry, madam, but I must ask you to take the little one to the Rest Room.’”
“He thinks of everythin’,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“An’ like when we see a couple in one o’ the corner booths goin’ a little too far, we walk over an’ say, real perlite, ‘It will be necessary for me to call one of the management if your attitude does not change at once.’ You want anything else?”
“Just a chance to eat,” Mrs. Feeley said. The waitress shivered off to another table.
Wait For The Wagon Page 2
