“Oh, the gin’s good enough. You make good gin. Everybody says so.”
“I know I do, but gin’s gin. I think I’ll turn square for once in my life and take the rye. Maybe the others will bring their own, so we won’t have to get rid of the whole quart.”
“I don’t want you to drink much if you’re going to drive,” said Irma.
“Don’t worry. Not over those roads. I know. I’ll put the quart into pint bottles and keep one pint in my overcoat pocket when we get to the Stage Coach. Then the others will think I only have a pint and they’ll go easy. But I imagine everybody will bring their own, if they have any sense.”
“I imagine,” she said. “I’m going upstairs now and make the beds. I’ll see if the pants of your Tux need pressing.”
“Oh, God. That’s right. Do I have to wear that?”
“Now, now, don’t try and bluff me. You look nice in it and you know it. You like to wear it and don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Oh, I don’t mind wearing it,” he said. “I was just thinking about you. You’ll be so jealous when all the other girls see me in my Tux and start trying to take me outside. I just didn’t want to spoil your evening, that’s all.”
“Applesauce,” said Irma.
“Why don’t you say what you mean? You don’t mean applesauce.”
“Never mind, now, Mister Dirty Mouth.” She left.
What a girl, he thought, and resumed reading his paper; Hoover was receiving the newsboys for Christmas….
III
It was about two o’clock, U. S. Naval Observatory Hourly By Western Union time, when Al Grecco appeared in the doorway of the Apollo Restaurant. The Apollo was a hotel and restaurant. There had been a hotel on the site of the Apollo for close to a century, but the Pennsylvania Dutch family who had the restaurant before George Poppas took it over had not kept the hotel part open. Then when George Poppas, who actually was wearing those white Greek kilts when he arrived in Gibbsville, began to make money on the restaurant, someone mentioned that the building had been a hotel for nearly a hundred years, and George spent a lot of money on making the place a hotel again. The rooms were small and had a fireproof look about them, with steel beds and other furniture. The hotel was clean, the rooms were small and cheap, and the Apollo got a big play from salesmen who had their swindle sheets to think of. The John Gibb Hotel, Gibbsville’s big inn, was expensive.
Al Grecco was one of the few permanent guests of the Apollo. He had a room there, for which he paid nothing. Ed Charney had some kind of arrangement with George Poppas, in which no money changed hands. Ed wanted Al to be at the Apollo to receive messages and so on. Whenever there were strangers from other mobs in town on business, or friends who just happened to be passing through Gibbsville, they always looked up Ed Charney at the Apollo. And if Ed was not there, he wanted someone to be on hand, and that someone usually was Al Grecco.
Al had his hat on but was carrying his dark blue overcoat. There was not a customer in the place. Smitty, who was a taxi driver and two-bit pimp, was sitting at the marble counter, drinking a cup of coffee, but Smitty was always at the counter drinking coffee. George Poppas was standing behind the cigar counter. He looked as though he were sitting down, but Al knew better. George leaned with his fat hands folded, supporting himself on the cigar counter, and appearing to be in great pain. George always appeared to be in great pain, as though he had eaten, an hour ago, all the things that can give you indigestion. Al once had seen him in a crap game make fifteen straight passes and win over twelve thousand dollars, but he still appeared to be in great pain.
Loving Cup was behind the counter, and seemed to be the only waiter in the place. Loving Cup was about twenty, perhaps less; slight, with a bad complexion and a terrible breath. The boys were always kidding Loving Cup about his ears, from which he got his name. They were at least a third as long as his whole head, and stuck out. Also, the boys often had kidded Loving Cup about his lonely sex life, until one night for a gag they took him to the Dew Drop and paid for his entertainment. But when he came downstairs Mimi said to them: “Well, you wise guys, this kid got more than any of you. Howdia like that? He’s the only man in the crowd.” And Loving Cup listened delightedly, his eyes bright and gleaming and wicked and small. From that night on the boys made no cracks about Loving Cup and his lonely sex life. They still referred to him as Loving Cup, and called him Bertha, but they had some respect for him.
Al did not speak to George Poppas. They had a mutual contempt for each other; George for Al, because Al was a minor member of the mob; and Al for George because George did not belong to the mob at all. They never spoke, except in crap games, when they confined their remarks to “You’re faded” and the other language of the game. Al placed his coat on a hanger and removed his hat, using both hands in taking off the hat so as not to disturb his hair.
He took the Philadelphia Public Ledger, which was lying on the counter in front of George. He sat down at the mob’s table, which was in the very front of the restaurant, in a corner just back of the front window, where various crustaceans were squirming about in a pool. Al looked at the front page and saw that that Hoover was going to entertain some newsboys for Christmas. He turned over to the sport pages.
“Hyuh,” said a voice. It was Loving Cup.
“Oh, hyuh, Loving Cup,” said Al.
“Two over? Bacon well done? Coffee?” said Loving Cup.
“No,” said Al. “Gimme the bill of fare.”
“What for?” said Loving Cup. “You can read the paper.”
“God damn it! Get me the bill of fare before I cut your heart out.”
“All right, all right,” said Loving Cup, running away. He came back with a menu and laid it beside Al’s right arm. “There.”
“What are you, a Jew or something? Didn’t they tell you it’s Christmas, or don’t they have Christmas where you come from? Say, where did you come from, anyway, sweetheart?”
“That’s my business,” said Loving Cup. “The turkey is all right. You want some of that? I thought you was having breakfast.”
“It’s Christmas, you lug,” said Al.
“Yeah, I know,” said Loving Cup. “What are you gonna have, or do I have to wait here all day while you spell out the words?”
“Crack wise, Bertha,” said Al. “I’ll have that a dollar and a half dinner.”
“What kind of soup you want?”
“I don’t want any soup,” said Al.
“It goes with the dinner, so you don’t have to pay extra. I’ll bring you the cream of tomato. I just seen the chef spit in it.” He jumped away as Al reached out for him. He went laughing to the kitchen.
Al read his paper. There was always some stumble bum from Fargo fighting in Indianapolis. Every time you picked up the paper and looked under Fight Results there was somebody from Fargo doing a waltz somewhere. Either they were all would-be fighters in that town, or else they just used the name of the town and didn’t come from there at all, like the Gibbsville Miners, the pro football team. Practically every man on the team was an All American, but they never heard of Gibbsville before they came there to play football. They all talked like Snake Eyes O’Neill, who came from Jersey City and was one of the mob. Snake Eyes never said r. Dollah. Fawd. Hoit. Boint. Thoid. Likka. Never said r. Al wondered where Fargo was. It was past Chicago. He knew that. They had one good boy from that town. Petrolle. Billy Petrolle, the Fargo Express. But the rest of them! God, what a gang of tankers they were. He wondered just what was the angle on there being so many fighters from Fargo. Maybe Ed would know. Ed could usually tell him when something puzzled him.