One On The House by Mary Lasswell

the right place,” Mrs. Rasmussen whispered. Strips of flypaper hung from the ceiling. Not a soul was in sight: not even a bartender. The place was so still that the ticking of the clock sounded like a trip hammer. Four small round tables occupied the center of the floor and six small booths provided the rest of the accommodations. Two booths were under the large dusty front window. The remaining booths were shoved into corners.
    “Not very impressive, is it?” Miss Tinkham whispered. There was a door to the right of the bar. “That, I take it, would be the lavabo,” she said.
    “Naw, I’m pretty sure it’s the John,” Mrs. Feeley said.
    “Wonder where everybody is?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. She rose cautiously in her seat and peered through the open door in back of the bar. “Gas-plate in there on top of a piece oilcloth on a box,” she said. “I can see a canvas cot an’ they’s a calendar hangin’ on the wall…sure ain’t no millionaire’s mansion.” She took off her hat and fanned herself with it. Miss Tinkham copied her.
    “They got a radio.” Mrs. Feeley pointed to the one on the counter back of the bar that held the scanty array of wine bottles. “An’ a phone!” She spotted the pay phone on the wall. “Wonder where that door goes?” She pointed to one at the left of the bar.
    “Who’s that feller?” Mrs. Rasmussen pointed to a large picture of a man in the field uniform of a General. Miss Tinkham studied the General through her lorgnette:
    “If I am not mistaken, that is General Patton. Blood and Guts I believe he was called admiringly.”
    “By God, that’s what we need around here!” Mrs. Feeley raised her voice: “Bartender! How about a little blood and guts for the customers? Or are you just fresh out?” She pushed her way out of the booth and began to roam around the saloon. “Maybe he’s corkin’-off on the cot in there!” She started around the open end of the bar into the room behind. She released a shriek that would have given a Comanche Indian an inferiority complex. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” she yelled jumping high in the air. “I damn near stepped on the corp! Him a-lyin’ here all this time! Gawd, let’s get outa here fast! If the jen-darmes see us, we won’t never get home!” She rushed around the bar and grabbed her bag.
    “Let’s get goin’!”
    “Somebody’s bound to o’ seen us come in,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Be worse if we was to run.” She walked around the bar to have a look. “Sure young, ain’t he?”
    “Handsome in a lean, hungry sort of way,” Miss Tinkham looked too. “You’re quite right: we’d only be taken as accessories after the fact.” Old-Timer came around the bar and very gently nudged the body with his toe. The young man moved slightly and began to moan.
    “He’s alive!” Miss Tinkham said. “We must notify the police and get the ambulance at once!”
    Mrs. Feeley took another look herself. “He’s alive, but not for long! Sure sick! He’s pea-green. We can’t go off an’ leave the poor booger!”
    Miss Tinkham went over to the telephone.
    “Oh dear!” she said in exasperation, “I haven’t a nickel.”
    “We only got the half-dollar,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Don’t see no cash register to change it.”
    “Reckon he hocked that long ago,” Mrs. Feeley said.
    “Then we’ll have to get the police!” Miss Tinkham took charge.
    “How the hell will you?” Mrs. Feeley demanded. “Ain’t a livin’ soul in sight for miles…let alone a cop! They’re all down to the Fifth Ward Democratic Club playin’ snooker, I’ll be bound. You could raise a thousand dollars quicker’n you could raise a flatfoot when you need one.”
    “Observe, Mrs. Feeley! Observe!” Miss Tinkham led the way out the door to the corner. Over her shoulder she remarked: “As you have so often said, ‘There are more ways of killing a cat than kissing it to death!” She tripped gaily to the telephone pole at the corner,