One On The House Read Online Free

Feeley went on into the ladies’ room. When she came back the program had changed and a comedian, dragging his mother in at every line, was delivering jokes freighted with double meanings. For a moment she stood watching the tired, aging actor whip himself into a frenzy.
    “I b’lieve that guy’d be dirty if they give him a chance!” she said aloud. “I better go get Mrs. Rasmussen an’ Miss Tinkham!”
    The two were huddled over a paper.
    “Sure gonna be on short grass,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Even takin’ the bus, that’s the cheapest, we’ll just about sneak by. Don’t have much left for bettin’.”
    “Never mind about that now…bring your beer an’ come with me! I think we hit the jackpot!”
    Miss Tinkham scrambled to her feet and Mrs. Rasmussen plowed after her. The three nudged their way into the crowd. A talent scout was holding an audition on the screen, leering at the young women and ogling the boys.
    “Talking pictures in miniature!” Miss Tinkham whispered.
    “You from the sticks? That’s television,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Ain’t he the ugly booger? Got a face like a well-spanked bottom.”
    A young man began performing on four harmonicas, writhing and twisting like a basket of eels.
    “Just like vor-deville,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Me an’ Mister sure liked it.”
    “If it were only in technicolor!” Miss Tinkham sighed.
    “Won’t be long, if they ain’t got it already,” Mrs. Feeley explained. “This ain’t such a very high-class dump.”
    “The possibilities are unlimited,” Miss Tinkham said. Mrs. Rasmussen turned to Mrs. Feeley. “It’s sure swell, but we’d never be able to raise the money.” Her amber eyes snapped in a way that belied her words.
    “By God, for somethin’ fandangled like that, we gotta raise the money! The three of us will be to bury if we don’t!”
    Miss Tinkham made a few practice swishes with her thumb. “When all else fails,” she cried, “we can emulate the Knights of the Open Road…and hitch-hike!”
    A big blowsy woman turned around. “Go down to WPIX if you wanna get in the act!”
    Mrs. Feeley looked the woman over from head to foot: “Why don’t you go down yourself, with them skinny legs an’ that mouth like a plumber’s rubber-tool? Let’s go back to our own table an’ talk over buyin’ a television set—more than this trash can do, standin’ in bars, gawkin’ for free!” She hustled off to the back room like a baby tugboat.
    “Guess that put the local feists to flight!” she said over her shoulder. They were not following her. Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham stood as if frozen.
    “The Creep!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Gawd, he sure ain’t no quitter!” He was walking slowly towards Mrs. Rasmussen, ignoring the existence of the other two. She walked backwards, reaching out for Miss Tinkham’s hand.
    “Don’t let him shatter your aplomb,” Miss Tinkham whispered, “There is safety in numbers.”
    Mrs. Feeley was standing in the middle of the bead portieres when the slow-moving group reached her. She eyed the little man closely. “Don’t stand there like a Stoughton bottle! Say somethin’!”
    “I’d like to buy you ladies a drink.”
    “That’s short an’ to the point,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Get the waiter.”
    “The classic opening gambit, Mr. Flink!” Miss Tinkham said.
    Mr. Flink blinked.
    “Ah yes! We read your card!”
    “Could I know…” he began.
    “We don’t tell our private affairs to nobody,” Mrs. Feeley said.
    “I just wanted to know her name,” he said looking at Mrs. Rasmussen.
    “We are what might be called sticklers for etiquette,” Miss Tinkham said. “In a large city, one can’t be too particular.”
    “Yeup. White slavers,” Mrs. Feeley said.
    The waiter came up with four beers and Mr. Flink produced a roll of bills that a hippopotamus would have had some difficulty in swallowing.
    “Is there anything due you besides this?” he asked the waiter.
    “Whee! Look at