“Oh George I thought you werent comin. … How do you do Mr. McNiel? I dunno why I’m all jumpy today. I thought you were never comin. Let’s get some lunch up. I’m that hungry.”
George Baldwin put his derby hat and stick on a table in the corner. “What’ll you have Gus?” he said. “Sure I always take a lamb chop an a baked potato.”
“I’m just taking crackers and milk, my stomach’s a little out of order. … Nevada see if you cant frisk up a highball for Mr. McNiel.”
“Well I could do with a highball George.”
“George order me half a broiled chicken lobster and some alligator pear salad,” screeched Nevada from the bathroom where she was cracking ice.
“She’s the greatest girl for lobster,” said Baldwin laughing as he went to the phone.
She came back from the bathroom with two highballs on a tray; she had put a scarlet and parrotgreen batik scarf round her neck. “Just you an me’s drinkin Mr. McNiel. … George is on the water wagon. Doctor’s orders.”
“Nevada what do you say we go to a musical show this afternoon? There’s a lot of business I want to get off my mind.”
“I just love matinees. Do you mind if we take Tony Hunter. He called up he was lonesome and wanted to come round this afternoon. He’s not workin this week.”
“All right. … Nevada will you excuse us if we talk business for just a second over here by the window. We’ll forget it by the time lunch comes.”
“All righty I’ll change my dress.”
“Sit down here Gus.”
They sat silent a moment looking out of the window at the red girder cage of the building under construction next door. “Well Gus,” said Baldwin suddenly harshly, “I’m in the race.”
“Good for you George, we need men like you.”
“I’m going to run on a Reform ticket.”
“The hell you are?”
“I wanted to tell you Gus rather than have you hear it by a roundabout way.”
“Who’s goin to elect you?”
“Oh I’ve got my backing. … I’ll have a good press.”
“Press hell. … We’ve got the voters. … But Goddam it if it hadn’t been for me your name never would have come up for district attorney at all.”
“I know you’ve always been a good friend of mine and I hope you’ll continue to be.”
“I never went back on a guy yet, but Jez, George, it’s give and take in this world.”
“Well,” broke in Nevada advancing towards them with little dancesteps, wearing a flamingo pink silk dress, “havent you boys argued enough yet?”
“We’re through,” growled Gus. “… Say Miss Nevada, how did you get that name?”
“I was born in Reno. … My mother’d gone there to get a divorce. … Gosh she was sore. … Certainly put my foot in it that time.”
Anna Cohen stands behind the counter under the sign The Best Sandwich in New York. Her feet ache in her pointed shoes with runover heels.
“Well I guess they’ll begin soon or else we’re in for a slack day,” says the sodashaker beside her. He’s a raw-faced man with a sharp adamsapple. “It allus comes all of a rush like.”
“Yeh, looks like they all got the same idear at the same time.” They stand looking out through the glass partition at the endless files of people jostling in and out of the subway. All at once she slips away from the counter and back into the stuffy kitchenette where a stout elderly woman is tidying up the stove. There is a mirror hanging on a nail in the corner. Anna fetches a powderbox from the pocket of her coat on the rack and starts powdering her nose. She stands a second with the tiny puff poised looking at her broad face with the bangs across the forehead and the straight black bobbed hair. A homely lookin kike, she says to herself bitterly. She is slipping back to her place at the counter when she runs into the manager, a little fat Italian with a greasy bald head. “Cant you do nutten but primp an look in de glass all day? … Veree good you’re fired.”
She stares at his face sleek like an olive. “Kin I stay out my day?” she stammers. He nods. “Getta move on; this aint no beauty parlor.” She hustles back to her place at the counter. The stools are all full. Girls, officeboys, grayfaced bookkeepers. “Chicken sandwich and a cup o caufee.” “Cream cheese and olive sandwich and a glass of buttermilk.”
“Chocolate sundae.”
“Egg sandwich, coffee and doughnuts.” “Cup of boullion.” “Chicken broth.” “Chocolate icecream soda.” People eat hurriedly without looking at each other, with their eyes on their plates, in their cups. Behind the people sitting on stools those waiting nudge nearer. Some eat standing up. Some turn their backs on the counter and eat looking out through the glass partition and the sign hcnuL eniL neerG at the jostling crowds filing in and out the subway through the drabgreen gloom.
“Well Joey tell me all about it,” said Gus McNiel puffing a great cloud of smoke out of his cigar and leaning back in his swivel chair. “What are you guys up to over there in Flatbush?”
O’Keefe cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Well sir we got an agitation committee.”
“I should say you had. … That aint no reason for raidin the Garment Workers’ ball is it?”
“I didn’t have nothin to do with that. … The bunch got sore at all these pacifists and reds.”
“That stuff was all right a year ago, but public sentiment’s changin. I tell you Joe the people of this country are pretty well fed up with war heroes.”
“We got a livewire organization over there.”
“I know you have Joe. I know you have. Trust you for that. … I’d put the soft pedal on the bonus stuff though. … The State of New York’s done its duty by the ex-service man.”
“That’s true enough.”
“A national bonus means taxes to the average business man and nothing else. …
