“You like some, Mr. Free?” Barnes asked. “I brought you a cup.”
The woman said, “How was the cheese?”
For a moment Barnes stared at her. The color drained from his florid face. Then he laughed. “You smelled it,” he said. “Smelled it on my breath. That’s terrific! Listen, Madame Serpentina, I can take a joke as well as anybody. Better, in fact.”
“I cannot,” the woman said.
“Hey, you ought to. There’s nothing in the world better for you, for your health and your whole outlook on life, than a good laugh.”
“I laugh often, but not at jokes.”
Barnes grinned. He had large, square, slightly yellowish teeth, like a horse’s. “That’s because you haven’t seen mine. But if you’ll excuse kind of a personal comment, I’ve been watching you since we got here, and I’ve never seen you laugh.”
“I am laughing now,” the woman said. “My spirit laughs, because I did not come here with you.”
“We both came Monday,” Barnes said. “Answered the same ad. That’s all I meant.”
The woman did not reply, and after several minutes had passed in silence except for the muttering from the old television and the rattle of the rain, Barnes said, “Nice weather.”
For the first time, she turned her head to look at him. “You like this?”
“Sure I do.” Barnes grinned again. “Made three sales today, and selling weather is as good a weather as Ozzie Barnes ever asks for.”
“You have sold nothing, or you would go into the street and buy bread. You are very hungry.”
“I didn’t say I got any money. I got orders. Tomorrow I’ll send them in, and when the merchants pay, I’ll get my commission. I do like this weather, though. You probably don’t believe that.”
“Belief insults the mind. A thing is so or it is not.”
“Say, that’s good. I’ll have to remember it. But I like this weather—not many customers coming in, which is always good for a salesman, and then, too, some merchants feel a little sorry for me. That makes them readier to listen. The whole secret of selling, let me tell you, is just getting your customer to listen to what you’re saying. Nine times out of ten, a man will stand there and stare at you like he’s hearing every word, but what he’s really listening to is something he told himself a long time ago, or maybe just his wife telling him not to lay in any more stock. He no more hears you than Mr. Free here does.”
The woman said, “He hears.”
“Okay, but he doesn’t pay attention.”
“That is so. We are to him what that,” the woman’s eyes moved briefly toward the television set, “is to us. We are that to me also.”
“Is he following the story, you think?” Barnes’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I wouldn’t want to bother him.”
“Less than you. Less even than I.”
There was a knock at the door. The old man rose at once and went into the narrow hall, where pools of water from the fat girl’s raincoat still lingered sullenly. Behind him, the voices of Barnes and the dark woman mingled with the roaring of piston-engined aircraft.
The newcomer was a uniformed policeman, his shoulders white with snow. The old man bobbed his head and led him into the parlor.
“I’m Sergeant Proudy,” the policeman said. “Thirteenth precinct. I’m looking for Bernard Free.”
The old man nodded. “Sam’l Benjamin Free, son. That’s me. Call me Ben.”
Rising, Barnes said, “There’s no Bernard anything here Sergeant. This is Mr. Free.”
The policeman nodded and took an envelope from the inner pocket of his overcoat. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Osgood M. Barnes. I’m in sales.”
Proudy nodded. “And you, Ma’am?”
“I am Serpentina.”
“I bet you are. You a snake charmer?”
“I am a witch.”
“It’s against the law to tell fortunes in this city,” the policeman said.
“I do not tell fortunes.”
Proudy shrugged. “I don’t give a damn what you do outside this precinct, but—”
The fat girl’s voice floated down the stairwell:
“That’s Candy!” Proudy said. “Candy Garth. You know her?”
