Read Online Clay Hand by Dorothy Salisbury Davis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dorothy Salisbury Davis
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McGovern, what’s eating you?”
Phil was scarcely listening, but the last words broke through his thinking. “I don’t know. Kind of knocked out, I guess. The shock and all.”
“Lady Bountiful’s got her claws in you.”
Phil looked at him.
“Yes, I mean the one in mourning up to two inches below the knee. And that isn’t dirty, on my part at least. I’m referring to style, manners and decorum. Is there anything in Emily Post about how to act at your husband’s funeral? If there isn’t, she can ghost that chapter for her.”
“What the devil’s gotten into you, Randy?”
Nichols puffed out his cheeks and then burst his breath into the frosty air. “Then you are in love with her. I suspected that first thing this morning.”
Was he? In all honesty, Phil could not answer that himself. He said as much to Nichols.
“All right. I’m going to say something I’ve said before, kidding. I mean it now. A woman’s most dangerous when she seems the most helpless. Call that cynical, but like all cynicisms, there’s a strong element of truth in it.”
“For the person expounding it, at least,” Phil said. “Look, Randy. I don’t want to talk about Margaret. That’s my problem. What else have you picked up about Dick?”
“Not much. More about the Clausons—that magician and his daughter. The townspeople hold them in very low affection.”
“Why?”
“They’re different. That’s all. See this section of town—the names? There’s a bill of fare there on the restaurant—goulash. We’re in Slav Town. Have you any notion what these people went through when they migrated to Winston? The old priest that used to be here threatened half his parish with excommunication because they wouldn’t attend the same services with the Slavs. Bread and butter, McGovern. When it’s threatened, look out. The lambs eat the goats.”
“What kind of security do the Clausons threaten?”
“I don’t know. But it’s one of the things I want to find out. If Coffee was working on a social problem here, I’ll wager he wanted to find it out, too.”
“Possible,” Phil said.
“Mind, I’m not saying he was working on a social problem. From what I’ve heard, I’d say he was his own problem…. And here we are at the Sunnyside.”
They stopped a moment and looked at the dust-clad building. “Aptly named,” Nichols said. “It reminds me of an old watchman at the Tribune. He didn’t know night from day except that he could read the racing form by one of them. They called him ‘ Sunny .’”
The Sunnyside had a family entrance. There was a restaurant at the back of the tavern, and the smell of onions all through it. It was deserted when they entered, the oilclothed tables like so many mushrooms at the rear of the room. On the backbar mirror, the words ACCORDIONIST SATURDAY NIGHT were waxed. “We must remember that,” Nichols said. Where the piano stood at McNamara’s there was a juke box here. When no one came, Nichols took a nickel from his pocket and went over to it. He got a flying polka. “I’ll bet if I played it blindfold, I’d get the same thing.”
A man came from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron, at the sound of the music. “Yes, gentlemen? That sounds too bad, don’t it? Do you mind if I turn it down?”
“Turn it off. We just wanted to get your attention.”
The proprietor disconnected the machine. “It’s so peaceful in the afternoon. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like milk,” Nichols said. “Whiskey, McGovern?”
“Make it two milks if you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind?” If they had ordered a Stump-lifter, which was also advertised on the bar mirror, the proprietor could not have been more pleasant. “I will get it from the kitchen. I don’t have ice here.”
They watched him amble to the rear of the building, drawing his finger along a table, looking at it, and wiping the dust on his apron. He seemed very tired, but it was probably the way about him
Phil was scarcely listening, but the last words broke through his thinking. “I don’t know. Kind of knocked out, I guess. The shock and all.”
“Lady Bountiful’s got her claws in you.”
Phil looked at him.
“Yes, I mean the one in mourning up to two inches below the knee. And that isn’t dirty, on my part at least. I’m referring to style, manners and decorum. Is there anything in Emily Post about how to act at your husband’s funeral? If there isn’t, she can ghost that chapter for her.”
“What the devil’s gotten into you, Randy?”
Nichols puffed out his cheeks and then burst his breath into the frosty air. “Then you are in love with her. I suspected that first thing this morning.”
Was he? In all honesty, Phil could not answer that himself. He said as much to Nichols.
“All right. I’m going to say something I’ve said before, kidding. I mean it now. A woman’s most dangerous when she seems the most helpless. Call that cynical, but like all cynicisms, there’s a strong element of truth in it.”
“For the person expounding it, at least,” Phil said. “Look, Randy. I don’t want to talk about Margaret. That’s my problem. What else have you picked up about Dick?”
“Not much. More about the Clausons—that magician and his daughter. The townspeople hold them in very low affection.”
“Why?”
“They’re different. That’s all. See this section of town—the names? There’s a bill of fare there on the restaurant—goulash. We’re in Slav Town. Have you any notion what these people went through when they migrated to Winston? The old priest that used to be here threatened half his parish with excommunication because they wouldn’t attend the same services with the Slavs. Bread and butter, McGovern. When it’s threatened, look out. The lambs eat the goats.”
“What kind of security do the Clausons threaten?”
“I don’t know. But it’s one of the things I want to find out. If Coffee was working on a social problem here, I’ll wager he wanted to find it out, too.”
“Possible,” Phil said.
“Mind, I’m not saying he was working on a social problem. From what I’ve heard, I’d say he was his own problem…. And here we are at the Sunnyside.”
They stopped a moment and looked at the dust-clad building. “Aptly named,” Nichols said. “It reminds me of an old watchman at the Tribune. He didn’t know night from day except that he could read the racing form by one of them. They called him ‘ Sunny .’”
The Sunnyside had a family entrance. There was a restaurant at the back of the tavern, and the smell of onions all through it. It was deserted when they entered, the oilclothed tables like so many mushrooms at the rear of the room. On the backbar mirror, the words ACCORDIONIST SATURDAY NIGHT were waxed. “We must remember that,” Nichols said. Where the piano stood at McNamara’s there was a juke box here. When no one came, Nichols took a nickel from his pocket and went over to it. He got a flying polka. “I’ll bet if I played it blindfold, I’d get the same thing.”
A man came from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron, at the sound of the music. “Yes, gentlemen? That sounds too bad, don’t it? Do you mind if I turn it down?”
“Turn it off. We just wanted to get your attention.”
The proprietor disconnected the machine. “It’s so peaceful in the afternoon. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like milk,” Nichols said. “Whiskey, McGovern?”
“Make it two milks if you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind?” If they had ordered a Stump-lifter, which was also advertised on the bar mirror, the proprietor could not have been more pleasant. “I will get it from the kitchen. I don’t have ice here.”
They watched him amble to the rear of the building, drawing his finger along a table, looking at it, and wiping the dust on his apron. He seemed very tired, but it was probably the way about him
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