THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
looked at the clock. It was quarter past eleven. "I don't know," she said. "I'm off at five."
"Some job, huh? Well, I never came into these wax-works before."
"Thought not. I've a friend who might do it in less time."
"What's her name and address?"
"It's a he-friend. He works out at Bronx; manicures the elephants in the spring."
"Zowie! Some smoke to that one, believe me! What league are you pitching for? The truth is, duchess, I'm a journeyman plumber by birth, and an uncle of mine has just left me a million silver washers. I'm about to enter the gay life, and I want to do it with pink nails."
"Going to the funeral?" It was all in a day's work: Isobel de Montclair for the swells and fresh guys and Nellie Casey for the stevedores.
"Nope. The funeral has went. Now, laying aside the hook, can you do the job with these hams, Virginia style?"
"If it was anybody but you, Aloysius, I might say nay. But you'll have to buy me a new set of tools."
"You're on."
The girl stuck her gum under the marble top of the little table and fell to work. It was a job, but she knew her business. William gave her half a dollar, the first sizable tip he had ever laid down. The girl looked at the coin, then up at William, puzzled. The red hair, the freckles, and the celluloid collar did not dovetail with such prodigality.
27
