toward the office from across the street. When he came in he wore his big grin; he also wore his surplus navy pea jacket and his big woolly tweed cap.
He nodded at me, removed the monstrous cap and bowed with stiff-backed elegance in Ti-lo’s direction.
“Mawrnin’, ma’am,” he said. “I trust the boy here has been takin’ care o’ ye properly durin’ me absence?”
Well, that’s Billy McCorkell for you. You’d think he owned the business instead of being my assistant. He’s the kind of guy who usually gets crocked on Fridays and I rarely see him again until Monday. First I bail him out of the drunk tank and then he helps me bail out a few others. It’s a very silly arrangement, but it works remarkably well since Billy touts the other drunks onto buying their bonds from me.
“Here now, ma’am,” he said sympathetically. “What’s that no good Lew been doin’ to ye?”
And without another word he walked over and began dusting the bits of firecracker paper off her sky blue nylon sweater. He was very careful to brush only at her shoulders. Also, he was careful not to breathe on her because one sniff of his breath would have dropped her like a pole-axed steer.
I let him have his fun and when he finished I introduced them.
“Her fiancé’s in the lock-up,” I added, “and I want you to get him out.”
I handed him the necessary papers which I’d filled in and twenty-five dollars, which I removed from my billfold.
“The gentleman’s name is Felix Ortega Pia,” I said. “He’s in on a 4130.”
“I’m on me way,” Billy said.
He tugged his woolly cap down around his ears, limped toward the doorway and then halted.
“Speakin’ o’ the lock-up,” he said, “I didn’t get around to tellin’ you o’ the excitement. Some fella got himself shot this mawrnin’. And him behind bars, he was.”
“Well, fancy that,” I said, keeping my face straight. “I trust you found plenty of loose beer-money in his pants?”
“Shame on ye,” Billy scowled. “I wasn’t even in the same cell with the poor helpless fella. And ye shouldn’t say such things in front of the little lady there. She’ll be thinkin’ I’m a drinkin’ man.”
Ti-lo’s eyes twinkled with sudden mischief.
“Sure an’ ye know I’d niver be thinkin’ that.” Her brogue was twice as thick as his.
Billy whisked his cap off, tossed it gleefully and caught it behind his back. Then he jigged his way across the office, bent near her and cupped a hand around his ear.
“Would ye be repeatin’ that, miss?”
“Faith and St. Patrick’s shillelagh!” she said. “I kin tell by yer foine fair face that ye ain’t had a drop o’ the Irish since Paddy fell in the well.”
Billy whooped and hit me on the jaw with his cap. “Did ye hear ’em, Lew? Did ye hear them angel’s words?”
They volleyed foine’s, niver’s and ye’s back and forth like tennis balls for several enthusiastic minutes and then Billy remembered his mission and apologized for keeping her waiting. He departed with joy spread all over his red cheeks. Ti-lo and I sat without speaking for a moment and watched him as he crossed the street, trying manfully with each step to minimize his limp.
“I think I’ve changed my opinion of you,” she said.
“Now what have I done?” I said, wincing a little.
“You can’t be as bad as I thought,” she said. “Not if you let a wonderful old man like that work for you.”
I wasn’t just surprised. I was pleased, but I tried not to let it show.
“He’s not so old,” I said. “He’s only in his sixties.”
“Does his leg hurt him?” she asked.
“Not any more. The VA took it off below the knee a few years back.”
She drew in her breath softly.
“He’s better off,” I said. “He carried fragments in it for years.”
“From the war?”
I nodded. “World War I. They gassed him, too, but he never complains. He’s pretty proud of his cough. You ought to hear him sometime. After he’s had six or seven beers, he coughs up a storm. Sounds like a dragon with a Model-T caught in its throat.”
We laughed together, sharing a good moment.
We made small talk until we saw Billy coming around the corner of the cop shop across the street.
When he entered the office, his face was serious and his voice subdued.
“Let me talk to ye outside, will ye, Lew?”
We excused ourselves and went out on the sidewalk.
“It’s pretty terrible,” Billy whispered. “It’s him that got shot, that Felix fella.”
“Her boy friend?” I whispered. “Are you sure?”
“Sure an’ I’m sure!” He looked sadly toward the doorway. “It’s ye who’ll have to tell th’ poor thing, Lew. Her little Felix fella is as dead as th’ poor clay itself.”
Billy crossed himself and hung his head.
Unfortunately he never quite learned the art of whispering. His rough voice carried inside the office and I knew, by the crashing sound, that she had heard.
When we dashed inside, she was lying flat on the floor again.
CHAPTER III
ALL WE HAD to revive her with was a can of warm beer. I propped her head against the divan’s armrest and forced a little into her mouth. She swallowed pretty well for a moment, then she gasped and came up fighting, blinking her eyes rapidly.
I stepped back so she couldn’t swing at me and pointed at her feet.
“They’re okay,” I said. “Look.”
She looked at her blue shoes, but this time they weren’t important. She covered her face, weeping into her hands so quietly she could scarcely be heard.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m very sorry you had to hear it that way.”
“ ’Tis I should apologize,” Billy added. “I kin no more whisper than a cat kin fly.”
I gave her my handkerchief and she dried her eyes.
“I’m all right,” she said, swallowing.
None of us spoke for a minute or so. She dug into her tiny purse to find her lipstick.
