“Says who?”
“The register.”
“So?”
“Sing me a song, Fred. Not no ‘Rosie.’ Not no ‘Daisy.’ And specially not no ‘Annie.’ Something nice. Sing me a song about Paris.”
“Jake, have you become refined?”
“Them hop waltzes, they’re beer music. But a nice song about Paris, that puts people in mind to drink B&B and other imported stock that shows a profit when you move it, it’s OK.”
“Then that clears it up.”
But before Fred could sing about Paris, Pokey was back. When the fat man lifter her up, she said: “Mommy says if you want me to, I can dance once encore. And Fred, play ‘Little Glow-Worm.”
Pokey got a terrific hand that time. When she had returned to the booth, Jake made a beautiful drink of lemonade, sliced orange, cherries, and sugared mint, and carried it to Pokey. When he came back he said to Fred: “Mommy’s no good if you ask me.”
“Nobody was asking you.”
“She’s still no good.”
“She’s good-looking, though, if you ask me.”
“If you like a good-looking barfly.”
“Aren’t barflies OK? You knowing our clientele?”
“Why not?”
In response to a blonde girl’s request, Fred sang “Night and Day,” then said reflectively: “I don’t say a lot of them wouldn’t look good on a rock pile, but they’re the only clientele we got, so it’s up to us to be broad-minded.”
“Why ain’t that kid home in bed?”
“Maybe she’s not sleepy.”
“At ten o’clock at night she’s not sleepy and she’s only four years old? You know when they get tucked in at her age? She ought to been in bed with all the prayers said and doll-baby’s night diaper put on and the light put out three hours ago.”
“I give up. What’s the answer?”
“Mommy.”
“Well, she likes booze. Don’t we all?”
“And that’s not all she likes.”
“Quiz Kid, what is it now?”
“Fred, it’s the twentieth century and there’s a war going on and, like you say, with this here clientele we got to be broad-minded, but — a married woman out with a soldier cuts up the same any time, any place, and any war, and when a little kid gets mixed up in it it’s not pretty.”
“You got this woman all wrong.”
“No, I haven’t”
“You thinking about Willie?”
“I don’t think much of Willie either, so far as that goes. Every night they come in here with Pokey, and OK, you say he don’t know better. Well if not, why not? Even them rats out back don’t bring little Sissie Rat in here. Speaking of her, when she’s in here with a soldier the first night Willie don’t show, that’s all I want to know.”
“You’re doing great, except for one thing.”
“What?”
“Kind of changes things around.”
Jake stared at the man who now held Pokey in his lap, then said incredulously to Fred: “You mean that good-looking sergeant is the one she’s married to and that other pie-faced runt is her... sweetie?”
“Talk louder, so they can all hear.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Why me? She’s the one.”
After Fred had sung “Lady Be Good,” the soldier came over. He was a big, smiling man, with jet-black curly hair and a face burned the color of dark mahogany. He said to Fred: “You like my daughter, I notice.”
“Your daughter is my one and only.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Shoot.”
“Take care of her a little while, will you?
At Fred’s puzzled look, he made a sheepish face. “So I can see my wife. Since I went away she only keeps a small apartment and—”
“I got it. It’s OK.”
The soldier had been holding his hat in his hand. From it a little trickle of sand ran out on the bar. He laughed, said: “No trouble to see where I’ve been. I bumped into them on their way to the beach, so of course we couldn’t disappoint Pokey. But, being as you’re taking her for a little while, it’s kind of a nice wife I’ve got, so—”
Smiling, he went back to the booth. Jake, who had been nearby, said: “That’s what he thinks.”
“Look: He says she’s nice and he don’t think. He knows.”
“He’s kidding hisself. You see what I see?”
“I don’t see a thing.”
“Neither does he, but I do. Fred, a wife that’s wig-wagging for more Scotch in the last two hours of twenty-four-hour leave, and he hasn’t even been home yet — she’s not nice.”
Jake served the Scotch, went back to his station beside the piano. The soldier looked at the drink in surprise. Then his face darkened. Then he started to say something, but looked at the child in his arms and checked himself. Then he got up, came over with Pokey, kissed her, nodded to Fred, and set her on the bar. Then he went back to the booth, started somewhat grimly to talk.
Pokey, her face pasty by now, her stance uncertain, her brown eyes yellow from lack of sleep, blinked uncertainly, then spread her skirts as though to dance. Fred struck a chord, but Jake lifter her down, said: “Fred, get me that cushion.”
“That—?”
“Cushion. From the booth. On the end.”
The cushion, when Fred came back with it, was leather, but stuffed full and soft. Jake put it under the bar, first clearing out several cases of bottles. Then he went out the door with “his” and “her” pictures on it and came back with his street coat. Then he beckoned Pokey, who was watching him, as was everybody except the couple in the booth. Fred said: “You going to put her there?”
“I am.”
“One awful place.”
“You know a better one?”
“What’s the matter with the back room?”
“Was you ever put in a back room?”
“Anyway it’s quiet.”
“Quiet she don’t have to have. Love, she does. Listen, she ain’t no rag doll. She’s a little thing four years old that gets scared and feels lonesome and wants to cry and so would you if you wasn’t no bigger than she is that noise you et paid for, she’ll sleep right through it, so keep right on and don’t feel no embarrassment on her account if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“Don’t she get a pillow?”
“Pillows is out of date.”
“Just asking.”
“Now you know.”
Jake stooped down, put his arm around Pokey, loosened her dress, took the ribbon from around her hair, tied it to a shoulder strap so it wouldn’t get lost. Then he picker her up, put her on the little bed, spread his coat over her. It just covered her feet. Behind him, a light over the register glared down in her eyes. He turned it off. Pokey stared sleepily at Fred, said: “Play ‘Little Glow-Worm.’”
Fred played it softly and a woman at the end of the bar, who could see Pokey from where she sat, sang it. But before the little glow-worm had given its first glimmer, Pokey was asleep. The soldier in the booth stared into his glass and occasionally said something in a short, jerky way, but the woman made no move to go.
For the next hour, the place was a blue twilight, with Fred’s voice hovering over it in songs that didn’t seem to end but rather to trail off into pure sadness. Then the spell was broken by the jangle of the phone. Jake answered, but the woman in the booth was there almost as soon as he was and took the receiver from him with eager hands and spoke in low, indistinguishable tones. The soldier came over, had a look at Pokey when Fred pointed her out, said: “Gee, that’s sweet of you. I guess she’ll be all right there till my bus leaves. We didn’t go home. My wife’s been expecting this call. From the USO. Sometimes they need her on the late shift and she gave them this number. She had to stand by.”