He Won't Need it Now

     Sam climbed to his feet. He looked worried. “Ain't possible, soldier,” he said. “I've got to get back and put in some more sweat. Come over in the morning, will you? Alice's goin' to be sore about this.”

     Duffy nodded his head. “I'll be over. Tell Alice not to lose any sleep. I'll get somethin'.”

     “Sure.” Sam clouted Duffy on the back, nearly jerking the shaker out of his hands. “Keep 'em bouncin', brother, keep 'em bouncin'.”

     When he had gone, Duffy finished the last of the Bacardis and, feeling pleasantly drunk, sat back and considered his future with optimism. He glanced over to the far end of the room at the fat man who had been watching him all the evening. You can't go two hours or so with someone's eyes shifting all over your face without feeling it, and Duffy had been vaguely aware of intense scrutiny ever since the fat man had come in.

     Feeling more interested now, he wondered indifferently who he was. In the past, he might have been unusually striking, but he had let himself go and he was running to fat in a big way. He had broad lumpy shoulders that might easily have carried a nasty punch, but he was getting thick in the middle, which told Duffy all he wanted to know. His face was big and fat, and his mouth turned down at the corners, giving him a dismal sneering look. His little eyes were restless and shifted about like black beads.

     Duffy guessed he was on the wrong side of forty-five. He had dough all right. Not only were his clothes good, but they were cut right and he wore them right. There was an air of confidence that money brings; the look that tells you that the bank balance's fat.

     Getting to his feet, Duffy began an unsteady journey to the restaurant, and he purposely made a detour so that he would pass the fat man's table. As he reached the table, the fat man climbed to his feet and stood waiting. Duffy stopped and looked him over. At close quarters he liked him a lot less.

     “I'm Daniel Morgan,” the fat man said as if he were saying Rockefeller instead of Morgan. “Mr. Duffy?”

     Duffy squinted at him, astonished. “Sure,” he said.

     “Mr. Duffy, I want to talk to you. Will you dine with me?”

     Duffy raised his eyebrows. He told himself that he wasn't spending his money, so he said that it was okay with him. Morgan led the way into the restaurant, and Duffy thought his guess that Morgan's wallet was well lined was a good one. He could tell by the way the waiters fawned on the fat man. He got a table in a corner, pretty secluded, and sat down. Duffy took a chair opposite him. Three waiters came bowing round them, and the wine waiter hovered outside the fringe. The maitre d'hotel came up smoothly as if he had been drawn along on wheels, and the other wops grouped themselves in a line at the back. Royal stuff, but even then Morgan wasn't satisfied. He wanted the chef. Well, of course he got the chef.

     You either get a big kick out of tossing your weight around like that, or else you feel all hands and feet. Duffy felt all hands and feet.

     The chef and Morgan got into a huddle with the bill of fare. He didn't ask Duffy what he wanted and Duffy was glad of that. He just kept talking in his deep harsh voice and the chef squeaked back at him in broken English until they had put a meal together that seemed to satisfy him. After they had done that, they got some elbow-room. Then Morgan remembered that Duffy was sitting opposite him.

     “You'll excuse me for not asking you what you would like, but on these occasions I feel the choice of a good meal lies in the hands of the chef rather than in the hands of the diner. Consult the chef and you put him on his mettle. I think you will be satisfied.”

     Duffy shrugged. He began to want another drink.

     “I should like to confirm a few details,” Morgan went on; “forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but my questions will eventually be to your advantage, so I must ask for your patience.”

     This long-winded stuff gave Duffy a pain, but he hadn't had oysters for a couple of years, so he let himself go with them.

     Morgan didn't seem to expect an answer, but went straight on. “I believe you resigned from the Tribune this afternoon?” he said casually.

     Duffy grinned. “You're partly right there,” he said. “I didn't resign, I was tossed out.”

     “Arkwright is a difficult man.”

     This bird seemed to know all the answers. Duffy laid his oyster-fork on the plate and looked regretfully at the glistening shells. “So what?” he said.

     “You may find it difficult to get a job again.”

     The soup and the sherry turned up then. Duffy looked at the sherry and then at Morgan. Morgan got it all right. “Perhaps you would prefer Scotch?” he asked.

     “These sissy drinks upset my guts,” Duffy said, apologetically.

     The wine waiter was called and a bottle of Scotch materialized. Duffy felt he could cope with anything with that at his elbow. He gave himself a generous shot and dived into his soup again.

     “As I was saying...” Morgan began.