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Page 69
"Huh! yes, of course not!" said Bean, but the flapper had gone.
Back at the typewriter he tried to collect his memories of her message:
sideboard with darling feet of some kind, no fumed oak, perhaps--brass
andirons, curtains for his den. He couldn't recall what she had said
about those. Maybe it would come to him. He wished he had told her that
he already had a few good etchings. And the car! That was plain in his
mind--little old last year's thing--at that shop around the corner. Did
one say "garrash" or "garrige"? He heard both.
Anyway, he owned a motor car; you couldn't get around that. Maybe Bulger
wouldn't open his eyes if he knew it. Bulger was an authority on cars,
and spoke in detail of their strange insides with the aplomb of a man
who has dissected them for years. He had violent disputes with the
second bookkeeper about which was the best car for the money. The
bookkeeper actually owned a motorcycle, or would, after he had paid five
dollars a month a few more times, but Bulger would never allow this
minor contrivance to be brought into their discussions. Bulger was
intolerant of anything costing under five thou'--eat you up with
repairs.
Bean longed to approach Bulger and say:
"Some dame, that! Just sent me a little old last year's car."
But he knew this would never do. Bulger would not only tell him why the
car was of an inferior make, but he would want to borrow it to take a
certain party, or maybe the gang, out for a spin, and get everybody
killed or arrested or something. Bulger dressed fearlessly; no one with
eyes could deny that; but he was tactless. Better keep that car under
cover.
At seven-thirty that evening, with Nap on a leash, he strolled into the
garage. He carried the yellow stick and the gloves, and he was prepared
to make all sorts of a nasty row if they tried to tell him the car
wasn't there, or so much as hinted that he might not be the right party.
He knew how to deal with those automobile sharks.
"I believe you have a car here for me--Mr. Bean," he said briskly. It
was the first time in all his life that he had spoken of himself as "Mr.
Bean!" He threw his shoulders back even farther when he had achieved it.
The soiled person whom he addressed merely called to another soiled
person who, near at hand, seemed to be beating an unruly car into
subjection. The second person merely ducked his head backward and over
his right shoulder.
"All right, all right!" said the first person, and then to Bean, "All
right, all right!"
The car was before him, a large, an alarming car--and red! It was as
red as the unworn cravat. Good thing it was getting dark. He wouldn't
like to go out in the daytime in one as red as that, not at first.
He ran his eyes critically over it, trying to look disappointed.
"Good shape?" he demanded.
"How about it, Joe? She all right?"
Joe perceptibly stopped hammering.
"Garrumph-rumph!" he seemed to say.
"Well?" said the first person, eying Bean as if this explained
everything.
"Take a little spin," said Bean.
"Paul!"
Paul issued from the office, a shock-headed, slouching youth in extreme
neglig�e, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He yawned
without dislodging the cigarette.
"Gentleman wants to g'wout." Paul vanished.
Nap had already leaped to a seat in the red car. He had learned what
those things were for.
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