I aint running no funeral parlor.”
The orchestra played Nearer, My God, To Thee.
The audience grew quiet.
A woman in a red dress came in the door unsteadily.
“Whoopee,” she said, “so long, Red.
He’ll be in hell before I could even reach Little Rock.”
“Shhhhhhhh!” voices said.
She fell into a seat.
Gene came to the door and stood there until the music stopped.
“Come on, folks,” he shouted, jerking his arms in a fat, sweeping gesture, “come and get it.
It’s on Gene.
I dont want a dry throat or eye in this place in ten minutes.”
Those at the rear moved toward the door.
The proprietor sprang to his feet and jerked his hand at the orchestra.
The cornetist rose and played In That Haven of Rest in solo, but the crowd at the back of the room continued to dwindle through the door where Gene stood waving his arm.
Two middle-aged women were weeping quietly beneath flowered hats.
They surged and clamored about the diminishing bowl.
From the dance hall came the rich blare of the cornet.
Two soiled young men worked their way toward the table, shouting
“Gangway.
Gangway” monotonously, carrying suit cases.
They opened them and set bottles on the table, while Gene, frankly weeping now, opened them and decanted them into the bowl.
“Come up, folks.
I couldn’t a loved him no better if he’d a been my own son,” he shouted hoarsely, dragging his sleeve across his face.
A waiter edged up to the table with a bowl of ice and fruit and went to put them into the punch bowl.
“What the hell you doing?” Gene said, “putting that slop in there?
Get to hell away from here.”
“Ra-a-a-a-y-y-y-y!” they shouted, clashing their cups, drowning all save the pantomime as Gene knocked the bowl of fruit from the waiter’s hand and fell again to dumping raw liquor into the bowl, sploshing it into and upon the extended hands and cups.
The two youths opened bottles furiously.
As though swept there upon a brassy blare of music the proprietor appeared in the door, his face harried, waving his arms.
“Come on, folks,” he shouted, “let’s finish the musical program.
It’s costing us money.”
“Hell with it,” they shouted.
“Costing who money?”
“Who cares?”
“Costing who money?”
“Who begrudges it?
I’ll pay it.
By God, I’ll buy him two funerals.”
“Folks!
Folks!” the proprietor shouted.
“Dont you realise there’s a bier in that room?”
“Costing who money?”
“Beer?” Gene said.
“Beer?” he said in a broken voice.
“Is anybody here trying to insult me by—”
“He begrudges Red the money.”
“Who does?”
“Joe does, the cheap son of a bitch.” “Is somebody here trying to insult me—”
“Let’s move the funeral, then.