Torchy As A Pa
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Sewell Ford >> Torchy As A Pa
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"But you made good, did you?" I asks.
"I did as long as Senor Alvarado was around to back me up," says Amby,
"but when he slides down to the city for a week's business trip and
turns me over to that Scotch superintendent of his the going got kind of
rough. Mr. McNutt sends me out with a flivver to buy wool around the
country. Looked easy. Buying things used to be my long suit. I bought a
lot of wool. But I expect some of them low-browed rancheros must have
gypped me good and plenty. Anyway, McNutt threw a fit when he looked
over my bargains. He didn't do a thing but fire me, right off the reel.
Honest, I'd never been fired so impetuous or so enthusiastic. He invites
me to get off the place, which means hiking back to Buenos Ayres.
"Well, what can you do with a Scotchman who's mad clear to the marrow?
Especially a rough actor like McNutt. I'd already done a mile from the
village when along comes 'Chita in her roadster. You know, old man
Alvarado's only daughter. Some senorita, 'Chita is. You should have seen
those black eyes of her's flash when she heard how abrupt I'd been
turned loose. 'We shall go straight to papa,' says she. 'He will tell
Senor McNutt where he gets off.' She meant well, 'Chita. But I had my
doubts. I knew that Alvarado was pretty strong for McNutt. I'd heard him
say there wasn't another man in the Argentine who knew more about wool
than McNutt, and if it came to a showdown as to which of us stayed on I
wouldn't have played myself for a look in.
"So while 'Chita is stepping on the gas button and handing out a swell
line of sympathy I begins to hint that there's one particular reason why
I hated to leave El Placida. Oh, we'd played around some before that.
Strictly off stage stuff, though; a little mandolin practice in the
moonlight, a few fox trot lessons, and so on. But before the old man I'd
let on to be skirt shy. It went big with him, I noticed. But there in
the car I decides that the only way to keep in touch with the family
check book is to make a quick bid for 'Chita. So I cut loose with the
best Romeo lines I had in stock. Twice 'Chita nearly ditched us, but
finally she pulls up alongside the road and gives her whole attention
to what I had to say. Oh, they know how to take it, those sonoritas.
She'd had a whole string of young rancheros and caballeros dangling
around her for the past two years. But somehow I must have had a lucky
break, for the next thing I knew we'd gone to a fond clinch and it was
all over except the visit to the church."
"And you married the job, eh?" says I. "Fast work, I'll say. But how did
papa take it?"
"Well, for the first ten minutes," says Ambrose, "I thought I'd been
caught out in a thunderstorm while an earthquake and a sham battle were
being staged. But pretty soon he got himself soothed down, patted me on
the shoulder and remarked that maybe I'd do as well as some others that
he hadn't much use for. And while he didn't make McNutt eat his words or
anything like that, he gave him to understand that a perfectly good
son-in-law wasn't expected to be such a shark at shopping for wool.
Anyway, we've been getting along fairly well ever since. You have to, in
a place like El Placida."
"And this is a little postponed honeymoon tour, eh?" I suggests.
"Hardly," says Ambrose. "I hope it's a clean break away from the
continent of South America in general and El Placida in particular."
"Oh!" says I. "Will Senor Alvarado stake you to that?"
"He isn't staking anybody now," says Ambrose. "Uh-huh! Checked out last
winter. Good old scout. Left everything to 'Chita, the whole works. And
I've been ever since then trying to convince her that the one spot worth
living in anywhere on the map is this little old burg with Broadway
running through the middle."
"That ought to be easy," says I.
"Not with a girl who's been brought up to think that Buenos Ayres is the
last word in cities," says Ambrose. "Why, she's already begun to feel
sorry for the bellhops and taxi drivers and salesladies because she's
discovered that not one of 'em knows a word of Spanish. Asks me how all
these people manage to amuse themselves evenings with no opera to go to,
no band playing on the plaza, and so on. See what I'm up against,
Torchy?"
"I get a glimmer," says I.
"That's why I'm glad you are going to tow us around," he goes on,
"instead of Bob Ellins. He's a back number, Bob. Me, too, from having
been out of it all so long. Why, I've only been scouting about a little,
but I can't find any of the old joints."
"Yes, a lot of 'em have been put out of business," says I.
"Must be new ones just as good though," he insists. "The live wires
have to rally around somewhere."
"I don't know about that," says I. "This prohibition has put a crimp
in--"
"Oh, you can't tell me!" breaks in Ambrose. "Maybe it's dimmed the
lights some in Worcester and Toledo and Waukegan, but not in good old
Manhattan. Not much! I know the town too well. Our folks just wouldn't
stand for any of that Sahara bunk. Not for a minute. Might have covered
up a bit--high sign necessary, side entrances only, and all that. But
you can't run New York without joy water. It's here. And so are the gay
lads and lassies who uncork it. We want to mingle with 'em, 'Chita and
yours truly. I want her to see the lights where they're brightest, the
girls where they're gayest. Want to show her how the wheels go 'round.
You get me; eh, Torchy?"
"Sure!" says I.
What was the use wastin' any more breath? Besides, I'd been hearin' a
lot of these young hicks talk big about spots where the lid could be
pried off. Maybe it was so. Ambrose and 'Chita should have a look,
anyway. And I spent the rest of the afternoon interviewin' sporty
acquaintances over the 'phone, gettin' dope on where to hunt for active
capers and poppin' corks. I must say, too, that most of the steers were
a little vague. But, then, you can't tell who's who these days, with so
many ministers givin' slummin' parties and Federal agents so thick.
When I sails around to the Plutoria to collect Amby and wife about 6:30
I finds 'Chita all gussied up like she was expectin' big doings. Quite a
stunner she is, with them high voltage black eyes, and the gold ear
hoops, and in that vivid colored evening gown. And by the sparkle in her
eyes I can guess she's all primed for a reg'lar party.
"How about the old Bonaparte for the eats?" I says to Ambrose.
"Swell!" says he. "I remember giving a little dinner for four there once
when we opened--"
"Yes, I know," says I. "Here's the taxi."
Did look like kind of a jolly bunch, too, down there in the old
dining-room--orchestra jabbin' away, couple of real Jap girls floatin'
around with cigars and cigarettes, and all kinds of glasses on the
tables. But you should have seen Amby's jaw drop when he grabs the wine
list and starts to give an order.
"What the blazes is a grenadine cocktail or--or a pineapple punch?" he
demands.
"By me," says I. "Why not sample some of it?"
Which he does eager. "Bah!" says he. "Call that a cocktail, do they?
Nothing but sweetened water colored up. Here, waiter! Call the chief."
All Ambrose could get out of the head waiter, though, was shoulder
shrugs and regrets. Nothing doing in the real red liquor line. "The
champagne cider iss ver' fine, sir," he adds.
"Huh!" says Ambrose. "Ought to be at four fifty a quart. Well, we'll
take a chance."
Served it in a silver bucket, too. It had the familiar pop, and the
bubbles showed plain in the hollow stemmed glasses, but you could drink
a gallon of it without feelin' inspired to do anything wilder than call
for a life preserver.
The roof garden girl-show that we went to afterwards was a zippy
performance, after it's kind. Also there was a bar in the lobby. Amby
shoved up to that prompt--and came back with two pink lemonades, at 75
cents a throw.
"Well," says I, "ain't there mint on top and a cherry in the bottom?"
"And weak lemonade in between," grumbles Ambrose. "What do they take me
for, a gold fish?"
"We'll try a cabaret next," says I.
We did. They had the place fixed up fancy, too, blue and green toy
balloons floatin' around the ceilin', a peacock in a big gold cage,
tables ranged around the dancin' space, and the trombone artist puttin'
his whole soul into a pumpin' out "The Alcoholic Blues." And you could
order most anything off the menu, from a poulet casserole to a cheese
sandwich. Amby and 'Chita splurged on a cafe parfait and a grape juice
rickey. Other dissipated couples at nearby tables were indulgin' in
canapes of caviar and frosted sarsaparillas. But shortly after midnight
the giddy revellers begun to thin out and the girl waiters got yawny.
"How about a round of strawb'ry ice cream sodas; eh, Amby?" I suggests.
"No," says he, "I'm no high school girl. I've put away so much of that
sweet slush now that I'll be bilious for a week. But say, Torchy, honest
to goodness, is Broadway like this all the time now?"
"No," says I. "They're goin' to have a Y.W.C.A. convention here next
week and I expect that'll stir things up quite a bit."
"Sorry," says Amby, "but I shan't be here."
"No?" says I.
"Pos-i-tively," says Ambrose. "'Chita and I will be on our way back by
that time; back to good old Buenos Ayres, where there's more doing in a
minute than happens the whole length of Broadway in a month. And listen,
old son; when we open a bottle something besides the pop will come out
of it." "Better hurry," says I. "Maybe Pussyfoot Johnson's down there
now monkeying with the constitution."
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