George picked up the coin, looked at it, spun it in his thick fingers, and flipped it into the till. Walcott followed every movement with painful intensity. He screwed round a little in his chair, so that he couldn’t see the others drinking. He put his hands over his eyes.
Freedman turned his red fat face and winked at Wilson. He said, “It’s only the Kikes that have the dough.”
George said ponderously, “Yeah, you’re right, mister.”
“Sure I’m right,” Freedman said, sipping his corn whisky. “Take a look at Abe Goldberg, ain’t he got most of the dough in the town?”
Walcott turned his head. His pale eyes lit up. “That guy’s stinking with it,” he said. “Hell of a lot of good it does him, too.”
Wilson shrugged. “His fat cow sews up his pockets,” he said. “He don’t drink, he don’t smoke, he don’t do nothin’.”
Freedman winked again. “You’re wrong there,” he said. “But what he does do don’t cost him anything.” They laughed.
The three-quarter swing doors of the saloon pushed open, and a girl came in. She stood hesitating in the patch of sunlight at the door, trying to see in the dimness of the room. Then she came over to the bar.
George said, “’Morning, Miss Hogan, how’s your Pa?”
The girl said, “Gimme a pint of Scotch.”