“Tu m’emmerdes tu sais avec tes manières;” Congo aimed a jet of saliva at the spittoon in the corner of the bar and turned back frowning into the inside room.
“Hay dere sit down Congo; Barney’s goin to sing de Bastard King of England.”
Emile jumped on a streetcar and rode uptown. At Eighteenth Street he got off and walked west to Eighth Avenue. Two doors from the corner was a small store. Over one window was Confiserie, over the other Delicatessen. In the middle of the glass door white enamel letters read Emile Rigaud, High Class Table Dainties. Emile went in. The bell jangled on the door. A dark stout woman with black hairs over the corners of her mouth was drowsing behind the counter. Emile took off his hat. “Bonsoir Madame Rigaud.” She looked up with a start, then showed two dimples in a profound smile.
“Tieng c’est comma ça qu’ong oublie ses ami-es,” she said in a booming Bordelais voice. “Here’s a week that I say to myself, Monsieur Loustec is forgetting his friends.”
“I never have any time any more.”
“Lots of work, lots of money, heing?” When she laughed her shoulders shook and the big breasts under the tight blue bodice.
Emile screwed up one eye. “Might be worse.... But I’m sick of waiting.... It’s so tiring; nobody regards a waiter.”
“You are a man of ambition, Monsieur Loustec.”
“Que voulez vous?” He blushed, and said timidly “My name’s Emile.”
Mme. Rigaud rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “That was my dead husband’s name. I’m used to that name.” She sighed heavily.