“We’re interested in Mr. Pennykorn’s empty store building near the Lattimer meat market. Can you tell us what it rents for?”
“One hundred and twenty-five a month,” snapped the cashier, a bit peeved, I guess, that we hadn’t taken up the business with him in the first place.
“One hundred and twenty-five dollars?” says Poppy, drawing a deep breath.
The man nodded curtly, after which the president and general manager of Tutter’s leading Pickle Parlor gave a sort of wilted laugh.
“I guess, Mr. Blynn, that’s too steep for us.”
A stoop-shouldered old man had come into the bank. And I noticed now that he was standing where he could listen. His face looked peculiarly familiar to me. But for the life of me I couldn’t place him at the moment.
“Are you planning on starting up a store?” the cashier thawed out under the warmth of his own curiosity.
“A Pickle Parlor,” says Poppy, who felt, I guess, that the sooner he started advertising the new business the better.
“A what?” the bank clerk stared.
“A Pickle Parlor.”