Sallys in the Alley | Page 6

window, can he?"
"He probably could if I called to him. Shall I? The only trouble is that I can't control him. He runs around snapping and gnashing, and he's awfully careless about what he gnashes on."
"You're threatening me," said the butcher. "That's what you're doing."
"I'm glad you finally found it out. Are you going to give me a steak out of the icebox or off of you?"
"It's a hell of a fine thing, that's all I got to say. A man can't even do business any more without being submitted to terrorism."
The butcher went stamping down the counter and opened the heavy icebox door and went inside. He came out again carrying a big, rich red steak reverently in front of him. He plopped it down on the scales, and the dial swung just short of the three-pound mark.
"Okay," said Doan. "Now put it through the grinder."
"Grinder!" the butcher repeated, horrified. "This steak? This steak here?"
"Yes."
"Oh-oh," the butcher mumbled. He ran the steak through the grinder, turning his head away to keep from witnessing its desecration. He wrapped up the results in oiled paper and slapped it on the counter. "There! Now I hope you're happy!"
"Sure," said Doan. "I see you've got your ceiling prices pasted up over there."
"Yeah. And we follow 'em, too."
"That's fine. I notice that the ceiling price on dog meat is twelve cents a pound. This wasn't quite three pounds, but I'll be generous about it. Here's thirty-six cents and a penny for tax, and you won't need my rationing book because dog meat and scraps don't come under the rules."
The butcher's face was very pale. "Chum," he whispered, "you can't do this to me."
"Thanks," said Doan. "Good-by." He headed for the car.
The butcher leaned over the counter and pointed a long, accusing arm. "Oh, you wait! If you ever meet up with Susan Sally... And I'm gonna tell her you said she was fat! You're gonna be a sad man if she ever lays hold of you!"
Doan ignored him. He got in the car and let Carstairs sniff the meat and then drove down Sunset until he located an open-air, car-service restaurant. He drove the Cadillac in under the wooden, pagodalike awning and parked. Grunting and groaning with the effort, he leaned over the back of the seat and opened one of his bags and took out a square cardboard carton.
A very trim and trig little girl in red pants and a red jacket and a high bussar's hat with a red plume on it came up and slapped a card on the windshield and leaned in the window, all glistening teeth and lipstick and beaded eyelashes.
"Good afternoon, sir! And what will--" Her smile went away and left her face as blank as a freshly whitewashed wall. "What's that in the back seat?"
"Just a dog," Doan said. "A poor, harmless, little puppy that loves women and children."
"He looks awful--hungry."
"That's because he is. And speaking of that..."
Doan unwrapped the meat and held it up for her to see, rich and luscious in its nest of pink oiled paper.
"Gee!" said the waitress. "Meat!"
"Right," Doan agreed complacently. "Now I'll tell you what I want you to do with it. Take it into your kitchen and put it in a pan and put the pan in the oven. Warm the meat. Don't cook it or sear it. Just warm it. Then take it out and put it in a big bowl--a clean one. Follow me?"
The waitress nodded doubtfully. "Yes."
Doan held up the cardboard carton. "Know what these are?"
She nodded again. "Sure. Those are special-extra-fancy English tea biscuits. I've seen them in some of the real high-priced markets in Beverly Hills."
"Okay. After you get the meat warm, take the biscuits out of the box, crumple them carefully, and stir them into the meat. Mix them up nice and smoothly. Got it?"
The waitress had backed a step away from the window. "Yes," she said warily.
Doan took a small green bottle from his pocket. "When you get through mixing the biscuits, pour three drops of this in the bowl and mix that in, too. It's concentrated cod liver oil. Bring a door tray back when you come, Carstairs refuses to eat off the floor. He knows it makes him look like a giraffe taking a drink."
"Is this for the dog?" the waitress asked incredulously.
"Sure."
"Oh!" she gasped, relieved. "I thought it was for you!"
"I wish it was," said Doan, "But if I tried to eat it, you'd hear an awful lot of hell-raising around here. You haven't got anything in the meat line you could put in a sandwich for me, have you?"
"Oh, no."
"Okay. Bring me six melted cheese sandwiches with chopped nuts spread on them and a quart of beer and three glasses of water."
"A quart of beer and three glasses of