Sallys in the Alley | Page 6

know as I like the way he's lookin' at me."

"The teeth are bigger at closer range," Doan said. "Would you like a
demonstration?"
"No," said the butcher quickly. "Now listen, chum. I don't want no
trouble with you or that gargoyle, but I can't sell you that steak. It was
ordered three weeks ago by an old customer of mine. She's a very, very
special customer. She's Susan Sally, the movie gal."
"She doesn't need a steak. She's too fat now."
"Fat?" the butcher echoed, stunned. "Susan Sally? Say listen, she
comes in here all the time in nothing but shorts and a bandanna. I mean,
short shorts and a bandanna the size of a cocktail napkin. She ain't fat."
"She will be if she eats too many steaks. You wouldn't want that to
happen, would you?"
"I should say not," said the butcher.
"Give me the steak and save the risk. Look at my car now."
"Hey!" said the butcher, alarmed. "He can't get through that 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