James Cain: The Magician's Wife

Around noon of a bright spring day, on Bay Street in Channel City, Maryland, a man strode toward a restaurant as though he owned it and everything in it. It was a friendly-looking place, of brick painted white, in the quasi-colonial style that bends a knee toward elegance while retaining the common touch, like the bubbles in Welk champagne. Its name, from its columned entrance, was The Portico, and this was also the name of its twenty-two replicas, forming a chain, in Maryland, Delaware, and Virginia. But if the place was somewhat folksy, the man wasn’t folksy at all. In every outward aspect he was definitely of that aggressive American breed, the business executive. He was tall, lanky, and gracefully formed, if a bit thick in the shoulders and heavy as to chin, with blue, somewhat expressionless eyes. He wore gray slacks, lounge coat in subdued gray checks, blue shirt, garnet tie, and brown shoes, rather dark. His blond hair, which glinted in the sunlight, may have been the reason he wore no hat. All in all, he had his share of good looks and was certainly not unaware of it as he crunched up the gravel walk that led from the parking lot. But, allowing for strut, the habit of masterful posing, the manner of command, he looked purposeful, as though he had more on his mind than himself, the histrionics of his kind, or lunch.

He skipped onto the portico and pushed through the front door, finding himself in a foyer with a counter at one side, a cashier’s desk at the other, and a dining room beyond, fenced off by a rail with a gate in it. He strode to the rail, nodding to the cashier as he passed, and stood a few moments scanning the dining room for someone to come and seat him. Several girls were nearby, but his eye lingered on one a few feet away, who stood with a knot of waitresses, apparently giving them instructions of some kind. She was indeed something to see, her small, trim figure nicely set off by her dark blue hostess uniform, her skin strawberry and cream, her hair dark, her eyes black and very large. In a moment, at one of the waitresses’ gestures, she looked up and saw the man. Coming over, she opened the gate with more poise than most Portico girls have, smiled, and led him to a table — a pleasant one, next to the big picture window. His eyes continued to follow her as she stepped toward another hostess, took a menu from her, brought it and handed it to him. He thanked her, then suddenly blurted out: “I know most of the girls here, but I don’t seem to place you, and if I’d seen you, I think I’d remember you. In fact, I’m sure of it. Are you new?”

“Not really,” she told him. “I’ve been with the chain some time, but I move from place to place — though of course wherever I am I help out on the floor. I’m the so-called charm school that Portico has. I’m kind of a den mother to the girls. I teach them how to walk, how to talk, how not to walk, and most importantly, how not to talk.”

“Oh — and how they love you, I bet.”

He was ironical, but she assured him: “They didn’t at first until they saw how my system helps with the problem customer, and began thinking things over. Don’t worry, they like me fine.”

“Meaning the stingy customer?”

“He could very well be the one.”

“And how do you handle him?”

“Oh — get his name, for one thing.”

“Oh, yeah! Making him feel—?”

“Big. Loved. And — what have you.”

“Liberal as to tips?”

“The girls think it helps.”

“Of course,” he said gravely, “this doesn’t really concern me, but just to string things out, keep you there pressing your stomach against that chair — a very cute stomach, that I have to say — suppose he won’t say what his name is.”

“ Say? ” she exclaimed. “You think we’d ask him?”

“Well — it’s one way to find out.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded, “but definitely unsmart. Why, it would take all the fun out. He wouldn’t feel big any more. The whole point is that when he’s called by name, he feels he’s so important that people know what it is. Why, I’m surprised at you.”

She was the least bit flirty and made no move to go. “Then,” he asked, “how do you get his name?”

“In — various ways.”

“O.K., I’m the guy known as tight. I’ll hold the stop watch on you — let’s see you get my name. I’ll time you how long you take.”

“Perhaps I already have, Mr. Lockwood.”

His astonished stare delighted her, so she smiled, and her round, pretty face showed unmistakable guile. “Surprised?” she asked.

“I’m utterly baffled.”

He wanted to know how she did it, in view of the fact that “you haven’t been out of my sight since I came in this place,” but all she would tell him was: “Where there’s a will, there’s a how.” Suddenly he asked: “So O.K., what’s your name?”

“Sally.”

“Come on, give. Sally what?”

“Why — Sally Alexis, if it matters.”

“I — think I’m falling for Sally Alexis.”

“What are you going to have?”

She motioned to the menu, bringing him back to everyday things. He opened it, studied it briefly, and said: “I’ll have the corned beef, cabbage, and spud.”

“It’s very good,” she assured him, “a new dish they just put out today — but already we’re getting reports, quite favorable. I’ll have the girl put in your order.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind.”

That was Mr. Bill Jackson, the manager, who strode up as she turned away, stopped her, spun her around, and held her. “Sally,” he went on, “you’re serving this order yourself, and then you’re standing by — to take notes for one of your neat reports. This is Mr. Clay Lockwood, of Grant’s, which sold us the corned beef, and he’s here to check on it for them — and perhaps make some suggestions for us. You write down what he says. Until he goes, you have no other duties.”

She stared at Clay, then headed for the kitchen.

“O.K.,” said Mr. Jackson, slipping into the other chair, “I’ll be the one to say it: Clay, you’ve got a hit. It’s the biggest thing we’ve had since we put in the deep-fry crab cakes two years ago next month — but bigger, really, because they’re a hot-weather dish, where this is all the year round. And why is it going so big? Because it’s handled the way you said, without some front-office genius getting in it, with the one idea to louse it. We’re doing it your way, so when they do come up with it, what it takes to mess it up, don’t say I didn’t give you credit.”

“Bill, this is nice to hear.”

He seemed greatly moved and began reciting the snags the dish had involved, Mr. Jackson interrupting: “Boy, you don’t have to tell me.”

“Could I have a look in the kitchen, to see how they’re doing it there?”

“We’ll both have a look, Clay.”

Threading their way between the tables, past guests having lunch, they passed through a swing door marked IN and entered a shiny, maple-and-metal kitchen. It had a counter down the middle, on one side of which were a chef, checker, cooks, and dishwashers, and on the other a line of girls, Sally standing with them, waiting for their orders. But things seemed to be stalled, with tension in the air, and Clay spotted the reason. Holding his watch on a pan of boiling water, with six to eight packets in it that looked like legal-size envelopes made of aluminum foil, he suddenly addressed the chef. “Earl, what’s the big idea,” he asked, “holding things up this way? Your instructions say one minute — they’re printed right on the package. I’ve been standing here two, and there’s no good reason for it. It’s a warm-up, that’s all. This meat is precooked — it’s ready except for heating. You don’t have to boil it this way.”