What with buying extra booze, taxi-cabbing everybody all over
Hell's Half Acre, eating in the "Cert Room," which was named for
some famous Spanish painter, or paperhanger, and tipping hundreds
(it seemed), I thought I might run low in cash. So I slipped
quietly around to a room labeled "Credit Manager," walked in and
saw this woman sitting in the big chair. She saw the surprise on
my face, smiled and said: "I am the Credit Manager. Are you
looking for me?"
"My name is Durham. I live in Indiana, and they're taking it away
from me around here faster than they do back home on Thursdays at
the main gate of our County Fair. I may run out of money, and I
want to know how I'd go about getting a draft cashed, if I had
to."
"May I see the draft?"
I pulled out the bill fold, fetched out a $50 draft, and sure
enough there it was in big letters, RUSSELLVILLE BANK, payable to
me.
She looked at it, then at me quizzically, and said: "Are you the
father of Joan Durham, the Feature Writer who was married
yesterday over at St. Bartholomew's. I read her AP features."
"Yes mam," I said proudly, "I'm her Pap."
"Have you any sort of identification card, letter, driver's
license, or something to identify you?"
"Yes, mam.
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