The Washington times. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1902-1939, 1938-06-07

entrance, limo moved to the
should not have to serve him.
The man was typical, he
thought, of the kind Of customers
that Gus would be drawing him a
beer.
Then Gus would get one foot up
onto the waste box and put one
wrinkled elbow out onto the bar,
and for anywhere from fifteen
minutes to an hour, while the man
munched peanuts and pretzels,
they would gas about everything
from labor unions to things widely
known in large capital letters as
LIFE, but, to Tino, as hot air.
Tino elevated his classic profile,
and his hand came up to the black
knitted tie that described SO per
feet an arc between his chin and
the crevice of his starched jacket.
It seemed incredible to him that
the management should tolerate a
man with no appreciation of what
the Blackstone stood for, of what
he, himself, almost, had brought to
perfection.
THE BARS CLIENTELE
A few years previous, he re-
called, the Blackstone had been
one of the least profitable of a
chain of bar-and-grill affairs To-
Gated in a number of the big East
ern cities; its clientele was shabby
and SpaSmodic.
And the fact that it was located
near a railroad terminus seemed
to be a hindrance. rather than an
aid, in attracting the kind Of Gus
toners that went with club-like in
teriors, chaste bar furnishings and
the distinctive oak tables.
But now, Tino congratulated
himself, the Blackstone was Sec
ond to none in New York. The taxi
drivers and careworn commuters
had given way to expensive tans
and well-tailored shoulders, and,
after dinners, tuxedos were the
rule-or the white tie.
And he, Tino Marconi, was re-
sponsible. It was widely admitted
that he was responsible. And yet
they persisted, the management,
in keeping a man who belonged on
Third Avenue, who violated every
rule of distinctive Service-who,
without himself at the helm, would
very soon bring the Blackstone to
the mean level from which he had
rescued it.
He could hear Gus and the one
beer customer talking. The world
series, Gus kids, the customers
troubles. The same old line. A
far cry from the kind Of talk that
went on from a little after 5 until
closing time.
Through the back Of his head.
as it were, Tino could see the
sweat beading the mans thick
nose, the salt from the peanuts
sticking to his plump hand, the
foam settling in his glass; and he
felt the same feeling of discomfort
that he felt when a waiter dropped
fork; when, through some I'M
forgivable circumstance, he discov-
cred q spot on the sleeve of his
white jacket.
THO IN ACTION
He was relieved when a man
in q crisp pongee suit and gold
trimmed spectacleS came in from
the grill room and, without look
ing at him, ordered whiskey sour.
Tino swung briskly into action.
He chriStened the ice in a spark
ling glass with lemon juice. His
hand hesitated for a polite instant
over a bottle of the best, then,
receiving the sanction Of a nod,
noiSeleSsly colored the ice.
A presentation with thumb and
index finger, a courteous lowering
of the eyes and lingo had again
performed one of those miracles of
service for which Tino and the
Blackstone were famous. He stood
back against the back bar with
his arms folded high on his chest
and in his large, dark bright eyes
there was the look of one who has
conquered and is sitting pretty.
There was no ring of change on
the counter, Tino noticed, when
Gus customer left. Just a dime.
But then Gus customers rarely
left him any tips. He had that
way about him that made a man
hesitate about giving him a tip.
And it was with a curve Of his
thin lips that Tino watched the
man go towards the door, his