Free Friday the Rabbi Slept Late by Harry Kemelman Page B

his head as though the Almighty were right there in front of him. He shuts his eyes lest His Radiance should blind him, and then speaks in a low, deep voice – not the voice he uses in talking to his wife, but in a special voice, like an actor. My David is no actor. Do you think God is impressed by a low, deep voice, Mr. Wasserman?”
    “Dear Mrs. Small, I’m not disagreeing with you. But we live in the world. This is what the world wants now in a rabbi, so this is what a rabbi has to be.”
    “David will change the world, Mr. Wasserman, before the world will change my David.”

Chapter Seven
    When Joe Serafino arrived at the club, he found a new hatcheck girl. He strolled over to the headwaiter, who acted as manager in his absence.
    “Who’s the new broad, Lennie?”
    “Oh, I was going to tell you, Joe. Nellie’s kid is sick again so I got this girl to stand in for her.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Stella.”
    Joe looked her over. “She sure fills out that uniform,” he admitted. “Okay, when things settle down, send her into the office.”
    “No funny business, Joe. No passes. She’s like a distant cousin of my wife.”
    “Take it easy, Lennie. I got to get her name and address and Social Security, don’t I?” Joe smiled. “You want I should bring the book out here?” He left to make his rounds of the dining room. Normally, he spent a good portion of the evening circulating among the customers, greeting one, waving to another, occasionally sitting down with one of the regulars to chat for a few minutes, after which he would snap his fingers at a passing waiter: “Give these good people a drink, Paul.” But Thursday nights, maids’ night out, the atmosphere was different. There were always a number of empty tables, and the people nursed their drinks, conversed in low voices, and seemed to lack spirit. Even the service was not the same; the waiters tended to huddle near the kitchen door instead of scurrying around filling orders. When Leonard glared at them or snapped his fingers to attract their attention, they would separate reluctantly, only to group together the moment his back was turned. Thursdays, Joe spent much of the time in his office working on accounts. This evening he finished early and was trying to catch a brief nap on the couch when there was a knock on the door. He got up and seated himself at the desk with his account books open before him. “Come in,” he said, in a gruff, businesslike tone.
    He heard the doorknob turn ineffectually and then, smiling, he got up from his chair and turned back the night latch. He motioned the girl to the couch. “Siddown, kid,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Casually he pushed the door closed and returned to the swivel chair at the desk and frowned at the books in front of him. For a minute or two he appeared very busy, making little marks on paper and checking against the pages of his ledgers. Then he swung around and looked at her, letting his gaze wander slowly over her. “What’s your name?”
    “Stella, Stella Masfrangelo.”
    “How do you spell it? Never mind; here, write it down on this piece of paper.”
    She came to the desk and bent over to write. She was young and fresh, with a smooth olive skin and dark provocative eyes. His hand itched to pat her bottom, so enticingly encased in the black satin shorts of her uniform. But he had to play it cool, so in the same businesslike voice he said, “Put down your address and your Social Security. And you better put down your telephone number too, in case we want to get in touch with you in a hurry.”
    She finished writing and straightened up, but she did not immediately return to the couch. Instead, she leaned against the edge of the desk, facing him. “Is that all you want, Mr. Serafino?” she asked.
    “Yeah.” He studied the paper. “You know, we might be able to use you from time to time. Nellie was hinting she’d like an extra night off. It’d give her more time