The Assistant Read Online Free PDF

before he went down, he said gently, “What’s the matter you stay home so much lately? You had a fight with Nat?”
    â€œNo.” Blushing, she answered, “I don’t think we see things in the same way.”
    He hadn’t the heart to ask more.
    Going down, he met Ida on the stairs and knew she would cover the same ground.
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    In the evening there was a flurry of business. Morris’s mood quickened and he exchanged pleasantries with the customers. Carl Johnsen, the Swedish painter, whom he hadn’t seen in weeks, came in with a wet smile and bought two dollars’ worth of beer, cold cuts and sliced Swiss cheese. The grocer was at first worried he would ask to charge—he had never paid what he owed on the books before Morris had stopped giving trust—but the painter had the cash. Mrs. Anderson, an old loyal customer, bought for a dollar. A stranger then came in and left eighty-eight cents. After him two more customers appeared. Morris felt a little surge of hope. Maybe things were picking up. But after half-past eight his hands grew heavy with nothing to do. For years he had been the only one for miles around who stayed open at night and had just about made a living from it, but now Schmitz matched him hour for hour. Morris sneaked a little smoke, then began to cough. Ida pounded on the floor upstairs, so he clipped the butt and put it away. He felt restless and stood at the front window, watching the street. He watched a trolley go by. Mr. Lawler, formerly a customer, good for at least a fiver on Friday nights, passed the store.
Morris hadn’t seen him for months but knew where he was going. Mr. Lawler averted his gaze and hurried along. Morris watched him disappear around the corner. He lit a match and again checked the register—nine and a half dollars, not even expenses.
    Julius Karp opened the front door and poked his foolish head in.
    â€œPodolsky came?”
    â€œWho Podolsky?”
    â€œThe refugee.”
    Morris said in annoyance, “What refugee?”
    With a grunt Karp shut the door behind him. He was short, pompous, a natty dresser in his advanced age. In the past, like Morris, he had toiled long hours in his shoe store, now he stayed all day in silk pajamas until it came time to relieve Louis before supper. Though the little man was insensitive and a blunderer, Morris had got along fairly well with him, but since Karp had rented the tailor shop to another grocer, sometimes they did not speak. Years ago Karp had spent much time in the back of the grocery, complaining of his poverty as if it were a new invention and he its first victim. Since his success with wines and liquors he came in less often, but he still visited Morris more than his welcome entitled him to, usually to run down the grocery and spout unwanted advice. His ticket of admission was his luck, which he gathered wherever he reached, at a loss, Morris thought, to somebody else. Once a drunk had heaved a rock at Karp’s window, but it had shattered his. Another time, Sam Pearl gave the liquor dealer a tip on a horse, then forgot to place a bet himself. Karp collected five hundred for his ten-dollar bill. For years the grocer had escaped resenting the man’s good luck, but lately he had caught himself wishing on him some small misfortune.
    â€œPodolsky is the one I called up to take a look at your gesheft,” Karp answered.
    â€œWho is this refugee, tell me, an enemy yours?”
    Karp stared at him unpleasantly.
    â€œDoes a man,” Morris insisted, “send a friend he should
buy such a store that you yourself took away from it the best business?”
    â€œPodolsky ain’t you,” the liquor dealer replied. “I told him about this place. I said, ‘The neighborhood is improving. You can buy cheap and build up this store. It’s run down for years, nobody changed anything there for twenty years.’”
    â€œYou should live so long how much I