“Two of these, please, ma’am.”
From under the counter she produced a square cut from a newspaper and laid it on the counter and lifted the two buns out. The little girl watched them with still and unwinking eyes like two currants floating motionless in a cup of weak coffee Land of the kike home of the wop. Watching the bread, the neat grey hands, a broad gold band on the left forefinger, knuckled there by a blue knuckle.
“Do you do your own baking, ma’am?”
“Sir?” she said. Like that. Sir? Like on the stage. Sir? “Five cents. Was there anything else?”
“No, ma’am. Not for me. This lady wants something.” She was not tall enough to see over the case, so she went to the end of the counter and looked at the little girl.
“Did you bring her in here?”
“No, ma’am. She was here when I came.”
“You little wretch,” she said. She came out around the counter, but she didnt touch the little girl. “Have you got anything in your pockets?”
“She hasnt got any pockets,” I said. “She wasnt doing anything. She was just standing here, waiting for you.”
“Why didnt the bell ring, then?” She glared at me. She just needed a bunch of switches, a blackboard behind her 2 × 2 e 5. “She’ll hide it under her dress and a body’d never know it. You, child. How’d you get in here?”