A/N: This one-shot concerns the classic films "Beat the Devil," "Arsenic & Old Lace," and "The Roaring Twenties."
I don't own any of these movies.
"Time, time. Time. Time. What is time? Swiss hoard it. French drink it. The Italians... No, no. No. It's the French who hoard it, and the Swiss manufacture it. Americans say it's money, Hindus say it does not exist, and I say time is a crook!"
"Who said that?" the blond bartender asked flatly.
Irritably, Julius O'Hara grumbled, "I said it." He slumped over the bar, nursing his drink. "That quote shall be my legacy, when I'm gone from this world."
"That a fact." The matron was drying a glass absentmindedly. Somewhere in her mid-fifties (about Julius's age), she had a New York voice and a hard-boiled demeanor that reminded Julius oddly of Billy. Glancing up at him with small dark eyes, she asked, "You publish it somewhere?"
Julius let his large face sink into one hand, and he mumbled over his Schnapps, "I knew there was something I'd forgotten to do."
The bartender threw down her towel, and apparently decided to fill the now clean class back up with Brandy again. Julius moved his own glass, still half full, towards her across the counter, his large tired eyes turning up like a begging basset hound's.
"You want some Brandy in that Schnapps?" the barkeep laughed.
"I don't care, so long as it's alcoholic. I picked Schnapps only for old time's sake. And to tell the truth I don't know what I ever saw in this stuff."
The barkeep seems to find amusement in the tired smile that touched Julius's lips as his glass filled with the mix-drink.
"So what's the occasion?" she sank into a stool behind the counter, folding her arms in front of her. "What is it you're trying to drown in Schnapps and Brandy?"
"Another brush with the law," Julius ran a hand through his bleached hair. "This time in Africa. I almost was executed. Luckily I've become very apt at dodging the law."
The woman smiled, almost sadly. "I've had my brushes with the law. Though not to the point of death row."
He made an acknowledging sound. "What kinds of laws did you break, Miss...?"
Her small brown eyes jumped around Julius's face and body. "You look like you're about my age. You remember the Roaring Twenties."
Julius slowly began to nod, but then shook his head. "The Twenties yes, but maybe not your 'Roaring' Twenties."
She nodded, remembering that he wasn't American-born. "I guess they didn't have Prohibition over in Europe."
He shook his head. "So," his eyes rolled up to her under their sagging lids. "You sold Schnapps and Brandy when it was illegal in your country, huh?"
"Especially when it was illegal." Now she was smiling fondly. "I had help. Knew some of the best people in the business." Her face fell down to the counter, and for several seconds she sipped her drink silently. Then she asked, "Ever hear of Panama Smith?"
He shook his head.
She snorted, rolling her eyes away from him. "Well, I was a big deal back in my day. Where were you in the twenties?"
He shrugged. "Attending medical school. Then in the thirties I was falling into crime, and in the forties I was on the run. And now here I still am. But at least I've shaken off that creep Johnny." he sighed. "I'll have to find myself a new name. Just as well, I was getting tired of being Billy's 'little Irish leprechaun.' I'm not touching 'Dr. Einstein' again, god knows."
She narrowed her dark eyes at him, and asked with some amusement, "What is your name?"
Irritably he retorted, "Did I ask your real name, 'Panama Smith?'"
She made a face. "Touche."
They drank in silence for some time. Then he commented on the Schnapps/Brandy mix, and she commented on his bleached hair, and the conversation slowly picked back up.
"So you're on the run," Panama said. "You used to call yourself 'Dr. Einstein,' and hung out with one certified psychopath named Billy."
"No, Johnny. Billy's...he's alright. Even if he did turn us all over. We deserved it." Julius sighed deeply, finishing off his Schnapps/Brandy. "I wonder if Billy would mind my using his first name for my new alias."
In a distant voice, Panama said, "I knew a guy named Eddie Bartlet once."
Julius could sense it in her voice, and heard himself blurt out, "How'd he die?"
She glanced at him. "Doesn't matter." She began massaging the back of her neck. "You don't look much like an Eddie to me anyhow. What-say we bury the past, at least for tonight." She raised her glass. "To new beginnings."
Raising his own glass, Julius opened his mouth to repeat her toast, but all that came out was a long belch.
The two conversed long into the night. Julius told Panama more than his younger self would have ever revealed even while moderately drunk; he was becoming a lightweight in his old age. He almost told her his real name. Luckily he'd stopped short of going into detail about his life before college. He spent the bulk of his side of the conversation telling her about his misadventures with the murderer Johnny, half fearing the attractive woman would throw him out of her bar,and half enjoying the freedom of saying whatever came to his mind. She then told him about the Roaring Twenties. How she'd run the hottest speakeasy in New York, and then sold it to her younger friend (or maybe more), Eddie, who wound up practically ruling his side of New York, right up until Black Tuesday.
"So," she swallowed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, "I'm no stranger to death and murder, 'Dr. Einstein.'" She grinned, her eyes still glistening.
Not wanting to embarrass the woman, Julius avoided looking at her, and shook his head back down to his drink. "Don't call me 'Dr. Einstein,' or 'Mr. O'Hara. I've decided on a new name at last. Effective immediately I am Billy Spinalzo."
Panama pursed her lips, thinking it over. "Good as any I guess. Now I can call you 'Spinny.'"
"That's worse than being Billy's 'leprechaun.'"
Panama glanced behind her at the clock. "Well the bar's been closed about an hour."
"I'll be getting back to my hotel then," Julius lied, leaving his seat.
He didn't have a hotel. It would likely be a park bench again tonight. As he was nearing the door she called after him, "Tell ya' what Spinny. I'm drunk, and you're drunk. I got an apartment right upstairs. Cozy, out of the way and sound-proof."
He smiled at her and shook his head again. "I'll have to do a lot better than simply 'sound proof.' I'm planning to go to Canada, or maybe Mexico. I'll get a sound-proof apartment there maybe. But uh, thanks for the offer Miss Smith."
Panama stared at him, then shook her head dismissively, as he walked out of the bar.
"Spinny"-he liked that name, stupid as it was-was walking into the street, the pub's door still swinging behind him, when his brain finally kicked in. He stopped dead in the middle of the road, repaying Panama Smith's offer through his head. His heart skipped a beat, and he turned and ran back into the pub.
A/N: Yes, I just shipped old-Peter Lorre with old-Gladys George. What of it?