Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(18)
“Aye. Think of all the time ye would waste calling on lass after lass, only to find none of them meet yuir . . . uhhh . . .discerning eye.”
His mind was whirling. A Jewish girl who spoke with the brogue of an Irish maiden? Except this gal was doubtlessly no maiden. Not with that kiss her fiancé had planted on her. Something was off kilter.
Had she belonged to him, and, thank God, he wasn’t saddled with her – well, not in that sense – he would have made damn sure they stayed together come hell or high water. What was his was his.
“And just what do you have in mind?” he muttered. “Accompanying me into Austin when I go a’courting? Picking out a love song for my date? Writing a flowery speech for me to deliver on bended knee?”
“I was thinking, Duke, that – ”
Hell’s bells, he could feel his brows popping up like toast in a toaster. “Duke?”
“Uhh . . . sorry about that. Duke also is – was – my grandfather’s name. Marmaduke Ayres. Irish Traveller,” she added proudly. “Actually, tis not a bad idea – me accompanying ye when ye go a’courting . . . Mr. McClellan.”
“Well, you can forget that harebrained idea, because that’s not gonna happen. And as for writing flowery speeches – ”
“Er, writing . . . or writing flowery speeches, that is . . . tis not what I do best.”
“Then what do you do best?” He ran a finger under this neck’s red bandana, which suddenly seemed too tight, like a hangman’s noose. “I am sure enough hoping to God it’s cooking.” Johnson’s Operation Texas undertaking was looking worse by the moment.
Her short, slender fingers fidgeted with the clasp of her grungy purse. Snapping it. Unsnapping it. Snapping it. Finally, she unsnapped it and drew out a well-worn box of Bicycle playing cards.
“Christ Almighty, don’t tell me you are a card shark.”
“Well, uhhh, not exactly.”
He took his eyes off the road to shoot her a demanding glare. “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”
“I, uhh . . . if you must know,” she huffed, “I am psychic.”
“Psycho.”
“Nay, psychic. Ye know – like a fortune – ”
“I know what you mean. I mean I must be psycho to be listening to your babble.”
“Just watch.”
As she slipped the deck from its worn cardboard box, he darted a glance. Rapidly, she flipped out three cards on the sand-coated dashboard. A small gasp slipped through those pursed lips. Perspiration suddenly popped out on her upper lip.
He dragged his gaze from it, with its deeply bowed center, to the three cards she had turned over: The Queen of Clubs, the King of Diamonds, and the King of Clubs. “What?”
Quickly, she gathered the three cards and stuffed the deck back into its box. “The layout just says that if ye do not listen to me, ye’ll be sorry.”
He was already sorry that he had listened to Harold.
But he did owe the old Jew at least this – giving it a go. Besides, in three months, come Christmas, he had to head back to Galveston to return the box of books borrowed from the rabbi and pick up a desert cooler for which, even at autumn’s cheaper price, he had paid precious dinero.
At the same time, he could drop off Operation Texas’s cook, for which, at this rate, he would surely lose precious dinero.
And peace of mind in the meantime.
§ CHAPTER FIVE §
Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus, and all the saints!
Romy stood next to the rusty green pickup, one hand clutching Irina’s purse, the other the old Ford’s door handle for support. The pickup was backed up to a paint-peeling red barn, its roof partially caved in.
Her mind reeling with disbelief, she next stared at the ranch house, hunkering a hundred meters in front of her. Early October’s warmish wind kicked up a dust cloud that, unfortunately, did not hide the abysmal adobe abode.
The ranch house, with its crumbling chimney, looked slapped together like a cairn. A dismal pile of rocks it was. Like its owner, it had clearly battled the weather and the elements. Behind it a little distance, against the dying sunlight, a lazily spinning windmill and metal tank were silhouetted.
Aye, the place was larger than her confining vardo. But her vardo had been cozy and colorful. This rock dwelling was as about as appealing as . . . as a concentration barrack. No better were two out-buildings of native stone, their timbered roofs in various stages of reconstruction – one, an even smaller house of stone, and the other, judging by its blackened rocks, most likely a smokehouse.
So much for her wish-upon-a-shooting-star for a lush green and pungently peat-smelling countryside. But of such were fairy tales made.
From the pickup bed, Duke hefted a card board box beneath one arm. “Well? Are you coming?” Leaving her standing, he strode on toward the ramshackle, screened-in front porch.
Drawing back her shoulders, she started to catch up with him – and stopped abruptly.
With ear-deafening rapidly firing barks, a large black dog leapt from the top porch steps and charged across the stretch of fried grass. Fear electrified her. Her body rocketed to cremation temperature. Instantly sweat blistered her pores.
When the dog, a Labrador Retriever, stopped short to slobber in adoration all over Duke’s outstretched, fondling hand, Romy nearly sagged with relief.