Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(22)
Gideon made his way to the room with the word ‘Program Director’ stenciled on the door’s frosted glass pane. Inside, the office was mounded with cartons, much as his Capitol’s basement one was and Moishe’s Berlin office had been.
Lavinia Spiegel was as busy at her desk as Gideon had been at his earlier that morning.
The telephone’s small earpiece in her right hand, she was giving orders to someone on the other end, while with her left nudging pen and papers on her small desk toward – and at this, he mentally groaned – Romy, with her cowboy sponsor.
A drab and shapeless secondhand dress clung to the thin points of her shoulders, and its hem fell loosely at her calves. She wore matronly club-heeled shoes that better befit a female prison guard. Back, however, was a head scarf, a red western bandana actually, tied at the back of her neck.
But her face was luminous. Pleasure flushed that cream-poured skin, her freckles looking like tiny gold flakes. Fool’s gold – as genuine as she, the consummate con artist.
Removing his new fedora, Gideon said, “Well, if isn’t the – “
“ – yuir beloved fiancée,” Romy said, flashing him one of those wide-tooth smiles of artifice he found so annoying. And yet something about that countenance had, absurdly, prompted him to kiss her yesterday.
Perhaps, because she was his last link with the Old World. Well, that wouldn’t fly, because so was the money-grubbing Moishe. Or Moe or whatever his name now was. And Gideon certainly had no desire to kiss the dwarf.
She pecked him on his cheek, and he glanced over the top of her head to see McClellan watching, his eyes narrowed. On one shoulder, he balanced a large cardboard crate. He nodded and growled, “Morning.”
Replacing the earpiece on its candlestick stand, Lavinia smiled sociably. “Everything is in order, now. Moishe Klein, uhh, Morris Keller, already stopped by early this morning for his check and supply box. Now, if the two of you will sign off on these papers.”
The Gypsy paled, and Lavinia instantly took note. “An ‘X’ will suffice on the signature line, Miss Sonnenschein. And, if I must say so myself, my recommendation of your change of clothing is a presentable step up.”
Romy Sonnenschein did not look reassured. She looked ill at ease out of her native garb.
Lavinia’s next smile was directed for him solely, as he signed off on his document. She held out to him the envelope with his check, which he tucked into his rumpled tweed jacket’s inside pocket. “Your box is on the top, there, next to the door, Mr. Goldman.”
He shouldered the crate with a staggered step. After the last couple of stressful years, walking the Nazi tight wire and enduring sporadic inquisitions and incarcerations, he was embarrassingly out of shape. At least, compared to the muscle man McClellan, who watched with an air of casual superiority that even the arrogant Gideon lacked.
One end of the tall man’s mustache quirked at Gideon’s predicament. “We’re stopping off at Charlie’s Cafe, across the street. “If you’ve a hankering for cow-dung coffee, we’ll drop off the boxes in my pickup and afterwards I’ll haul you to wherever you’re boarding.”
“I cannot think of anything better right now than cow-dung coffee,” he paused and directed his charm at Lavinia, “unless you would also agree to accompany us, Mrs. Spiegel. Surely, you can take a break from your work.”
She blushed. Flicking a sidewise glance at Romy and McClellan, she then flashed another sociable smile. “Alas, duty calls, Mr. Goldman, but thank you.”
Charlie’s Cafe slouched across the brick-paved Congress Street, on a corner where the Depression’s hobos panhandled. One of them might have been Gideon but for his good luck and his good looks, and he pitched into a well-worn, dirty cap two-bits he could ill afford.
Charlie’s Cafe was a soda fountain, candy store, and lunch spot. The clapboard building, held up by newer brick structures on either side, was partially full, mostly with government personnel and businessmen.
The cowboy led the way across a black-and-white hexagonal floor. With a two-fingered, “Howdy,” McClellan acknowledged one man, slapped another on the back, and shook hands with still another. Given the man’s strapping physique, Gideon figured the rancher had to be young, maybe not even thirty yet; but the weathered lines fanning the eyes and the look in them hinted at a weary – and wary – thirty or more.
Gideon slid onto the ripped, plastic-covered seat of the only booth available. Across from him, Romy scooted next to the rancher, who assumed once more a disgruntled look.
The frying smell of onions, potatoes, and hamburgers set Gideon’s stomach to grumbling. He regretted now the two-bits he had frivoled away into the panhandler’s hat. His current voucher would have to cover, at least, the next month’s rent at MiMi’s, which, thankfully, also included suppers.
A young waitress in shoulder-length auburn hair, rolled back from her youthful face, took their order. She gave Romy the once over, then flashed McClellan a smile. “Howdy, Duke. I’ll add two lumps of sugar to your coffee, like you take it.”
He winked at her. “Thanks, Adelle.”
“I graduate next month.” The young girl wiped her hands on her stained apron several times. “It’d be swell if you could attend the ceremonies at the University’s new tower, Duke.”
McClellan’s reply came out like Yahweh speaking. “I’ll look into it.” Matinee handsome, he was not; still, ruggedly appealing he must be to females.