Tales From The Loon Town Cafe

by Dennis Frahmann

  “But why would anyone come?” I asked.

  “The billion-dollar question,” murmured Taligent.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Chip said. “They need the Lattigo because they want gambling and they think we can give it to them.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Recent Supreme Court decisions create an interesting opportunity,” Chip began. “The court has greatly increased the recognition given to Native American treaties and acknowledges our reservations as national entities with the freedom to conduct internal affairs on tribal land. Specifically, several cases now have prevented states from prohibiting tribes from conducting bingo and poker as gambling activities on reservation land. My legal advisors and I are convinced that we can extend this new ruling to all kinds of gambling, including slot machines, roulette, and anything else you would find on the Strip in Vegas. Mix gambling with theme parks and you got the whole family hooked. You have, in a word, the true American Seasons, the lure to attract thousands.”

  Henry broke in. “Each of us here bring a certain necessary element to move this vision forward. Red and Jonathan control much of the land that we need to pull together for a project of this scope. Tes and I have access to capital and other investors for a project that will involve many hundreds of millions of dollars. And Mr. Frozen Bear, of course, can deliver gambling on the reservation—an insurance policy essential to cementing the loyalty of many potential investors.”

  “Why tell me?” I asked. “I would think you need to keep this secret.” In my Manhattan days, I had learned that people liked to divulge secrets to me. I don’t know what it was about my personality, but it made it easier to be a reporter. Maybe people just wanted to see their names in print, and they counted on me to treat them fairly.

  “We do and we will,” said Chip, “but this isn’t like your Manhattan days. We don’t need some gossip flack. We want someone local, someone with a base in journalism, but someone who knows everyone in town because those people come in and out of his cafe everyday. We need someone like that to be our partner in good will, to help us plan how to position this, how to announce it to residents so they support us, to position us with the local government so they provide the needed improvements. A local lobbyist, if you will.

  “I did a little research on you as a journalist and as a society schmoozer during your days in Manhattan. You were good, and I think you’re our man. And I knew your friend Patrice. I trusted him, so I’ll trust you.”

  “Besides that, it was Tes’ idea.” Frozen Bear spooned up the last of the melting ice cream in his dish.

  “So can we count on you being part of the New Thread?” asked Henry.

  Who could say no? I had come to the small town only to become part of the big time. Wealth, fortune, influence had always intrigued me, and now it sat in my back room, beckoning me to the table.

  FALL INTO WINTER

  chapter seven

  The early morning sun was already reflecting with a nauseating brilliance off the kitchen pans piled next to the sink. Dishes and stemware remain crusted with remnants of last night’s dinner. Inebriated with the audacity of the redevelopment of the entire county, I drank heartily with the businessman. Chip seemed to study me with undue interest as the evening wore on, but I didn’t mind being the center of his attention. After all, he understood my food.

  After all that, who could be bothered with scullery duties? I knew I could be industrious with the rising of the early morning sun. But a few hours later, as the first rays skipped across the eastern edges of the Sapphire lakes, I only moaned and reached for the aspirin bottle. I had to beat Thelma to the kitchen. She always showed up first to put the caramel rolls into the oven. Henry wanted the dinner meeting to be a secret, and now that they had entrusted me with their vision, I needed to act as a trusted partner. I nearly succeeded.

  “What was that Hank van Elkind doing here last night?” asked Thelma as she walked in the kitchen. She stopped suddenly and surveyed the kitchen with the third degree. She looked at me with disapproval.

  I wasn’t going to own up to anything. “What do you mean?” I could feign innocence. I had learned that skill interviewing socialites in Manhattan.

  “I recognized the tire tracks of that fancy car of his in the back alley. Ain’t many of those cars in this town. And all those footprints. Did he bring a party with him?” My eyes followed Thelma’s gaze, picking up the many clues to the night before. Her eyes stopped first on the ice cream maker, still unwashed and still plugged in. They traveled over to some apple peelings left on the unswept floor. The gaze swept over to her favorite roasting pans sitting dried and cleaned, but on the range instead of their storage racks. It skipped to the trash can with four empty wine bottles from Chateau Montelana. Boy, those whites were good. Thelma’s tour reached its final stop on my face, bleary-eyed and a little puffy. “It looks like someone not only met up with a bear, but invited it to dinner.” She released a disappointed sigh. “I guess I need to face up to some cleaning in addition to baking this morning.”

  Instead of mooning over Thelma, Officer Campbell should be taking detective lessons from this middle-aged woman. I was convinced she knew all my secrets, from who the guests were to what I served them. But then, in this town, only Officer Campbell lacked keen skills in discernment. When my breakfast trio showed up, Bromley immediately began the third degree. “Did you see Van Elkind last night. God darn, if I didn’t see him drive through town with Tesla Haligent and that Lattigo kid. You know Haligent’s company owns the bank. Why would he be in town and not try to see me? But he has time for Frozen Bear. Not even seeing Claire’s men would surprise me more.”

  Claire seemed to take offense at that statement, but then she focused on spreading her strawberry jam. Mr. Packer took another sip of coffee like he’d heard it all before.

  By the time Cynthia and Danny showed up for their lunch shift, I was feeling skittish. I just hoped that Thelma and Bromley wouldn’t sit down together and truly piece together the whole evening.

  “What was Daddy doing here last night?” Thank God, Bromley had already left. Cynthia seemed really interested in her question. Somehow, it even caught Danny’s attention.

  “You’re closed on Mondays,” Danny pointed out.

  I was in a quandary. Should I ignore their comments? Should I make up a story? I was relieved of making any decisions by the arrival of a customer, Chip Frozen Bear, who looked quite hale and hearty despite our evening of wine and my fine food. He walked straight up to me.

  “Hi, Mr. Frozen Bear,” said Cynthia. What was that tone in her voice? She normally reserved that emotion for Danny. Thelma walked out of the kitchen just then, and smiled at the staff and at Chip. Even Danny seemed entranced by the man.

  Chip seemed oblivious to their interests. “Great dinner last night. Really enjoyed the company and the food.” Everyone now turned their attention to me. But I could say nothing, and didn’t. Let them wonder. And soon Thelma had something new to attract her attention.

  “Buy more, young man. Stop being penny-wise, pound-foolish,” proclaimed the dapper man in a dark suit, white starched shirt, and gaily-red polka-dotted, hand-tied bow tie. “No need to fool around with using fresh ingredients. Build up higher volumes on ordering canned goods, and I could get you a better buy on case lots. But a few cans here, a few cans there, it just doesn’t give you the volume discounts. Why I tell you, you would be saving two ways if you’d listen to me. First, there’s no way you can obtain fresh produce as economically as you can get canned and frozen items from NorthWoods Supplies, and second, you’ll end up with lower per unit costs on those things you already purchase. So why not let me put you down for two gross of canned tomatoes? You want those on Thursday or Friday?”

  “Mr. Ford,” Thelma broke in with a laughing voice. I hadn’t even known she had been listening. But after my secret dinner a week earlier, she seemed to gravitate more to the front of the restaurant. While she stayed out of the business
side of the restaurant, baking in the kitchen and making wisecracks to the steady customers kept her occupied and amused. “Now, I never met you before, Mr. Ford . . .”

  “Just call me Gilbert, sweetie,”

  Thelma gave him an amused but still withering look. “You obviously don’t know Wally Pearson at all. He won’t buy two gross of canned tomatoes from you on Thursday or on Friday. He isn’t even going to buy one can as long as the gardens in this here town are overflowing with fresh ripe tomatoes. He don’t care one bit if those tomatoes are blemished or if they have a little snail bite out of them. They just got to be bursting with flavor.

  “Same thing goes for your creamed corn, your potato flakes, your individually prepared chicken cordon bleu ready after two minutes in the microwave. That ain’t Wally. That ain’t the Loon Town Cafe. So why do you come in here every week trying to badger him into buying something he ain’t never going to buy?”

  The town cop, Officer Campbell, started laughing out loud. He had been sitting at a corner table with a cop of coffee and one of Thelma’s famous sticky buns. “You tell him Thelma!”

  “Am I talking to you Campbell? There are bigger things going on in this town that you should be looking after instead of what I have to tell some peddler. Someone’s got to look after this foolish boy Wally. The back room’s already overflowing with produce that he’ll have to throw away because there ain’t enough people coming through to eat it.”

  I was about to pipe in and protest Thelma’s lack of confidence in my purchasing skills, but Gilbert beat me to the pulpit. “Tell me, Wally,” he began, “how it can be that I’ve been dropping by to see you every other week for the past two months, and in all that time I’ve never had the honor of being introduced to this fine woman.” He twiddled his bow tie, setting it off at a more rakish angle, perhaps imagining himself to be a Fred Astaire.

  “If I had wanted to meet you, Mr. Ford, I wouldn’t have needed Wally to set up no invitation. I’m a grown woman.”

  “I can tell that,” Gilbert said appreciatively, “and I insist you call me Gilbert. I would hate to be on such a formal basis with such a lovely woman.” He rose from where we had been seated near the door and began walking toward Thelma, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

  Thelma’s eyes did a quick scan of this middle-aged man. He was of moderate height, slight in build, with ever-so-stooped shoulders. His hair was jet black and perfectly coifed. His clothes draped just right. It seemed to me that Thelma’s eyes lingered unnecessarily long in the area of Mr. Ford’s crotch.

  Thelma noticed such things. One weekend evening after a particularly strong night of business, we had stayed in the kitchen long after everyone had gone. We’d decided to finish off a bottle of good Cabernet from Heitz Cellars. She had told me then, “Women always say they don’t care what a man looks like, or that they just look at his hands, or his butt. I suppose those things are nice, but I like a man who’s well equipped. It ain’t so hard to tell, you know. It’s kind of exciting to guess what’s underneath all that fabric. I like men who wear boxer shorts and loose pants, because there’s a freedom there as he walks. Forget those men in bikini briefs. It just makes a bulge like they stuck a sock there. Men in boxer shorts—that’s my kind of man. With a good eye, you can always tell if they’re excited to see you. My old Freddy was always a giveaway. I liked having him watch me, and then catch him shifting his pants around.”

  It may have been a nervous tic, but it seemed to me that Gilbert Ford hitched his well-hung pants a bit as he walked toward Thelma. She gave him a smile that made me wonder if there was some truth to the old story that Fred Schmidt had died happily smothered in Thelma’s bountiful breasts.

  “It seems such a shame,” Gilbert began, “that you and I haven’t met sooner. I truly believe—despite our disagreements about canned tomatoes—that we have something special in common.”

  Officer Campbell stood up, with a look of fierce protection crossing his face. He swaggered after Gilbert. “Don’t go bothering Thelma. She said she wasn’t interested.”

  “I said no such thing, Campbell,” laughed Thelma. “Go back to your corner and finish your coffee. And when you’re done, leave more than a quarter for your tip, you old cheapskate.” Thelma turned her attention back to the man in the bow tie. Officer Campbell stood stunned in the middle of the cafe, not wanting to retreat from his manly duty, but wanting to keep Thelma on his good side. Thelma gave him a dismissing look.

  “Gilbert” she said in a pleasant voice that offered the hapless policeman a momentary reprieve from her attention, “please don’t take what I was saying the wrong way. I have nothing against restaurant supplies. I just don’t want Wally spending his money foolishly, or you wasting your time.” Her smile was downright coquettish.

  “You are so considerate madam. Surely you must be new to this area, or how could I have missed the enjoyment of knowing you. What is your name?” Gilbert already had his hand extended. An old trick that he had probably learned in a sales class. Almost no one will avoid shaking your hand once you’ve extended it. Thelma had no reluctance in taking Gilbert’s hand. The handshake lasted unnecessarily long, just like her earlier glance below his belt. Officer Campbell still stood in the middle of the cafe, uncertain whether to go back to his table or to seek to protect Thelma.

  “My name’s Thelma. I’m the cook here, but I’ve lived in Thread a long time. You should stop by more often. Maybe we would have been introduced sooner.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” he said, “I surely have made a mistake in that, but there’s always time to recover. My next visit will have to be sooner. And perhaps if Wally isn’t interested in buying a few jars of mayonnaise or some thousand island dressing, then I could convince you to slip out for a little lunch at the park.”

  Campbell decided to make his move. It was toward the kitchen door where the two chatterboxes stood. Thelma threw a look that stopped him in his tracks. His face reddened to a hue as vivid as Gilbert’s bow tie. Gilbert missed the small drama as he pulled out a pocket watch. “I fear I must be going. Another appointment in Timberton.”

  Campbell saw a chance to reclaim honor. “That’s a fine watch,” he said, “I noticed the fob and chain earlier and I was just coming up to ask if I could see the piece itself. I’m quite interested in pocket watches.” Thelma snorted. Campbell’s face remained bright red. Gilbert seemed oblivious to anything but the compliment toward his watch.

  I decided to help out Office Campbell, “The watch is quite lovely. Is it a family heirloom?”

  “In a way, I suppose it is. There’s quite a story behind it.”

  Thelma leaned forward, “Why don’t you tell us.” I looked at her in astonishment. She was always the first to head back in the kitchen whenever Mr. Packer, Bromley or Claire had a story to tell. “If I ever get as silly as Cynthia over all these tired old tales,” she once said to me, “take me out in your back garden and shoot me. Bury me there, so at least I can fertilize your tomatoes.”

  “I thought you hated stories,” Officer Campbell said. “Whenever Claire wants to tell a story, you yell ‘shut up.’”

  “Claire! Would that be Claire Moon?” Gilbert seemed to perk up another notch or two. “I haven’t see that old gal in years.”

  “She’s been busy with moon men,” muttered Thelma.

  “I think Thelma asked if you were one of Moon’s men,” said Campbell. He smirked and walked back to his coffee. Gilbert looked perplexed. Thelma was momentarily at a loss.

  “Do you have time for that story?” I asked. I wanted to help Thelma out. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in this cocky little bantam of a man, but she was always looking out for me, and there weren’t that many available men in Thread. The hunters and fisherman who flowed through the town were interested in nothing more than a vacation experience. Lusty as Thelma liked to pretend she was, I knew she really wanted someone to replace her Fred, someone dependable who would always be there when she went home. Gilbert didn’t
seem too likely a candidate, but after hearing his story, maybe she’d realize she needed to look elsewhere.

  “If I’m late to meet the manager at the Penokee House, I’ll just say there was heavy traffic on 17. Ha! That’d be the day.” Gilbert sat down at the stool on the end of the bar nearest the kitchen door. He glanced around the room as though some extra patrons beyond Campbell would suddenly materialize just to hear his story.

  “This story begins nearly seventy years ago, right after the great war, the First World War. This was still a lumbering area then, dying down, but it retained a few good camps. Mining had picked up a lot during the War. All in all, it was a healthy area, still drew a lot of immigrants to these woods. They would land at Ellis Island, take the train out to Chicago, and then connect onto the Great Northern Railroad right to Thread, Timberton, and all the towns up here.

  “The towns were bigger then, of course, much bigger. There used to be a trolley system that ran all through Timberton down here to Thread and over to Amster. An opera house in Timberton. It was a more glamorous place. That’s important to this story, because it involves an immigrant with great ambitions and a singer with great talent. His name was Luigi Santoro. Hers was Flora Johanssen.”

  “My grandmother came to Timberton with Sarah Bernhardt in the 1890s,” Thelma said.

  Gilbert smiled at her. “It was over twenty years later that Flora arrived. She came to perform at the opera house too, and that’s when she met Luigi.”

  “It was a sweltering Sunday in early August, middle of the afternoon, with a matinee of The Student Prince just ending. A Romberg operetta always attracted a crowd. Romance and passion and good music. Luigi would have preferred a more traditional opera, an Italian one by Verdi perhaps. But to him, light opera was better than no opera, and so he would splurge once a month to attend the Ridge Opera House.