Let's go For Broke

by Mary Lasswell

  “We’re buyin’,” she said.

  “Sure tough without no lights in the house,” Mrs.Feeley said as the bright headlights of the truck picked up the shadowy outline of the mansion.

  “We could turn them on, hook them up for you, but it’s against the law,” James said.

  “Don’t want to hear the word ‘law’ ever again,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’ll pay the deposit tomorra.”

  “I hope that man about the hearse finds us,” Miss Tinkham said. “And those people who wanted the vases. If they come, I’ll sell them something else.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen lit the candles while the boys backed the truck around so the lights would help out for the picnic.

  “We’re not rightly set up yet,” Mrs. Feeley said. “But ain’t it funny?” she turned to Miss Tinkham. “We ain’t even been here a week!”

  “We saw it for the first time last Friday afternoon, moved in on Monday, and this is only Wednesday. And yet, it is difficult to remember how life was before we came here. I am forced to conclude that we are extremely adaptable people.”

  “Some dump,” Bim said.

  Miss Tinkham got her flashlight and showed them the antique shop, the conservatory and the upstairs.

  “You could rent rooms,” James said when they sat down to eat.

  “No furniture,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Gotta get my Refrigidaire from back in town at the Ark, an’ the piano. We’ll do without the ’lectric stove an’ the gas stove, so we won’t need to turn on the gas thataway.”

  “Mrs. Feeley leased the parking lot and her bus-houses in town,” Miss Tinkham explained.

  “Wonder how that feller’s makin’ out?” Mrs. Feeley polished off a mean sparerib for someone without a tooth in her head.

  “We kin ast when we get the Refrigidaire,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Don’t want to look like we was crowdin’ him, though.”

  “Your main lack right now,” James said, “is a good big sign for Five Points so people will know what you have down here.”

  “What’s wrong with the big plywood pieces we used at the American Legion Carnival?” Jesse asked. “We could do the writing on those and nail them onto one of those big trees by the gate.”

  “I’ll do the lettering if you want,” James said.

  “We could come Saturday afternoon, or Sunday, or both.” Bim grinned. “You should use a hand around here.”

  “Customers, my dear, are what we need,” Miss Tinkham said a little ruefully. The kitty had been badly dented by the case of beer, but there was no doubt that it was a splendid investment considering the careful, almost reverent way the young men had put the hearse back in the carriage house.

  “We can’t monopolize your free time, although you are dear to offer,” she said.

  “Ain’t you got no girls?” Mrs. Feeley asked.

  “Beat ’em off with a stick,” Bim said. “If you don’t answer when they call up on the pay phone, they’ll barge right up into your room and drag you out. It’s a relief to be just like you were visiting your folks an’ essetra for a change.”

  “Person to person, instead of man to woman,” Miss Tinkham said. “It is one of the compensations for getting older.”

  “It’s nice not to have anything expected of you,” James said. “Don’t get us wrong, now. We’re healthy. When we got back from the war, we thought we wouldn’t be anything but Casanovas the rest of our lives. We found out we could sure get caught up on our love life in a hurry.”

  “James is saving his money and waiting to meet the right girl,” Bim said, “and Jesse, here, he says he don’t like modren girls because they carry a regular bowie knife with ’em.”

  “Sure,” Jesse grinned, “they won’t leave the house without checking: ‘Have I got my blade?’ Whatever happened to when they used to do embroidery an’ things like that? Sometimes my mother used to spend three or four days making tamales and good things for holidays. Now they won’t even buy food in the store if it has to be cooked!”

  “There’s lots o’ nice girls,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “But you have to go to night school an’ church an’ things like that to get in touch.”

  “I’m in neutral on that subject,” Bim said. “What we need is to get the customers in here. Some of those folks at the Club will come down, you wait and see. Soon as you advertise, things will straighten out for you simontaneously.”

  Mrs. Feeley let out a prodigious yawn.

  “We can take a hint,” Bim laughed. “The beer was fine and we liked your house.”

  “What time do you want us Saturday?” James said. “I mean it.”

  “At your pleasure,” Miss Tinkham replied. “We hope to have more conveniences by then—lights and running water, perhaps. We are happy to have got to know you.”

  “Them three pies is still in the hearse,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  Jesse ran out to the shed and brought them back. She saw him reach for his wallet.

  “Store’s closed.” She smiled. “I’ll make you somthin’ real nice soon.”

  He shook hands with N. Carnation, a funny little formal stiff handshake.

  “We didn’t really believe Jesse could talk cholo, that’s creole,” Bim said, “but we’re convinced now. She’s a cute little woman! Fact of the matter, you’re all cute dolls. Anybody didn’t know you might think you were teetotalists, but you can hold as much beer in your yew-sophagus as we can!”

  Mrs. Rasmussen had something in a pot cooking on the stove. She stirred it from time to time, but did leave off long enough to say goodbye to the young men.

  “It’s nice to have good, clean, fun,” James said. “We’ll be back.”

  “We like bad, dirty fun,” Mrs. Feeley laughed, “but you come back.”

  “It is kingly to be kind, someone has said.” Miss Tinkham shook hands all around. “You have been kindness itself to us.”

  The truck blasted off in a roar, the lads honking gaily in farewell.

  “Don’t b’lieve we could stand it without young things around,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Mrs. Rasmussen poured a white mush she had been cooking into a flat bread pan to cool. “They’s six beers left.” She kicked off her shoes and sat down.

  Miss Tinkham was in a deep trance.

  “Transportation is so terribly important,” she said at last, “I must find out certain items at the library after what I learned of N. Carnation’s history this evening. Having no car is a great disadvantage. We must see if there is not something we can do about getting better working conditions for her at the laundry.”

  “We could take the truck,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “We gotta pay the deposits anyway. The beer cost four dollars and thirty-two cents; couldn’t get the cheap kind ’cause the boys had been buyin’ the good kind. We got eight somethin’ left.”

  “Another great handicap,” Miss Tinkham said, “is the fact that we were forced by circumstance to take the antiques from Ben Hur Grossman on consignment. To make anything for ourselves, we have to boost the prices very high. If we owned the stock outright…We have to find him and make a better arrangement.”

  “We’ll make a list.” Mrs. Rasmussen’s panacea never failed. “That way we won’t dead-head none on the gasoline.”

  “But not before tomorrow morning.” Miss Tinkham smiled wearily. She was very pale under the eyes.

  “Hope nobody don’t wake up too early.” Mrs. Feeley grinned. “Why don’t we buy chow an’ some more candles? Fill the tubs an’ buckets again? Let’s not lay out no money to the companies till we hafta. Somethin’ may turn up by then.”

  “You got caught up on eatin’ sweet potatoes ’bout as fast as them boys got caught up on their love life,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Me for the sack.”

  Chapter 11

  WHEN MRS. RASMUSSEN hit the kitchen next morning, N. Carnation had the fire going and was sweeping the floor with a broom she had made of dry palm fronds tied together around a stick. The aluminum-foil trays the spareribs had come in were washed and dried.


  “Sure fine,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. She didn’t need language to communicate. N. Carnation’s shy smile was enough. Swiftly the chef sliced the cold, hardened mush and dipped it in flour, salt, and pepper. Then she fried it to a crisp, golden brown in the remainder of the bacon fat.

  She was just about to pour coffee for N. Carnation when she heard a loud roaring that came from the edge of the pavement up near the intersection.

  “C’mon!” She beckoned to her friend.

  They scooted down the lane in time to see a sports car backing out of the rutted path that served as a driveway to the Mansion.

  “Hey!” Mrs. Rasmussen shouted. It was the man Miss Tinkham had refused to sell the hearse to. “Was you lookin’ for us?”

  “Looking for the hearse. Is this the place?”

  Mrs. Rasmussen nodded and signaled for him to come on in.

  The two ran back to the house to wake Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley. Just like a customer to come when she had fixed that lovely, hot, crispy fried mush!

  The man with the little round cap was walking about the place taking everything in. Miss Tinkham appeared on the porch, dressed hastily in her zebra-striped Capri pants and red jumper.

  “Will you join us in a cup of coffee?” she asked. “We haven’t had ours yet.”

  He was obviously trying to locate the hearse.

  “I’ll sit with you,” he said. “You must sell me the hearse.”

  Miss Tinkham shook her head gently: “Out of the question. But we might lease. What do you want it for?”

  Mrs. Rasmussen handed her two golden, smoking slices of mush on a hot plate. The customer stared. “Is that fried mush?” he asked. “I haven’t seen any since I left Kansas.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen placed two slices on a saucer and brought them to him with a fork. “Coffee?”

  He shook his head and seemed embarrassed about accepting the mush.

  “I am a motion picture producer,” he admitted slowly, “and I need that hearse for a picture I am making.”

  Miss Tinkham had recognized him yesterday!

  “We could rent it or lease it,” she said, “so long as you use our own driver. We wouldn’t want anyone else to be in charge of it on account of its antiquity and fragility.”

  “I need to have one of my actors drive it,” he said. “Your man might speak at the wrong time and spoil the shooting.”

  Miss Tinkham smiled at Mrs. Rasmussen, then at the producer: “Rest easy on that score! What is the hearse worth to you by the week or the month?”

  “I’d need it by the day.”

  “That, of course, would cost more,” Miss Tinkham said, “and there is the cost of transporting it back and forth.”

  “We could leave it under cover at the studio,” he said.

  Miss Tinkham shook her head gently: “We can’t do that. It has to be called for and delivered the same day. What am I offered?”

  “Fifty dollars and transportation. You know what that’s going to cost me, don’t you?”

  “Considering the fact that there is probably not another hearse like this in the United States, your figure is insufficient. And we would have to have a minimum guarantee on the number of days you plan to use it.”

  The producer looked at her wild costume. “You’re no rookie,” he said grudgingly.

  “We have a small, neat monopoly, Mr….?”

  “Dorman. Seventy-five and that’s the limit. And that includes the driver. The Union will kick, but you’re an ‘independent contractor.’”

  “For how many days?” Miss Tinkham said.

  “We can do it in five,” he said. “If bad shooting overtakes us, we’ll have to rent it again.”

  Miss Tinkham struck while the iron was hot. “Done,” she got to her feet, “we want the guarantee of five days’ rent in writing and something in advance.”

  The man shrugged: “I can pay you the whole amount now, if you like.”

  “Thank you, no.” Miss Tinkham smiled. “There is a Spanish proverb that says ‘Music paid for in advance makes a sour sound.’ One day’s hire is sufficient.”

  “I’ll write you a check,” he said.

  “We don’t take checks, I’m sorry,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “I only have fifty on me.”

  “That will do nicely,” she said and went to get paper and pen. How should she make out the contract? For it was a contract, after all, and would be complicated by the many partners. Five Points Associates! That sounds impressive, she thought, and considering our many enterprises, we need a trade name to expedite matters.

  For once the ball-point pen that she loathed worked and she wrote two copies, one of which she signed as “secretary,” and the other was signed by the producer.

  “You have not said what day,” she reminded him.

  “Monday morning, and I mean early. We start shooting at eight and location is about fifteen miles from here.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Miss Tinkham said as she took the two twenties and the ten-dollar bill the man handed her. “You might look around at our bizarre bazaar while you’re here. Perhaps some other props…”

  “Not today, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Until Monday.” Miss Tinkham smiled and waved him off from the edge of the porch.

  Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen and N. Carnation were drinking coffee, their eyes wide open in expectancy.

  Miss Tinkham waved the money. “And three hundred and twenty-five more to come, plus a jaunt to a motion picture studio!”

  “We’d best put that away for taxes an’ the truck payment,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “If we find another bird’s nest on the ground, we might could start gettin’ the truck fixed.”

  “Sure swell,” Mrs. Feeley sighed happily licking crumbs of fried mush off her fingers. “Catchin’ ’em faster’n you can string ’em. We’ll have th’ electric lights now!”

  “The Famine Chest!” Mrs. Rasmussen smiled. “We’ll get it today.”

  “And we’ll fill up the truck, since we have many errands to do. I’ll tidy myself up a bit.” Miss Tinkham left after she handed Mrs. Rasmussen the money.

  “Ol’-Timer had his breakfast, so we’re all set.” Mrs. Rasmussen took off her apron and hung it up.

  Amid the excitement of the windfall, she had not forgotten the nice turkey backs N. Carnation had brought. They kept beautifully in the cooler because she had braised them the night they were brought. She washed two cups of rice and shook it in on top of the browned and seasoned turkey. Drinking water was running low, but there was enough to fill up the iron pot. The slow fire in the wood stove would guarantee a good hot dinner without any waiting when they came back starved from the labors of the morning.

  “Vamoose, N. Carnation,” Mrs. Feeley said, gesturing with her head toward the red truck. Old-Timer gunned the motor happily. Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham sat on boxes in the back.

  “First of all we must attend to the meter deposits and get the service turned on,” Miss Tinkham said. “The stocking up of food is in splendid hands, so I’d be of no help there. While you are doing that, I must go to the Public Library to look into future possibilities for our little friend here.”

  “I seen you was mullin’ something behind your eyes ever since Jesse talked to her,” Mrs. Rasmussen said softly.

  “The prospects are so dazzling that I am afraid to put them into words,” Miss Tinkham said. “We can’t indulge in wishful thinking, nor let N. Carnation get any false hopes, although it is evident that she is used to facing the grim realities, which is a great blessing.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen nodded and handed Miss Tinkham a five-dollar bill.

  “You’ll need this for your gettin’ around,” she said, “even if Ol’-Timer drives you. The meters will take ten, light an’ water. Just remembered we ain’t got no hot water even if we did have gas. The tank on the range is solid rust.”

  “We’ll manage for the time being,” Miss Tinkham said. “We really must have the newspaper, othe
rwise we will not know what is going on in the community and how to conduct our business accordingly. We must also find out what our mailing address is.”

  “Yeah.” Mrs. Rasmussen smiled. “Jus’ s’pose somebody died an’ left us a million. They wouldn’t know where to mail it to us.”

  “With the new supplies laid in, we will all feel more cheerful, forted up for a siege, so to speak. The promise of income is heartening, too. I don’t understand what has come over me. Before I teamed up with Mrs. Feeley and you, I had no initiative at all. My intelligence is no more nor less than it was before. I think it is a matter of strength in union. Now we are not afraid to start out emptyhanded.”

  “You never was afraid o’ that.” Mrs. Rasmussen smiled. “First night you ever drunk beer with us, you was goin’ to spend your last dollar for more, but your legs give out when you stood up.”

  “Lots of water, no…beer, under the bridge since then!” Miss Tinkham chuckled.

  “I’m aimin’ to get N. Carnation to take us to that turkey-packin’ place.” The chef was thinking ahead to the time when they would have electric current and she could talk the boys into helping to transport her Refrigidaire.

  “An’ they might’s well bring the piano while they’re at it. It ain’t so awful big, an’ the place don’t seem right without your music.”

  “After today we can play the radio,” Miss Tinkham said. “Just being without electricity a few days gives a new appreciation of things we take for granted.”

  Old-Timer pulled into a filling station and Mrs. Rasmussen told the boy to fill the gas tank and look at the oil too. Miss Tinkham made inquiries as to the location of the water, power and light office and the Public Library.

  At the utilities’ office, they hit a snag. The exact address of the property had to be established. Miss Tinkham telephoned Elmo Gates and returned in triumph: “Five Points, RFD Route 7, Box 7. That lovely, mystical seven can bring nothing but good fortune.” She beamed.

  “In whose name?” the clerk inquired.

  “I’ll sign,” Mrs. Feeley said proudly, hoping she still knew how.

  “The meters in town are in your name,” Miss Tinkham agreed, “and if they need a credit reference, they can see yours is perfect.” She filled in all the data for Mrs. Feeley, including the address at Noah’s Ark.