Let's go For Broke Page 5

  Mrs. Feeley rolled her eyes up piously. “Who? Me?” she said, and departed with Old-Timer who had a large burlap sack folded under his arm.

  “Might’s well get on with the dishes,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, and Miss Tinkham reached with the skill of long practice for the dish drainer. “No tellin’ what them two are up to, nor what they’ll bring back.”

  About half an hour later, a malodorous cloud drifted into the driveway of Noah’s Ark. It was followed by Mrs. Feeley and Old-Timer. He carried the tow sack half full of something.

  “You didn’t think I’d steal them cats, didja?” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Don’t have to!” She upended the sack and dumped two bushels of raw fishheads on the ground. Old-Timer handed her a smallish paper parcel.

  Miss Tinkham held her nose daintily. “Do you think that will draw them?” she asked. She had hardly closed her mouth when the first gray and white tom with one eye missing came twisting around the corner of the last bus-house on the lot.

  “What will we keep them in until we’re ready to move?” Miss Tinkham asked.

  “They won’t be no way to get rid of ’em after this,” Mrs. Rasmussen said sadly, “’specially not if that there’s liver in the brown paper.”

  Mrs. Feeley spread out small chunks of liver and the friends sat down to watch the fun. Orange cats, black cats, tortoise-shell cats, cats with straight tails, and cats with zigzag tails seemed to be communicating by some mysterious radar of their own.

  “We ain’t gonna run short o’ ball-bearin’ rat traps,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  One old veteran of many a back-fence escapade fought and slashed at another tom who tried to take his fishhead away from him.

  “The tabbies likes the liver best,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Just look at ’em!” The lady cats were gyrating in some weird spiral fertility rite of their own.

  “It has the effect of an aphrodisiac on them,” Miss Tinkham murmured.

  “African dizzy-acks!” Mrs. Feeley chuckled, “I swear I don’ know where you get them words.”

  “Won’t we need a trap of some kind?” Miss Tinkham asked.

  “They’ll be here every day from now on,” Mrs. Feeley said. “After we get ’em out to the place, we don’t wanna feed ’em too much, so they’ll be hungry an’ eat them rats.”

  The sound of a car driving in made them look up. Miss Tinkham turned slightly pale as she moved in to close up the ranks. Mrs. Feeley stood by Mrs. Rasmussen, arms akimbo. Old-Timer stood back of her and Miss Tinkham filled out the square.

  “We smashed your truck, but we’re gonna buy it,” Mrs. Feeley said as Otho Fikes cut off the engine of the Cadillac. She was a firm believer in the policy of “Who hits first, hits twice.” She could not see a mark or a dent on the Cadillac, and as the driver was still at large, he must have got away with the expired plates.

  He stared at them, got out slowly and walked around his once-beautiful red truck.

  “You shore did,” he agreed sorrowfully.

  Mrs. Feeley related the manner of the accident.

  “But you-uns are buyin’ it,” he said at last.

  “An’ fixin’ it,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We can’t pay it all at oncet, but we’ll pay you.”

  “I’ve fell plumb in love with the Cadillac.” He stroked the blue paint. “I could take it on the truck. Wouldn’t have to pay so much thattaway.”

  “We couldn’t,” Miss Tinkham said and her friends shook their heads. “It was a gift from a boy whom we…ah, helped to get back on his feet.”

  “Cost ye three hunnert to get them dents out,” he said sadly.

  “Engine ain’t hurt none. She runs fine,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “An’ we ain’t jewin’ you down none,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “I seen that you wasn’t aimin’ to dicker,” he said.

  “We are not in a very advantageous bargaining position,” Miss Tinkham reminded him.

  “Ye kin have it for seven,” he said. “I’m that sorry.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen went into the house and brought out cold beers for the wake.

  “Seems like I heard you don’t have to pay all the taxes at one time,” she whispered to Miss Tinkham.

  “The bills mentioned quarterly installments,” Miss Tinkham murmured. “Let’s caucus!” She beckoned to Mrs. Feeley and the three went into the house to hold a meeting of the board. “Tomorrow we’ll go and pay as much on the taxes as we can in advance,” Miss Tinkham said. “Then we’ll give him as much as we can on the down payment, and pay off the balance monthly.”

  “Sure take some shovelin’,” Mrs. Rasmussen sighed.

  “We’ll have to squeeze that parkin’ lot boy for all the law allows an’ then some,” Mrs. Feeley said. “We told him to come tomorra.”

  Otho Fikes stuck his head in the door: “Me and him’s goin’ to National City to talk to a feller I know got a body shop. Git it a mite cheaper than right downtown like this here.”

  “How will Old-Timer get back?” Miss Tinkham asked.

  “He can drive the truck back, long as you-uns are keepin’ your word. When the feller gits ready to take them dents out, he kin come after it. He’s got more work’n he can wag a stick at, but seein’ the fix you-uns is in, he might put ye ahead a little.”

  “That’s decent of you,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “What about the paper?” Mrs. Rasmussen asked.

  “I got the pank slip,” Fikes said.

  “We’re making up our accounts now, so that we may know just how much we can pay you at a time,” Miss Tinkham said. “If Old-Timer comes back alone, would you be kind enough to let him carry the title certificate with him? We are not asking you to sign it over or anything like that…you can’t until it’s paid up, but it is better for a driver who is not the owner to have the ownership certificate in the car…with him.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that,” Fikes agreed. “Thanks for the drank o’ beer.”

  “With those two out of the way, we can do a better job of making out what businessmen call a statement of condition.” Miss Tinkham was happy to think that in the last batch of newspapers she had picked up in the alley there had been a Wall Street Journal.

  “That means how far we in the hole,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Just about.” Miss Tinkham smiled as she brought the pencil and a fine, last year’s calendar that had scarcely been written on at all.

  “Now,” she handed the things to Mrs. Rasmussen. “Income on one side. Outgo on the other.”

  Mrs. Feeley rubbed her hands gleefully and moved her chair closer. “Never knowed how rich we was an’ how poor with all we gotta spend till it was wrote down on paper.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen puckered her brow gravely and wrote INCOME on the left side of the page. She looked at Mrs. Feeley.

  “Hunnert an’ fifty from the three bus-houses that’s rented to the boys, two vacant don’t bring nothin’, an’ two we live in nothin’…put down $150.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen wrote it down: “But we gotta turn right round an’ send it to them boys in Sow de Arabia to pay off for buildin’ ’em for us. Seems kinly like takin’ it outa one pocket an’ puttin’ it in another.”

  Mrs. Feeley scratched her head: “Does, don’t it? Wouldn’t it kinda simple-ize it if we just told ’em to keep the rent till we’re paid up?”

  “It doesn’t seem very businesslike,” Miss Tinkham said, “and what would they do without our monthly letters from home? I feel sure they mean as much to them as the money orders do.”

  “We might insult ’em,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “The parkin’ lot brings around fifty a month,” Mrs. Feeley said. “You could call it fifty.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen wrote it down.

  “And don’t forget my little twenty-five dollars,” Miss Tinkham said. “The new agent for my little house back home gets ten per cent for property management, but I think he is worth it. He says the income will be much better after I have paid off the new sewer pipes and plumbing he had t
o install when that dreadful tenant tore them all out of the bathroom and threw them away because the water company shut off the service for nonpayment.”

  “That’s when you takened that agent, ain’t it?” Mrs. Rasmussen’s look was full of sympathy for the plight of an absentee landlord.

  Miss Tinkham nodded: “He raised the rent when he put in the new plumbing and got nice people. In a year or so I’ll be getting forty dollars a month, if nothing else goes wrong. Just think of it!”

  “Sure fine, an’ my pension’s went up a little.” Mrs. Rasmussen marked down $50.40.

  “Ain’t no use to try to figger the dribs an’ dabs that Old-Timer picks up,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head: “But he hands it over to the kitty, every cent—$275.40! Ain’t that fine?”

  “Lovely,” Miss Tinkham agreed. “Really impressive.”

  “Yeah,” Mrs. Feeley put it, “but it ain’t profit. Gotta see how much we keep. Put down the ’spense now.”

  “Taxes first,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, glancing at the bill. “Four hunnert an’ fifty dollars an’ forty-eight cents.”

  “In our statement shouldn’t we break that down into what it comes to per month?” Miss Tinkham felt proud of that idea. Proud and a little sad, thinking of all the years she was alone, when her entire monthly income was gone half a day after she had cashed the money order with never any knowledge of how to spread it over the days to come.

  “It’s thirty-seven fifty-seven a month,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Ain’t that a lot o’ money to have to put back ’fore you can do nothin’ else? A dollar twenty-six a day! Almost nine dollars a week! We could live on that.”

  “I’ve seen the time we could live a week on that, but it’s sure gone where the good times go,” Mrs. Feeley sighed.

  “But our taxes are still the best investment we can make, if we want a reasonably free world,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Water an’ lights is high. Come to around $21 a month,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Don’t have no gas on ’count o’ my ’lectric stove.”

  “It’s high on accounta the parkin’ lot,” Mrs. Feeley said, “burnin’ the lights all night. Be less, out at the place.”

  “I generally keep back about $75 a month for the beer an’ our eats,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “If there’s a dollar left at the end o’ one month, I lump it in with the new, but with beer soarin’ outa sight, I don’t often have a dime left over.”

  “What you do is still a miracle,” Miss Tinkham said. “It will go further in the country where we can grow most of our food.”

  “It’s two hunnert eighty-three fifty-seven a month we spend accordin’ to my reckonin’,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “It leaves twenty-eight forty-three in cash every month, but I guess that better come under misk because I sure don’t know where it goes.”

  “Some of it is bound to be mixed in with the tax money,” Miss Tinkham said, “because I am sure we have been putting more than thirty-seven fifty-seven a month for that purpose. How much have we on hand in the kitty?”

  Mrs. Feeley got down Saint Anthony off the wall and pulled off the cellophane tape that held the foil package to the back of the picture.

  “Four hunnert an’ five dollars an’ four cents,” Mrs. Rasmussen counted it. “That ain’t enough for the taxes, let alone the truck.”

  Miss Tinkham took the tax bill and read it: “The quarterly installments are one hundred and twelve sixty-two each. We would have to pay those installments every three months. How would it do to pay two hundred twenty-five twenty-four now and have it behind us until April, half a year away?”

  “Pay it tomorra. Lots better,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Anythin’ can happen in six months, an’ prolly will,” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “How much does that leave us fer the truck?”

  “One hunnert an’ eighty,” Mrs. Rasmussen said after a while, “but we can’t give him all that. Not with a move comin’ up an’ deposits to pay an’ all.”

  “And the repair at the body shop,” Miss Tinkham reminded, “will have to be paid on a monthly basis too. The truck payment and the bodyworks payment will have to be made every month after that for…let me see, how many months, Mrs. Rasmussen?”

  Mrs. Feeley reached behind her and got out three beers. “Don’t tell us,” she said. “It wouldn’t do nothin’ but discourage us. We jus’ gotta keep payin’ till the baby’s ours. Give Fikes a hundred down.”

  “She’s right,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Knowin’ all that might make us iss-scairt. I’ll make us a little book an’ write down every time we pay…besides, they’re gonna want carryin’ charges.”

  “Be lucky to get their money on time, all we got ’head of us.” Mrs. Feeley said. “If the parkin’ lot boy don’t pay on time, they’ll have to wait, that’s all.”

  “I can see many a Spanish supper ahead.” Miss Tinkham smiled.

  “I ain’t made enchilollys in a long time,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “A Spanish supper means to tighten your belt up another notch,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “We gotta make a list of what we need to take with us the most,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “After we give Fikes the hunnert, that’s if he’ll take it, we gotta take the seventy-nine eighty an’ make us a Famine Box like we had in the old country.”

  “Wonderful!” Miss Tinkham’s eyes glowed. “They used to have sealed-up granaries, only to be opened up in time of crop failure or at other disasters.”

  “How many cases beer reckon that’ll buy,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Mostly it’ll be dried beans, peas, and lentils an’ stuff that’ll keep good an’ fill up the empty spots. I’m aimin’ to can a few things, if we get any little windfalls.”

  “I can’t seem to get too worried.” Miss Tinkham smiled. “You and Mrs. Feeley have so much good bread cast on the waters that any hour of any day or night, some of it is likely to float by in one form or another.

  Chapter 5

  “IF WE DIDN’T need to rent the parkin’ lot,” Mrs. Feeley fumed Monday morning, “that boy’d be underfoot ’fore breakfast.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Miss Tinkham murmured.

  “Gotta pop it to him.” Mrs. Feeley went to greet him cordially.

  The young man lacked his usual bounce.

  “I came back like I told you,” he said. “But things don’t look a bit good for us.”

  “How come?” Mrs. Feeley sat down on the step of the bus-house.

  “My wife’s been sick and now she has to have a long serious operation, be laid up for months they say. I sure want this business, but I don’t see how we can swing it now, with all the expense.”

  Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Rasmussen looked at each other and drew in closer to Mrs. Feeley on the step.

  “Won’t the Navy pay for it?” Mrs. Feeley asked.

  “Don’t come under their heading,” he said.

  With all the attendant expenses of a move, the purchase of the truck and its repair ahead of them, the ladies sat silent under the blow.

  Miss Tinkham was the first to recover: “Forgive me for being personal, but is your pension enough to live on without extra work?”

  The young man shook his head. “I have to work. Then there’ll be the nurse to stay with her while I’m gone. Cost a lot, but she deserves the best.”

  “Let us put ourselves in your place for a moment,” Miss Tinkham said, and motioned to him to sit down with them. “It may be that you cannot afford NOT to rent the parking lot. For instance: if you and your wife occupy the double bus-house we live in, you will not have to leave her while you go to work. You can operate the parking lot at home. You can also collect the rent from the other two units without ever leaving your own home.”

  “Wait on her at the same time,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Get her a little bell she could ring.”

  “Stores right handy,” Mrs. Feely said. “She could look out the window an’ you’d never be outa sight a minute, even when you done the errands.”r />
  “You might be able to save the expense of the nurse,” Miss Tinkham said. “As your wife recovered her strength, she could count the cars and little things like that would keep her from feeling lonely and left out.”

  “You said you was plannin’ to run the lot day an’ night, so you’d be up anyway if she needed a drink o’ water or somethin’,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “When a person’s had a shock like this, they need somebody to help them think things out, don’t they?” he said. “The way you point it out, it looks like the thing to do, only the money I had to put into it will have to pay on the operation now.”

  “We’re going to the country to live,” Mrs. Feeley said, “an’ the place has got to be took off our hands. Littler and steady rent would be good for us an’ you too. We ain’t gonna squeeze you. Some hot-shot could offer twicet as much an’ move off at the end of a month an’ where’d we be then?”

  “You’d have a signed lease, wouldn’t you?” the young man asked.

  “I don’t believe in them papers,” Mrs. Feeley said. “If a feller’s got a mind to leave, he’ll leave if it’s the middle of the night. If ya try to hold him, he’ll tear your propity up. An’ if I wanted to put him out, sposin’ he didn’t turn out right, I couldn’t do it on account o’ the paper. If he’s good, I sure ain’t gonna put him out. And if he turns out to be a sorry one, I can git shed of him legal.”

  “How much?” he asked.

  “We don’t even know your name.” Miss Tinkham smiled. “Mr. Dale Carnegie would never approve of that oversight.”

  “My name’s Tom Dawson. Please to meet you.”

  “Bring Tom a beer, Mrs. Rasmussen, while we talk it over a minute.”

  The ladies huddled in the kitchen, with a pencil and a folded paper napkin. “We don’t hardly fool with the parkin’,” Mrs. Feeley said, “an’ it brings fifty dollars a month. Workin’ it like he does, it’d be good for a coupla hunnert. Then he’s got rent free for hisself and the two singles in cash, when he rents ’em.”

  “Countin’ seventy-five a month for the double, an’ fifty for the singles, that’s a hunnert an’ seventy-five right there. With the parkin’ lot sure of bringin’ in fifty like it is now, askin’ two hundred and fifty would be a bargain.”