§ CHAPTER SIX §
The State of Texas Archives Department, located in the Capitol basement, was a stygian labyrinth of file cabinets and index boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. Worse, the subterranean storage area was mossy damp.
Nevertheless, that first morning on the job was a perfect start for Gideon’s political ambitions in his new homeland, America. A start that had him dragging, what with the exigency of getting out of Germany over the last eight days.
Fortunately, it seemed little was required of his legal expertise, thus far. Mostly, he would be cross indexing old state records. Earlier that morning, a government stenographer demonstrated how to use an addressograph machine.
“Much as a sewing machine,” she had told him with a coy smile.
Therewith, he had proceeded to stamp out envelopes with nearly 72,000 names and addresses. Representative Lyndon B. Johnson would be pleased. As far as Gideon was concerned, that was all that counted. Well, that – and Mrs. Lavinia Spiegel.
Earlier that morning, the synagogue’s Jewish Relief Program Director had stopped by Mimi’s Boarding House, where the rabbi had installed him the day before.
“Now do remember to come by the synagogue at noon, Mr. Goldman. We’ll have available your first month’s rent for the boarding house and additional clothing.” She lowered her voice and inclined her head with its glamourous slouch hat near his, although they were the only two in the boarding house parlor at the moment, “And, hopefully, your new identity documents.”
Lunch hour meant an escape from his scribe-like desk – and an opportunity to revisit with her. Given her faint crow’s feet and marionette lines, Gideon estimated she was likely close to a decade older than he, somewhere in her late thirties or early forties. The lovely Lavinia was everything his parents would have sought to arrange for him in marriage, had they possessed the wherewithal – she was well-bred, wealthy, and Jewish.
That the dark-haired, buxom beauty, a leader in Austin’s Jewish female community, was the widow of a diamond dealer, as she so artfully had woven into their conversation, was even better. That meant money left to her. And best, she apparently hobnobbed with this Texas politician, Johnson. What better avenue to exploit?
The Beth Israel Temple was conveniently catty-cornered to the Capitol. Two-stories high of native limestone, the synagogue was virtually empty at that time of day but for one middle-aged man in a yarmulke, who was practicing on a pipe organ beneath a wall of stained glass windows.
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.
After the waitress sauntered off, he leveled his squint-eyed gaze on Gideon. “So, betrothed you two are? From Germany, eh?”
Gideon was not sure how much Romy might have shared in the intervening twenty-four hours and looked to her.
She piped up, “Well, not exactly.”
The cowboy turned his head to stare down at her. “Not exactly? Not exactly which?”
“Both. Or neither,” she floundered. “Betrotheds. And from Germany.”
McClellan merely regarded her as she dug herself in deeper.
“We are – err – both refugees. Under the guise of betrotheds. I am from Germany – by way of Spain and Ireland ye might say.”
“You do say?” McClellan parodied dryly.
The waitress returned with their coffees, bestowing another lingering smile for McClellan before departing.
Gideon lifted his cup, “L’Chaim.”
The cowboy hiked a questioning brow.
Romy raised her own cup, “To Life – and Dheagh shlàinte, your good health.” Then added quickly, “And tis no life ye’ll be having if ye take that waitress to wife, Mr. McClellan.”
Gideon’s head swiveled, along with McClellan’s, toward Romy. She shrugged and smiled cheerily. “Gypsy souls know these things.”
McClellan eyes narrowed even further. “Then you’re not a Jew – you’re a gypsy? And you’re Irish, not German?”
Industriously, she stirred her steaming coffee, splashing a messy ring into its saucer. “Semantics.”
Slowly, Gideon shook his head in disbelief, while she hurried on. “That Adelle will make a frowsy, discontented ranch wife for ye, Mr. McClellan. Go to fat in no time. And, Gideon – that Mrs. Spiegel is accustomed to being pampered and will demand a great deal of yuir time and attention.
“However, if it is proper wives ye be wanting, I would be most happy to consult the cards about the females ye’re interested in. At a trifling price, naturally. “
“Naturally,” McClellan scoffed and took a swallow of the stomach-churning coffee.
Gideon was not so dismissive. Not that he gave any credence to her fortune telling act. But, after all, the day before Congressman Johnson had locked his roaming eye on the gritty girl, and if Gideon had learned anything in his three short decades of life, it was not to overlook or discount anything. Anything. Anything that could serve his practical purpose.
And this resourceful Gypsy girl with her old soul wisdom and devil-may-care attitude and engaging personality had all the makings that interested men like Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Rubbing his chin, raspy from lack of shaving lather, Gideon said, “It’s not such a bad idea, McClellan. We have nothing to lose.”
“I do. Every red cent I have, I intend to plow back into the S&S.”
“But think of the money and time wasted, courting all the females ye’ve a fancy for,” she prodded. “Think of it – I can save ye money, Mr. McClellan.”
“I am thinking of it. It’s money I don’t have. Besides, this isn’t gonna work. Come Christmas, I’m hauling you back to Galveston and asking Rabbi Hickman for another cook.”
Like a hummingbird, her gaze darted from the rancher to alight on Gideon. He could see that mind of hers spinning like a roulette wheel.
“Look, McClellan, if she does it for free,” he offered, “if she finds you a suitable wife soon, then you will rid yourself of – ,” he paused, nodded at Romy, who glared at him, and finished, “you will rid yourself of your present obligation just that much quicker. And you will have yourself a wife and cook in one.”
“Free?” she piped up, frowning.
“As in freeloading,” McClellan shot her an uncompromising look. “Matchmake all you want, but come Christmas your Bed and Breakfast freeloading is over.”
§ § §
Dawn’s muted light forced its way through the bathroom’s high, sand-filmed window pane. Towel slung around his hips, Duke braced his hands on either side of the chipped and rust-corroded pedestal sink and stared bleakly down at his hairbrush, its bristles meshed with long butterscotch-yellow strands.
That first night, the Gypsy girl had requisitioned one of his bandanas. The first morning after her arrival, she had used his toothbrush without a by-your-leave. Then, the night before last, he had found one of the Jewish Relief’s donated huaraches, almost a child’s size, left carelessly in between the distressed cushions of the parlor’s camelback sofa. She had been listening to the radio, turned up to a deafening decibel.
Granted, her personal hygiene was impeccable. Each night she had spent an hour or more in his claw-footed tub, washing her hair and scrubbing her skin, as if she thought she’d never be clean.
Yet he found her haphazard housekeeping and lack of respect for others’ personal belongings maddeningly incomprehensible. Yesterday, he’d walked in to find once again the radio blasting, this time loud enough to broadcast “Louisiana Hayride” to Austin and San Antonio.
Jesus Christ, what had he let himself in for? It was bad enough Lucy had up and died on him. This is what he got for letting his guard down, for letting Rabbi Harold Hickman play on his sense of obligation.
He took his straight razor and shaving brush from the mug, only to find dried, gummy lather coating the brush. And where the hell was his mustache trimmer? Frustration curdled into a yelled, “Sonnufabitch!” He reached for the medicine cabinet’s top shelf – and froze at the sound of the door opening.
The back of her hands rubbing her eyes, Romy stumbled sleepily through. “Wh-what?” she mumbled at his angry imprecation.
He took one look – at her disheveled hair, tumbled past her shoulders and glowing like knee-high goldenrods in the early morning’s pale half-light, at her elf’s body engulfed in his old, worn-out plaid shirt, at her childlike knees, and toes, bare of nail polish – and got even angrier.
This was the first he had seen her without that dirty doily of a hat or his faded red neckerchief hiding her hair, and the transformation was eye-blinking.
He flourished his razor blade before her startled face. “For centuries, these have been called cut-throat razors. Goddamnit, use mine again – or anything of mine – without asking first, and I swear I’ll cut your pretty little throat.”
She blinked awake. “Pretty?” She grinned. “Ye think I am pretty?”
God help him. “You are missing my point.”
She yawned, stretching her skinny arms with tiny knobs for fists over her head. His shirt tugged slightly upward and across small but ruched mounds that were clearly not childlike. “Yuir point being about cutting my throat or about being pretty?”
He sighed in resigned forbearance. “There are none so blind, as – ”
“ – as Helen Keller,” she chipped in, her nose wrinkling, making its freckles dance. She padded off toward the kitchen, throwing over her shoulder, “I’ll get the coffee started, Duke.”
So, it was back to Duke?
Later that mild autumn morning, trailing the herd up to the north pasture, he could not help but chuckle. Despite his exasperation at being saddled with the NYA’s incompetent cook, she did provide diversion. Disastrous diversion – which he did not need. Nor did he need a fetching filly, stirring up the ranch hands.
He needed luck. Good weather. Higher beef prices. He needed to be able to meet payroll. His ranch hands depended on him.
Once he had gotten his head on straight, knowing that one day he would return to claim what rightfully was his, he had frugally put back every penny from those years at sea. His meager savings had not been enough then – and each month he still ran dangerously close to his ledger books’ thin red line.
When he had taken ownership of the ranch three years before, he had planted improved varieties of grasses such as King Ranch Bluestem, Buffalo grass, and Coastal Bermuda. He had fenced off pastures to allow grazing rotation, and he had begun reconstruction of the ranch’s dilapidated buildings.
Hell, just paying for plumbing – not to mention anteing up for Congressman Johnson’s rural electrification project to reach the S&S last year – had set operating funds back by a good two years. Before that, he had expanded and updated the kitchen, framing it out and laying its flagstone flooring himself.
He braced worn-soft rawhide gloved hands on the pommel and watched Bud, up ahead. The kid was in pursuit of a mosshorn steer that had strayed off. On the small side at fourteen, he did not know that the stringy steer would tucker out of its own accord and wander back – or that it was grazing on sparse grass better meant for the more marketable cattle. Duke thought he should probably have plugged the steer last year and put it out of its misery.
And he probably should have hired some saddle tramp better fit to ride herd than the kid with his peach-fuzzed face. Duke had chanced across Bud, sleeping with a tennis racquet, of all things, beneath a sheltering chute of an Austin railroad stockyard.
The kid from New York’s Five Points had been riding the rails, as many of the Depression’s youth were doing and had seen his fill of tent and tar paper hobo jungles.
Dust flurried as Bud, astride his gelding, loped the steer back into the herd with shouts of, “Get along, get along!”
Arturo skidded his roan up alongside the gelding and with a cocky grin quipped something at Bud.
Of the S&S ranch hands, all Depression derelicts, only old bow-legged Jock was a true range rider, having worked on the King Ranch for a spell before the Scotsman’s drinking got the better of him. He could still brand a cowhide quicker than spit.
The Yankees, Glen and Skinny Henry, were good with the lariat, and the colored man Micah had handled a horse plow growing up. But Arturo was the natural when it came to horses.
At the thought of horses, Duke let out an audible groan and shifted restlessly in the saddle, its leather creaking. Tomorrow night horsewoman Sally Kirtley would come face to face with Gypsy girl Romy Sonnenschein – unless he could perform a feat of magic and ship the matchmaking Gypsy back to Galveston in the next twenty-four hours.
He gigged his bay into a gallop, as if he could outrun his fate.