been out. The checkbook had vanished. She kept it hidden. With it she kept a little spiral binder listing all the money she’d doled out over the months. She had let him catch a glimpse of that more than once, to remind him, possibly, that he wasn’t getting away with anything.
He steeled himself, then bent over and kissed her on the cheek. In two minutes he was out the door, striding up the alley toward the bank. Two thousand—it was double what he’d hoped for. He might have asked for three. But if he had, and she’d laughed in his face, then the whole business of the chocolates and the French chef would have come to nothing. And besides, if she’d written a bigger check, the bank might easily have kept it for a week to clear it. They weren’t entirely satisfied with the quality of Andrew’s banking. They weren’t anxious to speculate in questionable new businesses. Bankers were men of little imagination; that was the truth of it. The further truth was that the two thousand would go some distance toward paying the bills. They seemed to pile up so quickly these days. It wouldn’t be long, quite likely, before certain of their creditors would get nasty. But then their desperation might be enough to make Aunt Naomi advance them a bit more. Her will was drawn, after all. It would all belong to Rose when Naomi died. Surely it didn’t matter to the old woman whether she gave it to them now or waited until the end.
So the two thousand would have to do for the moment. If he were lucky, Rose would never hear about it until, on some future, grim day, Naomi would haul out her binder and show Rose what sort of spendthrift husband she was married to. By that time though, Rose couldn’t possibly remember what had happened to any single piece of that money. True, she’d be flabbergasted at the size of the debt they’d run up. But such was life. It would be spilled milk by then. There would be no inn without it, and certainly there’d be no restaurant—no real restaurant, anyway. Speculation was in his blood. There wasn’t a winner in the world that didn’t bet, and timidity wouldn’t buy copper pots. He’d have to work on the French chef business, though. Faking up a beard and mustache for Pickett wouldn’t answer. He’d heard of a chef’s school in Bellflower, and it would be the work of a moment to ring them up and inquire about the availability of graduates. He could hire one for a week to satisfy Naomi and Rose, then toss him out and do the cooking himself.
It was early evening when Andrew drove along the Coast Highway, listening to an odd rattle in the engine of the Metropolitan. He was entirely ignorant of mechanics, happily so. He didn’t have time in his life to meddle with it. There were better things to do, any number of them. In fact, he’d been doing some of them that very afternoon. He’d paid a visit to Polsky and Sons liquor importers and distributors on Beach Boulevard in Westminster, and come away with two cases of scotch, four dozen pint glasses, and most of the items on the list he’d made up out of
Grossman.
The trunk and back seat were full of stuff, and he still had the bulk of Aunt Naomi’s money in his wallet. He whistled tunelessly and looked out the window.
The warm weather seemed to be passing. The sky was gray out over the Pacific, and the wind had fallen off. Twilight cast long shadows across the weedy marshland ruins of boatyards and clapboard bungalows. He drove past heaps of rusted anchors and piles of painted buoys and what looked like an old concrete bridge, collapsed now and sunk into the shallows of the Bolsa Chica Salt Marsh. The Seed Beach Naval Weapons Station loomed off to the right, a broad expanse of what looked like pastureland and farmland, with here and there in the dim distances a weapons bunker sitting toad-like and ominous between grassy hillocks. There were broad wooden doors in the ends of some of the hillocks, with grass and canteloupe vines growing right in
He steeled himself, then bent over and kissed her on the cheek. In two minutes he was out the door, striding up the alley toward the bank. Two thousand—it was double what he’d hoped for. He might have asked for three. But if he had, and she’d laughed in his face, then the whole business of the chocolates and the French chef would have come to nothing. And besides, if she’d written a bigger check, the bank might easily have kept it for a week to clear it. They weren’t entirely satisfied with the quality of Andrew’s banking. They weren’t anxious to speculate in questionable new businesses. Bankers were men of little imagination; that was the truth of it. The further truth was that the two thousand would go some distance toward paying the bills. They seemed to pile up so quickly these days. It wouldn’t be long, quite likely, before certain of their creditors would get nasty. But then their desperation might be enough to make Aunt Naomi advance them a bit more. Her will was drawn, after all. It would all belong to Rose when Naomi died. Surely it didn’t matter to the old woman whether she gave it to them now or waited until the end.
So the two thousand would have to do for the moment. If he were lucky, Rose would never hear about it until, on some future, grim day, Naomi would haul out her binder and show Rose what sort of spendthrift husband she was married to. By that time though, Rose couldn’t possibly remember what had happened to any single piece of that money. True, she’d be flabbergasted at the size of the debt they’d run up. But such was life. It would be spilled milk by then. There would be no inn without it, and certainly there’d be no restaurant—no real restaurant, anyway. Speculation was in his blood. There wasn’t a winner in the world that didn’t bet, and timidity wouldn’t buy copper pots. He’d have to work on the French chef business, though. Faking up a beard and mustache for Pickett wouldn’t answer. He’d heard of a chef’s school in Bellflower, and it would be the work of a moment to ring them up and inquire about the availability of graduates. He could hire one for a week to satisfy Naomi and Rose, then toss him out and do the cooking himself.
It was early evening when Andrew drove along the Coast Highway, listening to an odd rattle in the engine of the Metropolitan. He was entirely ignorant of mechanics, happily so. He didn’t have time in his life to meddle with it. There were better things to do, any number of them. In fact, he’d been doing some of them that very afternoon. He’d paid a visit to Polsky and Sons liquor importers and distributors on Beach Boulevard in Westminster, and come away with two cases of scotch, four dozen pint glasses, and most of the items on the list he’d made up out of
Grossman.
The trunk and back seat were full of stuff, and he still had the bulk of Aunt Naomi’s money in his wallet. He whistled tunelessly and looked out the window.
The warm weather seemed to be passing. The sky was gray out over the Pacific, and the wind had fallen off. Twilight cast long shadows across the weedy marshland ruins of boatyards and clapboard bungalows. He drove past heaps of rusted anchors and piles of painted buoys and what looked like an old concrete bridge, collapsed now and sunk into the shallows of the Bolsa Chica Salt Marsh. The Seed Beach Naval Weapons Station loomed off to the right, a broad expanse of what looked like pastureland and farmland, with here and there in the dim distances a weapons bunker sitting toad-like and ominous between grassy hillocks. There were broad wooden doors in the ends of some of the hillocks, with grass and canteloupe vines growing right in
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