12: Chicago

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=90 BGCOLOR="#CC9900" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="047005a0dwnjzk.gif"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U><B>home</B></U></A><B>     | </B><B> </B><B> </B><B>  </B><FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFCC66" FACE="Arial" ><B>Cassie's Writing</B></FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id53.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="1: New Orleans"><U><B>1:  New Orleans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id54.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="2: Mary Margaret"><U><B>2:  Mary Margaret</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id55.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="3: Rumrunners Row"><U><B>3:  Rumrunners' Row</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id56.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="4: Speakeasy"><U><B>4:  Speakeasy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id57.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="5: Sys Deal"><U><B>5:  Sy's Deal</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id58.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="6: Reunion"><U><B>6:  Reunion</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id59.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="7: Disaster"><U><B>7:  Disaster</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id60.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="8: Petofi"><U><B>8:  Petofi</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id63.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="9: Cuddeback"><U><B>9:  Cuddeback</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id64.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="10: Angelique"><U><B>10:  Angelique</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id65.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="11: Making Plans"><U><B>11:  Making Plans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><B>12:  Chicago</B><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id67.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="13: Nora"><U><B>13:  Nora</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id68.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="14: The Gypsy"><U><B>14:  The Gypsy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id69.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="15: The Trap"><U><B>15:  The Trap</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="16: The Gift"><U><B>16:  The Gift</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id71.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="17: Beth"><U><B>17:  Beth</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id74.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="18: Together Again"><U><B>18:  Together Again</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id75.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="19: Petofi Strikes"><U><B>19:  Petofi Strikes</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U><B>Taking Wooden Nickels</B></U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>12:  Chicago</B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div>      Quentin and Dave arrived in Chicago at the newly constructed Union Station.  Dave had been to Chicago once or twice and knew his way around a little.  He was explaining that they were in a part of downtown Chicago called "The Loop" because the El trains made a circuit around the area.  "Like a long merry-go-round," Dave explained. Quentin sent his luggage on ahead; Dave elected to carry his bag. They could see the Chicago River when they came onto Canal Street.  "Well, I don't know about you, Franky, but I'm hungry."</div> <div>      "I am, too.  Where do we go?"</div> <div>      "We can catch an El and go to the south side.  They must got a place down there kinda like Harlem, where whites and coloreds mix a little bit."  </div> <div>      They got off eventually at 35th Street and began walking until they came to a little café with white and black patrons.  After they ordered some hamburgers, they listened to some of the side conversation around them.  Apparently, they were very close to a five block area of theaters, dance halls, and night clubs that primarily hired and catered to black audiences; there were two names that came up that apparently white people went to: the Sunset Café (which was where Louis Armstrong was playing) and the Royal Gardens.</div> <div>      "Maybe one of these here is where that lady CaraLinda is singing," Dave said to Quentin.  "I'll find out this afternoon and evening when I look for a place for myself." Quentin fiddled with his lunch moodily.  He would've preferred to go with Dave and wasn't looking forward to seeing Nora.  He wasn't sure why; he genuinely loved his niece, but he had a feeling of foreboding about the visit here.  Dave noticed.  "What's botherin you, Frank?"</div> <div>      "I don't like it here," Quentin complained.  "I don't know my way around.  I don't even know where Nora lives."</div> <div>      "You're like a cat on a narrow fence," Dave said, nodding sympathetically.  "Look, you eat.  We'll go 'round and find a place for me to stay.  Then you'll know where to find me.  I'll show you how to find your niece.  Where is she?  Kenwood Gardens?  That's near the University.  It ain't hard to find, and it's really nice out there.  Lots of rich folk out there."</div> <div>      "Maybe that's why I don't like it," Quentin sighed.  "Well, we do what we have to do."</div> <div>      Dave laughed.  "Don't make it sound so bad, Franky!  Your bed'll be more comfortable than mine, trust me."</div> <div>      And empty, too, Quentin thought gloomily.  He wished he had a drink.</div> <div>      After lunch, they walked around the neighborhood for a few blocks, and then Dave found a sign that said "Room to let".  He made Quentin go back to the café to wait for him because he didn't want to attract attention to themselves.  He explained that these were segregated neighborhoods, and a white man hanging around a black man looking for a room was bound to be noticed.  "Landladies, they yak.  They yak to their friends all the time.  Their friends talk to other friends, who go to these here clubs where Bartelli may know some people.  You dig?"  Quentin did.  His irritation increased.  The house was seedy looking, Quentin thought as he walked back to the café.</div> <div> He wasn't sure if it was safe to order a beer here; he asked for a cup of coffee instead even though that was not what he wanted. It made him feel even crankier. After what seemed an interminable length of time, Dave came back with a smile and said, "Leastways I got me a place to stay."</div> <div> "Wonderful," Quentin said, still feeling grouchy.</div> <div> "Listen here, buddy, you can come see me in the evening," Dave continued enthusiastically.  Quentin raised an eyebrow at him, and Dave explained the room was on the first floor and the entrance to it was in the back. "Less likely for you to be spotted this way, see?"</div> <div>      "You think of everything, Dave," Quentin said. At his tone, Dave looked at him closely.  "I'm not making fun of you.  I just don't like this."</div> <div>      "Well, I don't neither.  But it is what it is.  Come on.  Lemme show you where you need to be going, and then I'm gonna come back down here and look for a gig."</div> <div>      They took a cab to the University of Chicago and entered the campus from the south side.  The university was located on almost two hundred acres of carefully landscaped grounds.  As they walked, Dave pointed eastward and said, "Over there's Woodlawn Avenue--that's where your niece lives, right?"</div> <div>      "Woodlawn and 55th, something like that," Quentin agreed.</div> <div>      "Most these big houses around here built for the teachers that work here," Dave explained.  "Then other rich folks moved in and started building in here.  You keep going east, you'll get to the lake--Lake Michigan, I mean.  They got beaches down there, too, for swimming."</div> <div>      "Oh," Quentin answered.  He didn't feel like swimming.</div> <div>      "You may want to, should it get hot enough later this summer," Dave commented, as if reading his mind.  "I'll walk 'long with you 'til we get to your niece's house.  We'll have a look-see around, and then you can walk me back here to get me a cab back to 35th street.  I don't wanna be walkin around here alone."</div> <div>      "What happened in Mississippi, Dave?"  Quentin asked suddenly.</div> <div>      Dave was silent.  He stopped walking and reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.  He hadn't smoked any since they'd left New Orleans.  He offered one to Quentin, who shook his head.  Dave lit the cigarette; his hands were shaking a little.  He inhaled and then sighed.  "I was just a little kid, y'see?  I didn't see much of nothin, while it was happenin'.  I was too busy hiding under the bed."  He laughed, briefly.  "One of my mama's brothers done somethin to offend a white man down in the town we lived at.  The Klan come out to where we were livin--there were about three shacks together.  My mama and daddy's, my uncle's, and my grandparents.  I just remember wakin up and the sky bein strange--yellow and flickery like.  And I could hear shoutin.  So I creep over and look out my window, and my mama and daddy are out there, and my aunt and uncle, and my gran'ma and gran'daddy--and they're all surrounded by what looked to me like ghosts holding torches. That's what made them flickering lights.  Klan.  Seemed like hundreds of them.  They was the ones doin all the shoutin--it scared me, bein just a little kid, y'know.  Last thing I remember seein was these men grabbin hold of my uncle and dragging him over to a tree.  Put a rope around his neck--"</div> <div>      "Christ!" Quentin exclaimed, feeling sick.  No wonder Dave was so nervous about being in a neighborhood filled with white people.</div> <div>      "Yeah, well he wasn't there that night," Dave said, a little bitterly.  "I stopped watchin.  Crawled under the bed.  I didn't see anything else, but I know what they did, Frank.  They hanged my uncle.  We moved to New York after that.  Funny thing is, after all these years, I don't know what it is my uncle done that made them so mad."  Dave looked at Quentin's face.  "It was a long time ago.  I don't think about it a lot--'cept when I'm feelin uncomfortable.  Watched, you know?"</div> <div>      "Yeah," Quentin agreed.  "I'm sorry, Dave."</div> <div>      "Well, shit, YOU didn't do it," Dave pointed out.  "But I know what you mean, kid.  Speaking of being watched, keep your eyes open--you see or feel anything, you say somethin, y'hear?  We wanna make sure that devil-man doesn't have people around here watchin YOU."</div> <div>      They continued to walk in silence.  Quentin noticed that except for downtown, Chicago didn't have as many big buildings as New York.  It seemed to be made up of a bunch of ethnic neighborhoods all shoved together.  Most of the homes he'd seen on the way here were bungalows; the tallest apartment he'd seen so far was only three stories high.  In this particular neighborhood, huge homes lined the streets--mansions, really.  Still not as impressive as Collinwood, Quentin thought.</div> <div>      They arrived at the imposing mansion that was Nora's and stood looking at it from across the street.  Dave whistled in admiration.  "Your niece doin real well," he commented.</div> <div>      "She did the right thing.  She married well, into money.  She has 'connections'," Quentin said, a little contemptuously.</div> <div>      Dave raised his eyebrows.  "You sure funny about that.  You got all your needs and wants takin care of.  You don't ever be hungry, and you don't ever worry where you goin to lay down and sleep."</div> <div>      Quentin looked at Dave and laughed sheepishly.  "I guess I oughtn't talk that way to you, of all people."  He looked down at his shoes.  "It's not all that great having so much money, though.  It doesn't take care of all your needs, not really."</div> <div>      Dave laughed, too.  "I guess maybe it would help if we stood in each other's shoes a while, huh?"</div> <div>      "Maybe," Quentin had stopped laughing and was looking at the mansion thoughtfully.  "Although unless we could trade skins it might not help that much."</div> <div>      Dave laughed heartily.  "You a colored man!  Wouldn't that be something!  Lord have mercy!"  Quentin made a face at him.  Dave became serious again.  "I didn't notice no strange people lurkin about, did you, Frank?"</div> <div>      "No."</div> <div>      "I don't think that devil-man will think to look for you here, yet.  Maybe he already done it, weeks ago, while we were in Cuddeback.  He ain't goin to look again until he feels he needs to."  Quentin nodded, agreeing, and shuddered.  He hated thinking about Bartelli.  "C'mon, man, now I know where you're gonna be.  Walk back with me.  Then you can go meet your family again."</div> <div>      "I can't wait," Quentin muttered under his breath.  Dave heard him and shook his head, still puzzling his friend's strange family relationships.</div> <bR> <div>      Quentin stood in front of Nora's house again, looking up at the imposing structure.  He'd left Dave at the university with the understanding he'd meet Dave mid-afternoon of the next day at the café they'd had lunch in. He was reluctant to go up and knock at the door, and he really didn't understand why.  Maybe it was because of the things Edward and Angelique had told him, or maybe it was just that he didn't like what the house represented any more.  Well, he thought, he couldn't stand here all day.  Resolutely, he crossed the street to the house, went up the steps and knocked at the door.  A woman with a cheerful, round Irish face opened the door to him.  She smiled pleasantly at him and he found himself smiling back.  She was an older woman, possibly the housekeeper; her once red hair was streaked with patches of white and was pulled back in a bun.  "Good afternoon, sir," she said politely, with a light brogue.</div> <div>      "Good afternoon," he answered, liking her immediately.  "Is Mrs. Billings at home?"</div> <div>      "Indeed, sir, and would you be her cousin, then?  Mr. Healey?"</div> <div>      "That's right."</div> <div>      "She's been expecting you.  Won't you come right in, sir?"</div> <div>      "Thank you. Ah, do you know if my luggage arrived?"</div> <div>      "Indeed it did, Mr. Healey, and we've already had it taken to your room.  Let me show you to the library; that is where Mrs. Billings is now."</div> <div>      Library!  Quentin looked all around as he followed the woman into the house and to the library.  "Um, your name is--"</div> <div>      "Mrs. Cleary, sir," she answered, sounding a little flustered.  "Forgive me for not introducing myself.  We've been all aflutter today."</div> <div>      "Not on my account, I hope," Quentin said, smiling widely at her.  He winked, and she laughed liltingly.  Very nice lady.</div> <div>      She opened the doorway to the library.  "Mrs. Billings, ma'am, Mr. Healey has arrived," she announced.  She stepped back and indicated that Quentin should proceed ahead of her.  He stepped in, and Mrs. Cleary shut the door behind him quietly.  This library wasn't brightly lit like Larry Fay's had been; it was darker and reminded him more of Collinwood.  There were heavy drapes over the windows that could have let in the bright sunshine, but they were drawn.  Quentin saw that Nora had been sitting on a velvet sofa, reading a novel of some kind.  She put the book down and stood up.</div> <div>      "Well, Uncle Quentin," she said, not moving.  When he'd talked to her on the phone, she'd sounded polite, but cool.  She looked at him appraisingly.</div> <div>      "Nora, it's good to see you.  How are you?"</div> <div>      She stepped toward him.  He hadn't seen her since she was a child; now she was a total stranger to him.  She was a middle-aged woman now, heavy from childbirth and inactivity.   Her thick brown hair had been carefully coifed in the appropriate matronly style.  Her cool study of him made him fidget.  "I still find this hard to believe," she said finally.  "If Father hadn't been so insistent, I probably wouldn't have believed it at all."</div> <div>      "It's a pretty incredible story," he agreed.  He stepped forward and took her hand in his.  "It is good to see you again, Nora."  He knew he was repeating himself, but he felt very awkward and uncomfortable.  He could see that her hair had begun to go gray in front; she didn't have laugh lines like Jamison had-the lines around her mouth pulled downward as if she were unaccustomed to smiling.</div> <div>      "Really?  And yet you never sought me out all these years.  If there hadn't been this 'problem' Father referred to, would you have bothered?"</div> <div>      He realized she was hurt and angry.  "I'm sorry, Nora.  I never meant to hurt you."</div> <div>      She pulled her hand away, irritated that he'd figured her out.  "You contacted Jamison, didn't you?"  He was about to speak again, but she waved her hand.  "It doesn't matter!  I'm glad you're here, really.  And it is good to see you again.  You're welcome to stay with us as long as you like, Uncle Quentin."  She hesitated.  "You're not going to cause any trouble here, are you?"</div> <div>      "No," he replied without thinking and could've kicked himself.  He was giving her an assurance he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep.  In spite of her words, he still felt anger and resentment radiating from her.</div> <div>      She looked at him again.  "You're using another name--is it Frank Healey?  I told Phillip and the rest of the household that you are my cousin."</div> <div>      "Good," he said, relieved.</div> <div>      "Why Healey?"</div> <div>      "Why?  Ah--it was Ruth's maiden name.  It was the first name I thought of."  He wondered where this conversation was going.</div> <div>      "So it was."  She wrinkled her nose, as if in distaste.  "It's such--such an IRISH name."</div> <div>      "Excuse me?"  </div> <div>      Nora made a face.  "There are a lot of those Irish people here--Frank.  They really are a no-good lot.  They're lazy and they drink that bathtub gin that's sold in the illegal houses around here.  They run in gangs on the north side and even in Cicero.  One of them was killed last year.  Some criminal named O'Bannion.  And yet, they gave him a fine funeral.  It was as if the President had died."</div> <div>      Quentin just stared at her. "What about Mrs. Cleary?"</div> <div>      "Well, she came highly recommended to Phillip.  She has been with us for many years, and she is efficient.  But did you notice how red her face is?  She has a passel of children at home and a husband who drinks, no doubt.  I'm sure they all do."</div> <div>      Quentin couldn't believe what he was hearing.   Obviously, Nora had not been the one to leave the Scotch at Cuddeback.  "Nora, did friends come and stay with you while you were at Cuddeback?"</div> <div>      She gave him an odd look.  "What a strange question!  What made you ask that?"</div> <div>      "Um--I found a Boy Scout uniform--"</div> <div>      "Oh, that probably was Eddie's."</div> <div>      "Eddie?"</div> <div>      "My son.  Edward.  Eddie.  But we were talking about your use of the name Healey.  Phillip was very surprised.  He didn't think I was Irish." Nora had sat down on the sofa again and was looking at him reproachfully.</div> <div>      "Oh.  I'm sorry, Nora, I hope it didn't cause you any trouble."  Quentin shifted his feet uncomfortably.  He couldn't believe it--he felt like he was talking to Judith. He couldn't believe his niece was reprimanding him for his choice in aliases.</div> <div>      "Well, I had to tell Phillip that you were--a DISTANT cousin.  Of my mother's," Nora went on.</div> <div>      "Of Laura's?" Quentin asked, incredulously.  "I just want to make sure we get our stories straight.  May I sit?"</div> <div>      "Of course.  Please do," Nora replied, with feigned grace.  Quentin sat on a chair across from his niece.  The whole thing seemed unreal to him now.  "Now, Phillip asked me what the purpose of your visit was, and I said I didn't know as I don't know you well enough."</div> <div>      "Well," Quentin began, thinking. Lately, the newspapers were full of the stories of the Scopes trial in Tennessee.  The defendant was being represented by Clarence Darrow of Chicago, who was infamous for his defense of two men accused of murder in the city the year before.  Both cases had been dubbed "trial of the century."  He suggested, "We'll tell him I'm researching the Loeb and Leopold defense by Clarence Darrow because of this monkey trial of his in Tennessee."  He laughed.</div> <div>      "What's so funny?" Nora snapped.</div> <div>      "Nothing, Nora, I was just laughing at the idea of me being a writer."  He was beginning to wish he'd talked Dave into sharing a flat somewhere after all.</div> <div>      "All right, it sounds fine.  He'll tell you some things, though.  That trial was the talk of the town last year, and he's an attorney, you know."</div> <div>      "I heard.  And Edward--your father--he told me you have children?"</div> <div>      "Three.  My eldest is at the University of Chicago," Nora answered.  Quentin's eyebrows shot up.  "What is it?"</div> <div>      "Ah, nothing, I was on that campus just now," Quentin began.  He stopped and then began again.  "Your oldest is in college?"  He was stunned.</div> <div>      Nora gave him an exasperated look.  "I haven't been a little girl for a LONG time, Uncle Quentin--Frank.  Phillip and I have been married almost 20 years.  Phillip Jr. is eighteen--he is taking a summer course before he starts his first full semester.  He is a very bright young man.  Very bright.  He'll be a very successful attorney too, I'm sure."</div> <div>      "That's nice," Quentin said, but he wasn't sure he meant it.  "And the other two?"</div> <div>      "Well, Eddie is fifteen, and he is out with his friends right now.  Mary Jane is seven.  I believe she's in the playroom.  Would you like to see her?"</div> <div>      "Yes," Quentin answered truthfully.  He was relieved.  He didn't think he could stand another moment alone with Nora.  Nora got up and moved to a corner of the library and pulled on a knotted velvet rope that probably set a bell off somewhere.  </div> <div>      Sure enough, within a few minutes, a young maid opened the door.  "Please get Miss Mary Jane and bring her here," Nora ordered.  The maid shut the door and left.  She had a pretty face, Quentin had noted, with a slight stirring of interest.  He wondered what her name was.  Within a few minutes, the maid had returned with a blonde, blue eyed freckled child whose personality seemed as sunny as her looks.  "This is Mary Jane," Nora said.  To her daughter, Nora also sounded formal and stiff, "Mary Jane, this is your cousin Frank.  You can call him Uncle Frank."</div> <div>      Mary Jane came over and shook hands with Quentin solemnly.  Then she grinned at him.  She was missing her upper two front teeth.  He couldn't help but grin back at her.  "How do you do," she said.  </div> <div>      "Well, why don't you keep Mary Jane busy while I attend to this evening's preparations?" Nora said.  It didn't seem to be a question.  She left the room, leaving Quentin with the little girl.</div> <div>      Great, thought Quentin.  What a swell mother.  He couldn't decide whether she was more like Judith or Laura.  Maybe Nora was an equal combination of both.  He thought about how differently she and Jamison had turned out and wondered what the difference had been.  She wasn't like this when she was a child--most definitely not!  "What do you want to do, Uncle Frank?"  Mary Jane asked.  The child seemed to be used to this kind of behavior.  "Would you like to read a book or see the rest of the house?  Would you like to see the playroom?  I was playing house.  Want to see my doll house?"</div> <div>      "Okay," he said agreeably.  The child took his hand and led him out of the library and to the grand stairs.  The playroom was upstairs, apparently.  Along the way, the child chatted non-stop in a very friendly manner.  He tried to listen to her but had a hard time following everything she was saying.  She was telling him about her doll's family--the names of the family members and all the interesting things they did.  He thought she might  have been talking about her own family--there was a busy mama, a working daddy, two big brothers, a little girl with lots and lots and lots of friends, several pets….He was thinking how unlike Nora she was and how lonely she must be when something she said startled me.  "I'm sorry, Mary Jane," he said.  "What did you say, honey?"</div> <div>      "Oh, the daddy brought home his client to visit, Uncle Al, " the child repeated happily.  "When Uncle Al comes, he always brings presents for the whole family.  But he is a secret friend.  The daddy doesn't tell the mommy about Uncle Al.  And he doesn't tell the big brothers.  They usually aren't home anyway.  But lots of times the little girl is home and all her pets, and Uncle Al brings her candy and dollies.  More friends for the little girl.  And the little girl promised her daddy not to tell."  She stopped and gave Quentin a very troubled look.  "That's a made up story," she said, looking very unhappy.  She'd brought Quentin into the playroom and was showing him the dollhouse.</div> <div>      "I know about make believe, Mary Jane," Quentin said reassuringly, but his brain was spinning quickly.  This sounded almost exactly like what he and Jamison had done with Elizabeth, keeping his visits a secret from Edward.  Only--who was Uncle Al?</div> <div>      "Make believe isn't real," Mary Jane continued, her face still troubled.</div> <div>      "But it IS a lot of fun," Quentin said.  "I won't tell about your make believe stories." The child's face brightened considerably.  Quentin felt like a heel for what he asked next.  "Um, Mary Jane, what does your doll's Uncle Al look like?"</div> <div>      Mary Jane thought a minute.  Then she said, "He's not old.  He's like you.  But you're more handsome.  He's kinda fat.  And he has scratches on his face.  And he smokes cigars."  She wrinkled her nose.  "Really stinky.  But he brings me sweet candy and something called--um, gah-nole.  In a bag.  And sometimes dollies, too.  He's really nice.  He just is stinky from the cigars."  She looked at Quentin.  "What's wrong?"</div> <div>      Quentin shook himself.  "Um, nothing, honey, nothing.  Why don't you show me which doll is which?"  He tried very hard to concentrate on what the child was saying as he thought over what she'd said in his head.  Was it possible?  Her father Phillip was a lawyer.  He'd represent a lot of people.  Uncle Al--could he be Al Capone?  It was mind-boggling.  It made sense, though--Nora had spoken very disparaging of liquor and of gangsters.  She wouldn't want to know about Al Capone.  He felt very anxious to meet Phillip Billings, Sr.</div> <bR> <div>      The first opportunity came at the dinner table.  It was one of the most uncomfortable meals Quentin had ever experienced.  He said little or nothing, and noticed the same was true of Nora's husband, Phillip.  Nora and the older son, Phillip Jr. did most of the talking, and the topic centered mostly around summer parties--who was having them, who was invited, and who was going where on vacation when.  Quentin was very bored.</div> <div> Phillip Sr.  was tall and broad shouldered--he didn't look very much like an attorney.  He looked more like a bouncer in one of those New York speakeasies.  He had dark hair and eyes.  The two sons had his dark hair and Nora's blue eyes. Quentin wasn't sure where Mary Jane had gotten her blonde hair and blue eyes from--unless it was from Laura, her grandmother.  That was a distressing thought, Quentin reflected, and hoped the little girl hadn't inherited anything else from her grandmother.  He gave Nora a sudden, appraising look.  He wondered if Nora wasn't just a little like Laura now, too.</div> <div> Nora noticed.  "Frank?  Did you want to say something?"</div> <div> "Ah--where's Mary Jane?"  The question was out before he could decide whether or not it was appropriate to ask.</div> <div> Nora looked non-plussed for a moment.  Eddie snorted, and Phillip Jr. said snidely, "As if we could tolerate the little chatter-box at the dinner table!"</div> <div> Nora looked irritated.  "She is too young to join us now.  She is taking her meal with her governess, Miss Schneider."  Her tone had a "why should you care?" challenge to it.  Quentin looked back down at his plate.  He felt sorry for the little girl, especially after hearing her older brother's crack.  When he looked up again, he noticed Phillip Sr. looking at him.</div> <div> When the meal was over, Phillip Sr. said:  "Care to take a stroll with me, Frank?  I like to take a constitutional after dinner."</div> <div> "Sure," Quentin said, relieved.  Anything to get away.</div> <bR> <div> Outside, Phillip lit a cigar.  He offered one to Quentin, who decided to accept.  He liked cigars once in a while.  Phillip spat the end out and lit it.  He took a puff, looked up at the sky, and said, "I hate the bitch.  Want to get a drink?" Quentin had just lit his own cigar and had taken a draw of it.  He was so surprised, he gulped and swallowed the smoke.  He immediately started coughing and went red in the face.  Phillip watched him mildly, not reacting.  "I guess I shouldn't have said anything.  I wasn't thinking that she was your cousin."</div> <div> Quentin had stopped choking and had started to laugh.  "Don't apologize!  She's not the same person I knew!  She's got a pole up her ass or something."</div> <div> Phillip laughed, too.  "Been that way since the little one came along. We weren't expecting that.  It sort of put an end to everything, if you know what I mean."  He winked at Quentin, who was shocked at such a revelation to someone who was practically a stranger.  "You married, Frank?"</div> <div> "No."  Families!  Friends were much better than families, Quentin thought.</div> <div> "Good!"  Phillip clapped him on the shoulder in a companionable way.  "Come on, son."</div> <div> Quentin grimaced resentfully, but Phillip didn't notice.  He didn't want Phillip calling him "son" but kept his mouth shut.  It was probably the atmosphere of the house that caused him to feel this way.  They'd crossed the street and turned the corner.  Phillip was opening the door of a Marmon Brougham coupe parked in the alley.  "Phillip, what--?" Quentin asked.</div> <div> "Nothing around here in walking distance, Frank.  We're going down to the south side.  Don't worry.  She won't notice or care.  Get in."</div> <div> Shrugging, Quentin got in on the other side.  It was the most beautiful car he'd ever seen. It had two tones--black and gray. It looked very classy. Everything gleamed; it had to be new. Even the radiator was plated and gleaming.  In the rear quarters of the car were oval shaped windows. Everything inside smelled new and gleamed as if recently polished.  Quentin was impressed, but he just asked, "Where are we going?"</div> <div> "Well, we'll get ourselves a drink at the Royal Gardens.  If we stay long enough, maybe we'll get to hear the new singer they've got featured there. I wasn't sure which night she starts."</div> <div> "Who's that?"</div> <div> "Gorgeous mulatto or something named Carabelle or Caralynn something." Quentin was suddenly very, very interested in anything else Phillip had to say or the places he wanted to go.  "So I hear you want to do a book on Darrow's defense of Leopold and Loeb?"</div> <div> "Yes," Quentin answered cautiously.</div> <div> "Be glad to help you out any way I can, Frank.  That was one ugly case here.  People actually stopped talking about Al Capone for a few hours!"  Phillip laughed.</div> <div> "Thanks," Quentin answered.  "What did people think about Darrow using the insanity defense?"</div> <div> "Ha!" snorted Phillip.  "We can talk about that later.  We save business for business hours and pleasure for right now.  I think that singer starts sometime this week.  I'd like to get a look at her.  In fact I'd like to get a look at ALL of her and see if the rest of her is as gorgeous as her face."  He winked and leered at Quentin, who thought that here finally was someone more obnoxious than he was.  Maybe that was why Nora was such a humorless--witch.  Can't call my niece that b word, he thought to himself.  Witch.  That was it.</div> <div> The club was located on 35th Street; in fact they passed the café in which Dave and Quentin had eaten lunch.  Like most speakeasies, this club was filled with smoke and noise.  The man at the door recognized Phillip and immediately sat  him at a table near the edge of the dance floor.  "Friend of mine owns the place," Phillip explained to Quentin, who nodded and looked around.</div> <div> There were several types here that Quentin now recognized as "the gangsters".  He supposed they were aligned with Al Capone and wondered if that man was here anywhere. "I was wondering where I'd be able to get something to drink," Quentin finally ventured.</div> <div> "Well, let me advise you there, Frank.  I'll tell you the SAFEST places to get your booze.  The other rotgut--be careful.  It'll kill ya.  The stuff is poison."</div> <div> "Poison?"</div> <div> "Yeah--the biggest suppliers were these guys called the Genna brothers.  Here's what they did--they siphoned off industrial alcohol and sold it as gin.  I've heard of plenty people who got seriously ill or died when they drank that shit.  It'll blind you.  Stay away from it."</div> <div> "No one runs to Canada?"</div> <div> "Nah. Not them. They can make more money off the rotgut stuff.  The good stuff gets imported whenever we want either from Canada or Mexico.  That's for clients like you and me.  I'll tell you who you should talk to."</div> <div> "Do you do any of that?"</div> <div> "Hell, no.  I don't want to get killed.  You have any idea how many people have been killed on these streets in the last couple of years?  Too many!  I let the tough guys run the booze in or still it themselves.  I just pay for it and stay the hell out of their way."</div> <div> "So you don't do any business with them?"</div> <div> Phillip gave  him an odd look.  "It's very hard NOT to do business with them at all, Frank.  Don't be a kid."  Two attractive women came to the table as Quentin was flushing.  Phillip looked up and grinned.  "Well, hel-lo, ladies!"</div> <div> "Mind if we join you?"  One of the women asked.</div> <div> Quentin looked up.  They were very attractive and very well dressed.  They were also a little too heavily made up.  He looked at Phillip, who just winked at him.  What the hell, Quentin thought.  His marriage is none of my business.  He smiled at the blonde who sat down next to him.  She had large eyes--they were almost blue, but not quite.  Her eyes made him think of Beth almost--but she was most definitely not like Beth.  No, she was more like Angelique.  He wondered if he would find out how much like Angelique she was. They introduced themselves as Peggy and Lou Ann; Peggy was the blonde.</div> <div> They had a couple of drinks, and then Phillip leaned over and whispered something into Lou Ann's ear.  She giggled and nodded.  He leaned over toward Quentin and said, "Let's take a ride.  I wanna show you my office."  He dropped his voice down to a whisper.  "I got a little apartment there.  It's got a bedroom, but the sitting room's got a pull-out couch."  Quentin smiled but didn't say anything.  "Don' worry aboud it," Phillip went on, his voice a little slurred.  "This is her committee night. She don't know nothin."  </div> <div> He sat up when Quentin made no objections and indicated he wanted a waiter.  "Bring me a bottle to go," he ordered.  The waiter came back with a bottle that Quentin recognized right away--he'd drunk enough of them at Cuddeback this summer.  As they were leaving, Quentin noticed a sign had been put on a stand in the lobby.  There was a picture of a beautiful dark skinned woman with the words "CaraLinda to sing here!" under them.  There was also a date under the picture--Friday night.  That had to be her--the gypsy!  Phillip noticed, too.  "Y'see.  Thass the one I was tellin you aboud. Friday--thas when she starts. Couple three nights.  Thass when she starts."</div> <div> Peggy got into the backseat with Quentin and practically crawled onto his lap.  He wondered if she was a whore or just extraordinarily friendly.  He tried to kiss her, but she took right over so he sat back and relaxed, letting her go to work on him.  As he felt her hand move between his legs, the car swerved to one side.  Phillip was breathing very heavily and as he regained control of the car, he cautioned, "Hands and mouths  off there while Daddy's driving the car, sugar."  Quentin had a brief glimpse of Lou Ann raising her head from Phillip's lap.  He started to laugh, but then Peggy was covering his mouth with hers again.</div> <div> Phillip drove them to his law office downtown.  Above the office was a luxurious, plushly furnished apartment.  It even had a wet bar, which was the first place Phillip wanted to show Quentin.  "You need more drinks, you look down here."  Quentin saw that the bar was well stocked--more of the same brand of scotch, some whisky, even rum and gin.</div> <div> "You do pretty well for yourself," Quentin commented, impressed.  "Very successful attorney, eh?" He smirked at Phillip.</div> <div> Phillip wasn't insulted.  He winked.  "I have some very important clients.  They pay VERY well."  He patted Quentin on the cheek affectionately.  He was drunk.  "Have yourself a ball, son."  He picked up two glasses and called, "Oh, Lou Ann!"  She immediately appeared at his side, and the two of them disappeared into the bedroom.</div> <div> Peggy was pulling the cushions off the couch.  They looked very soft, as if they were covered with black fur.  Quentin came over to help her and felt the soft texture of the cushion.  "Hey," he said.  "Have you ever done it on the floor?"  Peggy began to answer, but he held the cushion out to her.  "Feel this.  Wouldn't you like to have this under your ass?"  He didn't think she'd mind how he talked to her.  He was beginning to believe these two were professionals.</div> <div> "Why sure, baby, but maybe YOU would like it under your ass?"</div> <div> Quentin dropped the cushion to the floor and began unbuttoning his shirt.  "If there's time, we'll both get a turn, eh?"  Peggy began pulling her own clothes off as Quentin stripped off his shirt and then began to remove his pants.  From the bedroom, moans and the creaking of bedsprings had become audible.  Quentin began to laugh again. This was outrageous, even for him. Peggy finished undressing first and had arranged herself on the floor, settling her backside comfortably on one of the cushions.  She reached up to pull Quentin down on top of her.</div> <bR> <div> Dave looked at Quentin curiously over his steaming cup of coffee.  He smoked in silence.  Quentin sat down on a stool beside Dave.  His eyes were bleary, as if he hadn't slept.  "I sure have a LOT to tell you," Quentin said, after he'd ordered a cup of coffee.  He looked at Dave's a little longingly and Dave pushed it toward him.  </div> <div> "Go on, drink it.  I just got it myself," Dave said.  "Don't worry, I ain't drunk out of it."</div> <div> Quentin paused, with the cup he'd gratefully accepted halfway to his lips.  "What are you talking about?  You got a cold?"</div> <div> Dave laughed.  "Never mind.  What you been up to at that fancy house?  You don't look like you got no sleep.  If you hadn't been out there, I'd've said you'd been out tomcatting with all the pussycats."</div> <div> Quentin sipped the coffee to see how hot it was.  Then he took a big gulp of it.  He laughed.  "I have been tomcatting."</div> <div> Dave's eyes bugged out.  "Say what?  Do tell!"</div> <div> "It seems that Nora's lawyer husband enjoys the high life.  He especially likes parties.  And those were some pussycats we were with."  Quentin remembered the evening with a great deal of pleasure.  Dave's widened eyes slowly glazed and then took on an expression of envy.  "And he paid for the whole thing," Quentin concluded.</div> <div> Dave snorted and shook his head.  "You get yourself into the damndest--"</div> <div> "Uh-uh, not that time.  I was glad to be in that damn mess.  Listen, though, Dave, it was almost like fate because we were at the club where this CaraLinda is going to sing.  I saw a picture of her in the lobby--"</div> <div> "You was at  the Royal Gardens then?  Well, you done stole all my thunder, kid."</div> <div> "What?"</div> <div> Dave grinned.  "Why, I was just gonna tell you the same thing, is all.  I got me a gig there.  Same night CaraLinda Romano starts there."</div> <div> "No kidding!  Really?"</div> <div> Dave became solemn.  "Yeah, really."  He smoked some more and then went on.  "My evening wasn't half so much fun as yours, Franky.  I run into some friends of mine from down New Orleans.  Some are playin with Louis Armstrong now.  He's got a group called Fives and Sevens.  Y'know, we should go over and hear him--you'd like him. He's got this new style of scat singing--"</div> <div> "What's that?"</div> <div> "Oh, you sing sounds instead of words.  You'd get a kick out of that, I betcha.  The audience sure did.  They went wild.  So anyhow, later on, some of us ended up over at the Gardens--"</div> <div> "I wonder if we were there at the same time and just didn't see each other?"</div> <div> Dave shrugged.  "Dunno.  I did see the man, though.  Me and two friends of mine did a hot number together and he come out to listen.  Me on the trumpet, one guy playin clarinet and t'other the sax.  The manager says, he wants us to play. They want to make their orchestra bigger.  Had nine pieces, they decide they'd like twelve. Maybe more.  Wants us to go back and sign this contract.  The man, he comes over and introduces himself."</div> <div> "Al Capone?"</div> <div> "Who else?  The Devil?"  Dave sighed.  "Might as well be, though."</div> <div> "Why?  What's he like?"</div> <div> "Young, but kinda fat.  Seemed like a nice guy, you know?  He dressed fine, shoes all shined up and all.  I noticed them shoes.  Know what he told me, Frank?  He started out shinin shoes in New York City.  Showed me how.  Said it would give me somethin to do if I couldn't play the trumpet no more."  Dave shuddered.  "He had these powerful arms, and he's showin me how he shined them shoes--'dusted' them, he said.  Well, then he says he's glad we're goin to be workin for him--there ain't a better place in town unless it's another of his and stuff like that.  Says we'll love workin with that singer, she's gorgeous.  Then he wants us to go with the manager and sign the contract."</div> <div> Quentin tried to picture the powerful Al Capone demonstrating how to shine shoes.  It sounded ridiculous.  "Does he seem crazy, Dave?"</div> <div> "Naw, not really.  He was friendly and all--but you know what, Frank?  He was tellin us how dangerous he was.  Not with his words, he never said nothin like that.  It was his eyes.  That there is one dangerous man.  An I'll tell you something else--he's fearless.  But he also wants to look good.  You know what?  He got these nasty scars on his face.  He put lady's powder on them to cover 'em up so they don't look so bad.  He ain't scared of nothin, Frank, I know he ain't.  He also wants to be respectable.  You figure that out."</div> <div> "Sounds like Larry Fay," Quentin commented.</div> <div> "Yeah, but Larry Fay don't have no scars.  I don't think he ever got his hands as dirty as this man.  This man is the one.  He's the gangster to beat all gangsters."</div> <div> "Wonderful," Quentin said and sighed.  They had to figure out a way to deal with this man and Bartelli, too?  He thought a little harder.  He thought he could see the glimmer of an idea flickering.  He noticed Dave looked glum.  "Did you get your contract?"</div> <div> "Yeah, I had to sign."</div> <div> "What's wrong?"</div> <div> "The other guys told me the score.  Thing is, these gangsters don't negotiate with you on nothin.  Not the hours or the pay or how long you stay.  They just decide, badaboom, that's it.  You can't walk out, neither.  Not even if they do put down a stop date.  You don't git til they tell you to git."</div> <div> Quentin saw the problem.  "So you're not free to move on when you want?"</div> <div> "Nope."</div> <div> He grimaced.  Then, trying to make the best of things, he said lightly, "Well, Angelique did say this was going to take a while to set up."  Dave snorted again. "I was thinking I'd come down Friday night.  I can hear you and maybe meet this CaraLinda."</div> <div> "Can't move too fast on that, sonny, 'specially if she's part or whole gypsy," Dave advised.  "You gotta be around a while.  Let her get used to you."</div> <div> Quentin shrugged.  "Well, we've got the time.  Does Mr. Capone stay around the club a lot?"</div> <div> "Not that they said.  He got himself a place at some hotel. The Marapole, I think it's called. That's where he's at most the time.  He has an office there and I guess he comes down every once in a while. I hear tell he might even have him a secret passageway in and out of that place. Man like him got more important matters to take care of and don't have time to be hangin out in a cabaret." Quentin was relieved.  The less he saw of the man the better.  "You thinkin something, Franky?"</div> <div> "Just remembering something we may be able to use," Quentin replied pensively.  "Remember all that good scotch we had in Cuddeback?  It's from here."</div> <div> "Is that so?  The lawyer fella brought it?  That stuff belongs to Mr. Capone, y'know that?  The best stuff here is all his.  The other folks, they get stuff watered down.  So says my buddies."</div> <div> Quentin thought some more. "Dave, have you ever heard of a gah-nole?"</div> <div> Dave repeated the word, but gave it a slightly different inflection.  He said it like g'nole.  "That's Italian, Frank.  Where'd you hear that?"</div> <div> "What is it?"</div> <div> "It's a--well, it's like a pastry.  Fried crispy dough filled with some white, sweet, sugary stuff. The Italians call it g'nole, but us regular folks say it like cannoli."  Dave tried to spell it.  "Why you askin?"</div> <div>  "I may have found the way to get Mr. Capone and Mr. Bartelli together without me being involved," he began.  "We just need to figure out a WHY.  I mean, a reason why Bartelli should come here."</div> <div> "Once we meet the gypsy lady, maybe she can think of something," Dave suggested.  </div> <div> Quentin nodded, still thoughtful.  "You workin tonight, Dave?" he asked.</div> <div> "Nah, not until tomorrow, like I said.  Why?"</div> <div> "I was just thinking maybe we could go around together.  Listen to this Louis Armstrong if he's playing tonight?  Or just slum around a little?"</div> <div> "You all done visitin your family?"  Dave asked surprised.</div> <div> Quentin sighed.  "Let me tell you about them," he began.  Dave listened sympathetically, shaking his head over and over with surprise and amusement.</div> <bR> <div> When Quentin returned, the older boy was on his way out to play tennis.  He was dressed very stylishly in his tennis whites, jingling car keys and propping his racket on his shoulder.  "Oh, say, you got a phone call," he said in a lofty tone.  </div> <div> "From?"  Quentin wasn't sure why the kid set his teeth on edge.  Maybe it was the down-the-nose snooty expression on the kid's face.</div> <div> "Uncle Jamison.  Call when you have a minute, will you?"</div> <div> "Thanks," Quentin said tightly, thinking how much fun it would be to trip the kid and send him sprawling down the steps.  "Borrowing your dad's car?"</div> <div> Phillip Jr. stopped and gave Quentin a withering look.  "I have my OWN car," he answered, as if this was a fact that everyone would know except for very stupid people.  Quentin felt a sudden amount of sympathy for what Edward's position must have been like and felt a little more sympathy for him--especially if he'd been as snotty as this kid was.</div> <div> "Bought and paid for with your very own allowance I'm sure," Quentin answered and went up the steps and into the house.  He thought he would call Jamison and Edward and see how they were doing.  He'd talked very briefly to Jamison, who sounded as if he'd been drinking.  Quentin frowned-it was still very early in the afternoon. Jamison didn't seem to be making much sense, so he asked to speak to his brother. Edward was still worried about Jamison who was, indeed, drinking heavily and showing little to no interest in his children.  He only spoke to Elizabeth and totally ignored Roger.  "Maybe you should consider the doctor, big brother," Quentin advised, worried.</div> <div> "Well, but the doctor has said he's done all he can for Jamison, and that Jamison will have to get well on his own."</div> <div> "Actually, I meant a doctor from--there's a new sanitarium there, isn't there?"</div> <div> "What?  Are you suggesting Jamison is mentally ill?"</div> <div>      "Don't get mad, Edward.  I'm not suggesting that--it's just that he's grieving so.  Maybe one of those doctors could help him, that's all.  Dr. Freud--"</div> <div>      "That lunatic!  He should be institutionalized, with all his crazy theories.  Do you really believe that rubbish, Quentin?  That every man wants to bed his mother?  And the man uses cocaine to excess!  This is the type of person you think could help Jamison?"</div> <div>      "I don't want to fight with you, Edward. I was just trying to help, that's all.  And Dr. Freud doesn't use cocaine anymore. I know his theories are unconventional and strange, but he thinks people need to talk about what they're feeling. Jamison could see any psychiatrist for that.   Maybe that's what he needs--"</div> <div>      "I was hoping for more helpful advice than that!"  Edward snapped.  He sounded very much like his old self from years ago.  He must be under an enormous amount of stress.</div> <div>      "From me?"  Quentin asked archly, hoping to kid him out of it.  "YOU must need the psychiatrist, Edward!"</div> <div>      To his relief, his brother burst out laughing.  "You are incorrigible!  You never take anything seriously," he scolded, but he was still laughing.  "Well, why don't you tell me about Chicago, then?"</div> <div>      At that point, Nora came down the stairs looking very displeased.  "Who are you talking to?" she demanded.</div> <div>      "Excuse me," Quentin said into the phone.  To Nora, he answered, "It's Edward.  I was finding out how Jamison was doing."  He watched her expression change as soon as he mentioned her brother.  She'd looked a little pleased when she heard her father's name, but her expression quickly darkened and she looked almost angry.  "Would you like to talk to your father?"</div> <div>      Nora came down the rest of the way and held her hand out for the phone.  "For a few minutes only.  You've already been talking a while, haven't you?" she asked accusingly.  "It's long distance, and it's quite expensive."</div> <div>      Quentin's expression also darkened.  He spoke in a tight voice into the phone, "Excuse me, brother, but Nora is here and would like to say hello.  I'll talk to you another time."  He gave the phone to Nora and muttered stiffly, "I'm sorry."  He started to stalk off.</div> <div>      "Oh! Quen--I mean, Frank, why don't you take Mary Jane to the park for a while?  It's her governess' afternoon off, and you're not doing anything else right now, are you?"</div> <div>      Quentin was furious but he squared his shoulders, turned to Nora, and said very pleasantly, "I'd be glad to take her to the park.  Poor child might not get out for any fresh air otherwise."  He turned and started up the steps, smirking at the sight of Nora's face becoming slightly purple.  This was almost like being back in 1897, he thought, when the whole family seemed to just get on his nerves all the time.  He couldn't wait until evening, when he could get away from everyone and go slumming on the south side with Dave.</div> <bR> <div>      Dave took Quentin to hear Louis Armstrong and his band.  He hadn't been kidding about the audience's reaction to the "scatting."  They went wild, calling out, beating on the tables and on the floors.  It was infectious, and Quentin liked this new way of singing.  "It's too bad the clubs are so segregated here," he told Dave.</div> <div>      "Well, what it is too, this is a strong union town,"  Dave was explaining.  "The white musicians, they represented by this man named James Petrillo.  And most of the managers of the white clubs on the north side, well, they don't like us colored no how."</div> <div> After a pause, he went on, "You want to go a nice establishment, there's a few places around that hire the colored that been around a while.  Like, you could find a nice white lady and take her to a ballroom on the northside and hear Jelly Roll Morton.  Or Dave Peyton or King Oliver.  This here stuff is not considered high class."</div> <div>      "I don't know any nice white ladies," Quentin said with a grin.  "I'm not the type."</div> <div>      "You sure ain't, I guess.  Well, the other thing is, people like Louis Armstrong been taking their stuff down and making recordings."  Dave winked at Quentin.  "Get yourself another one of those Peggy ladies and a record and into Mr. Phillip's apartment and you got yourself made."</div> <div> Friends of Dave's approached the table cautiously.  They weren't sure what to make of Quentin.  Dave introduced them as his co-band members, Tom and Nick, the clarinet and sax players.  "I was coming to hear you all tomorrow night," Quentin said.  They nodded noncommittally.  Quentin hung around until midnight and then decided to head back to the Billings' home.  He hoped no one would be up.</div> <div> That hope was dashed as soon as he opened the door and slipped in.  He could hear voices arguing loudly from the study--Nora and Phillip.  The best thing he could hope to do was to sneak up the stairs without being heard.  Just as he was putting his foot on the lower step, Phillip threw the door open and strode out.  He went past Quentin without speaking and slammed the front door.  That left Nora and Quentin standing there, looking at each other.  Nora was quivering with rage and hurt.</div> <div> "I'm sorry, Nora," Quentin said finally.  "Is there anything I can do to help?"</div> <div> Nora turned on him.  "No!  Not unless you can explain to me why you men act like THAT!" she yelled.  He would've asked which aspect of male behavior she was referring to, but she turned and went back into the study, also slamming the door.  "Animals!" she shrieked behind the closed door.</div> <div> Probably I should go and talk to her, Quentin thought.  That's what a good uncle would do.  He actually considered it for a few seconds and then heard the sound of glass smashing.  Nahhh, he decided; turning and going up the stairs as quickly as he could.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id65.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="11: Making Plans"><U>11:  Making Plans</U></A>    <A HREF="id67.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="13: Nora"><U>13:  Nora</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U>Taking Wooden Nickels</U></A>    <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U>Cassie's Writing</U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>