14: The Gypsy

<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><A HREF="id66.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="12: Chicago"><U><B>12:  Chicago</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id67.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="13: Nora"><U><B>13:  Nora</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><B>14:  The Gypsy</B><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>14:  The Gypsy</B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div>      Although Quentin was impatient and eager to move quickly, he could see that Dave had a point about CaraLinda's reticence.  Even though she seemed friendly and flirtatious, she also managed to convey the message that advances weren't welcome.  He wanted her to trust them and realized that he had to follow Dave's advice and move slowly.  In the meantime, he also wanted to make sure Phillip didn't become suspicious of him.  He had to act as if he was really researching Clarence Darrow's insanity defense of the two young men convicted of killing 14 year old Bobby Franks, Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb.  It also had the dual purpose of getting him out of that house as much as possible until it was late enough to go to the club.  By asking around the university, he got the names of several psychoanalysts and spent several afternoons talking with them.  </div> <div>      It was enlightening.  All he'd known of psychiatry before was what he'd read of Sigmund Freud's theories.  Those theories were fascinating and interesting, but he secretly agreed with Edward that the ideas were "rubbish."  He didn't accept the idea that so much of himself would be considered "unconscious". It seemed a ridiculous concept. Even the terminology used sounded ludicrous:  id, ego, superego.  He knew that Dr. Freud had several proteges that had developed theories of their own, but he'd been too busy researching the supernatural for a permanent cure for his curse to pay much attention to them.</div> <div>      He had a natural curiosity for new ideas, though, and now he had another reason to be interested:  family members who needed help. He remembered Judith's traumatic experience at Rushmore Sanitarium; it had done nothing for her except to turn her into a callous, bitter old woman.  Now it seemed that Jamison and Nora were troubled, and he might learn of a way to help him.  It didn't occur to him that he, himself, would also benefit from the psychoanalysts.  </div> <div>      He talked with a man named Lionel Buston.  Dr. Buston had lectured frequently at the university and now had a private practice.  He was eager to talk to Quentin about the different theories and, more specifically, about the Leopold and Loeb case.  In spite of initial skepticism and an attitude of just doing what he needed to do to make his story look good, Quentin found himself becoming drawn in and fascinated.  He took a lot of notes, borrowing a pad of paper from Dr. Buston's secretary.  He decided to buy himself a notebook after making an appointment with Dr. Buston to talk some more about psychoanalytic theory and an insanity defense.  He would return to the house when he was finished talking with Dr. Buston and pick up Eddie and Mary Jane and take them to the park until dinnertime.</div> <div>      The newspapers were filled with articles about the so-called monkey trial going on in Tennessee, thanks to writers like H.L. Mencken.  Some of the articles toward the latter part of the trial were especially funny.  John Scopes'defense attorney, Clarence Darrow, apparently was making a mockery of the assistant prosecutor for the State of Tennessee, fundamentalist William Jennings Bryan, and his literal interpretation of Genesis.  Quentin had been with the Billings' family for a couple of weeks now; it looked like a verdict was eminent, and he decided he would follow through on what Phillip had told him and go to Tennessee to see what the jury decided.  He thought he might even be able to talk to Clarence Darrow--if he wasn't too preoccupied.  He explained it all to Dave, who agreed.</div> <div>      "Now you beginnin to show some sense," Dave said approvingly.  "CaraLinda and the man and your cousin won't have no reason to doubt you, 'specially if you know what you talking about.  Do you think you might write somethin that would get published, Franky?"</div> <div>      Quentin hadn't thought of it.  He laughed.  "I can't imagine anyone would be interested in anything I have to say."</div> <div>      "Don't sell yourself short, son.  You got a lot of good ideas.  I still hear people talkin about that little boy what was killed for no reason.  Maybe they'd like to read what you have to say about it.  That doctor tell you much about why he think they did it?"</div> <div>      "Well, this one doctor I talked to didn't want to talk about them that specifically because he didn't treat them.  But he says he's seen other people like them.  He says they're rich and bored and have no purpose in their lives," Quentin answered.  He wasn't sure he accepted that explanation, because he'd felt that way and had never tried to kill anyone just for "fun."</div> <div>      It was obvious Dave didn't understand, either.  "Sound to me like they need to be going to church if they want to find some purpose."</div> <div>      Quentin almost scoffed at that, but then he remembered how Dave felt and kept his mouth shut.  He'd been circling Nora uncomfortably since their last confrontation, and he knew she was relieved when he announced he was going to Tennessee for a few days.  Phillip Sr. offered to loan Quentin Phillip Jr.'s car, and the expression on the boy's face nearly caused Quentin to laugh outright.  He accepted the offer of the used Model T graciously.  He also reassured Mary Jane and Eddie that he would only be gone a few days and when he returned, he'd take them to Lincoln Park again.</div> <div>      The trip also gave him an opportunity to think and plan his next moves.  He thought he might be able to use Phillip to help bring Bartelli to Chicago. He had enough information about both Phillip and Capone to help formulate a plan.  He knew that Capone, although insecure with his new position, was very territorial.  He didn't want anyone interfering in his business.  He was a man of large appetites for food and women, a surprisingly loyal friend, and a menacingly dangerous enemy when angered.  As for Phillip, it would be very easy to blackmail him into cooperating, if necessary.  It would be necessary to start a conflict between Capone and someone else, necessitating the use of a "fixer" like Bartelli.  The question was, what should be the conflict?  It had to be serious, like someone from New York trying to muscle in on the bootleg business in Chicago.</div> <div>      Quentin shuddered.  He preferred to save that alternative as a last choice.  Larry Fay and Bartelli had both extracted promises from him not to interfere with the rumrunning gangsters again.  What else was there?  There was prostitution, which was even more flamboyant and out in the open here than in New York.  Capone controlled all of that.  That was something that Luciano and Lansky of New York were into, as well.  Maybe something like that...that was profitable and territorial, but was it important enough to cause hard feelings between the mobsters?  Quentin wasn't sure.  Maybe he could feel Phillip out on that one. Running numbers and other gambling was another thought. The mob seemed to be everywhere; involved in everything.  The possibilities seemed endless, but which would be the right issue to cause a fight?  Surely not the fish and produce markets!</div> <div>      It was broiling hot in Dayton, Tennessee.  It was not a big town, and it had the air of a sleepy little place being visited by a large circus.  The streets were crowded not only with the residents of Dayton, but all kinds of spectators and people hawking Bibles and other trial "souvenirs".  The courthouse was packed.  Things had gotten underway again early, and there was standing room only inside the courtroom and out.  Quentin doubted he'd be able to squeeze his way through and wasn't sure he wanted to anyway. There was nothing more that he wanted to do than to  go back to his hotel room and take off his clothes. He could see the advantage to living in Maine, for sure.  How could anyone stand to wear a suit in this heat?  Someone had told him that closing arguments were taking place, and he decided he would take refuge someplace cooler until the jury was dismissed for deliberations.</div> <div>      He doubted he'd find any speakeasy here--if he hunted long enough, he might find someone who had a still.  He smiled at the thought--he'd probably have to go out into the hills and find a mountain man who wouldn't blow his head off to do that.  He did find a place with a soda fountain, though, and went in for lemonade.  He listened to the people around him talking.  The heathen Darrow and the schoolteacher, John Scopes, both morally offended them.  Their feeling was that the Word of God was not to be questioned and that Mr. Scopes was guilty because he'd broken the law by teaching the sacrilegious theories of that godless man Darwin and that was that.  Great, thought Quentin.  This place is full of Gregory Trasks.</div> <div>      "There he goes, the old atheist," one of the men said and spat on the floor.  Quentin looked out the window quickly to see a large, older man walk by.  He had a brief glimpse of a thatch of white hair and a white suit.  He jumped up and went out the door quickly. The old man moved surprisingly fast for someone his age, parting the crowd as if he was Moses.  People were calling him names, but he seemed not to hear them.  There were so many people milling around, Quentin thought he might have lost the old man entirely had it not been for his height. He was taller than most of the people in the crowd and followed the thatch of white hair until it suddenly disappeared.</div> <div>      He stopped when he got to the point he'd last seen the old man, confused.  Then he felt a yank on his arm, and he was pulled into the doorway of an inn.  The old man stood there, perspiring profusely, looking at him with curiosity and amusement.  "You look a little too clean cut to be a fundamentalist assassin.  Why are you following me?"</div> <div>      "Oh, I'm anything but a fundamentalist.  Are you Mr. Darrow?  My name is Frank Healey."</div> <div>      "How do you do, Mr. Healey." The old man offered to shake hands with Quentin. "Now, tell me, what have you got against fundamentalists?" </div> <div>      Quentin was confused.  "Sir?"  </div> <div>      Darrow laughed at his expression.  "Aren't you a reporter?  Don't you want to talk to me about the trial?"</div> <div>      "Not this one, no, sir."  Now it was Darrow's turn to look surprised.  "I just wanted to meet you because I was hoping to talk to you about Leopold and Loeb.  When you're not so busy."</div> <div>      "I'm always busy, son.  I'll tell you what, though, the jury's gone out to deliberate and my stomach's growling.  I'm getting kind of tired eating by myself.  I'm not very popular around here, except with the reporters--and I'm rather tired of their cynicism.  Why don't you come with me and I can talk to you a little now."  Darrow nodded his head toward the inn; he must be staying there.  As they entered, the old man said curiously, "What do you want to talk about that case for?"</div> <div>      "It's the insanity defense I'm interested in.  Those two young fellows didn't seem crazy to me."</div> <div>      Darrow looked him up and down.  "A psychiatrist, are you?"</div> <div>      "No, sir, I'm just interested in writing about it."</div> <div>      "Interesting.  Well, all right, I'll talk to you about insanity and you can talk to me about fundamentalism."  Quentin didn't answer, feeling confused again.  The old man went back into the kitchen where he, too, seemed to have established a friendly rapport with the cooks and helpers, most of whom were black.  He had them make him up a picnic lunch.  "All right, young man, let's go eat."</div> <div>      Quentin followed him out the back way to a path that led out of town and into the woods.  "Where are we going?"</div> <div>      "Where no one else is right now.  Everyone is back there, waiting to crucify Mr. Scopes and me.  I like to get away as much as I can, and it would never occur to them to look for me at their very own swimming hole."  He was right.  Not even a child was at the so-called swimming hole.  It was much cooler here, though, because the trees provided a lot of shade.  "We'll probably have just enough time to eat, son, but not quite enough for a dip."</div> <div>      "The jury will come back that fast?"</div> <div>      "Oh, they didn't really need to go out at all.  That was just a formality.  Why don't you like fundamentalists?"</div> <div>      "Is my face that much like an open book?  My sister was married to one of them.  I think they're narrow-minded, ignorant, cruel--"</div> <div>      "ALL of them?  Or just your brother-in-law?"</div> <div>      "I haven't met one yet that wasn't narrow-minded.  And my brother-in-law had my sister institutionalized so he could get use of her money.  He murdered his first wife to marry my sister, and when his daughter lost her mind, he threw her out on the street."</div> <div>      "I'm beginning to see your interest in the insanity defense.  Do you think your brother-in-law was insane too?"</div> <div>      "Hell, no!  He was just a greedy, cruel, small-minded fundamentalist preacher."</div> <div>      "Okay, son, that doesn't describe all fundamentalists.  And I wouldn't necessarily paint brush all of them 'small-minded' because they believe in the infallibility of the Bible.  Tell me, do you believe in all the miracles described in the Bible?"</div> <div>      "I don't know.  I haven't thought much about it."</div> <div>      "Not much, eh?  I don't mean to be nosy, but what faith are you?"</div> <div>      "I'm not sure I've got one. I don't go to church.  The rest of my family have been Presbyterians forever--I'm sure they would've been followers of Jonathan Edwards."</div> <div>      "Don't believe in all that predestination stuff, do you?  Think you're descended from a monkey?"</div> <div>      Quentin laughed.  "I don't know much about what Darwin says either, Mr. Darrow.  Although from what I know of my family, I might say I would be really surprised if we were descended from apes.  I would've thought God just put us here, fully grown and with a complete set of morals."</div> <div>      Darrow smiled.  "I've had years to think about all this. Did the Virgin Mary conceive a child with the Holy Spirit?  Did her son go on the cross to save my immortal soul? I think yes, and I also believe that most of the Bible is true."</div> <div>      "You do?  Then why are you defending Scopes?"</div> <div>      "Because, young man, Mr. Scopes has the right to believe what he wants to believe, and he has the right to say what he would like to say.  Just as you have the right to say fundamentalists are small-minded, cruel, and greedy.  I may not agree with you, but I'll defend your right to say so.  Tell me, what happened to your sister?"</div> <div>      "She was in a sanitarium for four months, and when she came back--well, she was different.  She was always reserved and cold, but she'd become bitter and calculating, too.  My brother-in-law disappeared not long after she came back."</div> <div>      "Really?  Think she did away with him?"</div> <div>      "I don't know.  She might've."  Quentin thought about it, remembering how Judith had suddenly and inexplicably evicted him from his rooms in the West Wing and sealed it off.  He'd been extremely curious at the time but had also been preoccupied with his own problems with Petofi.  He'd made his escape a short time later, and then he'd never seen Judith again.</div> <div>      "Think your sister was insane?"</div> <div>      "Do you?"</div> <div>      "I'm not a psychiatrist, son."</div> <div>      "What if I told you she'd killed my brother-in-law and hid his body in a part of our house?  Would you think she was crazy?  Would you defend her?"</div> <div>      "I am assuming we're just speculating here?"</div> <div>      "Yes, sir, all this happened years ago, anyway."</div> <div>      "I'd have to meet your sister, talk to her.  I'd have her evaluated by psychiatrists.  Then we'd see."  </div> <div>      "Do you think a psychiatrist could've helped her if she was insane?"</div> <div>      "Well, now, son, insane is a very general word.  I think a psychiatrist can help any unhappy person who'd like to get rid of their sadness."  Darrow brushed the crumbs off himself.  "This is a very interesting discussion, Mr. Healey, and I would like to continue talking to you about it but I think I'd better get back.  I don't want the judge to get mad waiting for me."</div> <div>      "You really think it'd be over this quick?"</div> <div>      Darrow smiled.  "Perhaps not.  In a town like this, who knows?"  He shrugged.  "Had I been defending a colored man, I wouldn't have bothered to go for lunch."  He laughed.  "He probably wouldn't have been left around for me to defend in the first place.  Have you a piece of paper?"</div> <div>      "Yes, sir," Quentin brought out the notebook and gave it to Darrow.  He opened it and scribbled out an address.  Then he gave the book back to Quentin.  </div> <div>      "That's my address in Chicago. Look me up there, and we can set up an appointment to meet again and discuss the Bobby Franks killing."</div> <div>      "Thank you, sir."</div> <div>      "It was a pleasure to have lunch with someone that didn't want to shoot me.  Oh, and young fellow?  Don't give up on your faith just because of one man.  You seem like an open-minded fellow to me.  Don't shut the door on Christianity."</div> <div>      "Yes, sir," Quentin said, to be agreeable.  He wondered what Darrow would say if he knew about Angelique and some of the other black magic he'd performed with Evan Hanley and his grandmother. He walked back to the inn with the old lawyer, whose shoulders drooped and who had begun to look wilted and very tired in the increasing heat.  They shook hands again at the back door, and the old man went back to the courthouse alone.</div> <div>      Later, at the hotel, Quentin learned from the crowd that John Scopes had been convicted of teaching the outlawed concepts of evolution to his high school class.  He'd received a token fine of one hundred dollars.  This particular crowd at the hotel seemed to be made up of journalists because they all thought it was very funny.  The fine was a slap in the face of the great William Jennings Bryan, who'd been made a fool of during the closing days of the trial.  He'd been unable to intelligibly explain where Cain's wife had come from, among many other inexplicable verses from the Bible. The very person who had humiliated Bryan so had been the very man who professed to believe most of what the Bible said.   Listening to them banter back and forth, Quentin wondered where Darrow thought Cain's wife had come from.  He found himself scribbling the question down to ask Darrow if and when he ever met the man again.  He thought he might also work up the courage to ask the old man's opinion about the black arts.</div> <bR> <div>      Dinner with the Billings family was relaxing for the very first time because Quentin had so much to talk about. He'd been back for several days and had been to Lincoln Park with the kids three times already.  He had a lot to talk about at the dinner table now. He told them about the town, about meeting Darrow, about the conversation they'd had, and about possibly meeting the lawyer again in the future.  Phillip Sr. seemed to be relieved, as well, as if any suspicions he'd had were now put to rest.  Nora said nothing, but it didn't matter because Quentin talked all through the meal.</div> <div>      "You know, I'm not even sure what I think about it all," Phillip Jr. said.  "I mean, I believe in the Bible but what Mr. Darwin says makes a lot of sense, too."  He stopped as Nora turned disapproving eyes on him.</div> <div>      "I'm sure that as an aspiring attorney, you'd be an advocate of a client's constitutional rights as well," Quentin added helpfully.  Nora turned her eyes on him, but he didn't wilt under her gaze as her son had.</div> <div>      "Yes, yes," Phillip Jr. said gratefully.  "Freedom of speech--that's the First Amendment."</div> <div>      "Mr. Darrow is willing to talk to me about his insanity defense, and I've talked to some interesting doctors here, too," Quentin changed the subject a little.  "Mr. Darrow said he thought a psychiatrist could help any unhappy person who wanted to get better."  He glanced at Nora, who deliberately looked away with an expression of boredom.</div> <div>      Phillip Sr. was obviously feeling very expansive.  "Coming on a walk with me, Frank?  I know of another doctor not very far from here.  I'll show you where the office is."</div> <div>      Quentin smirked, thinking:  you have no idea that Nora knows what you're up to.  He answered:  "Sure, Phil.  Whenever you're ready."  </div> <div>      At the club, Quentin and Phil were seated at the usual table in the front.  "Listen, son, I told Al what you were up to.  You remember what he said about psychiatrists?"  Quentin nodded, still chafing at Phil's nickname.  He didn't mind it from Dave, but he didn't like it coming from this guy.  "He's going to ask you.  You just tell him like you told me.  Oh.  You remember Peggy and Lou Ann?  Al has arranged for them to join us again."</div> <div>      "Oh, yes, I remember," Quentin said.  "Gee, too bad, the other girls were nicer."  At Phil's look, he amended, "I don't mean that Peggy wasn't fun, Phil.  It's just that you missed out on a real treat last time.  You missed the human vacuum cleaner--son."</div> <div>      Phil glared at him, and he smirked back.  He knew that Phil didn't have pleasant memories of that night--giving up his car keys and two whores to Quentin in anticipation of a lewd sexual act with the club's singer.  What a night that must have been for him!  As Quentin's smirk broadened into a grin, Phil snapped harshly, "What the hell is so funny--Franky?"</div> <div>      "Oh, I was just remembering her mouth--on me," Quentin continued to grin, needling Phil.  "What a mouth, Phil!  You shoulda seen it--no, I mean felt it!"</div> <div>      "Oh, shaddup, that's disgusting, you know that?  And stop grinning like that--here comes Al," Phil hissed at him.</div> <div>      Capone was with a spare, balding man he introduced at "The Professor."  He snapped his fingers and had the waiter bring them a bottle of scotch.  "So I hear Darrow made a monkey out of Bryan," Capone said, laughing at his own joke.  "That old man is finished now. He should just lie down somewhere and die."</div> <div>      "He might," Quentin said.  "I heard he collapsed after the verdict."</div> <div>      "That Darrow--he's some slick lawyer," Capone said admiringly.  The look he gave Phil wasn't as respectful.  "Always seems to want to stick up for the little guy."  He laughed.  "He can afford to!  He made his money off our people, that's for sure-keeping them out of jail!"</div> <div>      "I liked him a lot," Quentin said honestly, feeling disturbed by Capone's revelation.  Was no one clean around here.  "I only got to spend a few minutes with him, but I'll probably be in touch with him later."</div> <div>      "Yeah, yeah. Good man, that guy.  He sticks up for your rights, no matter who you are."  Quentin was gratified to hear Capone speaking of Darrow with sincere respect. "You found out some more about this pisticology stuff, too, eh?"</div> <div>      The Professor interjected, "Psychology."</div> <div>      "Right.  Right.  That pisicology stuff.  So you been talking to those doctors, too, eh?"</div> <div>      "A few," Quentin began cautiously.  Capone and his friend seemed interested, so he began to explain what the doctors had told him about the new theories in psychiatry. The two he remembered best was the influence of society on people's behavior and suffering from an inferior ego.  He thought one or both would apply to Capone, his friend, and Phil.</div> <div>      "So you're saying what you do is, you go in and talk to these whaddayacallit pisicologists?"</div> <div>      "Psychologists," the Professor said again.</div> <div>      "What is it?  Sy-cologist?"</div> <div>      "Right.  Psychologist," Quentin said.  "Yes.  You go in and talk to them.  You tell them whatever is on your mind."</div> <div>      "Whatever's on my mind?  Like what I'm thinking about?"</div> <div>      "Yeah.  Like maybe something is bothering you."  Quentin noticed that both Phil and the Professor gave him warning looks.  He shut up.</div> <div>      "Like a guilty conscience?"</div> <div>      "Right."</div> <div>      Capone thought it over.  "Okay, look.  When I was a kid, I shined shoes.  I was the best shoe shine kid there was.  My cousin, he goes into competition with me.  I built this stand, it was beautiful.  On stilts.  And the son of a bitch comes along and smashes it cuz he's jealous."  He seemed to be angry at the memory of the injustice done to him as a child.  Quentin wondered where this was leading.  The expression on Capone's face was beginning to rattle him.  "All right, now look.  Suppose I'm this cousin.  And I have a guilty conscience about the whole thing.  So I take myself to one of those sy-cologists.  What's to stop the guy from calling me?"</div> <div>      "Calling you?" Quentin repeated, confused.  </div> <div>      Capone looked impatient.  "Pay attention, you dummy.  I'm my cousin, you follow?  I got the guilty conscience.  I go to the doctor.  I tell him all about it.  What's to stop him from calling me?"</div> <div>      Quentin was even more nervous because he wasn't sure what Capone meant.  He noticed that now Phil was smirking at him.  "Do you mean, the doctor is calling you as the cousin?  Or as you, the victim?" he asked, finally, hoping he wouldn't infuriate the gangster any further.</div> <div>      If the question irritated Capone, the use of the word 'victim' worked in Quentin's favor to placate him.  The gangster actually even looked vindicated, his expression clearing of some of its rage.  "The doc is calling me, the victim."</div> <div>      "Oh," Quentin wanted to breathe a big sigh of relief but didn't want the gangster to know how frightened he'd been.  "You see, the doctor can't do that.  What your cousin tells him is secret, between the two of them.  It's called 'privileged' information.  Like between a lawyer and a client."</div> <div>      "Oh, yeah?"  Capone was impressed.  "So now my cousin goes and tells the doc he killed somebody.  Threw him in the river.  What then?  The doc calls the cops?"</div> <div>      "No, he can't.  That's still privileged information."  Quentin felt his hands beginning to shake.</div> <div>      Capone let out a burst of laughter.  He half turned to the Professor.  "Shit, you was right!"</div> <div>      "Were," the Professor said mildly.</div> <div>      "Whatever.  Well, well, well.  Whaddaya know?  Hey, I'm hungry."  Capone snapped his fingers again and called the waiter over.  "I want a big plate of linguini.  And you bring these gentlemen anything they want."  The waiter nodded ingratiatingly.  Since Phil and Quentin had already eaten, they just asked for another scotch.  The professor decided he would have some linguini too.</div> <div>      Quentin chewed at his lower lip as the discussion moved on to local favorite brothels.  Since he couldn't bite his fingernails at the table without calling attention to his nervousness, he excused himself and walked toward the restroom.  He needed a little walk to blow off some of the anxiety that had been building in him.  He continued down the back hall and came to CaraLinda's dressing room.  He paused and then started to move on; at that point, the door opened and she came out.  "Ah!  Pretty one, you've come back!"</div> <div>      He stopped and turned back to her, smiling.  "Did you miss me?" he asked softly, teasingly.</div> <div>      She laughed at him.  "I miss your smile, my pretty one.  You come and play the piano again tonight, huh?"</div> <div>      "Only if you'll be there," he answered.</div> <div>      "Ah, we'll see how tired I am."</div> <div>      "Would you mind telling Dave something for me?"</div> <div>      She frowned at him, but it was a mocking expression.  "And now I am your personal secretary?"</div> <div>      "I just want him to know that I'll be leaving but that I'll be back before you close."</div> <div>      She nodded and winked at him.  "Oh, I see. You got personal business, eh, lady-killer?"</div> <div>      He shrugged and gave her a regretful expression.  "But not with you, beautiful one."</div> <div>      She only laughed and then reached out to caress his cheek.  "Very handsome you are.  I'll tell your friend.  Go take care of your business, and then you come back and you play a song for me."  She winked and moved down the hall.  Quentin shivered, feeling goosebumps rising on his body from her touch.  She liked him; he'd been around for a few weeks now....maybe it was time to approach her.</div> <bR> <div>      Quentin thought he might have a problem getting back to the club, but he needn't have worried.  Phillip seemed to be in an extraordinarily bad mood.  He interrupted Quentin's second go-round on the couch with Peggy.  "We've gotta go," he said abruptly.</div> <div>      "Just coming now," Quentin answered, through his gritted teeth.  Peggy clawed his shoulders helpfully, and he climaxed quickly.  He collapsed on top of her for just a moment, then nuzzled and kissed her neck.  Even a whore deserved better than this, he thought.</div> <div>      "Put your pants on, willya?" Phil said impatiently.  He was already dressed and had his money out.  </div> <div>      "What the hell is the matter with you?" Quentin asked irritably.  He didn't care for being interrupted or for being ordered around or for having Nora's pig of a husband standing over him while he tried to find his pants.  He glanced briefly at Lou Ann and saw that she had a grim expression on her face too.  Well, maybe he couldn't get it up.  He smirked.</div> <div>      Phil saw.  "Hey, Frank, you think you're some hot shot, don't you?  You're a punk, too, you know that?"  He sounded mean. Quentin stopped smirking.  The last thing he wanted was a fight with this guy--especially not when he was going to need him later.  He stood up, zipping up and buttoning  his pants.  He found his shirt and pulled it on.  Peggy was up, too, and dressing silently.  "You know that, you punk?  Answer me!"</div> <div>      "Whatever you say, Phil," Quentin said placatingly.  </div> <div>      "You're not better than me, Frank!"</div> <div>      "I'm not," Quentin agreed, wondering what was wrong with the man.</div> <div>      "You're not better equipped, either," Phil continued truculently.</div> <div>      "That's right.  Can we go now?"</div> <div>      Phil looked as if he wanted to hit someone.  Frustrated, he nodded and herded everyone out and back to the car.  He took the whores back to the club and was surprised when Quentin got out, too.  "Where the hell are you going?"</div> <div>      "Just to play the piano awhile.  Don't worry about me, Phil.  I'll get back on my own--or not," Quentin explained, leaning into the car.</div> <div>      "Listen, you punk, if you're gonna play all night then you can stay out all night--you hear me?  I'm not putting up with any crap from that bitch cousin of yours."</div> <div>      Quentin backed up, holding his hands up. "Okay, okay Phil."  Phil gave him a frustrated, furious look and roared off in the car.  Quentin looked at Lou Ann.  "What the hell happened?"</div> <div>      She tossed her head contemptuously.  "Prob'ly had too much to drink.  I've seen it happen lots of times."  She patted his cheek.  "Don't worry sug.  He won't remember in the morning.  I probably just made him mad, though.  When he couldn't--perform--we could hear you, and I said I'd have been better off fucking you.  And he kept wanting me to try to get him up, and then you two went at it again--"</div> <div>      "Gee, thanks Lou Ann," Quentin complained.  "I'm in enough trouble with that family as it is."</div> <div>      "Well, sug, like I said, he's so drunk off his ass he won't remember in the morning.  I wouldn't worry."  Lou Ann put her hands on his face and kissed him.  "Next time, you go with me."</div> <div>      "Excuse me?"  Peggy said, shoving Lou Ann's shoulder.</div> <div>      Great.  A cat fight.  "Ladies, it was wonderful.  Excuse me," Quentin said, and quickly went into the club so that he wouldn't see anything to make him feel obligated to stay and break up what was probably going to be a fight.  It wasn't time for the club to close yet, so he asked for a scotch and looked for a place to sit.  He didn't want to sit with the gangsters, and he didn't want to sit alone at a table.  He carried his drink with him down the hall and went out into the alley.  It was as good a place as any for an alley cat to wait, he thought bitterly.</div> <bR> <div>      "Why are you so sad, pretty one?"  CaraLinda asked.</div> <div>      Quentin stopped playing.  "Do I look sad?" he asked.  </div> <div>      Dave stopped playing the trumpet and busied himself with the spit valve.  "Your timing's off.  That's what it is," he commented.</div> <div>      "I have a song for you.  Here.  Listen."  She hummed a few notes, and Dave picked it up immediately.  Quentin listened to her, relaxing to the sound of her honey-throated voice.  He rested his chin in his hand and watched her through half closed eyes.  He could hear another voice, similar, in a dance hall years and years ago...</div> <div>      When she stopped singing, he asked, "Is it true you don't date any other man except a gypsy?"</div> <div>      CaraLinda and Dave were both looking at him, surprised.  "Why you ask me that?" she asked.</div> <div>      "I was married to a gypsy once.  A long time ago, but she died," he explained.  "Nick told Dave that gypsies don't have anything to do with outsiders, and  so Dave thought she must've been thrown out of her tribe.  She wasn't with anyone when I met her."</div> <div>      "No family?  Where'd you meet her?"</div> <div>      "In a dance hall.  She was a singer, too."</div> <div>      "Ah, I see," CaraLinda nodded.</div> <div>      "I don't know about gypsies.  Would that have gotten her thrown out of her tribe?"</div> <div>      "No, no.  Gypsies, they like to be entertainers.  They love to laugh and to smile.  Many gypsies are singers, like me.  Or dancers or musicians.  That's not why.  She musta done something else.  Maybe she went around with a<I> gaucho.</I>.  That can cause<I> marime</I>."</div> <div>      That sounded like the word Dave said she'd used earlier.  "What's that mary-may?"  Dave asked.</div> <div>      CaraLinda shrugged.  "It means you're out.  Sometimes for good, sometimes for a short time.  It means you got polluted somehow."</div> <div>      "Where's your tribe?"  Quentin asked.</div> <div>      "Around.  All over.  Here and there."</div> <div>      "You haven't been thrown out?"</div> <div>      "Not yet.  Why you ask all these questions, pretty one?"</div> <div>      Quentin decided to plunge in.  "Is your tribe still searching for the hand?"  If it hadn't been so serious, he would've laughed at her expression.  She looked like she'd been electrocuted--even her hair looked like it was standing on end instead of falling in ringlets around her shoulders.  Her eyes had bugged out enormously and her chin almost dropped onto her chest.  "You know what I mean, then? Count Petofi's hand?"</div> <div>      "My God!" she finally said, gasping.  "What do you know of this?"  She got to her feet abruptly, her hands going to her throat.</div> <div>      "I know where it is," Quentin said.  She looked from him to Dave.  Dave nodded his head in confirmation.</div> <div>      "You better come back with me.  We need to talk," CaraLinda hissed.  She took them back to her dressing room.  She turned her large dark eyes toward Quentin.  "All right, you talk.  How do you know about this hand?"</div> <div>      "It's a long story, CaraLinda," Quentin began.  "Do you believe in magic?"</div> <div>      She snorted.  "You tell me you know of the hand, and then you ask me that?  I know many things that are incredible, but they happen so--yes, I believe in magic.  Tell me what you know, please, and don't waste my time with no more stupid questions. What you tell me, I will believe unless you lie to me." Her voice dropped lower, so that she sounded ominously threatening. "You don't lie to me, you hear?  Not about this."</div> <div>      "I won't lie to you, CaraLinda," Quentin promised.  He began to tell her the whole story, starting with the gypsies who'd been living at the Old House when he'd returned home from Egypt and East Asia in 1897.  He didn't know it then, but Magda and Sandor Rakosi were his in-laws, sister and brother-in-law of his mad wife, Jenny.  He also didn't know that Jenny was being kept imprisoned in a part of Collinwood and that he had two children who'd been hidden away and cared for by a foster mother in Collinwood.  He told everything up to the point where he'd strangled Jenny to protect Beth.  He stopped and looked at Dave.  "Listen, buddy, I'm getting awfully dry.  Would you mind..."</div> <div>      Dave had been listening with rapt attention, his eyes huge.  He shook himself and said, "Sure, sure, Franky.  You want a scotch?"</div> <div>      Quentin wanted Dave away long enough to tell the most difficult parts of the story.  "Do you think they have any lemonade or coke back in the kitchen?  Or coffee?"</div> <div>      "Coffee?"</div> <div>      "Better he should tell me everything with a clear head," CaraLinda agreed, so Dave shrugged and reluctantly left to find something non-alcoholic to drink.</div> <div>      "He's my best friend, but I don't want him to know this part of the story," Quentin explained to CaraLinda, who nodded and motioned for him to talk.  He didn't know how long it would take for Dave to come back, so he very quickly told her how he'd killed Jenny and that Magda had placed a werewolf curse on him in her rage and grief.  He didn't really want to go into the terrifying transformations and the killings; he did tell her that Barnabas tried to help him and he couldn't understand why until he learned that his cousin had a dreadful secret, too--he was a vampire.  His brother Carl found out about Barnabas; Quentin was desperate--at that point, Evan Hanley had been unable to remove the curse.  He only had Barnabas and Beth to help him, so he'd locked Carl in a secret room of the mausoleum where Barnabas slept...only Carl had escaped.  He was just finished telling CaraLinda that Barnabas had found and strangled Carl when Dave returned.</div> <div>      Retelling the story was bringing back memories of guilt and shame that he'd buried for years and years. He covered his face with his hands as Dave set a cup of coffee in front of him. CaraLinda was looking at him with compassion but hadn't said a single word since Dave left.  Dave put a hand on Quentin's shoulder, concerned.  "You okay, Franky?"</div> <div>      "I feel like I'm there again," Quentin finally said.  He raised his head and looked at them.  "It all bothered me like this in the beginning, and I thought I'd go mad.  After awhile, though, when I'd start to remember I'd just take that memory and push it away from me Eventually, I didn't think of it at all."</div> <div>      "It must be pretty bad," Dave said.  "You look wild, like you did that day you got away from that devil-man."</div> <div>      "Devil-man?"  CaraLinda repeated blankly.</div> <div>      Quentin shuddered.  "Count Petofi.  He calls himself another name now, and he has a different face.  I was just coming to that."</div> <div>      "All right, tell me then!"  CaraLinda encouraged.  So Quentin told the rest of it--how Magda stole the hand from the gypsies and how they'd failed to control it enough to be able to cure him and how the theft had drawn Count Petofi himself to Collinwood.  Petofi had wreaked havoc on Collinwood to retrieve the hand, casting spells on everyone but Quentin.  He'd nearly caused the death of Jamison, which was how and why the count got his hand back.  The count realized that Barnabas had come from the future (here Dave's eyes bugged out again) and decided that's where he wanted to be, too--in Quentin's body.  Quentin was only able to get back into his own body when the power of the hand transferred back to that of the aging count.  After that, he'd escaped and hadn't returned.  </div> <div>      Quentin drank some coffee and wished it was scotch or brandy instead.  He looked over at Dave, whose mouth had dropped open and was still staring with huge eyes, and asked sarcastically, "Aren't you going to tell me you never met a white boy like me before and don't I get into the strangest messes?"</div> <div>      "Well, hell, kid, you don't need to hear that from me nohow," Dave answered after a moment.  "I guess you already know it, don't you?  Lord have mercy!"</div> <div>      "It would be nice if He would," Quentin said bitterly.  Then he told CaraLinda:  "I won't bore you with all the rest of it.  I traveled around, looking for Amanda and another cure.  I've been just about everywhere in the world.  I never found anything that helped.  So eventually I made my way back to this country, to New Orleans."</div> <div>      "What you go there for?" CaraLinda asked.</div> <div>      "That's where I learned to play the piano when I was in New Orleans earlier.  It was called ragtime then.  And I knew there were people who practiced voodoo there--"</div> <div>      "Pah!"  CaraLinda spat, waving her hand dismissively.</div> <div>      "Yes, well, anyway, the second time I came back, I met Dave--"</div> <div>      "Shoo, and considering everything we been through, you just never had any peace and quiet have you?" Dave interrupted.  "After all that mess, I still don't understand why you'd want to go and get yourself into more trouble."</div> <div>      Quentin shrugged.  He wondered, too, lots of times.  "Maybe I really am too much like Peter Pan and don't know how to live any other way."  Quickly, he told CaraLinda the rest of the story.  The only piece he left out was that Bartelli had beaten and raped him.  With Dave in the room, he couldn't bring himself to do it.  </div> <div>      He felt CaraLinda knew somehow what had happened and undertsood, because she reached over and held his hand.  Her face had darkened considerably, but her eyes were still filled with compassion.  "You have suffered much at the hands of this evil man," she said.  "You need justice, just as we need justice."  He sighed deeply with relief.  Now that it was all told, he felt better but was horrified to feel tears welling up again.  He still felt ashamed to cry, in spite of what Angelique had said.  "You think you are not a man because you cry?  Men are fools," CaraLinda said softly.  "You cry.  You got nothing to be ashamed of."  She looked over at Dave.  "Be a sweet man and go into my drawer--bottom left.  There you find some of Mr. Capone's fine brandy.  Bring it here, please, my friend."</div> <div>      Obediently, Dave got up and went to the little make-up table CaraLinda used and retrieved the brandy.  CaraLinda took it and added it to the coffee.  Gratefully, Quentin took the cup and drank it down.  Dave filled it again with brandy.  He put his hand on Quentin's shoulder and patted it again, trying to be comforting but not knowing what to do.  As Quentin was pulling himself together, CaraLinda spoke again.  "We must deal with this man.  I need to tell my <I>familya</I>.  There is one untruth I have told you though--when you asked earlier, I told you I was not under the<I> marime</I>.  That is not so.  I have been banned for a year."</div> <div>      "Why?"  Dave was shocked.  "What you do?"</div> <div>      "I went with a man of your color.  You know him, this Nick.  We are no longer together, but that doesn't matter.  I brought shame to my family because I was unclean."</div> <div>      Dave understood immediately.  "I'm sorry, CaraLinda."</div> <div>      "I am not," CaraLinda tossed her head.  "Nick is a good man.  He is just not for me.  I don't regret it, no.  And I can go back to my <I>familya </I>once the banishment is over--if I choose."  She considered.  "It has been almost a year, now.  I have a sister--I think I can get her a message.  This is of the utmost importance--the <I>kumpania</I> must know of it."</div> <div>      "The which?"</div> <div>      "This is a <I>Roma </I>word.  It means--"  CaraLinda paused to think.  "All of the families in this area, all together."</div> <div>      "Like a family reunion?" Quentin asked.</div> <div>      CaraLinda shrugged.  "Sounds close enough.  I have a <I>familya</I>--like yours.  Your parents, your brothers, sisters, grandparents.  The <I>familya </I>is part of a clan, what we call <I>vitsa. </I>The <I>kumpania</I> is all of those, in this part of the country, you see?"</div> <div>      "So what do we do now?"  Quentin asked.</div> <div>      "Well, I got to get a message to my sister.  That's the first thing.  Then we got to get that Petofi here, for the<I> kris</I>."</div> <div>      "The what?"</div> <div>      "This is our court," CaraLinda explained briefly, thinking.  She looked at Quentin and Dave.  "You got any ideas?"</div> <div>      "I have one," Quentin began tentatively.  "He calls himself Geraldo Bartelli now.  He's what the gangsters call a 'fixer'--"</div> <div>      "So you said," CaraLinda interrupted.  "One who settles disputes?  Very interesting."</div> <div>      "I thought if there was a dispute he had to settle here, he would come."</div> <div>      "And what dispute would that be?"</div> <div>      Quentin sighed.  "I was trying to think.  The first thing I thought of was the bootlegging, but I'm honestly afraid to do that because of what happened to me and Dave."</div> <div>      "You should be afraid," CaraLinda agreed.  "This bootlegging is big business.  You could start a war--that would be very dangerous. You know Al--he seems nice, no?  He is very generous, too.  He gives money to poor people.  I myself have seen him do this so that the mothers can feed their hungry children.  But this Al, he is also a snake--but not a rattlesnake.  You do not have warning before he strikes.  Like the snake, when he strikes, he is full of deadly poison."</div> <div>      "Shit, don't I know it," Dave said with a groan.</div> <div>      Quentin shuddered.  "What about women?"</div> <div>      "Nah, not women.  Al, he knows he has more women in these brothels than he can use.  Everyone knows it--it would not make sense to try and compete."</div> <div>      "Numbers?" Dave suggested.</div> <div>      CaraLinda snapped her fingers.  Her eyes brightened with delight and she gave Dave a big grin.  "Numbers!  No, not numbers, but I got an idea now!"  She was very excited and paced back and forth.  Then she threw her arms around the startled Dave and gave him a big kiss.  "You are a genius!  You help me remember the horses!"</div> <div>      "Horses?"</div> <div>      "Al loves to gamble on the horses.  Only he don't usually do so good.  He likes to gamble big money I have heard.  It's like--like needing the drug you shoot into your arm with a needle."</div> <div>      "Heroin," Quentin said helpfully.</div> <div>      "Yes, yes, very bad for you.  But Al, he goes to the track and he bets on the horses.  He don't like to lose, no, it makes him very mad.  He would not like it if he thought someone was going to fix the race to make him lose."  She looked at Quentin and Dave to see what they thought of the idea.</div> <div>      "It's different enough so that the New York boys won't get mad at you and me for messin with their liquor business again," Dave said.  </div> <div>      Quentin nodded thoughtfully.  "All right, so now we need to plant the idea in his head.  I think I know how to do that.  We'll get Phillip to do it."  </div> <div>      CaraLinda spat.  "That pig!  He would help you?"</div> <div>      "Maybe not willingly," Quentin conceded.  "I can make him.  I'm sure of it." He remembered Phillip's mood.  "Not tonight, though.  In fact, I might have to sleep out in the park." He told them what had happened, and CaraLinda laughed heartily.</div> <div>      "For that, you sleep here, in my dressing room.  I have a cot, you can use it.  I'll go home, you sleep here."</div> <div>      "All right, Frank.  Now we got a what and a how.  We need a who in New York," Dave said. "Not someone we already be in trouble with."</div> <div>      "Right," Quentin agreed.  "Who does horses in New York, Dave?  Do you know?"</div> <div>      Dave thought.  "New York is different than here.  Much better organized.  They usually don't mix in this shoot 'em up stuff because they got Bartelli and Rothstein watching them, tellin 'em how to behave so they look good.  The most powerful of them listen to those two guys--you know, Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello.  Those guys wouldn't have any truck in something like this.  Make 'em look bad."  He shook his head, looking down at his shoes to concentrate.  Then he looked up and said, "Look, why don't I call Cholly and ask him?  He's got lotsa friends out there.  He must know something."</div> <div>      "Cholly?  He won't want to help me," Quentin objected.  </div> <div>      "How you know that?"</div> <div>      "I never heard back from him."</div> <div>      "Could be any number of reasons for that, Franky.  Besides, I'm gonna call him, not you."</div> <div>      Quentin shrugged.  "Can't hurt to ask."</div> <div>      Dave looked at his watch.  "He might be just comin in now.  You boys have a phone then?"  Quentin nodded and gave the phone number.  "Be right back."  He left to make the phone call, and Quentin sighed and covered his face again.</div> <div>      He felt CaraLinda stroking his hair.  "You don't worry, my pretty one.  We'll take care of that evil man," she said reassuringly.  He looked up at her, into her large, expressive brown eyes.  She leaned down and kissed him very gently.  He started to pull her onto his lap but she straightened up again.  "No, pretty one, not now."  She continued to caress his face and brows.  He closed his eyes and relaxed.</div> <div>      When Dave returned, he was rubbing his hands together enthusiastically.  "Talked to Cholly.  He say there's not much Lucky's not into including the horses, but we might try using a Mustache Pete named Joe Masseria.  Or Dutch Schultz.  That boy is crazy."</div> <div>      "Who?  Dutch Schultz or Cholly?  And what's a Mustache Pete?"</div> <div>      "Dutch Schultz is a wild man.  Seems to be crazier than our man.  And a Mustache Pete is one of them old type bosses that don't have much truck with the new ones.  The new ones would like them to just disappear.  The old fashioned guys are into the strong arm stuff."</div> <div>      "Did Cholly favor one over the other?"  Quentin asked.</div> <div>      "Masseria.  He said we crazy."</div> <div>      "We are.  How much did you tell him?  How is he?"  Quentin asked.</div> <div>      "I told him what he needed to know.  How is he?  He's okay, Franky.  He told me he got your letter.  He said he understands, Frank."</div> <div>      Quentin sighed.  "Well, he's a better man than I am."</div> <div>      "I got no idea what you're talkin about, but at least we got a plan now," CaraLinda said, breaking into Quentin's self-recriminating thoughts.  "I need to contact my sister.  You, pretty boy, you got to talk to that pig cousin of yours.  And you, my handsome dark one, you got to clean out your trumpet."</div> <div>      Dave laughed.  "Sound like I got the easy part!"</div> <div>      "We drink."  CaraLinda brought forth two more glasses.  She refilled Quentin's coffee cup and then the two glasses she'd taken out for Dave and herself.  She held up her glass.  "We drink to success."</div> <div>      "To luck," Quentin muttered.</div> <div>      "No, handsome one, not luck," CaraLinda objected.  "Success."</div> <div>      They clinked their glasses and cup together and drank to success.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id67.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="13: Nora"><U>13:  Nora</U></A>    <A HREF="id69.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="15: The Trap"><U>15:  The Trap</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> </td> </tr></table></body>