On the other hand, in the last few years, against all advice, she had learned how to read and write. Here, beyond the standard Gypsy paranoia about opening the closed rom society, the taboos were only monetary — a child in school studying could not be out scrounging money from the gadje.
Ristik, meanwhile, had grabbed back control of the meeting.
“You both gotta agree, this is a decision for the King. We got two rom nationalities here, of equal standing because one is Kalderasha, the King’s nation, and the other Muchwaya, the nation of his wife, Lulu.” The two other true rom nations, Tsurana and Lowara, were not represented in the room. “Fighting each other will not help. Whoever becomes the new Baro Rom — Big Guy — it is to our advantage that it be someone from these kumpanias.”
“Yes, one of us,” echoed Sonia Lovari, who, though past 30, still passed as a Native American teenager soliciting donations for American Indian causes.
“So we must go back in style—”
“We must make the most impressive gifts to the King—”
“Which means,” said Yana, “a nineteen fifty-eight pink Cadillac convertible for him to be buried in.”
“Yes!” thundered hulking, barrel-chested Nanoosh Tsatshimo (bogus gold and silver electroplating). “If we can find one—”
“I will find it,” said Yana.
So, Marino thought, she obviously knows where to find it. He obviously didn’t. Since whoever brought back such a cherry ’58 pink ragtop as a gift to the dying King would have the inside track to be his successor, let Yana get the car — and then let her try to keep it until she could give it to the King...
“Meanwhile,” he said, “I have the plan that will let us all go back to Iowa in the proper style. Yana will not share her knowledge of the pink convertible with me, but I will share my idea with her.” He swept a bow to her side of the room. “With all of you...”
Two hours later the Gypsies, laughing with delight at his plan, went their various ways, some to con, others to drink, more to gamble — a standard Gypsy downfall — and Ristik over to Tiburon to paw through Teddy White’s garbage for personal clues his sister might use in the upcoming candle reading.
Alone with Yana, Marino slowly paced the room, gesturing with another half-eaten chicken leg. Yana sat at the table, placid at last, not turning her head, following him only with her eyes as he walked and talked.
“Remember when we were children, Yana...”
“Always fighting.”
“But always together.”
Her eyes softened for a moment. “Yes,” she said softly, “always together.”
He stopped behind her chair. He put his hands on her shoulders. He leaned down so his face was touching her hair. He breathed in her heady scent. “Betrothed to each other by our families when you were seven and I was fifteen—”
“But then you screwed it up.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, now we would be unbeatable together.”
The softness disappeared. She drew stiffly away. Stood. Began pacing herself.
“You know that I am married.”
“To Ephrem Poteet, a man who beats you when he is with you but who has been away for over two years.”
She shrugged. “I hope in prison, may he rot there. But anyway, Ramon is all I need to run my business.”
“Ramon is your brother.” He tried to put his arms around her. “Can a brother take the place of a strong man in your bed?”
She pulled away angrily. Her voice was scornful.
“Since we are children this is who you are! Always trying to control me! With sex! With your games! Always scheming! Always planning! Always wanting to be Baro Rom —”
“Me?” He raised his shoulders and spread his hands in a pained shrug. “Who is planning to take the Cadillac back for the King to get into his good graces?”
“Who knows where to find such a Cadillac?”
He nodded, conceding the point. His own face hardened. He spoke in Romany to her for the first time that night.
“All right. We will talk of this again, when you have more sense to speak.” He started for the door, paused. Now he spoke again in English. “I have a scam running and I need a few more days to bring it off.”
She was silent for a moment; then she too smiled. Many men would kill to have such a smile bestowed on them; quite a few gadje men had died financially because of it. Before they hit the road back to Iowa, she intended Theodore Winston White III to be another.
“All right, Rudolph. I too have an... operation running that needs more time. But... we begin now...”
“Good!” he exclaimed, laughing. “I will start opening the bank accounts and finding the offices for the phone rooms...”
She didn’t say that ripping off a certain 1958 pink Eldorado convertible from the gadjo who had it was another strong reason she wanted a delay in returning to the Midwest. He didn’t say that ripping off the same convertible from her was his strongest reason for agreeing to such a delay.
Chapter four
Rudolph Marino strode into the main branch of California Citizens Bank at One Embarcadero Center (Now Open Nine to Five Every Weekday to Serve You Better!) just as the doors swung wide for the start of the business week. Studious glasses dulled the fire in his eyes. His curls were muted and tastefully greyed at the temples. He looked as straight as Ted Turner.
Since a man was handling New Accounts, Marino scanned the other bank officers behind the metal and Formica railing. He chose a pretty, early-40s, round-faced woman with pouty lips. She wore floral perfume and pink-tinted glasses that magnified her eyes into a slightly surprised expression. She did not wear a wedding band. Her nameplate said HELEN WOODING.
“Ms. Wooding,” said Marino as he sat down across the desk from her, “I hope that I offer no offense when I say that you have very beautiful eyes.”
The beautiful eyes crinkled behind their tinted lenses. The ample bosom swelled beneath its white frothy blouse. It did not swell with indignation. “You’ve just made my week.”
His head was slightly inclined and his face held considered pleasure, as if he were a connoisseur tasting vintage wine.
“Western Wisconsin, am I not right?”
“Red Wing, Minnesota, just across the river. But how—”
“The accent. When I was a kid I used to spend summers at my uncle’s summer place in the Wisconsin Dells.”
Actually, he’d been a roughie with a carny traveling the Midwest county fair circuit. He shook himself like a man coming from a dream of childhood, and gave her a card. On it was ANGELO GRIMALDI in that sort of raised lettering that looks like engraving under casual examination. After his praise, the eyes behind the tinted lenses would be extremely casual.
“I am out here to your beautiful city from Manhattan seeking investment opportunities. Perhaps we can give our little yellow friends from across the sea” — he winked to emphasize the racial slur — “a bit of homegrown American competition.”
“In the banking business we know just what you mean, Mr. Grimaldi. What sort of opportunities are you looking for?”
“Real estate.”
The blue eyes glinted. “Since the quake, and with the recession, the Bay Area has tremendous bargains. If we can help with any suggestions...”
“I knew I picked the right bank,” Marino exclaimed, lightly slapping her desk with delight. “Next week I would be honored to take you to lunch...”