Marvelwood

By William Gallagher

When sexy Tom Galway introduces himself to Rita Conte in an elevator, it starts a hot and cold romance. Comely Rita is fifty years ahead of the times and plans to gain wealth and high social class. When struck by a debilitating illness, she ignores its risk and pushes for success. Though she counts on Tom to contribute heavily to their future, past traumatic incidents make him unable to face reality. When he risks their savings in a blazing stock market Rita is angered, then elated when his broker invites them into the higher society she craves.
An invitation to a home called Marvelwood stirs Rita to own a house as grand. She puts Tom under constant pressure for money. Unable to earn more, he steals, flouts the law and becomes alcoholic. Just when Rita is close to realizing her life plan the Great Depression sweeps in blizzard-like to freeze people’s hopes. Rita discovers that her success and personal wealth alienate her jealous husband and causes him to stray. Tom’s response to his further business losses forces Rita’s greatest challenge.
The interplay of this strong-willed couple plays out in the ‘20’and ‘30s with their involvement in Woman’s Rights, Prohibition, the stock market crash and the Great Depression. Personal vanities and ambitions force their marriage into schemes and deceptions that demand emotional soul searching and harsh decisions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Gallagher
• Release date: Feb 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310980299

William Gallagher

VFW WW2I thought my stories worth a read.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The decade of the 20’s was an express train roaring through the land bringing new ideas, new products and new unbridled energy; its engine was hundreds of thousands of doughboys returned from Europe.

They had been bloodied on the muddy, butchering no-man’s fields of Belgium and France; had been welcomed joyfully by sex-starved women of both countries who found them enthusiastic and energetic; so different from their own blasé men. These poor American boys were incredibly naïve about the realities of relationships between women and men. So Oooh, la, la! it was the duty of these women of the Old World to teach these men of the New World everything about one of life’s most important matters!

The instructions went very well!

After exercising Europe’s horse hair mattresses and drinking large amounts of robust French Vin as often as possible, they returned to find that life in the United States was weak wine indeed! They wanted fun! Action! Coyness and other old–fashioned ides were Passé! It was a time of quick wit, frivolity, and enthusiasm for a Bright New Tomorrow; anything was possible.

*

This was how Rita Conte stepped into the 20’s: In February 1920, she read an ad for a cosmetician in Malley's, the most elegant department store in New Haven. Next day, after three phone calls, she had an appointment with department manager Mrs. Beauton. That evening, her nurse sister on duty, she had the whole double bed to herself and, resting against a pillow, shaped her fingernails to blunt arrow tips under her bedside lamp’s soft light. While applying Ruby Sunset nail polish, she mused, can’t find a better place to sell cosmetics … have to show what I know without being too smart … don’t try to impress … be myself … treat Mrs. Beauton as a friend… listen and learn. She prepared answers for likely questions.

Pleased with results of her work, she held up lustrous red nails, turned off the lamp, lay back and imagined the ceiling as a movie screen. Houses appeared one after another in a suburban wooded area: stately Georgians, Tudors, Dutch Colonials, Italian, and French Provincials. Which to choose? Even a Cape Cod if it were imposing. She, her handsome husband and beautiful children would relax before a glowing fireplace winter evenings. No matter the style, she needed financial success to afford one. The job at Malley’s would be a start.

Her thoughts flew to sunny Caribbean islands; then a luxury liner sailing the cobalt Atlantic to romantic Europe, with its majestic castles, churches, museums of renowned sculptures and paintings. What a delight! Certain of a thriving future she drowsed and slept.

*

Next morning Rita called The Mohegan Grocery; she would be late. Before a full-length mirror she made sure to pass inspection by a woman who knew her stuff. Satisfied and excited, she put on a wool coat, bid her mother goodbye and left hurriedly to walk a cold block for a trolley. During a rocky ride, she concentrated on listening, thinking, and being positive in the interview. After several blocks, a screeching stop at Temple and Chapel, a door clacking open sat her up. She stepped carefully down two steel steps to the street, her half-rubbers gripping light sand on icy cobbles. She glanced at three imposing colonial churches in thick white mantles on The Green; they were a perfect giant Christmas card. Street corners were miniature Alps, their mantles aged gray; traffic was light, with few pedestrians braving the frosty morn. She raised her collar against biting wind, hastened over an icy glaze, slipped, recovered and hurried on. A bronze clock on the corner with Roman numerals atop a weather-darkened bronze column jutted from packed snow like a summit marker. It read 10:30… fifteen minutes left. She shivered and passed Malley’s imposing windows, ten feet wide by six feet high; the largest glass panes in the State, and barely noticed splendid dresses and fur coats displayed.

Below Malley’s ornate bronze marquee that strained two great dark bronze chains, she opened one of eight doors and entered the foyer with its wet rubber matting, then into the store. Its scents of old wood, exotic perfumes, and new clothes always delighted her. She glided over a plush maroon carpet past shiny brass-fitted dark oak display cases, past shelves piled with men’s dress shirts, socks, and soft-toned wool sweaters––everything just so! While she waited at an elevator, soft department bells sought attention. Contrarily, a nearby vacuum tube slurped up a brass cylinder carrying sales receipts and sent it to accounting; one returning THUNKED into a waiting steel basket.

An elevator whined to a stop. Its door opened quietly to reveal softly lightly polished wood paneling. Two stylish women carrying shopping bags exited chattering happily. The smartly uniformed operator gave Rita the once-over as she entered, and returned her smile.

He took a professional stance, Floor please?

Third, please.

*

Rita stepped out to a plain hall, found and entered the office of Cosmetics Manager Mrs. A. Beauton; it was small with an end table separating a brown leather couch and an armchair. A middle-aged secretary with rimless eyeglasses stopped typing; her light brown hair in a finger wave, she displayed the department products in fine fashion. A desktop sign in a brass holder read, Mrs. Richards.

She spoke pleasantly. Good morning.

Rita knew not to underrate a secretary’s influence. She smiled brightly and spoke warmly, Good morning. She glanced at a painter’s pallet of flowers in a small milk glass vase on the desk. What a nice touch of spring for this icy winter.

Mrs. Richards was pleased. Aren’t they lovely? Malley’s replaces them weekly. Are you here for an interview?

I’m Rita Conte for a ten forty-five.

Mrs. Richards gave her an application on a clipboard, and a sharp yellow pencil. Please fill this out. Mrs. Beauton will see you shortly.

Rita sat, read the application and started writing.

*

In her office, Mrs. Beauton, a woman of charm and beauty, smiled politely. Thank you, Miss Scolnick. We'll let you know.

The young woman stood with hands clasped, a forced smile, and her voice tremulous, Thank you, Mrs. Beauton. I do hope to hear from you. She turned and reluctantly approached the door as though going through it meant banishment from society. She fumbled the door knob, opened the door and slipped through.

Mrs. Beauton looked at her desk clock on a black marble base between a golden pen and pencil holder: 10:42. Well, two down and two to go before lunch. She poised her blue and green Waterman fountain pen, sighed and wrote, not suitable. A glance showed the applicant's chair was over an arm's length in front of the desk. Good. She pressed a buzzer, took a deep breath, and hoped this would be the one. When her secretary opened the door, a tall, slim, dark-haired young woman stepped in and flashed a pleasant smile. Good morning.

Well, someone to look up to. Mrs. Beauton smiled at her pun—and her applicant. Good morning.

Her glance took in slender neck (one to kill for), alert yellow-green eyes, and a confident, relaxed carriage. She is not beautiful, but good-looking enough. Her rouge looks natural; her medium-red Cupid’s bow is fine. Thank heaven she applied no mascara or eyeliner. Those neatly plucked eyebrows, a trifle thick, need no penciling and she used none; apparently she knows when to stop. That thick, dark hair could be more cosmopolitan. Her hands are large, with fingers long and slim and shaped nails a proper shade of red.

When the applicant approached, Mrs. Beauton gestured to the high-back green leather chair. Do sit, please.

Thank you. Rita placed the application on the desk and sat.

This is the first applicant with initiative to put the form on the desk before she sat. A fast perusal of the application showed, RITA CONTE in neat, clear print.

What beautiful pictures. Behind the desk, four large portraits in gold metal frames portrayed the head of a model with hands set against their neck before a faint cosmopolitan setting. Each had a different hair color and hairstyle, matching lipstick and nail polish in exotic colors.

Mrs. Beauton answered receptively, Aren't they?

I like the brunet’s hairstyle; the eye shadow, lipstick and rouge beautifully set off her coloring.

Mrs. Beauton spoke casually, and hoped for a correct response. It's too bad we cannot all be so beautiful. Do I have a prospect?

At least we can make the most of what we have.

Mrs. Beauton’s smile broadened at the correct response. However, experience taught that one good shot did not win a war.That is my sentiment exactly, and the purpose of my department. Tell me about yourself, Miss Conte. I see that you went to Yale Music School.

Yes. I thought of becoming a music teacher, but with their men at war, most families can’t afford lessons. It's just as well, I'd much rather deal with adults than children.

Preferring to work with adults is good. Rita is a clerk and cashier at Mohegan Market. She must be a good worker to be there over two years. Her modulated alto is pleasant, her words articulated clearly with lively expression. Why do you want this position?

Rita thought quickly before answering, I believe it has a good future. Magazine ads are making women aware of modern style. They don’t want to look plain; they want to look attractive.

Why do you think you can be successful in this position?

I have read a lot about cosmetics, though I have a lot to learn. Long before your ad, I had asked women downstairs and in Shartenberg’s about cosmetics.

What did you ask?

What shades to use with certain skin tones. What accents will de-emphasize or emphasize facial features; how to blend rouges and powders for a correct shade. Interestingly, testing on my sisters showed that the shade I liked didn’t always work for them.

That is true. There is nothing like trial and error to gain expertise. What else do you think the position requires?

I've found that dealing with customers requires patience ... tact ... an honest desire to be helpful. I think some customers will need a little prodding.

"Prodding?

I might ask, 'Don't you think that looks good on you?' Even if I'm the best consultant in the world, I still have to sell products.

You have the idea. Better would be, 'That suits your face nicely, doesn't it?'

Rita raised her eyebrows. I see.

Mrs. Beauton stood and opened a large leather bound catalog on her desk. Let’s look through this. Rita rose and joined her. Her receptivity, questions, and genuine interest impressed Mrs. Beauton who, after discussing pages of beautiful models displaying cosmetics, glanced at her clock. Unfortunately, I must limit each applicant’s time. Do you have any questions?

What salary do you offer?

Good question. A sales girl should be interested in making money. The starting rate is eighteen dollars a week, paid bi-weekly plus five percent commission on sales. We offer an employee discount of ten percent on purchases. The hours are nine-to-five Monday through Saturday, and Thursday until nine. We have the usual holidays.

Rita thought the interview done, and relaxed; it was not that easy.

Suppose you suggested a new lipstick and the customer objected to the price?

Rita pushed her mind for the correct answer. Abruptly, she realized Mrs. Beauton had provided answers with the catalog’s selling points, and was testing her to apply them. She determined to be calm. I would highlight its longer life, and that it won’t smudge as easily as other products. She would save money and time since she wouldn’t have to repair makeup so often. She noticed that Mrs. Beauton’s expression showed neither approval nor disapproval.

Suppose a customer wanted a shade of lipstick that you knew was wrong for her?

She looked directly at Mrs. Beauton as though a customer. That shade is nice, but I think this shade does more for you; why not try it and see? While she looked at it, I would stress its advantages again.

And if she would not try it?

If she insisted on her choice, I would sell it and thank her.

It is surprising how little it takes to annoy and lose a customer.

Rita nodded agreement. I shouldn’t be pushy for this position.

Mrs. Beauton stood. Thank you Rita. You will hear from us within a week.

Rita returned her smile. Thank you, Mrs. Beauton. I would love to sell these products. She rose and strode to the door, opened it and closed it firmly as she left.

*

Mrs. Beauton’s secretary looked up when Rita entered.

Well, wish me luck, Mrs. Richards.

Don’t get your hopes up high, but I think you have a good chance.

Rita looked questioningly at her. Did she say that to cheer all applicants?

Mrs. Richards smiled faintly at the unspoken query. Mrs. Beauton spent the most time with you.

She smiled broadly. Thank you, Mrs. Richards for the encouragement.

On the way to the elevator Rita reflected happily, Mrs. Beauton called me Rita just like an old friend instead of Miss Conte. That is a very good sign.

After a half-workday, Rita elatedly answered her family’s questions at dinner. Mrs. Beauton seemed good to work for; her secretary was pleasant, as a happy worker would be.

*

Days passed slowly at the grocery. Now committed to leaving her job, Rita was bored; there was no challenge. She daydreamed of Malley’s where she could be creative instead of weighing meats, packaging and ringing up sales. One day a woman embarrassed her by holding out a hand, You gave me the wrong change.

Surprised, she saw it was forty-three cents short. I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere. She hastily gave change and smiled at the customer.

The woman frowned and left. Rita wrinkled her nose at the woman’s back. A woman in line smiled at her childish rebuke.

*

During the week, Rita worried about the job; corrected to position, a word for intelligent people---clientele! She reviewed virtually every word of her interview. Could she have asked better questions, given better answers? She remembered Mrs. Beauton’s invitation to sit before she had put the application on desk, a test about thinking ahead. Thank heaven she had thought first instead of sitting and having to get up. Mrs. Beauton’s reply to Rita’s praise of the models, It’s too bad we can’t all be so beautiful, offered a chance to answer correctly, At least we can make the most of what we have. What subtle little traps! She had not seen them at the time. Not traps, opportunities to prove I was the right candidate! She felt right for the position, but each day brought no letter. Why had she not heard from Malley’s? By the weekend, she was dejected and troubled. She wanted to escape from groceries. The Sunday’s paper’s Help Wanted had nothing worthwhile, which depressed her more.

Monday evening she saw an envelope on the entry table. Well, it’s yes or no. Without hesitation, she slit it open. Would Miss Conte kindly report for orientation next Monday. She tingled with joy.

Chapter 2

Rita first saw Tom Galway in late 1923. He entered a Malley’s elevator while she waited to go up. One of few men taller than she, he wore a dark coat, white wool scarf and gray felt hat, his cheeks were red apples. He removed his hat to reveal black center-parted hair.

Good morning! His voice was deep and pleasant; his face a handsome grin.

Is he a masher? She smiled warily. Good morning.

He seemed to think aloud as two men entered, It's a shame to work on this beautiful day.

Rita felt a need to answer. But it’s worth it.

Again, his smile lit the elevator. At least on pay day.

She caught his eye and smiled at the truth.

The elevator boy, proud in a blue uniform with flashy brass buttons, called, Step back, please! He closed the door, Floors please?

The elevator sped to the third, whined to a gentle stop, and jockeyed level.

Rita glanced at Tom as she left. In a flash, the instinct women have about men said he is worth a further look; she glanced again. He might be a new tenant. If so, I’ll see him again and have a chance to size him up.

Rita saw Tom several times in the elevator when they arrived for work in the a.m. Hat in hand he always greeted her with, Good morning and a broad smile. He did not attempt a chat, but softly whistled marches or popular tunes. Would he ever introduce himself?

*

Three weeks after she’d first seen him, Rita saw Tom near her department at an aisle’s corner. He was looking away. When her customer left, he came over. He’s taller than I even with my 2-inch heels, good.

It's still too nice to work.

I have to agree. Since you know how I earn my pay, tell me how you earn yours.

I make choppers.

She frowned quizzically, Choppers?

He showed fine white teeth. Pearlies.

Oh, false teeth.

But these are real.

Rita smiled. They certainly look it. What floor are you on?

I'm in Sharon's Dental Lab on the fourth, with a grand view of The Green.

You're lucky to have a view. She picked up a perfume bottle and showed it to him. The super will be happier if I seem busy.

He canted his head, and squinted at her.

What are you doing?

Your face is familiar. Do I know your name?

Well, that approach is unique. It's Rita.

Rita ...?

Rita Conte.

Short for Margherita … mind if I call you Daisy?

Oh, you know Italian. Don't dare!

Warning heeded.

She displayed perfumes. He nodded at an imaginary sales pitch. What's your name?

Tom Galway.

I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Galway, her eyes twinkled in mock formality.

Miss Conte, I hope we'll be on a first name basis soon, in fact, immediately.

That's fine with me.

A lot of good things start that way, Margherita.

Everyone calls me Rita.

That's our modern twenties. Well, I'd better go before you sell me some expensive perfume. I'll see you again, Rita.

All right, Tom.

A pretty blond cosmetician came over, her eyes on Tom's back. A lively flirt, Thelma’s careless attitude appealed to men. From chats, Rita knew Thelma was easy with them.

Well, snap my bra! Was that sexy hunk a customer, or a beau?

Intuitively, Rita decided to protect her territory. She was almost truthful, Well ... he's not a customer.

He should be in movies. Does he work upstairs?

Yes.

Might you be serious about him? She gave a knowing look.

It could be.

Could? Should! I wouldn't kick his shoes from under my bed. She watched Tom at the elevator. No ma’am! She had said this of others; Rita pursed her lips in censure.

Thelma grinned and rocked her head, kidding Rita’s morality.

Rita shook her finger in mock severity. Thelma laughed.

*

In following weeks, Tom visited often. Was their meeting in the elevator fate? If that dental lab had not moved here, we’d not have met. She felt chills; then caught herself. Don’t get carried away; best to give it a fair chance. She decided to find if he had genuine interest in her. If a good-looking aggressive blond can distract him, now is the time to find out.

A few days later, Rita introduced Tom to an eager Thelma. She glowed at the opportunity, gushing charm as though a spring flood. Rita was satisfied that neither Thelma’s allure nor flattery overwhelmed him. When he showed preference for Rita, Thelma hid her disappointment and took care of a new customer. Rita hid her self-satisfaction when Tom left them for work.

The next time Tom dropped by Thelma greeted him with, "Hi tall dark and handsome!

How’s the dynamic blond beauty today?

Ready for fun!

*

Rita wondered if she would ever meet the right man. She was twenty-five; many high school friends had a husband and children. One night abed, she listed Tom’s attributes: quick wit, good attitude, courteous, confident, but not pushy, and he spoke good English. He wore a necktie; had manly hands with long fingers, nails clean and manicured. His left eyelid was slightly low … what was that all about? Well, it did not affect his looks. He had a white-collar job, but would not make good money until he owned a dental lab. Would he make enough money for her plans?

Chapter 3

Tom remembered the three-story yellow brick house on Orange street, a neighborhood of well-to-do Italians, that he’d seen in his youthful walks around new Haven. His neighborhood had Jews, Italians, and Irish living in wood frame apartments instead of these grand brick houses. Would Rita’s parents be snobs?

Some of his friends said they hated meeting a date’s parents because it made him feel like store goods being appraised. Tom took meeting them as convention. He always looked forward to meeting someone new; something good could come of it. Dressed in his best, a gray double-breasted Glen plaid, snap-brim gray felt hat, black winter coat, and black shoes agleam, Tom hastened up broad granite steps to a quality oak door with leaded oval glass. He ignored an entry bell and rapped a shiny brass knocker three times. That should alert the clan.

Footsteps neared and he stepped back for a full view of Rita framed in the doorway. The door opened and beautiful Rita smiled. She wore a high-neck light blue dress with a red-jeweled brooch on its left. Good evening. Come in.

He beamed his best smile. Good evening to you!

Hat in hand, he entered a foyer of brown floor tiles and panned the area as though a motion picture camera. He was impressed by the fine house. Centered above, an ornate silver filigree lamp cast reddish light on a brown entry rug. Immediately right, a built-in seat awaited guests. A small fireplace of dark green tiles next to it held no fire; it would be cozy in a cold winter. He pictured guests during the overly formal 1800’s and early 1900’s waiting to be greeted by a servant and led into the parlor. There, a Circassia walnut mantle with twin white marble columns framed a fireplace that cast orange light on a blue and white Persian rug. A light blue ceiling displayed a white center oval of garlands in relief.

Rita's father arose from a comfortable chair, corncob pipe trailing wisps of smoke. He wore a fresh white shirt with a brown vest; had mixed gray and red hair, with a broad nicotine-stained mustache. Her mother, short and stout, wore a flower print blue dress with her darker red hair in a bun.

Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Conte. He offered a hand to her father, whose grip proved him no pencil pusher. Tom’s unease about snobbish parents instantly vanished.

Good evening, Tom, he spoke with a heavy Italian accent.

There’s nothing like a pipe and a good chair after a hard day's work.

Papa looked at him a moment. Si, a pipe ... a chair ... atsa good.

Tom turned to mother. Mrs. Conte you certainly have a beautiful home.

Her fixed smile livened at this handsome man, Thank you. Where do you go tonight?

Rita fretted at her blatant curiosity.

There's a good movie at the Palace. Then we'll have a bite to eat. I'll bring Rita safely home before eleven.

Her mother relaxed. Good. Poli's Palace is a beautiful theater.

Just about the most beautiful in New Haven.

The show starts soon, ma. We'd better leave.

Tom spoke heartily. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Conte.

Her father shook Tom’s hand. I'm pleased also.

*

Tom took Rita's arm as they stepped on a sidewalk puzzle of gray flagstones reflecting cold moonlight. You look nifty.

So do you, she answered. While breezes propelled red-brown leaves to new adventures, Rita raised her coat collar.

Nice night for a walk, he said heartily.

Not bad at all. Eight blocks to the center is not far.

But let's ride.She looked at him questioningly and then saw a Model T coupe akin to a black steed with moon spots through leaves above dappling its gleaming skin. He opened the door.

This is a nice surprise. Thank you. She got in and admired streetlight reflecting from the car’s dashboard and splendid black leather seat. Is this his father's car?

He pulled knobs, shifted levers, got out and cranked the engine past hiccups to a coughing fit, then to a steady growl. He hopped in, closed the door with a bang, and smoothly pulled away from the curb.

It's a beautiful car. Have you had it long?

Almost two years. He turned a corner in light traffic.

He’s a man of means. Mmm, it's comfortable.

It beats walking by a long shot.

Even beats the trolley.

That too. Near the center she noted Tom’s deft response to traffic and pedestrians.

They found a place to park and walked past brightly lit restaurants, jewelry and clothes stores, amidst dressed up couples on a night out. At Poli’s they waited in line under its brilliant marquee, THE THIEF OF BAGHDAD starring DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS.

An older man walking by stopped and said, Hey, Kid! How are ya?

Tom flashed a grin. I’m fine. And you?

When are we gonna see ya again?

Three weeks.

OK. See ya then. He walked on.

Kid? I wonder if Tom is younger than I. Well, don’t be nosy. No matter, when I find out how old he is, I’ll be younger for certain.

They entered a lobby of brass-framed posters with COMING ATTRACTIONS in blazing colors. Then they walked on dark terrazzo and on to plush maroon runners. Polished brass posts linked by a red velvet-covered chain divided pink marble walls with immense gilded mirrors. At her reflection, Rita straightened up and then admired grand pastoral scenes on a twenty-foot high ceiling. Giant bronze lamps along the entry’s walls accentuated opulence designed to make patrons feel like royalty. Ahead, majestic white marble staircases raised left and right under a gleaming crystal chandelier. At the orchestra entry, an usher in a smartly gold-trimmed uniform took Tom’s tickets.

Rita expected to sit in the orchestra. On first date, a man tried to impress; on the second, he bought seats in the balcony where she had to defend against his groping.

*

With Douglas Fairbanks’s entertaining acrobatics the movie whizzed by. Tom did not put an arm around her; it proved his maturity to Rita. As they were leaving, she said, The flying carpet's shadow over the buildings made it seem like it was really flying.

As they say, 'you ain't seen nothin!' They're working on sound and I'll bet we’ll have it.

Imagine! Won’t talking movies be something?

That they will. He took her arm and guided her past milling groups of patrons in front of the theater. Let's shake a leg.

Why hurry?

A little speed now will save time later.

Where are we going?

It's a surprise.

Tom's stride was one and a half of hers. If I keep pace with you I'll split my dress.

He chuckled and slowed. Wouldn't that be a sight?

At a corner, a small brick building had a bunch of people waiting before its heavy wooden door with a sign; LOUIS’ LUNCH. Rita had never been in.

A couple exited ushering grilled beef’s savory aroma with them. Rita wondered if it was a greasy burger joint; other dates took her to more impressive grills. Mmm, it smells good.

They have the best steakburgers in town.

Finally, Tom held the old oak door open while they entered a room only about 10 by12 with patrons crowded tighter than in a speakeasy. At near left, two-person oak booths held couples eating juicy burgers.

Rita, stand by this booth. They'll be through soon.

She moved closer.

How do you want your burger? And what garnish? Coffee?

"Make it medium with onion. And I’ll have coffee.

Rita admired a three feet wide Tiffany lampshade hanging from a low ceiling; its translucent grapes, peaches, and fruits gleamed through clouds of cigarette smoke. Mmm, when I have my own house I’d like to have one like that for my dining room. She reached in her bag for a cigarette, and then put it off. Gawd, I’m breathing as much smoke as I’ll get from mine!

A painted sign above the counter priced burgers at 15 cents, 20 cents with tomato or onion. Coffee with cream: 5 cents; potato salad, 10 cents. Two men worked the orders non-stop and fast. One hastily removed a sizzling grill dripping with meat juices and replaced it with fresh chopped steaks in one of two upright blazing gas broilers. The other quickly slapped butter on toast with a broad knife, added tomato or onion to the burger, and put the sandwiches on dishes. The other filled heavy porcelain mugs with dark coffee from a steaming 150 cup urn.

While customers squeezed in and out, Rita held her place. Louis’ certainly has character.

Tom's voice came over the hubbub, "Hello, Irv. How's it going?

Hi, Kid. What'll ya have?

Kid again ... his nickname?

A woman took a long look at Tom as had others in the theater; Rita felt that natural pride of possession women enjoy.

The couple left the booth Rita guarded and she slipped in. Soon, Tom worked through the crowd with a tray of dishes and cups held high.

Rita tried her burger. Delicious! No wonder it’s called a steakburger.

It’s prime lean sirloin; nothing but the best here. He put a dollop of cream in his coffee. A large onion ring covered his burger.

Did you get the onion in self-defense?

He winked at her. Isn’t the best defense an offense?

They talked of the movie, and hungrily finished the tasty burgers.

As they stood, Rita spoke with gusto, That was delicious. Thanks, Kid.

It’s my pleasure, Lady.

Damn! He didn’t take my hint to explain his nickname.

*

They eased a way through people trying to enter. Outside, Rita adjusted her scarf against cold breezes.

Tom tugged his hat tight, took Rita's arm. They walked down a side street toward Tom’s car. Ahead, a dark storefront’s door opened. Amid loud voices from within, three swarthy young men came out. The door slammed and quelled the noise.

Sounds like a speakeasy, Rita said.

Yeah, it’s a dive.

A voice roughened by shouting over others, Hey! Looks like a Yalie.

What's he doin in our neighborhood?

Slummin!

Can't be a Yalie, he's with a girl.

That's no girl. It's a Yalie queen! Rough laughter crackled like pond ice breaking in the chill air.

Rita eyed them warily.