A Tiny Piece of Sky (15 page)

AS UNPLEASANT AS IT
was, Frankie had no choice but to stay close to Mr. Stannum for the rest of the day. It wasn't easy, either, because he spent a good deal of time in his office with the door closed. But that didn't deter Frankie. You see, at the moment when she told Daddy that she wasn't going to go with him to the meeting, when she made the decision instead to stay at the restaurant, she decided that she would learn exactly what Mr. Stannum had found. She would find out, no matter what. And when she did, she would . . . well, to be honest, she didn't know what she would do.

But she would do something, because Number Threes, in absence of Number Twos, had no choice.

MR. STANNUM LEFT THE
restaurant at four o'clock. While Seaweed and Amy were tossing the last of the cleaned chickens into pots for stock, while Leon was testing out a new switch for the fan, and while Julie was pounding more dough to replace the loaves she'd lost to feathers, Mr. Stannum grabbed his leather satchel and hat and slipped out the front door without telling anyone where he was going or when he'd return.

Frankie followed him.

He walked down Washington Street and onto Locust Street for a few blocks more. Then, he crossed over to East Avenue and ducked inside Barnard's Pharmacy. Frankie waited a few minutes just outside the door. She didn't want to run into him, or let on that she was tailing him. So she waited until the next customer came along, a woman who happened to be of considerable width carrying a substantial pocketbook, such that Frankie could easily hide behind her silhouette all the way into the store. The woman headed toward the soda counter with Frankie close—
very close
—behind. But the woman had her mind on an ice cream soda and was none the wiser.

Frankie peeked around the woman's midsection as they approached the counter, long enough to see Mr. Stannum perched on a stool and sipping a fountain soda. “Tilly,” said Mr. Barnard, behind the counter. “What'll it be? The usual?”

“I see no reason to make a change,” said the woman. “And go ahead and put a dollop of cream on top, would you?”

“Cherry?” he asked.

“Make it two,” she said.

Frankie held her breath and imagined herself no bigger than a toothpick so as not to be discovered. She also said a quick prayer that Tilly would not all of a sudden bend down to adjust her slip or have the urge to tighten the buckle on her shoe, leaving Frankie out in the wide open to be picked off like a whistle-pig in a vegetable garden. Whether the toothpick imaginings or the prayer did the trick, no one could say. But neither Mr. Barnard nor Mr. Stannum seemed to notice Frankie.

Instead, Mr. Barnard nodded and smiled at Tilly and went over to the cooler to scoop the vanilla ice cream. Mr. Stannum returned his attention to his drink. Frankie took that opportunity to slip away from the woman and slide into one of the booths along the wall a few feet away. She pulled out the menu that was tucked behind the salt and pepper shakers, and propped it up on the table in front of her.

From behind the menu, she watched Mr. Stannum as he took a few sips of his drink, and then glanced over his shoulder. After a few times alternating between glancing at the door and nursing his soda, it was obvious to Frankie that he was waiting for someone. Mr. Price, most likely.

Frankie watched for him, too. She was doing such a fine job at it that she didn't see Mr. Barnard come up to her table. “What can I get for you?” he asked, pad and pen in hand.

Frankie was so startled, she dropped the menu. She scrambled to pick it back up again before Mr. Stannum looked her way. Then
she held it open in front of her and ordered the first thing she saw. “Root beer float.”

Mr. Barnard said, “Coming right up.”

Before he could make it back to the counter, in walked Mr. Price. “Afternoon,” said Mr. Barnard. “Have a seat anywhere you like.”

Mr. Price chose the stool next to Mr. Stannum. The two men didn't say anything to each other for the longest time. No
Hello
. No
Good afternoon
. No
What have you got on Mr. Baum?
They were silent so long that Frankie thought they might be passing notes on napkins or talking in Morse code.

Mr. Barnard delivered Frankie's root beer float. “Thank you,” whispered Frankie, from behind the menu.

“Is there something else you want to order?” he asked.

“No, that's all,” said Frankie.

“You sure?” said Mr. Barnard. “You're studying that menu awful close.”

“I'm sure,” said Frankie, keeping her head and her voice low.

“Suit yourself,” said Mr. Barnard. Then he stood near Mr. Price and asked, “So, what will it be? Whatever you'd like, it's on the house, of course.”

Frankie rolled her eyes. How these people went out of their way to please this man was really something.

“Just a cup of coffee,” said Mr. Price. “And maybe a doughnut.”

“You bet,” said Mr. Barnard.

Then Mr. Price leaned toward Mr. Stannum. “You brought it?” he said in a low voice.

Mr. Stannum nodded.

“Let me have it,” said Mr. Price.

Frankie only heard mumblings from the men's conversation.
She scooted to the edge of the booth so she could better hear them, but they were doing a masterful job of keeping their voices from drifting beyond the counter.

What a pity. But do not worry, my dear friend, you shall know all that was said. Read on.

Mr. Stannum hesitated and drained the last of his soda. “You know, I've been thinking. It's probably nothing. I shouldn't have bothered you.”

Mr. Barnard set down the glazed cake doughnut at Mr. Price's place, along with an empty porcelain cup. Then he poured coffee from a steaming pitcher into the cup, sloshing a little into the saucer. “There you are, sir. Anything else?”

“Not at the moment,” said Mr. Price.

“How about for you?” he said to Mr. Stannum. “Another soda?”

Mr. Stannum shook his head. “We're fine,” said Mr. Price. “We'll let you know if we need something else.”

Mr. Barnard gave a nervous smile and nodded. He backed away to return the coffeepot to the burner. Then he pulled the white towel from his apron pocket and, with no other customers to serve, he polished a spot on the counter by the soda fountain.

“I'll be the judge of what is nothing and what isn't,” said Mr. Price. “Now, let me have a look at what it is you found.”

Mr. Stannum stared into his empty drinking glass. From this exchange, you might wonder if he were having a change of heart, which would only be possible if he had any heart at all. Finally, after a few long moments, Mr. Stannum reached into his leather satchel and pulled from it a piece of paper. He didn't even have a chance to unfold it before Mr. Price snatched it from him.

Frankie strained her eyes to see. Although she couldn't make
out anything more than dark squiggly print from her vantage point, at the top of the paper were these strange words:
“Deutsher Unterstükengs Bund von Hagerstown.”
Mr. Price's eyes lit afire. Below, there were more words in German, but the only word on the entire page that the two gentlemen recognized was
Hagerstown
. It didn't matter that they couldn't understand the rest of the words. Mr. Price knew just what they were: evil. What's more, he believed this document, no matter what it said, certainly confirmed his suspicions about Mr. Baum. And he was delighting in it.

“Do you know what it means?” asked Mr. Stannum, looking worried.

Mr. Price held up the paper and gave it a little wave. “Yes, Mr. Stannum, I do know what this means.” He took a last sip of coffee. Then he grabbed his doughnut in one hand and the German words in the other. He stood.

“What are you going to do?” asked Mr. Stannum.

“What any person who wants to protect his country from Nazi sympathizers would do,” said Mr. Price. “Don't you worry, Mr. Stannum. You've done your part to make this great nation proud.” Then he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of tin buttons. On the front, bright red letters on a navy blue background spelled three words:
price
for
mayor
. He tossed one at Mr. Stannum and watched it land on his cocktail napkin. Then, without giving much care to aim, Mr. Price flung two more down the counter toward Mr. Barnard and Tilly like he was sowing seeds in a plot of land. It didn't much matter where they fell or who caught them, because it was just like his politicking grandpappy, the late Maurice Waterford Price, always said: “If you throw enough seeds at the dirt, some will eventually take root.”

Before leaving, Mr. Price strode past Frankie's booth and tossed a button at her table. It sailed under her menu, which she still held in front of her face, and kept on going until it came to a stop in her lap.

Frankie wanted to holler. A real, loud, honest-to-goodness scream that might shake the world back to its senses and make Mr. Stannum undo what he had just done, whatever that was. The thing was, Frankie didn't know. Daddy had something written in German. Something. What was it and what did that mean about Daddy? And what was Mr. Price going to do now that he had it?

Mr. Stannum paid his bill and picked up his satchel. He left a small tip and the tin button behind.

Frankie waited until he was gone before she got up and headed for the door. She had to get back to the restaurant before Mr. Stannum did and before Mother and Daddy noticed she was gone. She needed to talk to someone about what to do next. But with Joan gone, who was that somebody? Frankie was trying to sort it all out when Mr. Barnard interrupted her.

“Young lady,” he said. “I think you forgot to pay your tab.”

Frankie looked from him to the root beer float sitting untouched at her table. “Oh,” she said, her face getting hot. “My tab.” She patted her dress pockets, but the only thing she had on her was her blue silk bag that contained her scab collection. She held it out to him so he could see she wasn't fooling. “I seem to have forgotten to bring my money purse.”

Mr. Barnard, who tolerated children almost as much as he tolerated customers who skipped out on the check, looked at the silk bag she was holding. “No money, you say. Then what do you have in there?”

“Nothing,” she said. In her experience, her particular collection was not something that those over the age of thirteen appreciated.

Stamps?
With certainty.

Coins?
Absolutely acceptable.

Dolls?
Simply endearing.

Scabs?
Did you say scabs? Well, that's just positively disgusting.

“Let me see,” said Mr. Barnard.

Frankie shook her head.

“Thief!” he yelled, pointing at her.

Tilly raised her hands in the air like Frankie was holding up the place.

“But, look!” said Frankie, pointing to the root beer float at the table. “I didn't even have a sip of it. I swear it's the truth.”

Mr. Barnard took a step closer to Frankie and she was afraid he was going to grab her by the ear, drag her to a chalkboard, and make her write
I will remember to bring money for floats
one hundred times in her best cursive. That's just what her teacher at school would have done, anyway.

But Mr. Barnard did not grab her ear. He grabbed the blue silk bag. Then he pulled at the drawstring and shook out the contents onto the counter.

It took him about a minute to realize what he was looking at. “What the . . . ?”

It took Tilly a second or two longer. She gagged first, then screamed, “Holy mackerel!” and nearly slid off her seat.

“I told you,” said Frankie. She swept her prized scabs back into the bag and returned them to the secure quarters of her dress pocket before Mr. Barnard did something barbaric like knock them to the ground or throw them in the garbage.

Then Mr. Barnard demanded she give him her father's name and phone number, and if she didn't or tried any tricks, he swore to God Almighty that he was going to call the police and have her hauled off to jail.

Jail is no suitable place for children, she knew, especially for those who picked at their scabs. And so, reluctantly, she gave up the number.

What number, you ask?

Frankie did intend to give Mr. Barnard the number to the restaurant. But at the last minute, she thought better of it and gave him another.

OVER AT UNCLE HAL
and Aunt Edith's apartment, the telephone was ringing. Uncle Hal had already gone out in his taxi for his shift, and Aunt Edith was in her bedroom painting on her eyebrows. She was experimenting with a more severe arch, a technique that she had seen in a recent issue of
Ladies' Home Journal
, and she was finding it to be quite tricky. Meanwhile, Ava and Martha were in the living room playing with paper dolls; Martha was dressing them up and Ava was holding them for ransom.

Martha had named the prettiest one Mary Beth, and Ava had just nabbed her before answering the telephone. “Leave the money in a briefcase under the bridge or the girl gets it,” Ava said in a deep voice.

“Pardon me?” said Mr. Barnard.

“Only the governor can pardon you,” said Ava, “and I hate to be the one to tell you, but he's in on the job.”

“I'm calling from Barnard's Pharmacy,” he said, clearing his throat. “This is Mr. Eugene Barnard speaking. Is there a Mr. Hermann Baum at home? I have his daughter here and she does not seem to have enough money to pay for what she ordered.”

“Is that right?” said Ava. “What did she order?”

“What? Oh, well, a root beer float.”

“Good choice,” said Ava. “What kind of ice cream?”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Barnard, “but may I speak to Mr. Baum about this matter?”

“I don't think that's such a good idea,” said Ava. “He's a very busy man, and I'm afraid he doesn't take kindly to being disturbed, if you know what I mean.”

Mr. Barnard turned to Frankie. “Hold on one moment; is your father the same Hermann Baum who's opening the new restaurant in town?”

“That's right,” answered Frankie.

The color in Mr. Barnard's face began to pale. “Oh, I see.”

“Do you know him?” asked Frankie.

Mr. Barnard shook his head slowly, the handset still pressed against his ear. “Not directly. But I've heard about him.”

On the other end of the phone, Martha and Ava were deep in a row. “Where did you put Mary Beth?” shouted Martha. “Give her back!”

Ava put her hand over the phone and whispered to Martha, “Like I already told you, you'll see Mary Beth again after I get the money. That's how a ransom works. And if you don't deliver, the boss told me to turn Mary Beth into spitballs.”

“What boss?”

“
The
boss,” said Ava. “The head of my crime family, who do you think?”

“Oh,” said Martha. “Is he nice?”

“Nice? I just told you he wants me to turn Mary Beth into spitballs, and you're asking if he's nice?”

“You wouldn't do such an awful thing,” said Martha.

“Oh, wouldn't I?” Ava cradled the phone under her chin as she produced paper Mary Beth from under her dress and promptly ripped off her head.

Martha screamed bloody murder.

“Look,” said Ava, returning the phone to her ear, “you don't want to make him angry. He's got connections, see? He'll turn you and everyone you know into mincemeat. Minced!”

Martha picked up Mary Beth's head and ran down the hall, screaming for their mother.

Mr. Barnard swallowed. Then he slowly returned the handset to the base while Ava went on about her mobster connections. “You know,” he said to Frankie, “why don't we just forget this ever happened.”

“Really?” said Frankie. “I'll bring you what I owe. Honest.”

Mr. Barnard shook his head. “Don't think a thing about it, really. Like you said, you didn't even touch it. It wouldn't be right to charge you for something you didn't drink.” He escorted Frankie to the door. “And tell your father that I didn't know. I mean, I didn't realize who he was.”

“What do you mean, who he was?” asked Frankie. “Who is he?”

It seemed like a strange question to ask, but Frankie was beginning to think that maybe she didn't really know.