Page 33 of Working for the Mob

“You know, I think I’d like to stop at the supermarket before we get home,” Lucy said, and I groaned. I didn’t want to do any more walking than I had to. “But before we do that, give me one second.”

“What now?” I asked her, but Lucy ran into the butcher’s shop.

I caught up with her just as she yelled, “Hello, Miss Dunham?”

The familiar smell of iron welcomed me inside, just as Miss Dunham walked out of her backroom.

“Hello,” she said, brightly. “Is Jamie treating you ladies alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Lucy said quickly, and pressed on. There was a spark in her eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. I had never seen Lucy excited about anything other than clothes before. “Miss Dunham, do you know who in town would have bread yeast?”

“Bread yeast?” she clarified, as though she had never heard of it before.

“Yes. To make … bread,” Lucy said.

“Huh,” Miss Dunham said. “Let me think … you know Mrs. Jenkins out on East Chester?”

We both shook our heads ‘no.’

“Well, she’s probably your best bet. But she won’t just give you the yeast for free. That yeast has been in her family for years. She doesn’t have any kids, so most likely she’ll take it with her to the grave.”

“How much do you think it’ll cost,” I asked, and thought about the ten dollars Art had given me. We still had a ways for that money to go.

“She might give you some for two dollars,” Miss. Dunham said, and I blanched. We couldn’t afford that.

“Just give me the address for Mrs. Jenkins,” Lucy said.

???

“We don’t have the money to spend on bread yeast,” I told Lucy, as we exited the butchers. “We barely have enough money to make it through the week’”

“It's okay. You’ll figure it out,” Lucy said. Her step included a new bounce, and I had trouble keeping up.

“I’m sorry, did I miss something? Did your fairy godmother visit you last night and turn all your pumpkins into … whatever Lance Necci’s car is?”

“For goodness sakes, Genny, it’s a Rolls Royce.”

Lucy marched into the supermarket with purpose. She passed the produce and headed straight to the baking section.

“We still need this money for the rest of the week. We need to afford whatever rent Art decides to push on us … and food!”

She grabbed a box of sugar and continued down the aisle. She paused and stood in front of more baking products.

“Hold these for me?” she asked, and handed me three bags of flour and can of salt from the shelves.

“I hope you like the café’s leftovers, because that’s all we are going to be eating until we get paid,” I said. “And that roof over our heads––if we can’t afford to pay Art for rent, consider it gone.”

Lucy turned her head in a shake of her curls and threw me an annoyed look. She held her glare with her lips pursed, and then huffed further down the aisle. She bent down and came back up with a bag of cornmeal.

“This should be good,” she said, and stepped in line at the register.

“Lucy, we can’t afford this. I’m sorry, but if we buy this, how are we going to afford rent?”

“We will just ask Art for a loan,” she said.

“That’s how you want to live? Off another man’s charity?”

“We’ve earned that rent! We’ve been working our feet off trying to keep that café running.”

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