Fool's Gold

Chapter Three: A Glimpse of Wealth

Chapter Three:

A Glimpse of Wealth

By the time Florence awakes in the morning, the streets around her are already in a flurry of activity. She hauls herself up from the ground, wincing as she straightens her sore back. Today is the day to make her telephone call; assuming that she can procure a nearby payphone in the first place. Presently, a small boy walks past her alone. He appears to be orphaned, so she stops him.

"Think you could watch over my stand for a few minutes, kid?" she asks, trying to sound kind. But the boy isn't fooled in the least. His eyes narrow as he looks back at her.

"Depends, I 'ppose. You got any special reason?" Her smile drops.

"All right, kid. Cut the attitude. If you must know, I've a phone call to make."

"To who?" he asks, his curiosity piqued. She draws herself up to her full height and recites in exaggerated clarity.

"To a Mr. L. R. Grey of 421 Westminster Boulevard. He put out an ad in the paper yesterday. It said that he was looking for an artist to paint his likeness. With an address like that, I figured that he was just rolling in money."

"And you're going to do it, then? You're going to try to paint him?" asks the boy. Florence sets her shoulders back confidently.

"I'm certainly going to try. Now what do you say? Can you watch my stand for a few moments?"

The boy nodded eagerly. "Sure thing lady! You ever need anything else, you just ask round for Mike," he pats her hand before going over to sit on the curb. Reassured, Florence sets out to look for the nearest phone booth.

Her task soon turns out to be more easier said than done. In a city as large as Chicago, she had figured that there would be phones along every other corner. After hiking nearly two and a half miles in the sticky midday heat, she finally finds a phone booth outside of ninety-nine cent store. However, much to her annoyance, it is already occupied by a man who is speaking so loudly that she can hear him with the door closed.

"What do you mean she hasn't left yet?" he is crying incredulously. There is a short pause as he listens to the response on the other end. He sighs. "No, Jay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. She's just upset me one time too many. Yes- yes, I'm aware." Another pause. "I can't believe I have to telephone you from this booth. It's absolutely revolting. How do regular people handle these things?"

Florence has to stifle a laugh at this. This man certainly doesn't have to worry about where he will sleep at night.

"And you said that you haven't found one that you think is good enough yet? How odd. Well, we still have some time. I'm sure that something will turn up sooner or later. Thank you, Jay. Do take care." He hangs up the telephone and exits the booth so quickly that he bumps into Florence, very nearly knocking her to the ground. "Beg pardon," he mutters, looking away from her before striding off.

She huffs in irritation and dusts herself off. Taking the telephone in her shaking hands, she tries to calm her heart rate as the dial tone hums monotonously in the background. She draws out the crumpled ad from her coat pocket and smoothes it out on the wall. The ink has smudged a bit onto her hands, but other than that the number is still legible. She digs into her pockets and looks on the floor for several moments until she has scraped together the required ten cents. She dials the numbers slowly and waits through a series of several distant clicking sounds before the line crackles loudly.

"Hello? This is Mr. Jay Easton, butler of the Grey residence. Might I inquire as to who is calling?" questions the man on the other end. His syllables are so perfectly crisp and clear that Florence feels ridiculous as she begins to stutter her response.