Free Talking at the Woodpile by David Thompson

purported to be a reformed thief, but Taffy doubted that. Now a gypsy moved in. He was going to have to lock things up, and the inconvenience made him angry.
    Victor had just completed five years at the Elsa underground silver mine, where he made more bonus money than any other worker before him. He saved his money, paid cash for the house and was making plans for his future.
    â€œMaybe I send for wife,” he said to Wilfred one day.
    Victor was handsome, thin and muscular, with a heavy black moustache and a gold front tooth that flashed when he smiled. “Gold from Upper Bonanza Creek,” he was proud to say. “All gypsies have gold tooth. My grandmother looked like jewellery store when she laughed.”
    â€œHe looks a little like Rudolph Valentino,” Faith said to her neighbour Dot Duffy.
    Victor was born in the Southern Balkans. His people had come to Europe from India by way of Egypt a long time ago. He was Romani and proud of it. His family was related to the Baro Shero, or the “big head” of his wandering people.
    O’Neill had no problem with a gypsy living next door; in fact he liked it. “It will take the heat off, having a neighbour like that. If anything goes missing, they won’t come looking for me so fast.”
    Faith, being a friendly neighbour, baked a pie for Victor. She and Neil went over and introduced themselves.
    â€œThis is very kind of you to do this. Please come in, sit and have tea with me,” Victor said. He was happy to have company and showed Faith and Neil every courtesy. He spoke clearly and slowly so that his heavy accent wouldn’t interfere with what he had to say.
    â€œThank you,” Faith said and led the way into Victor’s kitchen.
    She surveyed the empty and sparsely furnished rooms. A jar used for a drinking glass sat on the kitchen table along with an empty kipper tin full of knick-knacks, a deck of worn playing cards and a cribbage board with matchsticks for markers. A bookshelf hung on one wall, and a collection of well-worn hardcover books leaned to one side. A quick glance told Faith, to her surprise, that Victor read Shakespeare and Kipling.
    â€œ
Wee Willie Winkie
,” she said pointing to the books.
    â€œYes, Vee Villie,” Victor said.
    Packing boxes and suitcases lay on the floor throughout the house. Some lay open, and Victor had apparently tried to find places for their contents. Although he said he planned to stay, Faith guessed his gypsy spirit would not let him move in completely.
    Victor removed clothing from a kitchen chair and pulled another one from the living room, wiping it clean with his hand. “Please sit down. I make tea.” He filled the kettle with water from the tap and placed it on the electric hotplate.
    â€œSo where do you keep the chickens you steal?” Neil asked with a grin.
    Victor was standing at the counter with his back turned and didn’t answer right away. When he turned to face Neil his eyes were narrowed to slits and his body was tense. “Steal chickens? What do you mean, steal chickens?”
    Faith went red in the face, and Neil realized his joke wasn’t very funny. Victor looked angry.
    Trying to get off the hook, Neil shrugged his shoulders and stammered, “I mean, you are gypsy, aren’t you? I was joking.”
    Faith rolled her eyes. Even she knew the importance of first impressions. Neil didn’t seem to care, because he didn’t have a reputation that he wanted to impress anyone with.
    Victor tried unsuccessfully not to glare at Neil. He didn’t like this man. He looked at his cigarette, which he held between his thumb and forefinger, and decided to give Neil a little benefit of the doubt. He said with a smile, “Chickens? Store has them. I buy them there.” He waved his hand in the air and laughed a soft laugh.
    â€œBut come now, let’s not talk chickens. Let’s drink tea and visit,” he said. “Tell me,