Silver Bullets

by Douglas Greene et al.

  “I guess,” he said. “How’s your ma?”

  “Hanging in there,” I said. “She still wants to think Paul’s coming home… still has a shrine built to him on the mantelpiece, all his photos from the Army and his high school track ribbons. He was always… well, he was popular.”

  “Hard to be the not-so-popular brother,” he said. “Hey, you dating anyone?” I asked.

  Don looked surprised at the change of subject. “Um, no.”

  “Gee, I wonder why, considering you have such a warm and inviting personality.”

  His face reddened. “Dick.”

  “Jerk.”

  The phone rang before we escalated, and he snapped it up. “Burnett, newsroom.”

  He stayed silent, “Well, hello Dave, how’s things in the hog butcher capital of the world?” Don smiled, said, “Unh-hunh, unh-hunh, well, I’ll bet you a sawbuck that the Red Sox are gonna be ahead of your White Sox come September… okay. Hey, this call is costing a lot of money, so here it is. Looking for info on a foreign correspondent of yours.” Don glanced down at his handwriting. “Name of Craig Ledder. Seems to have quit last summer, right after the Krauts raised up the white flag. Unh-hunh. Unh-hunh. Well, any relations in the area? Any forwarding address? All right….”

  Don rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “That’s good to know. Hey, want some advice then? Hunh? This year, root for the Cubs… hah! Later, Dave.”

  He hung up the phone. “Remember, you owe me for the call.”

  “Haven’t forgotten it yet.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. Your guy Craig worked for the Trib, was in the ETO for nearly a year, and on May 8th –-VE Day —he sent a telex back to Chicago. Saying ‘to hell with you and to hell with the human race.’ His severance pay was sent to an Army post office in occupied Munich. No other info, no relatives in the area, and that’s all she wrote.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah.”

  I got up from his desk, offered my hand, which he shook. “Locke Ober’s, right?”

  “How about the Union Oyster House?”

  “How about go to hell? You know I hate seafood.”

  “Later, Don.”

  “Best to your mom, Billy.”

  The next day I got up earlier than usual and took a cab to South Station, the major railway hub for this part of the city, just above my old neighborhood of South Boston. Among the railroads it served was the Old Colony Railroad and the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad, and it was also a destination for the Boston Elevated. The building was huge, with three stories of windows and Roman-styled pillars. In my child’s memory, the place looked odd, with the Atlantic Avenue Elevated Line having been torn down some years back.

  At the top of the building was a huge clock, marking the time. It was 7:50 a.m., and commuters from the towns and cities to the south of Boston were already streaming out, and Yellow Cabs were lined up to take the well-paid to their jobs.

  I waited at the main entranceway, watching the laughing men and women exit, the women wearing their finest and makeup after years of clothing rationing. It was good to see. Maybe winning the war was worth something after all. I made sure my watch was synchronized to the large clock above the entrance, and waited.

  And waited.

  And at 8:05 a.m., there he was. Strolling self-assuredly through the crowds, description matching just like Ronny had said. Nearly six feet tall, well-built, short blonde hair and small ears, scar on his cheek, snappily dressed in a dark gray suit, light yellow shirt and blue necktie. He walked past me and I kept my mouth shut, and I started walking behind him.

  One-man tails are tough, especially if the someone you’re tailing is spooky or suspicious. You have to duck in and out, learn to strip off your hat and necktie, muss up your hair, try to look like a different guy for the benefit of whoever you were following. But Craig acted like he was on the side of the angels, and he joined a stream of people going down D Street. He ducked into a diner at D Street and Fargo Street, came out with a cardboard cup of coffee and a small brown paper bag. I tailed him down Fargo Street, until he walked into a watch and jewelry store: BRONSTEIN FINE JEWELS. I hung outside for a few minutes, and then went into the store. Lots of glass cases, lots of displays, and there were window displays on one side that showed the work areas. Craig Ledder was back there, wearing a white chest-sized apron, with glasses on his face with those kind of optics that let you work on fine watches.

  There was a young man who seemed to be running the show, with a thin beard and wearing a plain black yarmulke on the rear of his head. I showed him my professional identification and asked to see the owner.

  Mister Bronstein came out from a rear office a couple of minutes later, a worried look on his face. He was an older version of the young man who had helped me earlier, and wore black slacks and a white shirt, rolled up on his thick arms.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  I smiled and said, “Purely routine, Mister Bronstein. I’m doing a background check on an employee of yours, Craig Ledder. He’s in the process of purchasing a rather large life insurance policy, and there’s just a few things I’m looking for.”

  At the mention of the word “routine,” he visibly relaxed, and I had a brief and clear conversation with him. Craig Ledder had been working for him for about six months. One of his best. Quiet and kept to himself. No problems. One of the first in, and one of the last out. Hadn’t even taken a sick day. Lived somewhere in Dorchester. Anything else?

  He rubbed at his thick beard. “Oy, I’m sure he was in the war, though he won’t talk about it. One day there was a construction accident down the street, a large cement block fell to the ground. Sounded like a bomb went off. And Craig, poor fellow, was underneath one of the counters.”

  I shook his hand and thanked him, and I said, “If you don’t mind, can you keep this confidential?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “You can rely on me. I’d hate to see him leave… in fact, I wish I had three more of him.”

  Back at my office, Ronny Silver was standing outside in the hallway. There was the sound of a typewriter being hammered from the press agent, and the tinkling of a piano from the music teacher. He was shifting from one leg to another, like he was looking for permission to pee.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What have you found? What’s going on?” My first thought at seeing him was going to invite him back into my office, talk him out, maybe give him another cup of coffee, but I didn’t like the buzz I was getting from him. He had been a bundle of nerves when we had first met; now he looked like he was ready to explode.

  “It’s just the beginning,” I said. “I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”

  “What? Won’t you give me a… like a status report? What you’ve found so far?”

  “Nope,” I said. “That’s not how I work. When I’m done, I’ll write up a report, and you’ll get it. Not before then.”

  His fists clenched and I automatically tensed up. Hard to believe, I really thought the skinny little bugger was going to throw himself on me.

  “That’s not fair.”

  I stepped around him, made sure I kept him in view as I unlocked my door. “Probably not,” I said. “And if you don’t like it, you can find another P.I. That won’t keep me up at night.”

  I got into my office, made a point of shutting the door. From the hallway lights I could see his shadow on the other side of the frosted door glass, and he stood there for a bit, and then walked away.

  I felt better after that.

  The next day I did some surveillance work for some clown who thought his wife was cheating on him —she was, and she was doing it with the guy’s younger brother, which was going to make family get-togethers interesting later this year —and then went back to my office. It was a cold, windy day for May, and I was getting ready to head out for my big job of the day, when something came to mind.

  I picked up the Boston phone book, looked up a number, and gave it a quick dial.


  “McLean Hospital,” a woman’s voice said. “Admissions, please.”

  A click-clunk, hiss of static, and an older woman’s voice. “Admissions, Miss Turner.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Turner,” I said, making my voice a bit deeper and more authoritative. “This is Ralph Sweeney, Boston office of the Veterans Administration.”

  “Hello, Mister Sweeney,” she said. Not to be rude, but she sounded like a close-fisted battle-axe who liked her little bit of power and wouldn’t take any pushing around.

  “Miss Turner, I know how incredibly busy you must be, especially after the war’s end, so I won’t waste your time,” I said, l laying it on pretty thick. “We have a bit of a records snafu on our end, and I just want to verify that a Mister Ronald Silver –“ and I ruffled a sheet of paper in front of the phone —“of Philadelphia is a patient at your facility. We want to make sure that the McLean is promptly compensated for your most excellent service.”

  “Hold on, Mister Sweeney.” Her voice had lightened just a bit, which seemed like a big goddamn victory. A clunk of the phone receiver on her desk, and I even could make out the sound of a filing cabinet drawer being opened and closed.

  The receiver was picked up. “Mister Sweeney?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s correct,” she said. “Former Private Ronald Silver, of Philadelphia. He’s an out-patient here, referred from the Friends Hospital there.”

  “I see,” I said, twirling my fountain pen in my hand. “You’ve been quite helpful. He served with the 45th Infantry Division, correct?”

  And then it got very interesting and I stopped playing with my pen. “No, I’m afraid not,” she said. “The paperwork here says he was with the 99th Infantry Division. Not the 45th.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A frosty tone returned. “I’m in charge of admissions, Mister Sweeney. I’m positive.”

  I knew I only had a few more seconds before she’d either hang up on me or ask some very embarrassing questions, and I said, “The 99th… that was in France, right?”

  A labored sigh. “Oh, I don’t know… it says here he was in Belgium, and then spent six months in Germany.”

  “In Germany? As part of the occupation forces?”

  “No,” she said. “As a prisoner of war.”

  Later that afternoon I was back near my home turf, trailing Craig Ledder as he emerged from BRONSTEIN FINE JEWELS and made his way back to South Station. At the entrance to the large terminal building, there was a row of men, holding up signs from The Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers, warning of an upcoming national strike if their demands weren’t met. Two men in front of me said something nasty and the other said, “I froze my ass off, riding in B29s over Tokyo, so these cushy bastards can get a raise? Jesus!”

  And the other said, “Truman should draft their sorry butts into the Army, make ‘em keep the trains running.”

  I followed Craig and saw him bundle himself onto an electric trolley. A sign on the train said DORCHESTER. From my keen investigative abilities, that’s where I determined he was going.

  Dorchester is a neighborhood to the south of Boston, located right next to the city of Quincy, famed for being the hometown of John Adams, second president of the United States and the Fore River Shipyard, which turned out a lot of ships for the Navy during the war, including the battleship U.S.S. Massachusetts and the aircraft carrier U.S.S Hancock.

  Ledder lived in a small gray apartment building about two blocks away from the station, and I kept my eye on him as he stopped at a corner grocery store and left a few minutes later with a paper sack. The apartment building was across the street and he lived on the ground floor. It looked like there were three other apartments there —one on the first floor, and two upstairs, accessible by a set of side stairs.

  I gave him a couple of minutes to get settled, and then I went across the street and knocked on the door.

  He opened the door, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He had taken off his necktie, hat and coat, and looked curious, unafraid. “Yes?”

  “Mister Ledder? Craig Ledder?”

  “Yep, that’s me,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  I showed him my Massachusetts private investigator license, and he gave out a low whistle. “Wow. A real private eye.” He lifted his gaze from my hand and said, “What are you investigating?”

  “Well… you.”

  That made him laugh. “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Look, it’ll take just a few minutes,” I said. “Mind if I come in?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? Come on in.”

  The apartment was small but clean and tidy. There was a small kitchen at the rear, a large living room with couch, coffee table, two easy chairs and a large RCA radio, playing big band music. On the coffee table were carefully piled copies of The Boston Post, next to a pile of Life magazines, next to a pile of Time magazines. In the center of the table was a clean crystal ashtray, with a pack of Chesterfields and a Zippo lighter next to it. He took the couch and I took the chair, and removed my fedora, put it on my lap.

  “Mister Ledder, I’ll make this as quick as possible,” I said. “Sure,” he said. “Look, do I know you?”

  “No, but I’ve been hired by someone who does, and who’s looking to find you.” I said. “An Army vet who said you were with his unit during the war, back when you were a newspaper reporter.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, crossing his leg. “The Trib. A while ago. Why does he want to find me?”

  “He says you promised to send him –“

  “ —photos of him and his buddies when the war was over,” Ledder said, grimacing. “Yeah, yeah.” He sighed and settled in the couch and suddenly looked ten years older, running a hand across his face. “You know, I did promise a bunch of dogfaces that I’d do that. Even took down their names and addresses… and, well, the end came. And I looked at the blasted cities and the dead American kids and the piles of bodies and the smoke and the death… I had too much of it. Way too much of it.”

  Another big sigh, and he rubbed his hands together. “Sent a nasty telex back to the Colonel, saying I no longer wanted to work for the world’s greatest newspaper, and that was that. Dumped my notebooks, my camera, bummed around southern France for a while, and then came back to the States.”

  “Why Boston?”

  “Why not? Got a cheap liner ticket from Brest to Boston, decided I liked it when I got here, and I got a job.”

  “At the jewelry store, right?”

  His eyes widened. “My, you really have been poking around.”

  “Just my job, sorry,” I said. “How did you end up at the jewelry store?”

  “Worked at a store in Cleveland where I grew up, after school.” He smiled, rubbed the armrest of his couch. “It sounds strange, but after a couple of years attached to various Army units, living in shit and mud, eating their rations, avoiding getting shot up and shelled…

  I needed something relaxing, soothing.” Ledder’s smile grew wider. “The store is the perfect place. Everything is right at your hand. A very narrow and peaceful place. And when your day is done, you leave, feeling satisfied that you’ve fixed a watch, or repaired a ring.”

  “Don’t you miss newspaper work?”

  A firm shake of the head. “Nope. Damn, look at Ernie Pyle. He should have done what I did, walk out when the war in Europe was over. Instead, the damn fool went to the Pacific and got a Jap sniper bullet drilled into his head for his troubles.”

  Ledder leaned over, picked up the Chesterfields and the Zippo. He offered me the pack, and I declined. He took a cigarette out, quickly lit it and I stood up, catching the sign. “Mister Ledder, sorry to disturb you. I appreciate you letting me in.”

  He stood up, extended a free hand, which I shook. “Not a problem. Hey, what’s this vet’s name? Wonder if I can remember him.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Client confidentiality, and all that.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  He le
d me out and took a deep puff on his cigarette, and something odd had happened.

  Something odd.

  I tried to think about it when the door shut behind me, but I was distracted when I got out onto the sidewalk, meeting up with Ronny Silver.

  Who stood there, a nickel-plated semi-automatic pistol in his right hand.

  I swallowed. “Hey, Ronny.”

  “He’s in there, isn’t he,” Ronny demanded. His face was flushed and sweaty, his white shirt soaked through, and his legs were trembling. But the hand holding the pistol was rock-steady.

  “Ronny, look, what’s going on here, I mean –“

  He stepped closer. “Billy, I like you, and I thank you for doing your job, but if you don’t turn around and go back in there right now, I’ll shoot you down without blinking.”

  I didn’t move my head but let my eyes flick around. The sidewalk was empty, and only a few cars and buses were moving up and down the road. Ronny said, “Don’t think I won’t… I’ve shot old men, soldiers, young boys pretending to be soldiers… I once shot a boy of about 14 or 15 who was a sniper, hidden behind some trees in snow, and I had to crawl so close to him that his brain and blood got all over me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go in… just calm down, all right?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Go.”

  I went back to the front door, gave it a hearty knock, and when Ledder opened it up, Ronny grabbed the scruff of my neck and with amazing strength, pushed me in. There was a tussle and a couple of “hey, hey” from Ledder, and in a moment, Ronny closed the apartment door and came into the room. Ledder and I were back in the same position, me on the chair, he on the couch, but this time, our hands were up in the air. Ronny stood in the room’s center, grinning widely. Soft music continued to come from the radio, and the room smelled of tobacco smoke.

  “Hans,” Ronny said. “Hans, you son-of-a-bitch, sure has been a long time, hasn’t it. What a goddamn surprise, eh?”

  Ronny stepped forward, kicked Ledder’s left shin, and he cried out and fell back against the couch. Ronny stepped back and said, “Hurts, don’t it. But it doesn’t compare to what you did to me, and what you did to so many others, right? Oh, Hans, can’t tell you how long I’ve been dreaming about this.”