Sometime later, I heard a noisy old diesel truck with squeaky brakes parking over on their street, followed by the sound of yo-dudes hollering to each other as they jumped out. Hmm. Seemed like a furniture delivery to me. When it went on longer than a typical delivery, I grabbed my trusty broom and stepped outside to do some investigative sweeping.
I swept beyond our section of sidewalk—affecting the aspect of an exceptionally good neighbor—all the way to the corner, about forty feet, where I could see the front of the Grendel house.
A medium-size truck belonging to a junk-hauling business was parked there, and two beefy yo-dudes were hoisting a beat-up old washing machine from the basement through the bulkhead doors opening up onto the sidewalk. No sooner did they set down their unwieldy load than another old appliance came floating eerily upward, like a spooky stage apparition through a trapdoor, elevated by a couple more yo-dudes from down below.
Since I was standing in front of my friend’s house, knowing she was at work, I decided to tidy up her sidewalk too, going about it quite methodically so I could keep an eye on the scene, exchanging greetings with passersby. My neighbors were especially curious, looking puzzled regarding the sheer number of discarded washers and dryers lining up on the sidewalk, a half-dozen or more, all of which were wrapped excessively with duct tape.
The appliances were also covered with sticky contact paper designating four decades of decorative patterns and styles: dainty Williamsburg prints of the ’50s, psychedelic op art of the ’60s, metallic disco dazzle of the ’70s. Good Lord, I muttered to myself, laundry day at the Grendels must’ve been confusing.
Why in the world would somebody have so many broken washers and dryers? It didn’t seem possible any one family could go through so many of them, not even in a lifetime. And why get rid of them now? Why not just wall them up in the middle of the basement like the nitwits did with our still? Were they moving? Were they dead?
Later that day, I strolled over to the market to get some provisions and saw that the truck was gone. Grendel’s Mother was out front with a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush, scouring her stoop.
I couldn’t believe my ears at first, but as I got closer I confirmed that was she was, indeed, listening to Louis Prima. I had never heard a pleasing sound emanating from that house before, and felt myself grinning at her when she looked up. She was squinting against the setting sun and the smoke of a cigarette that was jammed in her crinkly, chubby cheek.
Remarkably, she kind of grinned back, as if she had forgotten for a moment to appear freakish, and I felt triumphant for having overcome my revulsion. Those bookies didn’t call me Smiley for nothing.
A week later my husband heard from a neighbor that Grendel had left his job sometime back in winter, and soon after, skipped town. One theory had him hopelessly beholden to a loanshark for gambling debts. Another had him caught red-handed trying to sell snapshots of kids he had stolen from customers.
I had my own theory, of course, but I didn’t share it with anyone—just minding my own Bella Vista business—because what do I know anyway?
I didn’t see nuthin.
PART IV
THOSE WHO FORGET THE PAST …
LONERGAN’S GIRL
BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI
Frankford
January 6, 1924
Somewhere out there, in the dark, was a noise. Lonergan twitched and tried to roll over but something blocked his way. He rolled the other way then stopped, sensing a huge void. Don’t fall in, he warned himself. He jerked back—
And woke up on the Frankford El.
The train thundered down a set of rails one story above the street, the whole works supported by a green skeleton of steel. Lonergan was in a middle car, sitting on the end of a bench near the center door. There were about a dozen passengers with him, almost all of them reeking of beer and cigarettes and gin. Everyone spaced themselves apart on the bench so they wouldn’t have to stare at a stranger across the way. Or watch a stranger vomit.
Lonergan briefly wondered where the El was now, how long he’d been asleep.
Outside the tops of dark buildings sped by, the sun having long vanished behind them. Best Lonergan could guess, it was around eleven p.m. The El slowed and began to screech. He recognized the sound. This was where the green skeleton curved from Front Street to Kensington Avenue. The Dauphin-York station. He was halfway there.
When the El first opened a little over a year ago, it was the eighth wonder of the Quaker City. Imagine—riding a new, arch-roofed Brill car from City Hall to the outskirts of Frankford in less than twenty-five minutes—a trip that ordinarily took close to an hour by other means! Thousands lined up to try it out, squeezing onto the benches and clutching the leather straps that hung from the ceiling.
Lonergan had been one of them, along with Marie and the boy one bitter Saturday in early December ’22. They didn’t mind the lack of heat, or the way the cars tossed their bodies around like dice in a cup. Riding the El was a thrill like no other. The boy’s eyes were wide the entire trip.
“Papa, look! There’s a giant milk bottle on top of that building!”
“Papa, what if the train tips over and falls off the track?”
“Where will this take us, Papa? Can we ride it again?”
Lonergan had no idea that in less than a year he’d be riding the El all the time. And now he actively hated the damned thing.
It froze him, the night wind chilled by the Delaware before it blasted into the cars. It carried him past neighborhoods he didn’t know, and didn’t care to know. It jolted his body before and after each stop. Worst of all, the Frankford El constantly reminded him how badly things had gone since the elections.
The El pulled away from Dauphin-York. Lonergan’s body tipped to the left. He wasn’t fully awake yet. Where had he nodded off? Somewhere under City Hall? Jesus, he was tired.
A hard chill cut through his coat. He should have worn a warmer shirt. Lonergan’s city-issue bluecoat was warm, but he wasn’t wearing it. The City liked their cops in uniform as they made their way to their stations—the more bluecoats, the more citizens enjoyed the illusion of a well-protected place. Well, Lonergan decided he wasn’t wearing it any longer than the required seven hours. That’s all the City deserved for its $5.50 a day.
Huntingdon now. The same stops, day after day, night and morning. He had them memorized. Sometimes it helped make the trip go faster, sometimes it didn’t. He should have picked up a pulp at the newsstand. He’d forgotten. The doors opened. A gust of frigid air whipped through the car. Rush hour was long over. The only people who rode the El this late on a Sunday were returning from a night at the cider saloons, the gambling dens, and the rowdy houses in the Tenderloin. The lack of body heat made the cars even colder.
Officer John Lonergan, out in the cold, now and forever after.
Political exile had come swiftly. The Vare boys had won in November, but by that time Lonergan had already broken with the Vares in a very messy fashion. One minute he was their prize enforcer; the next, their ultimate betrayer. At the time, Lonergan thought he’d played it smart by aligning himself with the competition. Not so smart, after all.
Ward leaders don’t have the authority to fire cops, but they can strongly recommend to your captain that a transfer is in the best interests of the Department. It took less than forty-eight hours to have him reassigned to a station so far across the city it almost qualified as Bucks County.
Lonergan used to be able to make it to work at the West Philadelphia station in seven minutes flat—or three minutes on a streetcar when he didn’t mind spending the nickel. Now his trip meant a streetcar to Market, a long haul on the Frankford El beneath Center City and out past the river wards, and then a second streetcar out to the hinterlands of Northeast Philly just in time to make midnight roll call.
Ninety minutes, one way. Three hours round trip. Three hours wasted out of twenty-four, every working day.
That was how they punished co
ps in this city.
Somerset now. As the El stopped Lonergan tumbled slightly to the left, and threw out a hand to support himself. After he stabilized, Lonergan rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He shouldn’t be on this freezing train. Not this late on a Sunday night, breathing other people’s gin fumes. He should be home in a warm bed with Marie. He was already exhausted and his shift didn’t even begin for another hour. It would be a struggle to stay awake through the night.
And then he had the return trip. The same stations, in reverse, early-morning sun stabbing him in the eyes. Pitying looks from the buttoned-up people making their way downtown to real jobs. Another small piece of his life erased.
Lonergan wanted to quit the force. But he couldn’t do that to Marie and the boy. They were all trapped, just like he was trapped on this damned freezing El car.
Just after Allegheny, Lonergan noticed that the green-eyed girl was on the car too.
He saw her often, and wondered about her. She was pretty, but her clothes were worn and frayed. She wasn’t a flapper or a hooker. But clearly she worked for a living. Her hands were gloveless and rough. Lonergan never saw the station she used to enter the train. He hoped it wasn’t the Tenderloin. There were very few good reasons for a young girl to be out riding the El this time of night.
Lonergan pretended to glance at the advertisements above the girl’s head and saw that she glanced at him—briefly. Had she recognized him too, from previous trips? Maybe she saw the blue slacks with the yellow stripe and realized he was a cop. Maybe she felt safer making a night journey with a cop sitting nearby.
A short while later the El pulled into the Torresdale station. Lonergan steadied himself and this time anticipated the jolt. When the train stopped, he was able to keep his body perfectly still.
Lonergan stole another glance at the girl and wondered if they’d ever talk, or acknowledge each other’s presence. Or maybe they’d just keep each other company in polite silence.
He decided he’d be her guardian angel. He’d protect her, even if she never spoke a word to him. She wouldn’t have to ask him, or thank him. He’d be looking out for her, though, from now on. Lonergan would stay awake and find out where she got on the train. She’d ride the El unmolested.
At the very least, it was something for an off-duty cop to keep his mind occupied with in a rumbling car full of drunks.
The doors opened. The green-eyed girl looked to her right. Lonergan followed her gaze to the concrete platform. No one there. The door closed. The El jerked forward and began making the steep incline to the Church Street station. The green-eyed girl looked to her left and nodded.
Maybe that wasn’t a nod. Maybe it was just the jolt of the El.
Lonergan heard movement further down the car. A man in a black duster stood up from the bench. Something heavy fell at his feet, like a length of rope. Lonergan followed its length up to the man’s hand and realized what it was. A whip.
“Wallets and purses,” the man barked.
Lonergan stared at him, unbelieving.
The man handed a small sack to the bleary-eyed passenger sitting closest to him. “Put them in there. Nobody do anything or I’ll cut your face open.”
Was this man trying honestly to pull a hold-up on the Frankford El with a blacksnake whip?
Then Lonergan thought about it. Relatively few people on the train, but one or two of them might even be flush from a night in the Tenderloin. And they were all captive. The incline to Church Street was probably the longest stretch between stations—there was enough time to do what he wanted, and nobody could run away. And then at Church Street, he could run down the stairs to street level and disappear into Frankford.
“Don’t you hear me? I will cut your faces open!”
For a few long seconds nobody moved. The passengers were either too drunk or stunned to react. It probably seemed like a lousy fusel oil fever dream. The El chugged its way up the incline. The entire world seemed to tilt a few degrees.
Lonergan instinctively reached for his hip and felt the space where his holster should be. He stopped carrying his gun too—Marie had forced him to keep it locked up at the station, against regulation. She didn’t want the boy to find it. Too many stories in the newspapers about children shooting themselves with their fathers’ guns.
“Shall I show you?”
No gun meant that Lonergan should just sit tight. Let this man take what he wanted and leave.
The bandit pumped his arm. The whip was a dark blur as it traveled a quarter-length of the length of the car and ripped into a passenger’s chest. His body convulsed. The Stetson fell from the top of his head. He screamed, and then the girl sitting next to him—the green-eyed girl—slid a few inches away. The whip had almost hit her.
Everyone got busy opening wallets after that. The man who’d been whipped was holding his hands to his torn coat, rocking and moaning incoherently.
The El was close to Church now.
“You.”
The bandit was staring at Lonergan. He had hard little black points for eyes and a soft mouth.
“You too, big fella. Your roll in the bag—now.”
The next passenger, a small man in a crooked bow tie, shoved the bag forward, waiting for Lonergan to take it.
Lonergan said nothing. They’d be at the Church station soon. There were two dollars in Lonergan’s front pocket, and he’d be damned if this son of a bitch was taking it. If he tried to use the whip Lonergan would get up and knock him on his backside.
“Now!”
He glanced over at the green-eyed girl, who was staring at him with a puzzled expression. She seemed to be wondering, Why aren’t you giving him what he wants?
Lonergan thought: I’ll show you why.
He stood up and reached toward his hip, mimicking a draw. “Police officer,” he said. “Drop the whip or I’ll shoot you down.”
The bandit shook his head as he took long steps backward. “I’ll cut off your head before you even—”
Before the bandit could finish, Lonergan pumped his legs and started to lunge. Then a violent jolt as the El pulled into Church Street made Lonergan stumble. The bandit retreated a few steps. The center door slammed opened. Lonergan looked up just in time for the bandit to give him a face full of the whip.
Someone screamed—it may have been Lonergan. He didn’t know. All he felt was searing numbness followed by the intense heat of the slash. Around him the shock-sobered passengers gathered themselves together and fled the car, crying out for the operator to stop the train. Either he didn’t hear them or didn’t care, because soon after the center door slammed shut again.
Lonergan heard the bandit cry: “MY MONEY!”
The little man with the crooked bow tie—he must have walked off with the sack. Maybe bow tie would do the right thing and return the stolen items to his fellow drunken passengers. Or maybe he’d toddle down to the street level and do his own disappearing act.
The El jolted forward. Lonergan watched as drops of his own blood began to streak across the floor of the car.
“I’m going to cut you apart,” the bandit said.
A woman’s voice cried out: “Clayton, no!”
Lonergan glanced to the right. It was the green-eyed girl, still here, perched on the rattan bench. Why hadn’t she left with the others?
Then all at once he knew.
The bandit was coming at Lonergan now, cracking the whip across the seats. Lonergan didn’t have a strategy. He merely reacted. Whip be damned—he lunged for the bastard.
The two of them stumbled backwards into the center door. Made impact. Glass spiderwebbed behind Lonergan’s body. Lonergan could smell beer on the man’s fevered breath. He was skinny but strong. The El start to slow down again. Orthodox-Margaret station, coming up.
Lonergan gathered a fistful of the bandit’s duster, put his foot against the wood, and pushed forward. They spun until they collided with the center door opposite. The glass, again, cracked—and the bandit went partial
ly through it. Shards rained down on the track. Lonergan drove a fist into the bandit’s face. Then again. And again. And again. The train stopped, jolting both of them to the left. The center door opened.
The bandit pulled himself free, crashed to the ground, and then scrambled backwards on the platform, leaving the whip in Lonergan’s hand. Lonergan took two steps back then fell to the floor of the car. His face was no longer numb. The pain was starting to appear in deep, angry throbs. He felt nauseous and dizzy.
By this time the conductor had gotten the hint something was wrong. Maybe he saw the bandit scrambling for the concrete steps leading to the street. The El idled at the station, doors open. Night air blast-freezing the interior of the car.
Lonergan glanced up at the green-eyed girl, who’d been left behind. He felt hot blood run over his jaw and down his neck.
“Seems Clayton’s left you,” he said.
The girl appeared afraid now.
“So you’re the lookout, I suppose. Did you follow someone from one of the gambling houses? Did one of them hit it big tonight?”
She wasn’t looking at Lonergan. She was looking at the whip in his big hands. If Lonergan peeled off her shirt and saw her bare naked, what would he see? You ride that train or I’ll hide you again, you bitch.
“What are you going to do?” she asked softly.
It was a good question. What should he do? He wasn’t wearing the bluecoat. He didn’t have his gun. He wasn’t in his district. He still had his two bucks in his front pocket. He didn’t have to do a thing.
After a while the operator, a florid-faced man, came rushing into the car, asking what had happened. The green-eyed girl made a small cry as she rushed out of the car and ran across the platform. Lonergan said nothing. He listened to the rapid clicking of her shoes on concrete as they faded away.
But he wanted to tell her, Stay with me.
He wanted to tell her: You don’t understand. I’m your guardian angel.
Philadelphia Noir Page 18
