Spare Change

by Bette Lee Crosby

“Did your husband know Benjamin Doyle?”

  Emma shrugged, “He might have come into the diner, I can’t say.”

  After Jack Mahoney left, Emma took the rosary beads from her pocket and fingered them one by one as she knelt and prayed to the Virgin Mary. “Holy Mother,” she whispered, “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Protect my husband,” she pleaded, “and forgive me for the lies I speak on his behalf.”

  When he left Emma Cobb, Mahoney went back to the station house and submitted the saucer he’d taken from the diner for a fingerprint analysis. “Check if the prints on this match the partial taken from the Doyle bedroom door,” he told the crime scene laboratory detective; he walked out with his shoulders hunched over as if he already knew what the answer was going to be.

  Even if the print was a match, Mahoney told himself, it simply verified that Sam’s dad has been at the Doyle farm—it could have been days before the murder; he might have been out there visiting Susanna one afternoon when her husband was working in the field. There was no forensic evidence that could say how long the prints had been on that brass doorknob—it could have been weeks, maybe even months; it was obvious that the house hadn’t been cleaned for a while. Scooter Cobb was well-known for his indiscretions and although having an affair might not be too respectable, it wasn’t against the law. Maybe that’s what this was all about; maybe the boy knew they were having an affair and that was why he made up such a story. Maybe, maybe, maybe… After Jack Mahoney had racked his brain counting up all the maybes, there was still the size thirteen shoe print, which was no maybe.

  For two hours, he studied the crime scene investigation reports then he closed the file folder and headed home. Tomorrow was another day; tomorrow he would tell the Captain of his findings and question Sam Cobb. “This is some shitty way to earn a living,” Mahoney grumbled.

  Sam Cobb

  My brother Tommy, he’s the smart one. He left home nine years ago and hasn’t dropped a postcard since. Who could blame him? With Pop, nothing’s ever right. You can bust your ass trying to please him, but he won’t even bother to say thanks. The only thing he’s got to say is how let-down he is ‘cause you didn’t perform to his standards. His standards, that’s a joke. He’s got no standards; they’re just for other people.

  I swear, this is it—I’ll do this one last thing for him, then I’m gone.

  So long, that’s what I’m gonna say; so long, Pop, and by the way, you can kiss my ass when it comes to any more favors.

  The Confrontation

  Sam Cobb left the station house shortly after two o’clock; he climbed into his car and drove south along Route 13. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but he could think of no other way. He figured by leaning heavy on the gas pedal, he could get to Wyattsville, take care of what he had to do then return to Norfolk in time for the last ferry, which left at midnight.

  Sam rewound the conversation with his father and played it through his head, over and over again. He attached weight and meaning to every word, to every phrase, even to the few pauses and stammers; then he separated the syllables and listened to hear what hadn’t been said—all of this in an effort to sort out the truth.

  There had been trouble before—the woman from Laughton, the dancer from Virginia Beach, the red-headed cocktail waitress—all of them swore Scooter had taken advantage of them and he swore he’d done no such thing. Sam, blinded by an eagerness to please, had always accepted Scooter’s version of the story. So, dressed in his patrolman’s uniform, he’d visited each of the women and handed over an envelope of money; authoritatively suggesting that they leave town.

  Sam stopped for a red light and wearily lowered his head down onto the steering wheel, “Stupid,” he sighed, “just plain stupid.” If he sat there and thought about it for a moment longer, common sense might have told him to turn around and head home; but as it happened, a heating oil truck pulled behind him and the driver began beeping his horn the instant the light switched over to green.

  Despite memories of the past, Cobb blood ran through Sam’s veins and by the time he arrived in Wyattsville he had once again convinced himself of his father’s innocence. So what if Pop is a bit hot-headed, Sam reasoned, that’s not a crime. He may be guilty of indiscretion, but murder—never!

  After Olivia realized she’d been mistaken about the light in Detective Mahoney’s eyes, she decided a new level of diligence would be required for watching over Ethan Allen. She informed the boy that she would be driving him to school in the morning and back home in the afternoon; and that she or one of the neighbors had to be sitting in the playground whenever he was there. “From now on,” she said, “You’re limited to a one-block radius for this errand-running business and you’ll have to check in after each trip.” When Ethan Allen complained he was being treated like a child, Olivia apologized. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” she sighed, and hugged him to her breast.

  “But, jeez,” he moaned and wriggled loose.

  Of course, Ethan was still free to roam the hallways of the Wyattsville Arms apartment building, which he did. He played catch with Dog for biggest part of the first afternoon then he batted a brand new Spaulding from wall to wall for a while. After that, he practiced turning summersaults and tried walking on his hands, but before long he was bored. He then came up with the idea of running errands within the building and started ringing one door bell after the other. “Need somebody to fetch your laundry from the basement?” he asked Emma Kline who had a faulty hip and was forever complaining about it.

  “I surely do,” she answered, and gave him ten cents for his trouble.

  After that he branched out to hauling things back and forth from the storage room and emptying garbage pails down the incinerator chute. He was in the midst of delivering a broccoli and cheese casserole from Sara Parker to Mister Bailey who lived three doors down from Olivia, when he heard the voice.

  “Hey, kid!” Sam Cobb, still wearing his uniform, yelled.

  The casserole jumped out of Ethan’s hands and smashed to the floor with a noise which could be heard throughout the building. “Grandma!” he screamed in a panicky cry of desperation; then he went flying down the hallway.

  This was not at all what Sam had expected. “Wait up,” he yelled, “I just want a word with you.” Instinctively, he took off chasing the boy but by then several of the Wyattsville Arms residents had opened their door; one of them was Olivia.

  She’d been expecting trouble; a nagging feeling had settled into her chest the moment she suspected the light in Jack Mahoney’s eyes had been a mistake, which is why Ethan Allen’s baseball bat was standing alongside the front door. Olivia grabbed it and charged into the hallway swinging. Ethan Allen, still screaming her name, darted through the open door just as Olivia whacked Sam Cobb in the knee. As Sam tumbled to the floor, Olivia scrambled back inside the apartment and double-locked the door.

  By then Mister Bailey had telephoned for the police.

  Sam Cobb was lying on the floor with a broken kneecap when the Wyattsville patrol car arrived minutes later. Were it merely Olivia’s word against that of a fellow officer in uniform, the two policemen may have shown favor toward Sam, but with a broken casserole dish splattered across the floor and nine neighbors pointing a finger at Cobb, they had little choice but to haul him off to the Wyattsville Police Station.

  “But, I’m on assignment,” Sam protested as they helped him to his feet and down to the squad car. “I’m investigating an eyewitness report on the Doyle murder case,” he told them, “Eastern Shore Precinct, go ahead, check it out.” Without a doubt, that was the worst thing he could have said, because Sergeant Gomez, who was the duty officer that evening, immediately put in a call to Captain Rogers.

  “Cobb?” the Captain said, “he’s off that case, Detective Mahoney’s working it.”

  Jack Mahoney was at home having his dinner when he got the call. “Holy shit!” he moaned, when told of the situation. Jack reluctantly confirmed that
Sam, although he had originally been assigned to the case, no longer had reason to be involved.

  “Well then,” Gomez said, “have you any idea why he’s here?”

  There was a lengthy moment of hesitation before Jack said, “I believe he’s got a personal connection to the lead suspect in the case.”

  “Oh? And, that is?”

  “His father. The kid Sam allegedly went after is an eye witness who claims Scooter Cobb, Sam’s pop, is responsible for a murder. Now, that’s not what the kid originally said, and we’re still waiting for lab reports, so we don’t know if the story’s legit.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam Cobb was booked on charges of assault and attempting to intimidate a witness in a capital crime. He was placed in a nine foot square cell and locked down for the night.

  Mahoney replaced the telephone receiver and returned to the dinner table but he didn’t eat another bite. In all the years he’d been a detective, this was the first time he’d ever had to turn on one of his own. Jack could easily enough believe Scooter Cobb capable of the crime in question; he was a bad-tempered man with a reputation for trouble. But, Sam? Sam had his share of faults—he was arrogant, aggressive, even belligerent when he didn’t get the assignments he thought he deserved—but how likely was it he’d try to cover up a murder? Sam Cobb? A man who had his heart set on making detective?

  Ethan Allen

  I figured I was good as dead with Sam Cobb coming after me. When I took off screaming, a bunch of folks poked their heads out the door; but, nobody did nothing except Grandma Olivia.

  Let me tell you, it was a sight when she came out swinging that baseball bat! I’d never of figured a person her size could beat back a Cobb. ‘Course, she got the drop on him cause he wasn’t expecting such a thing. Next time, you can bet your sweet ass he’ll be ready for her.

  Grandma says now that the police has got Scooter’s boy in jail, he ain’t gonna be hurting nobody. She says I got nothing more to worry about.

  But me…well, I say she don’t know those Cobbs! Them is the meanest men on earth and if you ain’t looking to get pulverized, you’d best be prepared.

  Taking No Chances

  After the Wyattsville Police had carted Sam Cobb off, Olivia’s nerves took hold; she shivered and trembled as if there was an earthquake happening inside of her. Icy cold beads of perspiration rose up on her forehead and her knees buckled under. “No wonder,” Clara clucked, “given what you’ve just gone through! It’s a miracle you didn’t pass out cold!” Clara brewed a pot of chamomile tea, saying it was just the thing to help a person relax. Barbara Conklin, because of the incident when she’d backed her husband’s car into a telephone pole, knew tea alone was too weak a remedy for a severe case of nerves, so she added two shots of brandy to the cup. Fred McGinty, who swore by the super-strength sleeping pills in his medicine cabinet, dashed back to his apartment, brought back two and plunked them into Olivia’s tea.

  “What she needs,” he told the others, “is a good night’s rest. What she needs is to put the entire episode behind her.”

  Before she’d finished even half the tea, Olivia began to yawn then she toddled off to the bedroom claiming she’d stretch out across the bed for a few minutes to rest herself. When the sound of snores echoed through to the living room, the neighbors left telling Ethan Allen to be sure to double-bolt the door behind them.

  “Okay,” the boy answered, although that was not at all what he intended.

  By midnight the building was so quiet that a passerby would believe every resident tucked beneath the covers and sound asleep; which they were, except for one small boy. While the rest of the residents slept, he was tiptoeing down the back stairs. Ethan Allen knew what he needed and he knew just where to find it.

  Three of them were in Mister Porter’s storage bin. He’d seen them there, less than a week ago, squeezed in between a carton of books and a broken coat tree; but of course, there was no knowing whether or not they were in working order. Pushing the thought of such a disastrous possibility from his head, Ethan Allen shimmied across the partition holding Seth Porter’s belongings back from those of Bessie Morgan. He landed with a hard thud, waited a handful of minutes to make sure the sound had gone undetected, then pulled a flashlight from his pocket and switched it on. At first it appeared the guns were gone, vanished from sight, but such wasn’t the case for once he pushed aside a carton of sweaters which had recently been added to the mix, there they were, standing like a trio of soldiers lined up for battle—two Browning shotguns, one a single barrel, the other a side by side double, and a Winchester rifle.

  Ethan Allen took hold of the Winchester—any one of the three might have suited his need, but a rifle was something special. A rifle was way more powerful than a shotgun and ten million times more accurate than the scattergun he’d used to shoot groundhogs. A rifle could hit square in the heart of what a person was aiming at and kill it dead. The Winchester was a gun that meant business. He released the lever action and pushed down—the chamber was empty.

  If Seth Porter had a perfectly good Winchester he had to have bullets, Ethan reasoned as he began rummaging through carton after carton of the man’s belonging. He removed the books one by one, then took the time to flip open each cover and check for a supply of cartridges that might be hidden in a nest of hollowed out pages. When the books failed to produce anything, he began searching through boxes of games, after that it was cartons of kitchenware and numerous valises filled with clothing; time after time he bypassed a lone carton marked, Melissa’s things, dubiously shaking his head as he moved on to another carton with a more promising name. He rummaged through a barrel marked Camping, then tore into a box marked Sporting goods, but neither contained cartridges to fit the Winchester, in fact, they contained no cartridges at all.

  As a last resort, he opened the carton of Melissa’s things; with a yellowed wedding gown right on top, it started out pretty much as expected. He pulled the gown from the box and set it aside. By now Ethan Allen was feeling pretty discouraged, having a Winchester with no bullets wouldn’t be much help—it could maybe scare the poop out of some knucklehead, but the Cobbs weren’t knuckleheads and they didn’t scare easy; matter of fact, they didn’t scare at all! He hauled out a swatch of lace that had fallen from the gown then a music box which tinkled a few notes and stopped.

  Maybe, Ethan thought, he’d be better off disappearing, but if the Cobbs couldn’t catch hold of him, they might take it out on Olivia, seeing as how she was his grandma. No, he decided, he’d not run. “No more,” he grumbled as he thought back to how he’d trembled like a scared rabbit as he watched Scooter beat his daddy to death. On sleepless nights he could still hear his daddy’s screams. No, he decided, this time there wasn’t gonna be any running off, he was gonna stay and fight. He dug his way through a number of other dresses, a book of poetry and a bald-headed doll baby, then found what he’d been searching for, well, not exactly what he’d been searching for, but close enough. At the very bottom of Melissa’s things was a full box of twenty gauge shotgun shells—way too big for the Winchester, but they’d fit the double barreled Browning. The shotgun wasn’t Ethan’s first choice, because with several strips of black tape circling the butt end of the stock, it seemed somewhat worse for the wear, but a worn out shotgun with shells was a lot better than an empty Winchester.

  He set the rifle back in place and took hold of the double-barreled Browning. Shoving the lever to the right, he cracked the gun open and checked the breech—it also was empty. Ethan removed two shells from the box, loaded them into position and then put the remainder in his pocket.

  He returned up the back stairs and slipped into the apartment with Olivia never having been any the wiser.

  He’d expected to climb into bed and sleep the sleep of a man in control of things, a man who was well-prepared for whatever might be headed his way; but instead, he tossed and turned with worries mounding like anthills in his brain. First off, he reasoned, he wasn’t all that
prepared—he didn’t even know for certain Seth Porter’s relic of a shotgun would fire, and then there was always the chance that when he pulled the trigger, the gun would blow up in his face. Old guns were known to do that. Tommy Tristan’s daddy was killed in just such a way; he’d gone hunting one morning, promising to bring home a rabbit for stewing, and instead came home dead. An old shotgun, that’s what did him in.

  Ethan wished he’d had a chance to give the Browning a try, but there was no way. It was one thing to rummage through the basement with barely a sound and quite another to slam off a shot in the middle of the night. And, it was a given, if Grandma Olivia found out he had a shotgun stashed under his bed she’d surely take it away. She’d make him return the gun to Seth Porter, along with a hangdog apology and a promise not to go pilfering the storage room ever again. Nope, trying the shotgun was not worth considering, he’d have to trust to luck, hope for the best and pray to God no Cobbs showed up.

  Once Ethan Allen settled his mind, he closed his eyes and tried again to sleep. He turned to the wall, then to the doorway, then flipped over on his back, but he was still wide awake; actually, as awake as awake could be. He’d heard of people counting sheep in order to drift off to sleep, so he pictured a meadow, then he fixed his thoughts on a stretched out rail fence, but before the first of his sheep took a jump he remembered something else. Size. Both Cobbs were big men, shotguns were made for killing small animals. What good was a scattering of buckshot gonna do when a mountain of a man was coming at you? Not much, he feared.

  Once he started dwelling on the size of the Cobbs, sleep was nigh on to impossible. He tried thinking back on the names and batting averages for every member of the Baltimore Orioles, then he moved on to the New York Yankees, who, now, he’d probably never get to see. After that, he conjured up an imaginary baseball game, which worked better than most anything else because he could almost hear Chuck Thompson screaming Brooks Robinson had rounded third and was looking like he’d score on an inside the park home run.