Sheaylea looked over to see Frances fingering her rosary. Noticing the glance, Frances leaned over to whisper, “I’m praying to God to keep me from wishing Fighting Bob would die, right now.”
“After you’re through, pass them over to me. My prayer’ll be a little different.
The months dragged by. “Save Stuyvesant Park” made little headway, except for Manny’s discovery of Fighting Bob’s part ownership of Center Development.
Father Keenan surprised the others by immediately demanding they take the commissioner to court because of his conflict of interest.
Manny shook his head. “Let’s conserve our resources for the main fight. He can’t vote on the issue, which reduces their edge to six-to-two.”
“But he can still try to persuade the other commissioners behind closed doors,” Father Keenan argued.
“They’ve already made up their minds, so he won’t make any difference. Let’s concentrate on the election.
***
“Well, at least we’re up to six-to-three,” Frances said, commenting on the election’s results, “and we did get rid of Fighting Bob.”
Sheaylea was gloomy. “There’s still a long way to go. Manny was right. There was never much chance of convincing the commissioners. We’ve spent about all the money we’ve been able to scrape up, and there’s still a long way to go. We’re going to have to fight this in court.”
“I’m going to light a candle and ask for a miracle.” Frances commented. “I’ll light even more if God stops this monster from springing up in front of us.”
Father Keenan smiled. “I probably shouldn’t say this, since it is nice to see the candles burning at the altar, but I think Manny’s efforts will really be more fruitful than lighted candles. He says he thinks he can locate a wealthy patron who’s interested in helping out with community efforts like ours. Maybe God will help find us a patron. After all, He does move in mysterious ways.”
***
The patron was found and the patron was wealthy. There was no question about the latter. A limousine piloted by a uniformed chauffeur pulled up in front of Morelli’s Bakery & Coffee Shop. Separated from her vehicle, however, few would have thought Emma Schneider was principal stock holder and president of the board of a Fortune 500 Company.
After Manny introduced the trio to the potential angel, the shades were drawn and they settled down to coffee and croissants.
Following the briefest of preliminaries, Emma said, “The first thing I would like to know is what this park does for the community.”
Father Keenan smiled. “Perhaps I should answer the question since the subject matter is close to my area of expertise. To put it very succinctly, Stuyvesant Park is the soul of the community. When some of the surrounding blocks began to go through a phase of urban blight, the park was a common refuge for all of us. It was a place for the children to play, for our senior citizens to stroll in and sit in comfort and security, for all of us to be exposed to at least a little bit of natural growth and greenery in the very heart of the city. As you can see, the early developers of the area gave no thought to backyard gardens. They left us with lots the size of postage stamps, and placed the buildings at the very edge of the sidewalk.”
The others chimed in, and Emma asked more questions. Manny finally interrupted. “Maybe we should take a walk through the Park before it gets too dark.”
The playground, the gravel walks, the elms, patches here and there of wildflowers were called to Emma’s attention. “What about that?” she asked, pointing to a rocky mound near the center of the Park.
“I’m not sure what the background is,” Frances answered. My grandfather told me it was there when he was a boy. The children keep away from it because the rocks are pretty sharp, and there are brambles over much of it. Off and on there have been proposals to remove it, but it would take heavy equipment, and I, for one, kind of like it the way it is. It’s our bit of wilderness. Barber—he’s the homeless person Sheaylea told you about—putters around it. He keeps the berry bushes from straying too far away from the rocks, and he’s planted some really nice plants along the perimeter.”
No conclusion was reached at the meeting, but the limousine left behind the promise of a soon to be made decision.
***
The decision did come soon. Manny happily announced Emma’s willingness to pick up the entire legal tab.
Almost a year to the day, the City Manager signed the enabling ordinance into law. A week later, Manny had filed the first of many motions to prevent the sale of the Park. The wheels of justice ground slowly, and the grinding was erratic. The predicted two years elapsed, followed by seven months more before the Superior Court’s decision was finally handed down.
Manny phoned the bad news to Sheaylea “We lost. I had some hopes. It was a three-to two-decision. I’ll file for reconsideration, of course, but that’s mostly a formality.”
“Isn’t there anything left the people here can possibly do?”
“I’d suggest they throw themselves in front of the bulldozers, but the police will just drag them off, and the cats will then plow right through. Some men from the Forestry Department may come around, checking for endangered plants. They were supposed to do so weeks ago, but this is low priority, and you know what the chances are of finding any in Stuyvesant Park.”
“Surely this can’t be the end.”
“I’m afraid it is. I think the best thing you can do is to start salvaging what you can out of there, playground materials and so forth. I’ve already gotten approval from the City Planning Office to remove anything we want to from the site. They’d prefer to have bare ground. Emma and I will be by. I’ll wear my work clothes and give you folks a hand. She’s even going to dress for the occasion and help too.”
***
Frances, Sheaylea and Father Keenan, along with dozens of other residents were busy removing the last of the playground equipment when Emma’s limo pulled up to the curb, followed closely by Manny’s car. Two oversized flatbeds, led in by guide cars, crowded in behind them. Each carried an enormous bulldozer. Before long, workmen had unchained them, readying them for the next day’s work.
About then a vehicle from the Federal carpool slipped into the space between the flatbeds. Manny snorted, but took time out from helping with the dismantling to greet the government agent.
“You’re kind of late,” Manny commented.
The agent seemed humorless. “With our budget, it’s lucky I was able to come out at all.”
Manny gestured toward the Park. “Help yourself.” The dismantling continued. In the midst of the work, Sheaylea caught sight of Fighting Bob wearing a broad smirk on his features and leaning against the giant wheel of one of the flatbeds. She decided to ignore him and turned back to taking down the swings.
***
The Forestry Agent’s comments made no sense at first. “I would have missed it if it hadn’t been for that old guy who looks like a tramp. He took me up through the brambles, and there it was, a perfect example of an Heuchera glauca, and it’s throwing seedlings.”
“So?” Manny asked.
“So it’s probably the only one of its species in existence. The last ones we knew of died out in Kentucky, some three hundred miles south of here. The climate must have been getting too warm for them there, and we figured we’d seen the species go extinct.”
“What does that mean for the Park,” Father Keenan asked?
“Hard to say,” the agent said, “except, for sure, no building will ever go up here. Heuchera glauca is about as endangered a species as I’ve ever come across. And we have no way of knowing what factors locally account for its adaptation here, so we’ll want everything to remain as unchanged as possible in the entire block.”
Most of what he added about the “Saxifrage” family and how it was a “wild type” and “related to the Bressingham Hybrids” made little impression on his ecstatic audience.
Frances pulled off her gloves. “I’m going to ch
urch to light a candle,” she said.
Sheaylea pulled off her own gloves, saying, “I think it’s time I lit a candle, too.”
Manny, Emma and Father Keenan walked out to the rock pile to find Barber there raking leaves. He didn’t seem to really understand what they were asking, but finally led them along a tortuous path, where Manny had to help Emma past brambles and over several sharp boulders, to where a three-foot plant with modest coral-pink flowers and waxy green leaves occupied a narrow space between two large stones.
Father Keenan was tempted to give the graceful little shrub an official blessing.
On the way back down off of the rock pile, Barber left to talk to a large sunflower which gave every indication of listening attentively to him.
Emma stopped, put her hand on Manny’s arm and nodded in Barber’s direction. “I’m sure I know him!”
“You do? Who is he?”
“He’s a botanist. He used to teach at the Ag school in the town right near my racing stables.”
“Where’s that?”
“In Kentucky, some three hundred miles south of here.”
SWAMI
So maybe it wasn’t such a bright idea teaming up with Joker. We were doing pretty well on the circuit as it was, Ella and I. I had my swami act down pat, and she was becoming an expert at feeding me info from the audience.
Cold reading was always my specialty, so I’d be up there on stage, blindfolded and doing my trance act, while Ella would circulate through the audience and have me mystically identify what came out of someone’s purse or pocket. We really had a smooth act. Our code system was so good, I could not only tell the difference between a Mickey Mouse watch and a social security card, but could give the exact time on the first one and the number on the second.
It wasn’t until we ran into Joker Moran that we decided to move up a step. The equipment was simple. Earphones to go under my turban, a small radio transmitter with a backup, one of those ashtrays with a flip bottom sitting on a hollow stand, and any small town theater with a prompter’s cubbyhole and a basement under the stage—something which was pretty common in small towns back in the late thirties and early forties when we were on the circuit.
The plan was even simpler. Joker would scout ahead, masquerade as just about anything from a traveling preacher to a feed salesman—he was always good at faking any kind of occupation—and chatting up anyone and everyone in town. He was especially good at that. Whatever information he got—anything from Aunt Nell’s rheumatism to Cousin George’s decision to plant tobacco instead of cotton—would spice up our performance. And, of course, he’d give us a lot of advance publicity—how he’d seen us in some other town, how we’d really wowed the crowd, and just generally how Swami Parthasarathy was nothing short of a miracle man.
Like I said, I put on a good act. My mother was Lebanese, and my father had come over from Greece when he was just a kid. My general appearance plus a turban, a wild looking costume and an occasional touch-up with a little skin dye, made me appropriately swami-like. We usually drew a good-sized crowd. And Ella’s short, short skirts gave more than one rube a stiff neck from gawking at her.
Joker was the one who convinced us to move on to new heights. I was enthusiastic; Ella wasn’t. “Swami,” she said (she never calls me Swami except when she’s annoyed at me), “Joker’s going to be nothing but trouble.”
Well, he was trouble. But I straightened him out in a hurry. He came on strong to Ella, and I told him if I caught him making a pass at her I’d break off his arm and wrap it around his neck. I’m getting close to fifty, and he’s half my age, but I had a fifty-pound advantage over him and some amateur boxing behind me in my younger days. He saw the light with no need for further prompting.
Actually, Joker had a lot of talents, not all of them learned on the right side of the law, and some of those talents came in right handy. One time, we’d gotten the wrong key to the theater and we wanted to get in early to set up our equipment. So there we are standing out in the cold, not even knowing where we could find the building manager at seven in the morning. Joker just breaks out a set of little pins, fiddles with the door for a while and, presto, he’s got it open. Well, not really presto. It took him at least fifteen minutes, but if I’d tried to do it, we’d still be standing there.
We kept up the cold reading, Ella and I. A good half-hour of that warms up an audience. It also gave the males a chance to get a close-up of, and fully appreciate, those long slim legs of hers. Then she’d pass around slips of paper and ask the audience to write down questions or anything else, signed or not, and the Swami would read them sight unseen.
The impressive part came after she’d collected the notes and dumped them all, in full view of the audience, into our rigged-up ash tray which had been burning brightly with a gas flame all this time. We had it nicely set up so the flames would soar when she dropped in the notes, all of which of course immediately ended up in the basement room below, ready for Ella to transmit their contents to me via our trusty transmitter. Then she’d disappear into the wings, while I “abracadabred” for the expectant audience.
***
Maysville, Colorado looked like a real winner. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment for the town folk, since the war had cut back on just about everything. Not only that, but the playhouse we’d rented doubled as the only movie theater in town, so we didn’t have to compete with Jean Harlow reruns. Best of all, was what Joker had stumbled across. I don’t usually keep any secrets from Ella, but this was too good to pass on. So good in fact, I knew she’d say, “Swami, you’ve got a hole in your head if you go along with this scheme. You’ll end up in the state pen, for sure.”
What Joker had stumbled across was money. Lots of it. An old lady, Lydia Jesperson, who lived on a small acreage just outside of town, was known to have a good-sized cash box full of bills. Joker had managed to find an eyewitness to the contents, a grocery boy who said he’d seen it on her table, and even from her back door he could tell it was crammed full of money. When she saw him looking at it, she slammed down the lid and shooed him off.
Try as he would, however, Joker couldn’t find out where she kept the box. It wasn’t as though she was shy in telling everyone about her stash. Without disclosing exact amounts, she managed to convey the impression there was packet after packet of hundred dollar notes in the green, metal box. And when it was suggested a bank would be a more secure spot for the treasure throve, she claimed it was so well hidden, no burglar would ever find it.
That’s when Joker and I worked out our scheme.
Everything started off well at the evening performance. When I first came on stage, Joker, seated unobtrusively way in the back, gave me the signal indicating Mrs. Jesperson was in the audience—and it was a packed audience. In spite of gas rationing, it seemed the whole town and most of the neighboring farm families had turned out to watch Swami Parthasarathy’s sensational act. And I outdid myself. The cold reading brought oh’s and ah’s from the audience. I had them in the palm of my hand.
I took off my blindfold, stood and thanked the audience, and then described what would follow. I told them to be very discrete in their notes, since my trance self was uncontrollable and wouldn’t hesitate to reveal the most intimate details. All of which, of course, invariably brought on the most intimate details of the writers’ lives.
Our Woolworth ashtray performed superbly. In fact, it looked for a minute as though the flames greeting the paper notes might catch the overhead rigging on fire. I told myself we had better tone it down some for our next performance. Ella replaced the blindfold, surreptitiously plugged in the earphones hidden under my turban and slipped away as I went through my trance inducement routine.
There was even a minimum of static in my earphones, and Ella’s voice came through loud and clear. The audience hushed as I prepared to peer into my spirit’s unconscious to read the messages now apparently reduced to ashes.
“Jarrett Wilson has asked the spi
rit of Swami Parthasarathy whether he should plant the south forty in soybeans the way he did last year.”
A rustle of amazement, followed by complete silence greeted the first reading. The audience was waiting for my spirit’s answer. Joker and I had gone over all of his information in detail, and Jarrett Wilson had come across as the town skeptic. He was also the only watch repairman in town and owned not a single square foot of farmland.
My voice deepened. “The spirit of Swami Parthasarathy is pleased to have received this question and suggests Jarrett Wilson refrain from any plantings this year, but instead spend his spare time repairing Lyle Raitherback’s grandfather clock he has had in his shop now for over three months.”
Gasps, murmurs, laughter and then applause greeted the pronouncement. Ella kept shooting the statements and questions to me thick and fast. After several spirit comments about weather, crops, ailments (I always steered clear of those and invariably suggested medical treatment for serious ones—faith healing was just not my bag), what happened to a lost hog, whether Franklin Roosevelt would be reelected (a topic which came up frequently in our travels, and I usually tailored the answer to the majority voting pattern of my audience), and on and on for about thirty minutes. That’s when I injected a special message from the spirit.
I held up my hand and the audience became quiet again after having been overwhelmed by my revelations. “The spirit has an emergency message for someone in the audience. I’m not certain who the person is, but she is a gray-haired lady, who lives alone, about two miles from here. I see a metal box. Yes, it’s hers. It contains something very valuable. The spirit says it must be moved immediately, since thieves have discovered its hiding place.”
I was going to make the warning even stronger when I heard the obvious noise of someone getting up to leave, so I went back to missing livestock, the imminence of rain, and cures for bunions.
Expect the Unexpected Page 30
