After the show, I was relieved to find out Ella hadn’t been able to hear clearly the substance of my announcements to the audience. So far as she was concerned, it had all been routine. We’d be staying overnight in the town’s lone hotel, then by noon tomorrow we’d be back on the road.
She commented on my uncharacteristic silence while we were sitting down at dinner in the hotel’s shabby dining room. I was waiting for Joker to show up and signal to let me know the hiding place had been found. Later in the evening, much later, we had planned to pay a visit to Mrs. Jesperson’s acreage and remove the strongbox, which she was certain to have moved to a new location under the concealed Joker’s observant eyes. A contingency plan had been for Joker to steal the box immediately if the occasion presented itself.
His long absence made me nervous. The sudden appearance of the town sheriff and a burly deputy made me even more nervous. I had always rated rural sheriffs as having only slightly higher intelligence than most farm animals. This sheriff was different. It had taken him a while, as I found out later, but he had finally gotten the message. The spirit’s warning about the strongbox aroused his suspicions. After the end of the performance, he had decided to drive by Mrs. Jesperson’s, only to find Joker parked in a nearby lane with the box sitting on the passenger’s seat beside him.
Joker never did give me a satisfactory explanation for why it had taken him so long, but the next few days weren’t suitable for any kind of explanations. The Sheriff started off by carting me and a baffled Ella off to what passed for the local jail. He sat us down in his office, along with a sheepish looking Joker, pulled out the strongbox key, which he’d borrowed from Mrs. Jesperson, and flipped open the lid of the box sitting on his desk.
Ella and I leaned forward for a better view. The box was crammed with bills. The Sheriff reached in and pulled out a half-dozen or so packets. They were all hundreds—in Confederate money. By then I was wondering if I was looking as sheepish as Joker.
The upshot was I convinced the Sheriff that Ella had nothing to do with it, but Joker and I spent a couple of days in the jailhouse, me in a cell with a series of demented drunks and Joker locked up with an inept car thief. I managed to hire ourselves a local lawyer, who turned out to be a good deal smarter than either of us. He pointed out to the judge how the total value of the theft, box and all, was considerably less than the statutory twenty-five dollars for a felony. We ended up with a misdemeanor conviction, a hundred-dollar fine apiece, and the suggestion—which we instantly took to heart—to leave town.
The fine and lawyer’s fees pretty much cleaned out our summer’s profits, Ella and I came awfully close to splitting up, and Joker did split—immediately—much to the relief of all concerned.
In spite of gas rationing, Ella and I made it to the Pacific Northwest, where she got a job bucking rivets at Boeings, and I ended up delivering milk house-to-house for the owner of a local dairy company who would have hired a two-headed buffalo if it had a driver’s license.
So, all in all, I’m not too unhappy to have buried the Swami. We’re putting away a nest egg for after the war when Ella swears we’re going to start a family.
Once in a while we talk about the Mayville caper, and Ella insists Joker was going to rip us off, he was caught because he was trying to open the box to remove part of the loot. “After all,” she insists, “we would have had no way of knowing how much was in there in the first place.”
I insisted he really would never have tried to double cross me, would never have even opened the box without my being there.
Well, just today, the matter was finally settled for us. Joker’s in France now, having gone in after the Normandy landings, and is running a PX, probably hoping the Germans will bomb it before the auditors show up.
The letter he sent was short, and to the point:
Hi Swami,
Just a note to let you know the army beats the show circuit all to hell.
I remember you asking me why it took me so long to get away with the loot that night in Maysville. Well, the enclosed should give you a hint.
Give my best to Ella.
Joker
I looked in the envelope, and there it was. A hundred-dollar bill—Confederate, of course.
THE BANK EXAMINER
The visitor waited impatiently for an answer to his knock. It was taking a long time, but just as he was about to knock again, he heard the sound of someone approaching on the other side of the door, a shuffling sound followed by regular thumps. The sounds were replaced by the unmistakable rattle of a chain being attached, and finally a slow opening, leaving a gap of some three inches and a faded blue eye peering out at him. A glimpse of the aluminum walker explained why it had taken the old lady so long to answer.
“Sorry to bother you ma’am,” he said, “but I’m a bank examiner checking on savings at First American. There seem to be some problems with accounts there, and our department thought you might be able to help us.”
The eye narrowed with suspicion. “Do you have any identification?”
“Yes ma’am.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he produced a leather wallet with a glassine envelope on one side containing an identification card and a badge pinned to the other side proclaiming “Operative 67, Federal Bank Examiners and Auditors.”
He handed the wallet through the door, and a frail hand accepted it as he said, “Please don’t hesitate to call my office for verification. The number’s right there at the top of the card. I’ll be happy to wait until you’ve checked me out.”
The door swung shut, and he could hear the walker thumping off across the apartment. More minutes went by before, listening close for it, he heard the sound of the returning walker. This time it was followed by the rattle of the chain coming off the hook.
The apartment was small and immaculate. It was evident someone, the occupant or hired help, spent hours every day cleaning and scrubbing. Despite the walker and her frail appearance, there was an aura of energy about the occupant which made it very likely she was the one solely responsible.
“What can I do to help bank examiners?” Her voice belied her age, which the visitor estimated as being at least in the late seventies.
“You are Virginia Montrose?”
“Yes.” A trace of suspicion still lingered.
“My company, and the bank officials, are quite certain one of the cashiers has been embezzling large amounts of money. We’ve tried a dozen different ways to catch her at it, but we’ve had no luck so far. The only thing we know for sure is she seems to be taking money from accounts where the customer puts in large deposits but seldom makes any withdrawals. Your account seems to fit the description, so I’m here to ask for your help.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Well, we would like to have you go to the bank and make a large withdrawal. We’ll have agents in the bank who will check her every movement to see how she handles the transaction. Then, an hour or so later, we’ll redeposit the money to see what happens then. It’s almost sure to reveal what she’s doing.”
“I don’t get out much. Not with this.” She put her hand on the walker standing next to her chair.
“That will be no problem at all. I’ll be here first thing in the morning and will be happy to give you a ride to the bank. The whole transaction shouldn’t take more than a half-hour, and you won’t have to make a second trip back, because I can redeposit the money for you.”
The whole transaction went without a hitch. The arrangement had been for her to hand over the withdrawal just outside the bank. The moment the money changed hands, two plain-clothes officers appeared and announced the arrest of the startled “bank examiner.”
A tall, well-dressed man emerged from a parked car, walked up to Virginia and grinned. “Nice work, Mrs. Montrose. We’ve been following him through four states, but this is the first time we were able to catch him completely red-handed. I’ve got a couple of local police officers coming by to give you a ride home. We’ll g
o back in style.”
And they did go back in style. The police car with Mrs. Montrose, walker and all, followed by the man the local police unnecessarily identified as a FBI agent working with the Treasury Department. All three helped her back to her apartment with mutual thanks all around.
“There are still one or two items to clear up for the government enforcement agencies,” the agent said, then asked. “Would it be convenient if I dropped by this afternoon to finish up?”
Mrs. Montrose quickly agreed, adding she had plenty of time on her hands.
“Nice to see you again, Maria,” the agent said when he returned in the afternoon.
“It’s almost like old times to see you, Jaimie. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove waiting to be brewed. Turn the burner on.”
After acting on the suggestion, Jaimie settled down in one of the living room’s comfortable chairs.
“What’s it been?” he asked. “Twelve years, thirteen, you’ve been in the witness protection program?”
“Closer to fourteen. Fourteen on the 5th of July. Day after the Fourth. That’s when Maria Anano disappeared. Died, really, for all practical purposes.”
“If you had it to do all over again, would you do it, Maria?”
Maria gave a vigorous nod to her head. “Once they shot my son, I was through with the mob. I actually enjoyed testifying against those bastards. I especially enjoyed seeing Freddy Garofallo glare at me. My grandmother would have been terrified. She believed in the evil eye right up to the day she died. Believe me, Freddy really has the evil eye. How’s he doing by the way?”
“Still doing time, of course. He has only twenty-four more years to go. Let’s see. It should make him about a hundred and one when his time’s up. But he’s still looking for you, you know. We’ve been trying to get something on his two nephews who’ve carried out at least one hit for him, but so far they’ve just been too slippery for us.”
Jaimie got up and poured them each some coffee.
“Great brew,” he commented, after he’d settled down and sampled the contents of his cup.
Maria grinned. “I buy only the best. Since my wants are limited, I make the most of the ones I have left. My limited wants are what make my bank account looks so healthy.”
“And that’s why we picked you, Maria.”
“Yes, but how did you manage to get the poor con artist to pick me? Someone on the inside?”
Jaimie nod. “His girlfriend. They move from town to town, and she manages to get jobs in one financial institution or another. She always has good recommendations, and really is a first-rate accountant. We spotted her when we finally figured out she was working every place the scam happened. So we picked her up one day, scared the daylights out of her, granted her immunity and got her to pass your credentials along to our friend. You sure looked like the ideal. Do you ever take any money out of the bank?”
Maria burst into laughter. “I told you my wants are limited. The government pays me in cash, and the lion’s share ends up in the account. It will all go to Tomaso’s daughter and her children when I’m gone. I miss never having seen the great-grandkids or doing anything for them. The money will help some to make up for my not seeing them.”
“Well, you did a good job, today. You should have been an actress. We won’t need any testimony from you. We have so many counts against this guy he’s already willing to plead.”
“I really felt kind of sorry for him. His cover was so pathetic. The number I called wouldn’t have fooled a cloistered nun. No ‘press one for this’ or ‘press two for that.’ No long spiel about “calls may be monitored to assure quality of service.” Can you imagine any company where you immediately get through to the right person who actually knows how to answer your questions? It was unreal.”
Just before leaving, Jaimie said, “Be sure to watch the news on Channel Six, tonight. The cops who brought you told me the network picked up the bust and showed it at noon, and they’ll be repeating it on the late evening news. It’s only a two minute clip, but you might like to see the local police chief bragging about how efficient his department is.”
Maria almost forgot to turn on the newscast. Ten o’clock was late for her to be up, and she remembered it only at the last moment. The network announcer was leading up to the story as she pressed the button for Channel Six.
The first scene was a shot of the outside of the bank.
“Early this morning, a criminal got his just desserts. The police and Federal Bureau of Investigation closed in on the suspect who has been charged with preying on the elderly in at least four states.” The announcer went on to describe the nature of the scam while the camera moved into the bank, where customers were lined up at the windows.
“We were fortunate to be able to borrow a tape from the bank’s surveillance cameras showing the actual transaction and the arrest of the suspect.”
Still standing in her walker, Maria froze. The clear scene in the network’s studio changed to a grainier picture of the morning’s happenings. She saw the con man’s face fill the screen. And then her own face, clearly recognizable, replaced it. Painfully, she moved over to the apartment window to pull down the shade.
Reaching up for the cord, she didn’t hear the explosive sound of the high powered bullet when it shattered the glass and her forehead.
THE BOY NEXT DOOR
Beverly was nervous, though she wasn’t quite ready to admit it. After all, she had been babysitting at one or another of the Big Island of Hawai’i’s resort hotels for over two years. But this “sit” was different. It was her first one after completing the mandatory Basics for Child Care Workers course—which was part of the child protection legislation the governor had recently signed into law.
Before the course, she hadn’t realized how many things she’d been doing wrong as a nanny or how many things she could do wrong. The physical care part had been nothing new. After all, she had been babysitting neighborhood kids since she was twelve, and the agency had long ago required her to take an infant and child first-aid course when she signed up to be one of their nannies. No, it was the psychological part which had thrown her for a loop. All the lectures and reading about not traumatizing the child had been almost too much.
Fortunately for her peace of mind, this sit looked easy. No diapers to change. No inconsolable, sobbing three year old after the parents leave for the evening. Better yet, not a whole brood. She had managed, just barely, to handle five at a time on one occasion. So, tonight sounded like a cinch. A six-year old boy. She had plenty of toys to keep him entertained. And there would be three straight nights with just the one child. There really was no cause for concern.
Young James Blunt accepted her with equanimity, barely looked at his mother as she kissed him on the forehead and went off with his father to the convention dinner. Better yet, he quickly became engrossed in the toys Bev had brought. If anything, the sit was going too well. James, a handsome dark-eyed, dark-haired child, was friendly enough, but said little. The intricacies of a construction set with its accompanying trucks and motorcars called for all of his attention. Efforts on Bev’s part to become involved in the play were not rebuffed, but it soon became evident her participation was superfluous. So, instead, she sat and read the latest Stephen King she had brought along.
The nine o’clock curfew established by James’ mother was met with no arguments. Teeth were brushed. There was no lingering in the bath. A bedtime story was accepted, but hadn’t really seemed necessary. Lights out, and that was it. Bev couldn’t believe her good fortune in having virtually a perfect sit. For the rest of the evening the parents would be paying her for doing nothing but read.
At ten-thirty, when the parents returned, the father was a bit the worse for wear. Bev didn’t mind the drinking, which vacationing parents frequently did, so long as they weren’t going to be out driving. In fact, she’d long ago discovered tips tended to increase in proportion to alcohol consumption.
She compliment
ed the Blunts on their child, but remarked about how he seemed awfully quiet. The father looked up as he was signing the payout slip Bev would cash in at the front desk, and laughed. The mother joined in. “Just wait,” he said. “By tomorrow night he’ll be more used to you and then he’ll talk your ear off.” The mother nodded in agreement. Bev found it hard to picture James talking anyone’s ear off.
Evening number two began in much the same way as the previous one. The father’s company was holding its awards banquet, to be followed by big-name entertainment. That was fine with Bev, who still had a long way to go to get through Stephen King, and there was a favorite program to watch from ten to eleven. It looked like another easy night.
But James was more talkative, just as predicted. Bev didn’t really mind. She enjoyed children and the interaction which occurred. He went on at some length describing what he was doing with the construction set he’d become enamoured of, how the cars would travel, how the streets had to be safe for the pedestrian figures he’d pulled from the box. “But there aren’t any wheelchairs,” he commented.
What a strange idea, Bev thought. Before she could comment, James launched off into a monologue about the boy next door. “He sits in a wheelchair all day. His Mom has to carry him to bed. His name is Jimmy Long. I go there and play sometimes.”
Bev immediately conjured up the page in her class text introducing the section on Emotional Trauma. It was obvious Jimmy Long was badly crippled. According to the textbook, you shouldn’t cut a child off when he’s expressing concern about something. But this turn in the conversation made Bev distinctly uncomfortable.
While she was pondering methods for changing the subject, James continued. “It’s a real neat wheelchair. He just presses buttons, and the chair goes this way and that way and even backs up. Dad says it’s ‘lectric.” James was becoming animated, illustrating with flamboyant gestures the motion of the wheelchair.
Expect the Unexpected Page 31
