The Parlor City Boys

by Arno B. Zimmer

  Gwen went on to finish nursing school and landed a job at the prestigious Parlor City Institute while Tommy thrived handling marketing and customer relations for the family lumber business. He even took some management courses at the local college, further placating his domineering Father. Everyone agreed he was a natural-born businessman and even the Brauns seemed to be reconciled. It wasn’t until after Woody was born that life started to change, almost imperceptibly at the start.

  Tommy had given up golf along with booze, convinced that the combination had led him into a decadent life style. But now clients and suppliers were pushing him to play. Indifferent to his son’s feelings, his Father insisted that it would be good for business. He fended everyone off for a while, all the time pining to return to the game he loved. Finally, he agreed, even gaining the support of Gwen who saw a new level of maturity in her husband.

  Back on the links, Tommy felt the old urges return and soon Gwen could see tell-tale signs of regression. Golf took up more time and Tommy finally admitted that he was drinking again. But now he had a valid excuse – business necessity. Tommy quickly spiraled out of control and nothing Gwen could do or say made any difference.

  And suddenly it was over. Tommy Braun supposedly went out one day to play golf with a client and never came back. Tommy’s father suggested foul play of some sort but Gwen was more fatalistic, inclined to believe that her husband had just given up. That night, she noticed that his prize baseball bat, an autographed Louisville Slugger, was standing in the corner of Woody’s bedroom. It had never been there before.

  The next day, his car was found near the train tracks with the keys in the ignition and his golf clubs in the trunk. The elder Braun hired private detectives to scour the country while the local police searched every crevice of Parlor City to no avail. Tommy Braun had simply vanished.

  In the weeks following his disappearance, she waited dutifully out of obligation to a vow that she had made at a time that seemed far distant now, in a vastly different world. And with Woody, it made it even harder for her not to justify her patience or, perhaps, it was more a fierce determination not to give up until all hope had evaporated.

  What if Tommy suddenly turned up? Would he be anything like the man who had won her heart in those giddy early years when shortcomings could so easily be glossed over or merely went unobserved? She understood clearly now that she had been living a fantasy back then but she was now settled firmly in the real world. And what frightened her the most was whether she could even welcome him back, unconditionally, without hesitation and a nagging sense of fear.

  During those early weeks of torment, Gwen also came to understand that she was not and could not be a martyr. Her soft, pliant exterior belied an inner strength that had even surprised her when she was suddenly forced to contemplate a future that she had never envisioned.

  Yes, if Tommy Braun did return, it would be a rough reunion in some respects, of that she was sure. And dutiful wife she might be, but only to a point. The times were changing and so had Gwen Braun.

  One day, going through the closet several months after Tommy’s disappearance, trying to decide if she should box up his clothes, Gwen pushed some hangers aside and heard some clinking sounds coming from a sports jacket that she immediately recognized as one of her husband’s favorites. Puzzled and curious, she pulled the jacket off the hangar and laid the jacket on the bed, momentarily staring at it.

  Slowly, she spread the jacket open and observed the coat linings with four small cylinder pockets of cloth sewn into each side. Most of the cylinders were flattened out but two on each side were bulging and clearly contained some object. With an undefined fear enveloping her, Gwen hesitated but knew she had to proceed. Reaching into one of the tiny pockets, she extracted a miniature bottle of scotch which she immediately dropped to the floor as if she had touched a scorching hot iron. It was at that moment that Gwen knew that her life with Tommy was over – no matter if he miraculously returned – and that Woody and she had to build a future for themselves.

  After a year of waiting for their son to return, the Brauns sold their lumber business and moved to Arizona. Perhaps ironically, their stately house was turned into a funeral parlor soon after their departure.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Meacham pulled his unmarked Ford sedan into the visitor’s lot at the Institute. The heavy-duty vehicle with its 6-cylinder engine rattled and shook when he turned it off. Good thing he didn’t have to chase any bad guys in this hunk of scrap metal, he said to himself.

  He stuffed the butt of a Camel in the ashtray and coughed into his hand. “I gotta give up these cancer sticks”, Meacham said, almost on cue. Even his doctor had quit which made Meacham a little nervous. But the golfer Cary Middlecoff was pushing Chesterfields and he was a doctor or a dentist, right? And then he remembered giving his Father a carton of Camels for his last Christmas after seeing them promoted on television by none other than Santa Claus. So, who to believe?

  Billy Meacham was just over six feet tall and solidly built. He had an incipient paunch starting to form around his waist which was hardly noticeable but made him self-conscious. He had sparkling green eyes and a full head of wavy brown hair with just a hint of a receding hairline. There was a modesty about him which some people erroneously took for weakness when first encountering him.

  Meacham exited the car and stopped in his tracks to stare up at the monstrosity officially known as The Parlor City Institute. Locals just called it Crazy Hill. Built in the mid-1800s, the Institute was an imposing ornate limestone structure in the Gothic tradition with a castle-like exterior and gun-shaped turrets across the top. It housed over 1000 patients, most of them judged too sick – or too drunk – to mingle with the rest of society. Apparently, a lot of people who could afford it checked themselves in to dry out in a special wing established for well-heeled clientele. Here, they could avoid the nuisance of prying eyes. Meacham knew more than a few locals who belonged here but were, unfortunately, still on the outside mocking those already committed. Just waiting their turn, he thought.

  Walking up the massive stone steps to the front door, Meacham found himself almost out of breath as he reached the double door entrance. He suddenly thought about his father, Capt. William W. Meacham, Sr., keeling over one day right out of the blue at a family clambake. A confirmed three-packer, his dad had once told young Billy not to believe the commercial “I’d walk a mile for a Camel” and said his son’s motto should be “I’ll walk a mile from a Camel – they stink!”. They both laughed at the time, as Billy had already picked up his Father’s habit, but Meacham sometimes felt the sharp sting of that memory.

  And why not set an example for the kids, he told himself. A cop coaching 12-year old Little Leaguers certainly has the chance – if not the obligation – to do so, right? Hey, the message is simple: If you want to grow up to hit a baseball like Ted Williams, don’t smoke. Meacham chuckled to himself and, under his breath, said “bullshit” mockingly, knowing that he would never give such a speech. It just wasn’t his style to moralize.

  Meacham tried to open the heavy front door but it was locked. He looked through the small, wire-meshed window in the top of the door and saw a guard slouched in a chair. He noticed the buzzer next to the window and pushed it.

  The guard slowly stood up and stared as Meacham pressed his face against the window in a deliberately distorted gaze. It was only when Meacham put his badge up to the window that the guard, Zombie-like, showed the slightest animation. “Christ,” Meacham thought, “does Hawkins even medicate his own security staff?” Stories abounded in town about the zombies up on Crazy Hill who by merely looking at you intently could turn you into a drooling alien.

  The door gradually opened and guard “Leonard Trible” let Meacham in. “ Need to see Mr. Hawkins, Leonard. Can you find the energy to tell him Det. Meacham is here?” “You’ll have to log in first, Detective. We keep detailed records of all visitors and -“

  “That won’t be necessary to
day, Officer Trible. I will escort the Detective”, said a voice from behind them. Meacham and Leonard turned to see Frederick Hawkins emerge from the shadows and step into the light. Leonard visibly trembled at the appearance of the imperious Hawkins and Meacham had to admit that he had a commanding, almost theatrical air about him that could intimidate the likes of Leonard Trible . Hawkins reminded Meacham of that French actor with the thin mustache and small, pinched mouth who held his cigarette in an affected, girlish manner. Who was that guy? Adolph something. Whenever Meacham saw him in a movie, he had the urge to deck him.

  “He’s rather somnolent, isn’t he?” said Hawkins as they walked silently along the corridor and approached his office. “Huh?” said Meacham but Hawkins only smiled. Stationed right outside his door was a stunning, sylph-like blonde, definitely not a product of Parlor City, the detective quickly surmised. She gave Meacham a seductive yet disdainful glance and started moving papers around her desk. Then, as if on cue, she stood up slowly and walked to a nearby file cabinet looking back to confirm that she was being scrutinized. She had an aloofness that matched Hawkins’ to a tee.

  Hawkins seemed to be reading Meacham’s mind on multiple levels when, barely after his office was closed, he said “That was Dede, er Miss Deschambault, my personal assistant. Rather fetching, isn’t she? But definitely way out of your league, speaking of which, I understand that you coach one of the local little league teams. Nice gesture but then a single guy like you probably has a lot of time on his hand to volunteer and still gallivant around town in a flashy sports car with pretty young ladies in tow, eh detective?” Meacham stared at Hawkins with a bemused look on his face but said nothing.

  “Now, as to what I am going to tell you next, there’s not going to be a public investigation quite yet, detective. Please have a seat.” Meacham slid into a plush leather chair as casually as possible while grinding his teeth, before saying “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. Investigation of what?”

  “Well, there’s been a few incidents here today, coincidental I’m sure you’ll agree. One of our patients was found dead near the back gate, leading down the hill. Actually, detective, I suppose you would call it more than an incident since he was suffocated in his own vomit after imbibing a quart of rye” concluded Hawkins as calmly as if he had been describing the arrangement of the flowers on his desk.

  “Why the urgency for what sounds like an accident”, Meacham asked calmly, working hard not to reveal his growing distaste for Hawkins. “This unfortunate event must be handled discreetly since it might be linked to another occurrence which is the reason for your visit today . If you doubt me, check with your Chief. He no doubt received a call from the Mayor which resulted in your visit today. Since your superiors are unfortunately indisposed, I asked for you personally. I know of your father. Served in the Marines during the big war, didn’t he? Something of a hero. And then you, a distinguished pilot in your own right who followed his father into police work. Very noble, indeed. In any event, a very circumspect man, Capt. Meacham, from what I hear. He had a way of looking at a situation from all sides before acting, probably learned it working for Gov. Traber, one would imagine” Hawkins said while staring intently at his guest.

  Meacham was puzzled and annoyed. Hawkins was talking as if he knew his father who had died two years before Hawkins came to town to run the Institute. Why had he taken the time to read up on their war experiences? It aggravated Meacham just to hear Hawkins’ grating voice but if his little speech was designed as a provocation, it wasn’t going to work.

  “You are welcome to examine the body but, to employ a colloquialism used by your esteemed Mayor, we have other ‘fish to fry’. Oh, the dead patient was at one time a fairly prominent local lawyer - Randall DePue,” Hawkins concluded.

  “We are not in the habit of referring casually to any death as an unfortunate event, as you put it, but please go on,” Meacham said, continuing to resist the increasing temptation to explode. “Well, here’s the other incident which does require your attention since it involves a potential crime by an old friend of yours,” Hawkins continued, with perfect aplomb. “I keep a pistol locked in my office in that cabinet right behind you. Bottom drawer wrapped in a small red towel. It’s been there since I took over at the Institute and I have the only key. Besides me, only my wife knew it was there. She insisted that I have it for my protection in an emergency. Right after DePue died, I went to the cabinet and noticed that the lock had been jimmied. As you might guess, the pistol was missing. We have searched the grounds twice with no luck. Of course, we immediately went into lock down mode, preparing for the worst outcome – that one of our patients had stolen the pistol and then secreted the weapon somewhere. Security has searched all the wards but nothing has turned up. So, Detective, we need your help in finding the pistol – and, of course, the person who took it. Again, the coincidence seemed to call for top notch police work and I have been assured that you are up to the task.”

  When Hawkins finished what sounded like a rehearsed speech, Meacham skipped over the DePue incident and said, “ I will need the make and model of the gun along with a log of all visitors to your office in the last several days – including family members.” As Meacham looked back at the cabinet, he noticed a large indentation in the rug and a line of scuff marks as if something had been dragged across the floor.

  Hawkins seemed to ignore Meacham and continued, “The orderly who found DePue, Roscoe Peterson, my security chief Wendell Santimaw who secured the accident scene, you and me are the only ones who know about the dead patient. Oh, and my wife from whom I keep no secrets. With respect to the gun, we have periodic lock-downs and room searches so at this point no one is overly concerned” Hawkins explained almost serenely. “Oh, yes, that friend of yours in question is Mike DeLong who was in my office right before the gun disappeared and was seen shortly thereafter staggering out the front door. There is some obvious suspicion that he might have been drinking first in my office and then with DePue. There was a rumor that he might even have provided the deceased patient with the liquor but we have no proof – I guess that’s your department.”

  Meacham couldn’t believe it. A dead patient – suicide or an accident - and Hawkins was impervious to emotion. And this was a man whose mission in life was to cure sick people? Meacham knew Santimaw well – it was said that he could bungle a jay-walking investigation. He would get his boys out here quickly to scour Hawkins’ office. Passed over for lieutenant in Parlor City, Santimaw was hired by Hawkins to manage his private security force. With the likes of “Leonard” guarding the front door, Santimaw was true to form, hiring the best lackeys available. Known as “Lard Ass” even by his friends in Parlor City, the first time Meacham heard the word sycophant used was when the department psychologist got drunk and applied it to Santimaw at the annual Christmas party. Meacham preferred brown nose but either name would do fine. It didn’t change things, though. Santimaw was just kissing up to a new boss now. Yeah, and calling him captain was as absurd as calling a flea a bird

  “I – excuse me – your Chief wants you to get with Santimaw and figure out how we resolve this matter quickly, Detective. I believe you will find out than I am echoing the sentiments of the Mayor as well so please don’t take offense. Oh, and Santimaw already dusted the cabinet for prints so you needn’t bother. The pistol was a Colt vest pocket semi-automatic. Brought it with me from Boston.” As Hawkins finished this soliloquy, there was a deferential knock at the door.

  “That must be Capt. Santimaw”, said Hawkins. I asked him to join us. Please let’s be cooperative, Detective, and don’t get off on the wrong foot by calling him – what is it?”

  “Lard Ass,” said Meacham, loud enough to be heard through the door. “Or would sycophant be more polite?” “Very good, Detective. Excellent choice of words. You surprise me with your lexicographic repertoire”, sneered Hawkins, “but we will dispense with both monikers. I must tell you, though, that my preferences are fawning and servile.�
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  There was another soft knock on the door and Hawkins bellowed “Come in Capt. Santimaw” as Meacham sat in turmoil with a sudden need to light a Camel. Staring at Hawkins, he suddenly remembered that the simpish foreign actor he wanted to punch was Adolph Menjou.

  ***

  After his frustrating afternoon at the Institute with the irritating duo of Hawkins and Santimaw, Meacham was looking forward to seeing the uncomplicated and statuesque Big Red that evening. It was Wednesday and that meant free matching draft beers for your date at the “Pig & Whistle”. That was good as Big Red could knock them down and Meacham’s budget was not unlimited.

  Cynthia “Big Red” Bigelow at 5’9” towered over most boys until midway through high school but the nickname given to her by her uncle at the age of 10 had stuck and she didn’t seem to mind.

  The leggy, athletic young girl had filled out to almost perfect proportions, as if each part of her had been sculpted and then chiseled by the hands of a master craftsman. By the age of 18, the prominent freckles had faded and the stark red hair had muted into a lush autumn hue that invited you to bury your hands indiscriminately.