The Parlor City Boys

by Arno B. Zimmer

  Ever since her senior year in high school, Big Red had been in demand and her self-confident, some would say even haughty manner attracted a number of older men, many of who mistook her flirtatiousness as a prelude or even an invitation to promiscuity.

  She brushed off the few high school boys who mustered the courage to ask her out, prompting suggestive taunts that made her smile benignly. Sitting next to her in English class senior year was that epitome of politeness and discretion – Billy Meacham. They became fast friends and she secretly enjoyed the fact that Billy was the only boy that called her Cynthia.

  As prom night approached, the dateless duo were walking out of class when Big Red blurted out authoritatively, “listen, Billy Meacham, I am buying a dress after school and you are taking me to the prom”. She then abruptly turned and strutted away, confident that Meacham would do as he was told.

  After high school, Big Red went off to college and Meacham heard that she dropped out, got married, had a quickie divorce and had moved out West. Then, last year she had re-appeared in Parlor City when her Mother died and decided to stay on after the funeral. All in all, the details of Big Red’s absence were sketchy, inviting wild rumors and speculation but none of it interested Meacham.

  It was inevitable that they would run into each other sooner or later but Big Red wasted no time in showing up at the old Meacham house one day when Billy happened to be visiting his Mother.

  Before long, the two were intimate but from Meacham’s point of view they weren’t in a true dating relationship. They only saw each other occasionally and when they did, the conversations were airy. Meacham suspected, even assumed, that she saw other men but was never curious enough to ask. In short, he was quite content to let their arrangement just drift along.

  As Big Red slowly folded herself into Meacham’s sports car, he had to admire the view. She wore hot pink shorts that appeared to have been painted on and her white t-shirt was, by choice, a few sizes too small. Settling into her seat, she leaned in close to Meacham who actually shuddered as he involuntarily retreated toward his own door. Big Red knew how to make an entrance.

  It would be difficult to call the “Pig & Whistle” a restaurant in the traditional sense. It looked like someone – or thing – had dropped a long rectangular, corrugated metal box on a rocky abutment just off the frontage road that paralleled the river. The bright neon sign illuminated an enormous pink pig with puffy cheeks and a whistle stuck in its mouth.

  Once inside, the aroma of wieners and sausages accompanied by a constant sizzling sound from the grill assaulted your senses. For the locals, it was a welcomed, predictable reminder that they were about to enjoy themselves. Rows of booths lined the walls and each one had a miniature juke box that emitted a steady cacophonous roar as customers huddled in close to listen to their favorite tune over the general din.

  A garrulous Ma Dawkins had owned the place for eternity and was constantly mopping her brow as she greeted customers and pointed them to an open booth. The story was that Ma’s great grandfather owned a place by the same name in London which seemed to give the local dive some historical pedigree.

  Big Red got the usual stares as they sat down. She seemed oblivious to the attention and Meacham, still feeling a bit self-conscious, had almost learned to ignore it. As they waited for their beers to arrive, Big Red reached over and started to caress Meacham’s hands. When he looked up, he thought he detected a dreamy look that he had never seen before and he shuddered for the second time in less than an hour. When the waitress slammed down the mugs and tossed menus on the table, Meacham felt relieved and immediately studied the “daily specials” as if it were his first visit.

  When he looked up, Big Red was finishing a large gulp and was actually wiping her mouth with a broad swipe of her hand. Both of them grinned and Meacham was thankful that the uncomfortable moment had passed.

  After they ordered, Meacham was looking around only to see Gwen Braun sit down in an adjacent booth, accompanied by a man in a multi-colored outfit that almost defied description. When he looked at the face, he recognized the new minister that Sgt. Whipple had casually mentioned was “courting her”.

  Meacham was struck by the discordant image of Gwen Braun in khaki shorts and a sleeveless blue shirt sitting across from the ill-clad minister in loud Bermuda shorts and a bright red striped shirt. But the minister was laughing in a relaxed manner that suggested he was totally at ease with any image he might project.

  The bespectacled bachelor minister had been in Parlor City for only a year. A brilliant theology student, Alex Carmichael had a self-deprecating wit that endeared him to his parishioners almost immediately upon his arrival in town. With the retirement of the exceedingly pious Nigel Smythe, Carmichael was a refreshing change and the pews filled up quickly on Sunday morning.

  Carmichael was large and fleshy with a perpetual rosy complexion that a few cynics loyal to the memory of Rev. Smythe suggested might be due to an overly frequent sampling of the communion wine, ignoring the fact that Carmichael had switched the sacred beverage to grape juice shortly after his arrival. Only 32, he had thinning black hair that was combed up and back almost haphazardly.

  What was most striking about the minister was his inviting gaze. Whenever anyone approached him, they were immediately put at ease as he leaned in with a benevolent, playful smile and pushed up the black-framed glasses that were forever sliding down his nose. Some thought that his manner was contrived but most believed it was genuine interest in mankind, natural to a man of the cloth.

  When Carmichael first saw Gwen Braun sitting in church with Woody, he made a mental note to see if she eventually attended with her husband. Before long, he heard the whole story about the mysterious disappearance of Tommy Braun. After what he considered a suitable time, Carmichael succumbed to the human frailty of using subterfuge to see Gwen in private, asking her on the way out of church one Sunday if he might stop by to discuss a church project. When Gwen graciously declined to head up a special youth program at the church, Carmichael understood but had achieved his objective and yet prayed for forgiveness that night for his sly deception. It was not long afterwards that Meacham saw them together at the “Pig & Whistle”.

  Carmichael must have said something to Gwen which caused her to turn around and look back at Meacham with a smile and a wave. Suddenly, Meacham felt awkward and embarrassed as he juxtaposed the images of Gwen and Big Red, wishing there was a back exit. Thirty minutes later, as he departed with Big Red, he tried without success to shield her from Gwen’s view. Just as they passed their booth, Meacham heard a loud voice behind him proclaim “now that’s a classy chassis!”

  Meacham hurried to the door and didn’t look back. If he had, he would have seen the frown on Big Red’s face as she tried to keep up with him.

  ***

  “It’s still too early,” whispered Jerry as they sat on the floor propped against the couch watching Ozzie & Harriett. “Let’s catch Dragnet before leaving. Maybe we’ll pick us some tips.” Woody was more than anxious to get to the park and couldn’t stop fidgeting. He was also wondering about Jerry’s plan but knew that nothing would be revealed until they got outside, beyond earshot of Mrs. Kosinsky.

  Just then, Jerry’s 8-year old sister Priscilla walked in and stood in front of them with hands on hips, blocking the television and glaring mischievously. “ Space Patrol is on now and I want to watch it” she declared.

  “Move it, Miss Prissy” said Jerry, getting up to nudge her out of the way. She darted off before he could grab her, screeching “He called me Prissy again, Mother.”

  Jerry made a motion like he was strangling an imaginary person and said, “That’s it, Woody. No Dragnet tonight. The co-enforcers will appear shortly. Let’s see how long it takes.”

  Almost immediately, Mrs. Kosinsky marched in with a smirking Priscilla trailing behind. Both of them had their hands on their hips as they stared down at the boys sprawled on the floor. Priscilla knew it irritated her big brothe
r so she shook her head violently to make her long ponytail whip back and forth.

  Without saying a word, Mrs. Kosinky turned and flipped the channel. The image of Cadet Happy appeared on the screen. The boys stood up in mock attention and saluted, fighting to suppress their widening grins.

  “You will apologize to your sister, Gerard, or Woody will be going home and you will spend the rest of the evening in your room” barked Mrs. Kosinsky, hands back on her hips.

  Normally, Jerry would take his punishment on principle and not surrender to the twin harpies but the boys had a mission to complete so he swallowed hard and said with an artificially soft voice “I’m sorry, dearest sister.”

  By then, Priscilla was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television. She seemed to be mesmerized by Cadet Happy but was still intent on exacting her full revenge. Without turning around, she said “Mother, he must apologize to Priscilla or it doesn’t count.” Mrs. Kosinsky turned back to Jerry and raised her eyebrows. Jerry hesitated and then forced out the apology, lingering over each syllable of his sister’s name.

  Jerry now asked his Mother if they could go out for a while to catch night crawlers. He told her they were going fishing the next day so it was a logical request – begrudgingly granted. “Nice recovery, Jer”, Woody said as they headed to the garage.

  “ Not sure about that, Woody, but at least we have tamed the harridans for now. They’re probably watching so we need to take a shovel and pail with us. We can leave them at the corner and pick them up on the way home,” explained Jerry. “And don’t worry, my Mom and Miss Prissy keep a sharp eye on everything but will never ask to see a bucket of worms.” At the end of driveway, Woody started to ask about the “hairy dans” that Jerry had mentioned but was interrupted by the shrill voice of Priscilla saying “I’m telling you, Mother, those boys are up to something.”

  When they reached the park, the only illumination came from the dim street light at the entrance but Woody and Jerry could see the horse chestnut tree swaying gently in the back. “Just walk casual,” said Jerry. “We don’t want to draw attention.” Woody detected some concern in Jerry’s voice as they both scanned the empty park. “Wow, he is human after all!” Woody said to himself.

  As the boys approached the tree, they were enveloped in almost total darkness. “It’s hard to see anything, Jer, but the hole is on the other side of the tree.” Woody couldn’t see Jerry smile as he pulled a miniature flashlight from his back pocket and shined it right into Woody’s face, startling him. “Comes in handy for secret missions like this, pal,” Jerry said.

  Jerry aimed the flashlight at the crevice in the tree and Woody’s mouth dropped open as his legs went suddenly wobbly. The hole was gaping as if in mimicry of the look on Woody’s face. The leaves and brush that Woody had stuffed in the tree that afternoon were scattered on the ground. “Go ahead, reach in there Woody,” said Jerry sarcastically. “This is your gun and your tree, remember?” Woody cautiously poked his hand in the hole, moving it around to every corner, confirming what he dreaded. The gun was missing!

  Jerry moved closer and put the flashlight right at the edge of the hole and moved it in a circular fashion. He then panned the area around the tree with a scowl on his face. Woody knew what Jerry was thinking – another hair-brained scheme concocted out of thin air. Woody’s way of getting attention.

  “Nice job, Woodrow,” said Jerry, trying to provoke his best friend. But Woody was so flustered and embarrassed that he didn’t take the bait. He was in no mood for a fight. Before Woody could plead his case, Jerry threw up his hands like he was signaling a touchdown, the flashlight beaming into the sky. He then brought his hands down slowly and focused the beam on a spot about fifteen feet from the tree, motioning with his other hand for Woody to go there.

  What the flashlight fixed on was a crumpled paper bag. Woody gasped and ran to pick it up. Could it be the bag that had held the gun and bullets? Woody unfolded it carefully and noticed the hole where the barrel of the gun had peaked out at him that afternoon. He was both exasperated and excited. Jerry would have to believe him now. He opened the bag, hoping that the gun would somehow magically reappear.

  It was when his fingers reached the bottom of the bag that Woody felt a sudden chill. Whoever took the gun had been careless – leaving behind a little souvenir. Woody started to enjoy the moment as he smiled back at his best friend. Jerry was caught off guard to see Woody so calm – almost blissful. What could be so pleasant about losing such a deadly treasure, if it ever existed in the first place?

  Woody slowly pulled his hand from the bag, then suddenly stopped at the edge, as Jerry followed his movements with the flashlight. “C’mon, Woody. What’s going on here? “Jerry almost cried. Woody removed his fist from the top of the bag in slow motion and then gradually opened it to reveal in the glow of the flashlight - a single shiny bullet.

  “Holy Moly, Woody,” cried Jerry. “Not only did you find a gun but do you realize that you were probably being watched the whole time when you hid it in the tree? We won’t need a very big hiding place for this prize but let’s get out of here. Either someone took the gun or this place is spooked.”

  “Yeah, I’ll just take it home and put it in an old shoebox for now,” said Woody, somewhat relieved, “but I can’t believe anyone saw me today. There was only that woman with her daughter in the park, honest, and she didn’t even look my way. Now I’m getting spooked, too”

  “Well, it still qualifies as an adventure” Jerry said reassuringly, patting his friend on the back as they hurried from the park. “Sorry if I didn’t believe you from the start but now the best thing is to keep quiet about the whole incident – and stay away from the park for a while in case someone did recognize you. Makes you kinda wonder who does have that gun now, doesn’t it?” Woody was thinking about the same thing and silently vowed to avoid the park for the rest of the Summer.

  ***

  Someone else was even more curious about who possessed a certain missing gun. After leaving the “Pig & Whistle” and dropping off Big Red, Det. Meacham took the short ride to the park and sat in his sports car, thinking about his afternoon visit to Crazy Hill and feeling that his career on the police force, as well as his personal life, was at a critical juncture.

  Big Red had made it easy for him, perhaps too easy. But on the ride home, she wasn’t her talkative self and stalked into the house without a word when he dropped her off.

  And at the station, he sensed that the older detectives wanted him to fail, calling him “Cub” Meacham behind his back but sometimes just loud enough for him to hear. Hey, he had been through training at the police academy, came off the Civil Service eligible list and was a pistol team member. Why did they want to ride him? Just because he was the son of the famous Capt. Meacham?

  After examining DePue’s body, there seemed little doubt that the poor guy had drunk himself into a stupor then choked to death. How he got the booze didn’t seem that important. As for the missing gun, he was anxious to get the results of the fingerprint analysis on the cabinet in Hawkins’ office but what really intrigued him was the irregularities on the area of the rug nearby. And he had confirmed that Mike DeLong, his old friend and now a guard at the Institute, was in Hawkins office that day and was still missing.

  He already knew that whatever course of action he decided to take could turn out bad for Mike and possibly for him as well. Meacham had nothing to hide in his private life but Hawkins certainly wanted him to know that he had been checked out. And why did Hawkins invoke the name of his father in that way? As far as he knew, no one had ever called Capt. Billy Meacham “circumspect” in his life. He would have to find a dictionary to confirm what it meant but Meacham didn’t like the sound of the word, especially coming from Hawkins.

  Capt. Meacham had enjoyed wide acclaim in Parlor City where he started out as a patrolman and quickly moved up the ranks. When local boy, Wilson Traber, made it to the governor’s mansion, Meacham received an appointm
ent to the state police and was soon heading up Traber’s security detail. When the governor lost his re-election bid after a few sexual peccadilloes became public, Capt. Meacham returned to Parlor City and rejoined the police force, where he was treated with respect bordering on awe. The father never talked much to his son about the years working for Traber but there had been whispers that, starting early in his first term, the governor’s shenanigans had been covered up by those close to him. It all made Billy wonder years later how his father paid for a sports car as a graduation present when he came out of the police academy. Now, Hawkins' comment had re-opened an old wound.

  And what to make of the stunner with the long blonde hair guarding the entrance to Hawkins’ office? She was haughty but a looker like her could get away with it. She could certainly give Big Red a run for her money. Meacham was tempted to ask her out just to get under Hawkins’ skin and see how he liked that for “fetching”. She had seen Mike DeLong go into Hawkins’ office but had never noticed him come out, having conveniently left to run errands for her boss. It struck Meacham that she had been as prepared in her little speech as had Hawkins – almost as if they had rehearsed together. But why?