The Parlor City Boys

by Arno B. Zimmer

  “Hold on, Woody. I’m sorry if you don’t like my vocabulary but this involves both of us. If Meacham learns I was with you last night at the park – and he probably will – my ass will be grass as well. Before you high tail it home, we need to get our stories straight. And as far as Rudy goes, you and I might as well be twin brothers. You know he hates us both and vowed revenge” Jerry finished, almost pleadingly. “Maybe I’m just a simple kid, Jer, but the truth works for me. And besides, I’m not too convincing when there are too many lies to remember,” said Woody.

  “Yeah, well Rudy Gantz changes things, my friend, and if he thinks there’s even a chance that you ID’ d him at Lattimore’s, he’s going to take action against both of us. As my Uncle Harold says, ‘consequences are pitiless’ and that is a quote from one of his favorite writers, George Eliot. I’m pretty sure it means that you have to take responsibility when what you do affects other people.” Jerry was lecturing again and Woody couldn’t take it.

  “I’m tired of hearing what your Uncle Harold has to say about everything. If he’s so great, why doesn’t he come around to see you? And who gives a shit about what some guy named George has to say in some book? Hey, maybe your Uncle would like to quote something clever to Rudy Gantz,” Woody said mockingly as he stood up.

  “George is a girl”, Jerry said calmly. It’s a nom de plume, something writer’s use when they don’t want to be known by their real name. Never mind, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Well, then you are a pitiful faggot and so is your Uncle for reading such crap,” Woody continued in his most sarcastic tone. “The word is pitiless – not pitiful – and she happens to be a great novelist, not that you would ever care, Woody.” Jerry countered, inching closer to Woody and his face flush with anger. “One warning only,” Jerry continued, “if you ever talk about my Uncle like that again, you can find another best friend – and that’s after I break you into little pieces. Now, I suggest that you say nothing to Meacham about our visit to the park or about Rudy Gantz until we figure our stories out. We don’t even know if there is any connection between the two guns. I just said it was possible. Now, I’m going in the house for breakfast.”

  Woody watched while Jerry lumbered away and suddenly felt very weak and very alone. As he trudged down the driveway, he heard Mrs. Kosinsky’s voice from the open kitchen window announcing that she would invite him in for breakfast except that his mother had just called looking for him and he was to get home pronto.

  As Woody dragged himself home, he knew he would go along with Jerry, at least for now. Not that it was right but because friends stuck together no matter the consequences. Maybe Jerry liked things complicated but to Woody being best friends was a simple, immutable fact.

  ***

  Before leaving Lattimore’s, Meacham called Gwen Braun only to learn that Woody had not come home. He briefly described the robbery, making it sound like Woody had been in no danger. He decided not to mention that Woody had confronted one of the robbers, promising to stop by later.

  Something had been gnawing at Meacham after the meeting with Hawkins and Santimaw. Checking some of his sources, he was able to confirm that Oscar Peterson and a few other orderlies at the Institute supplied booze to the patients who could afford their handling “fees”. Peterson’s record was otherwise clean and he was strictly small time.

  Peterson lived in a trailer park just past The Projects on the edge of town. After the Army, he returned to Parlor City and claimed the trailer left by his Mother when she died. Not much of a legacy, thought Meacham. A torn canopy propped on wobbly aluminum poles provided an entrance up the dirt path to the trailer. Behind the park loomed the stone trestle carrying freight trains over the Muskrat River at all hours of the day and night. It was not a tranquil setting.

  After knocking on the dented aluminum door, Meacham saw the curtain move on one of the windows. Instinct and experience made him more acutely aware of his surroundings as Meacham remembered that he was not on friendly turf.

  On the second knock, Meacham yelled out his name and Peterson opened the door with a broad smile patched on his face, as if he was pleased to see an old friend. “Why officer, what brings you out to my neighborhood this morning. Just about to leave for work but please do step in, Sir” Peterson said in his most obsequious manner. He looked around furtively to see if any of his neighbors were within earshot. It didn’t pay to be known as a “handkerchief-head” in your own backyard.

  Meacham wasted no time with small talk and hoped to catch Peterson off guard when he asked, “So, how long were you supplying DePue with liquor, my friend?” Peterson was un-nerved and started to fumble with his words when Meacham quickly cut in but with a more relaxed and accommodating tone. “Listen, Oscar, I don’t like what you do on the side to make a few extra bucks off other people’s misery but we can overlook your little business venture if I get some useful information. Is that clear?”

  Peterson looked down with contrived meekness and nodded. Meacham continued, “Okay, so you find an almost empty quart bottle of rye tucked under DePue when you roll him over. How long have you been his supplier and how much were you paid? Who are your other customers? C’mon, show me you are an honest, cooperative man, Oscar.”

  Peterson was, in fact, a simple, god-fearing man who had convinced himself that his misdemeanors would be overlooked on judgment day. But now a man was dead – a decent man – and Peterson started to fear the wrath of the almighty as much as he did Hawkins, Burt Grimsley and now Meacham. The Sunday sermons haranguing against sinners came back to him now and he remembered fidgeting in the pew even before DePue’s untimely death. He heard that the worst kinds of sinners ended up in a place called “West Hell” which apparently made regular Hell almost appealing. Peterson would cooperate with the Man if that’s what it took to stay out of that ultimate place of eternal torment.

  “When I rolled him over, I knowed something weren’t right, Officer. That bottle was staring at me like it were alive. It just weren’t right, yes sir …….” Peterson stopped cold, continuing to stare at the floor.

  “What wasn’t right, Oscar? I need details – it could be important”, said Meacham coaxingly. Peterson said calmly, “Well, it’s simple, DePue don’t like rye – his drink is scotch. In fact, one day I brought him rye by mistake and he made me take it back. Told me he weren’t that desperate. Plus, I only run pint bottles – easier to hide, you know? Believe me, I got no idea how he ended up with that scrap iron but it scared the bee-jesus outta me right quick, yes sir.”

  Meacham sat back as he absorbed this revelation, realizing that everything was changed now – dramatically so. What had seemed like two coincidental events – the missing gun and DePue’s death – might now be intertwined with Mike DeLong the common link.

  Meacham warned Peterson to say nothing of their chat and reminded him that life would get very difficult for him if he did. Peterson needed no warning to stay mute as his greatest fear at the moment was suddenly temporal – not celestial.

  “Anything you left out, Oscar?” asked Meacham. Peterson hesitated for a moment but said nothing. He knew Meacham could make life miserable for him but he wavered in his resolve and simply shook his head and whispered “no”.

  Before leaving, Meacham learned that there were three liquor stores near the Institute but Peterson confided that he didn’t frequent any of them, preferring a private source for his transactions. Meacham didn’t press the issue. He would be stopping by each one of the stores anyway and felt confident that he would be chatting with Peterson again, sensing that his new confidante had not yet revealed everything he knew.

  ***

  Gwen Braun was sitting at the kitchen table when Woody walked in. She had that gentle smile on her face which was deceptively friendly because what it really meant was that she intended to get a complete explanation of that morning’s events at Lattimore’s one way or another.

  She almost got the complete story when she finally said: “I know you
wanted to share this adventure with Jerry but you should have waited for Det. Meacham and then you certainly should have come straight home, young man. I know you collect today and your customers expect to see you but that is the only reason I am letting you go out. Until then, you stay in your room.

  By the way, she added, “ Coach Meacham said he’ll stop by before your baseball game tonight. He offered to give you a ride but I informed him that you might not be playing tonight anyway. I need to give it some thought. It might teach you a lesson to miss the big game. But now, I need to get to the hospital. I’m already late.”

  Woody’s heart sank. He didn’t mind being grounded for the day but it never dawned on him that he might miss the game just for leaving Lattimore’s. And to think that Tony Banciewicz could start in his place was unthinkable. Maybe Jerry was right. Things got complicated because of what we do and say – and not entirely by accident. Isn’t that what he meant? Good ole Jer. What a stupid fight.

  By 3:00, Det. Meacham had not returned to the Braun’s so Woody called his Mother and asked permission to collect for his paper route. “Granted. Then straight home, is that clear?, she said. “And don’t be surprised if Det. Meacham shows up on your paper route. If he does, tell him you have permission to play tonight. I think he was as upset as you when I told him you might be grounded through the weekend.”

  Woody was meticulous about keeping records of his customers and rarely made a mistake on collection day. Old Mrs. Bellows over on Fairview actually overpaid him one week and when he pointed it out to her, she promptly told him to the keep the extra money and gave him a dollar tip on top of it. “Lesson learned, young man”, she said to Woody as he headed down the steps grinning broadly.

  The collection book listed each of Woody’s customers by address with a thin tear away tab receipt for each week, one page per customer. It was really simple. Once the customer paid him, Woody tore off that week’s receipt. Most customers had an envelope waiting for Woody and he seldom looked inside until he got home. He was rarely short-changed and he liked the excitement of opening all the envelopes at home to find out what his take in tips would be.

  Woody knew down to the penny how much his Route Supervisor required each week and he never was short. If a customer didn’t pay on Thursday, Rudy knew that the shortage would come out of his tips, at least temporarily.

  It was funny. Old Mrs. Bellows asked for nothing special – just throw the paper near the door – but always gave him a tip. Then there was Nigel Farnsworth who gave him nothing except at Christmas but demanded that the paper be wrapped in plastic on rainy days.

  As he came off a porch on Fairview with his head down, checking his collection book for the next stop, Woody didn’t notice the car at the curb or the person leaning against a nearby tree – until he heard the old familiar voice.

  “Well, Woodrow Braun it is, still earning chump change on his paper route. What’s your take going to be this week - $5, maybe $6 max?” Without looking up, Woody recognized the voice and instantly felt sick to his stomach. It had been two years since their last confrontation but there was no mistaking the derisive sound of Rudy Gantz.

  “Listen, kid, I just wanted to remind you that I have a great memory and don’t ever forget an insult. Never. Maybe you thought you were clever back then but no one embarrasses Rudy Gantz and gets away with it. Oh, and my friends, too. They’re from The Projects and let me tell you that over there they don’t like anyone with a name like Woodrow. When I am insulted, they take it personally” Rudy said, gesturing back to his car and motioning with his fingers. Woody glanced over at the Ford coupe but all he could see was two shadows in the back seat. Slowly, two large figures emerged from the car and walked rhythmically in lock-step until they stood stoically behind Rudy.

  “Let’s see what he looks like upside down, boys”, directed Rudy and without hesitation the two mute figures flipped Woody like a pinwheel and watched as coins cascaded to the ground, some landing in the grass but most of them clanking on to the pavement. With another direction from Rudy, Woody was flipped again and stood erect facing his nemeses.

  “Not a bad guess about the chump change,” Gantz laughed, glancing at the coins strewn on the ground. “I am in a generous mood today so you can keep it. But I am watching you and your oversized pal. I haven’t forgotten what he did either. It would be a shame to see something happen to either one of you. Things are different now. I’m not 14-years old and we’re not talking about just bloody noses. Got it?” Gantz finished by slowly raising two fingers to his puckered lips and shaking his head side to side, pantomiming what had happened with the gun outside Lattimore’s that morning.

  Woody nodded weakly and Gantz smirked. They both knew the score. As Woody bent over to gather up his money, he heard Gantz’ mocking voice once more. “Hey, get a hit tonight for your old pal Rudy. I would consider it tribute to make up for your past sins. Oh, and get rid of that Davy Crockett tee shirt, chump.” As Rudy drove away, Woody said “Kiss my ass” under his breath but it didn’t make him feel any better.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wendell Santimaw was pacing inside Hawkins office, waiting for his boss to return from a meeting with Reginald Carver. How could Hawkins be so calm, he wondered? Meacham was no patsy and he wouldn’t be tamed for long. Just like his old man, not afraid to buck the system when he sensed that something was wrong. What bad luck that both of Meacham’s superiors were out of commission and “wonder boy” was on the case.

  Santimaw has his suspicions about what happened to Hawkins’ pistol and the disappearance of Delong but he wanted to hear what “Slick Freddie” had to say before he played any of his own cards. Leonard might seem like a dunce stationed at the front door but he did see things and was still loyal to his boss, despite the intimidating methods of Hawkins. And then, there was DePue’s death which, quite by accident, had given him his “ace in the hole”.

  Santimaw was ready to retire – this time for good – and Hawkins could make it happen. His wife was already looking at brochures for a new development in Cocoa Beach, Florida – far from the dreariness of Parlor City.

  Santimaw was mopping his forehead when Hawkins glided in looking like he had just walked out of the Spiegel catalog. “You’re starting to worry me, Wendell. Just look at you. One would think that you were the one who ransacked my cabinet,” said Hawkins archly. “Our Det. Meacham would break you in a minute if you were a suspect.”

  Santimaw forced a weak smile and stuffed the hanky in his back pocket. Suddenly, Florida seemed a million miles away. “Listen, Sir, Meacham is dogged as hell and you guessed wrong if you think he will let us walk all over him. Believe me, he’s biding his time because of his Chief and the Mayor but sooner or later he’ll find out that Mike DeLong is a false lead. We both know that DeLong didn’t do it and he will most likely cooperate when he turns up. Meacham and DeLong go back all the way to high school, good friends in fact, long before his drinking got him tossed from the police force.” Santimaw would have gone on but he was out of breath and already regretting that he had said so much.

  “Now listen, Wendell. I really don’t care if Meacham suspects DeLong, which is highly unlikely. I wouldn’t even care if he thought you purloined the pistol. Quite frankly, I hope he does quiz DeLong and ask him to explain why he was hanging around my office right before DePue died and why he suddenly took off work without permission. He’s a notorious binge drinker, did at least two stints in our detox ward and is known to black out and then to disappear for long periods of time. For all I know, DePue and him were secret drinking pals. I would have had you fire him long ago if it didn’t suit my purposes to keep him on. Besides, he’s part of the family here at the Institute and it was incumbent upon us to give him a second chance, if you will.”

  Santimaw was confounded and he felt like he was shrinking. This guy was unflappable, he thought, maybe even dangerous in a criminal way. Could he have been somehow involved in DePue’s drunken demise? But why? What could a sad
case like Randall DePue have on a powerful man like Frederick Hawkins? Other than the obvious indiscretion sitting right outside his door, Santimaw knew of nothing that could be used to impugn Hawkins’ reputation. Sure, DePue was wealthy and had local pedigree but his star had faded long ago. And what was the purpose in keeping DeLong around? As an experiment? When he tried to fire DeLong three months earlier after one of his prolonged binges, Hawkins had intervened and put a stop to it, saying he was treating him personally and the Institute had to show compassion for its own. What bullshit, Santimaw thought, coming from Hawkins, and here he was spouting it again with a straight face.

  “Listen carefully, Wendell, and stop trying to figure things out that are way above your pay grade,” said Hawkins, bringing Santimaw out of his reverie. “You will call Meacham and report that DeLong did not show up for his next security detail and remind him that he had been seen by Miss Deschambault going into my office the afternoon that DePue died and the gun was discovered missing. You will not sound anxious or eager but provide this information in a calm, professional manner. Don’t forget to ask him about the fingerprints taken from my cabinet where the pistol was purloined and let me know right away what the analysis reveals. You will invite Meacham back and you will be cooperative and deferential. But you will not resort to wallowing degradation. That particular talent of yours will be reserved for your dealings with me.”