“ Well, then, this makes it all official if I may be so bold as to use that word to describe our little enterprise. My share has been deposited elsewhere, per our arrangements. I will be leaving this illustrious town in a few days, never to return. Finalize your plans, yet? Traveling alone, Freddie?” Carver asked with a bemused look on his face.
Hawkins kept his disdain in check and said nothing as he walked to the window. Carver was clever and ruthless behind the sarcastic façade. Hawkins actually admired that he had done what he was hired to do – drain the assets from a cash rich organization – and do it quickly and stealthily.
Well, Carver would disappear into the night as he had no doubt done before and if and when people went looking for him, they would discover that Reginald Carver didn’t even exist. Hawkins understood it would be unwise to even ask him if his name really was Ripley Maxwell.
As Hawkins gazed out the window, Carver came up next to him. Without turning his face, Hawkins knew the grin was gone when Carver said coldly “We live in a brutal, unforgiving world, Freddie. You think of yourself as above all of it but, you see, I have embraced it willingly and I make no pretensions about it. And when something or someone stands in my way, I simply remove the obstacle.” He felt Carver’s hand on his shoulder and now his voice was almost friendly and matter of fact when he said, “Oh, your new identity documents are in the valise as well. I think you will like your new name – it has class.”
Hawkins stood immobilized as Carver finished and was gone. He didn’t move until he heard the door close behind him. Carver’s veiled warning evoked the image of Randall DePue and caused him to shudder.
***
Fighting off the shakes after spending a fretful night in the bushes, DeLong crept onto the grounds of the Institute as the sun rose over Crazy Hill. He knew the risky patients would still be in lock-down, many of them incapacitated by medications beyond the dosage needed to achieve docility. He thought bitterly about his own history of self-medication and wondered how he had ever had the gall to deride the patients he saw every day. This sense of humility combined with shame was a new emotion for DeLong and he took a grim liking to it.
DeLong could see dim lights in the halls of the residential wing where he knew that guards patrolled the hallways, some eager to quell the occasional disturbance with brute force. Santimaw had recruited a dispassionate, surly bunch to his team.
As he rounded the corner of the administrative wing, DeLong could see lights on in Hawkins’ office. The high windows were just above eye level, giving him the opportunity to come in close without being seen by someone looking out. He heard what sounded like voices as he came up under the window ledge and slowly raised himself up, almost upright, from a crouched position. Peaking just above the ledge, he caught the face of Frederick Hawkins looking out into the expansive Institute grounds with pursed lips and a scowl on his face. Then, the face of Reginald Carver appeared, jawing menacingly into the side of Hawkins’ head.
Immobilized by fear, it took DeLong a minute to realize that Hawkins was looking right past him and apparently had no clue that he was just a few feet below. DeLong could hear nothing distinct through the thick glass but the mime act clearly revealed that Carver was dominant and that Hawkins was chafing in submission. DeLong marveled at the scene and wished he could hear what appeared to be a tongue-lashing being delivered to the imperious Administrator.
Hawkins continued staring out the window and DeLong heard the faint sound of a closing door. He impulsively sprinted around to the front of the building, hugging the wall all the way and then quickly secreting himself in the shadows next to the long stone entrance, waiting to see if anyone would come out.
After a few minutes, the heavy door swung open and DeLong watched as Carver came down the steps. He heard the click of the lock and knew that a guard was on duty just inside the door, dashing even the remote chance that he could get inside.
Without looking either way, Carver walked briskly toward the parking lot. DeLong froze. With no car, he couldn’t follow Carver and what good would it do to confront him anyway? He knew what he really wanted – a showdown with Hawkins – and for that he would have to be patient until the Administrator came out.
Shivering in the shadows despite the rising temperature, DeLong found himself praying for help as he squinted into the bright, eastern sky. His quasi-religious moment was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening again. DeLong’s heart began to race but sunk just as quickly when he saw that it wasn’t Hawkins coming out but his assistant, Miss Deschambault.
She paused at the top of the steps and looked intently out toward the parking lot. DeLong heard the roar of the car before he saw it. Deschambault, as if on cue, descended the stairs as if she were a model on a runway.
The car pulled up to the entrance and the passenger door was flung open from the inside. Leaning over from the driver’s seat was a silhouetted figure. DeLong could see them lock in a tight embrace as their lips met. Within seconds, the door was closed and the car disappeared down the long drive.
DeLong fell back into a sitting position and tried to absorb all that he had witnessed in the last ten minutes. Hawkins is humbled by his subordinate and then his secretary is locking lips with another man. Rumors about Hawkins and Deschambault were all over the Institute. Santimaw had hinted more than once that she was Hawkins’ girl. But then, who was the other guy? Could it possibly be Carver?
It didn’t add up and suddenly DeLong knew that Hawkins could wait. He had to get to Meacham to tell him what he had just witnessed.
***
After finishing his deliveries, Woody lingered at Lattimore’s and finally asked the baker for a bag of donuts for a poor family on his route. “Sure, kid, help yourself to an assortment. Take a few drinks as well” said Lattimore magnanimously.
Woody headed to the creek and stood on the opposite side from the hobo’s makeshift home. He didn’t hear a sound or see any movement so put the bag down and yelled “Hey, there!” A hairy figure crawled to the mouth of the cave-like dwelling and Woody could see the hobo start to stand up. Terrified, he yelled “Food!” , pointed to the bag of donuts and sprinted away.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Kosinsky waived Woody into the house with a stern look on her face. “Gerard’s up in his room, young man”, she said peremptorily before turning away. Woody felt a little unsteady but steeled himself and headed slowly up the stairs, convinced that Jerry’s mother somehow held him responsible for whatever trouble the boys might be in.
Jerry didn’t answer the first knock so Woody pounded the door a little harder then put his face close to it and said, “Hey, it’s me.” Woody heard a faint “come in” and slowly opened the door.
Sprawled on the bed was Jerry reading a “Superman” comic book. Woody stood in the doorway dumbstruck. Jerry didn’t even like comics. What was going on?
Jerry sat up and casually said, “Woody, have you read this one yet? Superman confronts the outlaws from Krypton. Not bad at all. Wanna borrow it when I’m finished?”
Woody was speechless as he edged toward the end of Jerry’s bed. He sat on the end staring at his friend and finally said, “Jer, we need to talk and you need to tell me what the hell is going on, OK? No big words, no bullshit. Either we are best friends or we’re not.”
Jerry threw the comic book aside and studied his feet for several minutes. His lips were quivering as he started to speak. “I am a fraud, Woody, it’s as simple as that. Everything you think you know about me is phony. More than anyone, I am embarrassed to tell you that Gerard Kosinsky is a jerk.” Jerry took a deep breath and went on, “First, my Uncle Harold in Chicago is a foreman or something at a meat packing plant. Think I saw him once at a family reunion up on the farm. We don’t exchange letters – heck, I don’t even know if he can read and write. How’s that for starters?”
“But then – “ Woody began but Jerry jumped in quickly, determined to continue. “So this is the hardest part. Tee Shirt Smith is
actually Uncle Harold.”
Woody’s jaw dropped and Jerry went on, “What I mean Woody is that Miss Smith has been my mentor all along and I just pretended that Uncle Harold was a professor to build myself and my family up. It was kind of fun at the start but then I felt really bad, like I said a phony, don’t you see? Pretending to idolize an uncle that hardly knows I even exist and then hiding behind the librarian. Well, I’ve probably ruined our friendship forever but it feels good to get the truth out. Believe me, I have wanted to tell you for quite a while but felt so trapped. One good thing, though, I can read comic books out in the open whenever I want now. Look, I love books and the library is like a sanctuary to me – you know, another home – but there’s no need to be a phony about that anymore.”
Woody got up and, walking over to his friend, calmly said, “We’ll always be friends, Jer. You just proved it.” Jerry stood and the two 12-year olds gave each other an awkward hug then quickly pulled away. They beamed at each other and that was it.
Jerry broke the ice by pointing to the corner where the remnants of the “Z” tee shirt lay shredded. “Yeah, I ripped it to pieces last night, Woody” Jerry said beaming. The boys looked at each other and burst out laughing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chick Lester, his hair now wild and shooting like thunderbolts in every direction, sang like the proverbial canary when they got him quieted down at the hospital. He had a severely strained back and a mild concussion but the pain killers gave him the courage he would be sorely lacking when he would need it later. Lester spared no detail in describing Elsie’s role, even adding some salacious tidbits about their relationship which he mistakenly thought would ingratiate him with the police.
The Clintocks were initially stoic, loyal to the code of silence they presumed was honored by their leader. However, when details were shared with them by the police that could only have come from Rudy, the normally reticent twins methodically, and without emotion, laid out chronologies of the Lattimore robbery and the Brattigan break-in that would eventually put the nascent juvenile gang out of commission before they moved on to headier crimes. Never again were the Clintocks so voluble but they seized the moment to pay back their feckless chief.
Rudy started with false bravado but turned out to be a weeping embarrassment – even to the police. After some initial tough guy posing, he cracked wide open and implicated everyone else – positioning himself as merely the getaway driver duped by the others. Caught up in his own web of lies, contending that he was somehow intimidated by the Clintocks, he futilely tried to explain how he brandished the pistol at Lattimore’s and knew details of the ransacking at the Brattigan house.
When Meacham arrived back at the station, they were just bringing the wobbly-legged Elsie Lomborg in for questioning. Her tear-stained, blotchy face was swollen and distorted from bouts of hysterical crying and she seemed to be on the verge of bursting forth again. Sgt. Whipple briefed Meacham on all of the interrogations and showed him the gun retrieved from Brattigan’s car. It matched the description provided by Hawkins of the revolver missing from his office. Neither one doubted that tests would reveal it was also the weapon used in the Lattimore robbery. When Whipple told him that Rudy was bawling uncontrollably and begging for permission to call his Mother, Meacham chuckled to himself as he recollected his recent conversation with Mrs. Gantz. Rudy would have a long wait.
***
As Meacham drove up to the Institute to confront Hawkins, he was troubled by his inability to piece together a series of events that appeared to be connected but refused to be linked. At least the Lattimore robbery and the Brattigan break-in were now clear-cut cases as was the comical caper at the cigar factory. Punks, indeed, as Earl Lattimore had said.
But the entire episode with DeLong – the birthday booze, passed out in the park with the allegedly stolen gun next to him in a paper bag – seemed to make no sense. And DePue, guzzling booze he detested to the point of drowning in it. Improbable events occurring the same afternoon at an Institute which bragged about its tight controls, were all making Meacham conspiratorial. It suddenly dawned on him that perhaps he had been intentionally miss-directed from the very beginning. But why?
Climbing the final stretch of hill to the Institute, Meacham was distracted from his thoughts when he saw someone hurrying down the road and realized it was Mike DeLong, wild-eyed and frantic. Oh shit, thought Meacham, he’s drunk again and did something stupid at the Institute.
As he got into the car, DeLong read Meacham’s mind and said, “No, Meach, haven’t touched a drop since you left me. I made my way up to the Institute to confront Hawkins after Santimaw spooked me by coming to your apartment.” DeLong then related what he had just seen outside Hawkins’ window and then added, almost gleefully, “Something tells me that Deschambault got into Carver’s car but I can’t prove it. If so, maybe she was two-timing Hawkins or leading him on from the start.”
Meacham filled him in on the events of the day and DeLong breathed easier. Like Meacham, he too had little sympathy for the sorry end to Wendell Santimaw’s life. “You’ve got some more hurdles to jump, Mike, but as for your involvement with the gun taken from Hawkins office, my guess is that you will be quickly exonerated. Well, you wanted to see Hawkins, not you’ll get your chance”.
***
Hawkins was pacing back and forth in his office; every confrontation with Carver gave him a sense of foreboding and today was not any different. Everything was in order regarding the money and the new identity but he still felt unsettled. He had ceded to Dede’s wishes for a cruise but now wondered if a quick flight south was the more prudent course. When the intercom buzzed announcing Meacham, Hawkins felt a surge of anger. He didn’t like to be interrupted, especially in the middle of his own ruminations, but knew that it was important to maintain the façade a little while longer.
Walking out to meet Meacham, he was surprised to see that Dede was not at her desk. When he saw Mike DeLong trailing behind Meacham, Hawkins’ stomach tightened up but he was quick to show feigned indignation. “DeLong has been suspended and is not allowed on the grounds. Why did you bring him here without permission? Very disappointed in you, Detective”, Hawkins said sternly while glaring at DeLong.
Meacham knew he had taken a chance not leaving DeLong in the car but had decided that it was time to provoke Hawkins. If not revelatory, it would at least provide some gratification to be able to annoy this pompous ass. When DeLong lunged at Hawkins and yelled “Why?”, Meacham was ready and corralled his friend, as a perverse smile crept across the administrator’s face.
“Mike, say your piece then wait for me in the car”, Meacham said firmly. After breathing heavily for a minute, DeLong began calmly. “You used me, Hawkins. Leaving me alone in there with liquor, experimenting with me like an animal – and then, for whatever reason, setting me up for the theft of your gun. I’m gonna lick this goddam problem of mine but you will still be the lowest form of life around.” Delong then took a deep breath, patted Meacham on the back and slowly walked down the hall and out the door.
Meacham found himself smiling after DeLong’s speech which seemed to infuriate Hawkins. “Look here”, Hawkins barked but Meacham quickly cut him off. “Shut up and listen”, Meacham said, returning Hawkins’ glare. “Your slick style and connections have bought you a great deal of consideration downtown but that won’t carry you all the way through what I see now as a wide-ranging investigation. Tell me, why was your assistant – Dede I think you called her –buying bottles of cheap rye down at the liquor store on Hubbard just two days before DePue died? Oh, and we found a trail of scuff marks on the floor in your office leading from your desk to the cabinet where you insist your gun was locked up. Turns out the marks were polish from DeLong’s shoes. What did he do, drag himself across the floor in a drunken stupor, steal the gun and then miraculously deposit himself at the park down at the bottom of the hill?” Meacham paused to see Hawkins’ reaction.
Frederick Hawkins flin
ched and Meacham noticed it. He had neither the poise nor the callousness to the degree possessed by Carver but he did recover quickly enough to play his usual card. “Well now, Detective, you’ve laid out a fantastic tale that, of course, isn’t true and can’t be proven. But, let’s see what the Mayor thinks of your wild accusations. My guess is that once your bosses in the detective bureau return from medical leave, your next assignment will be supervising the school crossing guards. Now, I have duties to attend to unless you have anything more outrageous and slanderous to say.” Hawkins has regained his haughty pose and turned sharply back toward his office.
“Go ahead and make your phone call, Hawkins, but be prepared to come down to the station in the morning for some detailed questioning. Oh, I am sure you will want to tell me all about this old picture taken in Boston – very intriguing. It was a gift from Santimaw as he lay dead in his car”, Meacham said calmly as he rapidly waived the grainy photography back and forth. Hawkins stood frozen at his office door as Meacham nonchalantly walked away.
***
Hawkins was still seething as he searched the area near his office looking for Dede. He even peaked into the ladies room and yelled out her name. Returning to his office, he called her apartment but there was no answer. It was then that he decided to walk out to the front entrance and quiz the guard.
The Parlor City Boys Page 13
