Naturally my face lights up, and I’m all choked up so bad I can hardly mumble, “Thanks.”
So he peels a hundred-dollar bill off the top and hands it to me.
FAST FOOD
I’m sure the only reason I got the job was because I was such a good roller-skater. When I’d finally picked up my courage enough to go back into the Burgers Supreme kitchen to ask Vic Heimvich if I could work as a carhop, he looked at me standing there with my skates over my shoulder for what seemed like minutes. Just a glance from Vic was enough to scare anyone. He was well over six feet, weighed a lot more than two hundred pounds, kept his head shaved, had a horrible scar on his left cheek that pulled down his eye, and just generally seemed to be scowling all the time. Then he said, “Put ‘em on and do a couple of rounds.” He indicated the parking lot with the spatula he’d been using to turn the hamburgers on the griddle.
Looking back, I often wonder if I would have done as well on those in-line skates they have these days. My son Rick can do amazing and scary things on them, but I’m not sure they would have been suited for running trays of food out to cars.
Anyhow, that was it. Vic said, “Start Friday morning. Stella will break you in.” I was just a sophomore in high school then, but I had a whole summer ahead of me, and I was already trying to get enough money together for college. With five brothers and sisters, I knew my folks wouldn’t be able to afford it, and I was planning to go to Bowdoin. Back then, it wasn’t that usual for girls in our small Maine town to be thinking of college, but my heart was really set on it. So, I kind of stretched my age when I talked to Vic, and he didn’t seem to mind, especially since I didn’t look any younger than most of the girls there who were serving customers out on the lot.
As it turned out, I really enjoyed the job. But, though I never thought I’d get tired of skating, there were some late evenings—especially on weekends—when my leg muscles began to feel like they were bundles of knots. So it was nice once in a while to get a break in business where the carhops would sit and gab, with some of the older girls showing how mature they were by lighting up a Lucky.
During those lulls, Vic would sometimes come out and tell us stories about his family—he had nine kids—and how he’d gotten enough money together to open the drive-in. He was proudest of the fact that he had covered parking stalls, and that did make a big difference when one of those Maine thunderstorms moved in. But his famous hamburgers were what really drew the crowds.
After finding out what a nice guy Vic really was, I would look forward to those summer seasons when I could work full time instead of just on weekends. What was especially nice was that he always backed up his workers. As he said to us time after time, “Don’t take no guff off the customers. Be nice to them, but you aren’t here to be pushed around. And don’t let none of those jokers lay a hand on you. Any problems, come to me.” That wasn’t just smoke. He meant every word of it.
I can remember one more or less regular customer who was always coming on to me. I didn’t mind that so much. It was pretty easy to ignore. But one day, when I was standing next to his car taking his order, he reached out and pinched me on the breast. I backed off and went in to tell Vic.
“What’s he ordering?”
I thought that was a funny question to ask, but I answered, “A Giant Wimpy and a strawberry shake.”
“Accidentally dump it all on his lap.”
My eyes must have opened real wide, and Vic came close to a grin. “You heard me. That’s an order.”
So I went out with the tray holding the food, got up to the car and, as he reached out for it with a stupid look on his face, I made like I was going to hook it onto the door but instead emptied it all through the window. I can’t ever remember anyone looking so surprised. Of course I started to apologize, but his face got real red and, after fumbling around a bit, he managed to get the door open and started out after me, yelling “You dirty bitch. You can’t get away with this.”
I figured he could never catch me, so I rolled back and had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the sight of the strawberry shake all over his green pants. That’s when I heard Vic behind me. He was standing there with an enormous butcher knife in his hand saying to the guy in a real low voice, “I saw what happened. You’re the one who tipped the tray. And I don’t want anyone using language like that around my girls. Get out of here, and don’t let me see you back again.” He waved the knife for emphasis. The creep got back into the car a lot faster than he’d gotten out and laid a long streak of rubber behind him. We never saw him again.
Not that Vic wouldn’t take the customer’s side if he felt that was the right thing to do. When the Williamses moved into town, they were the only black family that had ever lived there—only we called them “coloreds” back then. They came into Burger Supreme soon after they moved in. Mr. Williams was driving, and he had Mrs. Williams and their two kids along, one a boy about six or seven, the other a girl who looked about my age. They parked in one of my stalls. But I’d hardly ever been around blacks before, and I wasn’t happy about having to serve them. When I went in to tell Vic that, he scowled at me. “They got money, they get served! Besides, look at their palms. Just as white as you and me. That’s what counts. Get out there, smile and make them want to come back here every day of the week.”
It seems funny now, looking back over all those years, that I could ever have felt that way. Malia, the girl, turned out to be my best friend, now lives across the street from us, and we used to regularly trade off baby sitting when our kids were young. In a way, Burgers Supreme did a lot to change my attitudes. And something happened there that ended up changing my life.
It was right after high school graduation. I was really happy with the way things were going. I’d just been accepted at Bowdoin and had enough money to last at least through the first year, with a really good chance of getting a scholarship for the next three.
The day I got the news was the same day I go skating out to this ’51 Ford parked in one of my stalls, and the driver—a little guy, somewhere in his forties—who’s alone in the car, gives me a smile and orders a plain Wimpy and coffee—cream, no sugar. He seemed to want to talk, and by then it’s late evening, between the supper rush and the closing of the local movie drive-in. I never minded listening if it wasn’t busy, so I leaned on the car while he told me his name—Frank. He went on to tell about his occupation—tobacco salesman, which I could believe since the back seat of his car was loaded with cartons of Chesterfields—about how he regularly came through town on Thursdays, and about his wife. He even showed me her picture.
About then I had another customer, and Frank took his time with his food, read a paper and was finally ready to leave about a half-hour later. He signaled for me to take his tray. When I rolled over to pick it up, he smiled and handed me a crumpled bill. It wasn’t until he’d driven off that I realized it was five dollars—the biggest tip I’d ever gotten while working at Burgers Supreme. Back in those days, five dollars was a lot of money, and I couldn’t resist announcing my good fortune to Vic and to the other carhops.
I’d more or less forgotten about Frank when, the next week, I saw his Ford pull into one of my empty stalls around the same time as before. He grinned and waved at me. I rollered over and thanked him for the tip. He said, “Think nothing of it. Been doing pretty good lately, and I thought I’d share the wealth. How about another plain Wimpy and a coffee—cream, no sugar?”
Believe me, he got fast service. We gabbed again, the way we’d done before. He said Thursdays were always a long day for him. “I still have a thirty-mile drive ahead of me, so I tell Minnie not to bother with supper. This is always a nice stop, anyway.” That was the night he said that they didn’t have any kids, but if they had had one, he’d have liked to have a girl who was as nice as me.
Compliments never hurt. And the five-dollar tip he left me again that night sure didn’t do any harm, either.
The next week when he came by, I was a l
ot busier, and he really didn’t say very much. Same order, same tip, though. I waved to him as he backed out, and he waved back at me.
When he came in the following week, he seemed to be worried about something. I was tempted to ask him what was wrong, but that was another busy evening. When I came by to pick up his tray, he tried to smile and said, “I guess this is becoming a regular ritual. Looks like my fourth Thursday in a row. I do appreciate the service.”
I gave him my best smile and he returned it, along with the usual tip. It was the next day when I began to hear more about Frank. A Lincoln Continental pulled into one of my stalls, and an expensively-dressed man leaned out the window and said, “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
We used to get strange requests working there. Lots of tourists would drop in and ask for directions. Vic always insisted that—buying or not—we were to be polite and do the best we could or ask the other employees for help in answering questions.
So I smiled and said, “Depends on what the questions are.”
“Do you have a customer named Frank DeLucca—drives a ’51 Ford—who comes here regularly on Thursdays, right around eight in the evening?”
I nodded.
“How often has he stopped in?”
I held up my hand showing four fingers.
“Yesterday?”
I nodded again.
“And last Thursday, too?”
I was beginning to wonder what this was all about, but I said “yes.”
He smiled and said, “Could you swear to that?”
I shrugged and said, “Sure.”
That’s when he thanked me and drove off. I thought about it for a bit but the lunch traffic was coming in, so the thinking didn’t last long. Two hours later, I had reason to think about it again.
A patrol car pulled into the lot and the two occupants, dressed in plain clothes but looking like police officers, got out and went inside. A few minutes later Vic came out and asked me to come in. The officers were sitting at one of the inside booths and Vic and I sat down opposite them. I noticed that one of the detectives—that’s what they were—scowled at Vic. He just scowled back and won the match, saying, “You want to ask any of my girls questions, I’m going to be there when you do.”
The loser shrugged and turned to me. The questions were almost exactly the same as those I’d answered earlier in the day. My answers were the same. They seemed to be satisfied. Anyhow, they thanked me, got up and left.
“What was that all about?” I asked Vic, who was still sitting there scowling—only it may just have been his thinking face that he was wearing.
“Are you absolutely sure about last week?” Vic asked, without answering my question.
That made me stop and think. “Frank came in as usual,” I answered. “I remember, because he left me that nice tip, even though I guess I didn’t give him the kind of service I usually do.”
“Why not?”
I know I started to blush. “I guess I was busier than usual.”
Vic didn’t say a word, but his eyebrows moved up closer to his bald head.
That made me try to explain, though I really didn’t want to. “Well, I wanted to talk to Lozy before he left, and he was almost through with his burger.”
Eugene Lozier—everyone called him Lozy—had started an ice cream business in town. Back then, he had only one deliveryman, so he did the late afternoon and evening deliveries himself. Several of us carhops were kind of caught up with him. He was really muscular from carrying around those big ice cream tubs, and we all thought he was handsome.
Vic didn’t grin often, but this time he did, and it was scarier than his scowl. “So what day does Lozy deliver ice cream?”
My hand flew to my mouth. “But…”
“Did this Frank guy tell you it was Thursday?”
I shook my head. “We hardly talked last week. I just know he was here, and now I’m sure it was a Wednesday, because that’s ice cream delivery day. What made me think it was a Thursday, was how he said yesterday that he always comes by on a Thursday.”
That was when Vic told me that Frank’s wife had been murdered—right around eight o’clock, just a week ago on Thursday night.
Well, during the next couple of months there was a lot of discussion around the drive-in about the Frank DeLucca case, and I was the center of attention, as you might imagine. When the time came for me to testify, I was awfully nervous, but Vic said all I had to do was tell the truth. “I’ll be right there in court when you’re on the stand.” He gave me his scary grin and added, “If you get worried, just look over at me.”
Vic wasn’t the only one who showed up. When I got on the stand I began to wonder who was minding the drive-in, since about everyone working there was sitting out in the audience. I was especially surprised to see Lozy come in at the last minute.
The prosecutor just asked me a couple of questions. All he wanted to know was whether I’d waited on Frank the Thursday night of the murder. I said, “No, sir.”
It was different when Frank’s attorney—the same one who had questioned me at the drive-in—came up and glowered at me. In moments I begin to feel that he really hated me, that he didn’t believe me, that he was going to demonstrate to the court that I was a complete liar. And, of course, he pointed out how I’d already told him once that Frank had been there on that Thursday.
But it wasn’t until he asked how I was sure that Frank had shown up on the day before the murder and not on the day of the murder itself that I got really upset. I looked over at Vic and saw him nod. I didn’t dare look in Lozy’s direction.
So, with my face flaming red, I had to admit that I remembered exactly because I had a crush on Lozy and wanted to talk to him before he left. I didn’t use the word “crush” but I did put the idea across. I could see several of the jury smiling, and when I snuck a look over in Lozy’s direction, he was smiling too.
The prosecuting attorney objected when the defense attorney started all over on pretty much the same subject. The judge sustained the objection, and Frank’s lawyer decided to call it quits. It surprised me when the prosecuting attorney asked me a few more questions—mostly about the big tips and the fact that Frank had talked about Thursday stops right from his first visit.
After that session, and before the whole mob of us went off to work, the prosecutor stopped me to explain the reason for his questions. “Frank didn’t just get mad at his wife and kill her on the spur of the moment. He planned it well ahead of time, and your testimony clinched that fact.”
That trial was the high point of my work at Burgers Supreme. Frank got twenty years to life. I went on to Bowdoin. Lozy visited me there more and more often. That was when we decided on a business and personal partnership. I didn’t go back after the first semester, but instead enrolled in business school. On my eighteenth birthday I became Mrs. Lozier and half owner of an up-and-coming ice cream company.
We’ve produced two great kids and a very successful enterprise since then. We now have our own retail stores in Bangor and Portsmouth, with plans for others in Massachusetts. Burgers Supreme is a thing of the past, though. When Vic decided to retire, he just refused to sell the business and have it change. So there was a big party on that last night. I even put on skates—not in-lines—and it did feel like old times.
There’s still a Wimpy Super Special in our freezer. Lozy insisted on buying one on that last day and saving it to eventually show the grandkids when we have some.
HEATSTROKE
Al Harrison cursed the car radio. The repair shop had replaced every one of the tubes, but he was still getting a lot more static than voice. There was no point in his complaining, though. All the police equipment was falling apart. And, if he did complain, the Chief would only say that he was lucky to even get paid. Only the big purchase of the Model-A fleet back when times were a lot better kept the force from doing all their patrols on foot.
His partner, Jay Donnely, was bending down over the speaker t
rying to sort out the message. “Someone’s died of heatstroke. No big surprise with the temperature running over a hundred, and it isn’t even noon yet. Out in the industrial area, I think. Jackworth? Blattworth. Can’t make it out. It’s a brickyard, I think.”
“Blackford!” the sergeant said. “Must be the Blackford brickyard. But they closed down months ago. Well, we’ll run out and take a look.” So saying, he U-turned and roared down the highway, or at least tried to, with the car sputtering in protest.
Blackford Brickyard, Inc., owned by partners George Black and Chuck Ford, had been a flourishing industry before the Depression. Over a dozen workers tended the kiln and loaded the freight cars that seemed to arrive daily for their fill of bricks. And then, business had slowed somewhat as solid-brick construction was replaced by brick veneer—a single wall of bricks against a plywood backing. But the ensuing bad times simply put a stop to construction of any kind. One by one the workers were laid off, the freight cars stopped coming, the rails rusted, and the gates to the yard closed for what seemed to be the final time.
So the two patrolmen were surprised to see the gates wide open. Out in the field beyond, an ambulance with its flashing light had arrived ahead of them. They were soon to find an anxious Chuck Ford wiping his perspiring face with a red bandana and hovering over the victim on the stretcher, as the ambulance attendants loaded George Black’s lifeless body into the vehicle.
“It’s like I told them when they got here,” Chuck said to Al, who was jotting down some notes. “We had a surprise order for four thousand bricks. I wanted to get a couple of our old workers to help sort the good ones out of this pile and to help load, but George wouldn’t hear of it. His heart was none too good, to begin with, and I figured this heat wasn’t going to make it any better.
“I didn’t want to be outside in this sun and heat, myself, but he insisted on coming out first thing in the morning. We barely got started with sorting out the load when he just keeled over. I had to go all the way over to Clancy’s Garage to call in, because we had our phone shut off months ago.”
Mayhem, Mystery and Murder Page 20
