Stone Cold Dead

by James W. Ziskin

“Eleonora Stone, Your Honor. I’m the person whose car that little delinquent stole,” I said. “Twice.”

  “Allegedly, Your Honor,” interjected good old Steve.

  “All right,” said Albertone. “Procedure will be followed in my court. Now, I see no reason to set bail, as the defendant was already under an order of detention at Fulton at the time of these offenses. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Herbert?”

  Joey Figlio tapped Steve Herbert on the shoulder and leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Steve stood and addressed the judge.

  “My client would like to ask the court a question,” he said.

  Judge Albertone frowned, but allowed it. Joey stood and dug his right hand into his trouser pocket to retrieve a wadded-up piece of paper.

  “I want to show you that that lady, Ellie Stone, can’t charge me with nothing,” he said. “She wrote me love letters and asked me to take her car.”

  “What?” That was me, on my feet again. “Your Honor!”

  “It’s all right here, sir,” said Joey, taking a few steps forward and holding out the sheet of paper. The court clerk took it from him and handed it to the judge.

  I looked to Steve Herbert for some assistance, but he was watching Judge Albertone, who was reading the paper Joey had produced.

  “‘Dear Joey,’” read the judge. “‘Please come to my car and I will help you escape from Fulton. You can take my car and drive it to wherever you want.’”

  At this point, I decided to sit down and keep my mouth shut. Joey’s letter was speaking eloquently enough for me.

  “‘Also, thank you for the knife for my kitchen,’” continued the judge. “‘It’s a nice present ’cause I said I wanted one for spreading butter on my toast.’”

  Judge Albertone peered over his reading glasses at Joey, who looked as inscrutable as ever. “Young man, are you telling me that that young lady over there—Miss Stone, is it?—wrote this letter to you?”

  “Yeah,” said Joey. “She digs me.”

  “Miss?” the judge asked, looking to me. “Please spell your full name.”

  I stood and complied.

  “Thank you,” he said then turned back to Joey. “The handwriting on this letter is an abominable scrawl, written in pencil, with many misspellings of simple words. Furthermore, if I am to believe you, Miss Stone has misspelled her own name.” He paused to let his words register. “What do you have to say about that?”

  Joey sat silent for a moment, then opined that I was probably too emotional and girlish to get the spelling right.

  “Her own name?” asked the judge, incredulous.

  Joey shrugged. “Sure. Look at her. She came here today to beg my forgiveness for getting me pinched by the cops.”

  Judge Albertone sighed and put down the paper. He shook his head in woe and pursed his lips.

  “The defendant will be remanded to the Fulton Reform School for Boys until the date of the fact-finding hearing, which I will schedule for next week. I request that counsel make a recommendation so we can avoid an actual hearing. As for you, Mr. Figlio,” he said, staring down my nemesis, “you will not leave the school grounds, and you will keep your distance from Miss Stone. And, for God’s sake, stop stealing automobiles.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Joey. “But please tell her to stop bothering me. My heart belongs to another.”

  The judge cracked a smile and shook his head. “Miss Stone, the court hereby instructs you that Mr. Figlio’s heart belongs to another. Try to cope with it.” He pounded his gavel and declared the hearing adjourned.

  Joey was escorted from the room, and Dr. Dienst followed him out. Orlando Figlio stayed put in his seat, still watching me in startled anger. Steve Herbert sidled up to me.

  “I’ll bet you weren’t expecting to see me,” he said, smiling broadly, flashing his perfect white teeth.

  “I certainly wasn’t expecting you to double-cross me,” I said. “That kid should be locked up in the county jail until they can ship him off to Attica.”

  “Come on, Ellie,” he said, waving a hand at me. “You’re overreacting, don’t you think? And I was doing my job. The kid deserves a proper defense, doesn’t he?”

  “He didn’t throw you out of your car onto the frozen road.”

  “He’s not a bad kid, Ellie. Come on, let’s go somewhere quiet for a couple of hours. I don’t have any appointments until after lunch.”

  “Start holding your breath, Steve,” I said.

  “Don’t you mean, ‘Don’t hold your breath’?”

  “No, Steve. I was suggesting you asphyxiate yourself,” I said and turned on my heel.

  As I approached the door, Orlando Figlio stood and blocked my exit. I took a step back and scanned the room for the bailiff. He’d already decamped. Why had I been so rude to Steve Herbert?

  “Is there a problem, sir?” came a voice behind me. Stan Pulaski. “Is he bothering you, Ellie?”

  “No problem, Officer,” said the man. Then to me, “I don’t mean no harm, miss. I’m that no-good boy’s father, and I just want to apologize for the trouble he’s given you.”

  “It’s all right, Stan,” I said, dismissing my champion, who seemed unsure about leaving me. He stepped away but watched intently as Joey’s father and I sat down on the bench to talk.

  “He’s just no good,” said Mr. Figlio, shaking his head. “I’ve tried to reason with him, tried beating some good behavior into him, but nothing works. He’s just a stubborn little so and so.”

  “Can you tell me about his girlfriend?” I asked. “Darleen Hicks.”

  “He never brought her around much. Once or twice. She was quiet. Didn’t say much at all to my wife and me. I thought she was a little slow, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did they seem happy together?” I asked, wondering how Darleen could seem slow when standing next to Joey Figlio. “Your son says they were in love.”

  Orlando Figlio scratched his head, his scruffy eyebrows arching and eyes yawning wide open as if pulled up by strings. “What do kids know about love? Besides, Joey wouldn’t have told me nothing anyway. We don’t talk much.”

  “What about his mother? Did Joey confide in her?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, I suppose he did. Mother’s a boy’s best friend, after all.”

  “Do you suppose I could speak to your wife about Joey?” I asked.

  He eyed me with suspicion. “What do you want to know about Joey for anyway?”

  “I’m not in love with your son, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. “I’m investigating Darleen Hicks’s disappearance, and Joey told me they were planning to get married and run away together. Maybe he said something to your wife.”

  Orlando Figlio thought about it then said he didn’t like the idea. “What do you mean, ‘investigating’? What’s a girl like you got to investigate? I just wanted to apologize to you for what my boy did. I didn’t think you’d want to start playing policeman.”

  “I’m a reporter for the paper, Mr. Figlio, not a cop,” I said, reaching out and touching his arm. “Trust me. I’m looking for Darleen. I don’t want to investigate Joey.”

  He smiled at me and blushed. His teeth were long and gray, but his crazy eyes sparkled, the result of my hand on his arm, surely. There was something about the soft touch of a girl’s hand that he liked. He said he would ask his wife.

  “But she’s in Cobleskill visiting her aunt. That’s why she ain’t here. She’ll be home Sunday.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 6, 1961

  The next afternoon, I was at my desk, rolling another sheet of paper into the Underwood. Norma Geary was leaning over my shoulder, waiting for the final version of my story to spirit away to Composition.

  “It’s not going to get written any faster with you hovering over me,” I said as I began to type.

  “Harry’s waiting,” she said, referring to our typesetter. “If you want this in tomorrow’s edition, it’s got to go now.
The entire paper is put to bed except your story and the basketball-game story, which, by the way, is also yours.”

  “Jeepers, I must be good,” I said. “How much do they pay me?”

  Norma feigned a smile. “They’ve left space for your basketball story. Harry said he’ll fit it in tomorrow morning before going to print. Now, about your Darleen Hicks story . . .”

  There wasn’t much left for me to write about except the Trailways receipt and everything its very existence suggested. Once finished, my article would all but close the disappearance of the ninth grader.

  George Walsh entered the newsroom and waddled over to his desk a short distance away. He threw a sour look my way then inspected the nibs of several pencils before finally selecting one.

  “What are you doing here, Stone?” he asked as he scribbled something on a sheet of paper before him. “I thought Charlie sent you out on basketball duty.” He chuckled. “Better you than me.”

  “Funny. That’s what Charlie said, too,” I answered, and George’s smirk vanished. Norma snorted back a laugh.

  “Are you lost, Mrs. Geary?” he asked. “Mighty far from the steno pool, aren’t we?”

  “Mr. Reese assigned me to Miss Stone,” she said. “I’m her assistant.”

  George’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, and he could muster no speech. After huffing and puffing himself breathless, he grabbed a sheet of carbon and rolled it backwards into his electric typewriter—no accompanying paper—and began banging away.

  “You’re going to be late for the basketball,” Norma said.

  “Leaving now,” I mumbled. “This one’s not ready yet. Just notes, mostly. Take this one instead,” I said, shoving a two-page report on the city council’s last meeting at her.

  Georgie Porgie noticed his blunder with the carbon paper and tore it from the machine. He glanced at me to see if I was watching and, like a snoozing cat that’s fallen off the sofa, pretended nothing had happened.

  “All right, then,” said Norma. “You’ll have to finish the Hicks story tomorrow.” George Walsh’s ears pricked up. “It can wait one more day.”

  I slipped what I had of Darleen’s story into the drawer of my desk, grabbed my coat and purse, and hurried out the door, trying to remember if I had enough Scotch at home for after the game. I turned to wish Norma good night, and noticed George Walsh glaring at me. I was sure he’d be complaining to Artie Short about my assistant as soon as I’d gone.

  The New Holland Bucks and the Mont Pleasant Red Raiders of Schenectady took to the court at seven. A full house cheered them on as the boys ran through their pregame layup and passing drills. I was courtside, loading film in my camera and scouting the opponents as they warmed up, placing names to the skinny frames for my recap later on. Minutes before the tip-off, Coach Mahoney gathered his charges around the bench to review the game plan. Once he’d finished and the boys had broken their huddle, I corralled Teddy Jurczyk on the bench as he tightened his shoelaces. I introduced myself and asked if I could speak to him after the game for the newspaper. He looked a little frightened, but then smiled shyly and said sure. Just then, Ted Russell, of all people, tapped me on the shoulder.

  “I’ve tried to phone you, Ellie, but you’re never home.”

  Teddy Jurczyk blushed, and I cursed my bad luck for running into the music teacher.

  “Yes, I’m on duty, Mr. Russell,” I said, now blushing myself and surely fooling no one.

  “Working on the Darleen Hicks story?” he asked. “At the basketball game? Don’t tell me you’re interviewing suspects here,” and he chuckled. Teddy gave a visible start. “Anyway, how about we catch a bite to eat somewhere after the game?”

  I really wanted to cast my eyes downward and beg off demurely or somehow discourage his advances. But I didn’t. I didn’t even answer him. I was too busy studying the horrified look on Teddy Jurczyk’s face. The color had drained from his red cheeks, his mouth hung ajar, and his troubled eyes betrayed a roiling agitation within.

  “Ellie? Uh, Miss Stone?” said Ted, perhaps realizing for the first time that I didn’t want to broadcast our acquaintance publicly, at least not in front of a subject I had to interview later on.

  “Ted, I’m sorry but I’m covering the basketball game here,” I said a little too sharply. “Please.”

  He looked wounded, but got the hint. He apologized for the interruption and wished Teddy good luck for the game.

  Teddy picked up a towel and wiped his brow, still not quite in control of his emotions.

  “Teddy,” I said to him. He looked at me. This kid needed a pat on the back. “Teddy, you can do it,” I said. “Go out there and win this game for us.”

  “I hate that name,” he said, almost in a whisper, then turned and dragged himself out to center court.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I watched the carnage from my seat behind the New Holland bench. Teddy Jurczyk put on the worst performance of his brief career. Two points, one of nine shots made, two double dribbles, a walk, and all three free throws missed. The visitors took full advantage of Teddy’s troubles and raced to a 34–16 halftime lead. The hometown crowd went from boisterous anticipation of a victory at tip-off—a win would lift the Bucks into a tie with Albany for first place in the Class A league—to dismal and surly silence by halftime. And some of the discontent was directed at me.

  “That girl was talking to Teddy just before the game,” said a man a couple of rows behind me. “She said something to upset him. Probably from Schenectady.”

  “Why doesn’t she sit on their side?” asked a woman near him.

  I tried to shrink into my seat, but the people near me inched away. I made a big show of standing and reloading my camera, displaying my press badge prominently, and yelling encouragement for the home team when the players appeared on the court for the second half. Teddy didn’t fare much better after the intermission, though, finishing with just seven points in a crushing defeat, 59–37. Though it was my assignment, I had little interest in torturing the poor kid by rehashing his dreadful performance with an interview about basketball. But judging by his reaction to Ted Russell’s comment, I wondered how well he might know Darleen Hicks. Even if I thought the case was settled, I like my stories to be complete, and I felt the need to have one more answer from Teddy Jurczyk.

  Teddy evaded me temporarily when the final whistle blew, disappearing into the locker room before I could grab him, but I’m not so easily discouraged. I parked myself outside the locker room, endured the snide remarks of a couple of high-school boys, who joked about me waiting for my boyfriend to finish showering. They laughed, thinking they were clever, congratulating each other for their wit.

  “Yes, I’m waiting for my boyfriend,” I said. “Where are your dates?”

  Their mirth soured, and they slunk away.

  Just then the locker room door swung open and Coach Mahoney stepped out. He walked right past me without noticing my presence. It was too much to expect that he might recognize me as the reporter who’d interviewed him four times in recent weeks about the team’s progress. I was just a skirt in the corridor. Then Teddy emerged, shuffling, eyes cast down to the floor, a small canvas gym bag in his hand. He didn’t see me until I called to him. He stopped, looked back at me, and nearly ran. But what was he running from?

  “May I speak to you, Teddy?” I asked. “Nothing about the game. We all have off nights.”

  He didn’t know what to say. He was just a fifteen-year-old boy, after all. Little artifice, no sophistication, and a reluctance to talk to strange girls.

  “I don’t know what happened to Darleen,” he volunteered.

  “Tell me about her,” I said.

  “What’s to tell?” he asked, setting his gym bag on the floor. “She’s a swell girl. In my homeroom since seventh grade.”

  “Did you see her the day she disappeared? Maybe in the parking lot near the buses?”

  He shook his head. “No, she was on a field trip that day.”
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br />   “She came back to the school to catch her bus,” I corrected. “And if you and Darleen were in the same homeroom, you must have gone to Canajoharie, too.”

  He stood silent. His crew cut, still wet from his shower, glistened in the fluorescent light of the corridor. He wanted to go, run, put as much distance between him and me as possible. But he was too polite for that.

  “Did you go to the Beech-Nut factory that day?” I asked.

  Teddy didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me, chewing his lower lip. Finally, he nodded.

  “Yes, I went to Canajoharie that day,” he said softly. “But I didn’t even talk to Darleen on the bus or at the factory. And I didn’t see her after that, either.”

  I must have looked skeptical, because he repeated his story. Then he said he had to go.

  “I can’t talk here. Some of the fellows are still in the locker room. They’ll be out any minute.”

  “Can you meet me at Fiorello’s later tonight?” I asked. “Around eleven. We can talk privately there.”

  Teddy didn’t like the idea, but he nodded okay.

  I walked briskly toward my car, parked on the southeast side of the lot outside the high school. The weather report called for warming temperatures the next day, an end to the brutal cold spell we’d been under the past three weeks. But that was small consolation this night; it was freezing. I saw groups of kids huddling in the dark, smoking, joking, waiting. One girl caught my eye. Susan Dobbs was holding court with Linda Attanasio and four other girls. She was in charge, that much was clear, as the girls focused their attentions on her.

  I thought about stopping to ask a question, but then remembered the bus receipt and told myself it was too cold to tie up loose ends. Then a dark station wagon rolled up to the group, blasted the horn, and Susan waved goodbye to her friends. I could see the man at the wheel, surely her father. About forty, with a hunter’s cap on his head and several days’ stubble on his chin, he lit a cigarette as Susan and Linda climbed in. Never even looked at them. And Susan didn’t look at him. He just threw the car into gear and drove off. Susan waved out the window to her friends as they went.