I rolled my eyes.
“No, really, Ellie,” he said. “This one is good. Remember that boy who won the spelling bee last year? What was his name? Gordie Douglas. A little genius, that kid. What if we did a follow-up on it? ‘Winning Spells Success for Fifth Grader.’ What do you think?”
“I think it S-T-I-N-K-S,” I said, and Charlie’s face fell. “Why don’t you ever ask George Walsh to write that kind of stuff? He’d be a natural. Might even learn to spell.”
“Ellie, I can’t ask George to write that,” said Charlie. “Besides, you don’t have anything else for tomorrow’s paper, unless you’ve finished your profile on Teddy Jurczyk.”
“That’s not fair,” I said, taking the seat in front of his desk. “You know I didn’t get the chance to work on that today. And I’ve already done the social calendar for next week and the Rock ’n’ Roll Hymnal thing you wanted me to cover at St. Agnello’s.”
“You actually went to that?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, no,” I confessed. “But I phoned Father Francis, and he told me who won. Anna Maria Galderoni, in case you had money on it. But maybe I’ve got a big story for you. Right here in my hand, perhaps.”
Charlie feigned a chuckle. “Very funny. Now do this little genius story, and you’ve had a great week. I would have liked to print the Teddy J. story before the game, but I guess you didn’t have time to do that in the slammer.”
Now it was my turn to fake a laugh. Then I realized I hadn’t thanked him for getting me out of stir. I was even feeling kindly toward Sol Meshnick. I supposed a leer or two was the least I could grant him for such prompt results.
“I was upset this afternoon,” I said. “And it was rude of me not to have thanked you.”
“Thank me for what?” asked Charlie.
“For the get-out-of-jail-free card.”
Charlie shook his head. “Thanks for the thanks, but it wasn’t me.”
“Then I’ll thank that old pervert, Sol Meshnick,” I said.
Charlie scoffed. “It wasn’t him either. We got to the station and started making a ruckus, threatening lawsuits and bad press if they didn’t spring you pronto. But they wouldn’t even let us in to see Chief Finn.”
“Then who fished me out of there?” I asked.
“You should call Frank Olney,” said Charlie, and I flushed.
“Frank? What for?”
“While Sol and I were yelling and screaming and getting nowhere, Don Czerulniak showed up and zipped inside to have a chat with the chief. Five minutes later you were out.”
“So what’s that got to do with the sheriff?” I asked, feeling a knot in my stomach.
“The DA was in a hurry, but he stopped to say hello on his way out. He said Frank Olney had phoned him and told him to get you the hell out of jail. He’d heard all about it from that nitwit Pat Halvey, who’s got a buddy on the NHPD. A guy he bowls with. Paulie Iavarone, I think he said.”
I felt the bus-ticket story burning in my hand. I tried to hide it behind my back, and Charlie noticed.
“So, what’s the big story you’ve got?” he asked. “Is that your Rock ’n’ Roll Hymnal story?”
“No,” I said, taking a step back. “It’s just a memo. It’s nothing.”
Back at my desk, I swore to myself, stuffed the doomed story inside a drawer, and went home.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THURSDAY, JANUARY 12, 1961
At three in the morning, I was still wrestling with my decision to pull back the unused-bus-ticket story. I’d been grinding it through my head since bedding down four hours earlier, having been awakened several times with ever-new, twisted dreams to torture me. One had me getting fired for not producing anything more interesting than a high-school boy could write. Another was my assignment to a new position at the paper: assistant to Luba, the office’s ancient, Ukrainian cleaning lady. She swept and mopped, emptied wastepaper bins and trash cans, washed windows and polished brass, always half bent over, with a kerchief tied around her head. A third torture had me leaving the paper altogether and jerking sodas for Fadge at Fiorello’s. A nice enough place to spend time, but not my idea of a future.
When I wasn’t sleeping and dreaming of my life circling the drain, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, searching for convincing arguments for why I would be justified in printing the bus-ticket story. I had found the ticket, deduced the significance of its presence, and handed it to the sheriff myself. It was true, of course, that he’d invited me along to search the locker, but it had been my idea in the first place. Frank never would have thought of looking there. And then there were the mind-numbing human-interest stories my dear friend and mentor, Charlie Reese, felt were my bailiwick. Not even the success of the Jordan Shaw investigation had shaken me loose from the second string, and I was beginning to think that, despite his affection for me, Charlie shared the same old-school ideas on girls in the workplace. Coffee and shorthand, for sure, but newspapers were a man’s game. At best, the fairer sex might be entrusted with the society pages or church news. But even those positions put effeminate men and pious laymen out of work. As for the big stories, leave those to the boys like George Walsh.
Now I’d worked myself into a lather of resentment toward Charlie Reese for things he’d never said and, as far as I knew, didn’t even think. My runaway fantasy had my heart racing in my chest and my anger seething. I got out of bed and poured myself a Scotch from the cabinet in the parlor. I spied that damned letter from the Berg and Raphael Statuary sitting on the end table, calling to me. And there was my bag, leaning against the wall, still packed and waiting. I switched on the television without thinking. There was nothing on, of course, but the Indian-head signal, so I put some soothing music on the hi-fi, low, so as not to wake Mrs. Giannetti downstairs. Schubert’s “Trout” quintet was jaunty and lighthearted, but the next LP that dropped down the spindle was “Death and the Maiden.” Why had I loaded so much Schubert? I switched it off and went back to bed. Despite my best efforts, I still hadn’t convinced myself to print the bus-ticket story, nor had I fully resolved to bury it. And that made me even angrier at Charlie Reese, who’d had nothing at all to do with my moral quandary.
The morning found me in a foul mood. All bile and no mirth make Ellie a dull girl. I shuffled to my desk, placed my purse in the lower right-hand drawer, and opened my agenda: Gordie Douglas at half past ten in the Academy Street School cafeteria. Eat your heart out, Edward R. Murrow. Then nothing until the four o’clock basketball practice at the high-school gym.
“Any news on George Wash?” I asked Norma as I poured myself a cup of coffee from the percolator.
“Nothing,” she said. “But I heard from Brenda in the steno pool that his son wets the bed.”
“Thanks for trying to cheer me up,” I said. “But it didn’t work.”
The shrill bell rang, caroming off the bare palazzo floors and glossy paint of the walls, signaling the end of yet another illuminating lesson at the Academy Street School. The children spilled from their classrooms, twittering and twaddling like . . . well, schoolchildren. A thin woman in a taffeta dress approached me in the cafeteria, her heels clacking over the hard floors. She was pushing a small towheaded child in a striped shirt and black, high-top PF Flyers before her. She introduced herself as Dorothy Galligan, teacher’s aide. The little, blond dingus was Gordon Douglas, boy genius.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes to collect him,” said Mrs. Galligan. “He has midmorning milk at ten forty-five, followed by arithmetic at eleven.” Mrs. Galligan disappeared, leaving me alone with the spelling prodigy.
“How are you, Gordie?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said, looking off into the nothingness beyond me.
“So, you’re the spelling champ?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Tell me. Has winning the spelling bee changed your life?”
“No.”
“Are you going to enter the spelling bee again this year?” I asked, thinki
ng what a dullard this kid was.
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“What word did you spell to win?”
“‘Poodle,’” He said, and wiped his nose.
“Really?” I asked. “‘Poodle?’ P-O-O-D-L-E?” He nodded. “And that won?” Again he nodded.
“The other kid missed ‘endomorphic,’ so I won.”
“Can you spell ‘endomorphic’?”
“No.”
“May I take a picture of you?” I asked. Interview over.
I drove back to the office, one frame of Gordie Douglas in my camera, regretting even the waste of that much celluloid on the worst story of my career. But I promised myself that I would write the best spelling-bee follow-up profile ever written. No one would know or care if I embellished the lad’s personality and intelligence in my article. In fact, I was sure everyone, from Gordie’s proud parents to Charlie Reese and Artie Short, would appreciate the snow job I was rehearsing in my mind. I’d be done with my piece before Gordie had managed to snort his midmorning milk through his nose.
Back at my desk, I pounded out the story in eleven minutes and dropped it into Charlie’s in-box before heading out to lunch at Wolfson’s Department Store next door. Gordie Douglas’s eyes were closed in the photo I’d taken.
As I slurped chicken-and-rice soup out of my spoon, I eyed the waitress who’d served me. Consolidating two pots of coffee into one, she stood there in a flowered cotton dress and blue apron, her narrow shoulders sloping gradually into her wide middle and wider behind. Her legs were trunks planted in white orthopedic shoes. Her name tag read Maureen. She was sweet, about thirty, with a blonde beehive and thick glasses.
“Endomorphic,” I thought, sipping my soup, recalling the little genius and his moment of triumph. And I’d come across that word somewhere else recently, too.
The New Holland High School gymnasium echoed with shouts and squeaking sneakers. A vague smell of stale sweat hung in the air. I climbed halfway down the bleacher stairs from above and took a seat to watch. The coach was running a half-court drill, working on the offensive schemes with the first and second strings. The plays were designed to get the ball into Teddy J.’s hands to shoot, and he was on the mark this day, sinking six of his first eight shots. Then he caught a glimpse of me taking in the practice from the bleachers, and he lost his touch, missing his next three attempts. A couple of the upperclassmen razzed him—and me in the process—for having his “girlfriend” come to watch him. Teddy sulked. Then Coach Mahoney blew his whistle and told the boys to take a knee. Several players craned their necks to look up into the stands, and the coach took notice of me for the first time. He told the team to run a lay-up drill, while he climbed the stairs to speak to me.
“Hello, Miss Stone,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m just watching the practice,” I said. “Research for the feature I’m doing on Teddy Jurczyk.
He fidgeted and scratched his neck. “I thought we had an agreement that you would leave Teddy alone.”
“I’m just finishing my feature on him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. This practice session is closed. You’re going to have to leave.”
“But I’ve got an assignment from the paper. It’s all been approved by the principal’s office.”
“This principal’s office?” he asked.
“No, the junior high school’s,” I said. “Mr. Brossard.”
“Look,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “You’re a nice girl, and I know you don’t mean any harm. But you’re kind of a jinx to Teddy.”
“A jinx?”
“Yeah. He gets all tight when you’re around. You make him nervous. I just can’t have you upsetting him like that.”
I flushed. My mouth went dry, and I didn’t know what to say. I was being kicked out of the gym and off my story with one swing of Coach Mahoney’s leg.
“It’s not personal,” he said, but I was dumbstruck. A jinx? “Oh, there’s Mr. Brossard now,” said Mahoney. “Maybe you can talk to him.”
I made my way up the stairs, temples throbbing from the humiliation. Brossard waited for me atop the bleachers and extended a hand to shake mine. I offered it dumbly, and he asked me what was wrong.
“I’ve just been asked to leave the practice and to stay away from Teddy Jurczyk.”
“What? Why?”
“Coach says I’m a jinx. But it’s my job to do a story on him. How can I tell my editor that I can’t write it because I’m not welcome here?”
“That’s rough,” he said. “Listen, maybe I can help. I’ll have a word with the coach later on. For now, it might be better to do as he asks. Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
Dean’s Coffee House had served sodas and malteds to generations of New Holland high schoolers. Just a few blocks from Walter T. Finch High, Dean’s was a friendly spot, open only till about six, when Dean and his wife, Edith, punched out for the day. Out of loyalty to Fadge, I didn’t patronize the shop. To tell the truth, he’d threatened to ban me for life if he ever caught me in there. The same went for Mack’s Confectionery up the street. Under the present circumstances, I decided to risk the wrath of Ron Fiorello.
“I wanted to have a word with you,” said Brossard once we were seated at a table near the window. “It’s about Darleen Hicks.”
“What about her?” I asked. He had my interest piqued.
“I’ve been reading the articles in the paper, and I got to thinking. I’ve come to believe that girl simply ran away with someone. To Arizona.”
Wow. What powers of deduction.
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“Well, there was the receipt they found in her bedroom. The one for the bus ticket. Clearly she used the ticket and motored off to the Southwest. Didn’t she have some boyfriend in the army?”
“What about the lunch box they found near her property? Doesn’t that point to foul play?”
“I’ve been thinking that over, too,” he said, blowing on his black coffee to cool it. He took a sip then resumed. “There’s really no evidence that the lunch box is hers, is there? Didn’t you write that the sheriff merely found an average lunch box like so many others? It could belong to anybody. Or, it’s possible that she threw it away herself. Young girls behave oddly at times.”
I squinted across the table at him. A gap between two houses on the other side of the street let a fierce beam of sunlight through, and it was directly behind Brossard, rendering him a near silhouette before me. I couldn’t quite make out his expression, but not for lack of trying.
“Is something wrong with your eyes, Miss Stone?” he asked.
“The sun,” I said. “You’ve given this business a lot of thought, I see.”
“Well, when one of my girls disappears, I want to know why.”
“Naturally,” I said. Then, wondering how often this kind of thing came up, I asked him if it had ever happened before.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said, shaking his head. “When I was in Hudson, a young girl disappeared. The police never found out what happened to her. It’s a sad thing, but it happens every day across the country. I’m afraid our society has lost its way. With filth like Lolita passing for literature . . .” He stopped himself and smiled sadly. “I’m a bit old fashioned, Miss Stone. I still believe in God, sin, and judgment. Just an old altar boy with very Catholic ideas. You probably think I’m very unhip.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you’re a New York City girl, after all.”
Huh? I wasn’t sure if he was insulting me or admiring my cosmopolitan attitudes. And how did he know that, anyway? “Is that why you wanted to talk to me?” I asked. “To tell me Darleen probably ran away?”
“Yes,” he said. “I thought I could be of help to you. You know, get in on the whole investigation thing.” The sun shimmered out of sight behind the house across the street, and I could see him clearly again. He smiled awkwardly.
“Can you get me an interview with Teddy Jurczyk?” I asked, flashing my most fetching smile at him. He seemed unmoved.
“I’d like to see the story done, of course,” he said. “We’re very proud of our Teddy, as you know. And it would be great publicity for him, too. Maybe help get him into a fine college in four years. St. Bonaventure or Siena.” He paused, looking at me with indifferent eyes. “But if Coach is against it, I’m not sure I should interfere.”
“Just one more meeting, then I’ll leave him alone,” I said, trying to catch his eyes. But he was focusing on nothing in particular. Certainly not on me.
Brossard shrugged finally and agreed. I’d won the game without scoring any points, and I was ashamed of myself for the flirting. Then Brossard’s face lit up as he told me how excited he was to see the game Friday.
“Teddy will be in rare form,” he said, beaming.
I returned to the office in time to hand in two more stories for Saturday’s edition: one on pothole repairs on the East End, and the other on some complaints about pollution of the river. New HollandCo, a manufacturer of low-cost carpeting and flooring, was the largest employer left in the city. They had taken over one of the Shaw Knitting Mills’ larger buildings. Wastewater from the factory poured into the Great Cayunda Creek at the rate of five hundred gallons an hour. The Cayunda carried the polluted water down the hill and vomited it into the Mohawk, just underneath the Mill Street Bridge. A local woman had started making noise two years earlier, protesting outside New HollandCo’s offices about the pollution, but most people considered her a crackpot and ignored her. Then she somehow got the ear of a young assistant attorney general for the State of New York, and things began to change quickly. The State commissioned a study of the river in 1959 and pronounced the Mohawk so polluted it was “dead.” Public awareness about pollution grew. I had written several articles on the protests over the past two years. The pothole report was also a regular beat of mine.
Stone Cold Dead Page 21
