The Mulligans of Mt. Jefferson

by Don Reid

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I’m a gambler. I gamble on the golf course. I gamble in the stock market. I gamble all the time. So I’m gambling that I can guess how many bottles you have. Deal?”

  “Okay. It’s a deal,” Cal said with a grin all over his face.

  “I thought you’d be the first to take me up on it, Cal. You’re an enterprising young lad. How about you other fellows?”

  “That goes for all of us,” Cal said with confidence.

  Nancy came in from the kitchen and whispered quietly to Vic, “Fifty-nine.”

  Vic looked down at the boys and said, “Buddy, you have five. Mr. Stone, you have five. And Little Cal, you also have five. Put them right up here on this table and count them out.”

  The boys were stunned and silent, and none of them made a move to empty their bags. For a moment, Vic thought they might break and run, but in time it was, of course, Cal who spoke up.

  “How did you know that? How did you know how many we each had?”

  Vic took the bags from each boy, one at a time, and sat them on the table. He motioned for them to come over and sit down, and by the time they reached their chairs, all three faces were drained of any color the autumn wind and sun might have given them that day. “You three little bilkers have been stealing my bottles from the alley and coming in here and selling them back to me. No telling how much money you owe me.”

  “How do you know that we’ve been …?” Cal started to ask.

  “No. No. Don’t make it worse by denying it. You did it. You got caught. You take the consequences. That’s the way a man does it. Now the only thing we have to work out is what we’re going to do about it.”

  The boys were silent and scared. This tall giant of a man was standing staring down at them and somehow he knew exactly what they had been doing. All three felt an urge to cry but didn’t want the other two to see him do it.

  “I see three possible solutions to the matter. I can call the police, and heaven knows what they might do. Come lock you up, I suppose. Or I can call your parents. And I think I know what they will do. Even though I don’t know yours, Buddy, I think I can guess they will handle it pretty much the way H. V. and Ernest will. Or … or I could … no, you wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “Do what?” It was Cal again, but the other two faces asked the same question.

  “Or I could let you work it off. Instead of going to the picture show on Saturdays or whatever it is you do that day, you could come in here and work for me.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing whatever I say. You might wash dishes or mop the floor. You might wait on tables or take the trash out. Just whatever needs to be done from about ten until three o’clock for the next three Saturdays.”

  “Three Saturdays? Why three Saturdays?” Cal asked for the group.

  “Because there’re three of you. I think that would be as good a number as any. Or I could count up how many bottles you’ve stolen over the past few weeks and use that number.”

  “No, that’s all right. Three Saturdays will be okay with us,” Cal quickly added.

  And so they came. And for the next three Saturdays, they were at the mercy of Vic Princeton, Mt. Jefferson’s reigning celebrity—or slave master, depending on your personal perspective.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Buddy and Cal stood just outside the curtained cubicle until Darcy peeped out and invited them inside. Harlan was awake and seemingly aware of his surroundings and condition.

  “He’s doing fine. The nurse said you could talk to him for just a few minutes, and then they’re going to take him up to his room. He’ll be on the third floor.”

  “Thanks. Why don’t you go out and sit with Amanda for a few minutes while we say a word to him?” Buddy suggested.

  “I can’t stay back here while you two talk to him? What are you going to ask him? You know now, Buddy, he’s in no shape to be answering a lot of questions.”

  “I understand that. But I have just a couple of things, and then we’ll be right out.”

  “I’m not sure I like this much. I thought you were coming back here to check on him as a friend. Not interrogate him as a police officer. He’s just not up to it.”

  “Darcy, don’t get upset,” Cal consoled. “There’re just some things Buddy needs to say to him and he needs to say to Buddy. Why don’t you and I go out and sit down for just a couple of minutes while they talk.”

  “No,” Buddy said sharply. “I want you to stay, Cal. We won’t be but a few minutes, Darcy.”

  Buddy just stared her down and waited for her to leave without any further explaining or coaxing. Cal was seeing him become who he was on the job for the first time in all the years he’d known him. There was a different and keener air about him—something much more official—and Cal never took his eyes off of him as Darcy pushed through the curtains and disappeared.

  “You okay, pal?” Buddy asked, looking down at Harlan.

  “Yeah, I’m going to be all right. What was wrong with her staying?” Harlan asked.

  “I just wanted you to tell me what happened, and I wanted you to be totally free to say whatever you needed to say.”

  Buddy’s actions would have seemed harsh to an outsider, but they were of the warmest possible nature. He felt there might be a chance this intruder had something to do with a side of Harlan’s life that Darcy might not be privy to. He didn’t know of anything for sure, but he knew it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, and Buddy was just giving him the freedom of honesty among old friends.

  “I got nothing to hide from her. It is what it is. Some clown busted in my house and shot me. And I really do mean a clown.”

  “From the front.”

  “I see. Just like on television.” Harlan looked to his left where Cal was standing. “Are you going to take notes like Frank Smith to his Joe Friday?”

  “No.” Cal smiled. “But I am going to hang around to make sure he doesn’t beat you up too badly.”

  “I’m not going to beat anybody up,” Buddy said with a slight smile. “I just want to know what happened over there this morning.”

  “Darcy said she already told you. We heard a noise. We went downstairs….”

  “What kind of noise?”

  “You know, like somebody kicking in the back door.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “We went downstairs and there he was in the kitchen.”

  “Who was?”

  “The guy. The guy that broke in the door.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He had a mask. Like a circus clown. And that’s about all I can tell you about him.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Doing? He wasn’t doing anything. He was just there in the kitchen.”

  “Hunched over?”

  “What?”

  “Was he hunched over?”

  Harlan frowned and then grimaced. “Yeah, I reckon.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Yeah, I think so, but I don’t know what. Didn’t she tell you all this?”

  The nurse from earlier, Kathy Foster, stepped inside the curtain.

  “Sorry to break up this party, gentlemen, but we have Mr. Stone’s room ready. If you’ll give us about twenty minutes, we’ll have him upstairs in room 324, and you can both come up as soon as the doctor says it’s okay.”

  Cal took Harlan’s hand. “I’ll wait and talk to you up there. It won’t be long.”

  Harlan managed a smile and said, “Thanks, guys, for being here. I really need you both. And you don’t have any idea how much.”

  Cal and Buddy walked back down the hallway toward the waiting area but stopped short of going through the double doors to where Darcy
and Amanda were sitting.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to be in there when you questioned him.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I realized I might need you.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Buddy.”

  “I’m not sure I can trust everything I might hear. And I need you there to validate it.”

  Cal looked at his friend for a long moment with Buddy unblinkingly returning the stare. And just before pushing through the big double doors, Cal said, “If I understood what you were trying to say, I might argue with you. But until I do, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The next three Saturdays were hard work for the little bottle boys. The only work any of them had ever done was a few chores around the house. But at eleven years old, none had ever experienced anything like working on a schedule. And on their day off from school. They had fretted all week over losing the freedom of their Saturdays—of not being able to go to the movies, and then not having the freedom to decide if they would roam the streets all Saturday afternoon or ride their bikes around the neighborhood. The humiliation reached its peak that first Saturday at 10:00 a.m. when they walked in and Vic tossed each of them an apron.

  “What’s this for?” Cal asked.

  “For you to wear. What do you think it’s for?” Vic asked with no sign of a smile.

  He was playing this out for all it was worth. He could see the boys sweating and knew that each new wrinkle he made them accept in their agreement was just driving the lesson home. He wanted to laugh as he watched them put the apron straps around their necks and then attempted to tie the sashes behind their backs. But he kept a rigid face with the boys and only showed his smile to Mabel Talley when they weren’t looking.

  Everything went without a hitch until about twelve thirty that first day. Little Cal was washing dishes, Buddy was emptying garbage and stacking bottles out back—of all things—and Harlan was trying to look busy doing nothing when four orders came ready at the same time in the kitchen. Vic picked up a plate with a bowl of chicken noodle soup from the metal steam table by the cook’s station and said, “Harlan. Here. Take this soup out to the man in that first booth on the left. And don’t spill it.”

  Harlan wanted to balk at first. None of the three had told anyone about what they were doing and the punishment they were receiving—especially their parents. They had figured if they could stay in the kitchen, no one would ever know they were working there. The only way it could get out would be if Vic told his sister Betty Bell. Cal was willing to take this chance, so they had agreed to try to keep it all a secret from their families. But now here he stood with a bowl of soup in his hands. What if his father was out there? Or Cal’s father or mother? Or Buddy’s parents? Or anyone else who might know them? He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, pushed through the swinging door, and walked, without looking left or right, straight to the first booth on the left. But as he set the bowl of steaming soup on the table in front of the lone customer, he looked up into the face of someone he had never expected to see. He froze, and without saying a word, turned quickly on his heel and nearly ran back into the kitchen.

  “We’re in trouble,” Harlan whispered to Buddy.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Out there in the booth. Look out there.”

  Cal saw them with their heads together and then standing on the tip of their toes, peeping through the kitchen door leading into the dining room.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Who’s out there?”

  And then all three were standing in a cluster, scanning the eating area via the door window.

  “Out of my way, boys. Food coming through,” Mabel said as she pushed between them with one hand, a large tray of plates balanced on the palm of the other. “Don’t stand in the doorway, or you’ll get run over. And don’t forget. Any plates and glasses you break, you pay for.”

  Saturday night at ten minutes after nine, as Vic Princeton locked the back door of Mulligans, pulled his suit collar up around his neck, and walked through the alley toward his 1927 Whippet, a figure stepped out of the shadows from behind the garbage cans. Startled, Vic stopped short, as he couldn’t make out any facial features. That it was a man was all he could assume. That, and the fact that he was nearly a full foot shorter, was as much as he could be sure of until the man spoke.

  “Princeton.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Stone boy.”

  “Harlan. What about him?”

  “Why he be working for you?”

  “Fritz? Is that you?”

  “That be me. Why about the boy?”

  “It’s a long story, Fritz. Just a little lesson I’m teaching those boys.” Vic chuckled.

  “Not funny. H. V. Stone’s boy should not be in your kitchen. Not right and proper for that boy.”

  “Did you tell his dad about it? I had thought about telling him, but I didn’t want to get the boys in any more trouble. Did you say anything to him?”

  “Not your business what I do. But it be my business what you do. Fire him.”

  “I can’t do that, Fritz. I’m trying to teach these boys a lesson.”

  “Don’t make me teach you a lesson. Fire him. Kitchen is no place for H. V.’s boy.”

  “Fritz, I don’t think you understand. I just want …”

  “Do it.”

  Fritz’s shadow stretched from its five feet six inches to twelve feet as he disappeared under the street lamp and out of sight. Vic stood and watched him go. He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it, and blew out a stream of smoke. He yelled into the silence as the alley echoed, “Good night, Fritz. Good talking to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Buddy sent Amanda home and Darcy upstairs to room 324 to wait for Harlan’s arrival. This left only Cal and him in the waiting room.

  “What are you going to do?” Buddy asked, stretching his back.

  “I think I’ll go home, shower, and put on some decent clothes. You?”

  “I’ll stop at the phone down here and call the station. See what’s new.” Looking at his watch, Buddy asked, “What time are you coming back?”

  “It’s nearly eight thirty now, so I should be back by ten.”

  “Then so will I. We’ll go up together and talk to him.”

  “Buddy, what are you expecting to hear?”

  “I’m not sure. And I’m not lying to you. It’s just an instinct I have about these things. I don’t know how to explain it or what to compare it to in your line of work.”

  “I think I do. Sometimes I walk into a home for one reason or another, and I can sense the mood that’s in there. If the man and wife are happy or if their teenager is giving them a fit. It’s a reading and a gut feeling you can’t define.”

  “Exactly. You should have been a cop. And maybe that’s why I want you there. I want to be real sure on this one. I’ll need your instincts.”

  “I’ll see you right back here at ten.”

  Buddy went to the same phone booth Cal had sat in just an hour before and dialed the police station.

  “Mt. Jefferson Police. Sergeant Kesterton.”

  “Carl, this is Briggs. Put me through to Sikes.”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

  There was a short wait and some clicking on the line, then a pickup.

  “Buddy. How’s your pal?”

  “Doing good. Out of surgery. Looks like nothing too serious.”

  “A gunshot wound is always serious. I’ve been there, friend, and it hurts.”

  To someone listening who didn’t know, this might sound like the heartfelt confession of a hero. But what Miland Sikes was actually referring to was the time his stewed-to-
the-gills uncle shot him in the leg with buckshot in a duck blind at North Mountain Lake. Sometimes just hearing the truth isn’t enough—you have to know the truth too.

  “You got anything back from the scene yet?” Buddy asked.

  “Sure do. We got prints. Good ones. I need to print Harlan and his wife and even his kids if they don’t mind. That way we can eliminate.”

  “His kids aren’t here. Skip them. Go over to the hospital and get his and hers. Room 324. Tell them I said it’s okay. Then get something we can run through the system just as fast as possible.”

  “Will do.”

  “And, hey, Sikes—what about the door? I was over there earlier, and everything was swept clean.”

  “That was us. He busted in the lock. Looks like he used his foot. He wasn’t trying to come in quiet. He was there, and he didn’t care who knew it.”

  “Any kind of sole or heel markings?”

  “Nah. Just a big ole black smudge where he hit it like he was trying to come through it.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Miland. I’ll be in by noon. Good work.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Nine-thirty Monday morning saw Vic Princeton in his ivy driving cap and lightweight tan overcoat, coming out of Vaxter Brothers Hardware Store. He was smiling and speaking to everyone he met and was even stopping and talking to those who bade him more than just a “good morning.” His destination was three doors down, but he was in no particular hurry to get there. He had often philosophized that every hand he shook was a potential customer. And his theory had proven favorable for many years. He never turned away a fan or cut short a compliment. He loved the adoration as much as the compensation. He was still waving and flashing a winning smile to all on Main Street as he pushed on the glass door to Stones by Stone Jewelers.

  “H. V. Stone. The man who greases the wheel of fortune for all of Mt. Jefferson.”

  “Vic. How’s the boy. How’s the boy.”

  They shook hands vigorously, as if an important negotiation was about to take place. And maybe it was.

  “Now don’t tell me, Vic, that you’ve come in for that diamond engagement ring. Has some bright and beautiful damsel got her hooks into you, finally?”