“Heaven help me,” I said out loud, suddenly realizing that I knew little, so very little, about my own father’s family history here in coal country.
This is where the Yablonskys had first settled after the turn of the century to work for the English-speaking foremen like the Welsh and Irish. But as my father was dead, due to a safety glitch in the ingot mould of Lehigh Steel, there was no way for me to ask him what life had been like for his relatives here. I could only examine these faces and wonder. Which ones were my great uncles and distant cousins?
The next photographs were of mining disasters. Cave-ins. Explosions. A house that had fallen into the ground above a mine that had collapsed underneath. That was followed by a list of all the miners from Slagville who had been killed on the job. Many, if not all, of them had been related. Darrah, John and Joseph. Howland, Robert and John. O’Connell, Seamus and Sean. A son found dead in his father’s arms during a flash flood. Brothers who had clung to each other after being trapped by a cave-in. All that for seventy cents a day. Sixteen tons and what do you get?
The last photo was of the Carbon County Prison where seven of the Molly Maguires had been tried and hanged for murdering coal mine bosses in the 1870s. An account of the Molly Maguires legend was pasted below. Granted, it was biased in favor of labor—this was a union hall, after all—but one wondered. Were the Maguires terrorists? Or had they been framed by the businessmen of their time?
Taken in the best light, the Molly Maguires had fought for better working conditions, often by resorting to violent means, the account said. They had relied on intimidation and physical threats to get results. They blew up coal cars, terrorized their supervisors and would willingly beat and cripple anyone who spoke against them. In short, they were a scary lot.
They were especially scary to those who owned the railroads and collieries. Industrialists like Franklin B. Gowen, owner of the Reading Railroad, and Asa Packer, founder of the Lehigh Valley Railroad, who left behind a $54 million estate when he died. Gowen and Packer suppressed all labor movements, including the Maguires. And so, bypassing the public legal system, they had used their own private police forces and judges to investigate, prosecute, try and execute the Molly Maguires.
I shook my head in amazement. That’s not what they taught us in grade school. In grade school I’d been taught that Asa Packer was a hero philanthropist who had founded Lehigh University, donated millions to our town’s hospital and started half a dozen charities that still bear his name.
No one ever told me that Asa Packer had framed the Molly Maguires, that he had squelched what some historians considered to be the birth of America’s labor unions. On all those elementary school field trips to coal country, I’d have thought that some half-witted teacher might have mentioned that Asa Packer had been partially responsible for the deaths of seven labor activists who were hanged without legal trial and jury.
Seven men hanged in Carbon County.
Alexander Campbell. Michael Doyle. Edward Kelly. Thomas P. Fisher. James McDonnell. Charles Sharpe and John Donohue. Yellow Jack, he was called. Yellow Jack Donohue.
“Donohue,” I said out loud.
“Right behind you.”
“Before we start,” Chief Donohue said, throwing open the green curtains, “I think it’s best that you don’t try to lie to me.”
“Oh, I—”
“Don’t interrupt.” Donohue moved to the next window. “I know everything in this town. That’s my job. For example, I know that Zeke Allen’s been on your tail, that McMullen met up with you in St. Ignatius and that Koolball stopped by your house yesterday in Lehigh.”
Dust motes from the curtains caught the late morning light and made the stuffy air sparkle. I was sitting on the stage in the Union Hall and I prayed that Stinky wouldn’t make the mistake of strolling past the window.
“I also know that Chrissy Price has gone missing, that her daughter ran to you, of all people, and that you are here.” Finished with letting in the day’s light, Donohue came over and sat beside me. “What you’re doing here is what I don’t know. So why don’t you tell me so I don’t have to bust you for trespassing, breaking and entering and,” he waved his pudgy hand, “uh, misdemeanor property damage.”
“What did I damage?” It was I who had the broken heel, thanks in part to landing on that hard tile floor.
“The bathroom window. The jamb’s broken. That’s how I figured out someone had broken in.”
I crossed my legs and tried to act nonchalant. “I had a crazy idea that Stinky might be hiding out in the Union Hall. Obviously, I was wrong.”
“How do you reason?”
“Look around.” The place was terrifically silent. “The hall is locked tight. That bathroom window hadn’t been opened in years and there are too many people here during the week for Stinky to hide out successfully.”
“So when Stinky stopped by in Lehigh, he didn’t say, ‘Hey, Bubbles, why don’t you meet me at the Union Hall?’ ”
“No. I can honestly say he did not ask me to meet him in the Union Hall.” Okay. That was a bit of a fib, since Stinky had said the Hoagie Ho and the Hoagie Ho was at the Union Hall. “But I came here using my own stupid logic and it was wrong.”
Donohue was old, I thought, seemingly older than when I first met him. His hair was snowy white and thinning. His skin was pink like a baby’s and his irises had that weird clear blue rim old folks get when they’re fading away. He should retire.
“Okay, Bubbles. I’ll buy it this time. But I’ve got a piece of advice for you.” He put a fat hand on my shoulder. “Go home. This afternoon we’re holding a press conference, the coroner and me, to say that we believe Hugh McMullen shot Bud Price over some business dealings. They had conflicts over the Dead Zone, like your story pointed out. The show’s over, in other words.”
I had already whipped out my notebook and was writing this down. “That doesn’t explain who sent me the fax and Stiletto the e-mail Wednesday night.”
“You’re right. That’s why I need to talk to Koolball. So if you know where Stinky is, if you have been given any information about his whereabouts, you have a legal obligation to let me know.”
I could feel Donohue’s piercing gaze on me, but I just kept writing, afraid that if my eyes met his, I’d be forced to blab. “And what about Chrissy Price?” I continued, still focusing on my notes. “Who took her?”
“No one.” Donohue stood and cracked his knuckles. “Chrissy Price is a case and a half by herself. From what I’ve learned about her personal history, she couldn’t stay faithful if she was shackled to her wedding bed. The manager of Le Circe called me after he talked to Chrissy’s daughter. Seems Chrissy left the restaurant last night with some guy in a blue sports car. Never returned to collect her own car or her family. I’ll tell you, my heart goes out to her kid.”
He pointed to my notebook. “Hey. Don’t write that. That’s off the record. Come on. I want you out of here.”
“Sorry.” I clicked off my pen and slid off the stage. “How did you find out Zeke Allen was tagging me?”
“From his mother, though she’s more worried about you having a bad influence on her son than the other way around.”
“She told you that?”
“No. That’s what she told her pastor, Reverend Wyatt, on the phone last night.” Donohue strode ahead of me, the handcuffs from his belt clinking as he went. “We got kind of an open communication policy in this town.”
“Meaning?” I click, clumped faster in my broken heels to catch up with him.
“I listen to any call I want. It’s perfectly legal, seeing as I have a tap warrant.”
“Who gave you that?”
He unlocked the front door and we stepped out into the fresh sunshine. “I did. Hey, what’s wrong with your foot?”
I showed him my boot.
“Jumping Jehovah. What the heck is going on?”
“Broken heel,” I said.
“No, I mean over there.” Donohue
pointed toward the lawn in front of St. Stanislaw’s Church where a dozen women in flowered dresses, wrinkled pantyhose, aprons and hairnets were gathered around what appeared to be a hulking referee and her biker sidekick. Vilnia was wagging her finger toward the odd pair, who pulled out rolling pins and started waving them about like French swords.
“That’s my mother, her friend, Genevieve, and Vilnia,” I said with a sigh. “Vilnia stole Nana Yablonsky’s diary and Mama’s seeking retribution.”
“This a joke?” Donohue asked.
“It’s no joke. It involves secret pierogi recipes and two Polish-Lithuanian housewives. What do you think?”
“I think that combination could be deadly,” said Donohue, reaching for his walkie-talkie. “I gotta call backup. No way I’m handling them alone.”
Chapter 22
“Okay, you two reprobates, out of the car,” I ordered as Mama and Genevieve stepped sullenly from the Rambler. Genevieve had a black and blue mark on her shin where Vilnia had struck a low blow. Mama had a bruiser on her right eye.
Donohue must have been in a generous mood because he didn’t charge them and he didn’t charge me—on two provisions: that Mama and Genevieve go home right after the Hoagie Ho and that they not pick any more fights.
“We would’ve worked it out just fine if you hadn’t gotten the fuzz involved, Bubbles.” Mama trudged up the walk to Roxanne’s. The cigarette behind her ear had snapped in two and her Righteous Red lipstick was smeared all over her upper lip.
“You need a steak for that eye,” Genevieve added. “I’m glad I didn’t get hit in the face. Pete asked me to the Hoagie Ho tonight and I want to primp up. I don’t know what kind of action you can expect, LuLu, looking like that.”
Mama opened the door to Roxanne’s. “When you’re as much a woman as I am, Genny, you don’t go looking for action. It comes to you.” They headed to the kitchen to rustle up some raw meat. I changed my shoes and then went into the salon to find out what had happened with Sasha and if Jane was back yet.
What I found was G with an orange silk ascot around his neck, using a purple pick to fluff up Mrs. Wychesko’s hair.
“Wasn’t Mrs. Wychesko here just a few days ago?” I ask Roxanne, who was taking a cigarette break by the cash register.
“I know. It’s fantastic. Word’s spread around town like wildfire.” Roxanne sipped her cup of coffee. “I’m booked. Everyone’s clamoring for a G Spot.”
I tried not to gag. “A what?”
“A G Spot. That’s his catch phrase. Like Marky Mark. I think it will go over well when he graduates to the New York salons.” Roxanne exhaled and smiled at G like he was her new pet puppy. “Isn’t he cute with that ascot? My Saturday at eleven bought it for him.”
“Do you know that Chief Donohue listens to Slagville phone calls?”
Roxanne ground out her cigarette. “Sometimes. Tourists call this place Petticoat Junction and they’re right.”
“You have tourists?”
“Are you kidding? How can you resist a trip to the bottom of a mine in a coal car?”
That brought back memories of Wednesday night. I cringed. “I can resist. Some weirdo was going to kill me and Stiletto that way.”
“All the more reason I’m in favor of Donohue listening in. It makes me feel a bit safer. And it should make you feel safer, too.”
“How come?”
“Wasn’t the fax to you sent from a pay phone outside the Hole? Maybe Donohue listened in to that conversation.”
“I don’t know how you can listen into a fax, Roxanne. I’m more upset by the possibility that Donohue’s been tapping into my conversations with the News-Times,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that Stinky told Jane to tell you that you should meet him at the Hoagie Ho tonight?” Roxanne folded her arms in triumph.
Busted. “Well . . . I asked you if you knew about the Hoagie Ho and you didn’t.”
Roxanne smiled thinly. She was ticked. “You asked me if there were any hoagie joints in town. A Hoagie Ho is not a hoagie joint.”
“How was I to know?”
“I think you didn’t want me to join in.” Roxanne walked over to the sink where a client was waiting to have her color rinsed. “Lean back, Mrs. Frazier,” Roxanne said, running her hand under the faucet to check the water temperature. She eyed me dubiously. “Isn’t that right, Bubbles?”
“My assumption is that Stinky is in hiding for a good reason, i.e., your safety, Roxanne. What would happen if you met up with us and got caught in the crossfire?”
Mrs. Frazier stopped reading her Cosmo article to listen to us as Roxanne spritzed the water through her hair.
“I don’t care if I get hurt, Bubbles. I love him and I need him. I want to see him and apologize and kiss him all over his naked, skinny body.”
“My!” exclaimed Mrs. Frazier.
“All right, Roxanne. You can come with me to the Hoagie Ho,” I said. “But you’ve got to play by my rules. Deal?”
“Deal,” she said. “How about a royal blue dress with cubic zirconias?”
“Yeah. Blood looks good on blue.”
I went off to talk to the G Spot.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
G removed a pair of scissors from the deadly disinfectant. “Brilliant,” he said, leaning down to cut an imperceptible stray from Mrs. Wychesko’s flip.
“You need a license, you know. You can slip by cutting one head, maybe, but you’ll need more schooling if you want to make a profession out of this.”
“Not with my genius.”
“I keep forgetting,” I said. “G stands for God or genius, depending.”
“And now it stands for G Spot,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.
“How was Sasha doing when you left her at the hotel?”
“I don’t know.” G put down the scissors and picked up the hairspray. “I didn’t take her to the hotel.”
Figures. G couldn’t follow instructions to heat soup. “So, what did you do with her?”
“I didn’t do anything with her. We drove about a mile from the salon and a cop pulled us over. He took her. I was back here in ten minutes.”
Zeke Allen’s caution about the nineteen ninety-nine Wal-Mart lights must have really made an impression because I was immediately suspicious. “What cop? What did he look like?”
G handed Mrs. Wychesko a mirror and unsnapped her plastic apron with a flourish. “He was an old guy. Older even than Stiletto. White hair, gut. Put Sasha in the back of the cruiser and said he was taking her to the police department.”
Of course, Donohue. He must have found out about Chrissy’s car at Le Circe and tracked down Sasha. “And Jane? Is she back yet?”
“What am I, your personal secretary?” G hissed as Mrs. Wychesko hobbled over to the cash register. “No, Jane hasn’t called. She’s still off with that professor of hers. And I could care less. I got a life to lead. I can’t wait around . . . Hey, where are you going?”
Out the door, Tallow’s press release in hand. It was two P.M. and my daughter wasn’t home yet.
She was in trouble.
My Camaro was dangerously low on gas and I was dangerously low on cash. So I stopped at the Slagville Savings and Trust in search of an ATM. When I asked the old guy sitting on the bench by the bank’s entrance where it might be, he put his hand to his ear and said, “Aunty Em?”
That’s when I realized that of course Slagville did not provide automated banking. I entered the bank, prepared to put up a big stink about how the heck I was supposed to get cash in this time-warped town and was caught off-guard by a super friendly teller.
“Sure, no problem,” she said, cheerfully accepting one of my Lehigh No Credit Union checks. “You look like the kind of woman who keeps her account in tip-top shape. Here’s your fifty dollars.” And she slid the money under the iron grate. “Have a great day!”
I felt like a bank robber.
Next, I drove t
o the Texaco, where the sprightly stepping, white-suited whistling Texaco man skipped over to my car and almost gleefully began filling her up. I paid for a full tank of gas—five bucks—bought some mints, a pack of gum, a Diet Pepsi and a street guide to Columbia County.
I had barely passed the Slagville softball field on my way to Limbo when two flashing blue lights appeared in my rearview. I predicted Donohue eager to wave me bon voyage after such a pleasant stay. Either that or it was one of those Wal-Mart pervs tagging me on a deserted country road. I mentally tossed a coin and decided I couldn’t stop and take the chance. Didn’t have time to get assaulted today.
I zoomed so fast the Camaro began to rattle (seventy-five miles per hour—it’s old). Even so I couldn’t keep ahead of the black vehicle with its better acceleration, which was soon by my side in the oncoming lane.
“What are you doing?” Stiletto asked, the wind whipping through his gorgeous brown hair.
I slammed on the brakes and headed onto the berm, forcing Stiletto to yank a U-turn and nearly roll his Jeep.
“Sorry,” I said after he parked behind me and walked up. “I didn’t know it was you. The Jeep has a top. Your Jeeps never have tops. Besides, I wasn’t sure if you were a cop or not.”
“So what? I bought a Jeep with an attachable top and I wanted to see what it’s like with it on. Maybe I’m getting conservative in my old age. Not you, I take it. You thought I was a cop so you gave chase, is that what you’re telling me?”
I told him about Zeke’s warning and Stiletto leaned in the window. His eyes were blue. So very, very blue.
“Where’d you get those lights, anyway?” I asked.
“Wal-Mart, nineteen ninety-nine,” he said. “Helps me zip through traffic when I’m on assignment. Mind if I get in?”
Without waiting for answer, Stiletto opened the passenger door and was beside me. “Hi, babe.” He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me toward him, kissing me tenderly. “We got a big problem,” he said, after we broke apart.
Bubbles Ablaze Page 21
