Breaking Point

by Jon Demartino

  "Rudy. It's Iris. I just got a call from Charlie's parents. They want to know if I found an old picture of him in his stuff. It's a black and white photograph of him getting some award when he was a kid. If you have it there with his things, call me. Bye."

  I didn't remember any photograph like that, but I'd look again in the morning, after I'd had some sleep. The second message was from Maxine.

  "Rudy, Honey, I know I was supposed to wait a few more days, but Tal didn't come home yet tonight and I just wanted to talk to you. He did call and say he'd be really late. Something about a meeting again, but...well...you know. I just wanted to talk to you."

  From the quiver in her voice, I could tell she'd been on the verge of tears. I was definitely going to meet with my brother-in-law soon, the son of a bitch.

  The sound of the third voice made me laugh out loud.

  "Rude. Hey man, what's up?" Only it sounded more like 'whassup'. "Long time no hear, buddy. Good thing your loving sister invited me for Thanksgiving or I'd have been sitting here in Pittsburgh eating my turkey from an aluminum tray next week. Call me as soon as you can, man, so we can plan our attack on the Midwest."

  That was Woody. Even if I hadn't known his voice so well, I'd have recognized the traditional rendering of Pittsburgh as "Picksburgh." But his voice was more familiar to me than anybody's except Maxine's. Woody and I had been buddies since junior high and he'd just about lived at our house most of the time. The years I'd spent mooning around with Caroline, Woody had been my right-hand man at the parking garage, helping me to keep it going after my dad died. When I'd left Pittsburgh, he was the bouncer at O'Reilly's down in the Strip District, on the east side of the Golden Triangle....the hub of downtown Pittsburgh. Woodrow Bloom was my best friend in the world.

  In spite of the pain in my knuckles and stiffness in my knee, I fell asleep with a smile on my lips. Woody would soon be here.

  Chapter 7

  The sky had cleared by Thursday morning, at least by eleven thirty, when I rolled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. Bright sunlight poured through both windows and landed on the yellow table. The red vinyl chairs didn't match the table, but I liked them and the wash of the morning sun made them look even better. I'd been too tired last night to set up the coffee pot and put the timer on for morning, so I had to wait five very long minutes for my first jolt of caffeine. I sank onto one of the kitchen chairs and folded my arms while I tried to plan my day, but soon realized that coffee and planning were a team of sorts, so I just sat and waited.

  My leg complained when I tried to flop it up onto the next chair, reminding me of the parking lot encounter of the night before. It really had been kind of invigorating, I thought, pouring a big mug of the coffee. It reminded me of that time that Woody and I...Woody!

  I'd almost forgotten. It would be about one o'clock back in Pennsylvania, so Woody should still be in bed. That was as good a time as any to catch him, maybe better than most.

  He answered with the gravelly sound of sleep. "Yeah."

  "Hello," I said. My name is Arnold Butterworth of Mrs. Butterworth's Syrup. You have won a truckload of pancakes and if you'll just drag your fat ass over here..."

  "Rudy, hey man." He was awake now, at least.

  "So you're coming to Iowa for Thanksgiving, huh? I'll be so glad to see your ugly face again. What's the idea not telling me that you were coming? Max never even mentioned it."

  "Yeah, well, I guess it's supposed to be kind of a surprise for you, but, hey, your sister should know by now that I can't keep a secret."

  "Is your mom coming with you?" I asked. Mrs. Bloom, who had been our junior high geography teacher, was quite a character and would be an interesting addition to anyone's holiday experience. Her home was only a mile or so from Wood's apartment and, being an only child, he checked on her almost daily.

  "Nah. She's goin' over to her brother's for the day...my uncle Ed and Aunt Lucy's place. I told them I was gonna be out of town so I wouldn't be able to make it. I thought you and me would shake things up in Iowa instead."

  "Aha," I said. "So there never was an aluminum dinner tray with your name on it for turkey day?" Woody laughed.

  "Hell, Rudy, I shoulda known I couldn't fool a big time detective. Anyway, I'd rather be with you any day," he added.

  "So what's new, Wood?" I asked. "How's things on The Strip?"

  "Lots more people are comin' down all the time, Rude. I mean, if I stick around after the club's closed, shooting the breeze with some of the guys and I'm still there at four in the morning, look out, man! The trucks are pullin' in with vegetables and fruit and fish and meats and...cripe," he laughed, "the streets are so damned crowded you can't walk between the semis. The yuppies are starting to show up earlier and earlier"

  Maybe he couldn't wedge his big body between the trucks, but Woody's view of The Strip was twenty-twenty. Originally, that flat slice of land along the Allegheny River had been heavy with industry and the homes of the working class. Level land is rare in Pittsburgh, which sits on the western edge of the Allegheny Mountain Range, and this notable section soon became known as The Strip. It was perfectly suited for the huge railroad yards and warehouses that replaced the factories. Local wholesalers were soon receiving fresh products by both rail and river. In time, The Strip District became the center of wholesale food sales for all of southwestern Pennsylvania, and now supplied most of the major grocery stores and restaurants with fresh meats and produce.

  Of course, the Pennsylvania Railroad's boxcars were eventually superseded by humidity-controlled tractor trailers, and the warehouses were now being spruced up to accommodate the upscale patrons who had "discovered" the area in the last twenty years. A few of the old establishments remained, rustic warehouses turned eateries, where Woody and I used to chow down on sandwiches comprised of seasoned meats, Cole slaw and even French fries stuffed between slabs of thick bread. But we both figured it was only a matter of time until the tables of roughly hewn boards, covered with sheets of brown wrapping paper, were replaced by tiny round cafe tables, draped with red and white checkered linen. The changes would bring civility and for us, mediocrity, to our old stomping grounds. When we were finished commiserating about the negative evolution of the Strip District, I asked him what had been happening in his life since we'd last spoken.

  "Nothin' much, bud. Still bouncin' and pouncin', when I get a chance, which is not all that often these days."

  Woody was a confirmed bachelor and played the role to the hilt. I personally thought he was closet romantic, waiting for a beautiful princess to rescue with his manly skills, but he'd always refuted my opinion.

  "No new girls to play with, Wood?" I grinned into the phone.

  "Naw. Nobody wants to have any fun. I was thinkin' of going to one of those monasteries, you know, being a monk."

  Now, that would be a picture. Woody with those size 48 shoulders and muscle-draped arms, lurking beneath a monk's robe. Well, if he couldn't convert the heathens with his piety, he could always kick the shit out of them. I mentioned that to him.

  "Yeah, I know Rude. I didn't think it would work either." I asked him what else was new and he told me about a scare he'd had at the nightclub two nights before.

  "I'm draggin' a guy outside. You know the type, expensive clothes and a big mouth. Meg was behind the bar and this asshole wouldn't leave her alone. The guy takes a swing at me and I pull him out and toss him on his ass against the building. I start to walk away and I see the guy out of the corner of my eye. He gets up and he's reaching for his ankle, it looks like. I figure he's got a knife down there."

  "Oh, man," I interrupted. "I hate a knife fight."

  "You and me, Rude." Woody went on. "I quick took off my jacket and wrapped it around my arm while I turned back toward him. I get in the old crouch position, ready to block him as he lunges in and the guy hollers at me. 'Hey', he says, 'What the hell you doin?' He reaches out and he's holding out a handful of money at me. He says, 'How about letting me bac
k in, pal?'"

  "No knife?"

  "No knife at all. There never was one. This guy had some kind of hiding place in the heel of his cordovan where he kept his extra cash. Musta thought he was James Bond. Scared the hell out of me."

  "So," I asked. "Did you let him back in?"

  "Hell, no! The guy almost gave me a heart attack. I made him take off his shoes and I threw them half a block down the street. That heel thing was clever, though. The whole thing swiveled away and it was hollowed out inside. He had skinny feet or I would have kept them for myself."

  We talked a little more and before we hung up, Woody remembered one more thing.

  "Wait," he said. "I want to ask you something. What's the word on Caroline? Did you talk to her yet?"

  "I saw her," I replied, avoiding the direct question. Listen, I've got a bunch of stuff to get done today on a new case I've got, so I'll fill you in when you get here, ok?"

  "Right. You do that. So, you wanna pick me up at the airport next week, instead of Maxine?"

  "I'll be there," I said. We caught up a little more and he gave me the flight information before we hung up. I wrote it all down on a stick-up pad, tore the sheet off and stuck it to the corner of the desk. Done. Next Wednesday I'd pick Woody up at Cedar Rapids, on the day before Thanksgiving.

  Neither of us had to say it, but we both knew that nothing had been resolved about Caroline or I would have told him. At least I finally knew where she was after all these years. One step at a time.

  While I was drinking my second mug of coffee, I returned the call to Iris Wilson.

  "Iris. Rudy Murdock here. What's the story on that black and white photograph that Charlie's parents are looking for?"

  "I don't know, exactly. His mother called and said they were going through the albums and there was a photograph missing from one of the books. They kept everything Charlie ever won. They have a bunch of sports trophies and photos and stuff from when he was a kid."

  "What was special about this one? Do you know?"

  "I don't know, maybe nothing. She said it was a black and white glossy print, not a newspaper picture. Apparently she said she still has the one that was in the newspaper from that same day, but they wanted to frame the glossy one. I hope you have it."

  "I might. I haven't really looked yet. I wanted to be sure what I was looking for. Do you know what size it is?"

  "She said it was a big one, so I think she meant an eight by ten. I know she said it's black and white and Charlie was getting an award or a trophy. I don't know how old he was in it, but still a kid, I think."

  I figured I might like to talk to Charlie's parents, so I asked for their number in California. Iris wasn't anxious to give it to me, but I think she realized I could get it myself either from the operator or on the Internet. She sighed and recited it to me. I wrote the number on a Post-it Note as she said it, then scrawled the names Clyde and Lois Wilson above the number. Peeling the page off the tablet, I stuck it to the frame of last year's Christmas photo of the Wilson clan.

  I was getting hungry and there wasn't much here to eat. I checked the snack cupboard and saw a bag of beef jerky. Just the ticket. I chewed a couple of pieces while I looked around for dessert to complete my meal. In the bottom of the bread drawer, I found a stale Payday candy bar. That was almost a meal in itself, peanuts for protein, nougat for carbohydrate and caramel for, well, for more carbohydrate. I think peanuts are a vegetable so I count them as both a protein and a vegetable. So there were at least three food groups right there. The beef jerky was tough and probably used up more calories to chew than it contained, so all in all, this was a pretty healthy meal.

  I washed it all down with another cup of caffeine and went out to the car. This would be a good time to have a look at Matt Barr, the first name in both of Charlie Wilson's books. Hawkeye Lens and Scopes was located along the Coralville strip, which is a bunch of little malls and stores on both sides of Highway 6. The road runs east into Iowa City and back the other way to Tiffin. On the maps, and from behind the wheel, Coralville looks like the western half of Iowa City to me, but it isn't. I drove south on Route 965 and picked up Highway 6, east.

  The store should have been on my left and it was, occupying a one story frame building next to Buck's Small Engine Repair. On the sign for Hawkeye Lens and Scopes was a cutout of a camera, with a flashbulb that lighted up every few seconds. On either side of the two dimensional camera were similar cutouts of a telescope on a tripod and a pair of binoculars. The siding was painted blue, with a bright white door and window frames. The plate glass sparkled in the glossy frames.

  Inside, it was bright and seemed smaller than I expected. To the rear were about seven telescopes set up on tripods. They were pointed out the wide back window toward a stand of small evergreen shrubs that overlooked a pond. Bird feeders hung from the shrubs and on poles set in the ground among them. From the store I could see a few ducks on the pond. I focused the nearest scope on them and my suspicion was confirmed. They were Mallards.

  To my left was a glass case that also served as a counter. Cameras and camera lenses filled its shelves. A row of wooden shelves on the right held binoculars and smaller telescopes and cases. Behind the glass showcase, a red-headed man sat, resting beefy forearms on the top of the case. His burly, Paul Bunyan-like form seemed perfect for this shop.

  At closer inspection, he was thinning a bit on top, but more than made up for the loss with a full red beard and an abundance of finer, lighter hair that covered his arms.

  "Hi there," I said as I approached. "How's business?"

  "Pretty good. How you doing?" he answered.

  "Good. I was looking for Matt Barr. Is that you?"

  "No, Matt's off today, but he'll be back next week. Let me check, though." Turning to a calendar on the wall behind him, he pushed a thick finger across the numbers and came to rest on Monday the twenty second.

  "Here. Yeah, he'll be back in here Monday at nine o'clock. Is there something I can help you with? I'm George." He extended a huge hand.

  George seemed in step with the rest of the Iowans I'd met so far. The folks here were about as friendly a bunch as ever crossed the prairie.

  I handed him one of my new business cards. "Did you know Charlie Wilson? He was the salesman for Regis Optics?"

  "Sure. Just to say hello to, though. Matt's the owner and he did all the buying." George looked at the card for a moment, scratching his head before he went on. "I think Matt did some pictures for him awhile back, so we might have his address on file if that helps."

  I knew his address but the news about the pictures piqued my interest.

  "Sure," I said. "That'd be good."

  George excused himself and went through a door at the rear of the right-hand wall. The door had a reversible sign on it. It was currently turned to read "OK." I went over and peeked at the other side. "Darkroom, Keep Out" was printed on it.

  When George emerged a few minutes later, he was frowning.

  "That's really odd." he said. "There isn't a negative in the file with Charlie's name on it and we always keep the negative." Back at the counter, he opened a long file drawer behind him and went through the alphabetical cards. “I don't think I'll find anything in here."

  "No. There's no receipt either. That's not so strange, though. Matt probably didn't charge him for it. But I don't know why there's no negative."

  "Do you know what the job was that Barr did for Charlie?"

  "I think he made a negative from a photo that Charlie had. We have a little darkroom where we do some black-and-white work from time to time. Then we put the negative in a glassine envelope and write the person's name and address or at least the phone number on it."

  "Would it have been a color photo, do you know, or a black-and-white?"

  "We only make black-and-white prints here, but we can do it from either a color or a black-and-white photo. I remember though, that Charlie brought in a glossy black-and-white picture, an eight-by-ten.

  We
ll," I ventured, "If Matt made the negative, he'd have given it to Charlie, right? So there wouldn't be one here."

  "No, there'd still be some here. He takes a couple of shots of the picture and then develops them and prints from the best negative. But all the negatives, maybe three of them, would be filed here in case the customer wants more copies later."

  "But if Charlie wanted all the copies, would Matt have given them to him?"

  "We usually don't, but for Charlie, maybe he did. You'll have to ask Matt next week. What exactly are you looking for anyway?"

  I was already halfway through the door as I answered back over my shoulder, "You were a big help. Thanks." I waved on the way to my car.

  Chapter 8

  I checked my watch and figured this might be a good time to catch Charlie Wilson's parents at home and ask them about that missing photograph. I'd set the framed picture that was taken on their porch last Christmas on top of my desk and pasted their phone number to the glass. I peeled the note free and carried it over to the living room where I could be comfortable.

  "Hello, Mrs. Wilson?" I inquired when an older woman answered.

  "Yes."

  I identified myself and told her that her daughter-in-law had hired me to investigate Charlie's death. She seemed somewhat relieved to hear it.

  "His father and I can't believe it's possible that Charlie could have just fallen in that water. And we certainly don't think he would take his own life," she said in a wavering voice. "I guess anything would be easier to accept than that, even if he was murdered. Is that what you think? That he was murdered?"

  "No, no. Nothing definite yet, Mrs. Wilson. I'm just looking at all the information and we'll have to see where that leads us. Right now I'm wondering about the photograph that's missing from your home. Can you tell me something about it? Was it an eight by ten?"

  "Well, I think it was. It was pasted in an album that Charlie was looking through it when he and Iris were here last. It would have been at Christmas. Then, after we heard about his," she paused, "his death...well...I was looking back at some of the old albums. The picture of him getting that citizenship award was missing. I'm pretty sure it was there before Charlie had the album. If Charlie or Iris didn't take it home, I don't know what else could have happened to it."