“Yeah, after a year of absolute calm, it’s starting to feel like the summer of ‘55 might be repeating itself. Mildrake didn’t actually confess to killing Braun. Instead, he basically said he was getting rid of an evil man, like he was taking out the garbage. He was that unemotional.” Meacham paused and Braddock asked, almost reluctantly, about the tampering with Gwen’s car.
“Oh, he admitted to that almost immediately. Said he was sorry and should have refused to do it. Even asked me if he could apologize to Gwen. Can you believe it? When I pressed him on who he should have said no to, he looked scared and clammed up. You can be damn sure he was manipulated into both acts. Listen, I think he will loosen up eventually so I didn’t want to push too hard right off the bat. He is a little light in the head. In the meantime, I’ll pay another visit to his Mother. She knows much more than she admitted to me earlier, not to mention that she lied to me about Skeetstown.”
“Well, as they say at the gas station Billy, Bobby is a quart low so we need to be careful with our interrogation. We can’t afford to be accused of manufacturing a story out of the ramblings of a confused, lost soul who some lawyer convinces the court was coerced into a false confession. At the same time, we don’t want him to break down under pressure and end up like old man Braun. Put some heat on the Mother. She needs to understand what Bobby is facing”, said the Chief, adding “And what about Neidermeyer?”
“We’ve asked the Sheriff’s office to keep an eye out for him but nothing yet. He’s going to be a tough guy to crack if and when we find him” Meacham said. The Chief was chewing on his thumb when he offered what they both were thinking, “You were right. The road will eventually lead us back to Wattle, Billy, if it hasn’t already.”
Meacham shook his head in disgust as he was heading out the door when the Chief decided it was time to ease the tension. “Look on the bright side, Billy. Ike just announced that he is going to run for a second term with that Nixon guy. They’re going to save us from that senator called egghead who Ike beat the first time. It’s a good sign, right?” The Chief was smiling and a grin formed on Meacham’s face, easing the pressure they were both starting to feel.
***
Meacham could see the curtains move as he approached the house and saw a sliver of a face pressed against the shear fabric. He dropped his head slightly down and to the side and waved at the slit in the curtain to confirm to Edna Mildrake that he had seen her.
She hadn’t heard from Mildred Wattle and as far as she knew Bobby was still holed up in Patchinville with someone named Neidermeyer. Before she opened the door, she decided to stick to her earlier story about the sick cousin in Skeetstown.
Meacham took charge immediately by asking her to sit down before saying, “Bobby is okay, Mrs. Mildrake. We picked him up walking along the road from Patchinville which is, as you know, the opposite direction of Skeetstown. He is being held down at the police station and I have a feeling that you may be in the dark about what Bobby has done and just how much trouble he is in.”
Mrs. Mildrake sank into the davenport and covered her eyes with both hands. She had been suspicious from the beginning, especially after she was advised not to question her own son about the reasons for his sudden departure. The Wattles had been her benefactors and she had always feared the withdrawal of their patronage, thinking that Bobby’s continued employment at the Institute depended entirely on them. Now she was on what her Mother used to call the “horns of dilemma” and she didn’t know how to extricate herself.
Meacham waited patiently. He had seen others struggle with similar choices and it was normally uncomfortable to watch but this time it was personal and he felt no sympathy. Finally, he said softly but firmly, “Mrs. Mildrake, very serious crimes have been committed and I believe that Bobby’s involvement, which is now beyond question, was probably instigated by people with some powerful influence over him. Protecting others might seem like the proper thing to do but if you know anything that will help your son, now is the time to speak up.”
Edna Mildrake remained mute, frozen with conflicting fears, prompting Meacham not to press any further at the moment. He did suggest, however, that she come down to the station later and he would arrange visitation with her son.
Edna sat on the davenport for several minutes after Meacham left, nervously patting down her apron. He hadn’t told her what kind of trouble Bobby was in and maybe he was exaggerating to frighten her. He did know that she had lied to him about Skeetstown, of that she was certain. She decided to speak to her son before telling Meacham anything about the Wattles.
***
Meacham had a message from Edna Mildrake when he walked back into the station. She would be there in about an hour.
***
When Meacham brought Mrs. Mildrake in to see her son, Bobby looked bewildered and started shaking his head violently back and forth while waving her away. Meacham was startled and asked her to step outside the room. He was starting to wonder if he should ask the psychologist assigned to the Juvenile Division to come in and have a talk with the boy. First, he would try his luck. “You asked to see her, Bobby, and she’s here now. What is the matter?” Meacham asked, almost in a whisper. Bobby didn’t look up but said meekly, “I meant Mrs. Meacham, sir. That’s who I want to see if it’s okay.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Con Artist Returns
Siebert had expressed some concern about showing up in Parlor City where Pinky’s Chrysler Imperial with Florida plates might draw attention but the little man was stubborn and the “The Nose” would not intervene. The fact was that Pinky had outfitted his trunk with small, storage-type bins for neatly compartmentalizing the various instruments and supplies of his tradecraft. The Chrysler Imperial was, in a way, Pinky’s workshop on wheels and even Siebert had to admit the logic if not the necessity of the arrangement. Plus, and this was the deciding factor, Pinky had told the man he knew as Roger Devereux that he was terrified of flying.
“If you don’t slow down, we will get pulled over before we get out of Florida. Ease up on the pedal” Siebert said in a tone that wasn’t a request but more like a directive. “Sorry, Mr. Devereux” said Pinky, adding “people tell me I have a heavy foot for a little guy.”
Siebert was and always would be an outlier, certainly not the archetypical scam artist. He didn’t fit into any group and even among grifters and gangsters he was somewhat of an anomaly. He knew instinctively how to play a mark but had never paid his dues with the short con, the riskier sleight of hand with the $20 bill or the dice and card tricks on the train with unsuspecting travelers. As a result, he didn’t garner a lot of trust from his compatriots and some probably wondered how he had been able to ingratiate himself with the likes of Moe Bargani.
Siebert had picked up a little of the lingo over the years but felt uncomfortable using it whereas Pinky was like a walking dictionary, a connoisseur of the underworld idiom. As they passed the state line into Georgia, Pinky light-heartedly peppered Siebert with rhetorical questions. Siebert would just smile and shake his head no, waiting for the oracle to speak.
“Who’s the High Pillow?”
“For me, that would be the boss, Mr. Bargani.”
“What’s the Chinese Squeeze?”
“That’s when an operative attempts to skim profits from the High Pillow.”
“What’s the cush?”
“That’s money to fall back on.”
“What’s the Broderick?”
“That’s a thorough beating which is the very least one gets for pulling the Chinese Squeeze on the High Pillow.”
Pinky stopped and immediately regretted his last comment. He had gotten carried away and was now worried that Devereux would think he was delivering a veiled threat, sort of a warning from Bargani. Siebert didn’t take it that way at all. Rather, what he resented in his almost monomaniacal way was the insinuation that anyone might be his overlord. He had almost sneered when he heard Pinky refer to Bargani as the “High Pillow.”
Siebert would acknowledge that Bargani was a vital partner for this particular scheme but he was still a two-bit gangster with no imagination and little brainpower to back it up. No, Siebert was not impressed with or intimidated by Bargani but he would, like with so many others who crossed his path, take advantage of him.
As he revealed privately to Stella while maintaining the façade with Bargani, Siebert looked down his nose at The Nose, who he referred to mockingly as “half Dago and half Kike”. Siebert liked to think of himself as a renegade, an iconoclast, but his worst instincts and prejudices surfaced when he felt that what he considered his superior Brahmin heritage was being challenged. It disturbed Stella to see this side of Siebert but her displeasure was fleeting.
After some quiet time, it was Siebert who asked Pinky to continue the tutorial. Stella was now awake in the back seat, enjoying the repartee, glad to see Siebert’s lighter side and almost wishing the ride would never end. She had fallen so hard for Siebert that she was starting to romanticize this man whose essence was concealment, duplicity and deceit. Instead, she was forming an almost fantastical vision of their future, living comfortably on some remote island like Cuba with much more than what Pinky called “the cush”.
If anyone had ever seen deep into the soul of Winston Siebert III, it was certainly not Stella Crimmons. If she had, she would have found a dark, forbidding void. Sitting in front of her in Pinky’s car was a four flusher, a chiseler, a mountebank, a sly shammer and a charlatan who just a year earlier had forced a bottle of cheap booze – which she had purchased – down the throat of a sick man and left him to choke to death on his own vomit just so he could complete his con at the Parlor City Institute.
“So, why did you choose the French name, Mr. Devereux?” Pinky asked the next day, trying to make conversation as they drove through Southern Virginia. Stella was dozing in the back seat. “Just a little game we play” said Siebert, nodding over his shoulder. “Nom de guerre, uh!” said Pinky. He was driving fast and kept his eyes on the road. “What?” snapped Siebert, clearly annoyed. “Oh, it’s French for fake name. Figured you knew it”, said Pinky, immediately wishing he had remained silent. “Right” said Siebert, staring intently at the side of Pinky’s head before adding, “The name Devereux has considerable royal pedigree, mainly on the English and Irish sides, Pinky, with a viscount or two thrown in for good measure. So, any more clever French phrases?” Pinky shook his head to signify no but said nothing. Strictly business the rest of the way, he said to himself. “The Nose” had warned him about trying to get too chummy with Devereux. He suppressed a smile as the phrase faux pas popped into his head and hoped that Devereux was looking away.
Siebert was not a man who tolerated being challenged or questioned. He took slights, imagined or real, as major insults often requiring quick retribution. Even back to his college days at Thorndyke in Boston, when he was caught pilfering money from his fraternity social fund, he showed no remorse and was curiously offended behind his icy stare when confronted with irrefutable evidence of his perfidy. Those same feelings existed today as Siebert glanced out the window at Pinky’s reflection.
***
Upon their arrival in Parlor City, Siebert stayed in the car while Pinky and Stella checked into the motel as the Sanswhites, a father and daughter tandem. Stella was dressed perfectly for her role in a modest print dress buttoned up to the neck. She stood back meekly as Pinky paid cash for a week in advance and secured adjoining rooms. Later on, Siebert would pick up a rental vehicle under the name of Sidney DelFonzo, an identity he had expropriated from his days in Cleveland.
***
Traber returned to Parlor City tan and jovial. The buxom blonde he had met poolside at the Riviera Hotel was going through a divorce and was hunting for a replacement. He felt proud and triumphant for having escaped Havana without a companion in tow. Before leaving Cuba, Wattle had advised Traber in a general way to avoid any unnecessary entanglements before their business with Devereux was completed. When Traber tried to brush off this casual advice, Mildred Wattle decided it was time to be blunt and said “Damn it, Stewart, whatever you do, do not drag that blonde bimbo back to Parlor City.” While offended, Traber ultimately heeded the Wattles’ advice and, at the same time, credited himself with sound judgment and restraint.
Traber’s first, and really only, task was to retrieve the bonds from the safety box at the bank. He did so with a certain amount of puffery and they were now safely ensconced in the safe at Wattle’s cottage.
Traber had not been invited to be at Wattle’s cottage when their Florida guests arrived. Mrs. Wattle had advised her husband against his presence on two counts – first, he might blurt out something that might compromise the deal and, second, she couldn’t bear the sight of Traber making a fool of himself fawning all over the girl.
***
The next day’s meeting at Wattle’s cottage came off exactly as Siebert planned it with Pinky posing as a retired banker examiner and document expert. Stella had served as the intermediary between the two strangers while Siebert remained in the Chrysler, always guarded against unnecessary public exposure.
Inside the cottage, Pinky played his role to perfection. He put on and took off his spectacles, often with a dour, skeptical expression that made Wattle nervous. He looked at every one of the bonds carefully, rubbing the paper as he turned each of them over and back. Occasionally, he would scowl and then his face would brighten up as he held the bonds up to the light. Then, he would pull a pencil from his pocket, tough the tip to his lips to moisten it and make another notation on the thin pad he had pulled from the breast pocket of his finely-tailored suit. Wattle’s emotions ran the gamut as he watched the little man’s every move. Above all, he was impressed to be in the company of such a perfectionist, an obvious professional of such a high caliber, after tolerating the likes of Stewart Traber and Woodrow Braun.
After about an hour, Pinky completed his inspection of the bonds and looked around as if surprised to see anyone else in the room. Pinky squinted, rubbed his eyes sagaciously and then looked at Wattle with the faintest of smiles. “Ah, yes. Everything seems to be in order here. It will take a few days, perhaps longer, to complete the authentication process. One can’t be too careful with these foreign documents, you know, but I think it safe to say that I can tell Mr. Devereux that we can proceed with confidence.”
Wattle smiled and said “Yes sir “deferentially, as if he was suddenly a lowly enlisted man addressing a 4-star general. He even turned to Stella and practically bowed.
Unimpressed, Pinky adjusted his glasses and said, “As I believe was arranged with Mr. Devereux, I will take one of the bonds with me to complete paper and ink testing but, as I hinted at already, these precautions are routine and should not be an impediment.” Wattle couldn’t help himself and uncharacteristically smiled broadly when Pinky handed him a cashier’s check in the amount of $25,000. Still beaming, he walked Pinky and Stella out to their car after putting one of the bonds in an envelope.
***
That evening, Siebert and Stella left Pinky in solitude, having been advised by “The Nose” that he could only conjure up his magic when left alone. The entrance to their rooms was in the back of the motel and the rooms on either side of them were vacant, adding to their seclusion. Periodically, they heard the door open and Stella looked out through the blinds to see Pinky go to the Chrysler, open the trunk and pick out some item before returning to his room. As was his style, Pinky would often work sedulously through the night to create his masterpieces. Tonight was no exception.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fogarty’s Hideaway
Sgt. Fogarty was somewhat of a loner who cherished the tranquility of his humble lakeside retreat. When he inherited the vacant, 2-acre lot from his late Aunt, he knew almost immediately that he would build a cottage on it.
Well, it had been a year now and all he had to show for it was the foundation for a rustic, two-room cottage and a completed garage, w
here he stored his tools and occasionally slept on a cot. Still, he felt good about his progress and was determined, despite offers from friends, to complete his little project all by himself.
“Fogie” liked to sit at the entrance to his garage late in the afternoon and watch the sun drop down behind the pine trees dotting the Western sky. Taking advantage of an afternoon off, he had finished framing one room and had just popped the top on his second cold Schaeffer when he heard the discordant roar of a car on the dirt road 100 yards away.
Annoyed by this disruption of his well-earned, serene moment, he stood up to see a sleek black Chrysler race past his driveway, stirring up dust and pebbles. Fogarty frowned and then gulped his remaining beer before crushing the can with his right hand. He was an easy-going, gentle man when off duty but when aroused, he had the tenacious grip and bite of the police dogs he helped train.
The only property past Fogarty’s was the expansive compound of former Mayor Adelbert Wattle. Over the years, Wattle had bought up adjoining properties and now owned close to 15 acres with a commanding lakeside vista. Fogarty vaguely recalled his Aunt mentioning that Wattle had made an offer for her small plot more than once, even suggesting that it would be in her best interest to accept it. She had actually told him to “take a hike”, or at least that is how she proudly recalled their final encounter.
Fogarty knew that Wattle had kept a low profile in Parlor City since his ignominious resignation but, like many others in town, did not believe that he had permanently retreated into the shadows.
It was still a few hours until dark and Fogarty decided to see who was so anxious to pay a visit to the ex-Mayor. The black Chrysler had disturbed his solitude and Fogarty’s latent hostility to Wattle had been aroused. He grabbed his binoculars from the hook and headed off through the woods.
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