Siebert had spoken to “The Nose” who confirmed that he had already lined up several unscrupulous investors to redeem the bonds in return for a cut of the proceeds. Instead of relaxing after hearing this encouraging news, Siebert expressed his concern about the length of their stay in Parlor City. He was cut short by Bargani who reminded him that Pinky was a perfectionist who worked only at his own pace and would not be pressured. Siebert looked at every situation in life from a negative perspective, especially when he was not in complete control. He viewed every con that took too long as doomed by some unforeseen difficulty and prepared accordingly.
Despite Bargani’s counsel, Siebert decided he would put pressure on Pinky to complete his work before the end of the week. He was annoyed by Bargani’s almost nonchalant attitude and would show that he couldn’t be dictated to.
Upon Pinky’s return from Wattle’s cottage, Siebert explained that any lengthy delay in the so-called bond authentication process might raise suspicions. He was not concerned about Traber who he had quickly pegged as a vacuous gasbag but he knew that Wattle was a shrewd operator who might still be Mayor today if the cash bribes he received hadn’t been revealed, forcing his resignation. Siebert remembered that poetic line about “the webs we weave” or something to that effect and relished the delicious irony of seeing Wattle go down one more time.
After Siebert offered to double his fee, Pinky suggested that if he focused his artistic efforts on the first few bonds and was less meticulous with the remainder, he could certainly accelerate the process. He warned that if Wattle or Traber decided to scrutinize the entire cache, they could risk exposure. Siebert had already factored in that possibility and deemed it remote. Most importantly, in his mind, he had established a timetable and it was critical that they adhere to it.
Pinky grumbled about moving from the motel to the inn, intimating that it would disrupt his work and Bargani would have to be notified but Siebert was unmoved. Stella took the hint from Siebert and utilized her charms to soothe Pinky’s fragile ego. Before the evening was over, he conceded that he could wrap up his work in the next 48 hours, after which Siebert could schedule their final meeting at Wattle’s cottage.
***
In the solitude of his room at the inn, Pinky studied with growing admiration the intricate design and craftsmanship of the bond that lay in front of him. It had been issued by the Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg in the State of Hamburg in 1926 and, sure enough, was due for redemption in 1956. When the Germans had prepared these bonds for sale in America, they had produced marvelous specimens. Oh, it was genuine alright!
Pinky studied the script carefully and felt confident that he could replicate the entire cache of bonds without any difficulty – at least of a quality to pass muster with these local yokels. However, the goddess in flowing garb sitting on some sort of low wall or pedestal, flanked by 5000 on either side with a dollar sign piercing the middle of the numbers – well she was going to be a bit of a challenge. Pinky was almost feverish with excitement as he looked ahead to a long night.
***
The same evening that Pinky and Stella roared down the road to Wattle’s cottage for the second time, Mr. Kosinsky received a transmission from his lakeside friend. The coded message simply said “Florida license plate 13-4655. Please pass on to the police.”
***
Meacham was surprised to get a call from Jerry’s father. It dawned on him that he had never had a conversation with Mr. Kosinsky except for the occasional exchange of greetings when dropping off or picking up Woody. After explaining that he was an amateur ham operator, Mr. Kosinsky said “It may not mean anything, Detective, but I had an exchange last night with an operator down by the lake. Apparently, someone in a black Chrysler has been seen driving down there at a reckless speed more than once. For some reason, he was reluctant to contact the police himself but he copied down the license number. The car had Florida plates, tag number 13-4655. It may not mean anything but Woody was here hanging out with Jerry and when I told them, he said ‘My Dad says no information is insignificant.’ “
Meacham thanked Kosinsky and passed the information to the Desk Sergeant on his way out the door, asking him to run a check on the tags. Woody still called him Coach at home and that was okay. It had been awkward and even difficult at times in the last year, assuming his role as stepfather. To hear that he was referred to as Dad was heart-warming and reassuring. Woody was moving up to Babe Ruth League this year and Meacham hoped to be one of the coaches. On the way home, he drove by the Billy Meacham, Sr. Memorial Field and thought back on the joy he derived from being Woody’s Little League manager.
***
The next day, Meacham learned that the black Chrysler seen racing down by the lake had been identified as belonging to one Clarence Benjamin of Miami. Meacham remembered Wendell Crosbie saying he had served a stint in Florida with the narcotics bureau and wanted to see if he knew anything about the guy. Someone from Miami drawing attention to himself in Parlor City had to be checked out.
***
Meacham was closeted with the Chief and silently pacing back and forth. “There’s not that many black Chrysler Imperials in Parlor City, Billy. And one with Florida plates, you would think someone would’ve spotted it by now other than our tipster down at the lake” Braddock said, starting to show the same frustration as Meacham.
Billy stopped pacing, turned to the Chief and snapped his fingers next to his head. “That’s it, Chief! We’re not going to spot it. Either our visitors left town or they got smart before we did because they have something to hide and aren’t taking any chances. So, if they’re still here, how are they getting around?”
“Stolen?” asked the Chief, immediately shaking his head no. Meacham’s eyes were dancing and he was walking the room again when he said, “We need to run a check to be sure but unlikely. Probably rented a second car and hid the Chrysler. I’ll get Fogie to make some calls. There are only a few places in town to rent a car”.
“Do you think it’s possible, Chief?” Meacham asked softly while stroking his chin and gazing out the window. “What, Billy? You sound strange. What’s going on inside that head of yours?”
“Well, he does have a pattern. Siebert, I mean. He’s secretive, stays out of sight as much as possible, uses a dame to front for him, takes on various names and disguises. I can’t exactly put my finger on it but I have this crazy feeling that Siebert and Stella are back in town. When Fogarty was describing the girl outside Wattle’s cottage, I kept thinking it could be her even with the short, dark hair.” Meacham’s voice trailed off and then there was a long silence before he added, “Oh, hells bells, let me get with Fogie on the damn rental car.”
Braddock grinned but Meacham didn’t notice. He was already out the door.
***
Able Rentals was situated on the edge of town. Meacham had driven past the lot many times without giving it more than a glance. A wide assortment of farm equipment and used cars peppered the grounds and were scattered so haphazardly that Meacham had always thought it was a junkyard. It was an unlikely place for someone driving a Chrysler Imperial to rent a car – but then maybe that was the point, right?
Meacham walked into the dingy shack that served as an office and learned from plump and matronly Elvira Hoadley that a non-descript tan Ford sedan had indeed been rented to a Sidney DelFonzo of Cleveland, Ohio in the past week. She described him as impeccably dressed in a dark suit and matching fedora. “Hardly opened his mouth, Detective. I tried to chat him up but he just smiled. Filled out the paperwork, paid cash for a week’s rental plus deposit and drove off.” Elvira was working a wad of gum and making smacking sounds as she went on to describe DelFonzo as a middle-aged man with a bushy grey mustache. For some reason, as he scanned the rental forms, Meacham thought about Fogarty’s description of the scene at Wattle’s cottage and the man in the back seat of the Chrysler who extended an arm out the window to shake the hand of the former Mayor. Could DelFonzo be their mys
tery man? Meacham called in the rental car information to Fogarty and waited.
***
Within an hour, Meacham had a call patched through from Fogarty. “There’s a Sidney DelFonzo from Cleveland, Ohio all right, Billy but there’s only one problem – he died five years ago in a freak choking accident after a night of binge drinking. DelFonzo was a small time hood so the police were initially suspicious and did a brief inquiry but then closed the file.” Meacham’s mind was churning as he stared through his windshield before Fogarty cut in again with “Meach, you still there?” “Bring the clerk in for a session with our sketch artist, Fogie, and then let’s get it out there along with a detailed description of the Ford right down to the color of the upholstery and the style of the hubcaps. Your little hike down to Wattle’s cottage the other day could prove to be more important than you imagined. Nicely done, Sergeant.” Meacham said with an edge to his voice. It had been a year since he had been energized like he was today and it felt good.
He thought about his speculation with the Chief earlier about Siebert and Stella and it didn’t seem so crazy anymore. He recalled the choking death of Randall DePue at the Institute a year earlier and now a dead man by the name of Sidney DelFonzo, also a choking victim, was driving around Parlor City in a rental car. “Follow your instincts, Billy” he said to himself.
***
Meacham got a call from Wendell Crosbie. Harry Macklowe had already left town and Crosbie was on his way to Montreal. He would check out the nightclub on the matchbook that Big Red had found in her husband’s coat pocket. Meacham had given him a picture of Harry Macklowe and Crosbie would flash it around Montreal. It was probably a dead-end but Crosbie was used to it. “Oh, Detective, I reached one of my sources in Miami. It turns out that your Clarence Benjamin had been somewhat of a local celebrity as a caricaturist for the local paper, poking fun at bigwigs who got themselves into compromising situations. But that’s old news. He’s now the tool of a Miami mobster by the name of Moses Bargani, otherwise known as “The Nose”. I don’t have to tell you, I’m sure, but Benjamin isn’t up in Parlor City to sketch the scenery. Be careful, these are very tough hombres.”
Suddenly, things were getting very complicated for Det. Billy Meacham, Jr. He felt close to solving the mystery of Mildrake’s accomplice in Braun’s murder but now he had a dead man from Cleveland driving around town in a rental car plus at least one bad guy from Florida and a mysterious dame meeting with Wattle at his cottage. There had to be a connection but what was it? Was he stretching too far to bring Siebert and Stella into a conspiracy with a Miami mobster? Would the enigmatic con man be that bold? Was Meacham too anxious to tie everything together and be the crusading hero of Parlor City once again?
Meacham had matured a great deal in the last year. He would press on but he would be cautious and not jump to wild conclusions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Panic at the Lake
Adelbert Wattle leaned back in an Adirondack chair on the deck, smoking a Partagas petit corona and looking pensively down at the lake. While in Tampa, Wattle had acquired a taste for much finer cigars than the Robert Burns’ that were his inveterate companion during his days as Mayor. He had enjoyed smoking the hand-rolled Brevas suggested to him by the bellman at the El Dorado in Tampa but upon his arrival in Havana learned that his cigar habit could be raised to an all new level.
Wattle thought nothing of enduring a dusty, bumpy bus ride from the Riviera Hotel to Pinar Del Rio – a mecca for cigar connoisseurs on the western end of the island – where he toured a tobacco plantation and watched as deluxe cigars were expertly hand-rolled. It was here that he acquired a taste for the Partagas petit corona and subsequently purchased several boxes to be shipped back to Parlor City. His wife was not excited about his adventure into the Cuban countryside but was happy for anything that took him away from his feverish obsession at the casino.
As the smoke twirled above his head and disappeared, he smiled inwardly as he recalled how Braun used to mock his preference in cigars as if the Optimos that he smoked gave him some sort of elevated stature. There wasn’t a ripple on the glimmering water and Wattle gazed out with contentment in the knowledge that his wealth would grow exponentially in the next week.
Suddenly, he felt the ground tremble slightly and then the firm grip of his wife’s hand on his shoulder. When he turned to look at her face, he knew they had trouble. “Edna Mildrake just called. That son of a bitch Meacham has paid her two visits and now they have Bobby in custody. She made up some cockamamie story about Skeetstown that only made matters worse. I just called Neidermeyer and there was no answer.” Wattle had seen her fierce demeanor more and more lately and it gave him pause. Perspiration was bubbling on her upper lip and the reddish hue on her cheeks seemed to forewarn a volcanic eruption.
“Someone must have seen him at the Institute that night, honey” Wattle said soothingly, hoping the endearing name would somehow ease the tension. Mrs. Wattle seemed not to hear and said sharply, “Get a hold of Traber and tell him he will have house guests for the foreseeable future. We’re closing up the cottage now. Neidermeyer has always been solid but we may have to change our plans with respect to Bobby. Oh, and get on the blower and notify Devereux that our last meeting will be at Traber’s farm. Make up some excuse about a gas leak.” Before Wattle could open his mouth, his wife had turned and stomped away. Her sharp, acerbic tongue lanced what had been a tranquil scene just minutes earlier. Wattle took a strong pull on his Partagas petit corona but the taste was bitter. He flung the expensive cigar to the ground and crushed it with his foot.
Wattle was certainly concerned about Bobby Mildrake but right at the moment his thoughts turned to Billy Meacham, Jr. He had gone along readily with his wife on the suffocation of Braun and the coroner’s report of death by natural causes had supported that strategy. Even if they investigated further, what evidence would they find? Braun was feeble and even if they could confirm that Bobby was in the room that night, what did that prove unless he cracked? No, what bothered Wattle was the blunder in tampering with Gwen Meacham’s car. Frederick Hawkins and he had underestimated Meacham during the Institute investigation a year earlier and now Wattle and his wife had inexplicably giving the detective reasons, very personal reasons, to probe deeper. Had Meacham already made the connection between Braun’s death and his wife’s near tragedy?
Wattle had skated with a slap on the wrist back then. Sure, he had to resign as Mayor but he wasn’t carted off to jail for what he considered political peccadilloes. He had stashed away plenty of his filthy lucre in his daughter’s name and was living comfortably. So, why had he allowed himself to be sucked back into the venal vortex?
And then there was Mildred. Braun had once warned Wattle to be prepared for a “different wife” when she moved into the middle age years but the mayor brushed him off, not inclined to listen to the marital counsel of a man who was known to roughly lord over his own spouse. But now, Wattle recalled Braun’s prediction as he contemplated the brusque and sometimes crude behavior of his beloved Mildred. One thing was now very clear to him and that was that he had to reassert himself. Yes, he loved his wife but she was starting to frighten him.
***
As they were getting ready to leave the cottage, the Wattles got an apologetic call from Neidermeyer. He had parked down the road when he saw a sheriff’s car driving slowly by his place. When he snuck in the back door, Mildrake was gone. Mildred Wattle delivered a blistering upbraid that was laced with vulgarities for reporting what she termed “stale news”. “You’ve put us all in danger, Neidermeyer. It’s time you took an extended vacation” she barked before slamming down the phone.
***
When Bobby Mildrake saw Gwen Meacham walk in wearing a scarf that only partially covered her bruises and cuts, he cracked open like a freshly-hatched egg. After sobbing uncontrollably, he regained his composure with gentle coaxing from Gwen and repeated what he had been told. “‘He’s a very bad man, Bo
bby, and he will hurt us if he keeps talking’, that’s what she told me, Mrs. Meacham. And she said I might lose my job. And then she gave me my instructions and told me to memorize them. And I did it but didn’t feel bad at all. Then, she asked me to do a very bad thing to your car and I did it, too, and I’m very sorry so wanted to apologize to you since you have always been so nice to me.” Bobby’s head was down and he peered up under red eyes at the sympathetic gaze of Gwen Meacham.
“And who is she, Bobby, that you keep referring to?” Gwen said softly. “Why Mrs. Wattle, of course. She said that they needed to teach that detective a lesson. I didn’t know what she meant but it didn’t matter. I knew it was wrong, Mrs. Meacham, but she told me you would be frightened but wouldn’t be hurt. Are you going to be okay?” he asked plaintively, point to the sling on her arm.
Gwen’s blood was simmering but she didn’t let it show, continuing to speak soothingly. “I will be fine, Bobby, so I don’t want you to worry any more. But now you can do something for me. Are you willing to do that, Bobby?” Bobby nodded his head and Gwen continued, “It is very important, Bobby, that you speak to Det. Meacham and tell him everything you have told me. He is going to ask you to recall a lot of details because it is very important, okay? Are you willing to do that, Bobby?”
The tears were flowing from Bobby Mildrake’s eyes as he tried to smile while violently shaking his head to signify his consent. Gwen stood over him and gently patted the top of his head and said “You are forgiven, Bobby, you are forgiven, my boy.”
***
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