Stella had seen these abrupt changes in Siebert before and had learned to accept them in silence. After staring ahead for a minute, Siebert took a deep breath and seemed to shake off his displeasure. He put the car in gear and drove off toward the train station.
***
“Decorate the goddam room with them, Stewart. Paper the walls as a memorial. They’re worthless! Don’t you get it? I am sure he wasn’t smart enough to know but it’s as if Braun is mocking us from his grave,” Mildred Wattle shrieked violently. She was sweating profusely and her mop of steely grey hair was hanging over her florid jowls. She had had enough of the simpering Stewart Traber and was in a churlish rage when she stormed out of the room. She certainly wouldn’t refer to him reverentially as “Governor” - that overused honorific that grated on her whenever she heard her husband use it. And now this silly old buffoon, a former governor no less, was acting as if, by alchemy, someone could magically transform the fake bonds and make them authentic.
The Wattles huddled in the kitchen after Mildred Wattle’s tirade. They had left Traber in the back room, where he was endlessly circling the table and taking furtive glances at the bonds. Before their departure, the Wattles wanted the proceeds from the cashier’s check but could not risk going out during the day. They also planned to switch cars with Traber before leaving town but had not told him yet. “Let me handle this, dear. Your approach tends to excite him and we need his cooperation before we leave” Wattle said calmly.
Wattle found Traber sitting in the den staring straight ahead with his hands firmly gripping the arms of the chair, his knuckles turning white. Visions of Havana danced in his head, exacerbating his torment. To make matters worse, he had just been brow-beaten by what Braun had once called “that mannish brute”.
When Wattle suggested their simple plan with respect to the cashier’s check, Traber almost cried out in fear and disbelief. In his mind, Wattle might have just as well suggested that he walk into the Parlor City National Bank at noon, brandishing a gun and announcing that he was robbing it. No, it was out of the question.
“Governor, if we want to at least salvage anything from this debacle then we need to deposit the check today. Devereux will be calling later to arrange to pick up the check tomorrow. Don’t forget that it was merely a good faith deposit for us to hold until the deal was completed. You realize, we are leaving town tonight? We will send you instructions on where to wire our portion of the funds. Wouldn’t you rather have $12,500 than nothing at all?”
Traber sat transfixed as Wattle tried to convince him with soothing words. “The police are looking for us, Governor, and you are not implicated in anything yet. Have you forgotten how respected you still are in this town?” If Mildred Wattle had heard the deferential tone in which her husband pronounced the word “Governor”, she might have gagged.
Traber’s eyes were moving furtively back and forth but he said nothing. Wattle decided to leave him alone for a few minutes. Before he exited the room, he said fatalistically, “It’s the cashier’s check or nothing, Governor. That’s pretty much the whole story now.”
***
The Wattles sat in the kitchen hoping that Traber would come to his senses. “How much do we have in ready cash?” Mildred asked, knowing the amount but tired of the silence. “$15,000 dear, but Dickie can wire us more on the road” said Wattle, referring to his son-in-law who now managed the family’s string of funeral parlors. It still bothered Wattle that the family name had been dropped but Dickie had made a compelling case after reviewing the financials with his father-in-law. It would have been even more painful had Wattle known that his estranged daughter Thelma had been the one to make the suggestion to her husband. It was a bitter pill to swallow for the one-time omnipotent Mayor and political power broker. Whenever he drove by any of the funeral parlors and saw the name Conklin on the sign instead of Wattle, he quickly looked away. Within a few years, his insatiable greed and miscalculations had dragged the family name into the muck. Very soon, he would be on the run with a volatile, unpredictable wife, both of them wanted as fugitives. Future generations, if they ever mentioned the Wattle name, would speak of it with contumely.
The Wattles looked up to see a disheveled Traber leaning against the door like a drunk just coming off a bender. He had knocked down a single shot of rye to fortify himself, nothing more. “Okay, I’ll go to the bank. Just give me a few minutes to clean up”, he announced before trudging out of the room, carrying the weight of the world with him.
The Wattles sighed with relief and followed Traber out of the kitchen. As they stood in the living room, there was a sudden loud and persistent banging on the front door that froze the three conspirators.
***
The anonymous tip that had come into the police station had warned ominously that the Wattles were holed up at Traber’s horse farm and might be armed. Meacham had arranged for one police detail to approach the farm from the rear to guard against any escape out the back. A sharpshooter was positioned in the trees as a precaution.
Meacham had gotten a description of the Wattle’s car, along with the plate number, before leaving the station. As they approached the farm, they spotted the vehicle under a carport on the side of the house.
The contingent with Meacham quietly approached the front and fanned out as he walked up the steps to the front door. When Meacham started knocking, he did so with furious intent as he thought of his wife, still in pain as she recovered from the car accident. He was flanked by Sgt. Fogarty on one side and an officer on the other, both pressed up against the wall of the porch to avoid detection.
The Wattles looked at Traber for an explanation. Almost whimpering, he said, “It could be the cigarette girl from Casa Loma. I made her depart rather hastily this morning when you announced your visit. Perhaps she left some personal item here and came back to retrieve it.” Relieved, Mildred Wattle let out a deep, guttural laugh that made her sound like a bellowing animal. It even made Wattle smile nervously and move back a few steps, as if to distance himself from his wife. Traber stood looking at them, rubbing his hands together feverishly, until there was a second loud knock on the door. “Well, better open the door, lover boy, so we can all get a look at this hussy” Mildred Wattle sneered.
Traber approached the pebble-glassed door slowly and could see the indistinct, shadowy outline of a person on the other side. He was frantic to keep the cigarette girl from coming inside but didn’t know what to say. Opening the door part way, he was greeted with a badge thrust in his face and heard “Stewart Traber, I am Det. Billy Meacham of the Parlor City Police Department. I have a warrant to search your premises.”
The Wattles had backed away from the door before it was opened all the way and when they heard the masculine voice, they sensed danger. They rushed into the kitchen past the larder and down a few steps to the back door. They looked out toward the barn and, desperate to escape, decided they could hide there until the police left. Stout and squat, they looked like matching Hummel figurines scurrying away when they were grabbed and handcuffed by the two police officers stationed in the back.
When the Wattles were brought back into the house, they saw Meacham sitting next to Traber on a couch. The Governor was talking rapidly but softly and an officer standing behind Meacham was furiously taking notes trying to keep up. If the Wattles had been able to hear even a portion of what Traber poured out and what Bobby Mildrake had confessed to earlier, they would have known right then that their fates were sealed.
Mildred Wattle pushed forward, hands cuffed behind her back, and got close to Traber before she was restrained. “Shut up, you blathering simpleton. For once in your life, just shut your pie hole.”
***
Inside the airport, Pinky saw his contact sitting at the counter in the coffee shop reading the newspaper. He took a seat next to him and laid the keys in front of him. They were wrapped in a piece of paper with a rubber band wound tightly around them. In his neat script, Pinky had printed out directions on where to fin
d the Chrysler. Pinky ordered his lunch and never once looked to his side. After a few minutes, Pinky’s contact stood up and deftly rolled the keys into the folds of his newspaper and walked away.
After leaving the coffee shop, Pinky sat quietly in the terminal, occasionally checking the clock. When boarding was announced for the flight to Miami, he placed the second anonymous call that was received that day by the Parlor City Police Department.
***
Meacham was sitting in his car relieved that no shots had been fired but also wondering why the tipster had warned them that the Wattles might have weapons. The Wattles were crooked but they weren’t gun-toting thugs. Was someone hoping for a shoot-out when Meacham arrived at the farm?
The Wattles and Traber were being transported back to the police station in separate cars. Fogarty had joked that it would have been too risky to put Traber in the same car with Mildred Wattle. The way he was jabbering, the former governor would be the state’s key witness in the all but certain trial to come and they could ill afford to have him pummeled senseless by the ex-Mayor’s wife.
Meacham and Fogarty were following the contingent of police cars down the road from Traber’s horse farm when a call came through from Chief Braddock. Meacham had to make an urgent detour before coming into the station.
***
Siebert had booked a roomette on the 4:00 Lackawanna Streamliner to Chicago. The porter had helped them bring their luggage on board but Siebert grabbed the valise when he tried to put it on the baggage cart. Stella was in the miniature bathroom freshening up. She had never been to Chicago and Siebert had told her he would take her out on the town. He had toyed briefly with the idea of stiffing Bargani but knew that was a very dangerous gambit. No, they would head to Miami after a respite in Chicago. Then, despite Bargani’s warning, maybe he would take Stella back to Havana.
The train was scheduled to depart in about twenty minutes and the ticket agent had assured Siebert that they were leaving on time. Stella was standing in front of the mirror in the tiny bathroom, singing softly while combing her hair and reminiscing about the first time that Siebert ran his fingers through her long blonde tresses. She looked out at Siebert who was sitting on the small, two-seat couch, sipping scotch from a flask and watching her. Stella wanted to freeze that heavenly moment and hold it forever but Siebert abruptly looked away as if he had to break a spell. He now focused on the valise, bulging with the proceeds of his latest con. He couldn’t wait for the train to depart before taking a look at those gorgeous bonds that would produce a significant – what was that word that Pinky used? Oh yeah, a “cush.”
The cache of bonds was over three inches thick and Siebert grabbed a few from the valise. As he started to leaf through them, he stared in disbelief. Except for the top few bonds, all the ones behind them had carefully scripted headers but the rest of the documents were blank. Siebert rifled furiously through the remainder of the bonds and they were identical. All of them blank below the header. His mind was racing through the day’s events but he couldn’t escape the reality of what had happened. Pinky Benjamin had produced two sets of fake bonds in the secrecy of his room. Winston Siebert III had been conned.
Stella was smiling when she looked out from the bathroom and saw the fake bonds scattered all over the floor of the roomette. Then, she looked at Siebert’s face and saw a look of defeat and humiliation that she had never witnessed before. She stood away, not understanding what had happened but could tell that something had gone terribly wrong. What she did know was that the last thing Siebert would want now was sympathy and affection.
In another moment, the door of the roomette burst open and Det. Billy Meacham, Jr., brandishing his .38 revolver, rushed in with Sgt. Fogarty close behind. In the cramped quarters of the roomette, Stella and Siebert were trapped.
“Stella, I told you we would meet again,” Meacham said with a fierce smile on his face, motioning Fogarty toward the girl while turning to face Siebert. “And you must be Sidney DelFonzo, right? We have a problem, Mr. DelFonzo. You forgot to turn your rental car back in” Meacham said straight-faced as Fogarty chuckled behind him.
Fogarty cuffed Stella while Meacham kept a steady watch on Siebert, almost wishing he would make a furtive move. Two uniformed cops were waiting in the passageway to front the two fugitives as Meacham and Fogarty walked behind.
As they went down the narrow steps to the platform, the train’s engines roared to life and one could feel the power generated by the locomotive. “Looks like we got here just in time, Fogie” Meacham said lightheartedly, “the train in leaving right on schedule – but with two less passengers.”
It was a bittersweet moment for Det. Billy Meacham, Jr. as he pondered the ultimate irony of what had just occurred. He had captured Winston Siebert III on the very same train on which his accomplice, Frederick Hawkins, tried to escape from Parlor City a year earlier.
Siebert and Stella were put in separate squad cars for the short ride to the station. They would not be seeing a lot of each other in the future and those few moments on the train would be the last time they would ever be alone together. Siebert hesitated as he bent his head down to enter the police car when he heard the roar overhead and looked up to see a plane ascending from nearby Parlor City Airport. A thin smile creased his mouth and he shook his head, as Fogarty watched with a puzzled look on his face.
Meacham walked over to the squad car with Stella in the back. The window was rolled down half way and she turned her face away as Meacham leaned in and said softly so only she could hear, “Did you really cut off your beautiful blonde hair just for him?”
Epilogue
The rich hues of early fall were starting to reveal themselves on the trees in the higher elevations around Parlor City. Billy Meacham liked this time of year when the heavy air was lifted but the crisp breezes were not so bracing that they presaged the bitter cold days that lie ahead.
It would take a while for Parlor City to once again resemble the quaint little town that it was before Winston Siebert III first defiled it a year earlier with his special brand of reckless bravado and unmitigated cruelty. For some reason, the scam artist couldn’t resist a return for what Meacham’s Mother said was “another bite of the forbidden apple” and got his “just desserts”. Billy just smiled as he couldn’t disagree with her homely aphorisms. It made him think of Fogarty’s comment after they brought Siebert in when he said, “Hey, Meach, this guy should have taken the hint from Rocky Marciano and not come back. He could have retired undefeated.”
It was amazing to Meacham how so many other problems got resolved with the capture of Siebert, as if the town was waiting for the devil’s agent to come back and, in some perverse way, serve as a cleansing catalyst.
***
The County Fair, traditionally the social event of the fall, was overshadowed by the trials of the Wattles, Gov. Traber and especially the two enigmatic outsiders – Winston Siebert III and Stella Crimmons. When some of their aliases were published, some people saw Roger Devereux and Lily Sanwhite as glamorous, even charming rogues. Reporters who couldn’t find Parlor City on the map descended on the town like locusts and, to the dismay of many locals, overran the Pig & Whistle and other popular eateries. Even Confessional Magazine send a cub reporter after the actor Errol Flynn made an offhand remark that he might have met the girl in Havana.
***
Harry Macklowe had made one too many trips north of the border and was traced by Wendell Crosbie to the night club in Montreal, thanks to the matchbook clue provided by Big Red. There, the trail went cold but Crosbie heard through an informant that Macklowe had outgrown his usefulness to his Canadian partners and had been dumped into the St. Lawrence River where he was either buried in a watery grave or had been swept by the northeast currents out into the Atlantic. Otherwise, Crosbie came up empty-handed once again in his quest to purge the world of immoral reprobates. Frustrated that he was re-assigned to a desk job in Washington, DC, he quit the Bureau and moved back t
o his hometown to once more serve as a railroad dick and moral crusader. At times, he considered himself a modern day Job and wondered when his innocent sufferings would end.
***
Big Red had her baby, secretly wishing she could name him William but knowing it would be wrong. She chose her father’s name instead and moved back in with him. Meacham’s Mother, poking the pot roast in her new Ekco pressure cooker in preparation for the family’s traditional Sunday afternoon gathering, felt a twinge of jealousy but said nothing while secretly pining for a William Meacham, III.
***
In return for providing the tip on Harry Macklowe’s drug operation and agreeing to continue their weekly counseling sessions, Rudy Gantz and the Clintocks were put on probation by the tolerant and sympathetic Juvenile Court after they were caught breaking into the local auto parts store. For now, they avoided another trip to the Upstate reformatory.
***
Benny Mars was caught fencing stolen auto parts out the back of Devil’s Corner and turned down a plea deal if he would reveal his supplier. His iniquitous den was shuttered and Parlor City’s wayward sots would congregate elsewhere. It was too late for Mike DeLong who would no doubt have found another dive to complete his final descent into the boozy abyss. DeLong’s ex-wife and son arrived from Florida after his death too late to witness the sight of his wasted, swollen body lying in the charity ward at the Parlor City General Hospital.
***
Roscoe Peterson continued to work at the Parlor City Institute but vowed that even if someone was hacked to death with an axe before his eyes, he would not see it. He had been compelled to testify in several trials over the last few years and was considered in his neighborhood as a tool of “The Man”. When he walked out of the Trinity AME Zion Church one Sunday morning, he heard the words “pancake” and “handkerchief head” whispered in his ear and felt that the curse of Satan was now upon him. “So much for the preaching about good deeds” he said to himself.
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