The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  “Your brother also died?”

  “A brawl outside a bar. Yes, he was interested in Dad’s CCC days, but they caught the murderer who drove off. The guy’s in prison. It could have been my brother ended up in prison.”

  It had gotten dark outside. Beyond Niki, to one side of the Sbarro kiosk through ceiling to floor windows, oncoming westbound headlights and receding eastbound taillights were visible.

  “It’s been a long day,” said Lazlo. “Perhaps we should eat something.”

  They ate spinach stromboli from the Sbarro kiosk and drank tea from Starbucks. Lazlo watched as Niki ate, and he saw she watched him, smiling occasionally when she used her napkin to capture a stray string of melted cheese. When they finished eating they sipped tea.

  “Do you have an idea where I should stay tonight?” asked Niki.

  “My God, I didn’t arrange for a room. We can easily find one on the north side. A hotel near me on Milwaukee Avenue. We could go there and—”

  Niki interrupted by reaching across the table and placing her hand on his. “Lazlo, we’re old enough. Do you have room at your place?”

  “I…I have a single bedroom but I often sleep on the sofa.”

  Niki stood. “We should be going.”

  Lazlo walked her to a red Dodge Caravan. He pointed out his Civic across the nearly empty parking lot.

  “I’ll follow you,” she said. “But first, may I hug you?”

  Lazlo was aware of taking a deep breath. “Oh yes, please.”

  While packing his gear to check out of the Casino Hotel, Guzzo received a text from Pescatore. The code phrase “born again” along with the phrase “loaves and fishes.” The former meant there’d been a change in plans, calling off the job he was on. The latter meant he was to meet with Pescatore the next afternoon at the fish market for a new assignment.

  On Interstate 94 heading west, he drove into the sunset. In Indiana he was caught in a massive nighttime traffic jam with construction lane closures. Because the Camry had satellite radio he was able to relax listening to new age music. No sense trying to find an alternate route in the notorious Indiana funnel at the bottom of Lake Michigan. When he finally crossed the state line into Illinois, Guzzo noticed the Camry was low on fuel. He didn’t want to exit where he would have to drive blocks off the expressway. It was easier to exit at the first oasis on the Illinois Tollway and fill his tank. The Camry got good mileage; the gauge would still read full when he returned the car at Midway Airport. Although there had been lines of trucks slowing traffic in Indiana, here in Illinois there was no construction.

  At the Lincoln Oasis gas station he swiped the credit card he used on assignment and began filling the tank. Brightly colored food court vendor signs lit the place. Because of the time involved dropping off the rental, taking the shuttle to the terminal to get his own car, then the drive home, he should eat something.

  At the far end of oasis parking lot, a man and woman walked together across the lot. The sound of gas flowing into the Camry’s tank along with the chatter of a nearby idling semi created a strange feeling. Guzzo wondered if the second sight he spoke of to Vera was in play. Vera in the kitchen at this very moment filling a water glass at the sink.

  The oasis restaurant parking lot was at least an eighth mile away. Guzzo squinted at the pair. They paused at the rear of a minivan and hugged. Again, he thought of Vera. Perhaps she also thought of him. By the time the Camry was full, the man in the distance had gone to another vehicle in the lot. Soon a small car and the van drove onto the entrance ramp and sped away. Guzzo wondered if he’d witnessed a lovers’ rendezvous. He recalled Niki Gianakos had a minivan, a red Dodge Caravan like the one that drove off. Yes, the Dodge Caravan was a common vehicle, but still…

  No matter. Guzzo pulled the receipt from the gas pump, tucked it into his pocket, and got into the Camry. Instead of getting back on the tollway, he drove slowly over to the overpass oasis building thinking Chinese food would taste good after the Greek food he’d had in Detroit. He’d order carryout, take something to Vera. At home he’d discover not only was he thinking of her, she was thinking of him. Second sight, everything in life and in death, second sight.

  The two in the white Lincoln were still in Indiana, following trucks in the dark.

  The driver pounded the steering wheel. “I hate this goddamn traffic.”

  The passenger stared at his iPhone screen. “He’s stopped ahead at the oasis.”

  “All he’s going to do is go back to Midway and pick up his car. Hope he does something interesting next trip out of town. And again, this car is boring.”

  “You and your Hemis.”

  Chapter 19

  Dry hot workday, 1939. Dust plumes as men jump from trucks. Barracks, showers, and mess hall. Rock-calloused hands half-clenched as they stand in chow line. Even powder monkeys usually first in line linger like dumb eggs, brains sun-boiled. Could be another reason for listlessness, especially for Barracks Three. LEMs eyeballing Sal, turning with sour faces when he walks by.

  Heat late in the day slow-motioned the camp. At mess, tables normally filled were near empty. Four men sat together at the table farthest from chow line, eating listlessly.

  Nick Gianakos: “Bela, you give haircuts. What’s Sal say while you’re cutting his?”

  Bela Voronko: “Warnings not to nip ears.”

  Jimmy Phillips: “Nothing about Henry?”

  George Minkus: “Or what he does outside the barracks at night?”

  Bela: “Nothing.”

  George: “Carl the LEM says he’s leaving camp for good because Sal blows his wig.”

  Nick: “Not only with us, or LEMs. Scuttlebutt’s the Superintendent’s paid off.”

  Bela: “Anything from you, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy: “I wrote Henry’s mom. He never got home. I heard in the administration staff meeting a girl from Rock Springs came home bloodied. A minister drove down to talk to the superintendent.”

  George: “What the hell should we do, Bela?”

  Jimmy: Yeah, Bela. You said you had experience with bad eggs over there.”

  Bela: “A boy who grew up near Zhitomer. His family, starved by Stalin’s famine, moved to our village. He had a little sister who did not come with them. Somewhere along the way the boy discovered that, during the famine, his parents pickled his sister in a jar.”

  The chewing stopped.

  George: “You’re grifting us.”

  Bela: “The boy may have seen the jar. He may have eaten. He could not be trusted, especially with girls. One girl from the village disappeared, then another, no bodies found. One day, when he approached a girl much younger, we—How do you say?— intercepted.”

  Silence.

  Bela: “We were not proud of our actions. Yet we knew it must be done. He was a poor swimmer. We set him afloat in the river.”

  Jimmy: “You mean you—?”

  Bela: “Better you not say it. Something was done and not spoken of in the village. I’m sorry if I shock you. Understand, we all agreed.”

  George: “You think a guy like Sal the Stiletto would—”

  Nick: “Sal thinks he can do anything. A guy in my crew got a pep pill from him.”

  Jimmy: “What can we do?”

  Bela: “We watch him.”

  Jimmy: “If he does something, will you take over?”

  Bela: “If a decision is made, it must be unanimous.”

  Tables near the four began filling, a few slid in at the other end of theirs. The senior Barracks Two leader came over and whispered to Jimmy, who nodded approval. The Barracks Two leader went to the front near the chow line, whistled for attention, and announced that because of the heat dinner would be extended a half-hour. He also reminded everyone to drink plenty and pointed out an extra jug of lemonade being carried in by the mess crew.

  At a table
near the chow line, Sal laughed loudly as he grabbed a glass of lemonade from the guy across from him. The young men at Sal’s table ate quickly, took their trays to the dump table, got some lemonade and, although they were obviously tired, did not sit back down.

  Salvatore Cavallo sat in his living room that night. Francesca had gone to dinner with a crony and was already in the bedroom with the door closed and the radio on. Cavallo could hear the radio through the closed door. Earlier it had been an FDR fireside chat, after that swing music, now longhair stuff.

  Uncle Rosario called earlier, asking Cavallo again to talk sense into Little Sal; he’d been trouble according to both the boys and the paid off CCC district officer. The boys were supposed to pick Sal up and put him on a phone. Cavallo told Francesca before she closed the bedroom door he was expecting an important call on the new business line. A while ago he phoned Lonzo next door and asked him to come over for a drink.

  Lonzo wore his usual suit and tie, but not his driving hat. Lonzo sat across from Cavallo, the small table containing bourbon, two glasses, and the telephone between them. He and Lonzo toasted to nothing. It was good bourbon. Rather than slug it down, they sipped.

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Cavallo.

  “You want I should go there?”

  “We got four boys there now. Has he ever done what you told him?”

  “Only time was when your uncle was around.”

  “And now my uncle’s on my ass wanting me to do something.”

  “Maybe he should get on the phone with Little Sal.”

  “Maybe,” said Cavallo. “I don’t mind taking over when it comes to business. Dealing with Little Sal’s different.”

  “I understand,” said Lonzo.

  When the phone rang, Cavallo let it ring.

  “You want I should get it?” asked Lonzo.

  “Yeah, when you do, let the boys know I ain’t happy. Tell’em to put Sal on and maybe you can warn him I ain’t happy before you give it to me.”

  Lonzo nodded and answered the phone.

  “This is Lonzo.”

  “Look, the boss ain’t happy. Put him on with me first.”

  “Sal? Yeah, it’s Lonzo.”

  “Not so good.”

  “I mean not so good because you ain’t doin’ your uncle or your old man any good.”

  “Look, kid, we been through a lot and I gotta tell you something.”

  “Don’t smart-ass me. I’m trying to do you some good!”

  Listening to one side of the conversation was the shits. Cavallo grabbed the phone.

  “Sal, you goddamn shit! I want listening on your end.”

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  “You been fighting.”

  “So?”

  “I’m not finished! You’re supposed listen!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “I got four boys out there watching your punk ass! Uncle Rosario’s pissed! You got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, here it is. One more complaint, I’m gonna have a hell of a time convincing Uncle Rosario not to send some of his boys to replace my boys. You get what I’m talkin’ about?…Yeah, don’t answer. You know what I’m talkin’ about. We got men at camp paid off. We got our boys out there. Quit the goddamn fighting. Sew some normal wild oats. You got free time, especially on weekends. The boys’ll let you use a car. Your mom ain’t here so I can talk about wild oats, Sal. Be a goddamn normal kid for a change!”

  No answer.

  “You understand me?”

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  “You remember the blood oath? Plenty of others’d like to be in your shoes. Some still in the old country dealing with Mussolini. This is family. You’re our future. Look good out there so you can take over the family business and make it legit. You’ll have all the luxuries, and all the women you can handle. You got me?”

  “Okay. Yeah, Pop, I got you.”

  It was two in the morning when the Buick Century Sport Coupe drove out of the CCC camp. After putting Little Sal on the horn with Big Sal the night before, the kid demanded wild oats. The others got the word and brought two Rock Spring whores to Dutch John lodge. While the four played cards outside with the radio turned up, the kid had his way with the whores. One ended up with a split lip, the other had some hair pulled out. Both insisted they be driven back to Rock Springs.

  “I’ll be glad when this job’s over,” said the driver.

  “We’re lucky he didn’t kill one of those dames,” said the passenger after the overhead light in the CCC camp was well behind them.

  “I took his stiletto and cleared the bedroom before he went in. He would have slugged them with a hairbrush if there’d been one.”

  “We should let the old man know he’s a psycho.”

  “Yeah? Who’s going to do that?”

  “You see the wad of hair he pulled out of that broad’s head?”

  “Manny’ll give her extra.”

  “If it wasn’t for the rest of us being there and hearing the screams—”

  “He’s hotsquat material.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An ordinary Joe would’ve been fried in the chair by now.”

  “Is Manny still gonna let him use their car?”

  “It’s what the boss says.”

  On the dark road ahead, a couple horses appeared around a bend. The horses ran off when the driver hit the brakes.

  “There’s those wild horses again,” said the passenger.

  “Yeah,” said the driver. “Wild horses.”

  Fifty miles north, all was quiet in Green River except for the Ford Model T Runabout with Pickup Body rattling down the street with its load of morning papers. When the runabout passed beneath a streetlight a headline on the top bundle was visible. “Jewish Refugee Ship Denied Port in Florida.” As the runabout headed up the street, its one working taillight blinked on and off.

  The marquee of the Green River movie house was dark. The last feature ended hours earlier. Because of the faint glow from the nearby streetlight, the large black letters against white were visible. “Next Week, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, starring Gary Cooper and Jean Arthur.”

  On a side street in town Rose Buckles was awake, thinking of her upcoming date with the boy named Salvatore from the Manila camp. She met him at the Arrowhead in Rock Springs when she got a ride from her girlfriend. Salvatore Cavallo, a romantic name like in the movies. Maybe he was involved with gangsters like her girlfriend said. So what? The main thing was she’d go out with a guy with a car and money for a change. Maybe the Arrowhead and maybe one of those dance clubs. After that, who knows?

  Of course he’d realize it was a first date between the two of them, so she’d have to lay down the law. After all, she wouldn’t be 21 for a couple years. But she wasn’t a glass of milk either, and it sure would be hotsy-totsy to get into practice for when the right guy came along.

  A week later the weather cooled, and so, it seemed, had tempers. Even Sal Cavallo’s. Paul Fontaine, the mapmaker from South Carolina, said the situation was like the plantations. “Don’t you all know? He’s the plantation owner’s son and we’re his niggers. Boss makes like his boy’s working, but really he ain’t. He gets trucked anywhere he wants on work days, mostly north to the towns in Wyoming for a cool beer.”

  Each evening at dinner, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, as Nick had dubbed them, sat at their table in the far corner of the mess. The proclamation was made the previous week when it was still hotter than hell. Nick announced he, being Greek, was War, Jimmy, the Big Apple, was Conquest, George was Famine, and Bela was Death.

  The other guys from Barracks Three asked if they could join them. The four said yeah, especially tonight because, instead of sneaking out after lights out, Sal had taken off from the job site and wasn’t on
the truck back to camp. There were rumors of him going AWOL, and good riddance. As the four spoke with one another, the others from Barracks Three leaned in close.

  Nick: “Did the guys in the Buick pick him up?”

  Jimmy: “It was a Buick. But this time two different guys in the black Buick four-door.”

  George: “He’s a mob kid with protection.”

  Jimmy: “It figures. I got a closer look this time. New York plates. And when Sal got into the back seat, I seen him holding up a suit on a hanger.”

  Nick: “What should we do?”

  Bela: “Nothing. Perhaps he’s gone.”

  Nick: “I hope so.”

  George: “What about Henry? Anything more about him?”

  Jimmy: “I called his mom again. Hasn’t shown up and she’s plenty worried.”

  Bela: “Do you recall the weekend after Henry was gone?”

  Jimmy: “What about it?”

  Bela: “The work crew from Barracks Two said they found a dead horse in the canyon.”

  Nick: “What’s that got to do with Henry?”

  Bela: “Do you remember what the work crew said about horse’s remains?”

  George: “Too much blood and guts for one horse. They found a boot and laughed it up saying the horse wore boots.”

  Jimmy: “This is nuts.”

  It was late, Rose Buckles still in Rock Springs. Sure, she liked having a highball at the Arrowhead. Maybe two. She liked Billie Holiday singing “Summertime” on the jukebox lit up in the dark corner. But Salvatore didn’t seem to hear the song and kept jabbering through it. Saying things about country gals searching for guys with money and wondering if that was her plan. Not that she was surprised. Going out with him was a way to show friends and family in Green River she could do what she wanted.

  When “Summertime” ended she tried small talk, telling Salvatore the story about Marco Polo discovering fishermen in Arabia drying fish and hammering them with rocks to feed their cattle. He didn’t flinch or smile. Instead of commenting he turned to her and pointed out the new moustache he was growing. Even in the darkened bar she could see it was still peach fuzz.