The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  When the Green River Star reporter interviewed Cletus Minch, he avoided giving details. Sure, he told the reporter he found a hand, but that was it. Last evening, when the paper showed up on the porch, he refused to look at it. His mother said he should at least look at his photograph, but he couldn’t. He’d see his photograph today in town all over the place, including the hardware store, but didn’t want to talk about it. That’s why he left for work before sunrise. Bad enough he’d have to talk to the old man.

  Cletus was rounding the corner onto the main street when the car pulled up alongside. There were no curbs in town and the car, a big black Buick, came halfway onto the sidewalk. The window was down and a man wearing a city hat and suit coat said, “Hey, Cletus Minch. I’d like a word.”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  The man glanced toward the driver. “Me and my partner are investigating.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We got word Irish who work on the railroad were down at the river at night. Some might have been there in the morning, before sunrise like now. A bunch of those damn Micks wandered back to their work camp after sunrise. Maybe you saw one of them that morning, either before sunrise or after.”

  “I didn’t see anybody.”

  “Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. Thing is, we know for sure the Micks who wandered into camp next day were saying things, if you know what I mean.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “Things, kid. You sure you didn’t see a couple Micks at the river, or maybe while you were walking? It’d help if you could say you saw somebody, even at a distance. One of the Micks who got back late had red hair like the girl. Not that you’d have to identify him or anything. But red hair on a guy ain’t that common except on Micks.”

  The guy took off his hat and leaned out the window, staring at Cletus, his eyes visible in the dawn light. The guy had black hair slicked back. He smiled as if he expected Cletus to agree with him. The driver spoke.

  “Let’s go, Manny. He don’t want to help.”

  The guy put his hat back on and straightened it. “Okay, chump. We’re going. But don’t forget, we’re looking into this Mick with red hair and we’ll be around.”

  When the Buick drove off, Cletus saw a New York plate. During the remainder of his walk to the hardware store, Cletus thought hard about the morning he found Rose Buckles’ hand. He recalled the quiet, the sound of the river, the sunrise. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t recall seeing anyone along the Green River except his own mottled reflection in the current. When he arrived at the hardware store the sun was coming up.

  Summer heat had Uncle Rosario laid up at home, a night nurse ordered in by the doctor, and an extra young man from the family keeping electric fans running. The young man tending the fans was named Felice. Long ago he insisted he be called Felix. Unfortunately, his given name Felice was pinned on him, pronounced in a feminine way throughout adolescence and high school. Maybe the taunting made Felice into an odd job runner, maybe not. One thing Felice could be trusted for was to keep anything he heard to himself.

  Uncle Rosario was in bed, a lunch tray off to the side with a half-eaten salami and cheese sandwich sticking out its tongue. A bottle of bourbon on the nightstand along with an ashtray with a smashed-out cigar butt. When Cavallo asked if he’d started smoking and drinking again, Uncle Rosario smiled.

  “The butt and bottle remind me how things were. Felice and the nurse try to take them away, but a man needs memories. Like being with a woman, nothing but memory.”

  Felice sat in a chair in the corner. He said nothing.

  When Cavallo moved closer to the bed, his uncle said, “Don’t worry. I trust Felice with my life. Tell me, Nephew, what the hell’s going on with your son in Utah?”

  “He’s a wild horse champing at the bit. I can’t blame him. He’s anxious about our plans.”

  “Tell him to be patient,” said Uncle Rosario. “The time for action will come.”

  “I have told him.”

  “Apparently not successfully. Our men said he grows a moustache like he’s some kind of Clark Gable, or even worse, Adolph Hitler.”

  “I told him to shave it off,” said Cavallo.

  “What about that fight?” asked Uncle Rosario. “Don’t look at Felice, I’m talking to you.”

  “The kid isn’t at camp anymore.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “The boys scared him off.”

  “You sure they didn’t do more than scare him off?”

  “If they did, they’re not telling me.”

  “They’re your boys. You should know. As far as family is concerned, he messed with Sal, so he messed with all of us. Your boys are there to make sure Sal moves up, not out. And to make sure nothing happens to him. Tell him he can swing his weight around later.”

  Cavallo stared at Uncle Rosario. “Are you finished?”

  “I’ll goddamn let you know when I’m finished!” After a series of coughs, his uncle continued. “You know I got other contacts out there. What about that murder and the cops seeing New York plates at a roadhouse?”

  “The boys called Al in Kansas City. He’s driving to Utah right now with Kansas and Missouri replacement plates. He’ll hang around to help if there’s trouble.”

  Uncle Rosario picked up the cigar butt from the ashtray on the nightstand, looked at it a moment, then put it back down. “The kind of news I like. Sal knowing there are more men keeping an eye on him should keep him in line.”

  Cavallo nodded. “I agree. It also helps we got the commander paid off.”

  “Did it take much?” asked Uncle Rosario.

  “We got war coming and anything a guy like him can get is plenty in his book.”

  Because Barracks Three was working cattle guards in the flatlands all week, the two from the tan Buick and the two from the black Buick stayed in their rooms in Rock Springs. Instead of needing to watch Little Sal during the day, they rested up and one or the other pair met up with him at night.

  Tonight it was the tan Buick with the big-shouldered driver and the stocky passenger who waited outside camp where a small side road from the canyon opened onto the main road.

  “I’m glad we got new plates,” said the driver.

  “Who’s gonna come along this god-forsaken road in the middle of the night?”

  “The cops, maybe. Especially after that girl.”

  “You think it was a road crew Mick like the guy in the bar said?”

  “How the hell do I know?”

  “The other boys let Sal use their car,” said the stocky passenger.

  “We didn’t give him our car,” said the big-shouldered driver. “That’s all that counts.”

  “We’re the ones on the new phone number to the boss every day. The other guys never talk to the boss.”

  “They talk to the uncle. He’s old but keeps his nose wet. We get that note shoved under our door. Says call a number and next thing I know I’m on the phone with the uncle. We got one phone number in your wallet that goes through Lonzo, and now I got this number in my wallet that goes to Rosario. Big Sal hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. Rosario says shake up the barracks leader and I got no choice.”

  “What did you tell the kid by the way?”

  “I said be careful how he treats Sal because accidents happen.”

  “I don’t see how what you said gives the kid—What’s his name?”

  “Jimmy Phillips.”

  “I don’t see how what you said gives Jimmy ammo against us or Sal.”

  “I hope not,” said the driver. “Gives me the creeps not knowing what Little Sal’ll do next. Like for instance, here we are waiting for a kid who takes pep pills so he can stay up, and we’re not even sure if he might have been the one who—”

  “Shit.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah, shit’s the only word for it.” The driver started the Buick and flipped on the radio to warm up.

  “Are we leaving?”

  The driver turned the lit radio dial back and forth. “No, I’d rather listen to music on the Motorola than think and I don’t want to kill the battery.”

  “Guy at the bar says the only station’s in Rock Springs and it goes off at midnight.”

  “Remember when the New York Auto Club had that thing about the car radio being dangerous because it distracts the driver?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Not as dangerous as a kid on the loose, that’s for sure.”

  A distant station buried in static played what sounded like Hawaiian music and driver shut off the Buick’s ignition.”

  Inside the Motorola, the glow of vacuum tubes slowly went from orange to black as the static faded.

  Snoring in Barracks Three, along with the ticking of the potbelly stove, had a rhythm. Perhaps a tune he’d heard on the recreation hall record player. Glenn Miller—“Moonlight Serenade” or “In The Mood.” Benny Goodman—“Stompin’ At The Savoy” or “Sing, Sing, Sing.” Definitely not Kate Smith’s “God Bless America.” Too much like marching. A guy trying to sleep in a barracks didn’t care to think of marching.

  With “God Bless America” in his brain, Bela closed his eyes, recalling, during his journey to the US, young men in brown shirts marching up and down the Pilsen station platform. By giving Sudetenland to Germany, Hitler was supposed to have been happy singing his “Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber Alles.”

  Bela recalled sitting in a window seat of the stopped train, opening his passport and staring at himself. He wore the same clothes he’d worn when his passport photo was taken at the American Consulate in Prague—shirt, tie, sweater and Uncle Sandor’s wool funeral suit. Two brown shirts came aboard, staring angrily at each passenger for a moment before moving on. Bela wondered if they would have moved on had he been wearing his original threadbare suit, the one switched with Uncle Sandor’s newer funeral suit before the coffin was sealed.

  As the snoring and ticking of the potbelly continued, Bela lifted himself onto his elbows and looked toward the far end of the barracks. From his point of view, the placement of the window was directly above Sal Cavallo’s bunk. The window faced the latrine building where a single bulb over the door gave off a glow bright enough for Bela to see what Sal was up to. Previous nights, he’d seen Sal get dressed and sneak out. Later, after the low rumble of a motor and wheels on gravel, Sal would return, get undressed and get back into his bunk.

  Bela lay back and closed his eyes, recalling a folk tune from home and trying to make it fit the rhythm of the snoring and the potbelly’s ticking. He recalled the smell of Nina’s hair and tried to block out the smell of socks and trousers drying above bunks in the rising heat of the stove. He tried to recall the feel of Nina’s breasts and hips against him, but it was no use. He let go of himself, lifted himself on his elbows again, and wondered what time it was. Thinking of Nina’s hair had made Bela recall the strands of his aunt’s gray hair still in the vest pocket of Uncle Sandor’s suit packed in the bottom of his footlocker, hair that was supposed to be buried with his uncle.

  With most guys being homesick, stories of home made the rounds. Even Sal had one. Throwing a baseball bat after a bad pitch and accidentally killing a rabbit. Bela remembered Sal burying his head in his hands, the rest of the guys looking sad until, suddenly, Sal uncovered his face and laughed like a hyena, saying they were chumps. No one was supposed to make fun of Sal the way Henry had that night. Next day Sal hit Henry in the head with a shovel, claiming it was accidental even though he’d been swinging it like a baseball bat. And of course after the grudge match, Henry disappeared.

  Something moved on the other side of the barracks. Bela sat up. Low in the light from the window, both Sal’s hands were upraised. Sal held something in one hand. After an audible click, the stiletto blade reflected light from the latrine building.

  The driver of the Buick started the engine.

  “We leaving?” asked the passenger.

  “Ain’t it obvious he’s not coming out tonight?”

  “Suppose he does after we’re gone?”

  “The hell with him. Least he could do is tell us which nights he wants to jaw.”

  “I’m glad we weren’t the ones he asked about using the car.”

  “Yeah, but we’re the one’s picked up Manny when he dropped theirs off.”

  As they drove into the night, the Motorola’s vacuum tubes oranged up and static came from the loudspeaker.

  Again, Cavallo was summoned to Uncle Rosario’s bedside, Felice in the room with them.

  “You know what Al discovered after delivering the license plates?”

  “Al called you?”

  “I told him to call me. What he said is the important thing. A boy was taken care of as a favor to your son. Everything is being done for your son. He’s the family legacy’s male heir. It’s a commitment he must keep, regardless of his tendency to be headstrong. Do you agree?”

  Cavallo was silent.

  Uncle Rosario sat taller in bed, his face beet red, hands trembling. “I need an answer! Do you agree making a way to the top of the ladder must be done at all costs?”

  “I agree.”

  “Then you must speak to him!”

  When Uncle Rosario collapsed back on his pile of pillows and grasped his chest, Felice ran to his bedside.

  But Cavallo’s uncle wasn’t finished. He motioned Felice away with one hand and motioned Cavallo closer with the other.

  “Listen to me,” he whispered. “Your grandfather and I worked many years to create the legacy. We put it in the Cavallo name. Perhaps it will help matters—”

  His uncle spent some time coughing up phlegm before continuing.

  “Perhaps it will help matters with your son if you reveal details of the legacy.”

  “Details?”

  Uncle Rosario spoke more loudly. “Yes, the aspirin company! The heroin your grandfather bought didn’t come from the Orient. The heroin came from the stockpile! Without the aspirin company’s knowledge your grandfather—”

  Another round of coughing.

  “You know all this. I repeat it for Felice’s benefit. Your grandfather created so much wealth, the family didn’t know what to do with it. Perhaps if your son knows the extent of it—”

  “You want me to tell my son?”

  “His desire for power could be the key.”

  Uncle Rosario turned to Felice. “Bring me the silver box on the desk…Yes, that one.”

  Felice brought a small silver box. Uncle Rosario opened it and held up a key. “It opens a deposit box in a London bank.

  “What’s in the deposit box?”

  Uncle Rosario smiled. “Directions to the fortune.”

  “Directions?” asked Cavallo.

  Uncle Rosario pulled Cavallo by his sleeve and whispered wetly into his ear. “Directions to a place safe from even this madman Hitler. Swiss banks.”

  “The box in London, what’s the name of the bank?”

  “Bank Leumi.”

  “Can you tell me the a name on the box?”

  Uncle Rosario smiled, one side of his mouth drooling. “Mrs. Shulamit Weizman.”

  “A Jew?”

  “In a Jewish bank! Clever, yes?” And with that Uncle Rosario launched himself into such a coughing fit, Felice retrieved a bowl from beneath the bed and placed it before the old man who continued coughing, spitting, and laughing.

  Next day, the two who’d waited for Little Sal the night before spent the afternoon in their room trying to catch up on sleep. They’d finished their morning business with the camp superintendent, delivering the packet of cash and getting him to agree that no matter what Sal did or how he acted, the superintendent
would “take care of it.” They told him not to worry. War was coming and guys like him were needed. If he wanted to do his part for his country and not be buried either in the ground or in a penitentiary, he’d “take care of things” when it came to Sal.

  After the morning putting the superintendent in the pressure cooker, both tried to relax. Although they were dressed in slacks and shirts, they’d removed jackets and shoulder holsters and loosened their ties. The taller man, who usually drove, lay on one of the room beds. The stocky guy, who’d come back from picking up sandwiches at the inn’s café, sat on the sofa.

  “What kind of sandwiches you get?”

  “Ham on rye and salami on rye. Both cut in half.”

  “Cheese and mustard?”

  “Yeah, on both.”

  The tall guy joined his partner on the sofa. “Ain’t you gonna open the bag?”

  “Something I should tell you first,” said the stocky guy.

  “Tell me which sandwich is ham. I’m tired of salami.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “The other boys who were told to pick up Sal this morning are back. They took Sal to a phone. After the kid gets off the phone he goes nuts.”

  “More nuts than he is?”

  “During the drive back to camp, the kid says things about Jews and a bank somewhere and starts laughing.”

  “Did the boys say anything about change in plans?”

  “Nothing. Even worse was what Big Sal told them after the kid got off the phone. Says we do what the kid says or we might as well dig our graves out here.”

  “Where’s Sal now?”

  “In the barracks by himself. What worries me is, if he gets in trouble, we’re in trouble.”

  “Maybe he’ll kill himself.”

  “He can’t. When the boss is gone he’s next in line.”

  Late that afternoon at dinner, the superintendent confronted the Four Horsemen. He pulled a chair to the end of their long table.