Heavenly Hoboes

by Bob Brewer

It’s yer call, Mr. Douglas,” Shorty said after the shock of the telegram had worn off. “Ya know I’m with ya whichever way ya decide.”

  The telegram consisted of an offer for them to come to Washington D.C. and hold a one-night meeting. The fee was set at ten thousand dollars, negotiable, accommodations and airfare included. Plus they could keep all the donations. Airline tickets had been reserved in their names and were waiting, pending their acceptance of the offer, at the Windsor Airport.

  “I’ve never been on an airplane, have you?” Abe said in answer to the Irishman’s vow of loyalty.

  “It’s never been one of me fantasies,” Shorty said, showing a touch of fear in his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, me mind goes all powdery just thinkin’ about it. But, if ya think we ought to go, I’ll put me worries to rest and join ya.”

  “Okay.” Abe layed a hand on Shorty’s shoulder. “It’s settled then. Pack up your stuff, Mr. McDougal, and we’ll catch the eight o’clock train to Windsor in the morning. I’m going to run down to the supermarket and send Mr. Hail a wire. If the captain comes back, ask him to wait for me, will you?” Shorty said he would and Abe left to send an acceptance of the offer.

  Gerald Dodge’s desk was strewn with take-out food boxes and half-drank cups of tea when the staff boy touched his back and woke him up. “The telegram you’re waiting for, Sir.”

  Dodge batted his eyes open and nodded a ‘thank you’. He slugged down a swallow of cold tea and opened the wire. “They took it!” he called out with a measure of joy. “Wake up, guys.” He gave Hart and Chamberlain a few seconds to get their minds in order then finished the announcement. “You can go home, boys. They’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.” He looked up at the clock. “Make that today,” he corrected. “Grab a couple hours sleep and be back here early. We’ve got a lot to do.”

  The following morning Dodge’s office was a hive of activity two hours before Captain Hedges came to the sleeping room to awaken his few guests at six a.m. The captain had taken on Peon’s job the day after Horace’s escapade. But, since the room no longer held the stench of stale alcohol or the foul odors associated with its previously drunken cohabitants, the captain found it an exhilarating chore. He whistled his way through the room opening windows and rousing the sleepers.

  When he saw Abe and Shorty’s belongings loaded like parcels and sitting on the floor beside their cots he stopped short and roughly shook the two men awake. “You’re not leaving, are you?” he asked when they opened their eyes and squinted against the rays of sun laddering through the window blinds.

  “Good grief!” Abe said with a start. “Get up, Mr. McDougal! It’s already morning.” He swung out of bed fully dressed. “We need to be going, Captain.”

  Hedges frowned. “Going where?”

  “Didn’t Peon tell you?” asked Abe.

  “Tell me what? What’s going on?”

  “They’re chasin’ us outta town,” Shorty answered as he stood and grabbed his cap. “We’ve gotta be gone before long.”

  Hedges sat down on Abe’s cot and shook his head. “Maybe you should start at the beginning. Who’s chasing you and for what?”

  “It’s a long story, Captain,” Abe said, picking up his backpack. “We don’t have time to tell you the whole thing, but it seems like the whole town, or most of it anyways, wants us gone. They don’t believe the Lord’s really here.”

  “They’re thinkin’ we’re tryin’ to hoodwink ‘em,” Shorty added. “Can ya imagine that, Capt’n? Us makin’ this whole thing up? Course ya wouldn’t know, yerself, not seein’ the Lord and all, but if ya had’ve ya’d know it’s all been on the up and up.”

  A look of guilt crossed Hedges’ face. “I know, and I’m sorry I never got to the park, but I do believe you. And no, I can’t imagine you two deceiving anybody. Look, fellows, what can I do to straighten this all out?”

  “Nothing, Captain, but thanks,” Abe said. “We’ve made up our minds. There’s a man in Washington D.C. that wants us to bring the Lord there, and we’re going to go. We need to get out of here now and catch the train to Windsor.”

  “What train?”

  “The eight o’clock.”

  “The freight train?” Hedges guessed, and Abe nodded. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do so you wouldn’t have to leave?” Abe shrugged a ‘no’. “Well,” Hedges said, rising from the cot, “why don’t you stay for breakfast then I’ll drive you to Windsor?”

  “Would ya do that, Capt’n?” Shorty asked, delighted with the offer.

  “Certainly. Leroy can watch the place for a while. By the way,” he said, looking at their rolled-up belongings, “if you’d like you can get yourselves a couple of suitcases out of the store. They might make it easier for you carry your things.” Abe thanked him and he gave them the key to the Thrift store. “I’ll see you at breakfast then,” he said, as he departed to check on the cook’s progress.

  With their gear repacked in proper cases, Abe and Shorty stood nervously by the old wagon as Hedges gave Titus some final instructions for the day. “Why didn’t ya tell the Capt’n about the ten thousand?” Shorty wanted to know.

  “I was going to talk to you about that,” Abe answered. “I figured we’d surprise him after we collect it, but I wanted to see if you agreed with me first. I was thinking we might split it up. Give half of it to the Waverly Home and half to Captain Hedges, if that’d be okay with you.”

  Shorty spent no time making up his mind. “I’m thinkin’ that’d be a dandy thing to do, Mr. Douglas. Ya couldn’t be findin’ two more worthy causes. It’s certain it’d be put to good use.”

  “I’m glad you feel like that,” Abe said, and nodded towards the alleyway entrance. Hedges was coming. “Let’s just keep it to ourselves, okay?” Shorty nodded then opened the driver’s door as the captain reached them.

  “Ready?” Hedges said, and slid into the seat. “May I have the key?”

  Abe gave the Irishman a quick glance of alarm. “The key, Mr. McDougal,” he repeated the captain’s request.

  Shorty exhaled the long breath he had been holding. “It pains me somthin’ awful to tell ya this, Capt’n. But yer key got misplaced in the rush of things. But we’ll get ya another as soon as we get to Windsor.”

  Hedges gave him a smile. “No harm done,” he said. “I’ve got a spare in the office. I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as the captain left Shorty dove under the dashboard. “What are you doing?” Abe leaned over and asked him.

  “I already told ya that ya don’t want to know,” the little man said as he hurried to redo the wires he had stripped the night before. “It’ll be good as new in a minute. Just keep an eye out fer the capt’n, will ya?”

  “I feel like a thief,” Abe said, shaking his head and backing away so he could see around the corner.

  “It’s not like I stole it,” Shorty reminded him as he crawled out from under the dash and got to his feet. He brushed his hands together. “There now, no one’ll ever know I was under there.”

  “He’s coming,” Abe whispered just loud enough for Shorty to hear him. “Get in the car and look natural.”

  “I am natural,” Shorty said. “Yer the one that’s lookin’ guilty.”

  Captain Hedges rejoined them. “Everything all right?” he asked Abe.

  Abe shrugged. “Just worried about your key,” he answered. “We’re ready to go if you are.”

  Hedges turned the key and the old wagon hummed to life sounding better than it had in years. “We’re off,” Hedges said and pulled out of the alleyway as if he were the only driver in town.

  A few blocks away Santini was nervously knocking on the door of the Cock’s Crow bridal suite. The chauffeur opened it and Santini burst in. “You ain’t gonna believe this, Tony. Some clown’s ripped off our wheels!”

  Pasta took another sip of mocha and turned away from the window. “That’s good,” he said calmly.


  “Whatta you mean, that’s good?” Santini blurted.

  “That means our problems ain’t gonna give us no more problems. You understand?”

  “Oh yeah,” Santini said as the idea settled in his mind. “They took it. I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

  “You’re beginning to worry me, Louie,” Pasta said, glaring at him. “Now, listen carefully to me. You’re not gonna do nothing. If anything happens to them, I’m gonna hold you personally responsible.”

  “Hey, Tony,” Santini said, holding his hands up. “Anything could happen to ‘em. A car wreck, heart attack, snake bite, anything.”

  Pasta set his cup down and walked up to within inches of Santini’s face. “None of them things better happen. Lo Capite?”

  Santini shrank into a chair, kissed the tips of his fingers and flicked them into the air. The telephone rang before he could say what was on his mind.

  Lido answered it then handed the receiver to Pasta. “Yeah?” Pasta answered. It was the boss.

  “Hey, Anti, whatta you got us into down there?” an angry voice asked.

  “Nothing, Boss. I ain’t done nothing.”

  “It’s all over the papers, Anti. How many people you pop, anyhow? What’s the matter with you? You crazy? You know I can’t have nothing to do with this…”

  Pasta cut him off. “Whatta you talking about. I gotta bad connection, or what?”

  “You better believe you gotta bad connection,” the boss fired back. “Anti, Anti, Anti. Priests? Mama Lucia! The Protestants? Maybe I could understand that a little, but whackin' priests? Every family in the country’s crying for blood. Your blood, Anti, and I gotta give it to ‘em.”

  Pasta was losing his cool composure quickly. “Wait a minute, Boss,” he pleaded in a tone the others had never heard. “There ain’t been no killings. I got no idea what you’re talking about. What priests?”

  “No killings?” the boss repeated as a confused question.

  “No,” Pasta confirmed. “Here,” he said, “Lido, Guerro and Santini will tell you.” He held the receiver out at arm’s length. “Tell him,” he ordered, and they all shouted, “There ain’t been no killings!”

  “You heard it, Boss,” Pasta said. “We ain’t so much as swatted a mosquito since we hit town. I don’t know what you’re reading, Boss, but it’s all garbage.”

  There was an audible sigh at the other end of the line. “Okay, Anti. You tell Lido to find out who’s responsible for this and let me know. I’ll cover it with everyone and get you straight with ‘em. In the meantime I want you back here, and bring Guerro and Santini with you. I don’t want anything else said or done ‘til we get this thing cleared up.”

  “Right, Boss. We’ll be there this afternoon.” He hung the receiver up then snapped his fingers. “Get us a cab,” he said, and all four of his subordinates reached for the telephone at once.

  Roland Thompson had jumped the gun, literally, when he reported the inevitable blood-bath story to his uncle during the one telephone call the Midvale Police would allow him. Rayford didn’t want to run the story at all without solid evidence that the shootings had indeed occurred, but with having Channel Three on site, he was afraid not to release at least a token piece. He had set his teeth into the story and was determined to hang on.

  In the heat of the race against time and television, Rayford forgot about his nephew’s plight and simply sent a runner to pick up Roland’s film and notes. He had the film strip developed and immediately the dim outline of Santini’s face rang a mental bell. He didn’t know who Pasta, Guerro, or the chauffeur were, and Lido’s face was totally obliterated by someone in a Jaycee jacket. But Santini’s features stood out. He knew the face but just couldn’t place it.

  For the next two hours, with his television tuned to Channel Three, Rayford buried himself in the archives searching the old photos and his memory. Nothing about the miracle flashed on the screen, but at midnight, he found what he was looking for. An old shot of Louie Santini. He pulled up the print and read the first few lines.

  Santini had been questioned in the software pirating scandal three years before. Seven of his trucks, loaded with copied CDs, were seized but he had not been charged due to the lack of evidence. The trucks had mysteriously disappeared from the temporary holding compound before the FBI agents could have them moved to a more secure area.

  And, now, here he was again. The mob connection seemed viable in Rayford’s mind, so risking a slander lawsuit, he toned Roland’s report down to say the likelihood of gunfire was imminent and called it in to the national wire service. The story was juggled to the front page a second time and hit the streets in the morning editions under the headline ‘Mob Rumbles Religion’.

  Antonio Pasta’s boss wasn’t the only one caught off guard by the breaking news. Gerald Dodge and his men, Chamberlain and Hart, had opted to spend the night in the employee’s lounge instead of driving home and back again with so few hours in between. They weren’t aware of the latest news until Stacy arrived at seven o’clock. “You haven’t seen the news, have you?” she said, noticing none of them had yet shaved or combed their hair. She laid the paper on the lunch table in front of Dodge. “I’ll put the coffee on, you’re going to need it.”

  Gerald flipped the paper over. His eyes focused on the picture of Pasta and the others. “Looks like this confirms it, fellows,” he said, turning the sheet around to Chamberlain. “The guy there in the back, that’s Louie Santini. Remember him?”

  “The guy with the magic trucks?” Hart said.

  “Yeah,” Chamberlain answered him, and turned the paper so they could share reading it.

  “Either of you recognize the other ones?” Dodge questioned. They both shook their heads. “Stacy, get this down to Gordon. See if he can get a make on any of them.”

  “Coffee’s about ready,” she said. “I dropped a copy off with him on my way up. Said he would call the minute he knows for sure.”

  “Holy hell, Boss, you’d better read this,” Hart said spinning the newspaper back around to him. “We might be too late.”

  Dodge quickly read the short article that basically said the clergy might have already been cut down at press-time. “Stacy!” he yelled. “Where the hell is she?” Chamberlain told him she was on the telephone. “Get her off and tell her to call CBC. Find out where this thing stands.” As Chamberlain ran to the office, Dodge turned to Agent Hart. “Call Manson at the Windsor Chronograph. See if his guy’s got anything new.”

  With the room empty of everyone else, Gerald looked up at the portrait of the President on the wall above the microwave. “Thanks a lot, buddy,” he said sarcastically. “And thank the little missus while you’re at it.”

  In a few minutes Dodge had replies to all his questions but none of them were what he wanted to hear. Dwayne Pearson and his crew were as yet unaccounted for. Roland Thompson was incarcerated for sabotaging the generator. And other than Santini, Gordon could only identify one other individual in the photo---a Jaycee, one Harvey Gladstone, a bell-ringer in the Savings and Loan fiasco and now in the federal witness protection program. A lot of worthless information in Dodge’s estimation. He still didn’t know if the massacre was history or if it had yet to be played out. “Where’s Stacy?”

  Hart gestured that she was on the telephone again. “Calling the local law,” he said.

  Dodge smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. “At least one of us is thinking. We should have called them first.” He sat down and tried to rub the stupid look off his face. “That coffee ready yet?”

  Stacy brought the coffee and the good news at the same time. “Everything’s quiet there, Mr. Dodge. Nothing out of the ordinary last night or so far this morning.”

  “Have you heard from Patterson yet?” He was referring to Jeff Paterson, the head of security at the Windsor airport who was charged with seeing that Abe and Shorty got on the plane. <
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  “Uh-huh,” Stacy said as she poured his coffee. “They hadn’t reached the airport when I called him, but he’ll let us know the minute they do.”

  Dodge took a few swallows of his coffee. “So,” he said as he thought aloud. “Let’s go ahead with the meeting arrangements as if it’s still a go. If things change later on, well, we’ll just have to stay flexible as best we can. You guys get on the horn. Start with the Academy, and whoever else you can think of. We need that auditorium filled by seven-thirty tonight. I’ll make sure we have enough manpower to cover the place. Let’s do it.”