Mickey's Wars

by Dave McDonald

  Mom slid the stack to me. Again Sara’s beautiful face, adorned with diamonds and hooded by mink, and often hugged by Johnny still wearing bandages on his face. Similar photos appeared time and again. I sped through the pages and slid them to Dad.

  “John Larocca was responsible for the Mafia going into Youngstown,” Lyle continued. “He started the gang wars there. It was LaRocca that-”

  “Wait a minute!” Dad yelled. “Sweetheart, do you remember the date that Sara left Bluffton and how far along she was pregnancy-wise?” he asked Mom.

  Mom squinted her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “Let’s see. It was close to Christmas, and Sara had to be in her,” she counted on her fingers, “her fifth month. She was big. Hold on, I remember the exact date because she and I were going to Savannah to shop, and I had bought bus tickets. It was December the fifteenth. Why?”

  “Here’s a picture of Sara at some Pittsburgh Ball all decked out and the date is December seventeenth.”

  “So?” Mom asked.

  “She’s not pregnant.”

  I snatched the photo from him.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  I sat with my mom and dad at their dining room table after dinner, listening to Lyle Fitzpatrick’s investigation report on Sara. The facts were clear as daylight; Sara had never been pregnant.

  I held a picture of Sara taken in Pittsburgh two days after she left Mom and Dad’s. Two days to recover from losing a baby; no way. Sara’s pregnancy had to have been faked; a lie. She must have used some shaped padding, like a Hollywood actress pretending to be pregnant. But why?

  There was a hollow feeling inside me, like part of me was missing. Sara had lied to me and my family. I had been such a fool. I had risked my life for her; invading her heavily guarded house, thinking I was saving her. It must have been hard for her to keep from laughing when she found me in her home.

  And then when we had escaped the mansion, all those tears, was she that good of a con?

  And Sara was related to the mob; not Johnny’s uncle, but her uncle was a very powerful man in the Pittsburgh mob. Another lie.

  And it was Sara’s car rigged with a bomb. Not Johnny’s. Everything was adding up to answers I wasn’t ready to face.

  I could minimize my embarrassment, though not the pain, by ending this meeting. But I had to find out as much as possible. There had to be reasons for her actions. Something, anything to help me understand why she had used all of us.

  I took a deep breath and focused on the little man across from me. His head was down, as he stared at the floor. He looked as if he had just dropped a bomb on me and my family. And he had. “So Lyle, what else did you find?”

  “I, uh,” he adjusted his glasses, “I assumed that Sara got married in Pittsburgh where all her mom’s family was. So, I searched backwards in the Pittsburgh papers, and I was right.” He slid another grouping of pages toward Mom. “The reporter called it ‘an arranged marriage of the Tampa and Pittsburgh mobs’. John Venturini’s uncle, Santo Trafficante, is the boss of the Tampa Mafia.”

  “Oh my God,” Mom said.

  “It’s amazing we all aren’t dead,” Dad added, squeezing Mom’s hand.

  This was all my fault. I had exposed my family to the mob. Dad was right; it’s a wonder one of us hadn’t been hurt.

  Lyle nodded.

  “When I was on tour, Venturini sent me a note, saying he was giving me a one-time Christmas present, a reprieve.” I shook my head. “Why would he, with his influence and power, do that for a man who had been living with his wife?”

  “Your dad told me about that note,” Lyle said, motioning at my dad. “Because of that and the bomb being in Sara’s car, I decided to go back to Youngstown.” He finished his cake.

  “On my first trip there, I’d met a Youngstown detective named Herman Sedgewick. And although most policemen don’t care for private dicks-”his eyes darted to my mother-“ah I mean detectives, Sedgewick and I sort of hit it off. But he was closed-mouthed when I tried to interrogate him about the Venturini’s the first time I was there.”

  Lyle pulled out another sheet with several smaller slips of paper stapled to it. “I went back to Youngstown to wine and dine Sedgewick. After a couple of whiskies and a steak dinner, I got Herman to open up.” And again, he handed the papers to my mom. “I wanted to make sure you saw all my receipts.”

  Mom nodded.

  “Herman said,” Lyle paused as his bespectacled eyes focused on me, “he said that bomb was placed in the Packard because there was a contract on Sara. Street talk inferred Sara was the brains and the brawn of the Venturini family.”

  Flinging my napkin down, I pushed back from the table and bolted to my feet. “You can’t be serious,” I managed as I raked my fingers through my hair and stalked back and forth between a nearby window and the table. My Sara, my sweet Sara, yeah she’d lied but, but not this; a mafia boss. This had to be a mistake.

  “I’m, ah, I’m afraid so. Very Serious. It . . . it gets worse.” Lyle took a deep breath and released it. “Herman conjectured Sara was responsible for the murder of the son of a Cleveland mob boss who was vying for control of Youngstown with LaRocca.”

  “Street talk, conjecture, what about facts? This is hearsay. I thought you came here to report facts not bullshit!”

  “Mick,” my mom admonished, horrified. “I’m sorry Mr. Fitzpatrick,’ she said to him.

  Lyle patted his lips with a napkin with trembling fingers, while every muscle in my body strained to maintain control.

  “It’s no problem,” Lyle said. “I know this is shocking news. And I’m sorry. I’m just reporting the information Herman gave me. And there’s more.”

  Dad rose and stood next to me as I gazed unseeing out the dining room window. He squeezed my arm.

  “Go on,” I said over my shoulder. “Let’s hear it all then.”

  Lyle Fitzpatrick cleared his throat behind me. “Things started to finally add up for me then,” he said. “I believe John Venturini made the mistake of getting in the wrong car at the wrong time. Youngstown isn’t very far from Cleveland, and there are some fantastic doctors and hospitals there. But now I know why Sara and John and his parents came south. Sara was the target. They were hiding.”

  I pivoted around as did Dad, who was shaking his head.

  “Damn it.” Dad slammed his fist on the table, causing both Mom and Lyle to flinch.

  Lyle’s bespectacled eyes found mine. “I . . . I hate to say this but . . . well I don’t think that ‘Christmas present’ note was from John.” Lyle closed his folder.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  The news about Sara’s duplicity took me on wobbly legs out of my parents’ house and aimlessly into the dark.

  Shock left me empty of thought and direction. Soon, though, like a homing pigeon, I found myself walking down dimly lit Calhoun Street in Bluffton; a bittersweet memory lane that led me to Goodman’s Store.

  I opened the door, almost expecting to see my friends calling me to the bar. But the place was sparsely filled. I glanced about in a daze.

  “Mickey! Mickey Mackenzie!” I jerked my head up as Frieda rushed from behind the barrel-supported planking Goodman’s used as a bar and wrapped her arms around me.

  Her familiar presence and ‘Chanel No. 5’ scent made me wonder if anything ever changed in small towns? Except I knew better. Man, did I ever.

  “Frieda,” I managed as she eased me to arms’ length. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Her eyebrows arched, she nodded and smiled. “Mick, you’ve back. Haven’t seen you since you stopped by after coming home. You’re still the talk of the town; our hero. You put little ol’ Bluffton on the map. There were even reporters and photographers here from Life Magazine. They came here and talked to me; to me.” Her hand patted her chest. “Did you see the article and the pictures?”

  “Yea, my parents showed it to me. They only had a dozen or two copies.”

  She giggled. “Me too. I’m so proud to know y
ou. Have a seat, the drinks are on the house.” She motioned to a stool.

  “I’ll sit and thank you, but I can buy my own drinks.”

  “Nonsense,” she waved at a stool. She hesitated, gazing at me, and then snapped her fingers. “I meant to ask you somethin’ the last time you were here. Before you enlisted, weren’t you living in Savannah with some girl and working in the mill?”

  I started to sit down, but hesitated. I looked at the bar stools and remembered Sara sitting down next to me, me and my friends. My heart skipped a beat; so much change.

  I just wanted a drink; I didn’t need another trip into the past tonight. “Yeah, we, ah, we broke up.”

  “Oh,” Frieda said.

  I plopped down on the stool as Frieda returned to behind the bar. I took a deep breath, hoping to expel the memories. My friends and I, but mainly me, had been so unbelievably naïve; Korea, Sara.

  “What’d ya have, Mick?”

  “Do you sell whiskey?” My words betrayed my conscience. If they sold whiskey, I was in a gallon-buying mood.

  “Only if the customer brings it in. Then we’ll pour it for them.”

  I nodded. I had been saved from back-sliding, at least for a while, hopefully forever. But finally, I understood how Sara had been served whiskey. “A Knickerbocker, please.”

  “Some things never change,” Frieda said as she bent over the cooler and rummaged through the iced bottles. Her low-cut blouse straining to contain her jiggling breasts.

  Her words about things never changing found my eyes staring at her breasts by habit, but my mood caused me to quickly divert my eyes to hers, and she was looking at me. I felt cheap; another brick added to my load of personal issues.

  Frieda uncapped a bottle and sat it on the make-shift bar. “The last time you were here I think I was so star-struck we didn’t really talk. You know like we used to. I, ah, I heard about Carl Henry; so sad. How are your other buddies? Sam, Bob, and . . . and-”

  “Jerry, Jerry Meyers.” Names, faces, my friends, Sara, Frieda, maybe coming here, particularly tonight, was a mistake.

  I took a large swig of the cold beer. “They’re not good. Bob’s a cripple. Sam’s in the brig. And Jerry is still in the war.”

  “Whoa.” Frieda glanced away. “I’m sorry. But you’re good, right, Mick?” She patted my hand.

  In my drinking days, I probably would’ve bled all over her. I’d done it before to inquisitive bartenders I didn’t know. But this was Frieda in this little gossipy town. Plus, she didn’t need sadness; she was surrounded by people trying to drink away their problems. She was reaching out for something good to cling to; to share. And I didn’t want her sharing my problems.

  I smiled and squeezed her hand. “Me? I’m great.”

  Three beers later, I paid Frieda for the drinks along with a generous tip and helped her close up. Although she’d offered free drinks, I wasn’t sure ol’ man Goodman would agree.

  Frieda lived close to my mom and dad so we walked together.

  “I don’t want to seem noisy, Mick, but was the girl you were living with in Savannah, Sara, the one you met in Goodman’s with your buddies?”

  “Yes.” I wondered where this was going.

  “I’d heard rumors after you enlisted that she was living with your mom and dad.”

  “That’s correct. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, she used to come in at night by herself, her little belly pushed out, and drink and smoke.”

  “Makes sense. She probably needed a break from my folks. With all due respect, I know I do. That’s why I’m here tonight.” I chose not to tell her Sara wasn’t pregnant. It wasn’t hers or anyone else’s business. And Frieda was known to be a gossip. I think gossip was a criterion for being a bartender.

  Frieda stopped me and looked up at me. “It’s none of my business but . . . well several times she met a man at Goodman’s, a stranger.”

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Tonight would have to go down as the most mentally devastating night of my life. First Lyle’s mind-boggling report, and now Frieda telling me Sara was meeting a man, a stranger, here in Bluffton after I went to Korea.

  Frieda had started to walk on, and I stopped her. “Did this man have a name? What’d she call him? Do you remember?”

  She raised her hands. “Slow down. That was a long time ago.”

  I glanced away. “Yeah. It was.”

  Lips pressed together she looked up and away. “Ben.”

  Her response jerked me to attention. I had heard his name before . . . from Sara. Then it hit me. Ben was the name of the rude guy in the backseat of Sara’s Packard that first morning I met her at Clarence’s.

  “She called him Ben,” Frieda said with conviction. “I remember because he reminded me of my Uncle Ben. He was older like my uncle, bald and a little gruff. I couldn’t hear what they talked about. They kept their voices low and always sat at a table. And they both seemed very serious. Is this Ben a friend of yours?”

  I shook my head as my mind spun. “No. But Sara has a lot of . . . friends from up North. People I don’t know.”

  “Are you a daddy, Mick?” Frieda asked as she started walking again.

  I stopped her again. I looked down. “Sara is a long ugly story that I don’t want to talk about. Sorry.”

  “I understand. I have stories like that. I think most people do.”

  I nodded.

  We walked a little way in silence, and she stopped again.

  “This is where I live.” She reached out and took my hand.

  Holding her hand seemed strange, out of place. Frieda was one of the old gang, a pal. But I didn’t break her clasp.

  “Mick, if you ever just want to go out and have some fun, I’d love to do that with you.”

  Frieda was attractive, but she had to be five or six years older than me. Then I remembered Sara was four years my senior or maybe more. I wasn’t sure anything she’d said back then was true. “Thanks, Frieda. If and when the scars heal, I might take you up on that offer.”

  She stepped closer, tiptoed up, and gave me a soft kiss on the lips. “Thanks for walking me home, Mick. I’ve never known a hero before. And I’ve always wanted to kiss one. Welcome home and good night.” She turned and walked down the sidewalk to a small bungalow.

  I tasted her lipstick all the way home. Her little kiss was special. It helped keep my mind from being totally dominated by everything I’d learned about Sara tonight.

  Now all I had to do was figure out how to do that for the rest of my life.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Upon returning to Parris Island from seeing my parents, I dove back into work, exercise, weapons practice, and more exercise.

  Despite my busy schedule at the base, I had not been able to keep my mind from thinking about Sara. All it took was a word, something I would see or do, or nothing at all, and I’d be back in the whys and what ifs.

  Almost a week later, I received a letter, a letter from Asheville.

  I found the shade of an isolated oak tree and opened the letter; Kate’s letter.

  Dear Mick,

  I would’ve written sooner, but I wasn’t sure how to write a letter where you could see me ‘in my words’. But then I thought about it, and whenever I read anyone’s letter, I can see them in my mind. So here goes:

  To me and my dad you seem smarter than most men your age. You should go to college. Have you ever thought about it?

  Dad was telling me about the Medal of Honor. Wow, you met the President of the United States. What was that like? I can’t imagine. Did you talk with him? I think if I received such a great award I would never take it off. Is the Medal heavy? From the pictures of the Marine Medal of Honor Dad showed me, it looked very heavy. It would probably strangle me in my sleep. When do you wear it? Where do you keep it?

  Yes. I have a lot of questions.

  I probably sound like a bubbly teenager, but I don’t write many letters. I need practice. So guess what that means? I’m
going to bury you in a mountain of letters! No, I’m just kidding. But I will write you, and I hope you write back.

  Obviously, I love history. And I’ve always wanted to tour both Charleston and Savannah. Those cities are steeped in history. You don’t happen to know a great docent, do you?

  In other words, I’m being very forward in asking you if sometime in the very near future, you’d show me those cities. I know; you’re spoken for. I’m asking as a friend. I would love that. What do you think?

  Write me and let me know if you’d like to be a tour guide, and what dates would be convenient for you.

  All the best,

  Kate

  Like Frieda’s little smooch, Kate’s letter diverted my mind and gave it a rest. I had something else to focus on besides Sara. I was certain ‘a mountain of letters’ and a few side trips to Charleston and Savannah were just what any doctor, including pseudo-doctor Dad, would recommend. Plus, I wasn’t spoken for anymore, and I doubted if I ever was.

  I returned to my quarters and pulled out my stationary and a pen.

  Dear Kate,

  I pray you can’t see me in my words ‘cause it’s hot here, and I’m sitting in my room in my skivvies, writing.

  Thanks for the letter. It was both a surprise and a joy.

  And yes, you do ask too many questions, but in a nice way.

  Let’s start this ‘friendship’ off on the right foot; a foundation built on truth. Recently I found myself stretching the truth, and that’s not me.

  First of all, I am no longer spoken for, and I’m not sure I ever was. My relationship with Sara was wrong from the beginning. Sara was and is married, even though she told me she was only in a pretend engagement when I first met her. It’s a long ugly story, and if what I just told you doesn’t make you run away; someday I’ll tell you all about it. But I’d rather talk about other things; anything, even the weather.