A Crossworder's Holiday

by Nero Blanc

  “Unless you’re trying to look for someone—or something. Every person marching is a member of a club—a real old tradition: one hundred years plus, and still going strong … Quaker City’s one of the more famous groups, prize winners, too; Irish American’s another club; then there’s Ferko, Satin Slippers, Hog Island, 2nd Street Shooters—”

  “2nd Street Shooters?” Rosco asked. “Wouldn’t that be a logical place to start searching for your alleged killer?”

  Keegan chortled although the sound was less than cheery. “It’s just a name, Rosco … like Hog Island, which was the location of the largest shipbuilding enterprise during World War One; ‘Hog Islanders,’ they called themselves … Anyway, the clubs are divided into Fancy Brigades, Comic Divisions, and String Bands. Some have real elaborate floats, maybe entire production numbers with sets that split apart … and every participant is gussied up in sequins and feathers—the gaudier the getup, the better—with masks or painted faces. You wouldn’t recognize your own brother if he came up and spat on you.”

  “So you’ve got your WHERE and WHEN, albeit fairly vague.” Belle’s tone was pensive. “Maybe if we can determine the WHO and WHAT, we could narrow things down a little.”

  “Right, but remember we’re talking about two WHOs here—the perp and the mark—and we can’t ID either one.”

  “You mentioned the man who liked Grapes?” Belle said.

  “Uhh … Right … But there’s another possibility.” Keegan pointed to the puzzle. “57-Across, ESCAPEE. We had a guy break out of a medium-security joint up in Sesquichi about a month ago—Tony Starch.”

  “Because of his shirts?” Belle asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Because he liked extra starch in his shirts? That’s how he got the nickname?”

  “Oh … I see. No, no, Starch is his real name. His street name is … Well, it used to be Tony November, but he now goes by Tony Scorps. That’s why I use his real name. It gets confusing after a while.”

  “Oh, I get it …” Belle answered. “November, because he was born in that month, and Scorps, because he’s a Scorpio.”

  “Not bad … You’re definitely getting the hang of it. He’s even got a scorpion tattooed on the back of each hand.”

  Belle sneezed for what seemed like the hundredth time. Rosco put his arm around her shoulders. “You sound terrible. I think we’d better get you back to the hotel. I’m afraid your tour of the City of Brotherly Love is going to have to come out of the guidebook.”

  She leaned into Rosco’s shoulder. “You’re probably right …” Then she looked at Jack Keegan. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. Where do you go from here?”

  “As much as I hate to say it, this Mummers thing is all we have to go on. Some of the brigades are rehearsing at the Convention Center. I know a few guys, inside guys … I’ll see if anything fishy’s going on.”

  “Mind if I tag along?” Rosco asked.

  “Be my guest. I need all the help I can get … And, Belle, you keep the crossword. You never know. You might get a flash of inspiration. Save us all a heck of a lot of trouble if you did.”

  Instead of responding, Belle sneezed again.

  THE Philadelphia Convention Center was much like other big-city convention facilities, with one major exception: a portion of the building had once served as the grand terminus of the Reading Railroad; and the classic nineteenth-century architecture had been artfully incorporated into a newer, even more expansive structure that gleamed with strategically placed laser and neon lights and long, sleek surfaces of stainless steel and marble. Modern multicolored sculptural installations dangled from the ceiling, appearing to defy gravity. Philadelphia past and present, the hub of nineteenth-century commerce boldly embracing the twenty-first.

  “This is really something,” Rosco said as he and Jack Keegan stepped off the escalator that had brought them up from street level.

  “Yeah, they were going to tear Reading Terminal down before someone got the bright idea to save it. Back in the old days trains used to bring in the produce from Lancaster County. The original marketplace is still right below us.” He pointed at his feet. “Hasn’t changed a lick in a hundred years. Fruit and vegetable merchants, poultry and egg vendors, fishmongers, and the best French and Italian cheeses north of the Italian Market on Christian Street. My grandad had a butcher stall … Hell, I damn near grew up in this building. Woulda been a real tragedy to have lost it. You want real Philly-style food: porchétta and pepper sandwiches, scrapple, cheesesteak. You come here.”

  A tall, thin man in a red sweatshirt with TEMPLE LAW stitched on the front approached, and extended his hand to the FBI agent.

  “Yo, Jack, what’s shakin’? Come to watch us strut our stuff?”

  Keegan shook his hand. “Just the man I’m looking for. Pete Dixon, meet Rosco Polycrates. Rosco’s down from Massachusetts.”

  “Pleasure,” Pete said, assuming Rosco was another FBI agent.

  “Dixon was the lead prosecutor at Sonny Pancakes’s trial,” Keegan explained. “He also happens to be the captain of one of the best string bands around.”

  “So you’re marching in tomorrow’s parade?” Rosco asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Quaker City has won the competition four years running. That’s got to be adjusted. This is our year. I feel it in my bones.” There was a smile on Dixon’s face, but there was no mistaking that he and his club were out to win.

  “You heard about Freddie Five?” Jack said, getting right to business.

  “Yo? Who hasn’t?”

  “It turns out Freddie was our crossword snitch, and we’ve got a strong indication that there’s going to be some discord at tomorrow’s parade.”

  “And you’re thinking it may come my way?”

  Jack only shrugged, so Pete Dixon continued:

  “Well, if someone’s aiming to get even for Sonny Pancakes, your troubles are just beginning. I know of two witnesses who are marching in the Comic Division; three guys from my office alone are in the Fancy Brigades, two more in another string band; and I’ll bet you’ll find half the damn jurors out there somewhere too … Not to mention the arresting officers—like you.”

  “And Tony Starch broke out a month ago. You heard that?”

  “Yo?” Pete Dixon said it with a distinct Whaddyathink? I was born yesterday? inflection. “He was into Freddie big time …” Then he let out a hearty laugh. “Looks like you got your hands full, Agent Keegan.”

  Jack ignored the ribbing. “I was hoping you could be a little more helpful than that. Anybody you know having troubles with the mob? Anybody talking? Acting strange? Up to their ears in debt?”

  “Come on, Jack, I’m with the DA’s office. Nobody says boo around me. Even my mother won’t tell me who her bookie is.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider sitting out the parade this year?”

  Dixon looked at him sideways and said, “Yo?” The meaning of the word this time was, Whaddya-nuts?

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Look, Jack, if you’re right about a hit taking place tomorrow, I wouldn’t waste your time worrying about me. These guys don’t whack DAs—they whack each other, especially suspected snitches.” He patted his sweatshirt as though he were looking for something. “You got a piece of paper?”

  Rosco produced a small pad and a pen from his jacket and handed them to Dixon. Dixon spoke as he wrote:

  “And I wouldn’t worry too much about Tony Starch either. He’s a second-story man. Probably in California by now—if he’s smart. Although knowing Tony …” Dixon shook his head, then ripped a sheet of paper from the pad, handed it to Keegan, and returned the pen and pad to Rosco. “Those are the names of the two guys who turned state’s evidence against Sonny Pancakes. They’re both marching in the Comic Division tomorrow; they’re with the Fin-n-Feather Club, though I don’t know how anyone would recognize them—not with all the makeup and wigs.”

  “But the flip side is that
a hit man could be walking right next to them, and they wouldn’t know it.”

  “You got that right, Keegan.”

  IT was almost 11 P.M. when Rosco arrived back at the hotel. He and Belle stayed in the room and ordered up a late dinner from room service. To bring in the New Year, he had a T-bone steak, she a large bowl of chicken broth. They sat at a small table near the window, overlooking the massive pillars of the Second Bank of the United States on Chestnut Street. Belle kept a box of tissues by her side at all times. It wasn’t the most romantic of meals.

  “I’m really sorry, Rosco,” she said between spoonfuls of soup and sniffles. “This isn’t a great New Year’s Eve, but the concierge said there’s a terrific fireworks display down by the Delaware River at midnight.” She glanced at her watch. “Fifteen minutes. It’s only five blocks from here … Why don’t you go without me?”

  “I don’t think so. I say we just cozy down in bed and watch the entire thing on TV.”

  “That bed is huge. I felt like I was napping on a football field this afternoon.”

  “It’s obviously been designed for recreational activity.”

  “Hmmm. That’s not a bad idea …” Belle grinned as she finished her soup. “So, what’s the story with the state’s witnesses the DA told you about?”

  “Well, they seemed genuinely nervous—”

  “Are they backing out of the parade?”

  “No. They told Keegan that Nicky Grapes knows exactly where they live and can get them anytime. Apparently their testimony wasn’t so critical that they were placed in the Witness Protection Program.”

  “Sure, but the costumes and masks would make it impossible for anyone to identify the murderer.”

  “Jack pointed that out, but the parade’s such a big deal for these guys that nobody’s going to make them miss it. They asked for extra protection, though.”

  “And Keegan’s going to supply it?”

  “He’s the one who called them in. He’s got to.”

  Belle pushed her bowl aside and stood. “I’m feeling really crummy. I’m going to get into bed.” She crossed the room, removed her robe, slid under the covers, then lifted the photocopy of Freddie’s puzzle and began studying it afresh. “Mum’s the Word … There has to be more to this. I must be missing something.”

  Rosco popped his last French fry into his mouth, finished his glass of wine, doffed his clothes, and slid in beside Belle.

  “Did any of these names mean anything to Jack or the DA?” Belle asked as she stared at the puzzle. “WOODY? JOEL? IRA?”

  “We scanned the entire list of marchers. Every person in the parade needs to be registered with a group. There were three Iras and seven Joels … No Woodys—unless you consider the nicknames of the clarinet players. Keegan contacted everyone he could think of. None admitted any mob connections.”

  Belle continued to focus on the puzzle. “What about a woman? I see PAM and AVA here.”

  “It seems that not too many women participate in the parade, but Jack checked those names out too. Three Pams … No Avas.”

  “You know, I keep coming back to this business at 8-Down: ‘X marks THE SPOT.’ Don’t you think that should mean something?”

  Rosco leaned into her to get a closer look at the crossword. Their bodies were now touching from head to toe. “This is kind of nice,” he said. “Too bad you’re so sick.”

  “I’m not all that sick.” She placed the crossword on the nightstand.

  He kissed her neck. “So much for Keegan and Dixon.”

  “Who’s Dixon?”

  “The DA … Pete Dixon. The guy I’ve been talking about; the guy who prosecuted Sonny Pancakes.”

  Belle sat bolt upright. “You never told me his name was Dixon.”

  “So?”

  “So? What’s the middle letter in his name?”

  “X?”

  Rosco jumped out of bed, yanked Jack Keegan’s business card out of his jacket, and punched his cell phone number into the telephone. It was the stroke of midnight and the agent had gone to the riverfront to watch the fireworks.

  “What are you doing down there?” Rosco asked.

  “What?” The explosions were so extreme, he could barely hear a word Rosco was saying.

  “I expected you to be at home,” Rosco shouted into the phone.

  “I find the noise relaxing … like the pistol range.”

  “Listen …‘X marks THE SPOT!’ ‘X marks THE SPOT’! Dixon has an X in his name. It’s Dixon they’re after.”

  Keegan was quiet for a moment. Rosco wasn’t sure if the agent had heard the warning, or was considering a plan of action. Eventually he said, “Sure … Sure, that’s got to be it.”

  “Now all you need is the WHEN.”

  “I think that one’s obvious … I’ll suit up in a costume too, and walk the route with Pete … Get other available personnel out there … We’ll be ready for this character no matter when he makes his move.”

  “Do you need me?”

  “No. We can cover it. Besides, something tells me you might not be all that keen about putting on a satin dress and strutting down Market Street with a parasol pretending to be a wench—”

  “A what?”

  “You heard right … another part of the tradition. Someone told me it started in Elizabethan England … guys in frilly party dresses and blond braids. Let me tell ya, it makes quite a sight in the men’s room … Now, get some sleep, Rosco. Watch the Mummers on TV … Tell Belle to feel better. And thanks …”

  “Mummers …” Belle murmured as they turned out the light. “Mummery … mum … keep silent …”

  NEW Year’s Day Belle and Rosco slept late. They ordered a huge breakfast from room service—waffles, bacon, coffee, grapefruit, and Pennsylvania Dutch sticky buns. Belle’s appetite seemed to have returned miraculously, although her voice had become gravelly and deep, making her sound like a cross between Walter Cronkite and Kermit the Frog. When they had finished eating, Rosco left for the lobby to buy a newspaper and Belle picked up her guidebook and slid back into bed.

  When Rosco returned and finished with the paper, he picked up the TV remote. “Do you want to watch the parade or the NFL playoff game?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Kind of …”

  “You’re not going to watch a football game—not when there’s an assassin loose in the city …” Belle’s tone was incredulous.

  “Does it matter that it’s the Patriots? And we’re shooting for two in a row?”

  “Rosco!?”

  He pushed the remote. “I guess it’s the parade.”

  “You’re darn right.”

  Rosco located the schedule of marchers in the newspaper. “Well, we missed the entire Comic Division by sleeping so late. I assume nothing earth-shattering happened or the newscasters would be saying something about it. The String Bands come next …” Rosco moved his eyes down the paper. “Jeeze, there’s eighteen of them. This parade must go on for hours.”

  “Where does Pete Dixon’s group fit in?”

  “Let’s see … They’re positioned at number six. But there’s no telling where this guy’s going to make his move … The brigades stop in front of the judging stand near City Hall, perform a routine, and move on. Conceivably, the entire route’s one big danger zone.”

  Rosco dropped the newspaper onto the floor and stared up at the television screen. “Wow, look at these costumes. This really is a spectacle.”

  “Better than football?” was Belle’s facetious reply as she moved her focus from the guidebook to the screen. “Look at the feathers on that one … ostrich plumes dyed turquoise and gold … and those sequined wings … That outfit must weigh a hundred pounds … I’m sorry I’m feeling so rotten; it would be nice to be watching all of this in person. Not to mention seeing a little of the city, rather than reading about it …”

  “Hey, at least you’re getting educated … And working your appetite back up to snuff.”

  “Don’t talk
… You handled yourself pretty darn well with those sticky buns … Chunko.”

  “At least I don’t sound like a frog.” He patted his stomach. “I’m going to have to get a run in this afternoon.”

  Belle chuckled and glanced back at her guidebook and the foldout map of the city. “It says here that William Penn’s objective in founding his colony was to create a place where people of all faiths could worship freely and openly. That’s why the Continental Congress convened here; the other colonies still practiced religious intolerance—even persecution … I guess that’s why we saw so many church spires when we drove in … Am I boring you?”

  “No, no, go on … But take a look at these String Bands. They’re really good.”

  Belle took a quick peek at the TV, then returned to her book. “Penn called the city his ‘Greene Countrie Towne’; his design incorporated parks still extant to this day: a central greensward—where City Hall now stands—and four other open areas equally spaced from the center … he liked symmetry—”

  Rosco laughed. “You mean, kind of like a crossword?”

  “Hmmm. Yes, now that you mention it.” She reached over to the nightstand, picked up the puzzle, and held it next to the map of center city.

  Rosco was fixated on the parade. “Look at the performance these folks are putting on … a fire-breathing dragon rising out of a mountain!”

  But Belle didn’t seem to hear him as she studied the crossword, muttering aloud while she worked. “What if this represents a map of the city? The central black cross being City Hall … and these other four shaded areas indicating the parks: Rittenhouse Square, Logan Circle, Franklin Square, and Washington Square …”

  Rosco looked away from the television screen for the first time. “What are you mumbling about, Kermit?”

  “Come over here and look at this.”

  He joined her on the bed.

  “Okay,” she said, pointing at the puzzle, “look at this: here we have City Hall; and there’s MARKET at 38-Down—”

  “But the clue reads: In Europe it’s common—”

  “I know. Indulge me. I realize I may be barking up the wrong tree—”