“He was part of a gang a long time ago,” Jerry pipes up. “There’s lots of bad-ass stories about the guy. We been hearing, like, forever, that he’s a mean dude.” If this Bobby Taylor is the same guy who sent Juliana that repulsive box with the dead bird, then, yes, I would agree with them.
“Yeah, and now he’s b-b-b-b—”
“Get it out, Tony!” Jerry snaps.
“Back!!” Tony says. “Since a week ago.”
“And he’s been hangin’ here,” Jerry says. “A guy pointed at him when we was here last night. But we don’t talk to him or nothin’. We don’t know nothin’ about his business.”
“Do you know someone named Teresa, who might be friends with Bobby Taylor?” I ask. They look at each other, this time seeming confused. “How about Frankie? Is he one of Bobby’s friends?” Their eyes are blanks, and I realize they’re clueless.
I click my key and unlock the car. “You two are going to walk toward the gate over there. When you see that I’ve left the stadium, Jerry, check your watch and wait five minutes with Tony before going over to the van. Don’t even think about following me. If I see you in my rearview mirror, I will…” I gesture with my cell phone. “…email these pictures with your license plate to the police. Do we understand each other?”
They nod yes.
“Start walking.”
They run.
Well done, Ronnie. But my own legs are a little shaky, too, as I walk Warrior over to my car.
~~~~~
After lunch, I sit at a microfilm machine in the reference room of the public library in Scranton, scanning through 1987 issues of the local newspaper. Taking off the red-framed drugstore magnifiers that I wear as glasses, I rub my nose, thinking how the nice surprise of my day has been my visit to this town. Here I had thought Scranton was in decline, only to discover a transformation of its once vacant but architecturally distinctive downtown due to extensive renovation.
Stay focused, Ronnie. Back to work.
An older librarian remembered the Scranton Gang story from back in ’87, maybe late summer or early fall, and directed me to look at that period. Now I put my glasses back on and scroll slowly through the reel that includes August, September and October, 1987, finally hitting pay dirt in early September of that year.
Fugitive Family Arrested After Allentown Crash. And the subhead: Scranton Teens Nabbed After Police Chase. Front page, above the fold, September 9, 1987.
After a 25-mile chase and shootout in Allentown, police apprehended the so-called Scranton Gang. Officers took into custody two brothers, ages 16 and 13, and a female cousin, 13. Following a bank robbery at a JNC branch in Stroudsburg three days before, the gun-toting, fast-driving teenage lawbreakers had invited comparisons to Bonnie and Clyde. Eyewitnesses reported the female gang leader fired shots…
This article and others I find in the microfilm archives go on to describe the girl as being a suspect for also shooting at a police officer as the gang fled Stroudsburg. The teen trio briefly went into hiding before heading south and showing up in Allentown in a beat-up, stolen, 1974 orange Ford Maverick.
An observant 7-Eleven employee called the police before the brothers came inside to buy snacks and three Slurpee drinks while their cousin filled the Maverick’s tank with self-serve gas.
I continue reading and discover that when Allentown police approached the 7-Eleven, the 13-year-old female gang leader—had to be Teresa Gonzalez, of course—fired a weapon toward several officers as the three fled in the car. Fortunately, she missed.
The chase ended when the Maverick crashed and rolled on the highway. The 13-year-old male—and that must have been Bobby Taylor—jumped out of the car and fled on foot, but police quickly apprehended him. They arrested all three and took the juveniles to the hospital to be treated for minor injuries.
I study a bank surveillance camera photo of a gun-toting Teresa robbing a teller. She has on sunglasses while a baseball cap hides her hair and face, making it difficult to see her features. So young and already holding up banks—unbelievable. Was she really just a kid bad to the bone, or had something traumatic happened to her that led to such an early life of crime?
After their arrests, the story quickly went cold, because the Taylors and Gonzalez were juveniles with sealed records. But one comment from the police catches my eye—that the Scranton Gang was trying to get to Orlando, Florida to start a new life near Disney World. In addition to being bank robbers, it seems Bobby, Joe, and Teresa were also everyday kids who fantasized about visiting the famous theme park.
But what does Bobby Taylor have to do with my brother’s girlfriend, Juliana Wentworth? And who is this Teresa? Then, too, what about Frankie, the other name in the beak of the dead bird in the box? Where does he fit in?
Chapter Eight
The class is spread out in pairs on the mat at the dojo, and I come at Will Benson with an overhead strike called shomenuchi. I attack him as if my extended arm is a sword and my hand is the blade (often referred to as tegatana or hand sword). My intent is to slice Will in half, starting right down the middle of his skull.
Actually, when practicing at the dojo, we aren’t supposed to beat up or hurt each other, as that isn’t the intent in Aikido. Certain types of attacks in Aikido, like shomenuchi, are based on sword movements, which may be a far cry from what happens on the street—but practicing in this manner eventually prepares us to deal with any type of attack. That’s the plan anyway.
We also learn how to blend our energy with that of our attacker and apply techniques based on the physics of motion, using circular movements. Rather than forcing our opponent with football-player testosterone, we attempt to redirect our attacker’s own power and throw him to the ground or immobilize him with joint locks.
So back to the mat. I attack Will with a shomenuchi strike, and he executes a technique we call irimi nage or entering throw. Often called the twenty-year technique, irimi nage encapsulates the essence of Aikido movement and, hence its nickname, takes a long time to master.
As I move forward and attack Will, he disappears by entering in behind me. Before I know it, he takes over my assault by grabbing my neck, controlling my spine, and redirecting me in the opposite direction. My body drops to the floor. Though I make an effort to stand up, while I’m doing so, he attaches me to his shoulder, and I feel as if he has made me a part of his own body.
While I struggle to get away from his firm grasp, Will follows my movement with a turn of his torso and his shoulder rotates and arm curves up and over me, pouring me yet again down to the ground. Lucky for me I’ve received this technique so many times I’m able break my fall safely and roll out of the way.
You’d think I’d be nervous practicing with a strong, muscular guy like Will, who’s fifteen years younger than I am, about six-foot-four, and a third-degree black belt in Aikido, or Sandan. Especially since I’m a tall, small-boned older woman with numbers on my last bone density scan tipping into osteopenia. But I don’t worry about accidentally breaking something when I practice with Will, because he’s polite and doesn’t muscle through a technique the way so many other guys can’t help doing.
Back to irimi nage. When I first learned this technique, I thought it was way more intimate than I cared to be with strangers on an Aikido mat. After all, this technique makes everyone pretty sweaty and stinky, because it’s so aerobic. Think about it. When your partner has you glued to his shoulder, you pretty much have your face plastered right next to his armpit, and it’s often someone you barely know. The upside? All of us in the dojo are probably immune to every kind of germ by now.
After about ten minutes of Will and me throwing each other around using this technique, Isabella Sensei claps and finishes the class with breathing exercises to help us cool down. We bow then and thank our partners.
“Will, have a minute?” I step off the mat.
“Sure,” he answers.
“I know you’re a private investigator,” I say, keeping my voice low wh
ile getting a drink of water from the cooler. “I may have a job for you…something I don’t think I can do on my own.”
“OK, let’s meet in a few minutes at your car.”
Once we’re in our street clothes and outside, Will explains that most of his P.I. work is on the Northeastern Seaboard but at times takes him all over the country. He doesn’t specialize and handles everything from marital-dispute and infidelity surveillance, to financial-fraud investigation and finding missing persons.
I give Will the broad strokes, describing the Scranton Gang and telling him that I’d like to know what happened to the three kids after their arrest in 1987. He says that even though records are sealed on juveniles, he may have a way of getting at that information and helping me.
“I tried Googling all three,” I say. “I found millions of entries for their names, and still thousands when I narrowed the search to just Pennsylvania—but who knows if any of them still live there.”
Will nods, understanding the problem. “Ronnie, let me start with the Scranton Gang and work forward from there,” he suggests.
I hand him copies of the newspaper articles I found the day before. We exchange email addresses, and since I’m a new client, he says he’ll send me some paperwork to fill out.
“Ronnie.” Will shoves his hands partially into his jeans pockets, which I can’t help but notice hang low on his narrow hips. I guess he probably has six-pack abs under that shirt… “Don’t mean to intrude,” he goes on. “But why you want to know about these kids?”
“I’m interested because…” I hesitate and then collect my thoughts. “…because I’m concerned about a possible connection between these kids and a family member of mine.”
“Just know, when you start an investigation, what you find may take you down a road you might wish you’d never traveled.”
~~~~~
On my way home, I stop by Meadow Farm to drop off a couple of gorgeous heads of lettuce I’d bought at a nearby vegetable stand. I walk through the foyer on my way to the kitchen and glance into the dining room. There I’m surprised to see Juliana on her knees folding up a corner of an old Oriental carpet. Her fingers gently rub the pile where the shadow of an old stain barely shows.
“Someone, way back, dropped—oh, what was it?” I walk into the room. “Some kind of sauce?”
A startled Juliana drops the corner of the carpet. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.” She gets up quickly. “You caught me daydreaming.” Her voice is smooth, not flustered.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.” I walk over. “Daydreaming about a spot on a carpet?”
“I love old carpets.” She looks down at this one. “They have so many stories to tell about the people who’ve walked on them.”
“Well, this one would have a lot of Rutherfurd stories to tell, since my great-grandfather gave it to my grandparents when they bought Meadow Farm.” I look at the old stain and then at her. “And of course lots of stories about family friends and the wonderful people who worked for us over the years.”
I see a momentary hint of something cross Juliana’s face, and she says, “Well, it’s a most beautiful carpet.”
“Kind of worn around the edges.” I use the toe of my shoe to rub the stain. “But that’s how we like it here—nothing too shiny and new.” I link arms with Juliana and feel her pull back slightly as I turn her toward the kitchen. “Now how about an iced tea?”
“Juliana.” It’s Frank, calling from outside.
“Ronnie, excuse me.” She disengages from my linked arm. “That’s Frank. He’s taking me to meet a friend of his. Don’t mean to rush off.” But Juliana does rush off to go join him outside. I hear laughing between the two and then a car motor rev up and take off down the gravel road.
~~~~~
I walk into the kitchen and place the fresh lettuce in the fridge.
“Hi, Ronnie!” Meadow Farm’s longtime cook and housekeeper breezes in, a petite bundle of energy with a pencil and pad.
“How are you, m’dear?” I respond. Rita Hendricks is adored by all our family. In fact, I don’t know how this place would run without her organizational talents and general TLC. “Everything under control over here?” I ask.
“Yep. I’m heading out to pick up the mail and do some grocery shopping.” She adds an item to her list on the pad. “Frank and his new lady friend are driving to Mantoloking and will be there until this evening.”
“So, this must be serious,” I say lightly.
Rita stops writing and looks up.
I go on, “Frank must be taking Juliana to meet his old Princeton roommate, you know, Dan Gardiner. He’s usually at his shore house this time of year, but I know he’s been doing a lot of rebuilding since Superstorm Sandy. Maybe Frank and Juliana want to take a look at Dan’s place and see what kind of headway he’s making.”
“Meadow Farm was certainly fortunate compared to the Shore, Ronnie.” Rita closes the pad and lays down the pencil. “Just some downed trees here. No damage at all to the house or any of the farm buildings except that one shed crushed by that pine tree. We do have a lot to be grateful for.”
I nod my agreement. “Absolutely, Rita. A lot to be grateful for. Anyway, my brother wouldn’t take her to meet Dan if this wasn’t serious.” I think back to the lawyer’s appointment Frank mentioned before the road rage incident and wonder why it involved Juliana. The meeting with his attorney could be an indicator of how serious the two of them are. Things might be moving fast between them…perhaps too fast. It makes me uneasy.
“Well, it’s easy to understand why your brother would want to show her off. She’s very beautiful.” Rita grabs the pad and heads toward the kitchen door. “Be back in a while.”
“Bye, Rita.” I walk into the foyer and look upstairs. No one’s around, and my curiosity is killing me. Again.
I’ve rarely been a nosy person, but I sure have been turning into one ever since Juliana arrived. Oh well. This is my brother, and men can be so naïve about women. They need their little sisters looking out for them, don’t they?
I walk up the stairs and into the guest room. This time Juliana’s room is pulled together, with everything properly in its place. The sight is quite a contrast to that of the chaos I encountered the evening of the party, when it looked as though a hurricane had blown through.
I open the door to the beautiful old mahogany armoire that stands opposite the bed. Juliana’s dresses, slacks, tunics, and jackets are neatly draped on cedar hangers. It’s now easy to see a common theme here—elegant clothing and not fussy—as if each item had been carefully considered, or curated, before purchase.
Some of the pieces are classic with famous labels that telegraph expensive, and they’re mixed in with several items from hip, cutting-edge designers. What surprises me most is that Pucci-like number she wore for cocktails a couple days ago. I can hardly believe it when I see the J.Crew label inside the dress. Not exclusive like some of the other clothing hanging in the armoire, which shows that Juliana has the confidence to mix it all up.
What catches my eye are her shoes, now neatly arranged in the bottom of the armoire—among them red-soled Louboutin high heels and apple-green suede Tod’s loafers. The Louboutins are so sky-high that just looking at them practically hurts my feet. The days of wearing sexy black heels like that are long gone for me, but, oooh, those suede Tod’s look so comfortable, and chic, too! My toes are almost wiggling with a desire to try them on, but I manage to control myself.
I walk into the bathroom, and my eyes sweep over the products she uses for skincare and her hair. All great quality, but not ridiculously expensive. I notice that this time the bottles and tubes are each wiped off, closed, and lined up on the shelf above the sink instead of scattered, smudged, and left open all around the bedroom as on the night of the party.
Her cosmetics are like everything else about this woman’s outward physical appearance—clean, elegant and understated. The neatnik in me feels no urge to fuss
over anything, because everything is where it should be this time around.
Leaving the bathroom, I spot two books and a Kindle stacked on the nightstand next to the bed. Turning on the e-book reader as I put on my glasses, I see Juliana is in the middle of reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I turn off the Kindle and sit quietly on the edge of the bed thinking about her choice of this Pulitzer-Prize-winning book.
At the end of the day, before the lights go out, Juliana chooses to spend her time reading about New Jersey ghetto-nerd Oscar instead of dipping into Vogue or Vanity Fair. I kick myself for stereotyping her simply because she’s so beautiful.
I pick up the paperback book that was right underneath the Kindle—The Sorcerer’s Apprentice—and I discover it’s a well-used chess manual. So, Juliana plays chess? That I would also not have expected. I flip open the book and see the title page is inscribed To a most talented future chess master! JP, 1999.
The bottom book is another well-worn paperback with numerous folded page corners. The Tender Bar: A Memoir by J. R. Moehringer. I don’t know this one. The cover says it’s a bestseller, and an NPR review on the back reads:
A fierce and funny coming of age story about ambition and yearning…exquisitely describes every wince-making step of his class climb.
I may have to buy my own copy and read this one.
Even if she seems aloof, hidden, and not particularly warm, Juliana is turning out to be one very interesting lady.
I read an inscription on the title page of this book, too—For the lovely Juliana, A little something to read and think back to your years at the Café Casablanca. It was always a pleasure watching my most gifted student develop her many talents and flourish into such a lovely woman. Warmest regards, Dragomir, Malibu 2007. Who is Dragomir? What kind of a name is that? Whoever these people are who inscribed her books, she doesn’t appear to be trying to hide this intellectual part of her life.
I carefully place the books and Kindle back on the mahogany stand and spot a partially opened drawer in a bureau. I head over to close it but see a red leather box inside next to an Hermès scarf. So, naturally I open the drawer more and stare at the box.
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