by L. A. Kelley
The new rules needed another test. This time I went to a bakery on the outskirts of town where no one knew me (Rule Four.) Through the window, I spied an open account ledger near the cash register. I pressed flat against the wall, working up the courage to enter. Lying here was more dangerous than at the Grimaldi’s. The baker didn’t know Mrs. Hart. If caught, I’d land in Juvenile Hall. That dump made Little Angels seem like Buckingham Palace.
When the baker went into the back, I darted to the ledger and scanned the entries. Clara Fergus’ tab was over three dollars, high in those days. She was a good customer. He’d want to keep her happy.
Wiping floury hands on an apron, the baker returned. “What can I do for you, young man?”
My heart hammered so loud I wondered why he didn’t hear the thump. With a hard swallow, I forced my voice steady (Rule Five.) “I’m Wally, Mrs. Fergus’ cousin from Cincinnati. She asked me to fetch a loaf of white bread. Please put it on the account.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why, I saw Mrs. Fergus a few days ago. She didn’t mention relatives arriving.”
I fought the urge to bolt for the door. (Rule Six: Make eye contact. Rule Two: Make the lie real.)
“My sister has the measles,” I meekly replied. “Aunt Clara took me in until she gets better.”
The raised eyebrow lowered. His facial features softened. The lie had made perfect sense. Measles was no joke—ask Esther Roth. Other than aspirin for the fever, doctors had no treatment. If someone got sick, the family hung a big red MEASLES QUARANTINE sign on the front door to warn visitors, and shipped healthy kids to relatives until the infection passed.
The baker packaged the bread. I thanked him politely. Once outside I raced to Little Angels, squeezing into the hiding place behind the crates. I pressed flat against the wall, half expecting the wail of a siren out front, followed by coppers pounding on the door. The only sound in the basement was my heavy labored breathing.
With trembling fingers, I tore open the bag. The loaf had squashed under my arm, and now sported a dent in the middle. I didn’t care. I ripped off a chunk and stuffed my mouth. I ate until my flat stomach puffed up like a marshmallow. No bread ever tasted better. Soon nothing remained but crumbs. I proudly contemplated the crumpled paper sack. With the promise of five hundred bucks and a knack for lying, my future loomed aces high.
Over the next months, I approached eight different stores with equal success, but as I couldn’t go to the same place twice, the lie soon ran the course. Buoyed with confidence, I lied one last time at a bakery that made fancy lemon meringue pies. My excitement was hard to contain when the owner complied without as much as a howdy-do.
I strolled through the park to Little Angels, envisioning a gluttonous feast in the basement. The pleasant daydream ripped apart when I rounded a clump of bushes and came face-to-face with Chauncey Edwards.
Chauncey was as useless as a sack of pig turds, but smart enough to milk his position as son of the police chief to every advantage. Girls giggled and fussed over him because he always had plenty of dough. Boys obeyed him because Chauncey was a bully. Teachers looked the other way because he had push. Mess with Chauncey and you mess with his father—mess with Chief Edwards and you may as well pack your bags and blow town.
His main pastime was picking on kids younger, smaller, or different. I checked the boxes in all three categories. Until recently, he favored stupid insults.
Hey Whistler, heard your parents got one peep at your ugly mug the day you were born and keeled over dead….Hey Whistler, your parents dumped you because no one wants the runt of the litter.
A recent growth spurt also pumped up his meanness. Now, Chauncey rousted kids for their lunch money while his mindless flunkies crowded around cackling with glee. I always brought my food and never had money which didn’t stop Chauncey from knocking me over and tossing my lunch into a tree. I learned to be quick and stay out of his way if I wanted to eat—and now he blocked the path.
Chauncey gave me the once-over. “Well, well, well, if it ain’t the world’s ugliest orphan. I heard your parents forgot about you and adopted a mangy stray dog. They call him Peter and don’t know the difference.” He doubled over in a braying laugh. “Get it? You’re an orphan and the dog is a stray like he’s an orphan, too. Geez, I’m a regular riot.”
I could run. His fat legs would never catch me, or…I hefted the pie. It was wrong. Mrs. Hart would definitely not approve, but what a noble end for a common pastry. Chauncey and I locked eyes. He stopped laughing and glimpsed the future. His wasn’t pretty.
“Don’t you dare,” he hissed.
I nailed him right in the kisser. He fell backwards into a mud puddle. Grinding the pie into his mug forced globs of filling up his nose.
“I’m telling,” he howled with a spluttering cough. “My dad will throw you in jail. He’ll shut Little Angels. Mrs. Hart will end up on the street.”
My temper snapped. I hadn’t considered how my actions would affect Mrs. Hart and wasn’t about to lose the only home I’d ever known because of a moon-faced puke like Chauncey. I yanked him by the collar. “No you won’t, mama’s boy, or else...”
Chauncey snorted out a gob of meringue. “Oh, yeah,” he snarled. “Make me.”
All the hurt and humiliation suffered at his hands bubbled to the surface and exploded. “Rat me out and I will hunt you down like a mad dog and not with a pie, either. Believe my words more than anything in your sorry life!”
Click.
A funny thing happened. I heard (or was it, felt?) a subtle sound as if tumblers in a lock slid into place.
Chauncey blanched. “I-I believe. I-I’ll never tell.”
He jerked free and raced away like a bloated jackrabbit. Thumbing my nose at him, I hightailed it out of the park. By the time Grimaldi’s Market was in sight my head pounded. Both legs were weak and shaky as if they had run a marathon instead of a block. I decided to take the alley shortcut behind the store to Little Angels.
“Chauncey had it coming.”
Startled, I pulled up short. Esther was home on a rare break from school. She sat under a tree with a Braille book in her lap and a white cane by her side. Her head cocked in my direction. Her little face grew stormy.
“Chauncey is a big fat jerk,” she said. “He comes into the store and sticks my cane on a shelf where I can’t reach. He pulls my hair and makes fun of me. I told Cousin Carlotta. She doesn’t care.”
Esther shook her head with obvious regret. “You wasted good pie, though.”
My jaw dropped open. At that moment Mr. Grimaldi’s black roadster pulled into the alley. I didn’t need a cross-examination from him, so scrammed.
By the time I reached Little Angels, my nerves held a raw edge. What had I done? Nobody messed with any of the Edwards and walked away clean. If news of Chauncey and the pie already reached Esther, Mrs. Hart surely heard. To my surprise, she said nothing. No one did, including Mrs. Murphy who sucked in gossip like a vacuum cleaner. Even stranger, Chauncey avoided me from then on. Esther returned to boarding school before we had a chance to speak again. Eventually, I forgot about the funny clicking noise and put Esther’s curious comments out of mind, accepting whatever happened had been a lucky break for me.
I fixed the rules to the wall in my basement hideaway and read through them once a day to keep sharp, occasionally using a small white lie to keep in practice. I didn’t need more. The gift was mine, ready to be unleashed when I finally fled New Brunswick. I didn’t even need to snoop on Mrs. Hart’s private conversations anymore, but, naturally, I did. Adults never tell kids the good stuff, and if I hadn’t eavesdropped, I would never have discovered Police Chief Edwards and the Grimaldi’s were rumrunners.
CHAPTER TWO
The Dark Man
In the 1920’s, the government banned the purchase of alcohol. Prohibition was supposed to control crime associated with liquor sales, but the opposite happened. While the supply of booze dried up and saloons shut down, those willing to be
nd the law saw a spectacular business opportunity and rejoiced. Alcohol sales went underground and found a new outlet in speakeasies, secret nightclubs hidden behind closed doors—some run by gangsters, some by enterprising individuals.
The key to success was secrecy and people willing to look the other way for a price. Contraband hooch flooded into areas like New Brunswick with easy access to New York City and Philadelphia. From there, rumrunners transferred the merchandise. Lots of people were involved and, brother, heaps of money was made.
One night in the winter of 1929, someone knocked on the front door. The Grimaldi’s and Chief Edwards stood under the porch light. Mrs. Grimaldi glanced around in a shifty fashion as if concerned the neighbors watched their arrival. I anxiously rifled through my mental filing cabinet for an inadvertently committed felony. Fortunately, they hadn’t come for me.
Mrs. Hart ushered them into the parlor. Naturally, I scampered to the cellar to eavesdrop. Anxious feet-shuffling and throat-clearing resounded overhead. It struck me none of the guests wanted to speak first.
Mrs. Hart broached the silence. “It’s late for a social call.”
“Actually,” said Mrs. Grimaldi, “we have a business opportunity.”
Her husband jumped in. “Grimaldi’s Market has a large delivery truck. Lately, we’ve branched out to moving other, shall we say, liquid assets.”
“You mean rumrunning,” Mrs. Hart concluded tartly.
Her blunt honesty must have been unnerving. The chair creaked as Mr. Grimaldi’s weight shifted from side to side. “Um, yes. In truth, business is booming. I need a quiet out-of-the way place to stash bottles until shipments can be arranged.”
“You want the carriage house.”
At the rear of the property was an old carriage house from the horse-and-buggy days. Rich people converted them to garages, but Mrs. Hart couldn’t afford a car so the building was empty.
“The carriage house is perfect,” declared Mrs. Grimaldi whole-heartedly. “It is surrounded by woods and vegetation, shielded from neighbors, and invisible to the street. We’ll pay cash for its use. I know you can use the money.”
“How very thoughtful,” Mrs. Hart murmured. My skin tingled as the lie drifted down.
“You needn’t worry about police interference,” assured Chief Edwards. I imagined his sly wink. “If you know what I mean.”
“We wouldn’t present this opportunity to anyone,” insisted Mrs. Grimaldi.
I glared at the ceiling. No, just folks with no push who could be kept under their thumbs. If the Feds ever snooped around, the Grimaldi’s and Chief Edwards would waste no time fingering Mrs. Hart to save their own skins.
“The answer is no,” said Mrs. Hart. “We don’t have a lot of extras at Little Angels, but enough to get by.” I relaxed. She understood the truth.
Mrs. Grimaldi bristled. “I’m not accustomed to having my wishes ignored. Think hard, before you refuse.”
“I won’t be involved in illegal liquor sales.” Mrs. Hart’s words held rock-hard certainty.
Chief Edwards cleared his throat. “I trust you’ll be discreet concerning our discussion.”
“I couldn’t care less about your sideline.” The finality of Mrs. Hart’s tone signaled the end of the meeting. Footsteps shuffled across the floor once again and then the parlor door slammed shut.
While relieved at Mrs. Hart’s refusal, I regretted the loss of extra cash. The Grimaldi’s obviously scored. They bought the lot behind their store and built a big fancy house. Pricey rings dripped from Mrs. Grimaldi’s fingers. The Edwards didn’t suffer, either. Their new car was worth more than most people’s homes and Chauncey always had a pocketful of dough.
The country was flush with money. People partied like the booze and their livers would never give out—they didn’t call those years the Roaring Twenties for nothing. What no one saw coming was the good times wouldn’t last.
The end came with the stock market crash in October 1929. I never got what happened, but the collapse had something to do with stocks and too much easy credit. In other words, people bought with money they didn’t have. When the stock market tumbled, the rest of the money supply went, too. People panicked. They ran to empty savings accounts to find banks already gone bust. Businesses folded. Jobs disappeared. No money came in, but creditors still demanded payment. People lost everything including belief in the future. Choking poverty gripped the country. Historians called the era the Great Depression, but to those of us who lived the times, it was really the Great Despair.
For a while, life continued as usual for Mrs. Hart and me. She had the steady income from Little Angels, but when the county’s own investments dwindled, payments were cut by three-quarters. No more orphans came through the door. Women didn’t have babies, unwanted or not. The adoption fees evaporated.
By late spring of 1933, when I was fifteen, a change occurred in the atmosphere of the house. Mrs. Hart grew anxious around the first of the month when bills came due. In her forties now, she looked older than her years.
One afternoon, Mrs. Grimaldi arrived at the door. Although word on the street was the Feds had cracked down on local rumrunning, rumors spread the couple’s gangster connections forwarded other illegal business. Mrs. Hart was pale and tense as she showed Mrs. Grimaldi into the parlor.
I raced to the cellar in time to hear Mrs. Grimaldi announce, “Nico and I have been very generous. We’ve carried your account for several months.”
“I appreciate your assistance.”
“You’re in the red not merely at our store, but all around town, and will lose the house after another missed payment on the mortgage.”
My heart sank. Lose the house? Were things that bad?
Mrs. Hart’s voice was tight and angry. “My business is not your concern.”
“Yes, it is. If you’re thrown in the street, I’ll never be able to collect money due me.”
“I need more time. I have jewelry to sell—” The lie vibrated with an anxious tremble.
“You have nothing of value left.” Mrs. Grimaldi sniffed with disdain. “People talk. Everything worthwhile has been sold. You’re cleaned out, but…” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can help.”
“How?” Mrs. Hart’s tone was naturally suspicious. Acts of kindness went against Mrs. Grimaldi’s nature.
“A doctor named Pike needs a secluded building. The carriage house would be perfect. He’s willing to cover all your debts plus a little extra as a rental fee.”
“What does he want it for?”
“I didn’t ask,” Mrs. Grimaldi snapped. “Dr. Pike is an eye doctor with a reputable practice in New York. Perhaps, he plans to open an office in New Brunswick, too. When he mentioned need of a place, I immediately thought of the carriage house. You should be grateful.”
“Very kind, I’m sure.” Her voice was cold, the words clipped.
“You have no other options. Either take Dr. Pike’s money or end up on the street. Whistler will go to the State Orphanage.”
I drew in a sharp breath. The State Orphanage was for kids who didn’t live in privately run homes like Little Angels. The building had bars on the windows. The children in the yard wore empty, dead expressions.
“All right.” Mrs. Hart’s voice dropped so low I barely heard her.
“Dr. Pike will be by tonight to discuss the details—nine o’clock sharp.”
I spent the rest of the day stewing over the reason a rich doctor wanted the carriage house. He had to be rich. Nobody else had money to spare. Mrs. Hart said nothing to me and, naturally, I couldn’t admit to eavesdropping in the cellar.
We barely spoke during dinner. I couldn’t erase the picture of the State Orphanage from my mind. I had confidence Mrs. Hart would never send me voluntarily, but if she lost the house Chief Edwards would gleefully leave me hogtied at the front door himself.
I pushed away from the table and announced homework to finish. Mrs. Hart was so deep in thought she barely acknowledged with
a nod. I dashed upstairs and fretted by the window as I watched for the mysterious Dr. Pike.
Bang on the dot of nine Mr. Grimaldi’s black car parked at the curb. I swallowed hard. Had the doctor changed his mind? Was Mrs. Hart penniless? No way would I go to the State Orphanage. I had three years before collecting five hundred bucks from the state, but now debated whether to cut my losses and scram.
The car door opened. The slim, fit driver wasn’t tubby Mr. Grimaldi. Keeping to the shadows, I snuck down the back stairway to the unlit kitchen and spied into the hallway. A muffled figure stood under the porch light. He wore a long duster coat and a black fedora hat pushed low over his eyes.
Mrs. Hart presented her hand in greeting. “Dr. Pike, before we proceed, I must know your intentions about the carriage house. I won’t have illegal—”
“I’m a friend,” he crooned. “You are in no danger.”
Mrs. Hart’s hand dropped limply to her side.
My body instantly relaxed, completely at ease, as the hypnotic words washed over me. Why hide? Everything was jake. I should welcome Dr. Pike, too…
I halted mid-step. My mind flashed an urgent warning—he’s a liar! The truth burned through the haze infecting my thoughts.
The doctor murmured, “You are my servant, Mrs. Hart.” All the windows were shut tight, but his voice brought a shiver as if an icy wind skittered along my spine.
“I am your servant,” she echoed.
“Show me the carriage house.”
She led Pike to the kitchen. I ducked into the pantry until the rear door slammed and then crept to the window. A light flickered, barely illuminating the dark man and Mrs. Hart. He must have carried a flashlight, but the beam was sickly yellow as if the batteries were dying.
Burning with curiosity, I stole down the steps and dove into the bushes separating our yard from Mrs. Murphy’s. Through the leaves issued a snuffle, followed by a soft whine. Honey Bun, Mrs. Murphy’s little terrier, had been left ignored in the backyard again. Anxious for company, Honey Bun once dug a hole under Mrs. Hart’s rosebushes onto our property and I made the mistake of tossing her a bone. Now she constantly dug tunnels and my responsibility was to fill them in. You might say Honey Bun and I had a complicated relationship. She doted on my attention. I did my best to ignore her.