Traces of the Past

by Steve Laracy

  “Hilda also told me she saw Frank that morning,” I added. “I guess you’re right about the split personalities.”

  Costello nodded. “She told me the same story. Frank buried the bones and the clothes in two separate holes up on that little hill. There the story would have ended except Frank buried the bones too close to the edge of the hill. A couple of nights later, we got that heavy downpour that washed the dirt and the bones down to the bottom of the hill, where they were later discovered by Lucky and the Kid.

  “And that’s where it now stands,” Costello concluded.

  Felicity and I looked at each other in slight disbelief, and neither of us spoke for a few minutes before I said to Costello, “So that body out in the desert is who I think it is?”

  “It could be, but then again, it could be someone else. There was a lot of mob activity in that area at the time. It could just as easily be some other fellow who got on the wrong side of the wrong people. The identity could be confirmed by DNA testing and dental records, but that’s not going to happen.”

  Felicity and I looked at each other again. This time it was Felicity who spoke. “What do you mean it’s not going to happen?”

  “If I reported this and the bureau investigated and found out this is who I think it is, what would happen? Frank would be picked up, questioned, and arrested. I don’t think I want that to happen. If Frankie was involved in the killing, and as I said that’s unlikely but possible, you can’t pin the blame on Frank or Hilda. At this point, I don’t even think Frankie exists anymore. At best, it’s five percent Frankie, forty-five percent Frank, and fifty percent Hilda.

  “Even if Frank was found incompetent, once they found out about Hilda, he would be put away somewhere where Frank, and definitely Hilda, don’t deserve to be.

  “And even if Frank gets off, do you want this town crawling with reporters and TV people? What would that do to Frank and Hilda? Do you want to see the Flagg sisters interviewed on national television? Do the other citizens of Cordoba need to have their lives pried into and made public?

  “No, sir,” he concluded, “I couldn’t live with myself if I did something like that.”

  “You’re right on the effects the publicity would have on Cordoba, and I think you are doing the right thing by not reporting it,” said Felicity, “but won’t you get in trouble if someone finds out?”

  “Trouble is a mild word for what I’ll be in if this is discovered. But hopefully, it won’t be. The only people who know that body is out there are Lucky, the Kid, and the three of us. Now, Lucky and the Kid may say something around town, but no one will think anything of it. Just another body out in the desert. They call this area Death Valley for a reason.”

  “That’s why you had Lucky burn the clothes,” I said.

  “Yes,” responded Costello. “So Lucky knows a little more than I would like, but I’m not worried about him. That leaves the three of us. Obviously, I’m not going to incriminate myself, which just leaves the two of you. You could get some kind of reward and maybe a book deal if you went to the authorities, but somehow I’m not worried.”

  “You know the secret is safe with us,” Felicity said. “But why tell us in the first place?”

  “Well, Milo already knew part of the story. I guess I wanted someone else to know. Sort of like Frank maybe confiding in Hilda. I didn’t want to be the only one keeping this secret inside. Besides, it’s a heck of a story and I wanted to tell it to someone.”

  “What happens next?” I said.

  “I wrap up the investigation and report that this was nothing but another false lead.”

  “What were you doing the two days you were away?” Felicity asked. “Checking out more leads?”

  “No, like I said, I went to Las Vegas for a little downtime, partly at the bureau’s expense, although ‘I Love Lucy’ finished first and paid for part of the cost,” he said, giving me a wink.

  “I guess you’ll be leaving town soon, now that your work is done,” I said.

  “I’m checking out tomorrow,” he replied. “I may take a little detour through Las Vegas on my way back. But I’ve become somewhat attached to Cordoba and your wonderful hospitality, Felicity, to say nothing about your cooking. Don’t be surprised to see me back here some time, this time on vacation.”

  “Thank you,” said Felicity, “you’re welcome anytime.” Then turning to me she said, “I guess that means you’ll be leaving too?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “I should get back to San Diego to check in,” knowing full well there was nothing of importance to return for. “But since this is my last night,” I said to Felicity, “why not let me take you out to dinner? You deserve a night off after cooking for us every night.”

  “Are you asking me out on a date?” she asked, brightening up a little.

  “Yes, I guess I am,” I replied.

  “That would be nice,” she said, then hesitated, “but I have to think of the other guests.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought,” said Costello. “The three of us can manage on our own. I’m a good cook myself and can whip up something for dinner. My going-away present for you.”

  “In that case, I accept your offer, Milo,” Felicity said. “Since it is still early in the day, I think I’ll take a little nap and let the effects of the bourbon and the conversation wear off some.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “I have a few errands I want to run before tonight.”

  Felicity went upstairs for her nap, dropping the tray of drinks off in the kitchen on her way.

  Costello got up and pulled the two buttons out of his jacket pocket. He handed one to me and said, “Now we both have a souvenir.”

  > CHAPTER 36

  A LITTLE OFF THE TOP

  My first stop was Indian Charlie’s cactus ranch. I was planning on leaving early the next morning and wanted to say good-bye to Charlie. When I drove up, he was out in the fields tending the cacti. He had dug a line of irrigation ditches around the cacti and was busy watering with a hose attached to a water spigot about fifty feet away.

  As he twisted and turned the hose, a large German shepherd ran over and took a bite out of the hose.

  “Leave the hose alone, Fritz,” he screamed at the dog. “It’s got enough holes in it already.”

  When I got closer, I saw that there were several small holes in the hose, all squirting little sprays of water at varying distances from the nozzle. As a result, the flow coming from the nozzle was weak.

  “Why don’t you just lay the hose down next to the ditch,” I hollered. “With all those holes, you could water the whole field without moving.”

  Indian Charlie laughed and motioned toward the dog. “That’s Fritzie’s fault. But these don’t need much water and don’t need extensive care. They sort of grow on their own. I have to keep busy somehow.”

  “How’s Herodotus coming along?” I asked, mentioning the book he borrowed from Felicity.

  “He’s in Egypt right now. He seems to have been everywhere and seen everything and loved to gossip. I should be done with it soon. I don’t want to upset Felicity by keeping it too long.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t mind,” I replied.

  “She doesn’t,” Charlie said. “She’s quite a woman, as I’m sure you noticed.”

  “I have noticed,” I said. “In fact, I’m having dinner with her tonight.”

  “That’s nice,” said Indian Charlie, “and you seem like a nice guy, Milo, but you’re just passing through and Felicity has been hurt before, so I hope you won’t do anything you shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t worry, Charlie,” I said. “I’ve grown fond of her and wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

  “Didn’t think you would,” said Charlie, “and I don’t mean to sound like an overprotective father. But this is a close-knit town, and we believe in looking after each other. Sometimes we overdo it a little. I even thought of making a play for Felicity at one time, but I like the solitary life out here in the desert, an
d I knew that wasn’t for her.”

  “We’re just having a quiet dinner since I’ll be leaving tomorrow. That’s why I came by. I wanted to say good-bye. And while I’m here I’d like to buy a little souvenir.”

  “Sure.” Charlie laid down the hose and walked over to his pickup. He pulled out a cactus in a little pot and handed it to me. “No charge,” he added. “Drop by again soon.”

  “I will. I have a feeling I’ll be back this way sometime soon.”

  “Have a safe trip back to San Diego, and watch your step on the way out,” Indian Charlie said as I turned to leave.

  “Will do,” I replied. “I don’t want to end up in Doc’s office having cactus spines removed from my feet.”

  “I was talking about Fritzie,” Charlie said. “He likes to relieve himself among the plants. Not much Doc can do about that. But be careful around the cactus too.”

  I negotiated the dangers presented by Indian Charlie’s fields and headed back to town. I had another destination in mind.

  My hair was a little shaggy and wanted to get a haircut if possible before my date. On my travels around Cordoba, I had noticed an old-fashioned barber pole on First Street just off Main Street. I figured that the store was either a barbershop or an antique store that had an old barber’s pole outside for display. As I pulled up, I discovered that it was indeed a barbershop as the lettering on the front window verified: “Monte’s Barbershop.”

  The barber’s pole in front of the building was still in working order as the red-and the white-striped pole was slowly rotating. When I first looked at the rotating pole, it reminded me of a child swirling a candy cane around in her mouth. But after staring at it for a minute, a sort of hypnotic effect took over and I felt like Jimmy Stewart when he was falling in Vertigo. I quickly shook off the effects and entered the building, which was an old wooden, one-story, standalone building that looked like it had been around since the 1800s.

  The entrance was in the center of the building, and to each side, there were windows that protruded a little bit on each side, like bay windows. There was a shelf inside the alcove on both sides piled with magazines that were not quite of the vintage of Doc’s collection but were far from current. One look at the condition of the magazines and I knew that Monte was not a collector like Doc was.

  Beside the alcoves on both sides were several straight-backed wooden chairs. The floor was wood with no carpeting or covering. The walls in the back of the shop and to the right were covered with pages that had been cut from issues of National Geographic showing scenery and wildlife from around the globe.

  The wall on the left was covered by a large mirror with a shelf below, which held various barber’s utensils. In the middle of the room to the left and facing the mirror were two ancient objects. The first was an ornate barber’s chair that looked like it had been serving customers since the days of Wyatt Earp.

  The second object was an old gentleman seated in the barber chair reading a magazine. He turned as I entered and climbed down from the chair.

  “Howdy,” he said. “Need a haircut?”

  He was a rather frail-looking old man who was stooped over. He wore black pants and a short white coat, the kind that doctors and barbers wear. On his head was a battered blue baseball cap with an emblem on the front I recognized as the “B” of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Bushy gray sideburns protruded from under the cap, matched by a pair of bushy eyebrows. His nose was thin, and his face was wrinkled, but his eyes were alert and he looked like he knew what was going on.

  His only other significant features were the two large hands that were shaking uncontrollably. It looked like he had long since stopped trying to hide the shakes.

  My mind took him in, and I realized that those were not the hands I wanted working in close proximity to my head with sharp scissors, so I made small talk while trying to come up with a way to make a graceful exit.

  “You must be Monte,” I stuttered.

  “Well, sir, I am and I ain’t,” he said. His sharp eyes had caught my glance at his hands and my reluctance to enter. “Come in and I’ll tell you the story,” he said. Holding his hands up, he assured me, “Don’t worry about these. I can’t do a thing with them except when I cut hair. Then they are steady as a rock. Darndest thing. Can’t figure it out. Come in. Come in.”

  Seeing no way to make a graceful exit, I walked in. Monte took me by the arm and guided me to the barber’s chair, giving my arm a nice massage with his trembling hand. At this point, I was just hoping to avoid bloodshed and leave with a haircut that wouldn’t cause Felicity to cancel our date in embarrassment. But a part of me was intrigued by his comment about his name. It looked like he had a story to tell and I wanted to hear it.

  “You must be the new fellow in town,” he said as he seated me in the chair.

  “Yes, my name is Milo Forbes.”

  “Friend of Ben’s, I hear.” He talked in short, clipped sentences and had a certain cadence that made you think he was reciting poetry. “Been here several days,” he said, more a comment than a question.

  He wrapped a paper band around my neck, covered me with a sheet, and shakily grabbed a pair of scissors and a comb from the shelf below the mirror. There was no sign of clippers or any electric grooming devices—just several pairs of scissors, several combs floating like medical specimens in a jar full of blue liquid, a straight razor and shaving cup and brush, and several bottles of lotions and potions covered in dust.

  “How do you want it cut?” he asked, surveying my shaggy salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Just cut the white ones and leave the black ones,” I said to ease the tension, mine, not his. I wanted to add, “And leave the ears,” but didn’t.

  He laughed and said, “I’ll do my best.”

  He raised the scissors and comb to my head, and as he had told me, when he began to cut, his hands became steady and he cut with precision and speed, the scissors making a quick clip, clip, clip sound almost like someone typing on a typewriter.

  After he got settled into his routine—and I relaxed a little—Monte began his story, his speech as clipped and controlled as the action of the scissors.

  “As I told you, Monte is my name and it ain’t. I was born Stanley Loomis many years ago in Orange, New Jersey. Stone’s throw from Newark. Uneventful childhood. Indifferent student. My only real passion was baseball,” he said, deciding to throw in a complete sentence for novelty.

  “Dodger fan?” I asked, motioning to the baseball cap he wore.

  “Brooklyn fan,” he scolded me. “Back then we had three teams in New York, all of them good. Every World Series champ from forty-nine to fifty-six. Three games on television every night—Yankees, Giants, Dodgers. Have to be strong up the middle to win. Well, sir, those teams had three Hall of Fame center fielders. Two Hall of Fame shortstops. Two Hall of Fame catchers. A Hall of Fame second baseman.

  “My team was the Dodgers. Hated the Yankees. Hated the Giants more. Second worst day of my life, October 3, 1951. Shot heard round the world. Best day of my life, game seven, 1955 World Series. Dodgers beat the Yankees. Only Brooklyn title.

  “Worst year of my life, 1957. Dodgers and Giants move to the West Coast.”

  He continued as he worked his way around my head. “Well, sir, I was a young man in 1957. Had a small barbershop in Orange. Decent living. I sold my shop and follow the Dodgers out to LA. I was single, so no strings. Bought an old used car. Drove out west.

  “Well, sir, when I got out to LA and saw the Dodgers of 1958, I knew I had made a mistake. No Ebbets Field. Playing in a football stadium. Hundred feet to the left-field stands, six hundred to center. And the team. Jackie was gone. Retired after he was traded to the Giants. Refused to play for the Giants. Campy paralyzed in a car crash in December of fifty-seven. Pee Wee was too old and Koufax was too young. Hodges ended up with the Mets. Snider played for the Giants and the Mets.

  “I realized that it wasn’t the same team, and Los Angeles wasn’t Brooklyn. Snider was the Duke
of Flatbush, not the Duke of Hollywood. Raised in California and returned after his baseball days. Had an avocado ranch. But he belonged to Brooklyn. Always has, always will.”

  By now he was done with my hair. He spun me around to look in the mirror and held a hand mirror at the back of my head so I could get a full view. Although it was difficult to see the back since his hands had begun shaking again since he had stopped cutting, it was obvious he had done a first-rate job.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “Now for a shave,” he said. “Gotta be clean-shaven for your date.” I have no idea how he knew about the date. I guess news travels fast in a small town.

  Monte pumped a lever on the old chair until I was almost prone. Surprisingly, I wasn’t concerned as Monte’s shaking hands poured a little hot water in the shaving mug and worked up a lather with the brush. I wasn’t even worried as he lathered my face, picked up the straight razor with a trembling right hand, and sharpened it on a leather strap attached to the chair. He had done a good job with the hair and I needed a shave. Besides, I hadn’t yet heard the full story.

  Monte’s hands steadied again as he shaved my face. He proceeded so lightly I felt nothing but a slight enjoyable tickle. Every few strokes he flicked the lather off the razor into the sink in front of him. As he shaved, he continued his story.

  “Well, sir, after a few months in California, I decided I’d had enough. Got into my car and headed back to New Jersey. Took the southern route. That old car developed engine troubles on Route 8. Cordoba was the closest town, so I headed here.

  “Well, sir, I had no money and I couldn’t afford to fix the car. Sold it for scrap. Needed to make money. Went looking for a job. Found this old barbershop that had been vacant for years. Asked if I could buy or rent it. No one in town could quite recall who owned the building, so they told me if I clean it up, it’s mine.