The Parlor City Boys
By Arno B. Zimmer
The Parlor City Boys Copyright Page
Copyright © 2015 Arno B. Zimmer
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Table of Contents
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
Chapter Five
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
Prologue
Tuesday, July 5, 1955
“It’s been a long time but I’m sure I know you. It was in Boston, right?” said Randall DePue, looking up as he was strolling aimlessly in the courtyard, hands stuffed in the back pockets of his baggy, hospital-issue pants. The slick-haired man in the 3-piece suit stared back but, as usual, was on guard. “Reginald Carver, Cleveland, Ohio”, he said. “Don’t know that I’ve ever been in Boston, even for a visit. Sorry, old timer. Hey, hope your treatment’s going well.”
DePue stated his name and added Thorndyke College by way of explanation but the stranger shrugged and briskly walked away without looking back. He knew that man, DePue insisted to himself, and his brain wasn’t so addled by booze that he couldn’t remember a face. In fact, he thought more clearly back on those enjoyable college years in Boston than any other part of his forlorn life. He would have to think about this Carver. It would come to him. “God, do I look that old at 42?” he said to himself as he turned to walk back toward his building.
“What bullshit luck”, Carver said out loud as he hurried to the parking lot. Cutting through the grounds where many patients take their afternoon walks seemed harmless enough. Never again, though. He would reprimand Hawkins for not giving him the patient list to review – at least those in the “country club” wing. Carver knew that seemingly inconsequential events could have severe repercussions if not dealt with quickly.
***
“It’s no big deal Ripley. DePue is not a threat”, Frederick Hawkins was saying later that day with his usual aplomb when he was interrupted by the man in the three-piece suit. “Whoa, right there, Freddie. I don’t like to take chances and would never have walked across the grounds if I had known he was a patient here. You were supposed to provide me with a complete list of patients in your so-called exclusive unit, remember? If you underestimate DePue or anyone else, things can go south in a hurry. Your contempt for others is going to bring you down one day – just like your carelessness right now. I am not Ripley Maxwell – its Reginald Carver even when we are alone, got it?”
Ripley Maxwell fixed a steely gaze on Hawkins and didn’t remove it until the hospital administrator mumbled “OK” before quickly looking away. It hurt Hawkins to concede any point but he knew Maxwell was right. Plus, he had come to understood that Maxwell as Reginald Carver was a dangerous alter ego if crossed. Hawkins was self-possessed and pertinacious at times but not stupid. He had come to sense that the glib, unflappable Ripley Maxwell that he had met in Boston had a dark, sinister side as well. In fact, he had to admit, with a sense of foreboding, that he had learned almost nothing about this man at all before bringing him to the Parlor City Institute.
With Hawkins properly humbled, Maxwell’s demeanor suddenly changed. “Well, let me chew on this problem. What we need is a distraction, a diversion if you will. In the meantime, we should probably accelerate the execution of our plan. I’m confident we can come up with a solution that will leave us all happy – except perhaps DePue, that is”, said Maxwell, smiling tightly as he walked out of Hawkins’ office.
***
DePue sat in his room waiting for the call to dinner. He picked up President Grant’s autobiography and started to read but was still thinking about the accidental meeting earlier with – what did he say his name was – oh yeah, Reginald Carver. It wasn’t just the slick dark hair that stuck with him. It was the supercilious coolness with which the man carried himself. Damn, maybe he was losing it, DePue said to himself, thinking back to the latest embarrassing event that landed him at the Institute in the first place. So what if it was a voluntary admission, begrudgingly acceded to by his mortified, socially-conscious wife. It didn’t assuage his deeply-felt shame.
What kind of man, having a perfectly normal day, gets drunk right after breakfast in the privacy of his law office and ends up at his country club in the afternoon and tees off for a round of golf wearing only his boxer shorts and spiked shoes? It was at best a college prank years too late and he had absolutely no explanation, except that he thought it was hilarious at the time, pointing out in his defense that his underwear did have pictures of golf clubs on them. DePue didn’t think he was crazy but the family’s reputation, as well as his own humiliation, had driven him here to look for an answer. What he knew for sure was that he wanted to get his drinking under control – to manage it just like he used to oversee his law practice.
Lying in bed later that evening, DePue was reading and his mind grew hazy as the heavy book slid from his hands and hit his lap, jolting his consciousness. “Yes!” he almost yelled out. “It’s that blackguard Winston Siebert. By god, he looks almost the same after 20 years.” The long ago history started to re-form in his head about the college con man and notorious rake, how he had vanished for several months from Thorndyke then suddenly reappeared as if nothing had happened. Made off with several hundred dollars from the fraternity social fund but was never prosecuted. As DePue recalled, Siebert’s father complained to the Dean and then everything was hushed up when the missing funds were magically replenished by an anonymous donor.
But what struck almost everyone at the time was Siebert’s imperviousness to shame, not to mention that his family was quite wealthy and Siebert didn’t need to steal in the first place – except for the sport of it, that is! When he tried to get back into the fraternity as if nothing had happened, there was a unanimous vote to keep him out which he reportedly laughed off before threatening to sue. Then, he disappeared again. At the age of 21, Siebert was already a man without principle, a master of duplicity. If Carver was Siebert, whatever he was doing at the Parlor City Institute could not be reputable. And if he was by chance visiting a relative, why use a fake name?
DePue suddenly felt energized and saw the potential to be useful if to no one else then at least to himself. He decided he
would send a few letters the next morning to some old friends in Boston. He had a source inside the Institute, mainly for the occasional pint of contraband scotch, who for an additional fee would be more than happy to handle his mail. It probably wasn’t necessary but he would use this precaution to avoid any chance of Hawkins’ snooping eyes. Someone in Boston had to know what had happened to Siebert. He would also have them check out a Reginald Carver, just in case his vaunted memory was wrong this time.
***
DePue was actually excited when the week following his chance encounter with “Reginald Carver”, his contact brought him an envelope at lunch. In the interim, he had learned that Carver was the new head of finance at the Institute, not a comforting thought if Carver and Siebert were one and the same person.
Hawkins was intelligent and sophisticated but he was no match for the treacherous Siebert whom DePue felt could be venal for the pure pleasure of it. They were both narcissists but Siebert had nerves of steel.
The return address on the envelope said “J. Winthrop Austin, Brookline, Mass.” and something told DePue that his sleuthing was going to pay off. Austin was a white shoe, patrician lawyer from old New England stock. He was a stuffy yet honorable man who could also be self-deprecating when you least expected it. Austin had once explained that his reserved manner was congenital and reminded DePue that the Lowells only talked to the Cabots and that the Cabots only spoke to God. The Austin clan, he had once told DePue, had known the Cabots and had inherited the same snobbery but not to such an exclusive degree.
In his stiffly, formal style, Austin wished DePue a speedy return to good health as if he were recovering from a broken leg instead of battling the alcohol demons. Well, that was the Austin way. If DePue had been sitting at the dinner table in Austin’s house hopelessly drunk and naked, his family would have chatted amiably and noted later, if asked about the incident, that their guest had not been properly attired for dinner.
Austin’s note was mostly polite small talk but tucked inside was a photograph of a group of people at an elegant party. The quality was not great so DePue went to the window to study the grainy photograph in the light. Austin has circled the heads of two men sitting on either side of an attractive young woman at a round table, all seemingly unaware that they were being photographed.
On the left, DePue noticed the slick, dark hair and knew instantly that it was Winston Siebert. But what made him gasp was the circled dome of the other man - that miscreant Frederick Hawkins. All at once, feelings of elation mixed with anger suffused DePue as it struck him that these two men could not possibly be together in backwater Parlor City for anything honorable. While it took others a longer time to take the measure of a man, DePue had a well-earned reputation as a quick but accurate judge of character.
DePue’s investigative instincts were revitalized and he felt that old urge that consumed him when he was preparing to go to trial. As his colleagues always said, no one could match the indefatigable Randall DePue for meticulous research before setting foot in the courtroom.
DePue started to ponder the possibilities. Winston Siebert working for Frederick Hawkins under an assumed name meant one of two things – Siebert was conning Hawkins, a soothing idea in its own right – or the two were working together. The photograph led him to the latter conclusion rather quickly. As for the gorgeous blonde with the long hair, how did she fit into the picture, if at all, and to which of these reprobates was she attached?
Even if there wasn’t financial malfeasance, DePue already felt compelled to expose Hawkins as a sadistic fraud if some of the stories he heard floating around the Institute could be substantiated. Patients straight-jacketed for asking too many questions and those Friday rituals in the Day Room that were whispered about but never discussed openly. He had to learn more about those mysterious sessions, too, all involving Ward C where the dregs of society were supposedly sent for treatment but were basically drugged, ignored and, at best, warehoused.
DePue thought about the law practice he had practically abandoned. His partners were tired of picking up the slack for him and he couldn’t blame them. And there were still a few intriguing legal matters sitting out there that he had promised people he would handle, like the Stanley Ward diary that had come to him upon the banker’s death. DePue was getting ready to delve into the diary’s contents when his semi-nude golf escapade had intervened and sent him, once more, spiraling out of control.
During his afternoon stroll, DePue walked down near the walled-off area and gazed at the rows of overgrown graves in the Institute cemetery. He could not see distinctly but had been told that very few had names on them and the majority of them were simply marked with the patient’s number – their final indignity, he thought.
Adjacent to the cemetery was the Institute farm and DePue could see dozens toiling away, many of them patients in their distinctive garb. It was said that the best produce ended up in Parlor City and surrounding towns but never on the plates of the patients. Well, he ate well but then his unit was privileged, right? Turning back, he wondered who profited from this arrangement.
Later that evening, DePue decided to send an anonymous note to Reginald Carver posing a single question: “What is Winston Siebert III doing in Parlor City?” This was going to be energizing, DePue thought to himself as he settled under the covers and contemplated the irony that two college classmates would end up at the Parlor City Institute at precisely the same time. DePue had never considered himself a crusader but it was long overdue that he took an interest in living again, he thought to himself, before drifting off to sleep with a smile on his face.
CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday, July 13, 1955
Woodrow Thompson Braun, III was walking through the park at the foot of Round Top Hill, absent-mindedly pushing an empty bottle of pop in the dirt, sending dust whirling up around him.
When he saw the crumpled brown bag in front of him, he decided to give it a swift kick and immediately recoiled in pain, letting loose with a prolonged “Geeez”, his automatic substitute for swearing. Woody knelt down to examine more closely the object of his displeasure. “Holy shit” burst from his mouth as he jerked his hand away from the bag – not able or willing to stifle a profanity this time as the barrel of a gun was staring out at him from a tear in the bag.
He looked around but there was no one else in sight except a mother gently pushing her tow-headed daughter on the swings at the far end of the park. Luckily, they were facing away from him. Woody turned his back to shield himself and then carefully slid his hand into the bag as his fingers slowly traced first over the gun and then some loose bullets. He carefully removed his hand and let out a deep sigh, not realizing how tense he was at that moment. “Now what?” he whispered to himself.
Jerry would know what to do next but he was at the library, probably researching some weird subject. Bringing home the gun was not an option. “Darn, Jerry, best friends are supposed to be there when you need them,” he said half out loud. Woody realized this was unfair as soon as he mouthed the words. He knew he needed to act on his own – or just walk away.
Woody carefully lifted the bag as if he were handling a sack of live grenades and carried it behind the horse chestnut tree on the edge of the park. He glanced back at the swings but the woman with the little girl was gone. To his delight, he saw a deep crevice in the tree just below a dark knot. He carefully placed the bag in the opening and gathered some leaves and small sticks from the ground, stuffing them in front of the bag. “Perfect!” he said while raising his clenched fists triumphantly into the air.
Woody hurried down Arbor Street toward the Library, his mouth pasty and his mind racing. Suddenly feeling conspiratorial and to avoid being seen, he cut over to the creek and ran along the edge when he saw something stirring on the opposite side. Thinking it was an animal foraging for food, Woody was shocked when he saw a hairy creature emerge from the side of the embankment, stand up and stare intently at him.
Woody never br
oke stride but looked back over his shoulder to confirm that what he was now sure was a hobo had not followed him. He didn’t ease up until he approached the entrance to the library. He was picturing the gun in the tree and couldn’t wait to see the look on Jerry’s face. Absolute awe and disbelief, for sure. It was going to be a sweet moment for Woody Braun.
***
On a side street on the other side of the park, Rudy Gantz sat in his 1949 Ford Custom Club coupe sipping a Schaeffer beer and smoking a Red Dot junior cigar. He glanced down at the box with the shy yet seductive blonde looking back at him and decided that she would be the kind of moll he would have when he got around to it. In the back seat were the Clintock twins, staring straight ahead.
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