The Clintocks didn’t drink or smoke and rarely talked but when pressed would tell people what they had been instructed to say - that they were under retainer to Rudy. Molded like cinder blocks, they lifted weights, rebuilt car engines and beat up people that Rudy didn’t like. The young kids called them human dumbbells but never within earshot. The Clintock family was from The Projects where life for most residents had reached a humiliating dead-end. Set off on the edge of town, the buildings looked like abandoned military barracks – a series of identical, one-level grey cinder block structures surround by scrawny, neglected shrubs. Most of the families living there were on home relief, just looking to survive another week. No one ever reminded the Clintocks that they were from The Projects.
With fiery red hair and a ruddy, pock-marked face, Rudy was rarely in a good mood and nothing excited him unless it was either illegal or malicious, preferably both. As his eyes wandered across the park, he thought it curious that a boy was stuffing something into a tree and then quickly running off. The kid looked vaguely familiar but Rudy couldn’t place him at this distance. He let out the clutch and shifted into first; his back seat passengers stirred from their reverie like lions dozing in the pride but keen to spring into action when an object moves on their periphery. Rudy liked to give out what he called “assignments”. He would have the Clintocks check out the tree. It was a short ride around to the other side of the park but Rudy couldn’t resist the opportunity to gun the engine and burn rubber, hoping that someone was watching.
***
A mile up the hill from the park, Randall DePue was found just inside the gate of the Parlor City Institute. DePue had been missing since lunch roll call and seemed to be sleeping peacefully on his side in a semi-fetal position when discovered by orderly Roscoe Peterson. It annoyed Roscoe since he would now have to fill out a report and explain how he had found DePue. Was he passed out or just incoherently drunk? Did he resist and so on? He might even be questioned about how DePue got the booze in the first place and the thought of such an inquiry made Roscoe uncomfortable.
He gently nudged DePue in the back with his foot but got no reaction. He tried again and still no movement. Dead drunk, Roscoe said to himself. Roscoe wedged his foot under DePue’s side to gain leverage and flip him over in one quick movement. As he did, time seemed to slow down and, as the body rotated, Roscoe saw the gaping mouth of DePue caked in his own vomit. Next to him was an empty quart bottle of rye, the sight of which actually made Roscoe sigh with relief. Thank the Lord it wasn’t a pint of scotch, he said to himself.
As Roscoe bent down to take a closer look, he gripped DePue’s wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Roscoe jumped back involuntarily and then frowned, his temporary elation replaced with a sickening feeling in his gut as the image of Frederick Hawkins grilling him about a dead patient sent panic throughout his system.
CHAPTER TWO
“Ssshh”, said a scowling Loretta Smith as Woody rushed into the Library, breathing heavily as he bumped into a cart of books waiting to be shelved, knocking a few of them to the floor with a loud clap.
Woody picked up the books, smiled sheepishly and mumbled an apology while Miss Smith pursed her lips. She knew that it was probably as close to a book as Woody would get all Summer. The boys had nick-named her “Tee Shirt Smith” because, as they reasoned, she could wear a tee shirt and look just like any other 12-year old boy. She wore her hair short and straight, too, which got a lot of gossip going about why she wanted to look like a boy in the first place, if that indeed was her goal.
Woody found Jerry at a table in his usual spot deep in the stacks. His bespectacled face was buried deep in an enormous book. Jerry never looked up even when Woody whispered the magic words in his ear: “I found a gun, big guy – with ammo”.
Jerry Kosinsky was big. He was, in fact, a gentle 6-foot giant of a 12-year old with a mop of brown hair that hung down on his forehead almost to his eyebrows. His eyes were like saucers and looked even more pronounced behind thick, tortoise shell glasses. He loved books more than anything else in the world – even sports, a fact that continued to baffle his best friend. Everyone was sure it was because of his Uncle Harold, a history professor at some college in the Midwest. It was said that Jerry and his uncle carried on an active correspondence and that the young boy was mesmerized by him. Woody thought it strange that such a devoted uncle never came to visit but couldn’t bring himself to ask Jerry why. Everyone thought Woody and Jerry were an odd couple as best friends but they had been close since Kindergarten and nothing had happened since then to alter their relationship.
“If you come back in your next life as a praying mantis, it better not be as a male”, Jerry said as he looked up at Woody. He squinted with his usual wry smile as he pushed his glasses up on his aquiline, freckled nose. Nothing ruffled Jerry Kosinsky, except when his mother yelled “Gerard” in that piercing voice of hers.
“Are you insane, Jer? Didn’t you just hear what I said?” Woody stifled a budding scream and turned it into an earnest, hoarse whisper. Jerry just grinned, enjoying himself.
“I’m serious, Woody. The female mantis is basically a cannibal who devours the male during reproduction. Uncle Harold says it happens in real life all the time, too. He calls it a metaphor and although I am not sure what he means, it’s definitely not good. He says the female should be called the “preying mantis” instead, get it?” You know, preying with an “e”?
No, Woody didn’t get it and, in fact, was starting to lose it. Jerry knew when to stop. “Hey, sorry bud, but don’t have a cow. I didn’t think you were serious. Every time you come to the Library, it’s a scheme or trick to get me to leave. So tell me, what is the word from the bird?”
Woody relaxed and quickly told him what had happened at the edge of the park. The bemused look disappeared from Jerry’s face. Finding a gun was heady stuff for two 12-year old boys in a sleepy town like Parlor City. Something had to be done.
It was silently agreed with fingers to the lips and a nod to the door that not another word would be spoken inside the Library. They hurried past Tee Shirt Smith who looked like she had just witnessed a kidnapping. Woody smiled broadly back at her as they went out the door, proud that he had rescued his best friend once again.
CHAPTER THREE
“This is a tough one, bud” said Jerry in his most ominous tone when they were half way down the Library steps. “I need some time to ponder”.
“We gotta move it and quick. Keeping it in that tree is too risky. I was darn lucky it didn’t fire when I kicked the bag and doubly lucky that lady with the kid were the only ones in the park this afternoon. It’s crowded over there sometimes, Jer”. Woody was speaking rapid fire and starting to panic the more he thought about the gun.
“Tonight”, Jerry said calmly. “Relax. The bullets were in the bag so I doubt it was even loaded. Anyway, we move it tonight. Come over to my house for dinner and we’ll swing into action under the cover of darkness. It’ll be a snatch”.
Woody loved the way Jerry talked and acted when the pressure was on. He seemed so at ease, it made Woody proud but also envious. Where did he get such confidence? Not from his father, Woody mused. “You sure it’s OK with your Mom? I eat over quite a bit, you know.”
“C’mon, you’re like one of the family so stop it already. Dinner’s at six sharp, though. You know my Mom, See ya.”
Woody watched as Jerry walked away, wondering what plan he would hatch for that evening. Whatever it was, Woody still couldn’t shake the thought taking hold of him that finding the gun might prove to be more than a harmless adventure.
***
The Parlor City Police Department was a decrepit three-story brick building, in truth a converted schoolhouse long ago abandoned, that some felt needed only a stiff wind to blow it down.
The inside walls were a sickly green with frequent ugly white splotches where the paint had chipped away. If you looked closely, you would find bullet holes in the door jambs and in the f
loor. Old-timers like Sgt. “Wacky Willy” Donahue, now manning the front desk, told stories of shoot-outs in the hallways and on the open stairwells where students used to roam.
Lolly columns dotted the building like tree trunks and “Wacky Willy” told of rough customers who had been chained to them on busy days when the holding cells were overcrowded. It was said that if one of the rambunctious prisoners had decided to pull hard enough on his chains that his lolly would have come down, causing the entire structure to collapse.
Sgt. Donahue was a throwback with his barrel-chested physique and waxed handle bar mustache. Even at sixty, he was ready to brawl with anyone who disrupted the calm of his domain. In his more reflective moods, he would reminisce about driving the old Packard patrol wagon and checking on the foot patrolmen during his days as a “Roundsman”. The younger policemen looked at him with bemusement but the older ones had profound respect for “Wacky Willy” and the history he represented.
Up the creaky staircase, periodically lit with green bulbs, the detective unit was housed on the third floor.
***
Detective Billy Meacham, Jr. got the late afternoon call from the Chief about a “problem” at the Parlor City Institute. In fact, could Meacham be in the Administrator’s Office at the Institute in thirty minutes? With Dt. Cpt. Caldigate in the hospital, seriously ill, and Dt. Lt. Shanks recovery from a fish knife wound after interceding in a domestic dispute, the department was short-handed and the young detective’s turn was up.
Meacham’s ears perked up. There was no love lost between the Parlor City Police Department and the Institute where the autocratic Frederick Hawkins ruled with his private security force.
For Hawkins to make such a request directly to the Chief was highly unusual and Meacham guessed that it originated higher up. Some thought that Hawkins looked on the town with disdain, running the Institute like a personal fiefdom. But most residents liked the fact that “King” Hawkins kept the crazies away from Parlor City and created jobs for the locals. They really didn’t begrudge him his empire on the hill.
Meacham’s stomach soured as he gulped the last of his cold coffee and crushed the cup in his hand. Maybe something serious was a stir in Hawkins’s domain and Meacham would find out before the end of the afternoon. He grabbed his Camels and headed for the door.
***
When Woody got home, Pokey was laying in the front yard half hidden by the drooping lilac bush, waiting for his master. Pokey was slow even as a puppy and no one challenged Woody when he chose his name the first day they brought him home from the pound. “Food, Poke?” Woody asked energetically. Emerging lethargically from his resting place, only the slightest wag of the basset hound’s tail revealed Pokey’s interest in eating but Woody picked up the faint signal right away.
Woody fed Pokey and slid in the backdoor, careful not to let it slam. He peeked into the living room to confirm that his Mom was in her usual spot - still in her hospital whites – on the couch for a late afternoon catnap before starting dinner.
Woody went into the kitchen and grabbed the loaf of “Sunbeam” bread and winked at the cute blonde girl on the package smiling back at him. He quickly slapped some peanut butter and grape jelly on three slices and lined them up on his right arm before creeping carefully through the living room.
“If one of those hits the floor, Woodrow, you are in big trouble” said Gwen Braun as Woody turned at the foot of the stairs and felt his afternoon snack wobble precariously on his outstretched arm. No one else could call him by his given name without provoking a confrontation. “Just to my room. Thought you were sleeping. Hey, can I eat at Jerry’s tonight? It’s OK with his Mom”.
”Fine, if you still have an appetite. But you know the deal. Must be home by 10:00 – sharp. I don’t need to remind you when the papers arrive.” Sometimes Woody hated his paper route, especially the early hours. But it did put spending money in his pocket and he felt like he was doing his part to help out.
“Got it, Mom. I fed Poke. Anything else you want me to do before I leave? We’re going to watch television after dinner and then I’ll come straight home. Promise.”
“Well, we were going out with the new Minister for dinner but I suppose I can go alone. Make sure you say thank you to Mrs. Kosinsky and remember ……”. “I know, Mom”, Woody jumped in. “Don’t start eating until Mrs. Kosinsky does – and ask permission to leave the table.”
Gwen Braun smiled as she watched Woody navigate the stairs and was suddenly taken back several years. It seemed so long ago that she had married Tommy Braun after a brief but intense romance while he was in college and she in nursing school. And just like that, three years after Woody was born, he was gone. Not dead, just vanished without a word or a trace. It shocked Parlor City at the time and shook her to the core for almost two years even though Gwen knew in her heart that Tommy had been “gone” some time before his actual disappearance.
Woodrow Thompson Braun, Jr. was the wonder boy who moved effortlessly from cute, precocious kid to handsome, polished young man. Always under control, he was a gifted athlete who never displayed the arrogance of achievement. Nowhere was this more evident than on the golf course. From a young age, he won every tournament he entered and seemed to glide around the course, oblivious to his opponents and even to the ever-growing galleries that gathered to watch the prodigy.
While in high school, he saw the colorful and mercurial Tommy Bolt play and decided then and there that he had a role model for life. Much to the dismay of his father, he refused to answer to the name of Woodrow or even Woody any longer and insisted on being called Tommy. His dress and style became more flamboyant but it was the drinking and erratic behavior that stood out. Simply put, Tommy developed an almost immediate infatuation with booze and the aura that surrounded it. When he was kicked off the high school team his senior year for reeking of alcohol at a tournament, he smiled and walked off the course without saying a word.
When he went off to college in Massachusetts, Tommy continued to play golf but never bothered to join the golf team, a further irritant to his status-obsessed father. He did enjoy matches with wealthy students and older golfers where he won lucrative side bets and indulged excessively in the camaraderie of the 19th hole.
He had even refined what he called the “Tommy Trick” whereby he filled miniature liquor bottles and stashed them everywhere – including the lining of his hat. Yes, Tommy thought he was immensely clever and enjoyed the deception and subterfuge almost as much as the booze itself.
Gwen Pritchard had been orphaned at the age of two when her parents were killed in a horrific car accident while returning home from a restaurant after celebrating their anniversary. Maiden Aunt Wilma Pritchard immediately took charge and raised her with an effective mix of love and discipline.
When Tommy came home after his freshman year, he met Gwen at a friend’s party and instantly detected in her the prepossessing refinement that others saw in him. The fact that she was also beautiful and witty didn’t hurt. Gwen was smitten as well and without even hinting to anyone about their plans, they ran off and got married before the Summer was over. Fearing the wrath of his parents, the newlyweds agreed to keep their nuptials a secret for the time being so Tommy returned to college and Gwen continued her studies at the local nursing school.
Before the following Christmas, the college notified Tommy’s parents that their son had “incompletes” in all of his courses and that his instructors had rarely seen him attend class. Within a few weeks, he was back home in Parlor City.
Tommy started working in his father’s lumber business, vowing to clean up his act and return to college for the fall semester. Even though this was not his intention, he knew it would buy him some time with his parents and allow him to be close to his beloved Gwen.
Tommy had always been very careful about exposing Gwen to the darker side of his love affair with booze but now it was getting harder to hide his excesses. He drank more freely in front of her and then would
abruptly quit when she cried bitterly. He pleaded with her to drop out of nursing school so they could run off together but when she asked how they would live, he had no response. Finally, after weeks of pleading to no avail, Gwen played her last card and dispassionately announced that she wanted the marriage annulled. It was at this point that Tommy wept openly and unashamedly for the first time in his life, vowing on his knees to never drink again. Gwen acquiesced, still madly in love with her besotted blue-eyed wonder boy.
Tommy kept his word to Gwen and also dedicated himself to his father’s business, much to the amazement of the senior Braun. By the spring, the lovebirds decided it was time to reveal their secret and start living together. The Brauns were shocked and complained vociferously, implying at first that their darling boy had been entrapped by a vixen. But Tommy made it clear that he was not returning to college and, furthermore, had an obligation to support his wife. Aunt Wilma acquiesced reluctantly and by the Summer Tommy and Gwen had set up house in a small cottage on the edge of Parlor City. For them, life took on an idyllic normalcy after such a rocky beginning.
The Parlor City Boys Page 2