The truth, which momentarily startled Mildred, was that she hadn’t given a thought to her investments when Ripley appeared at her door. Trembling from a mixture of emotions, Mildred suddenly lunged forward and awkwardly embraced Ripley, her breast heaving against his tailored suit as his arms remained dangling at his side.
Getting no reaction, Mildred pulled back quickly and, both mortified and contrite, tried to regain her composure as she heard Ripley say, “Really, Mildred, that was quite an unexpected burst of emotion. I don’t know what to say. You can, I’m sure, appreciate that I avoid any personal attachment to my clients. Very unprofessional, and all that. Certainly you can appreciate -----.” “But I thought”, Mildred interrupted but felt foolish in mid-sentence before Maxwell, reading her mind, interceded, “Why yes, Mildred, I was attracted to you from the very beginning but when you pressed me for investment advice, I though you knew that would preclude a more intimate personal relationship. I took my clue from you, don’t you see?”
There was more superfluous chatter but it was all vague background noise to Mildred. And just like that, Maxwell was gone and Mildred slumped into a chair near the door, overwhelmed by self-loathing and also a yearning to turn back the clock to the time right before she stumbled inside the revolving door at the bank.
***
Outside the apartment building, Maxwell smoothed his lapels and looked at the wet spot on his shirt collar. “My god, she must have been crying” he said out loud. “How distasteful. Do I have time to go home and change before our rendezvous?”
***
That same evening in late August when Mildred had her fateful encounter with Maxwell, Stella was attending a party and had advised her Aunt before leaving that she would stay overnight with her friends and go directly to work the next morning. Stella did not return to the apartment the next day after work. After a few days of fretful searching and telephone calls, she discovered that her niece had simply vanished.
CHAPTER SIX
Thursday, July 14, 1955
It was 5:20 a.m. when Woody heard the first loud thump on the street outside his open window. The second thump confirmed what he already knew – the newspapers were at the curb and his day was about to begin.
Woody stumbled into his dungarees, pulled on his hooded sweatshirt and slowly laced up his black Keds high tops. OK, he said to himself, let’s get these papers delivered in record time and be back in bed before 7:00. It was his ritualistic pep talk every morning and sometimes he said it with more conviction than others.
He liked his paper route in spite of the early morning hours. It was his domain and Thursday afternoon was the best – collection day - and that usually meant tips for doing a good job the prior week. Fifty-seven customers in an 8-block square and Woody knew by heart where each one wanted the paper. Some didn’t mind as long as you tossed it near the door. Others required special care like Tee Shirt Smith who demanded that it be placed between the screen door and main door, nudged next to the inner door knob so it wouldn’t fall to the ground. Tee Shirt Smith was a pain, Woody said to himself, but at least she tipped him nicely for the special effort.
A few times he had let her outer door slam shut. She wrote him a note the first time and instead of a tip that week, suggested a few books he could read. When it happened again, she filed a complaint with his route supervisor, Mr. Kowalski, who reminded Woody that there were a lot of other 12-year olds that would like to have his route. Woody cursed Tee Shirt but got the message and the tips resumed along with the recommended reading lists.
Woody finished rolling the newspapers into tightly packed cylinders and stuffed them into his large canvas bag. The milk truck was rambling down the street and the driver stopped and tossed a large chunk of ice onto Woody’s lawn. Before it melted, Pokey would have something to lick and gnaw until he got bored. As he slung the bag over his shoulder, he looked back from the front step and saw Pokey with his nose pressed against the screen door.
“Sorry, Poke, but with you it’s like walking backwards. I’d never finish. Don’t worry, though, I’ll bring you home a doughnut.” Pokey seemed to understand this morning ritual as much as Woody and slowly turned away.
Woody was on a roll and it felt good. Up Fairview, across Bellamy, down Etheridge. He didn’t miss a beat. He loved the arc of the toss and as he watched the rolled paper float toward the porch, he imagined a deep drive to centerfield, right over the Foley Furniture sign, still soaring until it was out of sight. But Woody knew he didn’t have that kind of power – not just yet. He smiled nonetheless and the image faded when he heard the sound of the paper landing with an authoritative thud on the porch. He seldom looked back but could hear doors open as papers were retrieved by his customers. He was part of their day, people depended on him – sort of like the Lone Ranger, never waiting around for thanks, just doing his job. Well, collection day was different. Woody counted on his customers thanking him with their tips.
Walking along, Woody remembered that day last Winter when Jerry slept over and agreed to help with his deliveries. When they got outside, Jerry mumbled “Shit, it’s colder than a witch’s tit” and never said another word until they got to Lattimore’s Bakery. It was the one and only time that Woody had a helper.
As Woody turned onto Arbor Street, near the end of his route, he could see Lattimore’s up ahead. His mouth got watery and his stomach started to growl, right on schedule. Earl Lattimore was up at 2:00 a.m. and asleep by 5:00 a.m. He told Woody that the smell of his own doughnuts put him right back to sleep and that he depended on Woody to wake him up before the first customers started coming in.
As Woody approached the bakery, he heard voices and then a loud “POP”. What the hell was that, Woody said to himself? Not far from the front door, Woody stood frozen with shock as two stocky figures wearing sock masks raced out the door and around the back of the bakery. After a minute, Woody ran forward right into a third masked man emerging from the bakery.
Woody could see a sour, twisted mouth puckered and protruding from the opening in the mask. The thug stepped back and raised a gun from his side, then touched it to his lips and shook his head slowly back and forth and mouthed the word “no” before disappearing behind the bakery. Woody got the message and stood as silent as a deaf mute until the sound of a car engine brought him out of his trance-like state.
Woody rushed in to the bakery to find Earl Lattimore collapsed on his cot in the back room – panting loudly. “I’m OK, kid. Not even grazed. I was dozing and woke up to see those punks grabbing my strongbox. When I slipped off the cot, the little guy panicked, pulled out a gun and shot at the ceiling. Did you see’em on your way in? With those masks on, there was no way to get a good luck at those goddam punks.”
“Yes, Mr. Lattimore, I saw them for a flash but I couldn’t see their faces either. They were still wearing their masks when they ran past me,” said Woody. What Woody didn’t mention was that the gunman’s mask was pulled up slightly in the back and that when he turned away Woody saw tufts of red hair sticking out from below the mask at the base of his neck. Please, said Woody to himself, don’t let it be him.
Something told Woody that his normal Thursday routine was going to get complicated as he heard Mr. Lattimore in the background talking to someone on the telephone about a “robbery”.
“You need to stick around, kid. The police are going to be here soon and they will need to talk to you, too. Grab yourself a few of your favorites and a bottle of pop. It could take a while,” said Lattimore. So much for setting a speed record today, Woody said to himself glumly. And then he felt a greater fear welling up inside.
***
Meacham knew his Mother would be up early. As he walked through the back door into the kitchen she had the frying pan on the stove and was cracking some eggs into a bowl. “Heard you pull up, Billy. Pop in some toast. These eggs won’t take long”, she said cheerfully as he pecked her on the cheek.
“Of course, if you lived here instead of wastin
g money on that apartment, you would have smelled the eggs cooking before you got downstairs. It would be just like the old days” she said, without looking up. Meacham had heard it many times before. He didn’t take the bait but did imagine himself saying “Sure, Mom, and what would you say when you walked into my bedroom and saw Big Red lying next to me under the sheets?”
As he was eating, Meacham decided to casually bring up two topics that were intertwined in his mind. “So, Mom, what do you remember about those days when Dad worked for the Governor? What was it like?”
“I’m not sure what you are asking, Billy. Your Dad was gone a great deal because the Governor was constantly on the go. But I never asked questions, it just wasn’t that way back then.”
“But you must have heard stuff, Mom”, Meacham persisted. “Traber was a pretty reckless guy and Dad must have said something about him. “Nothing that wasn’t in the papers, Billy. We had an understanding that if there was information I needed to know, he would tell me. He never said a word about Traber and I never asked.” Meacham could see that his Mother was starting to get agitated but he pressed on, only more gently.
“Well, I can’t help but ask because it has bothered me for some time now about the sports car and how it was paid for.” This last comment stopped her cold and she stared at her son as if electrified. “William Meacham, your Father was as honest as the day is long. Yes, he could be autocratic and he was the boss of the family, and I am not ashamed to say so, but whatever he did, it was done with integrity. I suppose he told me that he got some sort of bonus for his work with the Governor but it never crossed my mind to ask how much or why – and certainly not to doubt him. And I still miss him terribly. Now shouldn’t you be getting to work?”
Both of them were now standing by the door and Meacham gave his Mother a hug. As he pulled back, he could see that her eyes were damp and sad. He kissed her softly on the forehead and chastised himself for dredging up old memories that had best been left buried.
***
Meacham reached the station in a forlorn state of mind. When he heard that a gun had been fired in a robbery at Lattimore’s, his ears perked up and he offered to investigate. Suddenly, he felt energized.
After leaving Hawkins and Santimaw on Crazy Hill yesterday, Meacham was looking for any kind of help he could get. Was it even possible that Hawkins’ gun made if off the Hill and was used in the Lattimore robbery? No, it was too much to hope for but playing long shots was all he had right now – not to mention a political hornet’s nest with the Mayor promising Hawkins a forty-eight hour black-out before the missing gun would be made public. Yes, a drunk security guard on the loose, possibly armed and a former police officer no less, would certainly be bad publicity for the Institute – not to mention the Mayor.
As he pulled up in front of Lattimore’s, Meacham gave his stomach a little pat and reminded himself that he was here on official police business. Sure.
“Hey, Billy boy” was the light-hearted greeting from Lattimore as Meacham entered the store. The baker had bounced back quickly, all 250 pounds of him. “Hi, Mr. L,” said Meacham, “So I see the punks didn’t put a bullet in your gut – or is there one buried in there?”
“Not even a scratch, Billy,” roared the suddenly jovial Lattimore. “ I was getting ready to put the cash in the register for opening and these three assholes walked right in. Punks in masks, you know the kind, right? It’s almost like they knew my routine.”
Meacham laughed. “Everyone in Parlor City knows your routine, Mr. L. If you’d stayed asleep like you’re supposed to be, they could have slipped in, taken what they wanted and left you undisturbed. Show me where you were when the fireworks took place.”
Lattimore took him to his cot in the back room and Meacham jumped back a step when he saw Woody Braun sitting on a stool finishing off what appeared to be a cream-filled, chocolate delight. “Well, maybe one,” Meacham said to himself, remembering that he had hardly touched his Mother’s eggs.
“What’s going on Woody? What’s he doing here, Mr. L?” asked Meacham, looking back and forth quizzically at both of them. Lattimore explained before Woody could say a word. Meacham gave Woody a gentle pat on the back and sent him out front so he could talk to Lattimore alone.
“The crime scene boys will be here shortly, Mr. L. Show me exactly where you were when the gun was fired and exactly where the punks were standing. And don’t tell me you weren’t sleeping when they barged in”. Meacham listened as Lattimore told his story with considerable embellishments about his exploits. He then looked at the ceiling and had a good idea where the bullet would be lodged.
Meacham went out front after reminding Lattimore not to touch anything – except his pastries and doughnuts. He needed to corroborate Lattimore’s version of events with Woody’s and see if the kid had any more information that could prove helpful. Good kid, that Woody Braun and, yes, his Mother was still a beauty fifteen years after high school. Seeing her at the “Pig & Whistle” confirmed it. If Whipple was right about the Minister, he needed to stop procrastinating and give her a call. It had been a while since Tommy Braun disappeared and no one in Parlor City believed he was coming back to town. One fantastic rumor was that the disappearance had been staged by the Brauns to allow Tommy to escape a marriage below his family status. The Braun’s departure from Parlor City fueled this speculation. In fact, there wasn’t a credible clue as to whether he was alive or dead.
Coaching Woody and the rest of the boys was fun for Meacham, a sane respite from police work. The kid might even move up to Babe Ruth next year as a promising shortstop if he works on his pivot and throw. Meacham would make the questioning quick and send Woody home.
Except that there was no Woody Braun in the front of the store when Meacham came out from the backroom. “Damn it, kid “, said Meacham out loud. Then, he smiled when he realized he had an excuse to pay a visit to Gwen Braun. But first, Meacham wanted to catch someone at home before they went to work at the Institute.
***
Jerry heard the pinging on the glass and, somewhere between deep sleep and semi-consciousness, imagined that it was sleet hitting his bedroom window. He opened his eyes just enough to catch a few sun rays as another pebble plunked the window. “Sleet in July? Are you nuts?” Jerry said to himself as he started to wake up. Jerry was a heavy sleeper and never an early riser, especially during summer vacation. And last night was particularly late for him, reading The Iliad well past midnight.
“What in sam hill,” said Jerry as he looked out the window to see Woody waiving frantically on the street below, motioning for him to come down. Jerry’s first thought was another hair-brained scheme to get attention but after last night’s adventure in the park, he couldn’t be sure and Woody’s face showed genuine agitation. Woody motioned to the back of the house and disappeared.
When Jerry got to their pre-arranged meeting place in the back of the garage, he found Woody sitting on the floor with his head down. “I’m in deeper, Jer”, Woody said quietly without looking up. Woody described the hold-up at Lattimore’s but held back some crucial details. Jerry listened almost in envy but still was able to maintain his studied nonchalance.
“I don’t get it, Woody,” Jerry said matter-of-factly. “Lattimore and you see the same thing. The hoods are wearing masks so they can’t be ID’ d. So why did you bolt? Meacham’s going to be pissed and it could cost you a start at shortstop tonight. Big game, right?” Jerry paused and then his face lit up. “Of course, the bullet we found last night could be a clue in which case we would have to come forward. Assuming they find the bullet in Lattimore’s ceiling, which they most likely will. Well, we need to find out its caliber and then compare it with our bullet, then ------- “
“There’s more,” Woody interrupted, almost in a whisper and bringing Jerry up short by the eerie softness of his voice. After the morning’s excitement, and adding to his growing trepidation, it never dawned on Woody until now to make a connection between the gun in the
park and the Lattimore robbery. Jerry patiently stared at Woody until he spoke again. “Rudy,” he said very softly. “What, Ruthie? That girl over on Bigelow Street that we saw at the movies last week? What the hell does she have to do with this? Besides, she’s in 9th grade and goes out with Zeke Magill. You want to mess with him?” Jerry was exasperated as he looked down on a forlorn Woody.
“Rudy Gantz,” Woody said slowly and distinctly, his mind now racing back and forth over the events of the last two days. “It was Gantz at Lattimore’s with the gun. I saw the red hair at the bottom of the mask when he turned away. But first he looked right at me with that twisted smile of his. I will bet anything that he knows I can make him. He gave me a signal to keep my mouth shut and ……..” Woody’s words trailed off as he looked straight past Jerry.
”Holy shit, kid, this is getting complicated as hell – even a little scary. We need to cogitate before deciding what to do,” said Jerry. “You can cogicrap or whatever all you want, Jerry, but I’m going home to tell my Mom everything then call Coach Meacham,” said Woody. Sometimes he wanted to smash Jerry went he used big words. Who knew if they were even real?
The Parlor City Boys Page 6