The Parlor City Boys

by Arno B. Zimmer

  “Now,” continued Hawkins, “I need to prepare for a dinner party being hosted by the Mayor for the Institute’s major benefactors. I will make it a point of mentioning your thorough and professional cooperation with the police regarding this very unfortunate incident.” Hawkins turned away toward his massive oak desk as Santimaw felt himself sink lower into the thick carpet as if he were being gradually immersed in soft cement. He somehow forced himself to turn around and trudge out of the room, but not before he heard Hawkins say, his back still turned, “At the rate you’re going, Wendell, you will have a heart attack before you ever get the chance to retire to Florida. Relax. Here are some pills from Dr. Blinker to get your blood pressure down. Take one a day and believe me you will feel a lot better.

  “If you do as you’re told, everything will be fine. Oh, and I know you are trying to figure out what purloined means. Ask Miss Deschambault on your way out. I am sure she will be glad to enlighten you.” Hawkins muttered “corpulent clown” after his security chief closed the door, not wanting Santimaw to feel the sting of one more epitaph just yet.

  Outside of Hawkins’ office, Santimaw pulled himself together and buttoned the front of his jacket over his bulging stomach for the walk past Miss Deschambault. Was there anything Hawkins didn’t know, Santimaw thought to himself? Had his wife by blabbing about their Florida plans to someone on the Institute staff? Well, he would deal with her when he got home. Santimaw glanced at both shoulders, catching the corners of his epaulets and nervously brushing off some white flecks. As usual, Miss Deschambault didn’t look up and Wendell didn’t stop for his vocabulary tutorial although he did notice the smirk on her face. Instead of self-contempt he felt anger welling up inside. Yes, he was Wendell Santimaw, Chief of Security at the Parlor City Institute, he said to himself.

  But walking toward the exit, Santimaw did reflect, and bitterly so, on his abbreviated career on the police force and his ill-placed faith in opaque promises from the Mayor that never materialized. And then when he discovered that he had been used, he struck out indiscriminately and made a fool of himself. He had never been discreet or polished, had none of the refinements that were cherished by elites. Even his once idolizing wife had finally seen into him and could not help, in subtle and yet distinct ways, reveal her growing contempt for her husband. And so here he was at the Institute with few options left to him but, he reminded himself, still in the game.

  Santimaw knew that he still had at least one card to play and he wasn’t going to serve as the chump for anyone – including Frederick Hawkins. With that thought, he patted his trouser pocket and smiled. Yes, his ticket to Florida was there, snug and safe. As he walked down the steps into the blazing afternoon sun with renewed determination to be his own man, the bottom button on his jacket popped off and he let out a prolonged sigh.

  ***

  When Woody got home from collecting, he saw Coach Meacham’s car in the driveway and panic streaked through his body as he thought about his two visits to the park, Lattimore’s robbery and Rudy Gantz’ recent warning, all in a merged memory rush. Meacham was sitting in the living room in his baseball uniform, talking quietly to his Mother. Normally, Woody would have been pleased to walk in on this scene.

  “Hurry up, kid. You’re riding with me tonight. I’m giving your Mom a break,” said Meacham cheerfully. Woody had once again totally forgotten about the game but hid it well, bounding up the stairs with a quick smile and “OK, Coach.” Halfway up, he heard his Mother’s voice reminding him “No cleats in the house. Put them on outside where you were supposed to have left them.”

  Woody heard muffled talk and quiet laughter downstairs that made him pause as he changed into his uniform. Suddenly, everything in his life felt absolutely perfect and he didn’t want to move for fear he would lose the moment forever. Then, he heard “let’s go, shortstop” and hustled down the stairs, suppressing a grin.

  Meacham started the conversation once they pulled out of the driveway. “Now Woody,” Meacham began, as Woody steeled himself for a cross examination about the Lattimore robbery, “you need to play a little deeper in the hole, tonight. These boys from Wilber Hardware hit some screamers. So play back, give yourself more time to react. With your strong arm, you can still make the throw in time. Make sense?”

  Woody let out a sigh of relief but worked hard to maintain his composure. What was going on here? No questions, no reprimand, nothing? “Sure, Coach, thanks for the advice,” he finally blurted out. Woody couldn’t believe his good luck. Maybe this whole thing at Lattimore’s was no big deal after all. Coach Meacham was a damn smart detective. He’d solve the robbery and nab Rudy without Woody’s help. It was a relief to know that baseball was all that was on Coach’s mind. Everything would get back to normal, starting with tonight. A smile crept across Woody’s face as he looked straight ahead, reflecting back on that serene moment in his bedroom minutes ago. He wondered if Coach Meacham could possibly know what he was really thinking.

  “Oh, one more thing, Woody. You’re a little anxious at the plate. Take a few pitches unless you see a fat one. Get a feel for the pitcher. Stay back and don’t lunge. You’ll be fine,” Meacham said with a smile as they pulled into the parking lot.

  Two hours later, Buddy DeLong struck out on three straight pitches with a runner on third and Wilber Hardware beat Mancini’s Spaghetti House 3-2. What was going on? DeLong rarely struck out but tonight he looked lost, flailing at two pitches out of the strike zone and staring at a third right down the middle. Woody and his teammates just stood in stunned amazement.

  Meacham tried to console Buddy with a soft pat on the head but his normally clutch hitter just stormed off to the parking lot where a visibly distraught Mrs. DeLong was waiting by the car.

  “What was that all about, Coach, with Buddy? He’s usually so cool, he didn’t even foul off one pitch,” said Woody as they pulled away from the field. Meacham didn’t respond so Woody let it sit. Thoughts of his long day started to creep back into his head. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. All he wanted right now was the sanctuary of his room and a good night’s sleep – before he would hear the thump of newspapers outside his window. Then he remembered the confrontation with Rudy and a shiver ran down his spine.

  As they pulled up in front of the Braun house, Woody planned a quick thanks and a hasty retreat. But Coach Meacham gripped Woody’s sleeve and gently pulled him back into his seat. “It’s about time we had a little talk, don’t you think?” he said softly.

  “Oh, yeah, Coach. What’s up? I’m really sorry about this morning at Lattimore’s. I shouldn’t have run off. It was stupid. I was just so anxious to tell Jerry Kosinsky.” Woody stammered a bit but felt good about his explanation.

  “Woody, I realize you have a lot going on, the early mornings with the paper route but sometimes things happen in life and you have to deal with them right then and there or they tend to get worse. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Sure, Coach. Like everything that happens has consequences even when we don’t like it, right?” said Woody, thinking about what Jerry had said that morning. “That’s it, Woody. Dealing with problems right away doesn’t always fix things but not dealing with them quickly makes it even harder to fix them later. Do you see what I’m saying?” said Meacham.

  Woody nodded his head affirmatively but kept his eyes diverted from Meacham. He felt something building up and he knew whatever happened next would have consequences – good or bad. “Woody, I need to talk to you about a couple of thing, one of which you already know about and another which you don’t. Let’s start with this morning’s incident at Lattimore’s. Tell me exactly what you saw when the hoods left the store. Even the smallest detail could prove helpful,” Meacham said in a steady, non-threatening voice.

  “Well, Coach,” Woody began slowly as if he were trying to remember events that happened weeks ago, “it’s a little fuzzy and I was kind of tired just finishing up my route when I got to Lattimore’s front door and these three guys rushed p
ast me. I think they were all in black and for sure they didn’t say a word. Then they bolted behind the store, just like that. When I heard a car engine start, I went inside and found Mr. Lattimore. Oh, I did hear a loud noise but didn’t know it was a gun. And there was some yelling coming from Lattimore’s which I heard down the street cuz its usually pretty quiet that time of the morning” Woody concluded with a rush and looked up at Coach Meacham with an expression that almost pleaded for total acceptance – finality. Woody’s hand felt for the door handle, hoping to escape and thinking that he had handled himself pretty darn well.

  “OK, Woody, so let’s slow down and see if we can remember any other details. I’ve got Mr. Lattimore’s description of the hoods and would like you to think harder. Were they all the same height, weight, dressed the same?” asked Meacham calmly.

  Woody gave the same non-descript response as before, insisting that he saw nothing unusual and that all the punks looked the same, except maybe one was shorter than the other two. Meacham didn’t press him further and Woody sighed softly. “I’m really tired, Coach and gotta get up for my paper route really early. Can I go now?” said Woody anxiously.

  “Sure, Woody, just one last thing,” said Meacham in his most reassuring voice. Woody relaxed and hoped the topic was going to be baseball when Meacham said “What were you and Jerry Kosinsky doing last night in the park with a flashlight?” The steady gaze of Coach Meacham burned right through Woody and shook him to the core. He had nothing rehearsed and started to stammer when he suddenly blurted out “NIGHT CRAWLERS!” in an unnaturally loud staccato voice. Woody even surprised himself.

  “Oh, all the way up there just to get some worms? Did you and Jerry go fishing today? And what were you guys going to do with the worms since you weren’t carrying a pail?” Meacham asked with a bemused look on his face.

  “Yeah, well we heard you get the best night crawlers up there but realized we didn’t have a pail so kind of gave up and came home,” Woody said weakly, looking at the floor of Meacham’s car. He suddenly felt stupid and embarrassed while trying to figure out how Coach even knew they were at the park in the first place.

  “Forgot your shovel, too, eh?” asked Meacham. “OK, Woody, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me but if that’s what you’re saying, we’ll let it go for now. Give some more thought to Lattimore’s. Don’t forget, a gun was fired even if no one was hurt. And whoever robbed Lattimore’s might have more ambitious plans. And regarding the park, if Jerry and you were on some sort of secret mission, you need to come up with a better cover story than worms. Good night, kid,” said Meacham, cuffing Woody gently on the back of the head.

  Woody felt the steady gaze of Coach Meacham as he slid out of the car and slouched toward the house, feeling diminished and unworthy. All he wanted was the sanctuary of his room to think about what had happened that day and to somehow figure a way out of the complicated mess he had created. He could really use Jerry’s help right now. “We’ll talk again tomorrow, Woody”, he heard Meacham say from the car as he opened the screen door and walked inside – cleats and all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Friday, July 15, 1955

  The day after the Lattimore’s robbery, Rudy Gantz was feeling good as he sat at the kitchen table sipping a Black Label beer. A pot of Hungarian goulash was simmering on the stove, making occasional bubbling sounds. In a rare vocal display, the Clintock twins had complained that their “split” from the bakery heist was only $53 but Rudy just smiled sarcastically before explaining in a conciliatory tone, “Listen, boys, it was just a dry run as I have been telling you. I had to see how you handled yourselves under pressure. No offense meant and the money will come, believe you me. Plus, we had that little complication with the Braun kid and that had to be handled.” Both Clintocks thought about Rudy’s wild reaction at the bakery and his shot into the ceiling but said nothing.

  “I’m already planning our next job and this time we will be borrowing a dead man’s car – just in case someone saw us pulling away from Lattimore’s,” explained Rudy. He unrolled the newspaper and shoved it in front of the twins. An obituary notice was circled announcing the death of one Earl Brattigan. Rudy grinned but the Clintocks remained placid, methodically dipping their spoons into bowls of goulash as they looked up at their leader.

  “OK, boys,” Rudy went on, “Brattigan lived alone. His wife died a few years ago. My old man knew him at the cigar factory. Had a reputation as a tightwad – except that he bought a new Buick Roadmaster every two years and kept it spotless. Always drove it around town on Sunday’s real slow, like he was leading a parade. It’s sitting in his garage right now with no one to drive it. What a shame.” Rudy paused to give the twins time to absorb this information.

  After a few moments looking at his two stone monuments, Rudy exploded. “Jesus H. Christ, you guys, we are going to use Brattigan’s car for our next job! If we can’t find his keys, you two geniuses will hotwire it and we’ll be in business. First, we thoroughly search the house. Tear it apart if you want to. You never know how much money he might have been stashing away. My old man says Brattigan didn’t trust anyone – including the bank.”

  The Clintocks put down their spoons and wiped their mouths with the backs of their hands, then smiled in unison as the word “hotwire” finally connected. Any plan was a good one for the twins if it required action and involved cars. Ideas moved through their heads at glacial speed, usually when planted there by someone else. Rudy did the insertion and they reacted to the stimuli. It was a perfect relationship.

  “Time to drive over to Brattigan’s house and check out the situation,” Rudy said. “After the funeral tomorrow, it will be too late so we move tonight. Oh, and for this job, I am bringing in a partner for reasons that will be clear later on.” Rudy headed for the kitchen door and the Clintocks followed in his path, resuming their stoical demeanor. They were aroused by the image of the Buick Roadmaster and the chance to ransack a house but not at all curious about anything else that Rudy had said. They had already forgotten about Rudy’s erratic behavior at Lattimore’s.

  ***

  Woody found Jerry in the Library stacks in his usual spot wearing a Tee Shirt with a large “Z” stenciled across the front. “So, what happened, did Zorro come by your house last night and leave his mark on you while you were sleeping?” Woody asked with a grin, hoping to put their confrontation in Jerry’s garage quickly behind them. There was no immediate reaction from Jerry and Woody wasn’t sure what to say next when his friend suddenly whispered “I think we come clean now on the incident in the park. Give Meacham the bullet. Tell him everything from the beginning, Woody, about finding the bag – then going back to the park with me that night. But telling him about seeing Rudy at Lattimore’s is going too far – at least yet. Hey, you can’t even be positive that it was him.”

  When Woody told Jerry about the confrontation with Rudy on his paper route and the not so veiled threat, Jerry interrupted him, “See, it’s too risky, Woody, for both of us. Give Meacham time to solve this himself or we will both have even bigger trouble.” Jerry was almost pleading and it was a frightened side of Jerry that Woody had never seen, especially in the confines of his precious sanctuary.

  Woody sighed and stared at his friend. Jerry was right, he concluded. Woody would come clean with Meacham – to a point. He would hold nothing back about the two visits to the park. It was the only way. Then, Jerry and he could get back to normal. Woody nodded yes and Jerry leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, with a satisfied grin on his face.

  “So what’s with the “Z”, Jerry,” said Woody, ready to change the subject.

  “Oh, my Uncle Harold sent me the shirt. He’s studying some ancient religion called Zoroastrianism so he sent me this shirt and suggested I read up on it. Pretty interesting, actually,” said Jerry, suddenly animated and confident again.

  Woody was starting to drift while Jerry went on, “You see, Woody, Zoroastrianism goes way back before Chri
stianity even started – a thousand years before – but it’s followers didn’t go in for sacrifices, building big churches, no ministers telling you what to do or think. You went right to God and were guided by basic principles of right and wrong. Then, it was corrupted and almost faded away and we got more religions to replace it. Kind of interesting, eh?” Jerry explained that Zoroaster lived in the 7th century B.C. and when he was born, angels came to visit him. It was a miraculous birth. Zoroaster showed great wisdom as a boy and preached against idol worshipers. He healed the sick and performed other miracles and even went to a mountaintop to commune with God. Jerry rattled off more facts, his face flush and his eyes almost wild. “Good thoughts. Good Words. Good Deeds,” Jerry said solemnly at the end.

  Woody just stared at Jerry, unable to think of a response but worried that his friend was spending too much time listening to his Uncle Harold and way too much time in the Library. “Listen, Jer, why don’t we go to the movies this afternoon? There’s a double feature with Tarantula. C’mon, you love to read about insects. They say this one’s the size of a house,” Woody concluded, almost pleading with his friend.