BIG SHOTS
and
BULLET HOLES
B. David Spicer
Big Shots and Bullet Holes
Copyright© 2020
Author
B. David Spicer
Editor
Sarah E. Glenn
Cover designed by
Brandon Spicer
Published by
Mystery and Horror, LLC
Clearwater, FL
ISBN: 978-1-949281-10-1
Printed with the permission of the author. All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotes used by reviewers.
This is a work of fiction. Historical persons and events depicted in this book are carefully researched but the primary concern is in telling a compelling story. Any resemblance to any actual person living or dead, or to any known event or location is included only where it is relative to the setting and history.
Dedication
To Caitlin
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
Chapter Thirty-Two
Thank Yous
About the Author
Prologue
July 1935
The scam worked like a charm, for about a week. Day after day we’d stand in the train station, the big one in Queensgate, hawking subscriptions to Look or the Saturday Evening Post, whichever magazine we could find in the trashcan behind the drugstore. We’d patrol the platforms, selling an ‘annual subscription’ for a buck, mostly to prosperous looking women who tended to trust other women. It’d probably be months before they remembered they were supposed to be getting magazines in the mail. By then, we’d have moved on.
Today was Tuesday, but for whatever reason, the station was a ghost town. I saw Mary at the far end of the platform, leaning against a post and running her fingers through her golden hair. I made my way to her. “Any luck?”
“Not the good kind. I’ve made two bucks. How about you?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I think this one’s just about worn out.”
“Yeah.” She looked so tired. “No steak dinner tonight.”
“We could try the bus station for a while. Maybe we’ll find some luck there.”
“Maybe.”
I could see her lack of enthusiasm. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes drooped for a moment, and she took a deep breath. “Kissy, how long can we live on a bowl of turkey broth and a corned beef sandwich a day? I’m so tired.”
She looked close to a swoon, so I steered her toward a bench. “Mary, come on girl, don’t give up yet. I’ll figure something out.”
She shot me a weak smile and patted my cheek. “Sweet Kissy. You’d better hurry. There’s not much of me left.”
I couldn’t argue with her there. Her ratty brown dress hung off her bones and flapped like Old Glory when the wind blew. Not that I looked any better; my own bones poked through my dress like tentpoles. We both needed a few good meals, and we needed them soon. I gave her arm a pinch. “Yeah, but what’s left is as tough as old shoe leather.”
She chuckled. “If that was supposed to be a compliment, you should give up making compliments. You’re no good at it.”
That made me smile. “There’s the Mary I know, all sass and smarts.” I pulled her to her feet. “We need another two dollars if we expect to sleep under a roof tonight. Let’s get to it.”
“Right, boss.” She snapped off a jaunty salute, hoisted her armload of magazines, and started down the platform. I watched her for a minute, not liking her listlessness one bit. Usually Mary was as bright and energetic as a spring morning, but now she walked under the pall of ominous storm clouds and her natural radiance seemed eclipsed, almost extinguished. I tugged at my lip as I watched her, ice-water settling in my guts.
As I was about to resume my own subscription peddling, four men, all dressed in black and wearing top hats, marched through the door carrying a well-polished coffin. My breath caught in my throat for a second, the victim of my own morbid fears, and it took several moments before my heartbeat stopped trying to outrun me. The men carefully placed the coffin on the platform. One of them consulted his pocket-watch and said something to his comrades.
Opportunity comes in every shape imaginable, and the mark of a resourceful grifter is not in pulling off the long con, but in realizing when and where to attempt the con in the first place. These four gents were spiffed up plenty, pressed trousers, shiny shoes, and the pocket-watch I’d seen had to be gold. The coffin itself glistened like a new penny. When I took in the scene as a whole, I saw money; damned if I couldn’t smell it!
I strode up to the man in charge, the old one with the watch. “Excuse me.”
He tipped his top hat, showing me about an acre of his bald head. “Good afternoon, madam.”
“Thanks. Why are you fellas here? Has somebody died?”
The old man nodded his head slowly. “Yes, a most unfortunate situation. A passenger on the 4.50 from Pittsburgh passed away.”
“You mean he died on the train?”
“Oh yes. It happens that way sometimes. We all hope to die at home, surrounded by our loved ones, but sometimes folks are not that fortunate.” He clucked his tongue and looked sad.
I shoved a little sorrow of my own into my voice. “That’s terrible! Just awful.”
He nodded sagely. “Yes, it is. So very, very sad.”
“What was the deceased’s name?”
The old man’s mouth drooped into a little frown, and he gave me a dose of eyeball.
“I’m sorry, sir. I just want to say a prayer for the departed.” I put on my most vapid expression, the same one I used to sell fake magazine subscriptions to gullible old women. “I believe that everybody needs someone to pray for them.”
He grunted and slipped his hand into a pocket and withdrew a slip of paper, which he squinted at for a long moment. “Lisbon. Frank Lisbon.”
I snatched the man’s hand and gave it an enthusiastic shake. “Thank you, sir. I’ll put Mr. Lisbon’s name on my church’s prayer request list right away! Thank you very much.”
The clock on the platform read 9:45, which meant that Mr. Frank Lisbon’s mortal remains would arrive at Cincinnati Union Terminal in five minutes, and I had exactly that long to figure out how to profit from the man’s passing. The possibilities rode through my mind like boxes on a conveyor belt that I would lift, give a shake, and throw over my shoulder. My fingers worked at my lip, a sure sign that the dynamos of my mind were spinning up.
Mary snapped her fingers in front of my eyes. I had no idea how long she’d been standing there. “Kissy! Are you awake?”
I blin
ked a few times before my eyes focused on her. “Mary! We have to hurry!”
“Hurry where?”
“To the telegraph window!”
“What? Why? Kissy, I don’t understand.”
I snatched her hand. “Follow me.” We dashed toward the telegraph window. A few feet from the window stood a long table covered with little slips of paper and stubby pencils to use for composing telegram messages. I snatched a pencil and scribbled a note on it that said:
Cassandra,
I shall arrive in Cincinnati on the 4.50 from Pittsburgh on July 16th. Please meet me on the platform.
Love always,
Uncle Frank
Mary’s eyebrows rose as she read what I was writing. “Kissy, what are you up to?”
“Hopefully I’m financing our steak dinner tonight!” I towed her back to the platform just as the 4.50 roared into the station. The doors opened and disgorged a riot of travelers eager to get off the train. An army of porters unloaded the baggage car while surly conductors bellowed out the next departure time. I selected one of the conductors, a portly man who looked like he’d worked on the rails for centuries, and approached him wearing my best doe-eyed expression.
“Excuse me, sir.”
He tapped his hat with his hand. “Yes, ma’am. Can I help you?”
“I was supposed to meet my uncle, here on the platform, but I don’t see him.”
The conductor looked somewhat annoyed. “Maybe he missed the train.”
“No, my aunt sent me a telegram that said she just saw him board the train in Pittsburgh.”
I handed the note to him. His lips moved as he read it. “What is your uncle’s last name?” The look on his face told me that I’d aroused just the right suspicions.
“Lisbon, sir. His name is Frank Lisbon.”
The conductor’s eyes widened a little. “Oh. Oh, my.” He licked his lips and wrung his hands. “Oh. I’m afraid I have bad news, miss.”
I grasped Mary’s hand and clutched it to my chest. I opened my mouth but didn’t speak.
He stammered on. “You see, miss, your uncle, well he was just riding along in the dining car like everyone else, when he, well, he clutched his chest and fell over. I’m afraid he’s passed on.”
I collapsed against Mary, shuddering in a paroxysm of grief. She patted my shoulder and made soothing sounds while the conductor jammed his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet. I peeked over Mary’s shoulder and saw the four men from the funeral parlor exiting one of the cars carrying the coffin between them. I’m sure there must be some rule about the pace pall bearers are allowed to move when carrying a coffin: they must maintain a dignified, unhurried stride, but just then I wished they’d sprint through the train station with my ersatz uncle’s husk. I could only cry so long before I lost the conductor.
Mary played her part well, stroking my hair and patting my back. “There, there, Cassandra. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.” She had no idea where I was going with this, but she’d worked with me long enough to know how to improvise. She shot piteous glances at the conductor, clearly making him uncomfortable, as was her intention. God bless her, Mary was one of the best!
I turned to Mary, tears still streaming down my face. “We’ll have to break the news to Aunt Petunia. She’ll be all broken up!”
She almost smiled, ‘Aunt Petunia’ being a little over the top. “Yes, we can telephone her from the drug store.”
“What about the funeral? What will he wear? Where will we get clothes for him?” I turned to the conductor, seemingly near absolute panic. “What will we do?”
I found out that day that one didn’t have to be a genius to be a railroad conductor. I’d all but taken his hand and led him where I needed him to go, but his own mental train was running behind schedule. Way behind schedule. I had to make a few more wailing mentions of clothing before his mind came around to poor old Uncle Frank’s luggage.
“Miss, don’t fret about the funeral. Your uncle had two suitcases; yes, I know it was two! Certainly he’d have packed something, uh, something appropriate for a funeral.”
My eyes lit up and I sniffed back some tears. “You think so? I’d forgotten about his luggage.” This time Mary had to cover her smile with her hand when I said that, but the conductor didn’t seem to notice. He waved over a young porter and sent him to fetch Uncle Frank’s suitcases.
We waited, Mary’s arm over my shoulders and me playing the part of the grieving niece. The porter didn’t seem to be in a hurry, and after a few minutes the conductor went to find him. Mary gave me a sunshine bright smile. “Kissy, I don’t know where you come up with this stuff, I really don’t.”
My pout looked genuine. “What do you mean? Poor old Uncle Frank, so sad that he shuffled off on a train.”
“Oh, yes. Very sad.”
“Very sad, for him. Very lucky for us.”
“You hope it’s lucky. He could be as broke as we are.”
“No, someone hired the funeral parlor guys. I saw them waiting for the train, they looked expensive. Someone must have sent a wire to his family, and they hired the funeral parlor. That means money.”
Mary covered her smile again. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you Kissy?”
I didn’t have the chance to answer because the conductor and his crony arrived just then with two suitcases of the leather-and-brass sort. The porter plopped the bags on the platform, touched the bill of his cap and tottered away. The conductor passed along his heartfelt condolences on Uncle Frank’s untimely passing. By then the outbound passengers were clamoring to board the train and the conductor had to excuse himself.
“Thank you so much for your help.” I gave him a hug and kissed his stubbly cheek. He blushed and wandered away with his hand covering his jawline.
“Was that necessary?” Mary picked up one of the suitcases.
“Not really.” I picked up the other suitcase. “But he was a helpful fellow.”
We locked ourselves in a washroom and opened our ill-gotten loot. The first suitcase only had clothes: suits of good cloth and excellent cut. The second one had a rumpled fedora, a pair of brown shoes, and four cartons of cigarettes. Mary started laughing then, sounding a little frantic.
“Well, Kissy, we’ve hit the motherlode this time. At last, we can indulge in a life of luxury.”
“You give up too easily, Mary.” I started going through the pockets of the suits. I found a box of matches in one jacket pocket and a leather wallet in another. “Well, well, well.” I opened it up and my jaw swung open. “Look at all that folding green!”
“Oh, Kissy! How much is there?” Mary’s eyes almost rolled out of her head.
I counted it, slowly and theatrically. “Two hundred fifty.”
Mary’s chest heaved, and I couldn’t tell if she was gonna laugh or cry or keel over dead. “Can we get dinner tonight? I know it has to stretch, but can we get one good dinner? Please, Kissy?”
“Of course we can, doll. We’re having steak tonight!” I smiled crookedly and handed her a $5 bill. “Go flag us down a cab. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I stared at the money in the wallet, money taken by guile from a dead man. Money he wouldn’t need. Money that would put some flesh back on Mary’s bones. Money that we needed, but still money that rightfully belonged to Frank Lisbon. Judging by his clothes, Lisbon had a good tailor and a small frame, and I briefly wondered what he would be buried in now that I had his suits. I looked at myself in the mirror, a skeletal woman in a tattered green dress. “Pitiful. You look pitiful.” I held up Frank Lisbon’s suit and liked what I saw.
A few minutes later I stepped out of the washroom wearing a dark brown suit, brown shoes and a gray fedora. I dropped the suitcases as Mary approached. I stuck a snipe between my lips and lit it with a match. “Hiya, doll.”
Mary laughed. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Name’s Lisbon. Kissy Lisbon.”
Chapter One
June 5th, 1942
Mrs. Marion Kendall stepped tentatively into the diner, a scared little mouse of a woman. Gray hair in a bun, ankle length dress that had seen better days, and a face wrinkled like an unwrapped mummy. I watched her from under the brim of my hat and through a cloud of cigarette smoke. She slid into a booth and ordered a cup of the sludge that Lou called coffee. She kept glancing through the window, as if she thought the police might nab her any second.
I waited long enough to watch her wring her hands raw before I dropped into the seat across from her. She looked like she might just run, so I introduced myself.
“Mornin’ ma’am, Kissy Lisbon’s the name.” I lit another smoke and took a drag while she looked me over. “What can I do for you?”
“Miss Lisbon?”
“Missus.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lisbon.” She bit her lower lip and peered around the room. “Will your husband be arriving soon? I have something to discuss with him. Something of a, uh, delicate nature.”
I tipped my hat further back on my head and blew smoke through my nose. “Oh yeah? You’ll need a seance to talk to him. Frank died at Pearl.” I watched her lower her watery blue eyes. Now we were just two widows having a chat in Cincinnati’s grungiest diner. “I told him joining the Navy would get him killed, but he didn’t believe me. So, I’ve taken over the business. A girl’s got to make a living.”
Kendall winced as some loudmouth at the counter complained that his bacon was burned and his eggs were raw. Lou offered a knuckle sandwich in exchange, but the man declined that offer.
“I don’t think you can help me, young lady.” She started to scoot her way out of the booth, but I put my foot on the seat beside her and she stopped. I took another drag as she chewed her lip and stared at me.
“Lady, you don’t know what I can help you with. You dragged me down here, so out of courtesy, I think you at least owe me a story.” I flicked the ash of my cigarette into a heaping ashtray. “What have you got to lose?”
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