All Aboard for Murder

by R. T. Ray

  “What do you mean?”

  “According to some reports, you practically gouged the man's eyeball out of its socket!”

  “Good!”

  “Good?” Bradford said, his voice raising. “What in the hell is wrong with you Matuszak? First there's that alleged bit at Ladew Gardens. Now this. What is it with you? Do you have some kind of death wish?”

  “No. All I know at this point is someone either wants me off the case or dead. Maybe both.

  “Off the case? What kind of foolishness are you talking about?”

  “You can't be that blind,” Matuszak said. “Can't you see it? Both the Ladew Gardens and the Pier Six incidents have to be related. Maybe I'm getting a little too close to the truth. Maybe this is someone's way of delivering the message to get off the case.”

  Bradford laughed incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief. “You really just don't get it, do you, Matuszak? There is no case!”

  “But the train, the coaches-”

  “Forget the damn coaches,” Bradford said. “They're gone. No one's seen them for more than fifty years. Christ sakes, man! What makes you think you'll find them? They're probably rusting away somewhere in a scrap yard in Timbuktu.”

  Matuszak, his face turning a vivid shade of red, glared at his superior. “Then why assign me in the first place?”

  “PR,” Bradford said. “It's called PR. The administration needed someone to reassure the public and you were it.”

  “PR?” Matuszak couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Yeah. You know, hold a few press conferences, go through the motions. Keep the politicians and the public happy, until this whole rotten mess blows over.” He picked the newspaper up and slammed back to the desk. “Not this bullshit you've got spattered all across the front page.”

  Matuszak became incensed, unable to hold back his feelings. “If it's a PR man you want, then I suggest you assign someone else. When this thing sours, I won't be your fall guy.”

  “Just what in the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said. This isn't some political PR game we’re playing. Whoever's behind this doesn’t want those coaches found. They’re playing rough. There’s already been one murder, and I don't intend for the next one to be me.”

  “Murder?” Bradford’s eyes bulged. “That old fool falling off a roof? You’re not seriously saying he was murdered?”

  Calling Matty an old fool only enraged Matuszak further. “It’s not just me,” he shot back. “For one thing, the medical examiner’s office isn’t fully convinced. There’s enough evidence that the Homicide Division is listing it as a probable homicide. They’ve assigned their lead investigator to it.”

  This wasn’t exactly the truth. The medical findings were still classified as undetermined, and although in all probability he would, Sergeant Becker hadn’t officially declared Farley’s death a homicide. Still it was enough to give Bradford pause.

  “What's this I hear about you and Senator Ewald?” he said. “Have you been pestering him?”

  The remark and change of topic caught Matuszak off guard. “No.” He eyed Bradford. “Who told you that?”

  “Never mind who, I have my sources. Now, what's the deal with the senator?”

  “No deal. I only saw him for a few minutes. He wants me to speak with his father.”

  “His father? For Christ sakes, why?”

  “Just as a courtesy call, nothing more. The old guy's terminal, suffering from Alzheimer's. The senator thinks my visit might help.”

  “I don't want you bothering him.”

  “I can't help it. His father's part of the case.”

  “I want you to stay away from him, your hear!” Bradford jabbed a finger in Matuszak’s direction. “That’s an order. And that goes double for the senator.”

  “Fine,” Matuszak said. “Do you want to make the call or do you want me to tell him?”

  “Call? Tell who what?”

  “The senator. Do you want to explain why you've forbidden me to see him, or his father, or should I?”

  “You're a real smart ass, Matuszak.” Bradford scowled. “The newspapers think you're a big hero, but I know better. If you had kept your nose clean, none of this would have happened.”

  “You're blaming me?”

  “Who else?” Bradford roared.

  “I'd start looking a little closer to home if I were you.”

  “Get out of here!” Bradford screamed, pointing to the door. “Saving that woman saved your job.”

  “With pleasure,” Matuszak said.

  Agatha wore an apprehensive look as she peered over the top of the computer screen. She gave Matuszak a quick, nervous smile as he as he made his way across the room.

  “Like I told you, Aggie,” he said, pausing by her desk to dip once more into the candy jar, “a real UPS.”

  21

  Light Street Market

  South Baltimore

  October 17, 1992

  From his vantage point across the traffic-clogged street, Matuszak watched the shabbily clothed figure. Blind to the throng of afternoon shoppers, the figure ambled along the crowded sidewalk, a stack of books clutched tightly under his left arm. The right hand contained an opened book, held midway at arm's length. Engrossed in his reading, the figure glanced neither right nor left. He seemed to be immune to his surroundings.

  With his unkempt hair and thick lens glasses, Frederick Lamont Eidelberg, affectionately known as Freddy the Free Loader, appeared to the casual eye as the quintessential absentminded professor. Academia, at least in the normal sense of the word, held scant attraction for Freddy. Eccentric by anyone's standard, Freddy had very littl tolerance for discipline or conformity. Never holding a regular job for longer than absolutely necessary, Freddy chose to survive by using his wits and the occasional, well-timed handout.

  Drawing even with Matuszak, Freddy stopped. As if on cue, he closed the book and peered expectantly across the busy street. Spotting Matuszak, he juggled the heavy armload of books and waved a greeting with his now freed hand.

  “Kenneth, my lad,” he called out. “Wait right there.”

  Scurrying between two parked cars, Freddy darted headlong into the lunch hour traffic. As usual, Matuszak thought, without any regard for oncoming traffic. Despite all of his formal education, Freddy never quite mastered the art of negotiating city traffic. He was much more at home in the quiet confines of a library or lost in the pages of a book.

  “Excuse me,” he apologized to each driver, as he danced his way between the swerving cars. The sharp squeal of brakes and the blare of protesting horns failed to deter Freddy from his jaywalking. He continued on, constantly juggling his load of books as he went.

  “My most humblest of apologies, Madame,” he called to one woman, as he placed his hand on the hood of her still moving vehicle. He danced backward fending off the auto's charge. His matador-like action proved successful, as the frantic driver succeeded in bringing the vehicle to a halt mere inches from Freddy's frail torso.

  “Entirely my fault, madam,” he said graciously, with a flourishing cavalier bow. “No harm done I assure you.”

  With a farewell wave to the unnerved driver, Freddy stepped from the street and onto the safety of the sidewalk.

  “Kenneth, my boy, how are you?” he beamed, extending a thin hand. “You look marvelous. Still reading.”

  The last portion was a statement of fact, not a question; for it was inconceivable to Freddy that anyone would not be reading.

  “Some,” Matuszak lied. Then, to soften the transgression, he added, “But not as much as the old days.”

  “Ah, the old days.” Freddy’s eyes twinkled. “They were a great time, but I don’t have to tell you that. Remember when you walked the beat? The discussions? The late night debates we had? You were a worthy opponent, Kenneth.”

  Well-educated, Freddy could speak with authority on a wide range of subjects, from Mideast religion to the state of the economy. He d
elighted in playing the role of devil's advocate with Matuszak.

  Matuszak looked to his old friend. “What about you, Freddy? You haven’t aged a day. How are things going with you and what drove you to look me up after all these years?”

  “Good! Good! Nothing has changed,” Freddy exclaimed, gleefully patting Matuszak on the back. “You're still the young inquisitive one, always asking questions.”

  Maneuvering his hand to Matuszak's shoulder, Freddy gently turned Matuszak until he faced the small coffee shop sitting to the rear.

  “There will be time enough for that later,” Freddy said. “But now the body needs nourishment, as surely as the little gray cells do.” A sudden expression of concern flashed across Freddy's brow. “You do have sufficient funds for lunch, don't you? I'm simply famished.”

  Matuszak laughed. He had left the selection of a meeting place to Freddy’s discretion, and it suddenly became clear the reason for his selection of Cross Street Market wasn’t simply convenience. The area surrounding the old market teemed with eateries of every description and varied enough to suit every individual’s palate. “Now what kind of friend would I be if didn’t have enough funds to take an old colleague to lunch?” he said, allowing himself to be led into the coffee shop. “And you're right, Freddy, nothing has changed.”

  “Good! Good!” Freddy exclaimed, the lost smile quickly returning.

  The One World Cafe proved to be a happy union of old-world charm with a touch of urban renaissance. Arriving at the beginning of the lunch hour, they were greeted by the delicious aroma from the mixture of fresh coffees brewing. Selecting a small, out-of-the-way table toward the rear, Matuszak instinctively chose the chair facing the cafe's entrance.

  “One check?” the waitress said, looking warily at Freddy's frayed clothing and instantly gauging his inability to pay. Once of the highest quality, the aging scholar’s clothing was now threadbare and worn. The tweed jacket and thick corduroy pants were clean, mended several times over, but in desperate need of replacement.

  “Please,” Matuszak replied. “Two of your house blends and a menu.”

  After the waitress departed, Matuszak turned his attention back to Freddy. “Now, tell me about yourself,” he said. “What have you been doing since I last saw you?”

  “Not much to tell, Kenneth. I still have a small abode over Bachmann's bookstore. Earn a few dollars here and there with the occasional tutoring.”

  The waitress returned, placing two mugs of coffee on the table. Freddy wrapped his fingerless gloves around the cup, and lifting it up, allowed the steamy, aromatic vapors to fill his nostrils.

  “Marvelous!” he proclaimed, savoring the aroma as if it were a rare vintage wine.

  “What set you to look me up?” Matuszak repeated. “I haven't been around the old bailiwick for what, five maybe six years?”

  “Closer to seven,” corrected Freddy. “Saw you on the TV news and again on the front page. I called the MARC office. When I mentioned I had information relative to your case, they put me straight through to your office.”

  “I didn't know you were interested in disappearing trains.”

  Freddy shook his head. “Not in the disappearance itself, but the academics of the case, certainly.” He sipped his coffee. “Although I’ll concede it’s not everyday a train disappears, but that's not what I called about.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, what I called about has to do with you personally.” Freddy leaned forward. “I happened to overhear a most disturbing conversation, one that you'll be interested in learning about.”

  Matuszak arched an eyebrow. “I see. And how much is this going to cost me?” he said, aware of Freddy's reputation of soliciting a handout for doling out useless tidbits of information.

  “Kenneth, my lad, you've hurt me deeply,” Freddy said, holding his hand over his heart and feigning pain. “I could never charge you!” Then, eagerly scanning the menu, he said, “This lunch will do quite nicely.”

  Serious conversation was suspended during lunch. Matuszak had forgotten how much he enjoyed Freddy's companionship. A hearty soup with a crusty roll, perhaps a club sandwich, all washed down by several cups of strong Colombian coffee, this was a small price to pay to see an old friend again.

  At its conclusion, Matuszak pushed his empty bowl aside and settled back in his seat. “Now,” he said. “Tell me, what's this disturbing conversation you just happened to overhear?”

  Stashing the last roll from the wicker basket into his jacket pocket, Freddy said, “Oh, I assure you, it was all quite innocent. A most serendipitous incident, one could say. As you know I never eavesdrop.”

  Matuszak only smiled.

  Freddy continued. “You're not familiar with Calvin's lunchroom, are you?”

  “No, I don't believe I've had the dining pleasure.”

  “He opened up about the time you left the old neighborhood. It's an all-night greasy spoon, on the south side of Cross Street Market.”

  Matuszak nodded. He hadn't seen the cafe, but could probably describe it in detail. A few well-worn booths against the sidewall. A counter with a row of red padded, chrome stools facing a huge, cast iron grill, run by a tired, short-order cook in a grease-spattered white apron and paper hat. Every neighborhood had a Calvin's or two.

  “Calvin and I have an informal arrangement. In exchange for an occasional meal or two, I'll read some classic tale or a mystery novel aloud for him. Keeps him company on slow nights.”

  “And?”

  “A couple of nights ago, I was alone, with a good book in the back booth. It was late, maybe two or three in the morning. Anyway, I must have dozed off when voices in the next booth woke me.”

  Matuszak laughed. “What's so disturbing about that? You've fallen asleep on me dozens of times,”

  “But you don't understand, lad. These two ruffians were discussing you!”

  “Me?”

  Matuszak had expected Freddy to offer his usual tidbit of worthless information in exchange for a twenty. He had done that enough times. But this revelation piqued his interest. “Who were they?” he said. “And what were they saying about me?”

  “Like I said, you always were the impatient one, Kenneth. I was a little groggy at first and didn't realize who or what they were talking about. I only managed to catch the tail end of their conversation. But the gist was a bounty. Some big shot has put a bounty on your head. They were talking about ways of collecting the money.” He slid back into his seat. “Rather reminiscent of an old B-movie, don't you think?”

  “Did they say who this big shot was, or why he's doing this?

  “No, only that it's coming straight from downtown, and a substantial amount of money is involved,” Freddy said, signaling the waitress for another cup of coffee.

  That would explain the incidents at Ladew Gardens and Pier Six, Matuszak thought, but he needed to know more. “Do you know these guys?”

  “No, not personally. New bunch. I've seen them around, but that's about all. I can tell you this though. The contract's been out on the street a couple of days now. The old timers won't touch it. Fact is, one of the guys even told the go-between to beat it. Threatened to break both his kneecaps and kill the family dog if he caught him around the neighborhood again.”

  “Don't tell me,” chuckled Matuszak. “Crazy Mac.”

  Freddy nodded. “Yeah, it was Mac’s doings all right.”

  Finding himself fresh out of business cards, Matuszak searched his pockets looking for a piece of scrap paper. “Tell Mac I appreciate the gesture,” he said.

  “Will do. But Mac’s not the only one. You’re still respected in the old neighborhood, you know. Any number of the old gang would have gladly done the same.” Freddy screwed his face up. “What I don’t understand,” he said, as he shook his head in despair, “is this younger generation. They're a different breed. So full of hatred. Ready to maim or take a knife to you, simply for violence’s sake.”

  “Neither can I,” Matuszak was f
orced to agree. “But it does explains why a lot of things have been happening to me lately. In the meantime keep your ears open, Freddy. If you happen to hear anything, anything, give me a call at the office or my home.”

  Coming up with an old receipt, he wrote his home number on the blank side and folded it over. Between the fold, he slipped a couple of bills and handed the paper to Freddy.

  “Not from you,” Freddy protested, pushing the money back across the table. “I didn't call you for this. You're a dear old friend. I couldn't-”

  “No, no, Freddy, take it,” Matuszak insisted. “Call it a commission, retainer, or whatever, but your information has helped me.” Placing his hand over the money and pushing it back, he said, “But until this thing is over, maybe you should just call me. It's not too safe to be seen with me.”

  Reluctantly, Freddy nodded and accepted the money. Running a thumb through the bills, he said, “Perhaps I could use a portion for the rent. I’m a bit short this month. Mr. Bachmann's threatened to evict me and this would satisfy him for a time.”

  “Good. It's settled then.”

  The threat of being evicted held little sway with Freddy; it had happened several times in the past. Each time Mr. Backmann had simply padlocked the door, leaving the contents of the room untouched. Somehow, Freddy had always managed to come up with the needed funds and was able to reclaim his small abode over the bookstore. This time things were different. Bachmann had threatened not only to padlock the door, but to sell all of the room’s contents. This included Freddy’s beloved books. The mere thought of losing his marvelous books was more than Freddy could endure.

  “I'll consider it a temporary loan, Freddy said, slipping the bills into his jacket pocket, “to be paid back with interest.”

  The money was of little consequence and Matuszak harbored no illusion of seeing its return. “I've got to run, Freddy,” he said. “There’s something I have to take care of. You stay here, have another coffee.” He picked up the check and peeling off several additional bills left a tip.

  Inside, he was anything but casual. He didn't want anyone to connect his visit to south Baltimore with Freddy. The image of Farley in the alleyway was still fresh in his mind. He didn't want the same fate for Freddy. No one deserved that.