by R. T. Ray
“Sure,” Freddy replied, pointing to his books. “I've got some reading to do anyway. I'll contact you if I hear anything.”
Freddy watched Matuszak leave. He picked up his unfinished book and tried to return to his reading, but couldn't. The color green troubled him.
Freddy ignored the money for what seemed an excruciatingly long time. Finally, no longer able to resist, he laid the book aside, reached across the table and retrieved the crisp five dollar bill laying next to the coffee cup. Replacing it with a crumpled single from his pocket, Freddy smiled.
“A dollar seems a fair enough tip,” he said, and contented, returned to his reading.
22
Little Italy
East Baltimore
October 20, 1992
“Is he still there?”
Warm, soft buttery shafts of light spilled over the cafe's half curtains and fell to the sidewalk. Standing to the side of the window, the figure peered over the red and white gingham curtains into the crowded dining room. Not daring to venture too close to the light and chance being noticed, the figure was content to remain in the shadows to watch and wait.
“I said, is he still there?”
“Yeah! For the fifth time,” the second figure hissed over his shoulder. “He's still there.”
The first figure, hands jammed deep into his pockets, paced back and forth. Stopping at the edge of the window he joined his companion. The coarse features of his rough-hewn face appeared more pronounced in the shadow cast by the streetlight's glow. “Christ sakes! How much longer you think he's going to be?”
“How in the hell should I know?”
“I'm starting to get cold. Dammit! I told you we should've waited for him in the car.”
“And miss him? Stop your bitching. It's not that cold. It’s only your nerves, for God's sake. Besides, we're being paid good money for this.”
“Shit! We'll probably be here half the night,” the first man swore, taking another peek over the cafe's curtains.
“Relax, will you? And keep your ugly face away from the window. You want him to spot us? Our time will come.”
Inside, Matuszak sat at the tiny table across from Nancy. The traditional green Chianti bottle, with the stub of a red candle protruding from its neck, burned between them. Baldini's was his favorite restaurant in Little Italy. Cozy and small by comparison, it offered excellent fare and served Samuel Adams on tap. They were the two prime requisites for a good restaurant in his judgment.
He enjoyed Nancy's company. Conversation, especially with someone as charming as she, was light and came easily. Only near the end of the meal, as they were having coffee, did the discussion turn to his growing suspicion of Donnley as the mastermind. Their upcoming meeting underscored his desire to know as much as possible about the lawyer and his past.
“Has your research turned up anything on him?”
“Some” Nancy said. “Mostly routine stuff, but there are a couple of things that I want to pursue further. I’ve jotted down a few notations for you.”
Reaching into her attache case, she removed a thick, dog-eared notebook. Thumbing through its worn pages, she stopped midway through and removed a paper marker.
“Ah, here it is. Our Mr. Donnley’s had what you might call a checkered past,” she began. “Never seemed to be far from a fast buck or a greased palm. There were persistent rumors of his being tied in with local criminal activity, but no criminal charges were ever levied.”
“Then came the stint as legal counsel at Lambert Industries. That lasted several years. Everything seemed to run smoothly up until the time of the train’s disappearance. With Lambert out of the picture Donnley teamed up with Ewald.” She peered over her reading glasses. “That would be the elder Ewald, the father to Senator Ewald Jr. Together, the two ran roughshod over the opposition, eventually gaining controlling interest of Lambert Industries. Donnley ended up a senior partner.”
“All the earmarks of a coup d'etat.”
“Looks that way,” Nancy said. “At first, there were some rumblings over missing funds, corruption and payoffs. But without any hard evidence no indictments ever came down. Later on, after things quieted down, Donnley claimed it was only the sour grapes accusations of the ousted board members.”
“What's his job now, holed up in the senator's office?”
“Donnley? Hard to say. Word around the press room he's the behind-the-scene architect of Senator Ewald's upcoming run at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Well, from the looks of it the senator has a lot of faith in him, almost like a father figure,” Matuszak said, remembering the senator's flowery introduction of Donnley.
A wry smile crept across Nancy’s lips. “Faith comes with a price tag,” she said. “Rumor has it should the senator become president, Donnley has his eye on an appointment to a minor cabinet level post as his reward. Others think he’ll seek an ambassadorship to some small, Caribbean country.”
Matuszak arched an eyebrow. “Nice bit of compensation,” he said. “Anything else?”
Nancy seemed a bit hesitant. “There is one more item,” she said, reluctantly removing a yellowed, newspaper clipping from the pages of the notebook. “Don’t know whether it pertains to our missing train or not. You decide.”
“Fair enough,” Matuszak replied. “What is it?”
“A newspaper article. A homicide. It turned up during a nexus search. The victim was an elderly charwoman. She was employed by Lambert Industries at about the same time the train disappeared.”
“Murder?” His pulse quickened. He extended his hand. “Let me see the article.”
Nancy nodded. “It occurred at a small rural cemetery. She was shot, apparently while praying at her husband’s graveside.”
Matuszak quickly scanned article’s meager contents. His spirits sagged. “Not much to go on,” he said, looking up. “Other than her employment at Lambert Industries there’s nothing to connect her death with the case. Were the police able to come up with anything?”
Nancy shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. I hadn’t been able to track down a police report.”
“No motive or suspect?”
“None. And no enemies as far as I can tell. The only other person mentioned in the article was the parish priest. He discovered the body.” She gestured to the article. “It’s from a small community weekly, The Westport Gazette. Apparently news of the murder never made the big city papers. The gazette’s defunct now, so I haven’t been able to come up with anything additional.”
“And what about you, and that inquisitive reporter’s nose of yours? What does it tell you?”
Nancy reached for her drink as she considered the situation. “The authorities investigating the train’s disappearance may not have been aware of her murder,” she mused, “and there was no mention of her death in any of the reports we went through. So, without any more to go on my best guess is it’s a senseless, random act of murder. Tragic, but nevertheless random.”
Matuszak slid the article back across the table. “You’re probably right,” he said. “I don’t see a relationship at the present. Still, I’d like to check with-”
“Your fortune? Only ten dollars,” the low, sultry voice said, interrupting their conversation.
Matuszak turned to find a woman in her mid-forties, of eastern European extraction, standing next to the table. Dressed in a long flowing skirt and peasant blouse, she gave a low sweeping bow as she introduced herself.
“Madam Zelda, reader and adviser I see all, tell all. Would the gentleman like his fortune told?”
“No, I don't think so,” Matuszak said.
Ignoring Nancy, Madam Zelda leaned across the table, allowing the low cut of the blouse to expose her ample cleavage.
“Are you sure?” she purred, in a thick Hungarian accent. “Madam Zelda can tell of lost loves, or new ones waiting just beyond the horizon. Which one does the gentleman wish?”
“Perhaps another time. Now if you don’t mind w
e're rather busy.”
“Oh, come now, Ken,” Nancy teased, joining in the conversation. “Why not?” Her eyes twinkled with a devilish gleam. “I think it will be fun. You're not afraid of your future, are you?”
“Aaaha,” the gypsy murmured. Sensing a possible ally in her quest for a customer, she cast an approving eye in Nancy's direction, then turned back to Matuszak. “Are you sure you don’t want to learn of a new love?”
“No,” he answered, somewhat embarrassed. “Nancy, you really don't believe in this stuff, do you?”
“Maybe. Who knows what the mind is capable of, besides I think it would be fun.” Turning to the gypsy, she said. “Madam Zelda, would you read my future?”
The gypsy gave a sweeping bow. Settling herself into the vacant chair, she placed Nancy's hand in hers. Carefully, she studied the palm, nodding with approval as she traced along each line with a long, red fingernail.
“What do you see?” Nancy said, expectantly.
Madame Zelda nodded in approval. “You are fortunate, very fortunate indeed. Good fortune will soon come your way. I can see a new love coming into your life. He is very handsome and will make you happy.”
“Who is he?” Nancy giggled. “Do I know him?”
“Perhaps,” Madame Zelda said. “He will come into your life very soon. I see the initial M.” She looked to Nancy for any sign of encouragement or recognition. Receiving none, she wigwagged her hand. “It could be a S... or a R... maybe a Robert or a Richard.”
Nancy shook her head slowly. “I don’t know a Robert or Richard, at least none that are both handsome and available. Do you see anything else?”
“The image is fading,” Madame Zelda said, “perhaps another time.”
“See, it wasn't so bad.” Nancy said, removing her hand and smiling at Matuszak.
“And now yours,” the gypsy said, turning toward Matuszak. “Would the gentleman like to see the future or perhaps he would prefer a look into the past?”
“Past,” Matuszak said, resigning himself to being forced to participate in this ridiculous charade. “What can you tell me about the past?”
Madam Zelda arched an eyebrow. “Are you prepared to know? I sense trouble. There are many uncertainties in your thoughts.”
Hell! Matuszak thought. The only uncertainty I have is the train. If she's so good, let her tell me about the train.
“I'm sure,” he said. “I want to know about the past.”
Madam Zelda shrugged her shoulders and nodded. “As you wish. What do you want to know?”
“The train that disappeared in 1941. I want to know anything you can tell me about its disappearance.”
“I'll need something from the past to hold. Something to connect me to the train.”
“Sorry, I have nothing.”
“A photo or a paper, perhaps?” she suggested.
“I have a news file photo,” Nancy said. “Will that work?”
Fumbling through the attache case, she removed a yellowed newspaper photo of the engine and handed it to the gypsy.
Laying the photo on the table, the gypsy covered it with both hands. Slowly, closing her eyes, as if she was going into a trance, she swayed to and fro for several moments. Soft words in a foreign tongue, minced with a low humming, came from deep within her throat.
This was followed by a period of silence.
Suddenly Madame Zelda opened her eyes, she looked questionably to Matuszak. Their eyes met. Only moments ago, her dark brown eyes had danced with the laughter of fire as she taunted him. Now, only uncertainty and a hint of sadness lurked in them.
“This is very confusing,” she said. “I can sense much pain, much suffering and agony. People are crying.”
“Can you tell where the train is?”
Madame Zelda shook her head. “No, it's too dark. I cannot see anything, only darkness. There are frightened voices, people huddled together. Near, yet far. First loud then faint. Crying. I can hear crying coming from the darkness. It is very hot, I can feel much heat.”
The gypsy’s body, drained of its energy, slumped forward. “It is gone. I can see no more,” she said.
“That's it?”
“The image is gone,” Madame Zelda repeated. “I can tell you no more. You must search for the source of the heat. Then and only then will you find your train.”
“Now let her read your palm,” Nancy teased. “I want to know of your future, if there's some new love coming into your life.”
Reluctantly, Matuszak held out his hand. As before Madame Zelda began to study the palm. This time, there were no approving nods. Instinctively, she turned to the longest of the palm's lines and began retracing its length with her finger. Only partially finished, Madame Zelda suddenly stopped, letting Matuszak's hand fall to the table. For several moments her anguish-filled eyes stared at Matuszak.
Finally, rising from the table, she warned, “I can see only danger for you, my friend. You should go with much caution. There are dark forces waiting for you.”
“Foolishness,” Matuszak laughed, taking some bills from his pocket.
“No,” she said. “Madam Zelda will not take money for this.”
“But surely-”
“No!”
Rising from her seat, she whirled about. In her haste to flee, she bumped against a patron seated at the next table, causing him to spill his drink. Not bothering to stop or apologize she fled, disappearing into the crowded dining room. Losing sight of her long, flowing hair among the diners, a confused Matuszak turned to Nancy, the money still in his hand.
“What the hell do you suppose that was all about?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I usually think of this sort of thing as just entertainment, but she frightened me.”
“Naaaa. Of what? It's all theatrics, probably just part of her spiel. She'll be back later for her fee.”
Nancy looked at her watch and hurriedly began gathering her papers. “Perhaps. At any rate I won’t be around to see it. Got to run. Due in class in thirty minutes. Now promise you'll be careful?”
“Careful? From what? A gypsy’s silly prediction?”
“Just promise,” she said, giving him a light kiss on his forehead, “for me.”
“Yes, mother,” he sighed, rising from his chair. “Can I give you a lift?”
“No thanks, my car's just around the corner. I can make it. You stay and finish your coffee.”
“No,” Matuszak replied, signaling to the waitress for the check. “I'm beat. Think I'll call it a day myself.”
They walked to her car, unaware of the two men watching. As her car drove away, Matuszak turned and began the slow trek to the Escort parked several blocks away.
The cobblestone streets winding their way through Little Italy's restaurant row were deserted. With the departure of the day tourists, the quaint little shops lining the narrow side streets were tightly shuttered. Their display windows, covered and dark, lay hidden behind heavy roll down metal gratings. Only the yellow glow from an occasional streetlamp remained to light his way along the twisting, narrow sidewalks.
From his younger days as a foot patrolman, Matuszak had been taught the perils of walking too close to a building's face. Tonight, with his thoughts on the case, he allowed his mind to wander. His defenses relaxed. His hands, shoved deep into the warm recesses of the jacket's pockets, would prove a costly error.
He stepped off the curbing at the alley's edge and into a world of terror.
Like a steel tentacle, an arm whipped out of the darkness. Only a momentary blur, it reached out and encircled his neck, cutting off his air supply, as it drew him into the narrow alleyway. The attack came fast and vicious, too fast for him to react. He felt himself being yanked off his feet, and then roughly slammed against the brick wall.
Pinned against the wall, his hands trapped in the jacket's pockets, Matuszak could only grunt as the first of several savage blows landed. His vision blurred and a vile, sour taste formed in his mouth, as another fist buried
itself deep into his stomach.
Matuszak panicked as the air was driven from his lungs and the horrible sensation of being unable to breathe set in. Fighting the instinct to surrender and allow himself to be pummeled, he jerked his knee upward hoping to strike a vulnerable target. His second kick found its mark as his assailant gave a deep, painful groan and released his grip. Holding his groin he stumbled backwards, collapsing in agony on the alley's cobblestones.
With his arms now free, Matuszak tried to push clear from the second assailant, but was unable to escape the larger man's grasp. The deadly struggle continued in silence, neither man willing to waste valuable energy on useless curses or cries of pain. Instead, each man concentrated on the task of trying to maim the other. Locked together in combat they punched and kicked, each unable to overpower the other. Occasionally, a low animal-like grunt or a dull thud broke over the scuffle, as a well-aimed kick or fist found its mark.
Over his attacker's shoulder, Matuszak caught a flash of movement; a figure was approaching from the rear. Oh God! he thought, his brain reeling in terror the first one's back. He lashed out with renewed fury, attempting to free himself before the second man could rejoin the melee.
But no additional attack came.
Instead, Matuszak watched in mute fascination, mesmerized, as an arm materialized from behind his attacker. In slow motion, it lazily coiled itself around the assailant's face in a deliberate, snakelike fashion. As the forearm closed, Matuszak saw the attacker's eyes widen in terror. The arm moved sideways, then jerked laterally with a sudden, vicious movement.
Unmistakable, the sickening sound of muscle and ligaments tearing, followed by the sharp snapping of bone penetrated the night. The assailant ceased struggling and he silently sank to the alley's floor. Curled into a fetal position, he gave a few involuntary twitches, then lay still.
Suddenly free from the struggle, Matuszak staggered forward. A strong pair of hands caught his arms preventing him from collapsing. Eased to a setting position, he leaned against the building's face, gasping for air to refill his depleted lungs. He tried to look up into the eyes of the stranger, but the pain and the exhaustion of the struggle had been too great. The face remained a dim vision in the alley's darkness.