Mary nodded in approval and said “Where to next?”
“He has an escape show in Kansas City next weekend. It’s a long drive, but the crowd should be good. Plenty of dough in the city.”
Mary smiled. It was a soft smile, not different than the one Victor fell in love with years ago. Before the war. Before he lost his job because no one wanted to employ an ex-soldier with a bad leg. Her voice was supportive and reassuring.
“Then I guess we’re going to Kansas City.”
Henry snored as the Ford pounded its bald tires towards the setting sun. He dreamt of Houdini’s great escape, and how it never got old to see it every weekend.
three
Big Thunder
by Ray FitzGerald
Ten thousand people ride Big Thunder every day. That’s nothing compared to Disney, but in West Virginia, ten-thousand people may as well be the whole world.
It was early morning of the best day of Jimmy Rogers’ life. Ten years he spent scrubbing puke off the Gravitron and collecting cigarette butts from sidewalks. Today, he was in charge of maintenance for Big Thunder. The 500-foot drop on the roller coaster makes her the star attraction at Happytown Amusement Park.
He couldn't sleep the night before and was at the park before the sun was up. He smiled at coworkers that didn’t return his greeting of "G'morning." Jealousy, he thought. Some people spend their whole lives trying to get a job on Big Thunder, he went and got it in only ten years.
The groan of his rusty blue locker sounded like a symphony when he dropped his lunch pale in with a clang. He reached in the front pocket of his greasy overalls and unfolded a piece of paper that he'd be working on the night before. Carefully, he went over every item in the checklist of things to do before the park opens. The toolbox his wife bought him for Christmas last year stood at attention on his workbench. Today, it would finally get the workout he'd planned for it.
He started checking each of the twenty thousand bolts that ran along a half-mile of track. Each glistened in the rising sun that climbed above them. The smell of fried foods settled in the breeze and rose to Jimmy’s nose at the highest point of the park. A glance at the large clock in the horse show amphitheatre said it was less than an hour before the gates opened. He tightened, greased, and cleaned his work of art. At the top of the steep incline, just before the big drop, he found it.
Three wooden boards that stabilized the rails were cracked down the middle. Metal bent into awkward lines, stretching in three different directions –all of them the wrong direction. He wrestled the radio on his belt and called the boss.
“Sir, there’s a problem on Big Thunder.”
Bosses don’t like messages like that. Especially on a Monday. Even more especially when three thousand anxious customers buzzed behind the gates, ready to start their day of fun at any moment.
The boss was quick. “What is it?”
“The railing. It’s busted. The coaster can’t run today. We need to shut her down.”
That didn’t sit well with the boss, who sat hunched over a large wooden desk in his office. Thick hands rubbed circles around his cheeks to wake his pale flesh. He stared for a moment at the cracked two-way radio in his hand and pressed the button the talk.
“No can do,” he said. “Too many people out there. The coaster runs.”
“But –“
“But nothing. The coaster runs.”
“It’s not safe.”
The boss sighed and tapped the radio on the surface of the desk. He looked out the window, where hundreds of young kids swarmed around a teenaged kid dressed as Happy the Hound Dog, Happyland's official mascot. That job was almost as coveted as a gig on Big Thunder – except for during the summer when you'd sweat to death in the suit. He clicked the button to talk, but then released it. His eyes closed and he clicked it again.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Jimmy. I like you, a lot, but your services are no longer needed.”
The radio clicked and went silent.
Jimmy’s soul seeped from his skin. Every part of his stomach twisted into knots and he felt his breakfast coming up for an encore. Otherwise, he was numb. So numb that he didn't hear the gates open and a thousand feet rush toward the green sign that read, “Ride the Big Thunder.”
Happy the Hound Dog guided his pack of young friends towards the centerpiece of the park. They pushed and shoved and dragged their parents by the hand towards the front of the line.
Robert Morrison, a member of Congress that Jimmy recognized from television, led the way. At his side was a fuzz-haired blonde girl that looked about eight. Naturally, they had their choice of seats. The girl picked two up front.
The cars climbed into the heavens. Dozens of feet dangled in nervous circles as the cars ascended towards the clouds. Sunlight threw a sharp glare off the freshly polished rails. Banging, clanging, and jumping of aged wheels on the track synched with Jimmy’s heartbeat. Accordion music on the midway acted as a soundtrack. Faster and faster the cars went, until they sat atop Big Thunder Mountain, looking straight down. Then everything stopped. That always happened. Suspense is the key to a good ride and Big Thunder was the best.
The little blonde girl was in the lead car. Her hair glowed in the sunlight. Her tiny hands stretched toward the ground, as if to grab at something invisible. Clank. The wheels started again. Clank. The cars crept forward, ready for the famous drop. Joyful screams were thin at such altitude, but Jimmy still recognized the change in their tone and the sound of wood cracking. Metal popped. The blonde girl grabbed at her dad’s shoulder. Jimmy closed his eyes.
It was all Jimmy’s fault, the boss told the newspaper reporters that afternoon. After all, he was in charge of maintenance.
four
Warm Hands Cold Heart
by Ray FitzGerald
Murderers are everywhere. In the grocery store or at your favorite restaurant. The person sitting next to you at the movie theater - they’re probably a murderer.
Haven’t you ever driven down the road when someone flies in from the other lane and cuts you off? Or what about the person that sits next to you at work, blabbing all day on her phone? Don’t say you haven’t at least thought of it. Why, you’re practically a murderer yourself - premeditated at that.
But some take their murderous thoughts and turn them into actions. Some even get away with it.
Take for example the brutal strangulations of three people in 1953. It wasn’t just how they were killed that was brutal, but why the trio was murdered. All three were just living their lives. They had no idea they were about to become key players in a story to be told for decades to come. They didn’t know that every breath they took was like a grain of sand falling from a near-empty hourglass. But time, like our murderer, has no alibi. It’s always running and, as soon as you think you’ve caught it, it slips away.
----
Maria Manley’s last three weeks were spent enjoying all the trappings that come with being a twenty-something newlywed. The wedding rentals were returned and most of the bills were paid. The newly minted husband, Michael, was spending the evening in his actuary office. Maria finished a late lunch with friends at a cafe when she began her final walk home.
Of course she didn’t know that she was walking towards her own demise. If she had, she would have slowed down a bit. Maybe she would have stopped and tried on the summer dress she admired in the window at Stengel’s Department Store last week.
But she knew Michael would be home soon. Her mother made sure to explain before the wedding that every good wife must have dinner waiting for her husband when he returns home from work.
Dinner would have to wait.
She first noticed the footsteps about two blocks from home. She paid no attention to them, focusing instead on the menu for the evening. The plodding sound of shoe heels soon grew louder and harder to ignore. Maria clutched her purse and avoided looking back. Home was close enough.
She turned onto Nelson Street. By now, the white picket fen
ce that surrounded her and Michael’s small cottage was in view. There were still tire marks in the grass from when their families packed the place last weekend for their housewarming party. Her feet moved swiftly along the pebbled street. Gravel crunched and dissolved under the shoes that thumped behind her. Maria’s heart knocked against her chest. Under her breath, she whispered to herself, “Just get home. You’re almost home.”
It was at the entrance to the fence that a hand latched onto her elbow. She gasped and dropped her purse. Thoughts of running never came to her - she wasn’t very fast to begin with, especially with heels on. It all happened so quick, there wasn’t time to flee. Instead, Maria spun around and aimed her eyes on the hand that captured her. Then to the arm, the chest, and eventually the face now in front of her.
Her shoulders dropped and her breath evened out. There was relief in her voice.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Why didn’t you say something?”
The next few seconds were silent - too silent. Maria felt the need to break the uncomfortable air with a smile.
“I’m about to start dinner,” she said. “If you’re hungry -”
Before she could finish, a pair of strong hands wrapped around her neck. Maria sucked in her final breath. Words stuck in the collapsed void that used to be her throat. She attempted a half-hearted kick, but the leg, like her remaining time, was short. She died thirty feet from the brown matt that sat at her front door giving a “Welcome” to visitors.
Less than an hour later, neighbors were startled by a yell. It was more like a scream - the kind that comes from an area of your lungs that’s only called upon in these types of situations. A neighbor found Michael on his doorstep, looking down at the heap that was once his wife.
---
Detective Cary Jenkins pulled his unmarked police cruiser against the curb on Nelson Street. There were five other unit vehicles there, as well as a station wagon that he recognized as belonging to Tribune reporter Harold Grant.
Grant, as is usually the case, was the first on the scene. Detective Jenkins heard enough yelling from the police chief over the last few weeks about getting scooped by the local reporter. He drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment, knowing that he’d have to hear the speech again once he returned to the station.
Grant had half a notebook page filled with scribbles by the time Jenkins saw the body. Maria Manley was stretched across the threshold of the house. The door was opened just enough to see Michael sitting on the couch in the living room. His eyes were glazed over, staring into nothing as an officer pelted him with questions. Maria’s neck was eggplant purple. Her eyes were fixed in a suspended moment of terror. Two thin, red lips formed a small “O” shape that time wouldn’t help the detective forget. The reporter was the first to speak to him.
“What a mess,” Grant said with a shake of his head. “Just married. A young kid.”
Jenkins grunted and crouched down to get a closer look. He’d seen these things many times before, but they never got easier. He tiled Maria’s head to the side. Deep, long streaks of red bruised her flesh where the fingers of her killer gripped her. Everything else was in place. Her hair wasn’t messed, her purse lay on the street near the fence with nothing missing. He came to the conclusion that whatever happened was quick and unexpected.
“Death doesn’t know age,” he said to Grant without looking at him. He rose back to his feet and made his way inside. Michael didn’t bother looking up at the new figure entering his home. They all looked the same to him.
Grant followed close behind. Years as a writer on the police beat honed his eyes as sharp as any detective on the force. He saw things that went unnoticed by others. For example, the swarm of officers digging through the dresser drawers in the Manley’s bedroom paid no attention to the three envelopes sitting atop the oak piece. They were messily opened, each stamped with a large red “Late Notice” warning across the front. All three were empty. Grant made a note in his book and stuffed it into his back pocket as Jenkins approached him.
“Don’t go blabbing about this in the papers yet,” the detective said. “We haven’t notified next of kin. The father is on his way.”
Grant was preparing to leave, but decided to stick around, figuring he could get some good details from the father. His editor loved juicy stuff like that.
---
The black 1950 Dodge Coronet that contained Maria Manley’s father arrived as soon as Grant stepped out of the cottage on Nelson Street. The father was a large man, bigger than most of the detectives that greeted him at the curb. Bad news like this has a way of making big men small, though.
Jenkins took the man aside. It was obvious to him that something was wrong, but a parent has a way of blocking out the potential worst news of their life until it’s actually laid on them. When that came, the man fell to one knee, covering his face with a broad hand that blocked out every sign of emotion. Detectives patted the man on the back, waited a moment, and then turned back towards the house.
Grant took the sympathetic journalist stance and gave the father a few moments to compose his thoughts. He watched as the large man returned to his feet and struggled with the urge to go inside and the desire to just run away. Wanting to make sure he got a few quotes before the decision was made, Grant approached the man.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said with palms showing in a sign of peace,” I know this has to be a very tough time for you, but my name is Harold Grant. I’m a reporter with The Tribune.”
The large man flashed a glance, then offered his hand for shaking. He had a weak grip, like someone that had given up on the remaining years of his life.
“Ben Peterson,” the man said. “Excuse my condition right now.”
Grant shook his head with a thin grin. “Totally understandable, sir. I can only imagine what’s going through your head right now. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Peterson had yet to respond when Detective Jenkins stormed out of the house like his feet were on fire. His voice was loud and hoarse and sounded like artillery fire.
“Grant, get the hell away from here,” he yelled towards the reporter on the lawn. “Have a heart for God’s sake. Stop badgering people.”
Peterson looked at the detective, then at the reporter. His eyes were red and looked like the dam would be breaking again soon.
“I better not,” Peterson said. “Besides, I’m in no shape to -” he stopped. The hand went back to his face and Peterson’s voice cracked. “I have to go,” he said.
And just like that, the large man was back in his car. Tires squealed as the Dodge pulled away from the house. Peterson disappeared with his face covered, in shame of his own emotions.
Grant’s stare at the man was broken from the front door. “Damnit,” the detective barked. “You just scared him off before we had a chance to talk to him. If you’re not out of here in five seconds, I’m running you in for disturbing the peace.”
Grant took the cue and left before Jenkins could finish his countdown.
---
The next morning, on page 3B of The Tribune, sat Grant’s five-inch story about the “Nightmare on Nelson Street.” He was especially proud of the catchy headline, but not thrilled about the placement of the story, buried among society pieces.
Maria Manley was on her way home from a relaxing afternoon with friends. Little did she know it was the last time she’d see them.
Manley’s body was found at approximately 6 o’clock in the evening when her husband of three weeks, Michael, returned to their home on Nelson Street from work. The obvious shock of the newlywed’s discovery was heard throughout the neighborhood.
Manley was strangled in a surprise attack. Neighbors claimed they heard and saw nothing. Maria’s husband and father weren’t available for comment as of press time. Police are working on few leads as to the identity of the strangler.
That’s it. Twenty-four years of life summed up in 103 words in black and white, right next to a story abou
t Mrs. Beatrice Anglin’s tea party to bid farewell to her son before he leaves for college.
Maria’s funeral was scheduled for Friday.
Two hours before the funeral, Paul Samson sat in his dressing room at the Humboldt Theatre. It was night six of an eight-day run of Sabrina Fair, where he played the lead of Linus Larrabee Jr. For Samson, it was the culmination of eight years of hard work and bit roles in bad plays. He’d finally made it. His name was above the title and in lights on the Humboldt marquee. Little did he know, he didn’t have enough time left in his life to even finish his makeup for that night’s performance.
Samson, as was his usual routine, was sipping a gin on the rocks at his makeup table. It was the only way he’d found to control his nerves before a performance. He hummed a tune from the production soft and low as he began the process of laying out his makeup for the show. He was two fingers from the bottom of his glass when there was a knock on the dressing room door.
“Enter,” he said with his typical commanding stage voice. The door didn’t budge.
“Enter,” he repeated a little louder. Ten seconds later, the door cracked just enough to let in the sounds of stagehands pulling props across wooden floors.
Samson spun on his seat and arched his neck just enough to catch a glimpse of the man standing behind the door. “Can I help you?” he offered.
Harold Grant stood at the door, leaning in with his right ear. “I’m sorry, Mr. Samson,” he said. “It’s so loud out here, I couldn’t hear if you were in your room or not.”
“Well, here I am,” Samson said. “What do you need?”
Grant introduced himself. The regular theatre critic caught a cold and he was the substitute for the evening. Naturally, Grant wanted an interview with the star of the play. Samson was all too willing to oblige.
For the next twenty minutes, the actor regaled the journalist with stories of his youth and his grand return home to star in a major play. It was nearly a decade in the making, and everything he’d hoped it would be. Grant couldn’t separate the fluff from the facts. He was a much better crime reporter, but rent was due in a few days and he needed every extra dollar he could scrape together.
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