Flood Abatement

by James Norton

  While he hobbled down the hall he pulled his maroon suspenders up over his shoulders. “Son-of-a-bitch. Son-of-a-bitch.” Bernie put both hands on the railing and hopped down the stairs two at a time. With five halting strides, he sat on the couch with the wooden box in his arms.

  He rapped on the bottom. Hollow. “Damn!” Press on the top and the left side. Press on the opposite corners. Nothing! “Screw it!” There was a 5 pound sledge hammer in the basement.

  Bernie looked at the pile of assorted tools on the workbench until he saw the handle of the hammer he wanted. The concrete was cool on his bare feet. Seated on the floor with the box between his legs, he beat on it. The thing was well made, and he exerted more effort than he expected. His injured leg throbbed as he panted over the growing pile of splinters. His shirt began to stick to his back. A spring made a low plunk and the bottom of the box fell off.

  He knelt over the mess. “Holy Shit.” He sucked in a breath.

  A large brown envelope bulged on the floor. It was sealed, but the glue had hardened with age. He brushed off the splinters and reached inside. There were six business envelopes each with the seal of the Philadelphia Mint in the upper left hand corner. They were accompanied by a piece of faded green stationery and another tightly folded wad of white paper. The writing on the green paper was in a familiar hand.

  “To Whom It May Concern,

  If you’ve gotten this far you know my first correspondence contained a slight fib. It’s a good fib though. If you knew there were more 1933 Double Eagles you might have not found the real worth of such rare coins.

  Good Luck,

  Hildi”

  Chapter 110

  The other letter was in pencil on a piece of lined paper from a school notebook.

  June 17, 1962

  This is more than I can take. The coins Hildi left me are a curse not a treasure. Last year I killed Andy Waldoch over them and buried his body in the flower garden. He beat Francy to find the box and dug it out of the basement floor. I reburied the box only deeper this time.

  Maybe someone smarter than me will find it or nobody. Cancer’s got me now. I don’t care no more.

  Sal

  Who was Sal? Ah, Nana’s deceased husband. Bernie found he was holding his breath and gasped for air. Months back in the hospital, he made a wild guess about how Waldoch’s corpse ended up in the garden. Nana probably denied the facts for so long that it never occurred to her to pin the murder on Sal when the body turned up. Christ, what a family.

  An examination of the six business envelopes revealed six letters, identical to the originals Rhonda used to sell the first gold piece. The same number of coins, each in a small wax paper envelope, lay on the concrete between his legs. Bernie peeled the coins from their wrappers and spread them out on the floor. This was all too much to take in quickly.

  “Make sure,” he heard himself say.

  One by one he held each under the light. They were pristine, with the design sharply stamped into the yellow metal with the date 1933. If they were fakes he couldn’t tell. With the first coin this was a good scam. With two this was some kind of incredible scam. With eight it became colossal, a fortune so dangerous as to be unspendable.

  The treasure overwhelmed Rhonda’s relatives, Hildi and Sol. They decided to ignore it and live lives they could deal with. But, each showed foresight enough to safeguard it for the family.

  But, if Rhonda took the second coin, how did she miss the rest? Maybe it just didn’t dawn on her that there might be more. She had opportunities. Even smart people make mistakes.

  Bernie fought to keep a clear head. His decisions would have great consequences. Do something temporary right now.

  The coins and documents went into a cardboard box that he addressed to himself at general delivery Miami, “Hold for claim,” marked it first class and used his mother’s return address. The Postal Service would hold the package for thirty days before they sent it back to his mother. Dressed for work in a navy blue suit and black wing-tipped shoes, he stood in line at the post office and thought about what he was doing. He hesitated, then gave the package to the postal clerk.

  Chapter 111

  Six priceless coins stolen from the feds, a porno movie stolen from a gang of Columbian drug smugglers, and a criminal relationship with a mob boss. Bernie sat in his office and stared at the pile of papers on his desk. He knew Sam wanted him to do something with them, but his life was an incomprehensible pile of crap. The hot coffee tasted reassuring. He’d bribed a judge. And screwed his brother’s wife, … ex-wife, but he had a good excuse for that. He could go to the cops. Yeah, and tell’em what? Okay, not a good idea. The thing that bothered him the most was that Rhonda hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in him about her plan for the coins. Son of a bitch.

  Sam walked in. “You don’t look so hot. Maybe you should go home.”

  Bernie pursed his lips. The man was a certified genius. “Yeah.” He got up, leaned on his cane and walked out. The stick wasn’t necessary, but it gave him a look with which people sympathized.

  He sat in the Olds and fumbled for the keys in his suit coat pocket. The interior of the car was cold, but the sun was bright and warm. The key ring was a real pain in the ass. Too many keys. He held the collection in his hand and just looked at them: front door, back door, garage, office, desk, his mother’s house, car, health club and one more. What the hell was that? He gripped it between his forefinger and thumb. It was chubby and short. He brought it up to his face. Where did he get this? Rhonda. He smiled. Why did he have this? It was for a padlock, a strong one. The type the cops used, or the feds. Ah, it was for that storage bin where the feds put Nana’s stuff when they evicted her. “Oh, shit.”

  He knew where the infamous movie was. Well, it was more than an even chance. Think, think, gotta have a plan. He could go right over, unlock Nana’s place and take it. Too simple, too obvious and a straight line that lead right to him. Rhonda did trust him. He started the Olds.

  Chapter 112

  Bernie said, “I would like to rent a storage space.”

  “Good, that’s what we do. If you’d wanted to buy a pot roast I couldn’t help you.” The woman behind the counter of You-Store-It office gave a hacking laugh. She was in her sixties and wore an incredible wig. It was golden blonde and set in a way Betty Grable might have worn.

  “Well, good.” He nodded. “How about 18G?”

  “Why that one?”

  “Lucky number.”

  She pulled a large three-ring binder from under the counter and paged through it. The ash on the cigarette that dangled from her lips dropped to the page as she looked up at him. “Nope, it’s in use. Got any more lucky numbers?”

  “Ah, 17 or 19?”

  The proprietress tightened her lips and took a deep draw on the smoke. “Like row G do ya?”

  “Sentiment.”

  She blew smoke out through her nose and reviewed the documents. “Lucky you, 17 is available.” The smoke rushed from her nostrils.

  “Fine, I’ll take it.” He gave a small cough.

  “Name.”

  “Knickerbocker Smith.”

  After dark, Bernie stood in the empty two-car-garage size bay of unit 17G on 84th Street just across from State Fair Park. He bought what he needed - steel reinforcement rods, oxyacetylene cutting torch, Coleman lantern. His breath condensed as he prepared to get to work. With a little consideration of the situation, he pulled his goggles over his eyes and lit the gas. He began to cut through the corrugated steel sheets in the corner that separated his unit from Nana’s.

  The smell of the burned zinc plating on the metal walls hung heavy in the damp air. Bernie shut off the cutting torch, pushed the welder’s goggles up on his forehead and wiped his eyes with the back of his gloved hand.

  Lucerio told him that the movie Rhonda stole was not the sort of thing she could carry around in a handbag. She needed someplace to store it. But where? If it was important, and Rhonda thought it was, she wouldn
’t have left it unattended. Who would she have taken into her confidence when she stole the film? The only other person Bernie knew that might fit in that category was Nana. Time to get back to work.

  He tacked reinforcing rods to corrugated steel sheets while he cut his way into the old woman’s storage unit. It was a bit of a long shot, but if anybody had the movie it was Nana. The woman behind the counter would have a fit when she found what he was doing to her property. She probably had insurance. Screw her if she couldn’t take a joke. On second thought, no.

  The object, of course, was not to get caught going through Nana’s things. Bernie had taken a slow drive through the storage yard before reaching his unit. Nobody was around. There was a slim chance that someone would open the door and catch him in the act. The only people with a key were Nana, Rhonda and himself. It would be a big bonus if either of those two showed up. Another possibility was someone would enter the adjacent cubicles and hear him rummaging around. The steady clatter of the rain on the roof would mask his movements if he didn’t make any loud noise.

  As he cut through the wall, Bernie thought it would be prudent to move anything he wanted to search into his cube. Still there were a large number of heavy boxes in her storage locker. He’d already moved them twice for Rudolph, the lazy bastard. Damn it, he’d take his chances. What about the overhead light? He checked the garage door. No light was going to seep under the rubber seal on the concrete floor.

  Bernie knew that there weren’t any film canisters lying around with Nana’s furniture. Twenty-nine large cardboard boxes sat in the northeast corner of the cube stacked three high. If the movie was here, it was in those. “Shit!” He stopped to listen if anyone was around.

  When he knew he was alone, he began to move the top row and search the boxes. The place smelled musty. At box ten, he rested, took off his sweatshirt, and watched his breath. Nothing of interest, just the old lady’s household goods.

  At box nineteen he needed to take a leak. Can’t leave until the job’s done. He looked around for an empty bottle. Viola, a milk jug. Just the ticket.

  Twenty-nine boxes and no film of any kind, not even home movies. There were photographs in box five or maybe it was six, but no movies. “Well, nuts,” he whispered. The sweat was cold on his back. He retrieved his sweatshirt from the box with Nana’s family pictures.

  Pictures, pictures, take another look. Old black and whites in worn albums. Fading color snaps from the ‘60’s. A portrait photograph of Rhonda, colorized. Bernie looked at the picture in the box then pulled the sweatshirt over his head. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the dust off the glass in the frame. As he looked at the portrait a second time he knew it wasn’t her. Almost, but the hair style was wrong, her mouth wasn’t wide enough and a half-a-dozen other details he couldn’t name. But, it wasn’t Rhonda. Then who was it?

  He opened the back of the frame and slide the print out. “Virginia Lapinski, April, 1941” was written on the back in pencil. “Holy fuckin’ ey.” It was Rhonda’s mother. The woman from Omaha was Rhonda’s mother. And, and … if Rhonda hadn’t sent the damn film to her grandmother then maybe she sent it to … oh yeah.

  Chapter 113

  Like most of the houses on the east side of Milwaukee, Bernie’s was built before the automobile. Parking was a real pain in the ass. In the winter there were rules about which side of the street you could park. It was a snow removal thing. If you screwed up, your car would get towed and the ticket was steep.

  Up until five minutes before ten that morning, he never saw any real advantage to it. The restricted parking meant that there was a limited population of cars that ever appeared on his street. Just before Bernie stepped out the front door with his suitcase, he noticed the odd one. The car was conspicuous, a rusty Lincoln Continental. To get a better look at the interloper, he put the suitcase down and moved to the front room window. Had he passed that same car when he left the storage yard yesterday, or was it just similar? No, it was the same one. Think back, was it there yesterday? Yeah. “Should have picked that piece of shit out long before now. All the physical abuse must be playing with your head.” Anyplace else? Outside Sam’s office building. Well, well, who do you work for? Lucerio? Smith? Someone else?

  Bernie took his bag upstairs, unpacked it and came back down. “Okay, smart guy let’s get it on.” He walked out of the house, navigated the half-melted snow drifts and got into the Olds. At the corner of Brady he saw his tail pull from the curb. Bernie slowed to let his pursuer catch-up then, headed for the Pfister Hotel parking lot where he dropped the car and his trench coat. Minutes later he was in a cab on his way to the airport. No tail.

  He stopped at the Republic Airlines counter and found their next flight to Omaha was leaving just before eleven in the morning, changing in Minneapolis, arriving at three in the afternoon. He booked a round trip ticket.

  Chapter 114

  Virginia Costello was in the local phone book. The house was on the west side of town, brick Tudor, big lot, built in the twenties. Old maple trees lined the street where all the houses resided on a hundred and forty foot setback.

  The weather was misty and cold as Bernie rang the front doorbell and wished he’d kept his trench coat. Even in a blue wool suit, he shivered. A few more weeks and the weathermen would claim it was spring. The black man who had accompanied Virginia and Jones to his house answered. He said, “Hello Mr. Keagan,” as if Bernie stopped by twice a week.

  “Hi, Mitchell.”

  “Follow me. Virginia is in the back.”

  The latent aroma of tung oil hung in the oak-paneled halls leading to the restaurant-capable kitchen. Virginia stood at one of the stoves stirring something. “Why don’t you have a seat? Do you like shrimp bisque?”

  Bernie took a moment to take the pair in. They looked to be in their late fifties, both dressed in white shirts, dark gray pants and black shoes. They showed that familiar air that couples have after spending an intimate life together. It must be a hell of a good story, but he didn’t have time to pry. There wasn’t much to say so he said, “Sure,” and took a seat at a high counter with four bar stools.

  Mitchell set a place in front of him and Virginia ladled the bisque into three bowls. The couple said a silent prayer and began to eat. He joined them.

  “What brings you here?” she asked.

  “Your daughter,” Bernie said. “But you knew that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bernie smiled. Same perfume. “You’ve been expecting me. She told you I’d be around.” He sipped a spoonful of hot soup. “This is good. You make it from scratch?”

  “I did,” Mitchell said.

  “Fine, but,” Virginia said. “What exactly brings you to our door?”

  “I found a picture of you in a place I did not expect to find it,” Bernie said.

  “Interesting, where might that be?”

  “In a box of stuff belonging to Frances Lapinski.”

  “What do you think that tells you?

  “Well, considering I’ve known Rhonda since she was a kid, it tells me that you’re Frances Lapinski’s daughter. Oh, and of course, Rhonda’s mother.”

  Virginia took two spoonfuls of her bisque. “That and a quarter gets you a cup of coffee.”

  “Used to be a dime,” Mitchell said.

  “Inflation,” Virginia added.

  “Regardless,” Bernie said. “It makes you something besides a disinterested third party to her coin dealing. Probably a coconspirator of some sort.”

  “Conspirator in what? The feds have the Double Eagle.”

  Bernie put his spoon down. Time for the big guess. “Come on, I know there were two Double Eagles.”

  Virginia jumped up and knocked over her stool. “What? That, that …”

  “Double-crosser?” Mitchell asked. “I told you that apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Oh, shut up!” she said.

  The black man nodded and continued to eat his bisque.

&nbs
p; Don’t smile. That went well. Now what? Bernie said. “Don’t feel too bad. She didn’t tell me either.”

  “Yes, but I’m her mother.”

  “Who abandoned her thirty years ago,” Mitchell added.

  “Will you just shut up for the moment? You’re not helping.” She paced the kitchen. “What the hell was she doing?”

  Bernie put his spoon on the counter. “The only way I can see it, is that she gave up one coin to the feds so that they could establish some kind of market value.”

  “She found a buyer for the second coin?” Virginia asked.

  “Apparently.”

  “Hmm, not bad. Pretty good actually,” Mitchell said. “I know, ‘Shut up.’”

  “No, you’re right. Well, she’s probably long gone,” Virginia sighed.

  “I don’t think so,” Bernie said.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I think she expects me to find you.” When he said it, he knew it wasn’t such a rash assumption as far as Rhonda was concerned. “And, you have something else she wants.” What the hell? It was the only play he could think of.

  Chapter 115

  On his second day in the guest room, Bernie saw a white Bronco drive past the house for the third time. “Here we go.” How much would he tell Rhonda? Hopefully no more than she told him.

  He walked into the kitchen, started the coffeemaker and sat down on a stool at the counter. Mitchell had left blueberry muffins. While Bernie poured his first cup, a key turned in the backdoor lock. Nana and Rhonda walked in. “Morning ladies,” he said.