4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Would you like me to have Dr. Harris call you when she’s free?”

  “Thank you, no, Agnes. I’m done for the night. You might tell her I’ll try to call tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”

  “Sheriff, is it true about the arrest of a drug dealer in the State Park? Someone tried to kill a deputy?”

  “I don’t know what you heard, but some of it is probably true. The bottom line is, a bad guy is in jail and, except for the bad guy, no one was hurt. Goodnight, Agnes.” He walked across the street to The Crossroads Diner.

  The diner occupied the corner of Main Street and the Covington Road for years. Before that, it sat on a lot across the street. It had been relocated in the late sixties when the town council took the property to make room for the municipal building which housed the courthouse, sheriff’s department, jail, and the mayor’s office. The diner’s owner had it hauled across the street to a vacant lot and resumed business within a month.

  Unlike its newer, urban imitators with their waitresses in poodle skirts and ersatz fifties décor, the Crossroads was the real thing. The aroma of coffee, bacon, and frying food wafted down the street for blocks. Flora Blevins, who’d inherited the business from her father, kept the chrome and Formica interior spotless. Yet, years of griddle cooking had embedded its essence deeply into the very substance of the building. The result could not be duplicated in an imitation.

  Other than breakfast, Ike avoided the diner. Lunches and dinners usually consisted of portion controlled, gray—irrespective of its origin—meat, instant carbohydrates of some sort, it didn’t matter what, and all drowning in a sea of canned, suspiciously brown, gravy. The good news, if any…the diner served breakfast twenty-four seven. Since breakfast appealed to Ike at the moment, he sauntered in and took his usual place at the counter. The regulars at night were a different group than the ones he joked with in the morning. He recognized most of them, however. The only constant in the diner was Flora Blevins. She held forth from six in the morning until nearly ten at night when she would surrender the reins to her cousin, Arlene. Ike didn’t know how these two old women did it. The hours must be killing.

  Flora slid a cup of coffee in front of him and waited. Flora did not see any reason to observe the niceties of wait service with Ike, whom she adored, but ragged on mercilessly.

  “I’ll have breakfast,” he said. Nothing more was necessary. Flora had decided early on what Ike would have for breakfast, no matter what he ordered, or when. She always served him the same thing. She held it as a sacred duty to assure the meals he took under her roof met her nutritional standard. That standard presumed that most doctors were quacks, and heavy was healthy. So she served him what most people would describe as a heart-attack breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast swimming in butter, grits, and if in a good mood, she added hash browns and two very fat-filled sausages. Ike had begged for pancakes, oatmeal, fruit, anything, but Flora vetoed them all and gave him his ‘usual.’

  “How’s our boy Karl holding up?” she said, and shoved the bowl of sweeteners to him.

  “By Karl, I assume you mean Deputy Hedrick.”

  “Of course. Don’t you go getting smart with me, Ike Schwartz.”

  “I ask, Flora, because until this very moment, you referred to him as ‘that black guy.’”

  “I never.”

  “You did. And you weren’t too nice about it, either. When did he become ‘our boy Karl?’ And, a word to the wise, I wouldn’t be calling him boy if he’s in earshot.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, and besides, why’s everybody so touchy now days.”

  “Trust me, he has a right to be. Some oaf threw a rock through his window.”

  “I heard about that. Some of the regulars here had a talk with them boys about that. It won’t happen again.”

  “Why’d they do that?”

  Flora strode over to the order window. “Make the sheriff a breakfast. And he looks a little peaked so put in something extra.”

  Ike was, at best, a casual exponent of his religion. Bacon and an occasional sausage, although proscribed by Judaism, did not worry him. He ate crab cakes and steamed crabs, if and when he could get them, and without compunction. But the last time Flora added an ‘extra’ to his breakfast it turned out to be a very large, very greasy, gray pork chop. It brought him back to the faith of his fathers.

  “No extra, Flora, thanks. It’s late.”

  “You sure?”

  “Very. So you still haven’t told me, when did Karl become our boy?”

  “You don’t do what he done out there at the park, and not have somebody take notice. He saved Dorothy Sutherlin’s boy and that nice Essie Falco. They’re folks, Ike, you know that.”

  The small town tom-toms had been busy. By five that evening the core of the town, the natives, knew everything that had transpired out at the state park earlier. They always did. Karl had saved two of their own. Karl was no longer an outsider. It was that simple.

  “So he’s okay now?”

  “I don’t know what you’re going on about. Here’s your breakfast.”

  “You going to tell him?”

  “What’s to tell?”

  At that moment, Karl, finished with his grilling of Daryll Jenkins, pushed through the glass door and scanned the room. He spotted Ike and was about to say something when one of the men stood and slapped him on the back.

  “Sit a spell, Karl, and tell us all what you done,” the guy said. The three others at the table shifted their chairs around to make room for him.

  “Ah, thanks, later maybe. I need to have a word with my boss.”

  Karl zigzagged his way around tables and booths to Ike.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Order breakfast, it’s on me.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not that hungry. I just came to fill you in on what Jenkins told us and—”

  “It can wait. Flora, this man needs a breakfast.”

  “Coming up.”

  “Wait, I haven’t ordered anything yet.”

  “You don’t have to. Flora will decide what kind of breakfast you need, and from now on, that’s what you’ll get no matter what you order.”

  Flora slid a plate of pancakes in front of Karl.

  “My God, these flapjacks look like manhole covers. I can never eat all of this.”

  “You just have to try. If you fail, you will hear about it for weeks.”

  “You let her get away with this?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. Just look at the size of those things. And there are four of them. And what are these gray, square things on the side dish?”

  “Scrapple.”

  “What’s scrapple?”

  “You don’t want to know. Pour a little syrup on it, and try. If that doesn’t suit, try catsup. There are two kinds of people in the world…people who love scrapple and people who hate it. Of those who love it, there are two kinds of people…those who eat it with catsup, and those who pour on syrup. Both groups think the others are insane.”

  “You’re saying if I eat in this place and order breakfast, no matter what I say, I get fried manhole covers and little gray things on the side?”

  “That’s the drill.”

  “Wait, that sounds like what my momma would do.”

  “Exactly.” Ike held out his hand. “Karl, welcome to ‘one T Picketsville.’”

  Chapter 34

  Ike and Karl paused outside the diner, burdened with too much food, and staring at the moon, partially hidden behind some high clouds.

  “You wanted to tell me something in there, Karl?”

  “I wanted to fill you in on Jenkins, but I guess that can wait. I left a report on your desk. It’s preliminary, but you’ll get the drift. There is one other thing, though. I found a letter in my box at the office. It’s been there for three or four days. I just now discovered it. See, I never got in the habit of looking for mail there, being temporary and all. But, I forgot that I gave that address to the Bureau.”r />
  “You received a letter from the FBI?”

  “About my hearing.”

  “When is it?”

  “That’s the thing. It’s tomorrow at three o’clock. I have to drive to DC first thing in the morning. Sorry, I won’t be able to take my shift, but I could be back by seven or eight tomorrow night if that helps.”

  “No, you just get up there and do what you need to do. We’ll manage here.”

  Karl clenched his jaw. His hands balled up into fists. “It won’t amount to jack. The fix is in.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Ike, I know the Bureau. There’s, like, an old boys network up there. It won’t matter how badly my superior might have acted, he filed insubordination charges against me, and even though what I did turned out to be correct, they will close ranks and cover his ass.”

  “He’s under review, too, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, and he’s near retirement age. He’ll get a slap on the wrist and be asked to retire early—pension and all.”

  “You’re selling yourself short, Karl. You’re going to be reinstated.” Karl shook his head. There wasn’t anything more Ike could add. “Goodnight, Karl. Go home and get a decent night’s sleep. Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning. In any case, when it’s over, get on back here and let us know. A lot of people are pretty fond of you, you know.”

  “Who, those diner people? Come on, Ike, what’s up with that?”

  “Those diner people, as you call them, are the tip of the iceberg. Listen, when I want to know what the folks in this town are thinking, I go talk to the people in Flora’s diner. Trust me. You’re solid here.” Karl didn’t look convinced. “Sleep on it, go to your hearing, and come back. Goodnight.”

  ***

  Sam uncurled from her place on the sofa when Karl walked in the door. “Hi, are you okay?”

  “Okay? Yeah, as a matter of fact. But, I tell you after we unloaded that shotgun I had a moment.”

  “What was that like? I mean, were you scared?”

  “Petrified. If I had missed LeBrun’s wrist with my baton…if he’d seen me out of the corner of his eye…if Essie hadn’t done what she did…she, Billy, and probably me, would be on a slab down at the morgue. Yeah, I was plenty scared.”

  “You told me once you were involved in a situation like that before.”

  “Yeah, I tried not to think about that. That was in DC and it ended up real bad. Hostage dead and two agents down.” Karl slumped down beside her. “There’s something else.” He handed her the letter. She frowned as she read.

  “Tomorrow? That’s not much notice.”

  “Look at the postmark. It was in my box at the office. I never check that box.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Drive up tomorrow and face the music. When I get back I may be out of a job. How’s the idea of me being your kept man grab you.”

  “You won’t be out of a job, Karl. They’ll give you back your job and if they don’t Ike will ask you to stay.”

  “That’s only a maybe, Sam, not a for sure. And even if he did…”

  “Even if he did…what?”

  “Nothing. I had a bite to eat at the Crossroads Diner. The people there…they were different.”

  “Different good or different bad?”

  “I don’t know…different good, I guess.” They sat in silence for a moment.

  “I’ve been going over the Grotz thing,” she said. “I think I have some of it figured out. Just a couple of loose ends you can help me with. When you get back from DC, I’ll tell you what I think happened.”

  “Why not now?”

  “You’ve had a long day, you have another one tomorrow, and I think you need something beside cop talk tonight.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Go take a shower and come to bed.”

  ***

  Jonathan Lydell could hardly keep his eyes open. He seriously contemplated locking up and going to bed. If his grandson couldn’t show him more respect than to be two hours late coming down from Richmond, then he could spend the night in a motel. He started to act on that thought, when the sweep of headlights and a short horn tap announced the arrival of Benjamin Harrison Winslow, Esq. Lydell heaved himself off the settee. The door had been left unlocked. He listened to his grandson’s footsteps resound on the porch.

  “Hiya, Gramps,” he said.

  Lydell had a thing about colloquialisms and diminutives of people’s names. The use of nicknames, first names with strangers, and sloppy speech set his geriatric teeth on edge. “Gramps” could cause him to crack a crown.

  “You’re late, it’s late, and I’m going to bed. There is food in the ice box, and we’ll talk in the morning about this police business and your mother’s arrangements.”

  “You never told me what happened.”

  “If you hadn’t seen fit to lollygag around Richmond for days instead of coming home, you would have had ample time to hear the details. Let’s just say, your mother, in her cups as usual, slipped and fell down the stairs.”

  Winslow forced himself to overlook his grandfather’s rudeness. “Where were you when this happened?”

  “What are you playing at…prosecutor?”

  “Is that what it sounds like? No, maybe, I mean, should I? I want to know what happened. Your call said accident. Five minutes on the phone, Gramps, that’s all I got from you.”

  “Stop calling me that. I’m your grandfather. Call me Grandfather, dammit.”

  “Sorry, Grandfather then. So tell me what happened.”

  “Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow. Goodnight.”

  Winslow watched the old man labor up the stairs and disappear into the shadows at the top.

  “You’re in the old guest room next to the bath,” he shouted and then slammed his bedroom door.

  “Nice,” Winslow muttered. He went to the kitchen, dug a ham shank from the refrigerator—his grandfather’s ice box—and assembled a sandwich. There was no beer to be found so he settled for a diet soda, the only soft drink in sight. He guessed it had been his mother’s.

  What did the old man mean about police business? Was there some question about the accident? Winslow knew his limits. He made a living suing and defending corporate entities in a variety of complex and occasionally remunerative civil cases. He had no illusions about his abilities in criminal cases. He wouldn’t touch one with a ten foot pole. He’d represent the old man up to, but not through something like that. Why did he think his grandfather would need counsel? Something didn’t ring true, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He gazed at his surroundings. The old man said he intended to restore Bellmore to its antebellum status. If the kitchen served as an example of what he’d accomplished so far, he’d have to say the war still raged. He finished his snack, turned out the lights, and found his way to the guest room. Big day tomorrow.

  ***

  Dorothy Sutherlin peeked around the bedroom door to check on Essie. She slept soundly, folded in the fetal position, her hair in a golden tumble around her face. Dorothy listened and, reassured by her regular breathing, closed the door, and retreated to the first floor. She settled into her rocking chair to wait, an afghan across her knees. Ordinarily she would not sit up for her children. When they were teenagers she’d worry and wait, but not any more. Tonight, though, she needed to speak to her youngest. She didn’t have long to wait. Henry pulled into the driveway and let himself in the house. The figure of his mother in her chair startled him.

  “You’re still up?”

  “Been waiting for you.”

  “Now, you didn’t have to go and do that. I only went to bowl a few games with the guys.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that. Did you hear what almost happened to Billy and Essie Falco?”

  He hadn’t. His mother had been fully briefed earlier by Billy, except the part about Essie taking off her clothes. Billy didn’t think his mother needed to hear that part and certainly not from h
im. She recited the story to Henry.

  “They okay?” Henry wished he’d been there. Wished he’d had a shot at LeBrun.

  “They’re fine. When you go upstairs, you be quiet. Essie is in the twins’ old room and fast asleep.”

  Henry turned toward the stairway. “Will do. Goodnight, Ma.”

  “Whoa. I’m not done here. Billy said you were putting in an application to the police academy again.”

  “Yes’m, I am.”

  “I don’t want you to.” She started to rock in the chair, its motion measuring her mood.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Every one of my boys is in some kind of dangerous service. Billy near got his brains blowed out today. Jack’s dead. Danny got himself shot or something, he won’t say how or where. Frank like to died in that high speed chase last year. I can’t give another son to that kind of life no more. I don’t need anymore of my children in danger. You get a job at the hardware store like your Daddy. I want one son safe. You hear?”

  “Ma, I ain’t going to be a cop. I want to be an evidence technician. It’s a whole lot different.”

  “I seen them on TV. You ain’t going to do that.” Dorothy’s rocking now had the same cadence as the grandfather clock ticking in the hall.

  “Ma, that’s just TV. Those CSI people aren’t real. ETs don’t do any of that stuff. They just process the crime scene and the evidence, take pictures, put suspicious things in bags, like that. Once they’re done, they give it to the police. I’m not even sure if I get a badge and the only gun I’d have is my hunting rifle on the weekend.”

  “On the TV they drive around, shoot, and—”

  “Ma, I promise you, there’re no hot babes in, like, fashion magazine clothes, and guys driving around in Hummers. It’d be more like, say, Mr. Harquvist down at the drug store, filling prescriptions or like working in the biology lab at the high school. You remember how I used to like doing that. There’s no danger, honest.”

  Dorothy slowed her rocking. She sighed but still looked worried. “You’re sure? I still don’t like it. You think hard about the hardware store, Henry. And don’t make any noise going upstairs.”