by David Archer
Sadly, there would be no time to assign a promising student in the next class to copy “Sailor’s Delight.” The museum did not own the work—it was on loan from a wealthy patron named Elizabeth Sabel Gildemeister. Though very few people knew it and those few who did know were in no hurry to discuss it, the patron herself was of somewhat dubious provenance. Her grandfather, Albert, had shortened his last name to Sabel from Sabella, as in Salvatore Sabella, founder of the Philadelphia mafia. Mrs. Gildemeister was painfully aware of her origins and was glad to see that nobody cared to discuss them. On the other hand, if things really, really, really came to a crisis, she knew what buttons to push.
By the time Ms. Fabietz had selected the next batch of students to work in the Art Museum, “Sailor’s Delight” would be back in the Widow Gildemeister’s private collection.
“Miss Klein, if you think for one moment I am going to allow this abomination within the confines of my school, you have exactly one more think coming,” Professor Fabietz had scolded Evelyn when she saw the bad copy in her studio at the academy. The student glared at her teacher with a hatred she had seldom bothered to muster. How dare this artistic hack, this borderline drunk, speak to her in such a manner? Cynthia Fabietz did like her booze. Some of the students had taken to calling her Ginthia Fabietz. Evelyn could out-paint this floozy with crayons, if she had to.
“Fine, I’ll take it home and hang it in my apartment,” Evelyn said. Her boyfriend had already said he liked the work, so she did not mind at all if he saw it again and again at her place. In fact, for reasons she was keeping entirely to herself, she was glad Ernie got to see the piece in all its dubious glory.
Chapter 1
Ernie Campanella was on trial, not for his life, but for pretty high stakes nonetheless. After considerable discussion, Frank and Sadie…and eventually Sadie’s sister Arlene had agreed to invite him to their next cocktail party on a very provisional basis. The thing that finally allowed Arlene to capitulate was Frank’s assurance that Ernie would bring his girlfriend and be on his best behavior. She’s been making him toe the line, he added. Does he really have a girlfriend or is she just some cheap pickup, Arlene had wanted to know. No, they’re honest-to-God serious, Frank insisted. In fact, they were all but engaged.
Arlene fumed with hidden rage over the prospect, but there was no getting around it: she owed the pig Ernie Campanella a huge favor. What made it so difficult for her to accept the notion of even seeing him again was that the kindness Ernie had done her (and her family) had been out-of-sight and out-of-mind, while the vile insults he had perpetrated on them were as fresh in her memory as yesterday’s dinner. Come on, now, just get it over with, she kept telling herself. It’s not like you’re being stuck in an arranged marriage with the guy. Then another part of her would furiously reject the notion. Hadn’t she been through enough already? She could understand Frank’s behavior in this matter—after all, he was actually friends with the slimeball—but she felt absolutely betrayed by her sister. How could Sadie do such a thing to her? In the end, she capitulated. Life is hard enough as it is, Arlene figured. Every so often you need to take the path of least resistance just to give yourself a break.
Arlene’s “date” for the party would be Howard Ellsworth, her mentor at the Civic Center, where she still handled their in-house public relations with aplomb. Both of them knew full-well the date (and many other dates, before and after) was for display purposes only. Although the term had not yet come into vogue, she was acting as his beard. Ironically, he had been mistakenly arrested for a crime against Arlene—of all people—but then the police (that is to say Ernie Campanella) had caught the right guy before anyone had to spill the beans about Ellsworth’s sexual preferences. If the rest of the staff at the Civic Center did not know he was gay, they may have been inclined to suspect the opposite, that he had been arrested for a reason. By letting him squire her here, there and practically everywhere, she and he were both sending a message to all their co-workers: Look, the guy didn’t do it, OKAY?
At some point, Arlene Gomez knew she should find a fellow to get serious about, but she was glad for the respite. Howard was a sweet and funny guy, and, with no pretenses necessary on either of their parts, they could say to each other whatever was on their minds and know they would get a sympathetic ear to hear it. If some guy had called Arlene Gomez a hag, his face would have probably sustained yet another of her famous slaps, but, again, in modern-day parlance, that’s exactly what she was. Knowing Howard would be nearby cheered her up enough so that she could at least seem to be gracious during the party.
“How nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard nothing but good things,” Arlene said as she shook Evelyn’s hand. She looked to Arlene like the kind of woman who would have the patience to put up with Ernie’s shenanigans. Goodness knew, she couldn’t. It also struck Arlene as a bit strange that Ernie’s date was probably Jewish, considering his apparently low opinion of “spics” and other minorities. She must really be good in the sack, Arlene thought, then mentally scolded herself for that moment of pettiness.
“And it’s lovely to meet the family of Ernie’s best friend,” Evelyn responded. “He speaks well of you too,” which meant Ernie didn’t constantly run them down, the way he did his quarrelsome sister. Arlene felt a pang of uneasiness over someone once again referring to Frank as Ernie’s best friend. She had long since apologized to Frank for her emotional outburst, but her thoughts about his associating with Ernie Campanella were still ambiguous at best.
Frank’s wife Sadie was far more willing to give Ernie a clean slate. Having known the man a lot longer than her sister had, and seen him in action, back when they all worked out of the same station, she could far more easily believe that it was he, and not those two somewhat arrogant detectives, who had actually cracked her sister’s case. She also knew what her sister’s situation was with Howard. Even so, she did not begrudge Arlene her happiness, however superficial it may be. Her broken engagement with the surprisingly selfish Sean Higgins had left Arlene in a very sad state indeed. There would be time enough to get back on the horse.
The party went smoothly, with lots of interesting conversation, but no tiresome drunk talk. The main topic of conversation was whether the Phillies were ever going to win the pennant. They had come close a lot lately, only to fail in the end. Evelyn, now with four games as a spectator under her belt, was quick to weigh in with her opinion, which was that manager Danny Ozark was an idiot. Another topic that Arlene was not so crazy about was what she and Howard were going to do if they took the wrecking ball to the Civic Center.
“Even if that does happen, which I don’t think it will, it won’t be for a long time yet,” she assured the others in the conversation.
“Besides that,” Howard volunteered, “Arlene and I have an excellent backup plan if worse comes to worst. She’s gonna play the hurdy-gurdy on Walnut Street while I dance around with a funny little hat and a tin cup. We’ll make a fortune in nickels and dimes.”
When Frank and Sadie cleared the floor for dancing, it seemed everyone got a chance to dance with everyone else. At one point Evelyn took a dance with Howard, while Ernie and Arlene danced together for the first time ever. No, it was not anything like a magical moment—that is unless you consider not getting slapped in the face magical, but it was OK. Maybe the feud was over at last.
Chapter 2
“Ooh, look, Mommy, it’s Raggy!” the little girl squealed with delight when they passed a large Raggedy-Ann doll in the display window at F.A.O. Schwartz. Mildred Perkins had dreaded taking her daughter past the store, but it was right next to the beauty shop where she worked and where, on her goddamn day off, yet, she had to come in and pick up her paycheck. Things were too tight in the Perkins household to delay banking the check even one day.
“Come along, Debbie, you know we can’t afford fancy rich-people things,” Mildred scolded as she yanked the girl away from the window. To be sure a big rag doll was far from the most expensive
item in the fancy toy store, but even that was more than Mrs. Perkins felt she could afford. “Just be thankful you have a roof over your head,” she told her daughter, referring to their dinky fourth-floor walkup apartment with the Murphy bed.
The war had been over for nearly a year now, but the Army had not given her any word on the status of her husband. Private Jeff Perkins was still on the books as “missing in action.” Without a death certificate, there would be no widow’s pension for his wife. Mildred felt her husband was a brave and patriotic man who had probably gotten himself blown to bits by a German 88, but, for all the Army knew, the guy could have snuck off to Switzerland.
As it was, Mildred had been lucky to find a job at all. With the return of the GIs, all those many jobs that women had been filling had gone back to the men who used to hold them and who had managed to come home in one piece—quite a considerable number in spite of the horror of World War II. Fortunately none of those fellows had jobs as beautician’s assistants in Ardmore, Pennsylvania, to reclaim.
They never did find the remains of Jeff Perkins, and neither Mildred nor Deborah Ann Perkins ever had enough for more than the basic necessities. Mildred would eventually re-marry to a fellow who seemed like a real card, but turned out to be a drunken bum, leaving her even worse off than she was before she made the mistake of marrying him. The guy never saw Debbie as anything more than a nuisance. His sour attitude toward the girl may have worsened after the night he came naked into her bedroom when she was 15, and she kicked him as hard as she could in the balls. Of course what the stepfather had in mind was nothing short of reprehensible, but it was far from incomprehensible. If there was one asset Debbie Perkins had in her sad, miserable life, it was her looks. Some would say she was drop-dead gorgeous. At the very least, as her stepdad could attest, she was roll on the floor, holding your nuts, wish-you-were-dead gorgeous.
But good looks were never enough for her. What Debbie Perkins really wanted for as long as she could remember were those fancy rich-people things they couldn’t afford, and lots of them.
Chapter 3
“You fellows know the drill,” Captain Kashuba explained to the two newly-promoted sergeants, “I’m gonna have to break up your team again. Can’t have that much rank in only one car, while we got other teams with only a sophomore and a rookie. I promise I’ll find you better partners than you had the last time.” Sergeant Tompkins and Sergeant Campanella took the news in stride. They knew the change was coming because that’s the way it was done. It was up to the sergeants to guide and inspire the younger cops, not each other.
Ernie ended up being paired with another black officer, but, this time, a woman. Kimberly Diggs was pleasant enough, it seemed, and, within about 30 seconds, Ernie figured she was way smarter and more conscientious than Luther Porch, the partner he had once been assigned as punishment for his sins. Her looks were average, Ernie figured, which was fine. The last thing he wanted was for Evelyn to get crazy jealous over her boyfriend’s new lady partner. When it came to her man, Evelyn was a lot less of a free-thinker than she imagined herself to be. She had given Ernie permission to get a “massage parlor” hand-job if the pressure got to be too much while she was overseas, but was immensely relieved when he told her he never bothered.
On the other hand, Ernie was delighted with his promotion. Captain Kashuba never said so, but, in Ernie’s case, it had a lot to do with his otherwise unheralded part in the capture of the criminal they had called Mickey Finn. Now, at last, he felt financially secure enough to take the step he had been planning for what seemed like an eternity. It wasn’t just the extra money; it was the comfort of knowing his services were appreciated. That did wonders for his feelings of job security. He had long felt that Captain Williams had it in for him, even if he had given the man ample reason for feeling that way, but the new precinct chief, Spanky, as the guys still called him, had clearly been impressed with the new and improved Ernie Campanella. All he ever wanted was a fair shake.
At first, relations within the new salt-and-pepper cop team had been cordial and smooth. Then, one morning, Officer Diggs seemed to be a bit moody. As they were enjoying a morning coffee break, she suddenly looked him in the eye and spoke.
“You wanna talk about it?” she asked him
“Okay, talk about what?”
“You know, the race issue. I just heard the other day, you once beat up a black civilian pretty bad.”
A long time ago. Did you also hear I killed a white civilian? Both in the line of duty, by the way. Look, I won’t lie to you. I’m a better cop now than I was then. I’m sure I coulda been a little less rough with that black fellow than I was, but, come on, it was a fight, not a free-style beating. As for the guy I killed, that was an unfortunate accident. I tried as hard as I could just to incapacitate him, but the son of a bitch was coming after me with a knife.”
“Suppose it had been a black man with the knife?” Diggs asked.
“You, know, I’d like to think I’da still shot the guy in the leg. Look, if you’da been on the force at the time, I wouldn’t blame you for hating my guts, but come on, Diggs. People grow, people change.”
“We’ll see,” she said before taking another sip of her coffee.
Kimberly Diggs had not picked up the story of her partner’s beating up a black man somewhere off the grapevine. This came straight from what she regarded as the horse’s mouth. Lieutenant James Maddox of Internal Affairs had taken the trouble to fill the young policewoman in on her partner’s problematic past. But then, when it came to soiling the reputation of Sergeant Campanella, James Maddox considered it no trouble at all.
The former precinct captain, Lorenzo Williams, was certainly smart enough to see for himself that Ernie was a bad cop, but if he was the one who had put Campanella in the doghouse, Maddox was the one who nailed the door shut. More than anything James Maddox wanted that honky bastard off the force.
“Okay, that was pretty interesting, I guess,” Evelyn told Ernie, “but, again why did you bring me here? The two of them had just sat through a service at the local Unity Church.
“I thought this place might be a lot less judgmental than other churches, you know, like yours and mine. When you think of it just about all your major religions have a lot of blood on their hands, if you go back far enough. The Catholics certainly do and so do The Chosen People if we are to believe the Bible. This place is innocent of all that.”
“Yeah, yeah very touching, but why go to any church at all?” Evelyn wondered. “I was perfectly OK with the way we were spending our Sundays.”
“Yeah, I was too,” Ernie agreed,” but we have to get married somewhere. Evelyn Miriam Klein,” he said as he dropped to one knee, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, to have and to hold, until death do us part, you know, and all that shit?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she responded, even as her eyes welled up.
Captain Steve Kashuba was a hard-working family man who only allowed himself one small vice. Every other Thursday, he and his three closest friends would get together for a night of pinochle. They would take turns hosting the game, which meant that, once every other month or so, the Captain’s children would have to find someplace to hang out other than the rec room. This particular Thursday night was a “road game.” Kashuba had done very well with the cards that night. Forget the money—they only played for small change—it was great to be a winner. Just before he was to get on the Schuylkill Expressway, he noted his tank was nearly empty. He thought the fuel at this station was overpriced, but decided to stop there anyway. Better put a few squirts of gas in the car so he didn’t get stranded of the freeway, he figured. As he pulled into the station, he could not help but notice a group of men clustered around the cashier inside. Then, even from the distance of the farthest pump, he saw a ski mask, first on one face, then the other two. Moving smartly but out of easy sight of the robbers, Kashuba took the safety off his service revolver.
“Drop your guns and put your
hands up, you’re under arrest!” the Captain shouted as he leveled his pistol at the nearest hoodlum. With the instinct that had served him so well on his rise from the streets, he saw right away there would be no peaceful surrender. Shots rang out, including every bullet in the lawman’s chambers. When the silence ensued, two of the robbers lay dead and another seriously wounded. Only a little in front of them, Spanky Kashuba himself lay in a pool of blood.
Chapter 4
The richest lawyer in Washington was not Edward Bennett Williams or Tommy the Cork, even if the two of them were rolling in it. Far wealthier than either and maybe both of them was a man who had not seen the inside of a courtroom in decades. He was also a man nobody outside the field had ever heard of, and that was just the way the man wanted it.
Jonathan D. Sanderson was the most successful lobbyist in a town where they grew in bunches, like bananas. Every special interest in need of, not your usual considerations, but a really special favor came to Sanderson, checkbook in hand, prepared to develop writer’s cramp from writing all those zeroes.
Sanderson lived in a magnificent house in Potomac, Maryland, the most expensive suburb of the Nation’s Capital. There, the $80,000 homes were in the city’s version of shantytown. Even by the more moderate prices of the 1970s, his home was valued at close to five million dollars. Sanderson shared his spacious mansion with his beautiful, somewhat younger wife, Deborah Ann Sanderson, late of Ardmore Pennsylvania. They had no children, and they were both fine with that. The closest thing to a child in their house was a large Raggedy-Ann Doll that Deborah kept on an easy chair in their bedroom. Sometimes, when her husband was out defending the already-well-defended, she would sit in that chair, holding Raggy close to her and remembering her sad, wasted childhood.