by David Archer
“Well, all right then,” he cheerfully proclaimed. Then his eyes began to well up. “Arlene, you’re a saint,” he added.
Chapter 2
If Sean Higgins ever thought about his ex-fiancée, it was only fleetingly. True to his admitted predilection, he had dated a number of Asian ladies after the breakup, but had not felt ready to commit to any of them. After that huge disappointment with the faithless Gomez woman, he still played the game, here and there, but the job became the thing that really made him tick.
He had not personally killed anyone since he dispatched the Cuban D.G.I assassin Enrique Valdivielso, but he was still wringing every last ounce of glory he could out of the deed. And his action had certainly been appreciated. On the wall behind the desk was a gift from his co-workers of two doctored-up pictures. One was a photo of Valdivielso (in his guise as Rasta Pete) with the word “DEAD” superimposed on it in dripping blood-red letters. Beside it was a photo of Fidel Castro with the red letters spelling out “NEXT.”
No, these days, Sean was happy to stick to his supervisory duties as deputy chief of station and let the others get their hands dirty. The only project he took the lead on was the one he had devised shortly before his promotion: The Fair Welfare Action Committee.
By secretly launching this organization that purported to be a voice on the extreme left, but which was of course, a spying mechanism for the bureau, Sean and his fellow agents could better identify who were the radicals who would bear watching. Sean had regarded his scheme as a masterstroke of genius, and nobody yet inside the bureau had seen fit to venture a contrary opinion. After two years and change, none of the organization’s recruits had managed to catch on that they were being duped. Professed former Black Panther and field leader Louis Simmons had thoroughly convinced them of his (and their) righteousness. Sean made a mental note to put Agent Simmons in for a raise.
In fact, Sean had been going through his copies of material for the next newsletter. One that struck him in particular was an impassioned tirade from a college student, who was not yet a member, but was showing every inclination to become one soon.
The letter was a scathing criticism of the President’s blatant hypocrisy. While Mr. Carter so piously decried the horrors of nuclear war out loud, in private, he had given the green light for the military-industrial fat-cats to start producing a sinister device they called the stealth bomber, thus making it far more certain that yet even more of our hydrogen bombs could wipe out yet even more vast populations of innocent women and children. The letter writer signed off as “Leon P.” Have to check this out, pronto, Sean made another mental note.
Chapter 3
“So, how’s your left side?” Ernie asked. “Still bother you?”
“A little,” Evelyn replied.
“No infection or anything like that?” Ernie pressed his wife.
“Ernie, Sweetie, they took care of that right after the stabbing. This is, like, the tenth time I’ve told you.”
“I’m sorry, Lambchop. Not a day goes by, I don’t worry myself to a frazzle.”
“I know, I know. Jeez, you’re making it so hard for me to keep asking for a divorce.”
“Then why not stop asking? I said it before, I’ll say it again: I’ll put up with another eight and a half years of blue balls if it means we’re still together when this is finally over with.”
“I don’t know, Ernie. By that time my looks may be gone. I feel like I’ve already slipped somewhat in that area.”
“Here’s me being brutally honest: you have—not a lot, but, come on. Here’s me being just as honest: it doesn’t matter to me one bit. I don’t care if you come out looking like your mother, and I mean before the plastic surgery. You are the only woman in the world who is right for me. I know that as truly as I know anything. And, if you don’t mind my presumption, I am the only guy who’s right for you. Stop a minute and take a little inventory. I think you’ll come around.”
“Oh, Babe, I’m already around. I’ve been there since I woke up and saw you beside my hospital bed. It’s just so much to ask…”
“When you ask a guy to do the thing he wants more than anything else in the whole wide world, it’s not as much of an imposition as you might think.”
“God,” she pretended to protest, but with the happiest smile she had mustered since she could remember, “you’re impossible!”
As it turned out, Ernie’s time for putting up with the aforesaid blue balls would be a good deal shorter than he had estimated. In the normal scheme of things, Evelyn would not be eligible for parole until she had served six of her ten years, but due to a combination of prison overcrowding and the collective guilty conscience of the authorities for letting their most noteworthy prisoner nearly get murdered in their one of their bathrooms, they were only too eager to send her on her way. Certainly her model behavior had helped her cause immensely. It took a little time, but, after establishing, then milking for every last drop of publicity their enlightened program for relieving the dreadful conditions caused by overcrowding, in the women’s prisons as well as the men’s, a token number of the most trustworthy prisoners were given early release, Evelyn among them. She would be out in time for Thanksgiving Day, 1981.
All that said, she was back in the world, not as a free woman, but as a parolee. Her freedom of movement would be severely curtailed for a number of years to come. When it came to accessing her Swiss bank money and making more, her problems were by no means ended. On the other hand, she would be back in her husband’s warm embrace at last, and no dirt-digging, chickenshit parole officer could deny her that.
“Ernie, my brother, my friend, I couldn’t be happier for you!” Frank Mueller enthused when Ernie broke the news about his wife’s early release.
“I know you mean that, Frank, every word of it,” Ernie responded. Even as the two pals hugged and made their mouths bring forth words of undying comradeship, their eyes showed a strain that had not existed until recently.
Frank could never forget that it was his inspired sleuthing that had put Evelyn behind bars in the first place. True to their friend’s request, the cops who made the pinch had hogged all the glory and kept the name of the guy who cracked the case for them completely mute—but the guy knew, and it caused him no end of emotional pain. And at that Frank was the luckier of the two.
Ernie had done something far worse than send a guilty woman to jail—he had killed one. Oh, he had no doubt that the late Elizabeth Sabel Gildemeister would have arranged for Evelyn’s murder, one way or another. If her first attempt had failed, it was only by a matter of inches. The way Ernie saw it at the time, he had no choice but to get rid of her before she could order another attempt. If he had only put the deed off one more day, the problem would have solved itself. With the assassination, the very next day, of the man who was to arrange the murder of Ernie’s wife, the Widow Gildemeister would have run out of cards to play, but that was after she had run out of air to breathe.
Ernie, who was now a service technician for an appliance store, knew that Frank, as a thoroughly honest cop, would be extremely hard-pressed to ignore the crime if it ever came to his attention.
“You know, I’m actually glad to hear it,” Arlene said when Sadie told her that Ernie’s wife was getting out of jail a lot sooner than they had all expected.’
“Yeah, there’s about another mile of red tape to get through, but she ought to be back in the world, sometime this coming fall,” Sadie went on to explain. She and Frank had stopped by for supper at Arlene’s place, or, rather Arlene and Howard’s place. Neither of the guests was uncomfortable with the arrangement, although they both wondered if Arlene was ever going to have any children of her own.
“I’d like to do something nice for them,” Arlene said. “I feel rotten about the way I felt about them for so long—especially Evelyn. It’s not like she ever did anything, you know, wrong to me. And I’ve pretty much forgiven Ernie.
“I got an idea,” Howard piped up. “Let
’s have them over for a night of bridge.” Howard lived to play the game and was having a harder and harder time finding people to join him.
“Might have guessed you’d come up with a plan like that,” Arlene said. Whether they lived together or apart, the two of them had developed a constant stream of joshing that turned out to be far more of a balm than a burr.
“Of course, we won’t roll over for them, just to make them feel better,” Howard added, remembering how they had been outfoxed the last time they played against those two. As it would turn out, when the four of them did get together, Arlene and Howard took both rubbers they played, the first one, two out of three games and the second a 700-point clean sweep. Ernie and Evelyn could easily laugh it off because the four of them remembered the night he all but yanked Arlene’s pants down in public.
Before his next bridge game, Ernie got an unexpected invitation to play another card game he was familiar with.
“Thing is,” the guy said over the phone, “my partner Sid’s gone and moved down to Sarasota, so we’re one short for our game.”
“Okay, but you guys know you can still play the game with three, right?” Ernie pointed out.
“What do you think we are, a bunch of hayseeds? Sure you can, but we been playing partners for years. I’d just as soon keep it like that. Of course, I don’t want to end up with some goddam moron for a partner, which is why I called you.”
“Thanks for the compliment, I guess. But I never played pinochle, with or against you, so, again, why me?”
“Cause I know you’ve got some brains in that noggin of yours. Come on, you in or you out?”
“You know what, I’d be happy to join your game, Captain Kashuba.”
“Please, call me Steve. I’m a civilian now, just like you.”
Chapter 4
If the birth of Lucinda Wallace Porch’s first and only child had been a surprise, there had been little doubt about who the father was. Young Luther had his father’s face, his lanky frame and his mind, such as it was. He had also inherited Matthew Porch’s work ethic, such as that was. The end result was the police partner Ernie had been stuck with between his two stints with Leonard Tompkins. Never in all his years on the force had Ernie met a stupider or lazier cop.
Lucinda’s genius appeared to have been lost in the shuffle. Unfortunately, the unwanted pregnancy had knocked all the ambition out of her. As the years wore on, she became less and less curious about the world she lived in and more resigned to it. While, as a girl, she had imagined children who would become doctors or lawyers or professors, she was actually relieved when her boy managed to make it through the police academy.
Still, if genes do not immediately spring to the surface, they remain submerged somewhere in the pool. When it came Luther’s time to marry a not-very-bright or ambitious waitress named Betty Rawlings, they had no great expectations for their firstborn. It was for that reason it took them a while to realize their son Leon was a bona-fide genius.
Time after time, he brought home report cards that contained nothing but the letter his parents hardly ever saw in their school days: A. At some point, a school official told them their son had an exceptionally high IQ—that was a test of your intelligence, he had to explain. Eighteen more points on his score and it would have equaled the combined score of his parents. Two of the Porch family bookshelves had been set aside for all young Leon’s academic trophies, not that clearing the space had required a lot of work. Luther, for his part, would have gladly traded ten of those trophies for just one varsity letter, but Betty reminded him this was a good thing. If the boy kept this up, he could go to college and get somebody else to pay for it.
Young Leon had been raised as a Democrat, but not a Ted Kennedy or Jesse Jackson one—more like a Frank Rizzo Democrat, where the working folks, like cops and waitresses, should get a fair shake…as long as they were white…and straight…and preferably Christian. Given the natural trend of children to rebel from their parents—at least to an extent—and accentuated with the situation of two dull people trying to raise a very bright child, it would only seem logical that Leon would move far away from his parents’ views. The thing is, he did not become an arch-capitalist Republican, but, instead a left-wing radical that even Kennedy would have regarded as extreme.
When it came time for the boy to start applying to colleges, Luther’s reaction was, why waste all that time? They had a jim-dandy school right nearby in the state where his grandparents still lived that would be glad to give him the full free ride. It had been Princeton’s policy to seek out promising students from the most desolate parts of the state, whether that may be the ghettoes of Camden and Newark or the Pine Barrens. The Porch family now lived in Philadelphia, but Gram and Gramp were still firmly ensconced in New Jersey, and Leon had been born there.
But that had not been good enough for Leon. Princeton was too “bourgeois,” he told his parents. He wanted to attend a righteous school, like Antioch in Ohio.
“I think I’ve heard of that school,” his mother said. “And I think what I heard is they are very radical.”
“Now why don’t that surprise me?” Luther joined in.
“You say they’re radical, I say they’re forward-thinking,” Leon argued.
“Whatever the hell you want to call them, the fact of the matter is, you got a free ride from Princeton all sewed up. I ain’t gonna shell out good money so’s you can go and learn how to be a Communist,” Luther explained.
“All right, how about this?” Leon asked them. “If I can get the same deal from Antioch I got from Princeton, I can go there, okay?”
“It’s still going to cost more money for the extra travel,” Betty Porch cautioned.
“Fine, I’ll pay for my own travel.” Leon had saved most of the money he earned from summer and after-school jobs, so he could easily make good on his offer.
After a good deal more argument, the parents finally gave in. Their hope had been that an Ohio college would not have the same special interest in a boy who had been born in New Jersey that Princeton had. If they gave him any financial assistance at all, it would probably be only a token. After Leon went up to his room the argument continued between Luther and Betty.
“Admit it,” Luther said at one point, “You’re only against this because you’ll miss your little sonny boy.”
“Well, excuse me for being a good mom!”
Things did not turn out the way Luther and Betty had hoped. The admissions committee at Antioch was so impressed with Leon Porch, the members readily agreed to offer him a full scholarship. Leon enrolled there and matriculated as soon as he could.
In his sophomore year, he heard about this thoroughly righteous organization called The Fair Welfare Action Committee. The Vietnam War had long since ended, and civil rights had been enjoying an oasis of relative calm between Martin Luther King and Rodney King. This, then looked like just the place where a progressive young man like Leon Porch could channel his energies. As a starter, he picked up the latest issue of their newsletter.
Chapter 5
“So tell me, Ellsworth, do you like white meat or dark?” Camilla Gomez asked her guest as she, Arlene and Howard Ellsworth made ready to enjoy the chicken dinner Mrs. Gomez had prepared. Arlene opened her mouth to remind her mother for—what was it—the twentieth time that Ellsworth was her friend’s last name, but a smile, two raised eyebrows and a wink from her companion told her to let it go.
“Just give me a little of whatever you and Arlene like the least,” Howard replied. This bird looks delicious from the tip of the wing to the pope’s nose.”
“Come now, Mr. Howard (Well, at least she was consistent.), you are our guest. I insist you choose first.” Knowing at least that Arlene preferred white meat, he said, “Okay, then, if it’s all right with you ladies, I’d like a drumstick, please.”
“Oh, take them both,” Camilla insisted, “before you waste away to a skeleton”. Howard Ellsworth weighed 240 pounds, but then Arlene’s mother p
referred the white meat as well.
“So tell me, you two, how are you getting on as roommates?” Arlene’s mother asked. “Mind you, I’m not shocked. I’m not like one of those old Sicilian women who think the Pope is behind a tree, watching their children’s every move.”
“Probably only every once in a while, right?” Howard added. The two ladies had a nice giggle over that, but it was not enough to deter Camilla from her line of questioning. She knew about Howard’s sexual preference and was willing to let it go. If Arlene was happy with the arrangement—for now, that is—then that was fine.
“My only concern is how you manage to work around that arrangement with your boyfriend. What does Bobby think?”
“Bobby thinks he’s tired of staring at the same old face, so he’d rather go looking for another girl…or two…or three. He’s a skirt-chaser, Mom. We’re not together anymore.”
“Che Picat’!” her mother moaned. She had such high hopes for the boy. Arlene had been putting off breaking the news about Bobby, but now seemed as good a time as any.
Camilla Gomez had only the kindest of intentions when she asked her daughter about Bobby Rocco, but having to bring the subject up when she really did not want to discuss it left Arlene in a state of misery. She kept a brave face on throughout the visit with her mother, but when she and Howard got home, she sat right down in the easy chair and wept piteously into her hands.
“Where in the hell am I going with my life?” she cried out. “Never the luck with men—none of them, not a one!”
“Arlene, I am so sorry to see you like this,” Howard offered. “If I were straight, I would treat you like a princess, and we’d all live happily after after—that is if a girl like you would ever have a schlub like me.” Arlene lifted her head out from between her hands and stared at her roommate for a moment.