The Postman is Late

by Vicki Vass

  Master Trevino said, “Danny are you interested in learning karate?”

  Danny shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Take your shoes off and walk over to the side by the mats. You can watch. We have a beginner class starting. You have to be quiet,” Master Trevino said.

  Danny and I took our shoes off and sat quietly on the side of the mat, watching the eight-year-olds do running sidekicks. Across from us, the young woman instructor was showing some students the first kata, a series of choreographed fight moves. I looked at Danny. He was smiling ear to ear. Then the young instructor did an exhibition of numchuks and sais, triangular shaped hand blades. Danny was sold.

  One of the little girls wearing a yellow belt ran up to Danny. “Hi, I’m Rose, are you joining our class?”

  Danny turned bright red. “I think so.”

  “It’s lots of fun. You’ll enjoy it. Do you want to try the kick bag?”

  Danny glanced up at me for approval. The instructor nodded permission. He ran off with Rose.

  I knocked on Master Trevino’s door. Growing up, I knew him as Tony from down the block. I was somewhat of a tomboy when I lived on Taylor Street and Tony and I always got ourselves in some kind of trouble either with the older kids or the police. Tony went off and joined the Marines. I got married and moved to the burbs. Tony stood up and hugged me again. “Janice, he’s a good little boy. I think he will do fine,” he said.

  “Yeah, Tony, I want him to toughen up. I think karate will help give him confidence,” I said, sinking onto the uncomfortable folding chair.

  “What about you, Janice? How have you been?”

  “I’ve been fine. We’ve had some trouble in Woodland View. I imagine you’ve heard.”

  “Yeah, I saw the newspaper article. That’s really sad. Such a nice little community. Is that why you brought Danny in?” Master Trevino asked.

  “He has trouble with bullies picking on him. There’s one kid at school in particular who has been punching him in the back.”

  Master Trevino stood up. “Jan, let’s take a walk.” We went back to the training area. All the students came to attention and bowed. “I need a volunteer.” He scanned the students who were all lined up facing him. They all raised their hands but he already knew who his volunteer would be. “You, Danny.” He motioned him to stand in front of him.

  Danny appeared confused. He did a half bow and went over to Master Trevino. “Class, Danny is going to be a new student. Let me ask you. Rose, what’s the best fight to be in?”

  Rose slapped her thighs with her hands, bowed and said, “ Sir, the fight you walk away from.”

  “That’s correct, Rose. We always want to try and avoid a fight. If you can’t avoid it, you have to be able to defend yourself,” Master Trevino said. “The best way to stop an attacker is to punch him in the nose.” Master Trevino turned Danny around and with the palm of his hand did a short jab stopping an inch from Danny’s nose. Danny didn’t flinch. “The pressure from your palm will snap this little bone.” He wiggled Danny’s nose. Danny giggled, and the class laughed. “This will cause a lot of blood. It’s not permanent. You don’t want to cause permanent damage. We want to stop the fight.” His voice grew stern, “This is only and listen to me carefully, and only, when you are threatened. Do you understand?”

  The students clapped their hands on their thighs, bowed and said, “Sir, yes, sir.”

  Master Trevino motioned for the instructor to come over. “Danny, this is Michelle. She teaches this class. She will be your instructor. She will work with you right now while your great-grandmother fills out the paperwork. Right?”

  Danny slapped his thighs, bowed and said, “Sir, yes, sir.”

  Michelle smiled and took Danny over by a group of students who were working the kick bag in teams. I followed Master Trevino back into his office.

  He sat back at his desk and pulled some forms out of a drawer. “If you want to sign him up, here are the forms that I need signed for insurance purposes.”

  “Great, I’ll bring them back on Wednesday.” I knew I would be the one bringing Danny to class because his mom would be at work. I didn’t mind. I also didn’t mind paying for the lessons to help Meg out. It’s what any great-grandmother would do.

  “Have you kept up with your training?” Master Trevino asked me.

  “I had a really good workout the other morning,” I said. I couldn’t help smiling to myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I walked into the city council meeting and took my usual seat in the front row as far away from North Linden Jan as I could. She was also in the front row but at the other end of the line of chairs. I recognized many of my neighbors. I went up and down the street earlier, knocking on doors, encouraging them to attend tonight’s meeting.

  The first half hour was dedicated to discussing Prairie Fest, the city’s annual summer festival. It included approval of contracts for carnival rides, bands and food vendors. The talent lineup consisted of the usual suburban festival acts, cover bands, children’s dance groups and Disney radio. None of my favorites. I did volunteer at the medical tent. Most years I’d dose out Tylenol, ice packs and Band-Aids. Usually nothing too serious.

  North Linden Jan sighed and shifted in her seat. She didn’t care about the festival and did little to hide her impatience. She raised her hand and stood up, “What about the streetlights? Linden Avenue is still one of the only streets in Woodland View without streetlights. Look at all the crime on South Linden this year. Maybe streetlights could have prevented it.”

  I bit my tongue. The mayor pounded his gavel. “Mrs. Culver, please wait until the appropriate time to speak. There’s time for public comment at the end of the meeting.”

  I don’t know why he bothered. He should know better by now. She spoke up whenever she wanted. And, what does she mean all the crime on South Linden? Lights wouldn’t have saved Gary. And, that was the only crime, and it happened during the day. Maybe I should have filed a police report about my street fight but it would add more fuel to North Jan’s fire. Besides there wasn’t much I could tell. Streetlights wouldn’t have saved me from those two either. They were there for a purpose.

  Alderman Sabatini stood up and approached the large bulletin board with its enlarged map of Linden Avenue. “Beginning in August, we start excavation for the flood water retention pond. The Army Corps of Engineers have approved the designs. We’ve gotten clearance from the DuPage County Forest Preserve.”

  I jumped up, waving my hand. “Mr. Alderman, Mr. Mayor.”

  The mayor said, “Mrs. Kustodia, please, let the alderman finish.”

  I sat back down.

  “The plans and the environmental impact study have been filed with the city and the state. The findings are all available for public view. According to the study, there won’t be any impact to the local wildlife,” he said. “Chicago Premium Construction already started preparations for the project. An underground pipe will connect to the rainwater drains on Linden Avenue and travel three hundred yards into the forest where the floodwater will be deposited into the retention pond. The pond will be thirty feet deep to handle the volume of storm water run off. The dimensions are based on a computation of the past thirty years of annual rain percentages. The current thirty-inch drain is not sufficient to handle that volume of water. ”

  North Linden Jan stood up again. “What about mosquitoes? What about the geese? The geese problem is bad enough already. Isn’t this going to bring more geese?”

  “Mrs. Culver, please,” The mayor said with a sigh.

  Alderman Sabatini held up his hand and spoke, “It’s okay. I can address Mrs. Culver’s questions. The city will be responsible for maintenance of the retention pond. As far as the geese are concerned, natural plant vegetation will be installed five feet from the edge of the pond, four to five feet high. It’s like a natural fence around the water’s edge. This will help keep the birds away from the water.” Alderman Sabatini paused. “It will keep anima
l waste to a minimum and will help stop algae from growing. We’ll ask as always that residents keep the curb drains free of leaves and grass clippings and any other waste. We feel that the retention pond is our best solution to the flooding problem.”

  Now it was my turn to stand up. “What about the contaminated water and the dead frogs?”

  There was loud chattering from approximately fifty residents sitting in the folding chairs around me. The meeting was crowded, this was an important topic. “What are you talking about, Jan?” One of them asked.

  I turned around to face my audience. I reached into my shopping bag and pulled out a plastic baggie full of dirty, stinking water and held it up for the room to see. Floating on the top was a dead frog. “This is our backyard,” I said. “Imagine if a thirty-inch drain can cause this kind of contamination, imagine a lake full of this water.”

  People murmured and shook their heads.

  I walked over and placed the bag in front of Alderman Sabatini, who said, “Mrs. Kustodia brought this to our attention last week. Streets and Sanitation went out to the woods to investigate and found there was a leak from the sewer system. It was seeping into the storm water pipe but it’s been fixed. They also cleaned out the drain. As far as the dead frogs, the environmental impact study showed no damage to any wildlife including the frogs. I do have to say, however, there have been no autopsies performed on frogs except at the high school,” Alderman Sabatini said with a smirk.

  A few audience members laughed.

  “I can assure you the problem’s been fixed. I think we should leave this project to the experts,” he said.

  “I’d like to see that impact report,” I said.

  Reaching into his leather briefcase, Alderman Sabatini pulled out and handed me a two-inch thick softbound stack of papers.

  As he continued speaking, I read the first page. Now I’ve said I’m not a reader, and here’s part of the reason why. The first sentence started with, “according to government regulation 750.l-2-102 in accordance with the EPA section 7 of t. . .” The study was leading me down a path of useless information written in government speak. I sat down. North Linden Jan walked over and sat down next to me.

  “Jan, why didn’t you tell me about the contaminated water and dead frog?” she asked in a loud whisper.

  “You now know as much about it as I do,” I said. “Obviously the city’s not concerned.” This meeting isn’t going anywhere. I was done. I grabbed my shopping bag and walked out into the hall. It was the kind of frustrating night that made me wish I still smoked. Instead I grabbed a piece of beef jerky from my pocket and gnawed at it.

  I walked down the hall, looking at the murals on the wall depicting the city’s incorporation, founder’s day, and the first Prairie Fest. The last mural depicted the day the post office was built. It was dedicated in 1934 as part of FDR’s New Deal program. There were smiling postmen neatly dressed, carrying mailbags and standing in front of the building. They looked eager to get to work unlike Gary. I sat down on the wood bench across from the mural, staring at it, thinking about Gary. I thought about not just how his life was cut short but about all the packages and letters that were never delivered. I thought about all the lives that might have been changed. Love letters. Legal papers. Sweepstakes entries.

  I left the building. It was time to head home.

  By the time I got back to the house, I could hear my phone ringing upstairs. I ran up the steps and picked it up just in time to hear Donna swearing.

  “D, I’m here,” I yelled into the phone trying to break through her curse words.

  “Jan, I talked to some people. The Benettis and the Sabatinis are partners in Chicago Premium Construction. The Sabatinis supply the cement trucks.”

  “Hey, thanks, D, I appreciate it.”

  “That’s it, Jan. We’re not going to talk about this again, are we?”

  “No, D. Thanks.” I hung up the phone. I sat down at the kitchen table to think about what she said. After I made a pot of Jewel Eight O’Clock Extra Bold coffee and grabbed a donut, I reached for a quarter to do my scratch-offs. I don’t have a lot of vices left but I do enjoy a little gambling now and then. If you call bingo, Bunco and scratch lottery tickets gambling. I finished my last scratch off. I didn’t win anything. I felt my luck was running out in a lot of ways.

  I put on my fleece robe and sat down in my thinking chair. Next to the chair on the small round end table was our wedding picture. I held it up. Gino, I'm really in it this time. Putting the picture back on the table, I reached into my robe pocket and pulled out my notepad and my fountain pen. Holding the pen always made me feel closer to Gino. It was one of his prized possessions. In 1963, Gino was a resident at Boston Children’s Hospital. He was on his maternity rotation when he helped deliver Patrick Bouvier Kennedy five and a half weeks premature. President Kennedy watched as the doctors did everything they could do to save the baby. Gino held the poor little boy as he passed. It was the first and last time he cried as a doctor. President Kennedy was so moved watching Gino fight for his young son’s life that they became friends. This was the fountain pen that the president carried in his pocket at the hospital. That was August 9, three months later I was sitting on Gino’s lap in this chair as Walter Cronkite told us the news that Kennedy had been shot. Gino carried that pen with him every day until the day he was killed, and now I carry it.

  It was getting late. I took my last sip of coffee and double locked my door. I usually don’t latch the deadbolt but after talking to Donna I knew the people who sent the two men who attacked me. And I knew this wouldn’t be the end of it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I needed help. It was time to get Agent Peabody involved. I traveled to the federal offices on Algonquin Road in Rolling Meadows. It wasn’t the first time I was in this building. You could drive right past it and not know that it was the local FBI field office. It’s not like they advertised on the door. I took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor. The receptionist told me to wait and she would get Agent Peabody.

  A short while later, he stepped into the lobby looking surprised to see me. “Mrs. Kustodia, what are you doing here? You wanted to speak with me?”

  “Yes, Agent.” I looked pointedly at the receptionist. “Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?”

  “I was on my way out for lunch. Do you want to join me?” He asked.

  I glanced at my old Timex, reliable and still ticking. “Sure, I could eat. What did you have in mind?”

  “I was hoping you could recommend someplace. I haven’t found good barbecue since I moved up here.”

  “I’ve got a place in mind,” I said. He followed me onto the elevator and down to the underground parking lot. We got into his standard issue sedan and headed toward Elmwood Park, a small suburb on the near west side. “Sherman, where are you from originally?”

  “Charleston,” he said.

  Interesting, I didn’t detect a southern accent. “Why’d you decide to become a FBI agent?”

  “After high school, I joined the Army. I was deployed for two years in Afghanistan. Military police. When I came home, I went to school at the College of Charleston to study law enforcement. I was recruited by a FBI agent,” he said, watching the road.

  “Are you originally from Charleston?”

  “I was born there and lived there until my parents died,” Agent Peabody said.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your parents.” I thought thinking about how difficult it must have been to have to leave all your friends and everything you knew behind.

  Agent Peabody seemed like a very nice young man. I felt I could talk to him. We arrived at the original Russell’s Barbecue on Thatcher Avenue. It hasn’t changed since it opened in the 1930s. Food is still served on white paper plates. As we walked up to the ordering counter, I said, “Try the pulled pork sandwich. It’s really good.”

  We got our plates and sat at a picnic table in the back. “So, what’d you want to talk about?” Sherman asked. H
e dug into his sandwich.

  I pulled out the envelope I found at Gary’s house. I had wrapped it in a Jewel plastic bag to protect it. I handed it to Sherman. He wiped his hands on his napkin before taking it from me. A drip of barbecue sauce dribbled on his chin. I reached over with a napkin and wiped it off. “What is this?” he asked.

  “I found it at Gary’s house. It’s a letter to Alderman Sabatini.”

  “Where’s the letter? This is just the envelope.”

  “The letter was missing. That’s what got my attention. Out of all the envelopes in Gary’s basement this one was opened and there was nothing in it.” I paused. “Well, there was something in it. The hundred dollar bills. I didn’t take them. I left them on the floor.”

  Sherman put the envelope down. “You removed evidence from a crime scene?”

  I paused, thought about it and said, “It wasn’t a crime scene when I was there. The house was listed. Anyone could go in there.”

  Sherman smiled. “We’re tracking down the money. What do you think is the significance of this envelope?”

  “This is from the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.” I sipped my iced tea, no sugar. I liked it straight. “Alderman Sabatini is chairman of the Flood Control Commission. He would have received the environmental impact report from the Army Corps of Engineers. Obviously he never received whatever was in this envelope. But at the council meeting yesterday, he said he read the report and the retention pond would not have a negative impact on the environment.”

  “It’d be easy enough to contact the Corps of Engineers to get a copy of the original report. Why do you think Gary kept the report? And why do you think Alderman Sabatini is moving forward on the project without it?”

  “Alderman Sabatini gave me a copy of the fake report at the city council meeting. Obviously he knew about the real report,” I said.

  “The money, the open envelope. You think Gary was blackmailing Alderman Sabatini and that’s why he was murdered,” Agent Peabody said.