The next morning, Jakob and Brenda took off for the short ride to Buffalo with Epp following close behind. Brenda was dropped off at the bus station and, after a tearful goodbye, boarded a Greyhound for Chicago. They had decided that her return to the Saucy Lady, if only for a brief period, would provide excellent cover and the money she earned would come in handy until Jakob could return to Waterloo to retrieve the drugs at the Epp’s farm. The pain of separating so soon after consummating their love was assuaged by the excitement they both felt about the life together that lied ahead.
***
On a road outside Buffalo, not far from where Jakob was to have made his delivery the previous day, he pulled over to the side of the road. Traffic was sparse and he waited until no cars were in sight. He put his duffel bag in front of the VW Beetle, walked to the rear and raised the hood. He then went over to the passenger side and grabbed the bag of potato chips on the seat. He opened the bag and dumped half of the contents on the floor. Then, he went to the back of the car and wedged the half-empty bag next to the engine. He looked up and down the road but no cars were in sight so he lit a match, tossed it into the bag of chips and quickly walked to the front of the car. He grabbed his duffel bag and hurried twenty yards up the road, looking back with anticipation.
Within minutes the fire spread rapidly, accelerated by the oil and fat lining the inside of the potato chip bag. Flames were shooting into the sky and before long the entire VW Beetle was engulfed. Jakob was not the nostalgic type but he smiled forlornly at the little car that had got him this far but was now a ball of fire. The Mexicans were right. They had told him that to torch a car and leave no evidence, all one needed was a match and a ten-cent bag of potato chips.
Epp was following at a safe distance behind Reisman, watching the horizon for the fire. When he finally saw it, two police cars with lights flashing sped past him. In a panic, he turned around and headed back to Waterloo.
The police were followed shortly by a fire truck but it was too late to save the car or its contents. However, a small package hidden behind the glove compartment had been overlooked at the Epp’s farm in Waterloo and the smell of rotten eggs reached the nostrils of the two cops who were commiserating with Jakob, prompting them to eye his duffel bag with suspicion.
***
Reisman’s Mexican handlers back in Chihuahua were faring quite well. They had a few thousand hectares cultivated and expertly maintained and had even set up a number of clandestine airstrips in Northern Mexico as an alternate means to transport their growing supply. In addition to the Reismans, they had either bought off or forced out the remaining Mennonite families in the area. The war protest movement along with a general rebellion against authority sweeping through the United States had been a bonanza. If they had hired a Madison Avenue advertising agency to dream up a marketing campaign, they couldn’t have conceived of a more brilliant stratagem to expand their enterprise. When they heard about the fire in Buffalo that destroyed the VW Beetle and its valuable cargo, they were suspicious and wondered if the young Mexican Mennonite had the guts to con them.
***
Jakob sat in his cell and chuckled. He had been at Strathmore for several weeks and the aura surrounding him as the mysterious Mexican Mennonite persisted, prompting the other inmates to leave him alone. With Brenda professing her love in weekly epistles from a fake address in Chicago and the Mexicans almost a continent away, likely to forget about him soon, he could handle the time behind bars with equanimity. He didn’t doubt for a minute that his purloined drugs were safe with Nicholas Epp. Yes, under the circumstances, everything was copasetic. He could even put up with the nuisance of the scrawny, self-important inmate in the cell next to him by the name of Rudy Gantz.
CHAPTER TWO
Rudy Gantz
Only 25, the years had already taken their toll on Rudy Gantz. His deeply pockmarked face and bulbous nose, studded with carbuncles, were characteristic of a man who either drank heavily or had been repeatedly punched in the face. In Rudy’s case, both were true. A mouth crammed with crooked teeth had made him self-conscious since childhood and even on those rare occasions that he found something genuinely humorous, he would twist his mouth in a manner that produced a sneering, un-nerving smile.
Embittered and suspicious of almost everyone, the surly redhead, stunted and bow-legged, couldn’t see that he had caught a number of ill-deserved breaks since childhood, often skating around the law and seldom paying a heavy price. Perhaps, the judges gazing down from their lofty benches looked at this ill-formed lump of clay and concluded that he had already been sufficiently punished by nature. Whatever the case, the turmoil that raged within him distorted Rudy’s thinking to the point that he truly believed he had been victimized by society from a young age.
The robbery of Lattimore’s Bakery back in 1955 where Rudy fired a wild shot into the ceiling for no reason and the subsequent hair-brained scheme shortly thereafter to use a dead man’s car to pull off a heist at the Parlor City Cigar Factory were the two comical debacles that landed him in the upstate reformatory for a few years. After his release, the stolen goods fencing operation he ran out of the backroom of the Devil’s Corner saloon was going well until an anonymous snitch dropped a dime on him and suddenly brought the enterprise down. It still galled him when he thought of Det. Billy Meacham, Jr. sitting smugly in the back of the courtroom when his prison sentence was handed down. He would get his revenge one day, he vowed to himself at the time.
Early on at Strathmore Prison, Rudy got caught smuggling in contraband and then there was the brawl in the laundry room where he piled on to kick and actually bite a helpless inmate who had already been pummeled into unconsciousness. These two incidents tacked on more years to Rudy’s initial term but they never opened his eyes to the fact that his actions usually resulted in deleterious consequences.
Rudy’s extended stay at Strathmore Prison was just about up and he was finally catching a few breaks. His parents had died and left him the house along with some savings bonds. The Clintocks, his henchman since high school, had been out for a while after serving time as his accomplices in the fencing operation. Rudy was confident that they would be his muscle again for whatever plan he hatched. Like his 1946 Ford coupe in his parents’ garage at home, the Clintocks would require just a little tuning-up and he could put them back on the road.
The Clintocks were back in The Projects, collecting relief and living with their parents. Already possessing body-builder physiques before landing in Strathmore, they had bulked up even more in prison and were outright freakish with their massive chests and bulging arms that resembled cement pillars. Without Rudy’s guidance and the routine of Strathmore, the boys pumped iron and tinkered with cars waiting for the return of their leader.
How lucky was Rudy to have Jakob Reisman in the cell next to him? Reisman was pretty much a loner and had befriended no one at Strathmore. Everyone knew he was in for drug possession with intent to distribute but he never admitted it. Reisman listened intently as the loquacious Gantz described his various capers and the bad luck that seemingly doomed each of them. Reisman never said much but would nod his head in a sympathetic and understanding way. Rudy was confident that the Mennonite viewed him favorably, as an equal. Something about Reisman made Rudy feel so comfortable that he couldn’t help boasting about his recent inheritance, as if he had earned it. He was back in fat city and couldn’t keep his good fortune to himself.
A week before Rudy’s parole, Reisman pulled him aside for a confidential chat. Rudy was honored but worked hard to look nonchalant as Reisman informed him that he would be setting up an operation immediately after his own release in three months. If Rudy was interested in participating, Reisman would be in touch. Rudy almost grinned but checked himself. Clearly, Reisman had seen in Rudy the qualities desired in a partner. What else was the egocentric, deluded small-time hood from Parlor City to think?
CHAPTER THREE
Rendezvous at Devil’s Corner
The joint was now in the name of his younger brother Sonny. Mars held the position of Manager to circumvent the liquor board’s restrictions on ownership by convicted felons.
At some point during his stay in the big house, Mars realized that he had lost his nerve. He was pushing 60 now, with creaky joints and a pot belly that hung out so far that he could barely see the tips of his shoes. There was no chance in hell that he could hop a fence or outrun a cop like the old days. But most importantly, he had lost his zest for the larcenous life and had come to understand that he could not handle another stint behind bars. He still reveled in the memory of how he had gotten away with torching his first saloon, Crater’s, and had used the insurance proceeds to open up Devil’s Corner. The fact that he couldn’t even get his new joint insured eliminated the opportunity to repeat that scam.
Most of his patrons were harmless losers who stared vacantly when they came in and stumbled out later the same way. He played no role – just looked the other way - as the riff-raff among his regulars pulled off their petty cons, shaking down, swindling and otherwise manipulating weaklings and strangers who drifted in. He found that he was content to live modestly and quietly – and it surprised him somewhat at the beginning – peddling thin beer and watered-down booze. “Playing out the string” was his mantra and he found himself repeating it more often than he realized until it rang in his ears.
When Rudy Gantz showed up one day with his twin blockheads after his release from Strathmore Prison, Mars felt a momentary sinking feeling in his stomach. The redhead didn’t frighten him. It was rather the thought that he might be sucked into some scheme that would end up bad. Yeah, he reminded himself, as if to provide a shield or fortification against any temptation, everything that the redheaded punk touched went sour. For such an abject failure, where he got his arrogance was mystifying to Benny Mars.
Gantz and the Clintocks sat at a table in the corner facing the door so they could watch the traffic come and go. A smoky haze hung in the air, a sickly orange in the dim lighting. Out of the jukebox, the velvety voice of Mel Torme’ singing “Born To Be Blue” flowed mellifluously into the air, adding a touch of undeserved style to the suffocating and discordant atmosphere of Devil’s Corner. There was always at least one weepy, sentimental soul, crying in his beer, who played that damn song but Mars had never been able to catch the guy who punched the buttons on the jukebox.
Reluctantly, Mars felt obliged to come over to Rudy’s table and play the role of cordial host, if only for a few moments. Everyone stared awkwardly until Rudy broke the silence. “So, what are you doing to survive? This joint ain’t exactly a gold mine.”
“Got no damn interest in gold mines any more, Rudy. I’m just playing out the string. Had my run and it didn’t go so well the old way so, like I said, just playing out the string. Got it?” Mars said with a conviction that even Rudy could comprehend.
Rudy flashed his tight, fiendish grin and the Clintocks sat stone-faced, staring at the door and oblivious to what had transpired in the brief tete-a-tete between the former partners. Then, the door opened, producing a slit of bright light from the afternoon sun.
Rudy squinted as he looked at the shadowy figure in the doorway. He stood up, almost to attention, as if he was a grunt and an officer had entered the barracks. It was the Mexican Mennonite.
***
When Jakob Reisman strode into Devil’s Corner, all heads turned and, as if on cue, Torme‘s lilting voice ended on the jukebox, producing an eerie silence. Reisman was impeccably dressed in a dark grey serge suit, white shirt and a patterned red tie. If he had been seen anywhere else in Parlor City at that moment, he would have been pegged as a successful businessman or hotshot lawyer. His appearance at Devil’s Corner caused a few nervous patrons to edge toward the bathroom and the rear exit, thinking that the fuzz has walked in.
In a voice loud enough for all to hear, Reisman said “So nice to see you again, Mr. Gantz” while vigorously shaking Rudy’s outstretched hand. He even gave a deferential glance to the Clintocks who were able to engender a faint nod of acknowledgement in return. Rudy’s ego needed no inflating but Reisman knew the effect his respectful gesture would have on the diminutive hood and his cohorts. Before he even sat down, Reisman had Rudy in his hip pocket.
When Reisman suggested that they talk privately, Rudy sent the Clintocks outside to check on the car. Mars had already retreated behind the bar and busied himself rinsing dirty glasses in soapy, tepid water. He looked up occasionally and thanked his lucky stars that he wasn’t sitting at that table, where he would most assuredly be participating in some illegal scheme. He took a deep breath and sighed before whispering to no one in particular “Yeah, just playing out the string.”
***
Reisman had been out of Strathmore for sixty days and told Rudy that during that time he had visited family and associates in Canada before returning to the States. He had stumbled upon a beautiful village a few hours from Parlor City. It was on a lake that catered to tourists and boaters.
It turned out that a tour boat operator in this village was in financial trouble and looking to be bailed out. Reisman had already met with the local banker who assured him that the owner would accept any reasonable offer. A modest investment of $20,000 would secure a fifty-percent interest in the boat. It was a nifty little business with a lot of promise, Reisman explained, and left a great deal of time for other activities.
Rudy listed intently but was puzzled and confused. He finally got the courage to say “I’m not much of a water guy, M&M. Fact is, I can’t even swim and have never operated even a small boat. No disrespect, but I don’t get it.”
Reisman smiled but his voice was stern. “I’m no boater either, my friend, but the beauty of this set-up is that it provides us with a legitimate front to run our other enterprises – where the big money is. Of course, I am assuming that you want to be my partner and put behind you petty undertakings like running a fencing operation out of a dive like this.” Rudy felt the sting of Reisman’s last observation.
The jukebox started to hum again and Reisman leaned in to make his pitch to Rudy, appreciative of the cover provided by the modulating bass-baritone voice of Johnny Cash singing “Ring Of Fire”. He explained that he had a significant stash of marijuana just across the border in Canada that was being brought into the U.S. in small shipments by a trusted associate. The tour boat hit five key inlets along the lake that were popular with tourists. The feds and locals were focused on interdicting drug shipments on land or via airports. The tour boat was a long-established tourist venue that would never draw their attention.
“So, here’s the beauty of the set-up, Rudy. We have a legit front business that makes little or no money but we don’t care because we will have a continuous flow of cash from our other enterprise. I am already lining up distribution sources on the boat’s route. We keep the captain on board to operate the boat and provide cover but you are actually the boss man and get 25% of the operation. We’ll both be very wealthy men in a short period of time and then, we pull up stakes before the local police and narcos catch on. We don’t get greedy. Take our profits, leave town and set up shop elsewhere. I will leave it to you to use your boys for enforcement, collections, protection, that sort of thing.”
Reisman stopped to let the details sink in, watching Rudy’s face carefully. He still detected some lingering doubts and said sympathetically, “What’s bothering you, my friend?”
“Like I said, not much of a boater. Went deep sea fishing up north once and got pretty damn sick.” Rudy spoke softly and looked away from Reisman, embarrassed to show this crack in his tough guy facade. Reisman was sharp and seized the moment. “Hey, I know just how you feel. Let me explain. This tour boat runs along the s
hore, almost without a ripple - sorta like soaking in a bathtub. Hell, you could rock a baby to sleep on this barge and even take a nap yourself. Remember, the old salt will still operate the boat but you will be on board as a sort of co-captain. It’s a beautiful front.”
Rudy was starting to like the arrangement described by Reisman. He envisioned himself striding the deck wearing a captain’s hat, garnering polite attention if not amorous glances. It would take most of his stash to become Reisman’s partner but it suddenly sounded too good to pass up. “Count me in, M&M” Rudy said with smug satisfaction, adding “Tell me, where is this boat that we’re going to use to launch our enterprise?”
“Glad you’re in, Rudy. It’s going to be a smashing success. If you have the cash available, we can consummate the deal quickly. As I said, it’s a quiet little place on the lake a few hours north of here. Ever heard of a village called Parlor Harbor?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Ozbert Symington Patchett
The sprawling estate of the venerable Patchett clan spanned ten acres and offered a spectacular lake view. Generations of Patchetts had lived in Parlor Harbor since right after the Revolutionary War when Gen. Symington Patchett won a decisive battle nearby and decided to settle there. To this day, his statue adorns the town center and every 4th of July his exploits against the British are re-enacted as part of the annual festivities.
Those early Patchetts were a vigorous, ambitious breed who had come to America from England as servants to British nobility and ended up defeating their masters years later. Somehow, over the years, the energetic strain weakened and the Darwinian law had been turned on its head so that by 1967, a frail but iron-willed grandmother and her effete grandson – one Ozbert Symington Patchett – were all that remained of the storied family.
A Murder In Parlor Harbor Page 3