Return To Parlor City

by Arno B. Zimmer

  Braddock had recently returned as Chief and was still getting comfortable in his old surroundings. When Donahue told him about the guest out front, he quickly buzzed Billy Meacham to join him for an impromptu meeting with the federal agent.

  Crosbie entered the room briskly, still irritated by Donahue’s less than hospitable reception and determined to educate his small town hosts. Without any salutary comments, he said bluntly “you’ve got a drug problem and I can help you solve it.” Braddock and Meacham looked at each other with bemusement but Crosbie didn’t flinch, adding “let me take those smirks off your faces with some facts and then just maybe we can get something done working together.”

  The Chief and Meacham were now annoyed but Crosbie was undeterred and immediately launched into a fervent speech about the scourge of drugs and what he had witnessed in New Orleans and Miami. Crosbie had decided to tackle the drug epidemic just as he had the evils of demon rum. Both were moral crusades to Wendell. “Now, let me get very specific, gentlemen. We know for certain that drugs are coming in from Europe, usually via Marseilles, to Montreal and then being transported south by rail or car. We have a similar situation in New Orleans and Miami which I witnessed first-hand. Look, even your senator, this Javits guy, is making speeches saying that dope is the breeding ground for teen crime.

  “There are some very bad guys involved in this enterprise, gentlemen – often referred to as the ‘Black Hand’ - probably not the kind of people you are used to seeing. We interdicted a shipment not too long ago north of here and one of our informants revealed that the destination was Parlor City. And that means, my friends, that there is someone right here in your happy little town with a distribution network. Not some conspicuous out of towner but most likely a local guy who has the ability to blend in. So, now do I have your attention or am I still amusing the two of you?”

  Meacham and Braddock were flabbergasted to the point of muteness. It wasn’t that long ago that they had a run of bad luck with their own “bad guys”. Images of ex-Mayor Wattle and the murderous Winston Siebert III flooded their memories at almost the same moment. They knew they had a few so-called “dope fiends” in Parlor City, mainly in the poor neighborhoods, but an epidemic on the horizon? It seemed fantastical.

  As if reading their minds, Crosbie softened up and went on. “Look, my bosses in Washington are focused on high profile arrests and are actually targeting Negro entertainers for maximum publicity. If they can nab Billie Holliday with a bag of heroin, the publicity will do them wonders and their budget will probably double. I don’t give a tinker’s damn if all the Negroes in the world smoke their way to oblivion but I do want to bring down these distribution networks. To be frank, the big shots in Washington shuffled me off up North to get me out of their hair but they simply don’t know Wendell Crosbie. Whoever this local guy is, he’s got cash to finance a pretty extensive operation and he is most likely shipping part of his supply south from here. I intend to find him – hopefully with your help and cooperation.”

  Crosbie was so jaded by his experience down south that he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t walked in on two corrupt locals who would warn their drug-dealing partners and kill his investigation. But Crosbie also trusted his instincts and, as he was talking, he was also closely observing Braddock and Meacham. This time, his instinct told him that he was trusting himself to two morally upright men.

  When Meacham shook hands with Crosbie at the door in front of “Wacky” Donahue, the old, irascible Sergeant scratched his head and mumbled “By gum, he must be a decent enough guy after all.”

  ***

  Meacham had read stories about “reefer madness” and the sensational assertions that Negroes used marijuana to induce white women into illicit relationships. He didn’t buy into it but Crosbie made him wonder if he was naïve about a simmering problem among the young people in Parlor City, particularly in The Projects and other poor neighborhoods. Maybe the new Juvenile Division was on top of it but, if so, he hadn’t heard anything.

  Meacham knew there was trouble brewing with Negroes in some cities, mainly in the South. He wasn’t a voracious reader but he had seen the headlines about some minister named King whose house was bombed in Alabama. And then the singer Nat King Cole, who Meacham liked, had once been attacked on stage while performing in Birmingham. Wasn’t that in Alabama, too? Meacham was disgusted when he read about these incidents. He was not ignorant of the slurs and aspersions directed at some Negroes around town, even by some in the police department, but was still thankful they hadn’t led to violence in Parlor City.

  Meacham didn’t want to say anything to the Chief yet but when Crosbie was describing the movement of drugs out of Canada, he was recalling the comment made by “Big Red” at the Pig & Whistle. It might not mean a thing but he hoped she remembered the name of the night club in Montreal on the book of matches in Harry Macklowe’s coat pocket.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Devil’s Corner

  Benny Mars had been the proprietor of Crater’s, the dingy saloon where dissolute drunks, con artists, fencers, flimflammers, drifters and other assorted low-life hustlers had congregated in Parlor City for years. When Crater’s burned down in a mysterious fire last year, people who knew Mars were naturally suspicious.

  Sure, a witness had reported seeing someone in a devil’s costume running from the blazing structure but Mars could have arranged the call, using the proximity to Halloween as a convenient ploy to blame it on a prankster. Some opined that it was probably one of the numerous neglected wives seeking revenge after her husband had gone out one too many times for bread and milk but ended up at Crater’s, crawling home empty-handed after closing hour.

  The fire department report concluded, to the befuddlement of many, that the blaze could have been accidental but then it might have been intentional. Mars, who lived in the back of Crater’s, was conveniently away the night of the blaze, prompting many seasoned observers to conclude that he had arranged a torch job – assuming, of course, he wasn’t the one inside the devil costume.

  Mars ended up collecting the insurance money and used it to open up his new establishment in an abandoned house on a corner a few blocks from the charred remains of Crater’s. He invested almost nothing on the interior, choosing to replicate the dubious charm that had made Crater’s such a magnet for his customers. Instead, he put a chunk of his proceeds from the insurance settlement into a large neon sign that stuck out ominously from the front door – a hot red background with the silhouette of a devil in black.

  It wasn’t long before devotees of Crater’s ambience settled into Devil’s Corner as a second home where Mars’ tradition of serving thin beer and watered down booze after the first few rounds was continued. The lights were always dimmed for maximum privacy and minimum exposure. One had to search diligently to find anyone in the recesses of Devil’s Corner. Mars knew his clientele well.

  Billy Meacham’s heart sunk when he received an anonymous call (it was actually a message left with the desk sergeant) that Mike DeLong was in a bad way at Devil’s Corner. A high school buddy of Meacham’s and a former policeman, DeLong had been doing well since his reinstatement as a guard at the Parlor City Institute but then a few months ago his behavior started to change. He would miss his security shift at the Institute or show up late, disheveled and shaky. Meacham had received a call from DeLong’s long-suffering and tolerant wife but this time she wasn’t desperately pleading for help. There was a resoluteness in her voice when she told Meacham that she was leaving, had in fact packed up the car before she called him. Her parents had retired to Florida and had been begging her to join them for months. Meacham could say nothing but “I’m sorry”. He didn’t have the words or the heart to dissuade her.

  Meacham spotted DeLong with his head down on the bar, his mouth agape like a fish flopping on dry land. As he walked toward him, Meacham was surprised to see Rudy Gantz and his twin cohorts, the Clintock brothers, standing at the pool table. Flashing his inveterate
smirk, Rudy waved his cue stick in a mock salute which Meacham declined to acknowledge. The legendary Willie Mosconi had recently sunk 150 straight balls in a billiards tournament and everyone was marveling at the feat and rushing out to play. Rudy believed that with a little more practice, he could actually challenge the master.

  With the establishment of the Juvenile Division, as mandated by the state, Rudy was no longer Meacham’s concern. This new unit focused on so-called troubled teens with a mandate to somehow keep them out of the overcrowded reformatories. Someone in their wisdom had concluded that releasing this trio early was not just compassionate but also a prudent way to relieve congestion.

  When Meacham heard about this new-fangled rehabilitation approach, he was astonished at what he called the “coddling” of delinquents like Rudy Gantz. A psychologist had been assigned to probe into childhood problems and weekly counseling sessions were being held to bring out feelings of alienation. Well, this was the new way and all Meacham could conclude was that once the experiment was over, he would again be dealing with the likes of Rudy Gantz and the Clintocks when they passed the magical threshold of twenty-one. In the meantime, this trio that had started out on the east side of town as the leaders of the “beat up a kid a week” gang would game the system while the compassionate citizens of Parlor City paid the price. Meacham recalled how Chief Braddock had said last year, after an abortive robbery attempt by the young hood, that what Rudy needed was a “trip to the woodshed.”

  DeLong had gone downhill fast once he started drinking again in earnest and, with the departure of his wife and son, his bent toward self-destruction accelerated. By now, his internal organs were as marinated as the large jar of pickled eggs on the bar next to him, their pinkish hue made sickening by the dim yellow light behind the bar. As exploitative as he was, Mars offered up this bar “treat” for free as their salty flavoring increased the thirst of his clientele.

  Unlike in the past, Meacham could not take DeLong home to his apartment to dry out. He would have to get him to the drunk tank downtown and then figure out what to do next. Gwen would no doubt recommend hospitalization.

  Mars was standing in the shadows as Meacham propped up DeLong. “He’s got a tab, Chief. Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to say Detective. Understand Chief Braddock has the top job again”, Mars said sneeringly. “How much, Mars?” Meacham asked flatly. “Gotta be at least $10, right Shorty?” Mars asked inquisitively, looking at the bartender who nodded in agreement. Meacham pulled out a fin and flipped it on the bar into a puddle of beer. As it started to float away, Meacham turned to Mars with a fierce look and said, “Let’s see, the way you water down the drinks for these poor bastards, I would say that’s more than fair. If you have a problem, take it up with the Chief.” Meacham grinned almost malevolently and stared at Mars until the owner looked away.

  Mars watched as Meacham started dragging DeLong toward the door, struggling to keep him upright and open the door at the same time. Gantz came up behind them and almost whispered, “let us help, detective.” Without asking, each of the Clintock twins grabbed one of DeLong’s shoulders. They stood him upright on wobbly legs while Gantz smiled almost benignly and pointed for Meacham to lead the way. Meacham looked at the three of them and nodded his assent, motioning toward his car.

  After DeLong was laid out in the back seat, moaning and mumbling, Meacham felt constrained to show his gratitude and “Thanks, boys” just spilled out. The Clintocks grunted something that sounded like “yeah, ok” and stepped back from the car as Gantz said, “Listen, Detective, my guys and me are now on the straight and narrow. You know, determined to stay out of trouble. Those sessions with the psycho lady downtown are really helping us understand our inner feelings. But we may still hear and see things from time to time that might be of interest to the police. If so, you will be the first to know.”

  As the three young hoodlums walked back into Devil’s Corner, Meacham couldn’t suppress a deprecating laugh. If these guys were role models for the new juvenile rehabilitation campaign, there wasn’t much cause for hope. He wondered if Gantz realized how ironic it was that he was hanging out at a dive like Devil’s Corner while making his little speech. Or maybe he had absorbed a few new tricks at the reformatory, gained a little seasoning and learned some cunning while mixed in with the older boys. If so, it probably wouldn’t be the last time that Meacham would see Rudy Gantz.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Death Comes to the Institute

  It had been a week since the Wattles had returned to Parlor City from Havana, leaving Traber behind to frolic for a little longer with a big-haired platinum blonde he had met at the pool. “Until we resolve the Braun situation, we’re better off if he lingers there for a while with that bimbo, Adelbert”, Mrs. Wattle said with a sardonic scowl which was as full of meaning as the words she spoke. The ex-Mayor nodded his acknowledgement. Stewart Traber was a lightweight who was practically dysfunctional without enablers and “yes” men around him. If it wasn’t for his good looks and innate capacity to charm and captivate women, he would be just another bumbling fool trying to get by in the world. It was still a marvel to Wattle that they had actually been able to get him elected governor.

  Bobby Mildrake had been summoned to the lakeside cottage the night before to hear a fictitious story of how the blustering Woodrow Braun had conspired to force the Mayor’s resignation and bring unwarranted shame upon a Wattle family that had been so kind to the Mildrakes. He then listened intently to the plan put forth by Mrs. Wattle. It was a simple plan, really, and she laid out the instructions in a matter of fact way that made them seem almost harmless. Bobby sat mute and nodded his head each time Mrs. Wattle provided step by step guidance. Whenever she paused and arched her eyebrows, he would say “Yes, Ma’am” and she would smile weakly before proceeding.

  “I am somewhat surprised by how compliant he was, my dear” said Wattle after Bobby departed. “He seems more frightened of you than what you have asked him to do.” As the words tumbled from his mouth, Wattle wished he could gather them up and swallow them as his wife gave him a searing, sidewise glance. If he were truthful, the manipulative and wily Wattle would have admitted that he was starting to be intimidated and even overshadowed by his own wife. It seemed as if some of that command which he exerted over others during his mayoralty had been drained from him and transferred to his indomitable spouse. He certainly was wistful for the good old days when he was the center of the Parlor City universe but knew that they could never be recaptured.

  ***

  Bobby Mildrake, his hat pulled down on his face, walked robotically into the Parlor City Institute. He had rehearsed his instructions several times in the privacy of his bedroom but was mouthing them again as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. The hallway lights had been dimmed to create an aura of tranquility for the patients as darkness enveloped the city. After furtive glances to both sides, he cautiously entered Braun’s room and was relieved to see that his eyes were closed but that his mouth was open. The white sock went in easily.

  Weakened by his stroke and several weeks of inactivity, Woodrow Braun was still a powerful man. He sensed that he was in the middle of a bad dream, buried deep in a dark morass and gasping for breath. But the more he flailed, the greater he felt the downward pressure. Finally, he understood that he was in a life and death struggle and grasped the two arms that were pushing the soft pillow deeper and deeper into his face as he struggled to spit out the sock and breathe through his nose. In the end, he was no match for the relentless determination of Bobby Mildrake.

  When Braun’s arms dropped limply to his side, Mildrake kept the pressure on, as Mrs. Wattle had instructed, before slowly lifting the pillow. He checked Braun’s wrist and neck but felt no pulse. He quickly stripped off the pillow case and replaced it with the clean one that was tucked inside his shirt. Braun’s fluids felt eerie on his hands as he carefully folded the dampened case and tucked it inside his shirt. Then, he carefully lifted Braun’s head and plac
ed the pillow underneath it. When he removed the moist sock from Braun’s mouth, he cringed before stuffing it into his back pocket. Stepping back from the bed, he took one last look at Woodrow Braun, as calmly as if he were checking out a mannequin in a store window.

  Bobby Mildrake had just killed a man, a very bad man who wanted to hurt the Wattles. He knew he had done the right thing and felt no remorse as he exited the darkened room.

  Down the hallway, a utility closet door opened and orderly Roscoe Peterson stepped out. In the shadows at the other end of the hall, he saw the back of a hulking figure silhouetted by the dimmed ceiling lamp. Peterson couldn’t see the face but he did recognize the distinct, slouching physique of Bobby Mildrake as he opened the exit door and disappeared down the stairwell.

  ***

  Later that night, the Coroner was awakened by a call from Mildred Wattle. “Henry, Millie here. Sorry to bother you so late but it’s important. I just heard a rumor that Woodrow Braun died up at the Institute but it probably won’t be discovered until morning. You don’t want to know how I found out, okay? Listen carefully, I don’t care what you put on the damn death certificate but just make sure there is nothing that suggests foul play.” Before he could respond, Mildred Wattle said “sleep well, little brother” and hung up the telephone.

  Henry Burdett had been elected Coroner with the support of his sister and brother-in-law, then Mayor Wattle. He had done their bidding for years and had been compensated handsomely for it. But now he was up for re-election and he could certainly not count on the support of the new Mayor, no matter what he did to ingratiate himself with him. Burdett had cast his lot with his brother-in-law and had nowhere else to turn.