He grew up in the tenements of the Mott Haven Neighborhood off East 138th Street in the South Bronx. Dupree called it ‘Jungle Street’.
“We weren’t in Harlem, but we was close enough to smell the pigtails cookin. It was me and Ma and my half brother, Marcus. Ma busted our asses at the sniff a’ us gettin in trouble. I always liked the Branch Library over on East 140th cause it was air conditioned, but Marcus couldn’t stop hangin on the streets.” The boy could talk.
“Did you know that an American engineer by the name of Willis Carrier built the first modern air conditioner in 1902 right here in Brooklyn? He called his machine ‘Apparatus for Treating Air’?” Dupree smiled and took a snort when he saw my slack jaw.
“Anyways, when I graduated from high school in ‘50, I beat feet for the Army. I planned to get an education on the GI Bill; bad timing and bad luck for me. Four months later, I was humpin ammo in sub-zero weather in North Korea. We sat on the Yalu River staring across to China waitin for the word to start World War III. Well, somebody blinked and we got our asses pushed back south, but not before this.”
He flapped his pinned up shirtsleeve like a chicken wing. “A commie mortar round blew up the two boys squatted to my left and shredded my arm and ass cheek in the doing.”
He took another long snort of his rotgut wine. “I healed up in a hospital in Philly and, months later, got a medical discharge. When I got back to the South Bronx, I still had the fire in my belly. Pulling myself above the bullshit in the streets still seemed possible.
Tuition at Monroe Business College was $15.00 a week. Working and studying came naturally - that’s what I did for fun as a kid. I met a pretty little thing named Maybelle and I was beatin the odds and happy doin it. Did I tell you my brother, Marcus, got shot dead arguin with some Irish boys from over Willis Avenue?”
Pulling on the Mad Dog, “Fore long, little Dupree Junior came along and took the place of me goin to school. A year later, baby Jerome took the place of me doing anything but sittin on the stoop with a bottle of ‘Wild I’.”
I liked the guy, but I couldn’t feel sorry for him. Sorry was in the dictionary between shit and syphilis. If he didn’t have the gumption to keep his life straight, well, that was just the crop of it.
Dupree said, “I’d been years on the street when I stumbled into my cousin Melvin’s gas station right down here on Division. I planned to whine and put the touch on him. He slapped the pig snot out a’ me and locked me in his back room for three days. When he pulled me out to the daylight, I was shakin like a dog shittin razor blades. He told me, since I was doing my best to kill myself, he was gonna help do it. I told him I didn’t want to die, and he hugged me. Mel gave me a job and I stay straight when I work for him.”
Turned out Dupree was mailing most of his paychecks back to the Bronx for Dupree Junior and Jerome. I asked him why he didn’t just go back and be their daddy. He frowned a little when he spoke, “The moving hand, having writ, moves on. Omar Khayyam.”
The hell you say... It was many years before I found out he hadn’t been quoting some street bum from the South Bronx. I told myself that having Dupree on the property worked out good. He was another set of eyes in the area - usually. I lost track of Dupree in the mid-sixties. He said he rented a one-bedroom down by the Navy Yard.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
(Wednesday, June 7, 1961. 481 Wythe Avenue, Brooklyn.)
The Drifters were singing ‘Save the Last Dance for Me’ on the high end of the radio dial. I sat at my desk in my shirtsleeves when Dupree tapped on the door and walked in clutching a bottle of ‘Rosie’, 18% alcohol by volume.
“Come on in Dupree. Grab a chair.” I lit a Lucky and poured Jack into my coffee mug.
When I stood to raise the window, he said, “Christ, Woody, I keep forgettin how small your office is.”
I wondered if Dupree had taken up mind reading, but I let the comment go. He unscrewed the metal cap on his bottle, lit a Camel and pulled the floor-stand ashtray a little closer. Back in my chair, I held up my cup.
“Here’s to the groceries all women are sittin on - most are pretty good cooks.” Dupree smiled and took a long tug on his bottle.
“How’s everything going over at Mel’s Texaco?”
“Good, almost too good. Business keeps Mel and me, another guy and a full-time mechanic right out straight.”
“I guess there are worse problems to have.”
“Shu-wa, Wood. I’m real happy for Cousin Mel. He’s got a house payment and the lease on the station. But those other two boys got families, too. We just not too flexible when it comes to their needs.”
“Has Mel talked about hiring another man?”
“Mel’s a funny guy. He’ll think about something six ways from Sunday before making a decision. His good judgment’s got him a long way, so I ain’t nobody to argue. I think he’s gonna have to, though, at least part-time.”
“Amazing how some people wear those blinders - just can’t see their own shortcomings,” I offered.
“Just human nature, Wood. It’s called ‘faulty attribution’. Most folks so busy pattin themselves on the back for what little they’ve done, they jus can’t see what needs to be done. Take me; no doubt in my mind, it took everything I could muster to get off’n the streets. I admit I take some pride in it. I have to.” He took a pull on his ‘Wild I’ and stared at the ceiling. “The next man might not think what I done was shit; but put him in that situation and see if he don’t stay stuck in that tar pit till his bones are bleached.”
‘What tar pit,’ I thought to myself? “The hell you say. How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You know, know about shit.”
“Wood, I spent ten straight years in a public library. At first for the air conditioning, then... I read a book.” He was smiling big.
“How you making out bunkin downstairs?”
Dupree laughed, “Them wooden pallets ain’t gettin no softer, but there ain’t no finer sleeping pill than my gal, Rosie.” He held up the bottle in case I missed his point. “One a’ these days I’ll be able to get me a small efficiency. I keep an eye out. There’s a whole bunch of em around. And, Woody, I couldn’t a’ made it off the streets if it hadn’t been jake with you that I’m squattin downstairs.” He held up his bottle in a toast and took a hard pull on it.
We talked, drank and listened to the radio for a while. Dupree held his bottle up to the light. “I found the bottom, Wood. What’d you want to see me about.”
“Yeah, I wanted to tell you I’m thinking bout buying this building. Maybe, and that’s a big maybe, expand my own business a little. Hard to know where to start on something like that - big commitment, lotsa considerations.”
Dupree focused on the ceiling. When he spoke, he was trying hard to be precise, “Men who are resolved to find a way for themselves will always find opportunities enough; and if they do not find them, they will make them. Samuel Smiles.”
I said, “The hell you say. Is he a customer over at the Texaco?”
“No, Wood, that cat’s been dead a long time.”
“Oh. Well, that’s what was on my mind. I’d like to buy this place and remodel both floors. If I do and you decide to stay, we’ll build you a room down there in the back. Hell, a room with your own shower.” I vaguely realized Jack Daniel was taking over my architectural planning.
Dupree Davis sat and stared, for once without words. He pulled out his handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose before he wiped at his eyes.
(Thursday, June 8, 1961. 481 Wythe Avenue, Brooklyn.)
Creeping daylight diluted the slate gray battlefield landscape. Brilliant red and orange geysers marking exploding artillery rounds withdrew into the distance and disappeared. The bone-chilling air receded like the tide. I woke up Thursday morning under a wool blanket on my old leather office couch. The feeling of dread was so intense, I searched my memory for what nasty dream of Korea I’d had.
As I swung my feet onto th
e floor, it occurred to me it was Thursday, a shit day. Waiting for a call to appear at Joey Gallo’s new trial hearing would be the highlight. I got to my feet and stretched out. Down on the floor, I tucked my toes under the couch and pumped out some sit-ups, hoping that would clear my head and my disposition.
On my way back to my private office, I invoked the blessings of the caffeine gods by performing the Percolator ritual. My little room was still full of smoke from the night before, so I pushed the window wide open and turned on a small fan. I lit a Lucky and did a couple of sets of arm curls with my twenty-five pound dumbbell, Kate.
It had been named ‘Kate’ for the past year since a gorgeous redheaded twirl named Kathryn put my ass in a tailspin. I washed up in the small bathroom. A clean shave, a splash of Old Spice and a fresh shirt improved my mood. I was pouring my first cup of joe when Gina arrived at eight.
“Hey, good lookin. How are you this fine morning?”
She dropped her purse on the desk and bounced over to me still wearing her hat and jacket. Her blue eyes sparkled, “Oh, Woody, I’ve been a bundle of nerves all night, a bundle of curious nerves. Are you all right?”
“Sure, gooder’n Garrett snuff.”
“What did you find out about Grandma’s iron thing? Where’d you find it? Who broke in the house? Say, where is it?”
“Whoa, sweetie. Take your coat off and stay a spell.”
She looked down, held up her palms and shot me an embarrassed smile as if she were surprised she still had the coat on. A rose spread in each cheek as she turned to park her gear on the rack by the door. I got her cup from the desk and filled it three quarters full knowing she always split my java with a little hot water and a splash of milk.
I lit a Lucky and sat backwards in a straight chair. Sipping my joe, I watched her go through the tiptoe gyrations to perch her hat on top of the coat tree. I found it a little disturbing that I was staring at her, but couldn’t seem to help myself.
“Gina, first, and most serious, it was Adam Scalise who broke into your mother’s house. I’m pretty sure there won’t be a repeat performance; Adam’s off to greener pastures. It’s not my call, but for the sake of your grandmother’s relationship with Mildred Scalise, I recommend you not tell her the truth about that. Sounds like the gals are lucky to have their friendship.”
She thought about that while gathering her coffee cup for a trip to the hot water tap in the bathroom. She returned a little calmer and sat at her desk. “I suppose you’re right, Woody. She does look forward to her weekly card game with the girls. So, where’s that thing at?”
“It’s laying on my bookshelf in yonder.”
Gina jumped up and all but ran to my office. She was back just as fast, holding the brown relic (‘did I say relic’?) in both hands. “Didn’t Grandma say it was rust encrusted?”
“And it was before a salvage yard treatment with some kind of stuff that would take the hide off an elephant.”
“You mean like acid?”
“Yep, exactly. It was jellied acid.”
“Is it safe to touch it,” she chunked it onto her desktop?
“No problem. It’s been washed and scrubbed.”
“What are these bright numbers engraved on it?”
“Best guess is, they’re map grid coordinates.” Her big blue eyes were blank, so I continued, “The whole surface of the Earth has been divided into grid squares. Coordinates are an address on that grid square map. Guess what address those numbers represent.”
“Uhhh, Brooklyn,” she smiled?
“Noooo. Those are the grid coordinates of a location real close to Lumberton, North Carolina.”
“The hell you say…”
“Gina! Who you been hangin around with?”
“You, you big oaf. Lumberton, that’s where Grandma lived when she was a girl.”
“Exactly.” I again asked her about Grandma’s story of the family legend, but she still couldn’t remember ever hearing it before. She had little knowledge of her family history.
“Golly, Woody, my mother was born in New York City fifty years ago. This is all ancient history - nobody in my family ever talked about it.”
“Probably more like an ancient myth. Stories take on a life of their own as folks grow older.”
“Secrecy doesn’t make something untrue.” She picked up the artifact again. “What’s this hole in the end of it?”
“Looks like it used to fit on a shaft.”
“You mean like a spear? You mean it’s a spearhead?”
“Hon, I don’t know. It’s a piece of metal with the map coordinates of your great grandfather’s hometown. Seems like your grandmother would be glad to hear that.”
“Grandma said it’s a spear.”
“To be accurate, your grandmother said it’s the most famous spear in the history of mankind, the spear that pierced the side of Jesus Christ.”
She ignored the irony of my comment. “Aren’t you curious, Wood? Don’t you wonder about the gold?”
“It would be your gold, not mine,” I said without much thought.
“Yeah, but I could buy this building for you.”
That knocked me for a loop, “Now, why would you do that?”
“Oh, lots of reasons. Say, you want to hear something funny, well, a little embarrassing for me. EXCEPT, I was just a kid when I said it.”
“Don’t tell me if it’ll embarrass you.” I was getting nervous.
“Remember when you and the other Marines came here for my brother’s memorial service in 1953, and you would barely talk to me?”
“Hey, now, the way I remember it, you would run and hide every time someone said, ‘boo’.”
“Oh, maybe so, but you know what I told Ma?”
‘Hmmm, dare I ask’? “What’d you tell her?”
“I told her, I’m going to marry Woody someday.”
My jaw dropped. My arm slipped off the chair back sending coffee splashing on the floor.
“Pretty crazy, huh,” she asked? “Course I was just a fifteen year old kid. Don’t know why this whole thing reminded me of that.”
“Tell you one thing, the man you do marry will be a lucky son of a gun.” I was quick to go get the mop.
As I rattled around the packed storage closet, I swear I heard her say, “You will be.”
After cleaning up my spill, I asked Gina to give me the run-down on the pending case files. What little I remembered swirled in my brain. We chose the O’Malley insurance fraud to hit the ground running with on the following Monday.
Her excitement for the artifact/ spear/ iron thing remained high. She had me explain about map coordinates again and asked if that system was reliable. She kept the artifact on her desk and only returned it to my office when we walked up the street to grab lunch at the deli.
The phone rang a couple of times that afternoon, but had nothing to do with the DA’s Office or Gallo’s hearing. I cleaned my .45 pistol and my .32 back-up and read a Jim Thompson paperback. When Gina made a trip to the bank, I tried to nap on the couch without success.
Nothing wears on me worse than downtime. At five o’clock, I told Gina that the judge must’ve been able to make a decision on Gallo without my help. It was time to light the fires and go admin. She just shook her head and started tidying up her desk. After three years, she’d stopped trying to translate my military references.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
(Thursday, June 8, 1961. Midtown, Manhattan.)
Mickey’s big hand was on seven by the time I put the Hawk away at the ‘Pay Through the Nose’ Mid-Town Parking Garage and hoofed it back over to Dempsey’s. As soon as I bellied the bar, Seamus delivered my two fingers of Jack. I spotted Sally Spit in the inner sanctum, inside the big oval bar, taking bottles of Smirnoff out of a case. I waved to him and he walked over carrying the empty box.
“How’s by ya, Wood?”
“Doing okay, Sal. Been stuck at my office waitin for a call on the Gallo hearing.”
“Yeah, I hear
d the judge hammered Gallo’s lawyer in open court.”
“No shit? I didn’t get he word.”
“Well, I just got the buzz, no real details. Word is, the judge was pissed at Gallo’s mouthpiece and denied all twenty-two reasons for Gallo to get a new trial. THEN, the judge sentences Joe Gallo to twenty years in Auburn on the second degree murder conviction - no parole.”
“Son of a bitch, that’s good news. Come on out here and have a drink with me.”
“Rain check, Wood. Some a’ the customers get righteous about stuff like that.”
“Well, next time. I’ll have a drink for both of us.”
“Speakin of, you gonna be around your office about noon tomorrow?”
“I can be. What’s up?”
“Maybe nothing. I’d like to talk to both you and Gina about her grandmother’s artifact.”
“Well, sure. Come on by and we’ll walk up the street to the deli.”
“Sounds good, Woody. I’ll call if something comes up.” He was off for more bar stocking.
Seamus was there with a fresh drink as I drained my glass. “Say, boss, that first drink must’ve been a good one. You’re looking more like yourself,” he said in his fine Irish brogue.
“It was good, Seamus. Plus, I just got good news.” I pushed two aces at him and knocked on the bar - keep the change.
I took my recharged glass to claim one of the tables on the second level. I wanted to enjoy the good news about Gallo’s journey to justice and eyeball the growing crowd.
After 8:30, Dan Logan drifted in. He was doing the stiff-legged waltz with his cane trying to get near the crowded bar. Seamus, best in the business, passed Dan a tumbler of Jack across somebody’s shoulder and stuck up his thumb. Dan sipped the liquor as he did a slow scan of the room.
The Case Of The Lumbee Millions (Woody Stone, Private Investigator, Series) Page 8