The Case Of The Lumbee Millions (Woody Stone, Private Investigator, Series)

by R. D. Herring

He spotted me behind the brass rail on the raised deck and headed over. He reached up and set his drink on the small table before he lumbered up the three steps and plopped down in the other chair. He pulled out a deck of Camels and fired one up.

  “Hey, Leatherneck. Looks like you got a day off.”

  “My big ol’ butt, Lieutenant. I was trapped all day waitin for your office to call about the Gallo deal.”

  “Did Mark Dixon ever call you?”

  “He hadn’t called by five, so I left.”

  “Wood, you know what you need? You need a Dick Tracey wrist radio.” It occurred to me that this wasn’t Dan’s first drink of the evening.

  “Yeah, and I wish I had Superman’s powers; but if you wish real hard in one hand and shit in the other, guess which fills up first.”

  “Exactly, Woody.” Dan was already waving the table waiter over to order two more. “Dixon didn’t call because he was still in court at five. Old Judge Morton Bell shot down the motion for new trial at two o’clock and instructed everybody to be back at five for the sentencing. Shot down in flames. You did get the good news, didn’t you?”

  He gave me the details of the Criminal Court proceedings as his fellow A.D.A., Mark Dixon, had relayed them to him over drinks an hour earlier.

  Dan said, “Judge Bell tore Gallo’s lawyer, Frank Diapolito, a new asshole. Gallo turned fish-belly-white when the judge slapped him with twenty years to be served at Auburn State Prison.”

  The prison was in Auburn, New York and classified as a maximum security facility. It had a special reputation as the site of the first execution by electric chair in 1890. I would have been happier if Joey had been scheduled for a date with ‘Old Sparky’; that’s what the slime ball deserved.

  Again, Dan gave the crooked finger to the waiter. He was in a mood, “So, Joey Gallo was remanded to custody on Murderer’s Row at Rikers for further transport up the river. Don’t tell anybody, but I bet that’ll be tomorrow morning. They prob’ly wanna get that shitbird out a’ town fast.”

  I held up my new drink, “To the Copacabana.” That had been Gallo’s favorite haunt.

  Dan got it, smiled and held up his glass, “To the Copa.”

  We drank and just enjoyed each other’s company. We talked a little about our time in Korea. Dan said he still had bad dreams. I told him, me, not so much. Somehow, he got talking about the big breasted nurse that attended him during his recuperation at Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego.

  “You saw her that time you and Sekach came to visit me in ‘53. We were sitting out on the sun porch. Tell me you wouldn’t risk gangrene to roll in the hay with that.” Mostly, I remembered the smell of alcohol and floor wax at the Naval Hospital. But, he had a good point; I did remember her.

  “I prob’ly would’ve been out of there weeks earlier if I hadn’t kept bustin stitches.” He laughed and I was happy he had that memory.

  “Say, Wood, how are you and Gina gettin along?”

  That simple question jolted me. It went right to the heart of my biggest secret, one I wouldn’t even admit to myself. “She’s doing good. We were just talkin about her brother, Ed, this morning.”

  “Never mind Ed. He was a good man, a good Marine, but he’s gone. How are you two doing?”

  “Why do you ask it like that? Gina’s my secretary.”

  “Because you wear the truth like a friggin sign around your neck, Woodrow.”

  “Dan, gimme a break. I’m tryin to sort some shit out.”

  “Is this about Virginia? Son, she loved you and you loved her, but she’s been gone for eight years. The woman that loved you enough to marry you would want you to be happy now. No one has the right to break into your memories without being invited, but life is for the living. Reality is what happens outside your head.”

  I got a mental picture of Dan Logan, Esquire, cane in hand, hobbling back and forth in front of a jury spouting fire and brimstone. I busted out laughing.

  “What’s so Goddamn funny?”

  “Nothing, bo. You’re absolutely right, one hundred per cent right.” I waved the waiter back over, but Dan said he had to blow. He said Friday at the DA’s Office was like Saturday night on the streets.

  I went back down to shoulder in at the oval bar. That murderous thug, Gallo, got his hash settled. I wanted to celebrate, even if Dan did feel it necessary to stick a kerosene-soaked corncob up my ass. ‘There’s no way I wear any kind of sign around my neck’, I said to myself.

  Another stiff drink and I was dropping a dime to call a babe. She worked for another in-town shamus, although I’d never met him. She said she used to be goo-goo for the guy, but he gave her the cold shoulder. ‘He must be a sap,’ I thought, ‘Vel is a real bombshell, and smart’.

  “Hello, Velda? It’s Woody Stone. Say, Wanna meet me at my place in about an hour? Yeah, we could go down and listen to the Vince Lopez Orchestra for a while.” She said yes. It was understood we wouldn’t be hearing ‘Nola’ that night. A twinge of guilt hit me as soon as I hung up, but ‘Mr. Happy’ had his own ideas and his own needs.

  (Friday, June 9, 1961. 481 Wythe Avenue, Brooklyn.)

  I pushed open my office door with the black and gold letters about nine. The aroma of fresh brewed java and the sight of an angel hammering away on a typewriter greeted me.

  I tossed my hat on the rack, “Hey, sugar plum. You look especially beautiful today.”

  Gina, without looking, held up her left index finger and stroked three more keys with her right. She beamed those blues eyes at me and tossed back her dark silky tresses with the same left hand, “You, sir, have excellent taste in women.”

  ‘You got no idea’. I said, “Ain’t that the truth.”

  I poured a cup a’ joe and lit a Lucky, “Any phone…” The phone started ringing.

  Up came that index finger again as she grabbed the receiver, “Stone Investigations. May I help you? Yes, sir, Mister Logan. Mister Stone indicated that he’s always in for you.” She winked as I headed for my private office.

  I picked up Line Two on my desk and said, “Hey, Dan. No, I don’t want another drink.”

  “Hold on, bo. The shit’s hit the fan again. They didn’t get Gallo upstate quick enough. He was supposed to transport from Rikers today, but they found him bled out in solitary at five o’clock this morning.”

  “I don’t give a crap about Gallo, but, whacked in solitary? S’pose folks will buy there’s such a thing as organized crime now?”

  “Dunno. People will believe what they want to believe. And, Woody?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Joe Gallo’s tongue was cut out.”

  “Jesus… Why take a chance doin all that at Rikers? They had twenty years to off him.”

  “What’s no longer ‘Top Secret’, is that within an hour of Gallo’s hearing yesterday, Frank Diapolito was at the DA’s Office trying to cut a sentence reduction deal for his client. He said Gallo was willing to sing like a canary for a shorter stint at a minimum security lock-up.”

  “You were gonna give that murdering scumbag a break?”

  “Woody, it was decided way above my pay grade to prosecute the case against Gallo so vigorously for that very reason. Somebody had it mapped that he would rat before being incarcerated again.”

  “Well, Dan, sounds like good news and bad…”

  “You could say. Figured ya ought to know. Talk to ya later, bo.”

  I hung my coat behind the door, lit another fag and headed back to the Percolator.

  Gina looked up, this time not smiling, “Sounds like you guys are fighting.”

  “Noooo, sweetie. We were talking about the good time we had at Dempsey’s last night.” ‘I’ve got to start shutting my door - rude or not.’

  “Uh-huh…”

  “Say, hon, Sal Spitieri wants to come by after a while to talk about your grandmother’s metal artifact. I told him we’d take him to lunch at the deli. Before you ask, I don’t know what it’s about.”

  That brightened her spirits
, “Wow, that’s great. Wonder if he found out something else. What’s it all about?”

  “Gina…”

  “Okay, okay, meanie.”

  “Let me have that O’Malley insurance fraud folder. I took it back to my office to familiarize myself.

  ***

  In 1940, Roosevelt Raceway opened in Westbury, New York. It had given Long Island the world’s best harness racing for twenty-one years. Michael O’Malley, a harness racing owner, driver and trainer, campaigned loudly and openly against the maltreatment of horses. He didn’t believe in racing even a slightly lame horse no matter how well drugs might mask the pain.

  His reputation was good with the few honest owners and drivers. But the majority, and many track officials, regarded him as a troublemaker. During the 1960 season, as he looked over the horseflesh scheduled for an upcoming race, he spotted a champion standardbred mare named Fly-Away. She was dead lame under a mask of drugs, and he knew it. The mare broke down in the race. It took a horse ambulance with a hoist and leather straps to remove the animal.

  O’Malley saw Fly-Away, still lame, entered in another race a couple of months later and tried to have her scratched. That proved an impossible task; not one track official was available to listen. During the race, Fly-Away broke down as he watched. Six other horses fell, unable to avoid the fallen mare and racing cart.

  After Fly-Away was put down, O’Malley made an interesting discovery; she had never been insured until two weeks before her final race. He took his information and complaints to the Roosevelt Raceway management and to the State Attorney General’s Office with no clear results.

  Fast forward to April, 1961. Michael O’Malley recognized Fly-Away’s last driver, Thomas Worley, grooming another horse in the paddock. He started shouting, describing Worley’s special place in Hell for his abuse of horses and that mare, Fly-Away, in particular.

  Track security later picked up O’Malley for his "threatening, disruptive behavior." They handcuffed, then kicked and beat him. His elbow was severely and permanently injured.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I pushed the folder forward on my desk and lit a Lucky, “There’s one Irishman who’s gonna be rich, if we can keep him alive…”

  “What did you say, Woody?”

  I walked over to my door, “Why’d you label that O’Malley file, ‘Insurance Fraud’? Looks like his big complaint is gettin the dickens kicked out of him.”

  “Yeah, pretty bad, huh? Well, he said that killing horses for the insurance money is common - that’s what he wants to follow up on.”

  “With luck, he’ll be the new racetrack owner and he can follow up on it himself.” I was half joking, but I was amazed that a popular sport and multi-million dollar business would expose itself to such liability.

  As soon as I sat down again, I heard Sal talking to Gina in the outer office. I glanced at my watch, retrieved my coat from behind the door and went to greet our guest. Gina had already gotten Sal seated in a straight chair and provided him with a cup a’ joe. He had on the same double breasted suit minus the tie.

  Gina was making small talk, “Sal, Woody says you’re from Malta in the Mediterranean. That sounds so exotic and romantic.”

  “Well, Miss, it is beautiful. Youse might call it a little… primitive, but I think you’d say it’s beautiful.”

  I figured I better rescue Sally before Gina got around to the artifact interrogation, “Hey, Sal. You doin okay?”

  “Doon good, Woody. Youse?”

  “Any better, there’d have to be two a’ me. You hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  “What say we all walk up to the Bridge Deli?”

  “Sounds good. They got calzones?”

  “They sure do, Sal. You’re gonna love em.” Gina was not going to be edged out.

  At the deli, we chose a booth in the rear and placed our order. I managed to get Gina onto my side of the table, but she wouldn’t take her eyes off Sally. I said, “Sal, you mentioned you wanted to talk to us both.”

  “Yeah, Wood. It’s about the artifact we had cleaned at the salvage yard on Wednesday. I guess youse know I’m Roman Catholic. I’ve prayed my rosaries every day for as long as I can remember. The Mysteries of the Rosary center on the events of the life of Jesus Christ. There are three sets of Mysteries: Joyful, Sorrowful and Glorious. The fifth, and last, of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries is the Crucifixion and Death of Christ.” Sal was very calm and looked us right in the eyes.

  He continued, “The Spear of Destiny, or Holy Lance, is one a’ the most important Christian relics of the Passion of Christ. John 19:31 to 37, describes the spear used by a Roman legionnaire to pierce the side of Christ on the cross. It’s said that the spear gained tremendous power; the first sign of that was the healing of the Roman soldier’s eyesight by the blood from the wound. He was among the first to convert to Christianity.”

  Sal let it ride while our food was being served, then picked back up. “I went to the library on 42nd Street yesterday. That was confusing because of all the stories and legends about where the spear, and pieces of it, ended up. Then, I found Queen Elizabeth I of England got possession in the 1500’s. Some think she sent it to the New World for safekeeping. She sent it here to this continent.” He smiled and started to nod. “Youse can put the rest together - everything fits.”

  Then, for those of us not up to the task of putting the rest together, he gave a play-by-play. “Queen Elizabeth I gave Sir Walter Raleigh a charter to set up an English colony in the New World in 1585. That colony on Roanoke Island, part of the Outer Banks of what’s now North Carolina, disappeared - over one hundred men, women and children gone and never found. They must have been the keepers of the Spear of Destiny.” Sal made the sign of the cross by reflex. I doubt he realized he did it.

  Gina was smiling, nodding and looking back and forth between Sal and me. I was impressed and had a whole new respect for Sal. Not because of his fairy tale, but because of his initiative, intellect and the presentation of his ideas.

  And Sal was prepared for his summation, “This morning, I stopped by St. Malachy’s in the Theater District.”

  This part caught my interest because I knew about that church from my drinking bud, Lee Parris. In 1920, they’d built an ‘Actor’s Chapel’ in the basement where Broadway folks and tourists attend mass before and after shows. Douglas Fairbanks married Joan Crawford there.

  Lee told me a Catholic Cardinal called it, ‘the Temple of God in the greatest playground on Earth’. Fifteen minutes before show time, the church bells rang. If you listened carefully, they played, ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business’.

  Sal was saying, “I told Father Raphael about my trip to the New York Public. I told him I found evidence of three, four artifacts that people claimed were the Spear of Destiny over the last two thousand years. He said the Church has never made any official statement on the authenticity of any of those relics.”

  Sal looked right at Gina, “The Father said, if I had a burning conviction in my heart that your artifact is the Spear of Destiny, it probably is.”

  Gina’s eyes filled with tears.

  I said, ”You been busy, Sal, but your calzone’s gettin cold. Let’s eat up and we’ll have coffee back at the office.”

  Gina was pushing her folded pizza pie around with her fork. I asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, Woody, you need to go to North Carolina to investigate this whole thing.”

  Thinking she was reacting only to her own curiosity, I was a little too flip, “Uh, no I don’t.” She looked crushed, and I felt like a dog turd.

  Without looking up, Sal said, “Maybe I’ll go on down and take a look around later on.” Gina and I both looked at the top of Sal’s head as he tore into his calzone.

  Back on the sidewalk by my office building, Sal said he’d just walk on over to Marcy Station to catch the train back to Manhattan.

  I asked, “Sal, can you come up for a minute? I wanna talk to ya.”

&
nbsp; Sal’s eyes snapped up to mine. Did I see a glimmer of hope? These two were becoming a real pair to draw to. My patience was wearing thin with their fantasies. Dan Logan’s words from the night before ran through my mind, ‘Reality is what happens outside your head’. I wondered why I didn’t have the heart to lay that truth on these two good people.

  In my private office, I told Sal to grab a seat and I pushed the door closed. I sat in my chair and put a bottle and a glass on the desk. He shook his head and held up his hand when I offered a drink.

  “Sal, did you get the word about Joe Gallo.”

  “No, I been runnin around all morning. What about him?”

  “Somebody whacked him at Rikers last night.”

  “I thought the asshole was in solitary.”

  “He was, but they found him bled out, tongue missing at lights on this morning.”

  Sal lifted the corners of his mouth in a fake smile, “Funny place for a hit.”

  “Last night, Gallo’s mouthpiece was politickin with the D.A. for a reduced sentence if Gallo ratted on the mob.”

  Sal pursed his lips, closed his eyes and nodded - nothing more to say.

  “Sally, the other thing is, you and Gina got different views about that hunk of iron than I do.” I pointed to the artifact laying on my bookshelf.

  “Wood, you don’t…” Gina tapped on the door.

  She stuck her head in and said, “Excuse me, there’s a Mrs. Beagleman on Line Two for you, Woody. She says it’s important.”

  “Thanks, hon. Let me get this, Sal. It’s a friend of my mama’s over in Englewood.” With the speed of light, I ran over my mental checklist to defuse my worst fear: Mama’s in good health; Mama’s only sixty years old; I saw her last Sunday… “Hello.”

  “Woodrow, this is Peggy Beagleman, your mama’s neighbor.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Beagleman. How are you?”

  “Woody, I’m so sorry to have to tell you, your mama has gone to be with Jesus.”

  “She’s gone WHERE?”

  “Sweetie, your mama passed away some time last night. I went over for coffee this morning and found her sitting in her living room with the TV on. Her little dog was still in her lap.”