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

by R. D. Herring

  Those dreams weren’t new to me. I had learned to wake myself. I willed myself to wake up. Sal stared at me, “Woody, you okay? You’re white as a corpse.”

  I held up my hand to him. “What happened, Mrs. Beagleman?”

  “Woody, nothing happened. It was her time. She didn’t answer the door this morning, yet I could see her sitting in her chair. I called the police who got the door open. I called Fogler’s Funeral Home; they’re local. I hope that’s okay with you. It was either that or the county morgue.”

  “But, what happened? She was only sixty.”

  “Honey, nothing happened. She went quietly. It’s the last part of life on Earth. It was all very peaceful.”

  “What about Ida? What about her Dachshund?”

  “I’ve got that little sweetie at my house. She’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Beagleman. You’re a good friend. I’ll be there this evening.”

  By the time I dropped the receiver, Sal stood by my side with his hand on my shoulder.

  Tears rolled down my face, “Sal, my mama died.”

  He poured Jack into my coffee cup and handed it to me, then poured a shot for himself.

  I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my face. “Sally, I need to stop fuckin around. I need to lay off the sauce. What I need is a business plan. Life is for the living.”

  Sal returned to his seat, apparently thinking about my change of mental gears and what I was saying.

  “I’m leaving this afternoon to take Mama to be buried with my daddy in Memphis. When I get back, I’m going to buy this property. I’ve got an idea for… let’s just call it ‘corporate security’. It’s gonna be a real moneymaker. No more being a coward for me.”

  “Wood, you ain’t no coward.”

  “You sayin that means a lot, and, by God, I’m gonna start believing you.”

  “You got dat right - ‘by God’.” I had to smile; Sal was as steady as Gibraltar.

  “I’ll need help.” He set his glass on the floor and listened intently as I went on, “I can count on one hand the number of folks I’d trust with my life. And you’re right there, Sal. Come work for me. I already feel like we’re partners when we go out on a case.”

  “Ahhh, Woody, it’s not that I don’t want to. I do okay working maintenance at Dempsey’s plus you pay good when I help you out. It’d be hard to leave steady money.”

  “I’ll pay you $70.00 a week to start. Once we get rolling, I predict you’ll be financially very comfortable.”

  “I’m in.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  That was the start of a billion-dollar business; but I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I opened my office door, called to Gina then stood and stared out my lone window. I had to tell her, but didn’t want sympathy.

  “Yes, Woody?”

  Without turning toward her, “Gina, Mama passed away.” I heard her pencil and pad hit the deck. I’ll be darned if she didn’t rush over and hug my back.

  “Woody, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. Her neighbor said she died peacefully sometime last night.”

  I turned and gently pushed her shoulders away, “You know what she said to me last Sunday?”

  She moved back in and laid her head on my chest, “What, Woody?”

  “She told me how thoughtful I was to buy her that puppy last year. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but, believe me, it was a big deal to get that kind of acknowledgement from Mama. She loved me and she died peacefully. Dying is just the last part of this life on Earth.”

  “Woody, I…”

  “Shhhh, sweetie. Go get your pad and pencil. I need your help. Sal now works for Stone Investigations. He’ll draw seventy a week. Call Sutton’s Office Furniture over on Berry Street. Have them deliver a used single pedestal desk, an office chair, a three-drawer filing cabinet and a wall locker tomorrow morning. Tell em I want decent stuff. If you decide to do it, you can walk up there and pick out the stuff this afternoon.”

  She wrote that on her pad, “That would probably be better.”

  “Call the phone company and get a third line run in here with a phone for Sal’s desk. He’s also gonna need a door key. Do whatever BS government paperwork’s required. This is gonna be legit. Oh, explain Dupree’s situation; don’t need these two wrestling in the alley.”

  “Sal, you can start on Monday. Get Gina to brief you on the O’Malley Insurance Fraud Case. Gina can set up an interview with O’Malley; see where your instincts take you. Tell him it’s four hundred up front; we’ll bill him for hours and expenses later.”

  “Four hundred?” Sal seemed surprised.

  “Yep, I’ll tell you about our sliding scale later - kinda depends on what they can afford. Welcome aboard. Almost forgot, Gina. The man needs business cards.”

  “Got it,” she continued writing.

  “I’m gonna be gone for about a week. Sal, wait a while and I’ll give you a ride uptown. I need to go by the Taft for a suitcase before I head to Englewood. Gina, see if you can get Dan Logan on the horn for me.”

  I showed Sal where I stowed the shotgun. The shells were in the desk drawer along with the newly acquired .38 special.

  “Woody,” Gina called from the outer office. “Dan Logan on Line Two.”

  “Hey, Dan. Glad I caught you.”

  “What’s goin on, bo?”

  “Bad news. My mama passed away last night.”

  “God, Woody, I’m sorry to hear that. She wasn’t that old, was she?”

  “She was sixty, but how you ever gonna know?”

  “Ain’t that the truth? You headed to Jersey?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to tell you I’d be out a’ town for a week. I’m taking her back to be buried with my daddy in Memphis.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Not on that matter, but you know Sal Spitieri, dontcha?”

  “From Dempsey’s? Sure, I do.”

  “I just hired him. I could use a hand expediting his state PI license.”

  “No problem there if he’s got a clean record.”

  “Sure, Sal’s got a clean record - eighteen arrests and no convictions.”

  “Well…”

  “Kidding, Dan. He’s clean as a hound’s tooth.”

  “You asshole! Tell Sal to come by my shop next week. Rita Mae will get his photo, information and signature.”

  “Thanks, Dan.”

  “Sorry bout your mama. Catch you on the flip-flop.”

  I explained the PI ticket business to both Sal and Gina and told him to go on down to the DA’s Office first thing Monday. The process would take less than a month. If he wanted to pack heat in the meantime, be careful; we didn’t need a Sullivan Act charge blowing back on the company.

  ***

  It was a whirlwind week, but not as stressful as I thought it was going to be. I got up early on Saturday morning at Mama’s house and managed to make most arrangements by phone in two hours. The rest of the week just amounted to keeping a schedule. I had called Mrs. Beagleman when I arrived Friday night and made plans to take her to lunch.

  On Saturday, I first called Fogler’s Funeral Home and arranged for the cremation on Monday. Mama’s former pastor in East Memphis said he would help set up the interment for Thursday. I intended to call a few of Mama’s Memphis friends once I arrived on Wednesday. I found her small life insurance policy and contacted the company. The realtor who had helped me buy the place started the process to put it on the market; I was happy to find it worth twice what I still owed on it.

  At lunch, I planned to talk to Mrs. Beagleman about anything she might want, and Goodwill Industries would have a truck there Tuesday for a pick-up. I scheduled a freight company to pick up the radio/record player cabinet that Mama and Daddy had bought for my brother Ronnie’s seventeenth birthday. That was going to 481 Wythe Avenue.

  Peggy Sue Beagleman, bless her heart, braced herself, stared at the ground and asked if she could buy Ida, the ye
ar-old Dachshund pup. I hugged her and told her Ida was hers; that’s what Mama would have wanted.

  Wednesday morning, I loaded Mama’s personal items, some jewelry and the family Bible in the trunk. Peggy Sue and Ida stood on the sidewalk waving as I laid Mama’s packaged urn on the seat beside me. At LaGuardia in Queens, the closest airport to Englewood, I locked up the Hawk and left it in long-term parking.

  Thursday morning, the funeral went smoothly. We gathered in the Elmwood Cemetery on South Dudley Street. Seven of us and the preacher stood in the mugginess near the river. I stared at Daddy’s grave and felt something akin to pride that I was bringing Mama back to him. Her death broke my heart, but my crying jag was over.

  I thought about how she hadn’t shed a tear at the funerals of my brother, Ronnie, Daddy or her own father, Pop Gilliam. Maybe if she had, she wouldn’t have become so hardened inside. I guess if I were to admit it, those deaths had ripped my guts out, too. But, that was over; it had to be over. Life is for the living.

  That afternoon, I picked out Mama’s headstone, a close match to Daddy’s, and paid to have it installed the following week. I called Gina and told her I’d be landing at 1:15 the next afternoon. Since I was parked at LaGuardia, I’d swing by the office. She told me Sal had gone by the DA’s Office and filled out the application for his state license and gun carry permit.

  “Woody, Sal tore into that O’Malley case. He’s been out at the Roosevelt Raceway like a tick on a fat dog.”

  “A tick on a fat dog? The hell you say. Who you been hangin around with?”

  “You, you big lug. Can’t wait for you to get home.”

  ‘She can’t wait for me to get home’. “Gina, that goes double for me. See you about 2:30.”

  (Friday, June 16, 1961. 481 Wythe Avenue, Brooklyn.)

  The Hawk was parked close to the rear loading dock, and I took the stairs to my office two at a time. I could already smell coffee brewing. When I opened the door, Hank Williams was singing “Hey, Good Lookin”. I glanced at Gina’s vacant desk, but the song was coming from Ronnie’s Magnavox Radio Phonograph sitting over by the coffee pot counter. Good to see the piece had survived the moving company, but the choice of music struck me as odd. I knew Gina didn’t share my love for country music.

  The only things to greet me were the sound of Hank Williams’ voice and a ten-foot banner of perforated printout paper hanging on the far wall. Someone had written, ‘WELCOME HOME, WOODY’ in big block letters. I flipped my hat onto the rack and jerked a reach for my roscoe when voices from my private office yelled out, ‘Welcome home!’ Out came a single file parade. Gina carried a chocolate cake in both hands followed by Sal Spitieri, then Dupree Davis. They all grinned ear to ear.

  Gina set the cake on her desk and gave me a big hug. When I bent to kiss her cheek, she turned her head and planted her red, ripe lips squarely on mine.

  “Ai-yi-yi,” I said. “I’ll be out of town again next week…”

  She kept her steady gaze and unreadable smile. The other two started shaking my hand, talking over one another and pointing to the cake. A lone candle sat on the cake and white writing read, ‘Stone Investigations + Corporate Sec.’

  Gina said, “Our new company is one week old today. We ran out of room on the cake.”

  “That’s great. Y’all did a swell job. That record player over yonder belonged to my older brother, Ronnie. Sure is good to be back.”

  There was a five foot by five foot, free-standing square on the other side of the room up toward the front windows. It was covered with tan carpet material. “What’s that thing,” I asked Gina?

  “An office partition. Come take a look at Sal’s office.”

  Sal’s workspace was exactly as I had directed including a shiny-new black telephone. A metal wall locker brought back memories of my days at Camp Pendleton. Sal used the reverse side of his ‘office partition’ as a tack board. He’d pinned up a detailed map of Roosevelt Raceway out in Westbury. And a list of names and numbers with the heading, ‘Standardbred Owners Association’ hung near a picture of the Virgin Mary.

  I turned and looked at the crew, all still smiling. Sal looked crisp and professional in a gun metal blue suit with narrow lapels and a stylish tie. He fumbled with his billfold, then handed me a business card. It read, ‘Salvatore Spitieri, Stone Investigations and Corporate Security, New York, N.Y.’ with our phone number.

  I let out a low whistle, “That I like. Ginaaa…”

  “Got it, boss. I’ll get yours on order.”

  “Nice threads, Sally.” He smiled and thumbed his lapels. “Dupree, how’d you ditch work today,” I asked?

  “Cousin Mel hired a college kid part time to work weekends. I got Fridays off now, but I gotta work this evening. I told him what you said. You know what? He thanked me for helpin with that decision. Ain’t that some shit? Sorry, ma’am.

  That’s okay, Dupree,” Gina said. “Everybody come and get some cake. There’s a new pot of coffee.”

  After Dupree left, I called Gina and Sal into my office, “I want you two to remember this as the very first company meeting of Stone Investigations and Corporate Security.” They looked at each other and smiled. “It’ll mean something the next time I mention it. By the way, Gina, find somebody to paint that on our front door - black and gold letters. Make sure it’s the same quality as what’s on there now.” I felt very good about life and the two people sitting in front of me.

  I gave them the run down on where I’d been and asked Gina what had been happening around there. That amounted to mostly housekeeping. Sutton’s Office Furniture hadn’t been able to deliver until Monday, and, no, the Englewood realtor hadn’t called. She said her mother sent her condolences about my mama’s death.

  Sal said he’d interviewed Michael O’Malley and hit it off with him, “The guys got a good heart. He’s willin to hang it all out to do something about them killin Standardbreds for the insurance. I convinced him to file a lawsuit over the beatin he took. His elbow’s shot - he’ll never drive another harness rig.”

  “You got an angle on the insurance scam?”

  “Sure do. Word around the paddocks is, Tommy Worley, who drove Fly-Away into the ground last year, is a pretty good egg with a conscience. He’s entered to drive at Yonkers Monday night. I’ll be there.”

  “That’s good, Sal. It’ll only take one witness from the inside of that con. The State Attorney General will be on it like stink on…” I saw Gina’s eyes grow big. “So, that’s good, Sal.”

  “Gina, are you planning on coming in to the office tomorrow?” I didn’t require her to come in on Saturday, but she usually stopped by on her way to her mother’s house in South Brooklyn.

  “I was just going over to Ma’s house tonight. Do you need me to come in?”

  “I wanted you to look into getting us some train tickets. That is, if you want to go to North Carolina next week to get your gold.”

  She sprang to her feet like a scalded cat and was halfway around my desk before I could get both hands in the air, “Miss! Not during a company meeting!” We all got a laugh as she sat back on the edge of her chair.

  “Oh, Woody, I’ll be here. What changed your mind?”

  “What choice do I have? Two thirds of the company voted to take the case.” Again, they swapped looks and big grins.

  I took out my notebook and wrote the artifact grid coordinates on a yellow lined pad. I tore off the sheet and slid the paper across the desk to Gina, “First priority is to find someone who can pinpoint this location for us. From what I can remember, depending on how many digits in the number, it identifies a location within five yards, or maybe it was one hundred yards. We’ll get right on that Monday.”

  “I got an idea,” I said. “Since I can give you both a ride home, let’s all go to Keen’s Chop House on 36th and have dinner.”

  Gina smoothed her hair, “Really, Woody? I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “You’ve never been there?” She shook her head. “I could
have sworn you were there with me one time.”

  “No, I’ve never been. But what a treat.”

  “That’s the word for it. We’ll see what kind of expense account this company provides. You two, gimme a minute to make a phone call and we’ll have a table waiting.”

  I could see the deep appreciation in her beautiful blue eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  (Saturday, June 17, 1961. Mid-town Manhattan)

  It rained overnight and was still drizzling at eight o’clock Saturday morning when I pulled up in front of the Muncey Building. Between wiper slaps, I spotted Sal tucked in an entranceway. I honked and he came trotting; he looked like Lloyd Nolan with his trench coat collar jacked up under his ears.

  He slid into the Hawk and held up both palms, “Sorry, Wood.”

  “No problem. I’m soaked myself.”

  “That sure was a good meal at Keen’s last night. I ain’t been there since I was the hot ticket on the welterweight circuit thirty years ago.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it, Sal. I know I did.”

  “I sure did. Thanks again.”

  “All I can tell you is, you better get used to it.” He looked over, raised one eyebrow, then smiled.

  “What you can’t get used to is catchin a ride to work with me. For one thing, my bucket’s usually parked at T&J down on Delancey. Second, our schedules aren’t going to overlap that much. My future plans are gonna require an improved cash flow. We need to develop methods and procedures that are more streamlined than my previous... approach to business.”

  “Show me one time, boss. Then, you got it.”

  Of course, we did establish a lot of procedures and protocols in the years to come. But the real subject of my pep talk to Sal, and to myself, were those things that are difficult to teach, those things that make the difference between a winner and a loser. Attributes like taking the initiative, persistence, the will to get the job done and coolness under fire were also what it took to be a champion boxer. Sal Spitieri brought those character traits in spades.

  “You prob’ly already noticed there’s downtime while you’re working a case,” I said. “So it pays off to be working two or more cases at once. Make use of your notebook, or even two notebooks to keep the facts straight. You’ll never know which bit of information will turn into that last piece of the puzzle. I think we’ll sit down with Gina after a while and look at our pending cases - see what you can pick up on the side of the O’Malley Case. When Gina and I get back from North Carolina next week, I’ll be right in the mix with you.”