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

by R. D. Herring

  Slow traffic jerked along on the wet, misty streets. The Big Apple was waking up to dictate another day to rich man and poor man, alike. We were turning on South Delancey pointed right at the Williamsburg Bridge.

  “Sal, if you were setting up a course to train a protection specialist, like a body guard, what would you do?”

  “I’d teach him to box.”

  “You would?”

  “Sure. If you ask a boxer how he’s gonna train somebody, he’s naturally gonna say, ‘teach him to box’.”

  “Brilliant, Sal. You’re absolutely right.”

  “About teachin em to box?”

  “Well, that too, but mostly about the ‘who to ask’.”

  “Can you say that a different way,” he asked?

  “If you want to train someone to be a civilian soldier, you should ask a cop or a Marine. I’ve been through both those training programs. Stripped of most of the restrictions, their skills and tactics are pretty damn effective.”

  ***

  Gina sat at her desk while Patty Page sang her heart out on the Magnavox. She gave Sal and me a warm smile when we walked in.

  “Hey, sweetie. Looks like you’re working hard.”

  “Morning, Woody. Morning, Sal. I thought you knew that I work so fast I’m always done.”

  I gave her a wink and hung my damp coat on the rack by the door. Sal hung his by a wire hanger in the vents of his wall locker door. I retrieved my mug and walked to the coffee pot. Sal got a jar of Nescafé from his locker and headed for the hot water tap in the can.

  “Oh, Sal,” Gina said, “that new, small coffee pot over there is just hot water.”

  “Woody, I got us reservations leaving Penn Station Monday night at 8:35. It’s the same train all the way to Fayetteville, North Carolina arriving at 7:50 on Tuesday morning.”

  I lit a Lucky and leaned against the counter, “Monday? Goodness, gal, I just got off the road.”

  “See, you’re already in the traveling mode.”

  “Ohhhhh,” I groaned.

  “Those train seats are gigantic. You can push them back and sleep the entire way.”

  “I would hope so,” I said. “Twelve hours to go six hundred miles? Do they deliver milk along the way?”

  When she rolled those blue eyes, I had to turn away. I pretended to pour more java in my cup, “Say, Gina, how about bringing the Pending Case Files into my office.”

  “Wood, just an idea,” Sal was suddenly standing behind me.

  I felt a startle kick up way down in my wingtips; I’d forgotten Sal was there.

  “What do you think about making up a case status board? We could hang it out of sight somewhere, and it’d be an easy day to day reminder.”

  “I like the idea, Sal, but not sure I want to be hangin our business on the wall. Gina, what do you call it when you write an overview, just the highlights of something?”

  “You mean a synopsis?”

  “That’s it. How about typing up a case status synopsis, say twice a week, and make two carbons for Sal and me.”

  “No problem.”

  “That’s a good idea, Sal.”

  Now, Gina was standing beside me, “Woody, real quick. I called Mr. Freemont Cranston. He’s the Register of Deeds at the Courthouse in Lumberton, North Carolina.”

  “You buyin land down there?”

  “Noooo. I gave him those map coordinates from the artifact. He said to call him back in an hour. It’s been about thirty minutes.”

  “Say that was a pretty smart idea.”

  “No, that was a very smart idea.”

  “Yes, it was. Any more cake?”

  “In the fridge. The paper plates are in the closet.”

  “Plates? I don’t need no stinkin plates. Did you see that movie? Humphrey Bogart.”

  “Woody, before you get nuttier, thank you for last evening. That restaurant is amazing. I couldn’t hear real well, but that guy singing in the bar sounded just like Eddie Fisher.”

  “Hon, that was Eddie Fisher. Folks from the crowd just go on up to the piano and start beltin em out.”

  Her mouth popped open and she clutched her hands together at her chest in such an over-the-top fashion, I thought she was kidding. She wasn’t, “Woodrow Stone, why didn’t you tell me?”

  I made a beeline for the cake and motioned for Sal to join me.

  Sal and I were sitting in my office licking chocolate frosting off our fingers.

  “Woooody, Mr. Cranston’s on Line Two.”

  “Morning, Mr. Cranston. This is Woodrow Stone of Stone Investigations and Corporate Security, in Brooklyn, New York.”

  “Dang, you must have a very big business card.”

  That took a second for the penny to drop. I laughed, “Yeah, the thing won’t fit in my billfold. Call me Woody.”

  “Woody, your secretary gave me some grid coordinates earlier. Those coordinates define a location a couple of miles north of Lumberton - the Oxendine Cemetery, specifically the cemetery sign out by the road.”

  “A cemetery, you say?” ‘A million dollars in gold bullion AND a dead Indian.’

  “Yes, sir,” he continued, “it’s a Lumbee cemetery. May I ask what your interest is?”

  “You’re saying it’s a Lumbee Indian Cemetery?” ‘Okay, somebody’s pulling my leg’.

  “Well, yes. It looks like any other cemetery. You wouldn’t know unless you’re familiar with Lumbee names. I mean there ain’t no burial mounds…”

  “Where can I get more information about the Lumbee Indians? Do you know any?”

  “It’d be fair to say I know them all. I am a Lumbee.”

  “I see. I’m interested more from a historical point of view.”

  “Have you talked to anyone over at Pembroke State College? It was started late last century as an Indian school. Pembroke is about fifteen miles west of here.”

  “You’re my first call.”

  “I recommend you contact the library over there. It’s in a wing of Sampson Hall, the College’s administration building. Miss Doris Brayboy is the Head Librarian. That’s spelled B-R-A-Y-B-O-Y.”

  “And she’s familiar with the Lumbee Indians?”

  “She is a Lumbee Indian, a Lumbee with a master’s degree.”

  “Sounds like the lady I’m looking for. Thanks, Mr. Cranston.”

  “Pleasure.”

  I scribbled down Doris Brayboy’s name and what I could catch about where she worked. I walked out to slide the notepad in front of Gina. “Hon, see if you can dig up a number on this gal. Let me know if you ever get her on the phone. Tuesday, we’re gonna need a connection from Fayetteville to this Pembroke, not to Lumberton.”

  I went to the head and washed the frosting off my hands. I had just rejoined Sal in my office when Gina stuck her head through the door, “Miss Brayboy on Line Two.”

  “That was fast. How’d you find her number so fast?”

  “I called Mr. Cranston back.”

  “Oh.”

  “Good morning, Miss Brayboy. This is Woodrow Stone of Stone Investigations and Corporate Security, in Brooklyn, New York.”

  “Yes, yes that is quite a mouthful. Call me Woody…”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  (Monday, June 19, 1961. 481 Wythe Avenue, Brooklyn.)

  I stuck my head out of my office, “Gina, see if you can find me the number for the real estate outfit that sent us the eviction notice.”

  “I’ve got it right here, Woody. It was not an eviction notice.”

  “Yeah? Close enough, the vultures,” but I managed a smile. No use worrying the kid.

  Who was my landlord? A phone call and a visit to Bilstein Brothers Real Estate in Queens got me moving in the right direction. Doreen, the chunky young secretary warmed to me quickly. She revealed that one Peter Rivvington owned my property and also the mattress factory building across Wythe Ave. After a little tussle and tickle at the filing cabinets, Doreen called the office of Peter Rivvington on behalf of the Bilstein Brothers. She set
up a one o’clock appointment for me.

  Crossing the 59th Street Bridge, I slipped into the 60th Street one-way traffic west across the Upper East Side. I drove north on Madison Avenue until the buildings displayed brass numbers and my nose started to bleed. A left turn on East 86th and I was a block away from the Rivvington Building, a four-story mansion on the corner of Fifth Avenue. The building had oversized dormer windows on the top floor.

  I pushed open the front door and walked into a room big enough to be a hotel lobby. The place looked like an extension of the Metropolitan Museum - a bronze statue for each month of the year. A fancy wooden desk surrounded by overstuffed chairs occupied the center. An attractive brunette fussed to get her crossword book into the drawer as I approached. When I told her I had an appointment with Peter Rivvington, she checked a leather-bound book and muttered something into a phone.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Stone. It shouldn’t be long.”

  I sank into a chair and took out my deck of Luckies.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stone. You won’t be able to smoke in here.” She seemed uncomfortable telling me.

  “Why not,” I asked?

  “Mr. Rivvington is on oxygen, so no one can smoke in the building.”

  “He’s on oxygen?”

  “Yes, he was badly injured as a Marine Corps pilot in World War One.” She was spilling the beans about her boss; Gina wouldn’t make that mistake. “I guess it’s finally catching up to him.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” So, Rivvington was a Marine pilot in the Great War. That raised his stock in my book. Maybe we could do business.

  Minutes passed; the pretty gal at the antique desk forgot herself, and me. She was back at her word puzzle. The ding of the elevator drew my attention to its gilded doors. A liveried black man, ramrod straight, exited and said, “Mr. Stone, please.”

  He bowed slightly as I stepped in beside him, “Mr. Rivvington is expecting you, sir.”

  One floor up and ‘Ding’, the elevator opened to a smaller version of the first floor. My escort indicated we should bypass the bosomy blonde sitting at another antique desk. She smiled and fanned me with her eyes as I followed the batman to eight-foot double doors on the right. I reseated my hat, doffed it and gave her a wink.

  Jeeves opened the door and motioned me in as he announced my arrival. Rivvington stood at the far end of the room, hands folded behind his back, staring through the window at the Central Park Reservoir.

  He turned, “Come in, Mr. Stone.” He walked to a portable bar on a different wall. “Have a seat over by my desk. What’s your pleasure?”

  I walked over to the chair and stood, holding my hat, “Jack Daniel’s fine. Neat’s good.”

  He poured two and brought one to me before sitting at his own antique wooden desk. “Please, Mr. Stone, have a seat. One of my property managers, David Bilstein, tells me you want to talk about buying property from me. Is that true?”

  He was a tall daisy-looking man, ten, fifteen years older than me. I couldn’t decide if his most interesting feature was the weasel-eyed stare or the peach colored ascot. But, I knew he was bullshitting - closest I ever got to David Bilstein was rubbing his secretary’s ample butt.

  “That’s true. You know, Mr. Rivvington, I thought you’d be older. I was told you were a Marine pilot in World War One.”

  His demeanor melted. He lost his bearing. “Oh, for Christ sakes, you, too? That’s my father, the other Peter Rivvington, the one who’s so old and broken, he’s lying upstairs breathing through a tube.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” The place was turning out to be a loony bin.

  “Well, I’m sorry I’ve spent my whole life hearing about the aviation pioneer, about the wartime hero with the Distinguished Service Medal!”

  I thought to myself, ‘Shit a brick, I’ve found the side entrance into this stuff-shirt's whole existence’. I mapped a plan to open that door - nothing to lose. It occurred to me that David Bilstein probably did not talk to this one any more than he had to.

  “That’s gotta be rough,” I offered. When he lit a fat Cuban, I noticed there were ashtrays everywhere. I didn’t ask as I fired up a Lucky.

  “Mr. Rivvington, I currently lease part of the property at 481 and 483 Wythe Avenue in Williamsburg. Dave tells me that your father indicated I should be given first opportunity at buying the property.”

  “What is it you do, Mr. Stone?”

  “I own Stone Investigations and Corporate Security.”

  “That sounds about right. My father has always been drawn to adventure like nails to a magnet. Frankly, it doesn’t make a shit to me.” The guy was turning out to be a real class act. “He, WE own dozens of properties in three boroughs and a third of the City of Sandusky, Ohio. And, he’s always pretended he could keep track of each one.”

  “Is that where you’re from, Sandusky?”

  “Oh, I figured you knew that. My father built that town manufacturing ball bearings and roller bearings. He sold to the paper mills and then got filthy rich from government contracts during World War Two. Fifteen years ago, he started buying real estate along both sides of the East River. He had a vision of a future when people would replace industry and commerce along the waterfront.”

  “That’s some pretty bold thinking.” I meant it.

  “Bold or not, the reality of 1961 is the same as 1931, the bums, the Negroes and the stagnant riverfront businesses.”

  The guy was a real asshole - further proof that grease balls come in all stripes. I was losing all trace of guilt over pulling a flim-flam on him.

  He continued, “And now, the flood gates have opened and several hundred thousand spics have piled into Brooklyn. The waterfront will never change as long as politicians house society’s dregs in subsidized developments and projects, then farm them like a crop.”

  “Are you familiar with the Wythe Avenue property I mentioned?”

  “No, Mr. Stone. I wouldn’t know if I were in Williamsburg or Brighton Beach. Now that the old boy is upstairs dry humping a machine, I’m going to unload the bulk of these properties and let nature take its course. I don’t much care who gets first dibs on them.”

  “Well, Dave was clear that your father wanted me to have it, so I thought I’d meet with you. I hadn’t thought about buying before. But, with Dave’s offer, I’m not opposed to considering it - at the right price.”

  Pete drained his glass and pushed a squawk box button on his desk, “Fran, get in here.”

  The big door opened and the top-heavy blonde rushed across the room, mincing steps in her high heels so as not to tip over. “Yes, sir, Mr. Rivvington.” She held her steno pad at the ready.

  “Fran, get Mr. Stone’s address. I want you to mail him a package on some property in Williamsburg. He’ll tell you about it. Thank you.”

  Dismissed, she shot me a smile as she turned to go. I hadn’t truly appreciated her assets when she was seated out front.

  I stood, “Thanks, Mr. Rivvington. I’ll look over that information.”

  He walked around the desk, “Do that, Mr. Stone. Give me eighty per cent of the asking price and it’s yours. You May as well have it if Puerto Ricans are your thing.”

  He extended his hand and I shook it. I wished I hadn’t; it was as much a dead fish as he was.

  “Say, what do your friends call you, Mr. Stone?”

  “That really doesn’t matter, Mr. Rivvington. I’ll see myself out.” Whether his rat eyes crossed or it was just my imagination, I have no idea. I knew by then, the rich boy expected to be shit on. I also knew I was going to be a property owner.

  ‘What a dipshit. Rivvington bossed people around to get his kicks. Like most self-absorbed assholes, he had two speeds, bullying and sniveling. I’d given him a chance to pretend he made a decision. He was happy, even if it wasn’t to his advantage. His father lay dying, and Pete still crapped his pants at the thought of the old man’.

  I had it mapped the trip uptown was gonna be for biscuits. I had gone only becau
se Lee Parris said, ‘investigate the seller and plan your approach’. I hadn’t fully understood the advice; but Lee was right - in spades, he was right.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  (Tuesday, June 20, 1961. Pembroke, North Carolina.)

  The minute Gina and I stepped off the train at the Pembroke Station, she put her hand to her throat. “Is there a shortage of oxygen here?”

  “No, but there’s at least twice the moisture in the air in these North Carolina swamps than you’re used to. Feels like summer when I was a kid on the Mississippi. Southerners are tough; we don’t need no stinkin oxygen.”

  She stuck out the tip of her tongue then smiled. I haled the only cab in sight. Gina gave directions for the Overton Hotel on some weird-named street where she’d reserved two rooms for us. The driver was religiously upholding the Universal Cabbie’s Credo, ‘I’m in this to entertain myself’. He threw his right arm up on his seat back, looked right at Gina and said, “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

  “Why, because I chose your hack?”

  Gaining the good sense to keep his mouth shut, he shook his head and pulled away.

  At the hotel, I threw my luggage on the bed, turned up the window air conditioner, then fished out Doris Brayboy’s number. I took a chance she’d be in her office. She picked up on the second ring and I arranged to meet her at the Sampson Hall Library at ten the following morning. Pulling out one of the bottles of Jack Daniel’s, I poured myself two fingers in the bathroom glass - just to cut the trail dust. I walked back down to the fag machine in the lobby. The desk clerk was buying a pack, so I asked him what there was to do around town in the evening.

  “West Side Story’s playing at the Bijou one block up, or we got the hotel bar in yonder.” He pointed vaguely to his right.