The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  So, what to leave behind? At least something. But if he died before Clancy had a chance to visit…Sure, he told her there’d be something, but what if died tonight? Could happen. And what with Cory Minkus and others visiting, no telling who might get hold of his map. He’d put it in an envelope and marked it, “For Clancy,” but if someone else came looking…Bela, George, and Nick in Barracks Three convinced him to forget what they called, the cache. Better off they all went to war, and after that better off if they were all gone from life before anyone found it. Nothing there but the truth, except with all the relatives visiting and the guys from Barracks Three dying the way they say they did…But the guys said to forget the cache.

  “Crap,” said Decken out loud.

  During a weaker moment, after the war, when he’d gotten juiced up and gone up to the fire tower that night…Sure, how could he forget the cache when he nearly lost his arm getting it stuck beneath the Castle Rock replica at the fire tower? Only thing he ever reached that night was the revolver. Crazy old man with a gun hidden in a sock inside an old shave kit bag with a rusty zipper. The bag hidden in the back of the bedside table drawer.

  “Crap,” he said again as he inched himself higher on his pillows. “Crap.”

  When he got himself pushed back so his head touched the headboard, Decken eased himself onto his side and stared at the bedside table. He got himself up on his elbow and opened the drawer. The envelope to Clancy and the old shave kit were behind two tissue boxes he’d jammed in to fake the back of the drawer.

  He made sure no one was in the room, turning up his aides and listening carefully before he pulled out the two tissue boxes. He listened again, stopped breathing a moment because of his crackling chest, then quickly pulled out the envelope and shave kit, tucked them beneath his cover sheet, pulled a pen and notebook from the table and rolled onto his back. Elevated bed and thick pillows had him sitting almost upright and he went to work, creating a new note for Clancy and rolling the old note with the map on it into a cigarette shape that would fit into one of the six chambers in the revolver.

  After renting the tow truck Guzzo had purchased gas containers and filled them. Although the truck was still up above at the gravel hairpin, he’d parked it to the side after pushing the Harley and its passenger off the cliff.

  The Road Glide was mangled, but not so badly many of its parts could have been salvaged. Farther down the slope, the rider was not salvageable. The rider left Guzzo with no feeling at all except satisfaction Pescatore was unaware of his failure in Detroit. Pescatore apparently assumed he’d called Guzzo back to Chicago before the assignment was complete.

  The body was disjointed, like pulling a heavy rag doll with every-which-way limbs. He put the body at the base of the boulder beneath the bike wreckage. Pouring gasoline was difficult because of the idiotic safety nozzles, using one hand to hold the nozzle safety open while lifting each gas container and pouring with the other hand. The glove holding the so-called safety valves got soaked and he was careful lighting the match. Halfway up to the road the Harley’s tank exploded. At the top he tossed the empty gas containers into the back of the truck, threw his gloves onto the floor, and turned the truck around for the drive back to Wyoming. Somewhere along the way he’d get rid of the gas containers and the gloves.

  As Guzzo drove north the morning sun was warm on his right side. He recalled his anger with Vera on the back patio of his house early the previous morning before leaving for his flight to Cheyenne and the hopper to Rock Springs.

  “There’ll be other dance recitals. And there won’t be many more assignments.”

  “Is that according to your fish monger?”

  “Yes, goddammit! According to my fucking fish monger!”

  When Guzzo came to the end of the Red Cloud Loop, he paused at the stop sign. This was not the time to think about arguing with Vera. Facing east, the dirty windshield of the tow truck was lit by the sun. To his right, 100 yards south down 191, a black Chevy Suburban was parked at the side of the road. As he turned left onto 191 a horn blasted. A motor home coming down the highway from the north swerved, nearly hitting him. He floored the tow truck, pulled the air horn chain, and gave the motor home driver the finger. In the tow truck’s huge side mirror a trail of diesel exhaust from the twin stacks hovered above the road. In the distance the motor home had pulled to the side and stopped, probably everything having fallen out of cupboards. Soon the motor home and the Suburban disappeared in the distance. But after a couple miles, when he saw the Suburban topping a hill a quarter mile back, he decided to take another route to Rock Springs. At the junction of 191 and 44 he took 44 toward Manila, heading for the northern route on the west side of the canyon where there’d be more pull offs and opportunities to lose the Suburban that might or might not be following him.

  There was no answer when Lazlo tried calling Cory Minkus. He tried again while Niki drove downtown to the FBI office where they’d meet Jacobson. Still no answer.

  Two chairs faced the desk, angled toward one another as though whoever prepared the office knew Lazlo and Niki would be there.

  “It’s good to see you in person,” said Niki. “Why are we here? On the phone I had the feeling you were going to tell us to back off.”

  “Have I ever told you to back off?”

  “After I hounded the Michigan FBI, you certainly weren’t enthusiastic.”

  Jacobson smiled. “I like to weed out conspiracy theorists.”

  “We’re not conspiracy theorists,” said Lazlo.

  “I know,” said Jacobson. “I’ll get to the point. Before you ask what exactly is the game, we’re not sure. It seems CCC men from the 1939 roster of the Manila, Utah, camp, along with relatives, have died statistically outside the norms. More so-called accidents, acts of God, or however else you’d like to put it, than usual. Organized crime and agency interests from the US and overseas have complicated things.”

  “Exactly what organized crime and agency interests?” asked Niki. “I thought here we’d be blunt.”

  “All right,” said Jacobson. “We’re talking a spattering of New York mob groups, including old Italian and Sicilian families. We’re talking the Russian mob, the CIA, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the Ukraine Secret Service, and our own FBI, who kindly provided this office.”

  “What about Homeland Security?” asked Lazlo.

  “We take more of an inactive fact gathering role. What few facts we have suggest there was and still is money involved.”

  “A great deal of money I’m sure,” said Niki.”

  “You’re going to Wyoming and Utah?” asked Jacobson.

  “Yes.” She glanced to Lazlo. “Neither of us has and we think it’s about time.”

  Jacobson turned to Lazlo. “Will your Ukraine friends be meeting you here or out there?”

  “I’m not sure. As you know, they’re on their way.”

  “I suggest you start with the town of Green River in Wyoming. The historical society might help, especially since the Manila camp is gone and the gorge was damned. These days there are marinas, fishing, and jet skis. I’ll try to have our people keep an eye on things out there, but they can’t be everywhere.”

  “They’ll watch for us at the Green River Historical Society?” asked Lazlo.

  Jacobson nodded.

  During the drive back to the apartment in Niki’s van, Lazlo took a call from Janos. When he switched to Hungarian, Niki smiled.

  Using their roundabout way of speaking, Lazlo filled Janos in about the Jacobson meeting and getting in touch with Cory Minkus. Janos filled Lazlo in about the Brooklyn safe deposit box and the fact he and Mariya would be heading to Chicago to meet them by way of a box on wheels, giving the length of it in meters, which Lazlo knew was a medium size motor home.

  “You won’t be able to park in my neighborhood,” said Lazlo

  “I’ll call whe
n we get close.”

  Lazlo closed his phone. “I’ll switch back to English.”

  “That would be good,” said Niki. “Although I like the sound of Hungarian, less choppy than Greek. How soon should I start searching for a parking spot?”

  “Turn left at the next street. If there’s a spot we can walk to the apartment on Damen and maybe stop in somewhere for a drink.”

  The Vernal, Utah, medical examiner was a large woman. After the fire crew put out the flames, officers at the scene suggested they go down the embankment and gather the charred remains. The medical examiner pointed out she was wearing hiking boots and slacks and insisted she climb down. The two officers, a man and a woman, helped her.

  Although it had been a while since a tourist called it in, the area around the wreckage was still smoldering where underbrush had burned and fallen trees had caught fire.

  “What a mess,” said the female police officer.

  “Yes,” said the medical examiner. “Too much of a mess if you ask me.”

  Both officers watched as the medical examiner pulled a knife from a sheath on her belt, stooped down, and began gingerly poking at the remains.”

  Next day Guzzo was back in Chicago. During the flight he’d gotten a message to meet Pescatore and went to the fish market directly from the airport. It was noisy in the building; a young man he didn’t recognize dumping buckets of fish guts into the fish grinder. Inside Pescatore’s private office, as was often the case during their meetings, Pescatore stood behind his stainless steel fish table wiping his filleting knife in his apron. This, even though the fish table and apron were clean.

  “Do you bring your knife out especially for me?”

  “I bring it out during meetings in the event someone walks in.”

  “Why am I here so soon?”

  “Things have accelerated. The woman you were to meet in Detroit is here in Chicago staying with a man who’s become problematic.” Pescatore placed his knife on the fish table, went to the cluttered desk behind him, and came back with a notebook and pencil. “I’ll write the name and address of the man. Memorize it, then give the note back.”

  Pescatore wrote on the notepad, tore out the sheet, and handed it over the fish table. Guzzo took the note, but before memorizing, asked, “Both?”

  “Both,” said Pescatore.

  As Guzzo studied the note, the fish grinder in the next room vibrated the walls.

  Chapter 21

  “Summertime” recorded in 1936 by Billie Holiday was played nightly on the Rock Springs Arrowhead Bar jukebox. But 1939 summer livin’ really wasn’t so easy, especially at Camp Manila down across the state line.

  Because of news on the recreation hall radio, first rumor to fly was war in Europe having to do with the girl’s murder. A Jewish kid in Barracks One said maybe the girl was Jewish and brown shirts had made their way to the American West.

  The fireworks—bigger than the firecracker bundle set off in camp July 4th—began when local sheriffs and state police showed up Sunday morning, everyone in camp dressed for Sunday service and inspection. They interviewed officers and LEMs. Some from Green River knew the girl’s parents. Word from senior leaders, with access to the administration building, was the Green River LEMs were helping police question staff and enrollees would be next. Later in the day the camp superintendent said since the murderer had a car, and because no CCC enrollees had access to cars, they were off the hook.

  The company commander for the northeastern Utah and southwestern Wyoming Pocatello District showed up at Sunday dinner. Last time he visited was the previous year, so most enrollees had never seen him. Instead of calling for attention, like everyone expected, he got into chow line and sat with his tray at a table. The mess was quiet, not the usual chitchat and clatter. Enrollees at the table with the commander kept their mugs down. The commander was a tough-looking cookie with a center part in his hair and a James Cagney sneer. He tried starting conversations with the enrollees at the table. Most simply nodded yes or shook their heads no. A few glanced to Jethro, the Georgia baritone, who was good at doing a Cagney impression, but Jethro stared down at his plate.

  The commander eyed another table where a young man with dark peach fuzz moustache squeezed in. The young man had salt and pepper passed and became the center of attention. He had a bruised cheek and forehead, most likely a grudge match. The commander had been worried the local murder would affect morale. They could use more take-charge young men like this.

  When he finished eating, the commander took his tray to the KP table and greeted the camp superintendent who’d just arrived. During their brief conversation the company commander pointed to the table where the smiling peach fuzz moustache not fearful of taking charge sat. Having seen Public Enemy when they were younger, many thought of James Cagney pointing out a guy he’d like to do business with. After the James Cagney look-alike commander left, the camp superintendent stood with a puzzled look, then called for attention.

  “We’ve had excitement in camp, but it’s over. Authorities agree there’s no information here about the unfortunate murder of the young woman. I’ve sent the LEMs home and starting tomorrow things will be back to normal. As I said when you men arrived, I’ve seen my share of troublemakers. For a change I’m glad ours are the more juvenile variety. Some of you may think things will change around here, but they won’t. Tomorrow you’ll be on the trucks to your work sites as usual. Everything on schedule. I’ll speak to you again at our evening meal. Oh, and to boost morale the commander gave the go-ahead for scheduled visits to the Green River movie house next week. Because we’re short on trucks, we’ll go by barracks. Barracks One Monday, Barracks Two Tuesday, and so forth. We’re also short on LEMs, so I’m giving permission for enrollees who’ve passed their driving tests to take the trucks.”

  The only enrollee smiling was Sal, the fuzzy-mustached kid. Maybe Sal’s bruises were from the grudge match with Henry who went AWOL, but in the overhead lights of the mess the bruises looked redder and more recent. Sal raised his hand. The superintendent felt sweat on his back. “Yes?”

  “What movie’s playin’?”

  The superintendent hesitated, the question not fitting the mood. Finally he said, “Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.”

  The Four Horsemen at their usual table. George to Bela’s right, Jimmy and Nick across from them.

  Bela: “Jimmy, you heard anything more?”

  George: “Yeah, you were at the administration building.”

  Jimmy shook his head.

  Nick: “Come on, someone must have squawked.”

  Jimmy: “It’s all talk if you ask me.”

  Bela: “We are asking.”

  Jimmy: “You’re not the one who saw the license plate on the Buick Sal got a ride in.”

  George: “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Jimmy: “Probably nothing. Anyone might stop at a roadhouse.”

  Bela: “What about this roadhouse?”

  Jimmy: “A cop waiting outside the superintendent’s office said folks saw a car with a New York plate at a roadhouse on the main highway.”

  Nick: “Did you say anything about the Buick picked Sal up?”

  Jimmy: “No one asked. Before I knew it interviews were over and they said I wasn’t needed. They’d already questioned everyone at the Green River camp before coming here and were satisfied nobody in the three Cs did anything.”

  Nick: “Maybe you should say something.”

  George: “Yeah, Jimmy. How about it?”

  Jimmy: “I don’t know. I heard Matt, that LEM from Vernal, talking to the camp surgeon. He said a couple locals swore they saw goons with New York plates and maybe they had something to do with it. He said it could’ve took a couple guys to…to pull out the her hair.”

  Nick: “The killer pulled out her hair?”

  Jimmy: “Someone right away me
ntioned Indians…the hair and the way she was slugged with something and cut into pieces.”

  George: “Cut into pieces?”

  The Four Horsemen put down their forks and seemed to shrink into their chairs. Toward the front of the mess, guys at Sal’s table sat higher in their chairs, laughing at a joke Sal had apparently told about Hitler because of the way he held his finger beneath his nose.

  That evening, before lights out, Sal sat on his footlocker surrounded by the half dozen Barracks Three guys who’d been at his table during dinner. Sal’s voice loud enough to be heard the length of the barracks. Earlier, a rumor spread that Sal lathered up and used the stiletto he kept on him to shave off his moustache. Sal got the guys’ attention by taking the stiletto out of his pocket, flicking it open, and letting them pass it around before stowing it in his footlocker. He sat on the footlocker, folded his arms, looked around the barracks, and made a speech, a smart-ass look on his face like the company commander.

  “Maybe Hitler ain’t such a bad guy. Charlie Lindbergh and Henry Ford and America First like him. Says what he means and does it. I say to hell with anyone who doesn’t let us do what we want. What you guys think? And how about the way I got myself a clean shave? Better than paying some Bohunk a nickel to cut your hair, or your throat.”

  A couple guys glanced toward Bela. Jimmy shouted, “Lights out!” from the front of the barracks and everyone wandered back to their bunks, unbuckling belts, peeling down to shorts, and climbing beneath blankets. Everyone except Sal who sat on his footlocker, arms folded, staring across the barracks at Jimmy with a strange smile. Finally, after staring back at Sal for a moment, Jimmy reached up to the switch near the door and cut the lights.

  To pacify Sal’s use of Bohunk, obviously referring to him, Bela lay back in his bunk, closed the corners of his pillow to his ears, and buried himself in music. Someone had put on a Benny Goodman record in the recreation hall the other night, and Bela lay there, turning up the volume in his head, the tom-tom drums of Goodman’s drummer matching his heartbeat, the drums echoing into a future without Salvatore Cavallo.