by Mike Faricy
None of them bothered to answer. Babyface drove him the short distance into the apartment parking lot. There were cops all over, lots and lots of cops, paramedics, a large industrial van with the words Florida Crime Scene stenciled across the side. Everything seemed to be fenced off by miles of yellow plastic tape with black letters, POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS. Small groups of people were gathered together in front of their apartments. News media vans with satellite dishes on their roofs were everywhere.
Hub had the feeling everyone was suddenly staring at him. Maybe it was just the phalanx of suits waiting to open the door of the squad car. Maybe it was the line of officers standing along the wrought iron railing on the second-floor balcony watching him. Or maybe it was the news crews and cameramen running to get footage of him being led to the staircase. And there, red-faced and puffy-eyed, stood Macey, at the rear of the group of suits.
Hub, now looking slightly dazed and befuddled, was led up the staircase by five or six suits, leaving Babyface behind in the parking lot. He slowed at the top of the stairs, seeing the crowd of police in the corridor, more of them gathered around the front door to his apartment. Jesus, he thought, they were already searching his apartment for the money.
None of it was making any sense to him. Just inside the living room stood two gurneys, each loaded with a black plastic body bag. He turned to the nearest suit. “What the hell?” he said before being led into his apartment.
Lieutenant McCabe was leaning against the kitchen counter with two more suits, watching Hub, studying him. “Mr. Schneider?” McCabe called. Hub turned toward the voice.
“Mr. Schneider, I’m Lieutenant McCabe. I wonder if you might answer a few questions.” McCabe signaled Hub to join him in the kitchen, noticing as he did so that Hub Schneider seemed to be genuinely in a daze.
“Mr. Schneider. Are you familiar with a Mr. William Masters, sometimes known as Willy?”
Hub looked at McCabe but couldn’t register on the question. “I’m, I’m sorry, what’d you say?” he asked, staring blankly around the crowd of strange faces in his kitchen, hands still cuffed behind his back.
“Mr. Schneider,” McCabe paused, waiting until Hub’s gaze drifted back to him. “Do you know, or are you familiar with Mr. William Masters?”
Hub thought for half a minute, shook his head no.
McCabe looked down at his notes. “Mr. Schneider, do you know Mr. Cyril Harvey.”
Hub shook his head. “No sir. I don’t recall either of those names. I don’t recall anyone by those names. What the hell’s going on here? This is my apartment.”
McCabe nodded at a couple of guys from the coroner’s office leaning against the wall, talking in low, hushed tones. One wore an Atlanta Braves jacket with ‘Doc’ monogrammed over the left breast. Doc took the front of a gurney and wheeled it out the door.
McCabe looked back at Hub.
“Mr. Schneider, I would like you to come down to the station with us. I want to make it clear you are not being placed under arrest at this time.” He nodded at one of the suits who quickly removed the cuffs from Hub’s wrists. “However, under the circumstances, I’m going to have my people drive you down. I’m sure this is a shocking business for you, sir. I know it is for all of us.”
McCabe paused for only half a second. He wanted to question this guy once more downtown. Just the fact that he would come down without being placed under arrest might speak volumes. He also wanted to get that little blonde deputy downtown, too. See what her story was. He planned to wait a while before contacting her office.
Detective Ricky Raucho, Rauncho to his friends, liked Hub right away. Ricky was doing most of the talking. Hub just sort of sat there, looking out the backseat window, stunned. Ricky was asking him what he used for bait to get all those bass. By the time they got downtown, Hub wasn’t sure what they had talked about, and Ricky had a new idea for bass bait. Rauch and McCabe also felt fairly sure that Hub Schneider didn’t have any idea what went on in his apartment or why.
Four additional hours of questioning and studying through the glass had led Lieutenant Carlton McCabe to become even more convinced of his earlier conclusion, Schneider didn’t know shit. Hub did eventually admit knowing of William Masters but only by the name Willy. Schneider had met William ‘Willy’ Masters only once, and at that meeting had thwarted Masters’ assault on Miss Evans. Schneider’s story dovetailed exactly with the one Macey Evans had told McCabe.
Hub could account for his whereabouts all afternoon, of all things, painting the dining room for Judge and Mrs. Sidney Cottingham.
“He was at our home painting the dining room all day, until sometime after 4:00,” Mrs. Cottingham had said. “Why, has there been a complaint? The Judge and I found his work to be quite satisfactory.”
Just in case McCabe had any doubts, Hub still had paint on his clothes and in his hair.
McCabe was notified of a second, double homicide at about 5:30 that same evening. Two bodies were discovered at the Moonlight Dance Academy, over on Fremont Avenue. There were three things interesting about this: First, McCabe would check, but he was pretty sure the city of Tampa had never seen two double homicides in the same eight-hour period.
Second, one of the bodies had been ID’d as mob enforcer Bobby Falconi. That would be ‘Crazy’ Bobby Falconi, found dead, at a dancing school? In Tampa? Very, very strange, thought McCabe.
Third, the second body was ID’d as John Wilkes Brooks, from Atlanta, Georgia. That was the same name listed on the registration of the red Coupe de Ville that attempted to flee Tampa police earlier this afternoon. It had been driven by the suspect in the two shootings at Hub Schneider’s apartment.
McCabe intended to find out, exactly, how four bodies could all somehow be related to Hubbard Schneider and his girlfriend, Macey Evans, grade five clerk typist for the County Sheriff’s department. Everything, in some strange way, eventually seemed to be leading back to Hub Schneider. Or did it?
Chapter 58
Val was arrested a week later in New Orleans. In his haste to depart the Tampa area, he somehow managed to find time to empty his storage facility and load his truck with stolen goods. Unfortunately, he forgot to pack his Florida Regional Swing Accreditations. It was in the lobby of the New Orleans Andre Hotel that a shouting match developed, leading to Val’s downfall.
“I don’t think you quite understand the impact of your actions here,” Val had said to Charlene Del LaCroix at the registration table for the Louisiana Regional Swing Competition.
“You’re about to make a career decision here. Now, why don’t you just let me register for the competition? You can see by my identification that I’m Val Harwood. The Val Harwood. Florida Regional Swing Champion, certainly that must mean something, even to you.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Charlene said, glancing at the growing line behind Val, “but as I’ve explained twice before, without proper proof of your swing accreditation, we simply cannot let you register for our competition. It’s stated clearly, right in our by-laws.”
“Your by-laws, my God! Are you crazy? What is it going to take to compete here?” he asked, doing one of his patented double spin moves before he faced Charlene.
“May I help you, sir?” Charlene said, standing to talk to the man in line directly behind Val.
“Listen here!” Val hissed at her, moving no more than two inches from her face. “I happen to be Valentine Harwood, Florida Regional Swing Champion, from the Tampa-St. Pete chapter. Now, you just get that rather sizable rear end of yours out of my way and let me on the dance floor. Stop depriving the people here of watching possibly the greatest routine they’ll see today.” Val attempted to step around Charlene Del LaCroix.
It was at this point that Ms. Del LaCroix, Louisiana Regional Swing Director, threw a three hundred pound pelvic thrust solidly into Val. He tumbled backward, over the registration table. She quickly sidestepped a chair, her speed and agility surprising everyone, and promptly sat on top of Val, pinning him pai
nfully to the floor.
“Call security,” she shouted.
By the time hotel security arrived, Charlene had upped the ante. “You best get the police down here to take this man away. I’m not getting up until the New Orleans police have this man in handcuffs. You hear me?”
She got no argument from security, and as soon as the police arrived, Val’s warrant for questioning in two double homicides in Tampa quickly surfaced. The warrant, coupled with Val’s living out of a truck full of stolen goods, led to his speedy return to Florida. His attempt at a plea bargain was rejected after pleading guilty to having an extremely large amount of stolen goods in his possession and crossing state lines with those goods. He was given a sentence of three to five years in the Florida State Correctional Facility at Jacksonville. Lieutenant McCabe and the Tampa D.A. were never able to accumulate enough evidence to prosecute him on the homicides.
Chapter 59
It was only the second time in two years that Hub had paid a visit to Val. He’d been upset at Val for trying to finger him in the murders. But two years had served as a cooling-off period, and in the end, he knew that was just the way Val was. Always playing the odds and, in the case of the murder trial, attempting to play a real long shot.
Hub waited in the visitor’s room, looking through the reinforced glass. He counted the tiny strands of wire from left to right, again and again, coming up with a different number each time. Someone named Ramon had carved his name in the grey plastic trim around the reinforced window, and Hub was having no luck coming up with words he could make out of the letters from Ramon’s name.
Despite the heavy scent of disinfectant, the room felt unclean. Dusty, harsh yellow florescent lights hung from an off-white ceiling. The light above Hub was out completely, and the next light, one position down from where Hub sat, blinked intermittently, giving him the beginning of a headache.
He watched as Val approached the grey plastic chair on the other side of the glass. Val wore an orange jumpsuit. A thick, brown leather belt around his waist gathered the shiny chains from his ankle and wrist manacles. The chains forced him to take small, short steps as he walked.
As soon as he sat down, he formed both his hands into pistols, pointing them at Hub and dropping the thumb hammers in unison. Then nodded to the wall phone they used to speak with one another.
“So, how you doing, Hub? Still with that little blonde cop?”
Hub was silent for a moment, looking at Val through the glass. He had put on some weight. Now there was an extra chin and a much fuller face. But it was still Val, the attitude, the swagger, even with the small steps. It was still Val, and he was sure Val would be working some sort of angle in prison.
“Good to see you, Val. You’re looking okay. She isn’t working for the county anymore, but yeah, we’re still together.”
“That’s good, Hub, that’s good. She’s a looker.” Val glanced from side to side, checking to see if anyone could hear him. He leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke into the phone. “Got me a school going here. Just the basics right now, you know, foxtrot, tango, and box step. A lot of these guys never had the chance to be exposed to dancing before, so it’s kind of like a blank canvas. I’m thinking, I could even parlay this into a pretty unique venue for a Swing competition. You know, swing at the big house or Jailhouse Rock, something cool like that.”
“You’re kidding me. You’re giving dancing lessons? In here?” Hub asked.
“Yeah, of course. Look, what better way to rehab a guy than teaching him to dance? There’s discipline, control, healthy competition, physical activity. It’s all there. Plus, I’m hoping I’ll get some additional time knocked off for doing the good deed thing. Getting it up and running and all, it’s been work. Got a few payment plans worked out, too, cigarettes.”
“So look, Hub, no hard feelings on the state’s evidence deal? I mean, I—”
“Val? No hard feelings? You mean your attempt to frame me for those murders? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I could just cover my ass, man. Look, in the end, I knew you’d get off, ‘cause, plain and simple, you never shot anyone. And there was no way they could tie you to the inventory. Right? So what are you getting so pissed off for? I’m the guy sitting here in this hell hole.”
“No, no hard feelings. Under the circumstances, I guess I might have thought about doing the same damn thing.”
Val nodded and pressed his hand against the glass. The chains from his wrist dragged noisily across the edge of the grey Formica counter.
Hub did the same, pressing his hand against the glass opposite Val’s. “No hard feelings, man. I’m going back home, Val. Going up to Minnesota, gonna look for work up there. Maybe try to settle down again.”
Val nodded. “Don’t forget what I told you about sucker work, man. Don’t do it, Hub. There’s always someone waiting to screw you over.”
Hub nodded then watched as Val hung up the phone, pushed back his chair, and hobbled his manacled baby steps back toward his cell. Jacksonville Correctional Institute was stenciled in large black letters across the back of his orange jumpsuit.
Epilogue
“What the hell, Hub,” Jimmy said some six months later. “How’d you manage to swing this damn deal? Your own dog training school? Damn!” he said, looking around at the new kennel, fenced walks, and fields. “Damn nice, Hub, real nice.”
“Hub,” said Deanna, “that double-wide would be perfect. We can move the kid’s back, live here. Jimmy’ll train dogs all day long. I already checked. There’s no weight watchers here in town. I figure I could get one going. Wouldn’t hurt me none, I guess,” she said and shoved the remainder of a Snickers bar into her mouth.
Jimmy pushed his glasses up tight against his face. “Hub Schneider’s Labrador School of Fetching. Man, Hub, you’re just something. That’s all there is to it. All right, buddy,” he said, shaking Hub’s hand. “You got yourself a deal. I’ll be your lead trainer. We’ll be moving back up in a couple weeks. Be good to get back here. Real good.”
* * *
And that’s how Hub came back to Blue Earth. Jimmy still works for him. He and Deanna live in the fancy doublewide out at the Labrador School of Fetching.
Hub owns Steven’s Hardware, too, where he added a bait shop onto the side. He also purchased a home security business from Bankruptcy court. Jim Nelson, Hub’s old boss, works for him. Hub’s a generous but anonymous contributor to Ducks Unlimited, a few other local causes, and he’s the best dancer in Blue Earth, Minnesota, but he only dances with his wife, Macey.
The End
Hope you enjoyed the read. Thanks for taking the time to read Moonlight Dance Academy. If you enjoyed the read and would like to leave a review just click on the appropriate line. I’m indie published so your review really helps. Thank you, much appreciated…
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Don’t miss the following sample of Welcome, the first work of genius in the Jack Dillon Dublin Tales series.
I can resist everything except temptation.
~Oscar Wilde
Mike Faricy
Welcome
Jack Dillon Dublin Tale 1
Chapter One
Dillon woke just after six in the morning. He did a quick check with his eyes still closed, trying to remember the latter part of the evening. His mind suddenly jumped forward with the newsflash. He forgot to pack. He slowly opened his eyes, and his next thought was related to the leopard print sheets and a hint of perfume. The perfume seemed heavy, maybe lilacs in spring, a lot of lilacs. Close by. Where was he and whose bed was he in?
He cautiously rolled over and stared. She probably wasn’t too unattractive, even asleep, drooling and giving off a soft, continuous snore. The black eye mask sporting se
quined blue eyes and covering half her face made it difficult to tell.
She was blonde, apparently a natural blonde if he remembered correctly. He was trying to recall her name while at the same time appraising her figure. He gradually recalled the shoulder tattoos, the pierced nipples, and the blue stone the size of a quarter piercing her navel. He glanced down, and his eyes rested on the tattoo about four inches below her navel, a long-stemmed cherry and then in perfect penmanship the words ‘Jimmy’s Playhouse.’ Unfortunately, his name was Jack. Jack Dillon. US Marshal Jack Dillon.
It started to slowly come through the fog of the previous night as he studied the woman snoring next to him. A few of the guys in the office had thrown a little impromptu going-away party. Nothing too big, after all, he’d be back from Dublin on Sunday night. He remembered his pals had all hurried home to their wives around 8:00. Since he didn’t have anyone to hurry home to, he sat at the bar for just one more. Now, the end result of that decision was softly snoring next to him. What the hell was her name? Kerri, Karen, Kathy, Kristi, Katie? He was almost positive it was something that started with a K.
“Mmm-mmm,” she half-groaned, then seemed to twitch her lips as she reached over and touched him. She ran her tongue back and forth across her teeth and frowned, no doubt tasting the remnants of a half-dozen Brandy Manhattans. In the next moment, she groped with her hand, working her way across his chest, then suddenly down between his legs, pausing as a puzzled frown crossed her lips. She sat up, ripped her eye mask off and half-screamed, “Who in the hell are you?”
“Umm, Jack Dillon?” he said, not sounding all that sure.