Several stubby candles were the lone illumination in the room. The homey glows of the flickering flames belied the shabby surroundings in which they radiated, giving the shack an odd spiritual feel, but more of the voodoo kind than any traditional religion. Impish shadows danced against the walls and anxiety-ridden faces of the Letter 13 team as they sat on their haunches on the floor in a circle around the box in a séance-like grouping.
Munyon parked himself at one end of the chest and swilled from his jug before passing it on to Irv, who in turn handed it off without partaking, as did the rest of the cast and crew. The rebuffed receptacle made its way back to Munyon, who seemed unfazed by the snub of his offering and more pleased that the refusal of his guests to join him in sharing the grog meant extra opportunities to satisfy his own palate, which he wasted little time accomplishing. With a hardy gulp and a swipe of the dribble on his chin, he slammed the vessel down onto the box.
“Now, what I’m ’bout to tell you all is the whole truth and nothin’ but,” he declared. “I’d swear it on a bible if I had one.”
He shrugged and belted down another slug of his mountain dew, about as concerned about the lack of the Good Book in his domicile as he was about not having granite countertops and a temperature-regulated wine cellar. Again he plunked the jug into Irv’s hands, and as before it rotated swiftly around the Letter 13 team like it was a bottle of drain cleaner. Munyon had no such qualms once it was back in his hands, quaffing another shot down with as much zest as his first.
“Now,” he continued, wiping the top of the jug clean inside his armpit, “who here’s ever heard of Dutch Schultz?”
“The old-time gangster?” Stan submitted, struck curious by Munyon’s unexpected reference to a historical figure. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the name, since he had a fondness for movies that featured famous criminals from the past. Like Al Capone portrayed by Robert Deniro in The Untouchables and John Dillinger, Johnny Depp’s role in Public Enemies. As for Dutch Schultz, he remembered that Dustin Hoffman played him in Billy Bathgate, but that film was still on his list of must-sees, so his knowledge of Schultz added up to a grand total of zilch. But why would Munyon bring him up?
“Not just any gangster, big cheese. One of the best,” Munyon asserted. “Made himself quite a fortune back in the day. Mostly bootleggin’ liquor for the speakeasies during Prohibition. Ran the Harlem numbers rackets, too. Fixed horse races…extorted the unions…controlled slot machines: you name it, good ol’ Dutch probably did it!”
Munyon raised the jug as if toasting the glorious splendor of Dutch Schultz’s various illegal enterprises and then sucked down another snort of his homemade hooch. “Ornery SOB, too,” he claimed. “One time he hung a double-crosser by his thumbs on meat hooks, rubbed gonorrhea in his eyes, and blinded the squealer!” Munyon found the cruel anecdote amusing, chuckling to himself as though the act of revenge was no more vicious than a harmless schoolboy prank.
“The FBI named him Public Enemy Number One,” Irv mentioned, as his fellow filmmakers turned and gawked in his direction, not just flummoxed by his statement, but awed that he possessed the wherewithal to make it.
“How do you know that?” Keisha inquired.
“My father,” Irv explained. “He was an American history teacher, and the pre-World War II years were his specialty. He knew the Roaring Twenties and the Depression-era backward and forward. I wrote a book report for him on all the gangsters around back then, like Baby Face Nelson and Legs Diamond, who was the sworn enemy of Schultz. These guys were like celebrities, even heroes, to poor, working-class people.”
“Yep, but too bad for him the Feds didn’t feel that way,” Munyon interjected. “They was puttin’ plenty of heat on the Dutchman for evadin’ his taxes. So much so that he got worried they’d throw him in the slammer, and all the rival mobsters would move in on his turf while he was behind bars, and he’d lose everything. Damn shame if you ask me, treatin’ a hard-workin’ citizen of these here United States like that.”
Munyon attempted to swill more of his libation, but a full tilt of the jug above his gaping mouth yielded nothing but a few meager drops. “Dang it!” he groused and flipped the container aside like he was disposing a pistachio shell. He arose and wobbled to the cupboard, where he removed a similar-type jug and gave it a shake, the sound of sloshing liquid inside sweet music to his parched lips. “Full boat!” he announced to no one in particular, as he twisted off the cork stopper and threw yet another hefty dose of the booze down his pipe, much to Stan’s chagrin. Munyon was unstable enough sober, he thought, but tipsy he became even more of a loose cannon. The best he could hope for at this point was that he was one of those blissful, happy drunkards who crooned off-key ballads and told lame jokes before conking out, not the violent type with an ugly disposition once the inebriation took hold.
Munyon returned to the group with his joy juice, flopped down in his previous position, and picked up his tale like he never left. “So just in case, to protect his ill-gotten gains, one day Dutch and his bodyguard Lulu—”
“Lulu?” Bryce interjected. “What kind of stupid name is that for a bodyguard?”
“Bernard Rosenkrantz, actually,” said Irv. “Lulu was his nickname. He had a reputation as a cold-blooded killer.”
“Yeah, he must’ve been a real ‘Lulu,’” Bryce scoffed. “Ha!” Munyon leaned across the chest and glared with such menace at Bryce that he changed gears faster than a NASCAR driver. “Or, maybe not,” he whimpered and glanced away.
Munyon backed off and continued to spin his yarn. “Hmph. Anyways, like I was sayin’ before bein’ rudely disrupted, Dutch and Lulu packed up all the loot in some kind of metal case, drove it up here to the Catskills, and buried it somewhere along the creek.”
The mind-boggling implications of what Munyon had just stated were not lost on Stan or, he presumed, the others. A shiver snaked its way across his spine and down the back of his arms as he considered the possibility that their discovery might contain an actual treasure. Considering the source was Munyon, though, he reminded himself that it was more prudent to remain skeptical than to get giddy over what may not be any more true than a fairy tale. Still, what if? Even the remotest chance was intoxicating for him. “So you’re suggesting that this box—”
Munyon cut Stan off. “Stow it, big cheese, what I’m suggesting is my story ain’t done yet.”
“Sorry,” Stan replied, annoyed with himself that he jumped to a conclusion before hearing all the facts—if they were facts, and not just more of Munyon’s malarkey.
Munyon bent forward and gazed into the sets of eyes glued to his every move, hanging on his every word. “See, Dutch was a New York City racketeer, but was gettin’ too big for his britches and worryin’ all the other bosses around town by threatening to rub out some big-shot prosecutor. They didn’t want to be takin’ any heat for the hit and hurtin’ their operations. Get it?”
Every Letter 13 team member confirmed his or her understanding with a quick nod as Irv plugged more details into Munyon’s narrative. “Which is why Dutch moved across the river to New Jersey and set up shop in Newark.”
“And, as it turned out,” Munyon continued, “wasn’t long after Dutch stashed his moolah that a couple of torpedoes from Murder Incorporated paid him a visit one night at his headquarters.”
“A restaurant called the Palace Chop House,” Irv noted.
“POW!” Munyon shouted. “Took out Dutch with a single bullet. Plastered Lulu and his other henchmen full of lead. Even bumped off his accountant!” Munyon pretended to fire a Tommy gun at Bryce, complete with staccato sound effects of rounds spitting out of the magazine. “GRRRRRRRRRRR,” he growled, and peppered him with such a delirious zeal that Bryce ducked and cowered as if the gun was real.
After Munyon ran out of energy and pretend bullets, Irv chipped in with another couple of facts from the Dutch Schultz rubout. “Dutch lived for one more day before actually dying. Just thirty-three years old.”
Munyon teetered
as he stood, his mood fluctuating from rollicking just moments before to solemn now, as he thrust the jug outward like he was hosting a banquet honoring the lifetime achievements of a revered civic leader. “To the Dutchman: you killed good and died hard, like a real man should. Sorry you had to go meet your maker so soon, though. Here’s to you, pardner!” Munyon proceeded to chug such a massive gulp that he choked and was forced to cough up some of the liquor. “Whew-ee!” he brayed, once his throat had cleared. “Went down like a hive of hungry hornets. Not that I’m complainin’ ’bout that!”
“But what about the money?” Dana chimed in, impatient with the glacial pace of Munyon’s Dutch Schultz saga.
“He’s getting to that, Dana. Right, Mr. Munyon?” Stan assured her. He was as anxious as his sister and everyone else to learn what more Munyon knew about the whereabouts of Dutch’s stash. His rambling tale and multiple digressions had tested their patience and so far felt like a bunch of appetizers without a main course. Sure, he was impressed with Munyon’s vast knowledge of Dutch Schultz, all of which sounded legitimate, especially since Irv confirmed the information as accurate. But he still had a nagging suspicion that it could be an elaborate tease, some sort of batty gag Munyon was pulling, a wacky prank at their expense. Then again, if it was just a hoax, he was going through a lot of trouble to convince them otherwise. For any ruse of this magnitude to be effective, Stan realized, it required a proper setup. In moviemaking, it was called a hook. The idea was to grab the audience in the opening act with a compelling premise—like a dead gangster’s missing treasure—and they’d hop on board for the rest of the film to see how it played out. If that was the case here, Munyon had Stan and his team hooked like chocolate addicts in an Easter egg factory.
“There wasn’t ever much of a map, and what there was long ago disappeared,” Munyon explained. “Plenty of people searched for Dutch’s dough over the years, but nobody’s ever come up with it.” He tapped the chest with the toe of his boot. “’Til now,” he added with a knowing wink.
The wide-eyed crew stared at the box like a bunch of five-year-olds on Christmas morning eyeballing Santa’s tantalizing deliveries and allowed Munyon’s words to sink in.
“Uh, how much is in here?” Keisha asked, her studied gaze not wavering from the locked box, just inches away.
Munyon shrugged. “Nobody knows exactly, or even what’s inside. Some folks guessin’ millions in cash. Probably gold and jewelry, too, and a lot more valuable now than back in 1935. Today, probably worth ’bout, oh…give or take…tens of millions,” he stated, with the casual demeanor of a high-finance executive accustomed to tossing around eight-figure numbers on a daily basis.
Mouths popped open like umbrellas in a cloudburst at the mention of the potential value of the chest’s contents, the entire film crew stunned and muted by the staggering estimate of the fortune. Munyon’s pronouncement, however, proved most overwhelming for Bryce, who flung himself over the box and smothered it in his clutches. “WE’RE RICH!” he cried out, and hugged it like his long lost favorite pet had found its way home.
Munyon recoiled as he watched Bryce slobber kisses across the top of the chest. “But there’s a catch,” he said, his words failing to diminish Bryce’s ardor.
“WE’RE FILTHY, STINKING, ROTTEN RICH!” Bryce proclaimed, as if certain a king’s ransom awaited beneath his fingertips.
Disgusted by Bryce’s unabashed rapture, Munyon snagged him by his ear lobe and, despite Bryce’s desperate attempts to maintain his grip, extracted him off the box with no more effort than if he was plucking away a caterpillar that had crawled onto a picnic basket. “I said, there’s a catch, whiner!”
“Ow!” Bryce yelped, as he slumped back down and nursed his violated ear.
“Now, you folks may want to pay special attention to this part, especially you, whiner,” Munyon suggested, as he lowered himself down on to his knees and balanced his elbows on the chest. “The legend goes that Dutch’s old gang got together after he got mowed down and made themselves a pact.”
“What kind of pact?” Stan asked.
“Kinda like an oath,” Munyon explained. “They swore they’d make sure nobody got their hands on this here treasure.” He paused, raised his head, and squinted at the far wall of the shack like a clipper ship skipper casting his eyes on a distant horizon. “Ever.” Munyon remained motionless, as if flash frozen in liquid nitrogen.
If not for the ominous possibilities inherent in what Munyon was telling them, Stan knew restraining himself from laughing would have been impossible. The cornball way Munyon delivered his final word “ever” was lifted right out of the Bad Acting Handbook. If Stan didn’t know better, he would swear it was rehearsed—that’s how phony it sounded—not to mention the ridiculous dramatic pause and blank stare off into nowhere followed by his statue pose. But calculated and staged? More like doubtful and improbable, Stan figured. Some people just came off like lousy actors in real life without even trying, and nut job characters like Munyon were at the top of the list.
Munyon shook himself out of his state of suspended animation and welcomed himself back with another generous belt of moonshine. He motioned for the group to move inward, urging them into a tighter formation around the box. As they closed ranks, he ducked inside the huddle like a quarterback about to divulge the next play and whispered in his graveled, whiskey-soaked voice. “I’m talkin’ protect it for an eternity. Watch over it ’til the end of time.”
The sinister hints continued to pile up, like some foreboding riddle Munyon was testing them with, Stan concluded. The worrisome part was, he wasn’t sure any of his colleagues—including himself—were prepared to deal with the fallout from the solution. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Stan hoped that he framed the question so that Munyon would be forced to divulge a more specific answer instead of spewing out more vague clues.
“I’m sayin’, big cheese, that what lies before us…is cursed!” Munyon snarled, as he slammed down his fist with a resounding thunk.
The startled Letter 13 team jerked backward with a collective gasp, as if a cobra had just poked its head out of Munyon’s jug.
Stan didn’t believe in curses. Or hexes. Or spells. Or witchcraft hocus-pocus of any kind. In his mind, it was all as real as the tooth fairy. But he realized plenty of people did buy into the idea of black magic. And from the looks on the jittery faces around him, so did his unnerved crew. “Wait a sec,” he said, “we don’t even know for sure that this box is the same one Dutch Schultz buried seventy-five years ago, right?”
Munyon cracked the knuckles on all ten of his fingers, one by one, as heconsidered Stan’s assertion. “Don’t know that it ain’t either, right?”
“I suppose,” Stan conceded.
While the group pondered the possibility of whether the chest was genuine or not, Keisha began a thorough examination of the chest, combing every square centimeter across the top and along each side. She hunched just above the surface, her eyeballs scanning for anything that might reveal its origins as she fingered every ridge and blemish like she was scouring a book of Braille.
Her colleagues watched in silence as Keisha squeezed past them and pored over the box’s nooks and crannies. Her focus was intense as she crawled from corner to corner around the entire circumference and back again. “Need some help down there, hot cocoa? I’m pretty good in tight spaces,” Munyon offered, as he massaged his gums with his tongue.
“No, thanks,” Keisha replied, much to Munyon’s dismay, as she continued her inspection without a moment’s hesitation.
“I say we open it and find out,” Dana proposed.
“You say?” Stan shot back.
“She’s right,” Bryce chipped in. “Then we’ll have proof.”
“We’ll have proof when we shoot the last scene of Letter 13—not before,” Stan countered.
Bryce slapped his cheeks as if he had just committed an egregious social blunder. “Oh, pardon me, I forgot. It’s Stan Hitchcock,
ladies and gentlemen. Master of the Dense.”
Just as Stan was loading up to bombard Bryce with a sarcastic remark of his own, Keisha’s urgent voice commanded everyone’s full attention. “Dana, grab me a candle.”
Dana sprang to her feet, rushed to the table to retrieve a candle, and hustled back to hand it down to Keisha.
Stan felt the rapid thumps of his heart as he craned his neck to get a better view of what Keisha spotted. She was tucked low to the ground, her face pressed flush against the floor as the tip of her forefinger traced along the side of the chest. It occurred to him that he never bit his nails growing up, but if there was a perfect time to start, this was it. “Keisha, please, say something. What is it?” Stan implored as he fidgeted above her.
Keisha wriggled even closer and adjusted the position of the flame adjacent to a bottom corner of the box. “Not sure. Hard to tell. Letters, I think. Scratched into the metal. Looks like an A…and an F. Somebody’s initials, maybe?”
“A and F? You sure?” Stan inquired.
“Look for yourself,” Keisha replied.
Stan wedged himself between Keisha and the box, taking advantage of the cramped quarters to snuggle as close as possible to her. Sure enough, there they were, two skewed block letters, an A and an F. Stan straightened to a sitting position, more relieved than upset. Now he could get back to making Letter 13 without the distraction of some dumb curse looming over them. “Sorry, Mr. Munyon,” he said, with a jocular lilt in his voice. “I guess it doesn’t belong to Dutch Schultz after all. Oops.”
Stan thought he noticed a twinkle in Munyon’s eye when he turned to Irv. “Do you wanna tell ’em, string bean, or should I?”
Irv had the austere look of a surgeon who just stepped out of the operating room and was about to inform the patient’s family that he found a second tumor. “Dutch Schultz wasn’t his real name,” he began, his words deliberate and sober. “He was born in the Bronx as…Arthur Flegenheimer.”
Munyon clapped his hands together. “Well! My, my, my. If I’m not mistaken, that’s an A for Arthur and an F for Flegenheimer, big cheese,” Munyon said to a dazed Stan as he whomped him on his back. “Oops!” he cackled.
It took all of about two seconds for the Bryce and Dana to connect the dots before they attacked the chest like a pair of jackals tearing at an antelope carcass.
“It’s real, it’s real!” Dana squealed, tugging at the padlock as if she expected it to rip apart like a taffy pull.
“Finders, keepers, up your keisters!” Bryce hollered, as he joined Dana attempting to disengage the lock.
Stymied, they turned on each other, shoving and jostling, clawing and thrashing for control as the rest of the crew contentedly observed them duking it out like a pair of winos arguing over a pint of cut-rate vodka in a back alley.
“Not the hair, not the hair!” Bryce pleaded after Dana knocked off his hat and yanked on a substantial wad of his precious mane.
“You give? You give?” Dana yelled.
“NEVER!” Bryce screamed back.
He rammed Dana to loosen her grip and then used his size advantage to barrel her aside. “I’m the one who found it. It’s mine!” he claimed.
Before Bryce could resume his assault on the box, a shotgun barrel burrowed its way beneath his nostrils, as Munyon glared at him from the other end. “I wouldn’t bet on that, whiner,” he warned.
Bryce backed up, the gun tracking along with him until Munyon shouldered the weapon and started to pace the room. “Now, seems to me some of you people are hard of hearin’. So I’m gonna make it real simple.” He paused in front of a window and peered out, his somber reflection staring back. “What I met out there tonight…wasn’t livin’,” he uttered, his voice hushed and grim.
Dana gulped. “You mean like…ghosts?”
Munyon grunted, turned and shook his head. “Worse.”
Stan, Bryce, Keisha, and Dana mulled over the less-than-desirable alternatives for what could be worse than ghosts, before Irv interrupted and saved them the bother of any further speculation. “Guys, he’s talking about…the undead.”
Chapter 16