“Poof!” Wally sputtered. Despite the inappropriate outburst, the young man seemed docile – engulfed in a mawkish, cartoonlike universe of his own making. His shaggy head bobbed up and down in rhythm to some demented interior monologue. He was also drooling nonstop. Dana went to the nurse’s station and returned with a paper towel. She wiped away the spit.
“What happened to you, Wally?”
A patient dressed in a hospital Johnny with the flap open in the rear was pacing. Every tenth tile on the linoleum, he whipped about with military precision and revisited the same claustrophobic parcel of space. An orderly stopped him just long enough to tie the flap over his buttocks.
“Poof! Poof!” Fifteen minutes passed. Dana wiped the drool from Wally’s lip twice more before signing herself off the ward. On her way to the visitor parking lot, she passed a building with heavy metal grates covering all the windows. Would that be the ward for the worst of the worst – the pyromaniacs, necrophiliacs, mass murders, sodomizers, psychopaths and criminally insane?
The meeting with Wally Whitcomb was nothing more than a formality. Nobody in Brandenberg wanted justice for the town bully. Chief Polanski had assigned the case to Dana with a wink and a nod. It was a procedural matter. Investigate. File a police report with a determination of no finding. Close case.
“Where’s Eunice?”
The middle-aged man behind the reference desk gestured with a flick of his head toward a room near the water cooler. “Refurbishing damaged inventory.”
Dana stuck her head in the door. Eunice Crabby, dressed in a gray tweed suit, was standing beside a work bench fitted with a metal vise. A thick volume was wedged in the jaws of the vise, and the older woman was running a back saw tilted at a sharp angle over the spine of the book. “Buddenbrooks,” she announced as Dana stepped closer. “Thomas Mann’s classic bildungsroman was coming apart at the seams, but we’ll give the German masterpiece a second life.”
Dana watched as the woman carved four shallow kerfs in the spine, each cut slanted toward the center of the book. Then she ran a length of linen binder’s thread through each opening to the bottom of the cut, weaving back and forth, in and out. “Now for the final touch.” She spread a gooey layer of white film over the entire length of the spine brushing the liquid deep into the cuts and folds. The jaws of the vise effectively kept the wetness from bleeding through onto the printed page.
“Elmer’s glue?” Dana ventured.
“Polyvinyl acetate, better known as PVA or bookbinder’s glue. It’s acid neutralized and flexible enough so the backing won’t crack or separate.” Laying the brush aside, Eunice spread a cloth mull on the wet spine before spreading a second coat of the rubbery glue over the top of the cloth.
“So what can I do for you?” Having left the brush to soak in soapy water, Eunice was drying her hands.
“The cowboy books … which would you recommend?”
Eunice headed off in the direction of the stacks. She grabbed a L’Amour western off the shelf. “This one is quite popular.”
“And something for light reading.”
The reference librarian pursed her lips. Shifting two rows over toward the beginning of the alphabet, she wriggled a thick volume free from its mates. Willa Cather’s Collected Short Stories. She opened the book to the table of contents. “Read this one first. And then read it again. And after you finish the book, go back and read The Neighbor Rossicky a third, fourth and fifth time.” Thrusting the book into Dana’s hands, the woman turned to leave.
“One last question.” Foraging about in her pants pocket, Dana removed a crumpled slip of paper. “When I showed you this list the other day, you missed the bottom entry.”
Eunice peered at the list through her bifocals. In a heavy leaded pencil the words ‘Major Molineux’ were scrawled across the page, sliding tipsily at an oblique angle. “I didn't miss it. Just chose to leave it out.”
“And why’s that?”
“Doesn’t fit with the others.”
“And who exactly is the major?” Dana pressed.
Eunice smiled cryptically. “My Kinsman Major Molineux is, quite possibly, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s most famous short story.” “In the days before the American Revolution, a young boy arrives by ferry in Boston looking for his relative. Major Molineux, an official in the British colonial government, has promised him work. But no one in the town can tell him where the major is.”
“And what’s this have to do with Wally Whitcomb?”
“Well, I was just getting to that.” Eunice let her bifocals slip down over her sweater on a braided metal chain. “One person he meets threatens the youth with prison, and an innkeeper accuses him of being a runaway bond-servant. Finally, he learns that his kinsman will soon pass in the street. As he waits on the steps of a church, the young boy hears the roar of a mob and there in the midst is Major Molineux tarred and feathered.”
Eunice Crabby shook her head with a disagreeable expression. “I’ve committed literary sacrilege.”
“How’s that?”
“The Hawthorne story loses so much in the paraphrasing,” she replied peevishly. “It begs to be read in the original.”
“I just came from visiting Wally Whitcomb,” Dana said, deflecting the conversation elsewhere.
“And how did that go?”
“He drools and talks gibberish.”
Eunice’s eyes assumed a glassy radiance as the wrinkled lips sagged with the vaguest insinuation of a smile. “It would appear that both Wally and the major chose badly.”
Return to Table of Contents
Nagel’s Bagels
Fifteen year-old Curtis Stedman was slouched over at a table in the rear of Nagel’s Bagels coffee shop sobbing mawkishly. His slender body flopped about like a marionette where some practical jokester was jerking the strings causing the limbs to lurch about spastically - an utterly grotesque parody of genuine despair. Just two weeks earlier, the boy had been hired to work Saturdays plus two afternoons a week.
Becky Borelli was bringing a tray of gourmet cream cheeses from the bakery proper out to the selling floor. She eased back through the swinging door, gestured to her mother and muttered, “New kid’s gone mental.”
Mrs. Borelli approached and asked what was wrong, but the blond haired boy only wailed all the louder, his bony elbows flailing about aimlessly. A metallic blue Camaro eased into a parking space in front of the store. A platinum blonde, her hair done up in a tight bun and held in place with a ebony comb, eased out of the driver’s seat.
“Marone!” Mrs. Borelli grabbed Curtis under the armpit, wrestled him to his feet and navigated the distraught youth into rear of the bakery.
“Can I help you?” Becky smiled stiffly.
“A dozen hermit cookies.”
“Sold out an hour ago. Sorry.” A mournful howl erupted from behind the swinging doors followed by a series of muffled sobs. Becky could hear her mother whispering furtively to Curtis Stedman. .
The blonde scrunched up her face, shifting a Vera Bradley handbag to the opposite shoulder. “Forget it.” She hurried out the door.
Becky waited on a steady flow of customers. One elderly Italian lady, whose breath reeked of garlic, placed an order for a wedding cake. Her mother usually handled special orders, but it was nothing fancy, just a flat cake with white frosting and “Happy Birthday, Buffy!’
A half hour later, Becky’s mother drifted back to the counter. “He’s gone, thank God!”
“Gone?”
Mrs. Borelli waved her hand, a peremptory gesture barring any further discussion of Curtis Stedman’s employment status. “Your father is whipping up a tray of cannolis and apricot farfalla. What else we need?”
“Maybe just a few anise biscottis.”
The new dishwasher at Nagel’s Bagels lasted two week. Not even. By Becky’s reckoning, Curtis Stedman flung the crumpled apron on the counter next to the pepperoni spinach pies and was out the door—adios,
sayonara, bye-bye, aufwiedersehen, shalom—by one-thirty Saturday afternoon. Stranger still, there had been no indication anything was wrong, neither the first week nor the second. Curtis arrived promptly at the designated time. He washed out the doughy mixing bowls and muffin pans that Becky’s father stacked in a precarious heap on the stainless steel sink. Then he swept the linoleum floor, bussed tables and polished all five glass display cases with a bottle of Windex.
“I need a new clarinet reed,” Curtis said. He had just finished cleaning a refrigerated display full of cheese Danish and apple squares.
“You play clarinet?”
“Marching band and high school wind ensemble.” Curtis pushed his gold, wire-framed glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
“There’s the store across the street,” Becky offered.
Curtis peered nearsightedly out the window. Diagonally across Turner Boulevard was a shabby building with a hand-carved sign over the doorway. Music Depot. Most of the maroon paint had peeled away and the final letter ’T’ was missing. A young girl carrying a guitar case that was almost as long as she was tall exited the music store into the bright sunlight. “Rico number two.”
“Excuse me.”
“Rico number two. That’s the reed I need.” He picked up the Windex, ran an arc of spray across the glass and began polishing the cake display. “Maybe I’ll run over on my lunch break.”
Becky slipped out the front door and crossed Turner Boulevard. All lights were off in the music store, the front door bolted tight. “Aw, crap!” She hurried back across the street.
“So why’d he quit?”
Mrs. Borelli slid a tray of cookies into the oven and closed the lid. “None of your business.” Stocky with a swarthy complexion and auburn hair, Becky’s mother was pretty in a matronly sort of way.
“I got an idea what happened.”
“Good!” The woman flung the word in her face like a wet dishrag. “So there’s nothing more to discuss.”
Becky locked eyes with her mother. Mrs. Borelli knew what happened to the recently unemployed Curtis Stedman but wasn’t talking. A high-pitched tinkling sound announced someone entering the store. “Go wait on the customer and, while you’re at it, put the ’Help Wanted’ sign back in the window.
Later that afternoon while she was cleaning up, Becky noticed a well-thumbed paperback on the floor near the rest room. The pages on the left were printed in French, mirroring the English translation on the facing page. Candide by Voltaire.
In a peculiar sort of way, the debacle was Becky's fault. Not that she meant to intentionally hurt Curtis Stedman – a part-time dishwasher prone to emotional excesses, who read French literature, played clarinet in both the marching band and wind ensemble. Becky was born and grew up on Federal Hill. The place resembled a parallel universe where conventional rules of social etiquette didn’t necessarily apply. One wrong turn could lead you down a loathsome cul-de-sac into a nether world of sordid vice. She knew her way around – not just the physical streets but the gritty, dysfunctional mindset. There were unsavory things you took for granted, shrugged off. That’s just the way it was.
“Is Curtis home?”
“Who’s calling?” The woman’s voice betrayed a lilting, earthy resonance.”
“I got a book that belongs to him,” Becky side stepped the question.
“Curtis skates at the Finch Arena till eight. Call back then if you like.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.” Becky hung up the phone.
The Finch Municipal Ice Skating Rink was situated over by the old YMCA on Broad Street. Too far to walk, the distance was negotiable by ten-speed bike. Pedaling like a demon, Becky arrived with fifteen minutes to spare.
Only a handful of skaters were still on the ice. A group of beginners with their instructor huddled together near the entrance. Several teenage girls wearing leg warmers and sequined skating outfits were going through a repertoire of choreographed routines. The only male among two dozen females, Curtis Stedman was cruising the outside perimeter of the ice at a brutal clip.
Becky cringed inwardly. The rowdy boys she knew from the varsity hockey team didn’t wear sissified figure skates with ankle supports that rose halfway to the crotch. Their skates were masculine and sleek with pearl white blades. But what would you expect from someone who tooted a liquorish stick and read Voltaire? On the fifth go round, Curtis veered out into the center of the rink. His left arm swung far back as his broad shoulders pivoted a half-turn counter-clockwise. Then, as if on cue, the other skaters stopped what they were doing and watched attentively. The boy’s waist snapped sharply to the left as the arms folded together chest high in a prayerful attitude. As the spin gathered momentum, the cupped hands descended ever so slowly until they were locked between the thighs. Round and round he went, a blond-haired whirling dervish. Curtis held the spin a full ten seconds before deftly easing back to his regular skating form. The other skaters looked away. No one applauded, cheered or gave notice that anything out of the ordinary had just happened.
“Curtis can throw a triple.”
Becky glanced down at a young girl with Oriental features—she couldn’t have been any older than eight or nine—who had just come off the ice with the beginners. The girl was wearing a blue skating costume with a wine-colored scarf knotted in her hair and matching gloves. “Triple what?”
“Triple axel,” the girl explained. “That’s when you leap in the air and spin around three times before touching down. Most of the instructors can’t throw a triple, but Curtis can.” The girl nodded her slim head twice as though confirming the utter veracity of what she had just told Becky. “I’m still working on my toe loop and camel.” The dark skinned girl with the fleshy nose who went by the unwieldy moniker of Kioko Spiegelman gestured with her eyes in Curtis’ direction. “Nice scratch spin, huh?
Becky grinned. “Yeah, that was really neat.”
“That was nothing!” Kioko entwined her fingers and raised both hands slowly up over her head as high as they would reach. “When he gets full extension, Curtis twirls lightening fast.” The girl’s clasped hands floated downward between her knees mimicking his move toward the end of the spin. A loud horn blared and the few remaining skaters deserted the rink. A Zamboni lumbered onto the rink spraying a fresh coat of water over the surface of the bruised ice.
“You forgot your book.” Becky said.
Curtis took the book sheepishly and crammed it into a back pocket. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“Called your home.” He was loosening his skates, tugging at the laces. “I know what happened.”
“Your mother promised not to tell anyone.”
“Didn’t have to. I went across the street. The Music Depot was closed. They’re normally open until five on a Saturday. I put one and one together and came up with two and a half.” Curtis stuffed a skate into a canvas bag and reached for his sneaker. “Rico number two. That’s what size reed you needed.”
The boy straightened up and stared Becky full in the face. “You knew what they did over there?” His tone was mildly accusatory.
“Everybody on the hill knows what they do over at the Music Depot,” Becky replied soberly. “It’s Federal Hill, for Christ sakes!”
On any given day of the week, a steady stream of youngsters and an occasional diehard grown up could be seen lugging their instruments to lessons. The Music Depot provided rentals – trumpets, saxophones, flutes and even an occasional student model oboe or French horn - by the month, sold sheet music and instructional manuals. They carried a decent selection of trumpet mouthpieces from the standard Bach 7-C to the extra-wide symphonic models. But the owner didn’t make his living off instrument rentals and half-hour lessons. The store was a front, a betting parlor that catered to a motley crowd of compulsive gamblers—horses, dogs, college and professional football, whatever.
A loan shark who weighed thre
e hundred pounds, Bernie Antonelli, advanced patrons short-term loans at the perfectly reasonable rate of thirty per cent interest. If you missed a payment, interest was compounded along with a late fee penalty using an accounting method that only Bernie properly understood. It wasn’t usury, per se. Unfortunately, if you missed more than one payment, Bernie would call you up and politely request a meeting at the Music Depot so that a arrangement benefiting both parties could be satisfactorily consummated.
The Zamboni had cleared away most of the damaged ice now and was making the final couple of passes. “I was outside admiring this Selmer clarinet in the storefront window.” Curtis fussed with his sneakers as he spoke. “Not some cheap student model but a rosewood beauty with gold-plated keys and custom engraving on the lacquered bell. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see this muscle-bound goon with biceps out to here, smack some old geezer in the side of the head.” Curtis wiped down the blade of the second skate with a cotton towel, stretched a plastic skate guard over the metal edge and looked up with a grim expression. “Brass knuckles. The goon slugged him here,” he pointed to a soft spot just above his right ear, “with a set of brass knuckles. Then, while the guy was writhing on the floor, the thug stomped him half to death.”
They watched in silence as the Zamboni reached the far end of the rink and pivoted back in their direction. “Nasty stuff like that… it don’t happen that often.”
“Small consolation,” Curtis replied peevishly.
The previous year, the owner of the Music Depot spent eight months at a federal prison in Upstate New York. His enforcers were shaking down the venders at the annual Feast of Saint Anthony. Two hundred bucks to insure that your grilled sausage and onions stand didn’t end up a pile of splintered toothpicks. Unfortunately, one of the venders who refused to cough up the protection money turned out to be an FBI undercover agent. A month after the Feast of Saint Anthony, a half-dozen cheap hoodlums and tough guy wannabes were indicted and sent off to prison.