4992 Words

LOLLY

Jeff didn’t see or hear the blue sedan roll in the parking lot through the fog with its lights off. Moments later, he felt the cold steel of a gun pressed behind his ear. Although it was Halloween, this was no trick or treat. Jefferson Smith was being kidnapped.
Lolly closed the curtain, laid the pencil down and put the scrap of paper in the pocket of her cardigan. She sat back in her rocker and continued with her knitting, letting her mind drift back to the year of 1938, where as a sixteen-year-old girl, she sat at the piano in the Hope Chapel Church, practicing her piece for Sunday services, when Homer Potts came busting through the front door, waving his arms and hollering.
“They’re here, the Martians! They’ve landed.”
Terror gripped the citizens of this peaceful hamlet. By the broadcast read over the airwaves by famed radio actor Orson Welles, the Martians had landed in Grovers Mill, New Jersey. The melodic voice of Welles stirred the people of Grovers Mill into action as defenders of the world against the Martian invaders. Not since the Revolutionary War, when there were reports of Hessian soldiers hiding in George Grovers’ carriage house, did the citizens arm themselves.
Lolly could only think about her mother, home alone.
“And if this is the end of the world,” she feared, “I want to be with her.” Lolly closed the piano and ran home to find her terrified mother glued to the Philco, mesmerized by the pudgy dispassionate voice of Welles, describing the following conditions in Grovers Mill.
“Good heavens,” he cried. “Something’s wriggling out of the shadows like a gray snake. Now there’s another one and another. They have tentacles…ladies and gentlemen, it’s indescribable.”
*****
Wait a minute. Let’s get back to the present. It’s Halloween Eve and we’re at the Yankee Doodle bar and grill, located inside the Nassau Inn in Princeton, NJ, where John Cruckle, VP of Geothermal Energy (GE), is making arrangements for a dinner party in honor of Jefferson Smith’s retirement. The dinner is set for tomorrow night at 8 pm, in the Paul Revere room.
What’s the big deal about Jefferson Smith? He just happens to be the President and Director of GE and one of the richest men in the country. He reintroduced GE back into the country.
What’s the big deal about GE? It’s a clean and efficient process that produces electricity with no toxic waste or fallout. It consists of boring large holes a few miles down into the earth’s burning subterranean surface. Water is pumped down at high pressure, creating a reservoir amid the cracks and fissures in the rocks. The water is returned back to the surface in the form of steam that drives the turbines that produce hydrothermal energy. The steam is condensed back into water and used over again.
Jeff Smith and his wife Jane moved from the old home office in Norman, Oklahoma, to their new retirement home in Princeton, NJ.
I might add Jeff is a UFO buff. He never saw one, but he thinks they’re out there.
*****
“Thank God that’s over,” Jane sighed, as she watched the Mayflower van drive down the street.
“Jane,” Jeff called to his wife, “I’ll be right back” He opened the door to the Mercedes.
“Jeff. Where are you going? We have to unpack all this stuff.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said, clipping his seat belt. “I’m going to take a ride over to where they have that monument, before it gets too late.”
“Monument! What monument?” she asked.
“Don’t you remember me telling you about it? You know…the Martians.”
“Martians? Oh, come on, Jeff,” her arms akimbo. “Where did you read about that? In that silly magazine you get every month?” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, honey, I wish you would grow up. It’s four o’clock and we have a lot of work to do. It’s going to be dark soon—what about all these boxes?”
“Jane, I’ll be right back, it’s not far—”
“How far? And what’s the name of the town? Remember we have the testimonial dinner tomorrow night, there’s a lot to do. I still have to get my hair done…did you check your tux? I hope—”
“Stop! Don’t worry, it fits,” he said, turning on the ignition. “The town’s only a few miles from here. It’s called Grovers Mill. I’ll be back in plenty of time. Now let me go before it gets dark.” He backed out of the driveway, stopped and rolled down the window. “Oh, if John Cruckle calls, tell him to make me a copy of the VIP seating list. You know him. The last dinner party he tucked the McLeans away in some far corner. Harry’s wife still talks about.” Jeff then drove off.
After driving up and down Hightstown Road several times, Jeff gave up and pulled into the Gulf station. The guy with the turban knew less than he.
The pickup with a bad muffler rattled in behind Jeff. The washed-out sign on the truck door read ‘Homer’s Hay and Feed, Deans, NJ.’ An old man stepped out of the pickup, wearing blue overalls and a plaid shirt topped off with a straw hat.
Jeff called out, “Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Grovers Mill.”
The old man took the pipe out of his mouth “Grovers Mill! Why, it’s just down the road apiece,” he said, spitting in the dirt. “Can’t miss it, neighbor.”
“Thank you,” Jeff said. “Could you direct me there? I’m new to this area.”
The old-timer wiped his hand on his overalls and stuck it out.
“Welcome, neighbor. The name’s Horner; just call me Percy. As ya can see, I’m in the hay and feed business. Course it’s not like it was years back. All the chicken farmers left.”
“Is that a fact,” Jeff said. “Uh…Grovers Mill?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the old man said with a toothless grin. “I suppose you’re looking for the monument.”
“The monument! Yes,” Jeff said, getting out of the Mercedes. “Do you know about the monument?”
“Know about it, ’course,” the old man said. “Doesn’t everybody? It’s in Van Ness Park.”
“Tell me, sir,” Jeff said, excited. “Do you remember the night it happened?”
“Well, I’d tell ya what, neighbor,” the old man said, pulling his hat down to block the setting sun. “I do and I don’t. They tell me—I slept through the whole thing. But I’d tell ya what. Lolly remembers.”
“Lolly? Who’s Lolly?” Jeff said. “Did she see—”
“Why, everybody knows Lolly. Lolly Day. She saw the landing and everything. Yep, seen it with her own eyes. Well, that’s what Lolly says. She lives right across from the park. Yes sir, that was some doings. That Hollywood feller, the big fat guy. He had everybody scared shitless,” the old man said, slapping his knee with a hearty laugh.
“Okay, thank you, sir,” Jeff said, looking at his watch. “I better get there before dark if I want to see anything. So…uh, what’s the best way to get there?”
“Get where?” The old man gaped. “Oh, the park. That’s whatcha ask me in the first place, didn’t ya,” he cackled.
Jeff nodded with impatience as he watched the sun fade in the west.
“This is Hightstown Road,” the old man said, pointing with his pipe. “Straight down that-a-way…I’d say about a mile…you’ll see Angus’s barn—”
“Excuse me,” Jeff said with a hint of annoyance. “How would I know it’s Angus’s barn?”
“Can’t miss it, neighbor. It’s a big red thing with a hanging door.” (another spit) “He never did fix it. Scotchman, ya know, he’s got the first penny he ever earned, if ya know what I mean,” he said with a wink.
Jeff gave a half a grin. “Then what?”
“Let’s see…ya make a left, that’s Clarkville Road. Follow that right into Cranbury Road. You’ll come to a fork, stay right, you’ll see the pond.” The old man stepped closer. “If ya ever want to catch some big catfish, that’s the place,” he whispered.
“And Van Ness Park?”
“Oh yeah…sorry bout that. A little further up is Van Ness Park. You’ll see the driveway, pull right in. The monument’s about fifty yards, right behind the swings, this side of the pond, can’t miss it.”
Jeff put the Mercedes in drive and drove off with wave of thanks. The old-timer hollered out, “Watch where ya walk, sonny, that park full of goose shit. Good luck.”
Jeff pulled down the visor against the glare of the waning sun, with an eye out for Angus’s barn.
His odometer showed he went a mile; and there it was, the barn, even the hanging door. Jeff stretched his neck out the window. No road signs. This must be it.
He made the left till it came to the fork, kept right and there it was, the pond. A little further, the park. Jeff drove in and parked the Mercedes close to the swings. A cool breeze blew off the pond. He zipped up his jacket. The old man was right. But not everything was right. Jeff failed to notice the blue sedan that followed him into the park. His watch showed 6:30 pm. The sun almost gone. He turned to the voice behind him and observed two men walking through the smoky fog. The tall one had something in his hand, the smaller one lagged behind.
“Please, sir, could maybe you help us?” the tall one asked, with Middle-Eastern accent and features. “We trying to find Turnpike of New Jersey. Please, maybe you help. Thank you very much.” He presented an open road map of New Jersey to Jeff.
Jeff took the road map—Must be tourists—and spread it on the hood of the Mercedes. He didn’t see the short man slide behind him.
“Look here,” Jeff said, putting his finger to the long green line on the map. “This is the New Jersey—” His body stiffened against the cold steel pressed behind his ear and froze to the whisper.
“Please, mister, you don’t move, keep mouth shut, move, get in car.”
Jeff complied and got into the back seat of the blue sedan. A black bag quickly covered his head, his hands secured with tape. The blue sedan drove to the end of the lot, stopped and made a left-hand turn.
Jeff thought about Jane.
*****
The foreign voice over the phone told Jane to write down what he said and then read it back. When she finished reading it back, the phone went dead. Jane Jefferson sat terrified, her body shaking. The last part of the message reaffirmed her fears. “If you call the police, we will send you his head in a box.”
*****
John Cruckle got to his cell phone, which was on the third ring before he found it in his jacket pocket, hanging in the closet. He couldn’t identify the hysterical voice. “Who? Jane! Janie, calm down. What?—What about Jeff?—I can’t under—what? Where are you?—Stay there. I’ll be right over, don’t call anyone.”
*****
The bells on Sean O’Connor’s cell phone chimed out “Anchors Aweigh” at exactly eight o’clock. He pulled to the curb and flipped the lid on his cell. “Hello. Who? John! Oh, John Cruckle, is that you? Last time I saw you, you were—what? Say that again. Where are you now? Jeff’s house—Princeton. Give me the address and whatever else you have. Did you call anybody? Good. I’ll be right over. Keep the locals out of it, we need to find Jeff alive.”
Sean dialed the Newark office. “Yeah, I want to talk to Jim Booth. This is O’Connor.
“Hello, Jimbo, this is Sean O’Connor. Did you ever hear of a town in Jersey called Grovers Mill? Yeah, Grovers Mill. Somebody put the snatch on Jefferson Smith—yeah, that’s right, the Jefferson Smith. You know what he looks like, right? Good. Here’s his plate number. Get over there and see what you can find. Keep in touch.”
John Cruckle arrived at the Smiths’ house with his wife Mildred and two VPs from GE, Jerry West and Charlie Casey.
Jane opened the front and was immediately embraced by Mildred Cruckle.
John Cruckle took Jane’s arm and sat her down. She handed him the note. He read it, then turned it over. “Jane, is this all he said? Did you ask to speak with Jeff?”
She shook with tears. “No, that’s all, he said he would call back with further instructions, then the cell phone went dead. John, what can we do? They’re going to kill Jeff.”
“Listen to me, Jane,” Cruckle said, “nobody’s going to kill anybody. I contacted Sean O’Connor. You remember Sean. He served with Jeff in Vietnam. He’s now the FBI’s head honcho in the tri-state area. He should be here soon.”
*****
The air around Jeff felt clammy. The darkness clouded his senses. He heard no sound beyond the noise of breathing and the smell of cigarette smoke. He wanted to speak, but dismissed it, remembering the cold steel against his ear. He knew the temptation to struggle against the tape around his wrist was useless. But it was real. And it was happening to him. He had to say something. He opened his mouth.
“Who are you?” he said.
Silence.
The blue sedan turned onto a gravel road for a short distance, then stopped. He heard both front doors open, then his door. Hands pulled him out of the car. He was pushed further, then up a few steps, through a door. They took everything out of his pockets before shoving him in a closet. The last sound he heard was the click of the lock.
*****
At the Smith house, all parties were introduced. Sean established a command post in the library, strewn with unwrapped furniture. Sean ripped the bubble wrap off the hunt table and spread the map of New Jersey out. “Okay, what do we have so far, besides the phone call, the note?”
“Mr. O’Connor,” Jerry West interrupted, “don’t…you think we–we should call the State Police?”
“State Police?” Sean said, eyeballing West. “What are they going to, besides make a lot of noise? Nooo. We keep this thing as small as possible. If we bring in the locals, it’ll turn into a Chinese fire drill.” Sean eyed everyone in the room. “Everyone follow?”
All heads nodded.
Sean flipped the lid of his cell to answer the ring. It was Jim Booth. “Jimbo! Whata we got? Really.” Sean looked at Jane. “They found Jeff’s car.”
She moved toward Sean, then stopped when he raised his hand, “Just the car, I’m sorry, Janie.”
Sean reached for his pen. “Where? Van Ness Park. Go ahead…Grovers Mill, gotcha. Who’s with you? Marino, good. Jim, I want you to stake out the car, I’m sending a team down. Let me talk to Carmine.
“Carmine!” Sean said. “What’s it look like?”
Carmine Marino graduated number one in his class from Annapolis. Ex-Navy Seal, came to the FBI after the Vietnam War.
“Quiet!” Carmine said. “This burg looks like Brigadoon, except for the fire hydrants. The only noise ya hear is the rustle of the leaves. Real quiet, boss. We have the car, a Mercedes. It’s parked in what looks like a community park. In the rear of the park is a pond. Can’t see too much. We have a pea soup covering the entire area—”
“Carmine,” Sean barked. “Ya got photo of Smith? Good. Start knocking on some doors…maybe somebody saw something. Don’t panic the local yokels. The last panic they had was in ’38.”
“What happened in ’38, boss?” Carmine quizzed.
“Martians,” Sean said.
Silence.
“We’ll talk later, go to work.”
Sean turned to Casey with the cell phone in his hand. “Charlie, these things are a wonder. Can ya imagine what old George could of done with this thing at the Battle of Princeton?”
“Yeah,” Casey said, “the only problem is, you two—”
“Wait a minute,” Sean said, with a raised fist. “Jane, did you say the call came over the cell phone?”
“Yes, we just moved in today. The land line hasn’t been installed yet.”
“Listen, everybody,” Sean beamed. “Do you know what this means? They had to use Jeff’s cell phone to call. Right? It’s the only way they could have obtained Jane’s cell. There’s a chance we can trace the call back to their location.”
Casey stood up. “Only if it’s a 911 call through a GPS…sorry, Sean.”
*****
Most of the houses on Cranbury Road were set back across from the park. The white Victorian with a wraparound porch topped off with a widow’s walk caught Carmine’s interest. It overlooked the park and the pond. The second floor had a light in the window. He stepped closer. I wonder… Then the light went out. He walked up the front steps quietly with his I.D. in his hand. His watch showed 9:30 pm. He rang the bell. A soft voice on the other side spoke.
“Is that you, Viola? I’ll be right there.” When the door opened, a middle-aged woman appeared with a welcoming smile, wearing a printed dress with an apron, holding a wooden spoon.
“Well, good evening, sir.”
Carmine identified himself.
“Land’s sakes,” she said. “The FBI. Is there anything wrong?” she said, peering around the door.
“No, nothing’s wrong, ma’am,” Carmine said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions…do you mind if I come in?”
“Oh, of course not. Excuse my manners. Come right in. I was expecting our neighbor, Viola. She lives right next door. Come this way.”
Carmine followed her into the parlor. “Thank you, Miss…”
“Rebecca. Rebecca Day, but everybody calls me Becky. Sit right here. How about a nice glass of cider?”
Carmine set down in a fluffy settee with embroidered antimacassars. “No, thank you,” he said, “I just have a few questions. We’re looking for a certain individual. We have information that he may be in this area.”
“Oh my goodness,” Becky said, putting her hands to her throat. “Did he murder someone?”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing serious. This man is a friend of ours. We thought he might have had car trouble and stopped by to make a phone call. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary tonight or hear of any strangers about?” Carmine showed her Smith’s photo.
“No,” she said, handing the photo back to Carmine. “I did go over to Nellie Ouch’s earlier…stayed a bit.” She looked over at the stairs. “Don’t like to leave Lolly alone too long.”
“Oh, someone else lives here?” Carmine said, following her gaze.
“Yes, my aunt, Mabel Day. ’Course, everyone calls her Lolly. This is her house, I live right next door. I look in on her now and then,” Becky said, fidgeting with her apron.
“Would it be possible to speak with her?” Carmine said.
“Well, she is eighty-five years old…I don’t know how much help she can give you…she doesn’t go out that much, stays up in her room most of the time, listens to the radio and of course tends to her knitting and a little crocheting—”
“Becky, is that Viola down there?” a crackled voice called from upstairs.
“No, Lolly, we have a visitor…” Becky leaned toward Marino. “Should I tell her you’re from the FBI?” she whispered.
“Of course,” Carmine said. “Would it be easier if I went upstairs to speak with her?”
“No,” Becky said, “I think I hear her coming now.” Becky raised her voice. “Lolly, come downstairs, there’s a very important man here, he wants to ask you a few questions.”
“He does? About what?” Lolly hollered back.
“Oh Lolly!” Becky said in a louder voice. “Why don’t you come down, he seems like a very nice gentlemen.”
Lolly came down the stairs, stopping at the last two steps, supported by a blackbriar cane. “Is this the fellar?” she squinted.
Carmine stood up and walked over to Lolly. She wore a long black housedress with a white lace collar, and hair as white as snow. Her wire-rim eyeglasses looked like two mason jars. She reminded him of George Bailey’s mother in It’s a Wonderful Life. Bun and all.
“Lolly,” Becky said, helping the old lady down the last two steps, “this is Mr. Marino, he’s from the FBI. He would like to ask you a few questions. Mr. Marino, this is Lolly. I’ll be in the kitchen, icing Henry’s birthday cake,” she said to Marino. “Henry. That’s Viola’s husband,” she said to Carmine. “Wonderful man. They’ll be married fifty-two years come November or December. Or was it last month? Lolly, do you remember? Land sakes, time seems to move so fast these days, especially when ya get to be my age.” Becky giggled.
Becky walked toward the kitchen, stopped and turned. “Oh, Lolly. If Viola comes, let her in. Nice meeting you, Mr. Marino. I’ll be right in the kitchen, in case you need me. You’re sure you don’t want a glass of cider? I just bought a fresh jug today from Nellie Ouch’s. She makes the best cider in the county, you know.”
“No, thank you,” he said and glanced at his watch—9:45 pm—then over to Lolly. “Mrs. Day—”
“Just call me Lolly,” she said as she lowered herself into the mission rocker, supported by the blackbriar. “Everybody does.”
“Okay, Lolly. I have just a few questions to ask you.”
“Questions! Question about what, young man?” Lolly said with a jaundiced eye.
“Oh…nothing special. Uh…your niece tells me that you spend a great deal of time in your room.”
“Yes, I do. I like listening to the radio, and of course I have my knitting.”
“Were you up in your room most of the afternoon?”
“Why, yes, I was, I had my nap around two this afternoon. I always take my nap at two; it helps me function better. Always did, ever since I was a little girl. Don’t you agree, Mr. Martin?”
“That’s Marino,” Carmine said. “Well, I—”
“’Course, back then,” Lolly continued with folded arms, “there was so much work that had to be done on the farm. Poppa had two cows that had to be milked. I would start the fire, prime the pump, by then Poppa was up and ready for work, not before I made him his breakfast. Back then, there was no school bus, we had to walk…almost two miles…I believe. I used to walk with Viola Heap. Did I tell you about Viola? She lives right next door.”
Carmine leaned closer. “Lolly,” he said, “I’m going to ask you something very important. And before you answer I want you to think about it.”
“I always think, Mr. Martin, about everything,” Lolly said. “I can remember the last time they were here—”
“It’s Marino. They?” Carmine questioned.
“Why, the police, of course. I answered all their questions.”
“About what?” Carmine frowned.
“About the Lindbergh baby, that’s what.” Lolly’s eyes shifted around the room. “And when they caught that Nazi, they put him in the electric chair.”
“Interesting,” Carmine said. His watch showed 10:00 pm.
“Lolly!” Carmine pressed. “Let’s talk about tonight and—”
A knock at the door, followed by, “Yoo hoo, I’m here,” a voice sang out.
“Come right in, Viola,” Lolly said, leaning from her rocker as she peered around Carmine. “The door’s open.”
“Hello, every—oh,” Viola Heap said. “I see you have company, Lolly, I didn’t know…I’ll come back later—”
“Viola! You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Lolly said. “I want you to meet Mr. Martin. Mr. Martin is with the FBI and I’m helping him solve a—” Lolly motioned to Carmine with her arthritic finger to come closer. “What are we trying to solve?” she whispered.
“Nothing.” Carmine shook his head with raised eyes. “Nothing.”
“Hello, Mr. Martin,” Viola beamed. “Has there been a murder?”
“Why, hello, Viola,” Becky said, coming to Carmine’s rescue, still holding the wooden spoon. “Come in the kitchen, Vi, I think Mr. Marino wants to talk with Lolly a few minutes more. You know, Vi, the FBI are very busy people and they have a lot of work to do. Come, I want to show you Henry’s cake. It’s chocolate, his favorite.”
After Becky and Viola went into the kitchen, Marino continued questioning Lolly.
“So Lolly, you were in your room most of the afternoon and part of the night?”
“Yes. I just said that,” Lolly said, giving Carmine a concerned look.
“Yes, you did; and during that time, did you notice anything unusual going on in the park across the street?”
“Unusual! Like what?” she said, with a wrinkled brow.
“Earlier today, a man drove a gray Mercedes into the park,” Carmine said, showing her the photo of Smith. “Do you remember him driving in?”
Lolly adjusted her glasses. “No…I don’t. I didn’t see him drive in. But I did see the other car drive out.”
“Other car! There was another car?” Carmine said in a direct voice.
“Yes, there was,” she said, as she rocked back and forth.
The bells on Carmine’s cell chimed out the tune of “Garry Owen.”
“Excuse me,” Carmine said, taking out his cell. He flipped the lid and saw Sean’s name on the screen. “Yeah, boss.”
“Anything?”
Carmine stood up and turned his back to Lolly. “I got a ‘maybe’ going. Boss! There was another car.”
“We got any numbers?” Sean fired back.
“I’m working on it now, I’ll call you ba—”
“Carmine!” Sean shot back. “We got a second call…they want ten million in two hours, or Smith’s fertilizer.”
“Give me a few minutes.” Carmine checked the time on the cell: 10:10 pm. “I’ll get back to you.” Carmine closed his cell.
“Okay, Lolly,” Carmine said, taking out his pen and pad. “The color, make, year, anything about the car.”
“The fog made it hard for me to see any faces,” she gestured with her hands. “Might have been dark blue…maybe black or…I don’t know…”
Lolly took off her wire-rim glasses and let them dangle between her thumb and index finger in thought. “Well, like I say, Mr. Martin—oh, excuse me, Marino. The car had no headlights. But when it turned out of the park, the headlights went on; even that little light in the back, you know the one that lights up the license plate? I don’t know what they call it. Do you?”
“No,” Carmine said, feeling the goose pimples on his arms. “Lolly, continue. That’s not important.”
“Well, Mr. Marino—what ya know? I got right that time. I remembered what happened the last time the police came to the house.”
“Last time!” he said with indifference. “Do you remember the plate number? That’s what important—”
“No, I don’t,” Lolly said. “If you let me continue…Mr….yes, Marino. It was when them Martians landed. Matter a fact, it was a night just like tonight, ’cept I was at church, playing the piano—well, just practicing really, for Sunday services, and guess what?”
“I don’t think that really matters now, Lolly.” Carmine cringed. “What’s important—”
“So how is everybody?” Becky said, followed by Viola into the parlor. “Viola’s leaving now. Don’t forget Henry’s cake, Vi. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Viola kissed Lolly and gave a nod to Carmine. “Nice meeting you, sir.” Viola left.
“Well now,” Becky beamed. “Were you helpful to Mr. Marino, Lolly?”
“A little bit,” Carmine said with a silent groan. “I’ll have to leave. I want to thank both of you for your cooperation.”
“Oh…” Becky said. “The kettle’s on the boil, I thought you might want a cup of tea before you left.”
“No, thank you,” Carmine said, walking to the front door. His watch showed 10:20 pm. “I really must go.”
“Mr. Marino,” Lolly said, getting up, bracing herself on the rocker. “You didn’t let me finish about the car.”
Carmine walked back to Lolly, supporting her to stand. “Yes, Lolly, go ahead, tell me.”
“Well! I was telling you about the last time the police were here. They questioned me about the Martians, if I saw them or if I saw anything funny, you know. Well, I did see something. I don’t know what it was, kind of hard when you’re scared. That’s what I told the policeman. Well, I don’t think he believed me. He kind of smiled and said, ‘Young lady, next time you see something strange, write it down on a piece of paper so you won’t forget.’
“So I did,” Lolly said, taking the piece of scrap paper out of her cardigan pocket and handing it to Carmine. “I wrote down the plate number of the car, so I wouldn’t forget it. I may have a hard time reading the paper, but I can spot a ripe tomato fifty feet away in a field.”
Carmine took the paper from Lolly and stared at the number written on it. He heard the bells of “Garry Owen.” It was Sean.
“Hello, boss.”
“I hope ya got something, Marino.”
“I sure do, boss. Ready to copy. If I’m not mistaken, here’s the kidnapper’s plate number.” Carmine read the number on the paper to Sean. “Ya got it? Good. I’m on my way over.”
A federal SWAT team broke into a farmhouse located at the end of a gravel road in Hightstown, New Jersey and rescued Jefferson Smith out of the broom closet, no cuts or bruises; and arrested two men of Middle Eastern extraction.
The next day, the dinner party went off as scheduled, with Lolly as the guest of honor, sitting next to Jefferson Smith.
Jeff Smith stopped believing in UFO’s. Now he believes in miracles.

The End

The Americanization of the World
1200 words

Americanization; what is it?
A process that started with the melting pot in America; promising all immigrants the transformation into an American citizens; forged in the crucible of democracy, with the benefits of liberty, freedom and civic responsibility.
These galvanized Americans backed by the only written constitution in the world built the greatest super power beyond imagination.
Some will argue that we have used our power in a dangerous way; as a super power forcing Americanization on the world and threatening their culture.
Some left minded American believe its gives other countries a false sense of life and in the end caused hatred for Americans.
They complain about American capitalism taken over the world, American culture corrupting their children.
In a recent French poll, 67% said. “When they think of America, they think of violence.”
Oh how they welcomed the American violence on June 6, 1944 on Normandy Beach.
In Singapore, their response to America was “Violence, workaholics, and disrespect for authority.”
Some one please ask the people in Singapore, are the Americans more violent then the Japanese, who murdered close to 50.000 of their fellow citizens.
Thanks to Americans ridding Singapore of the Japanese army; $2.5 trillion in humanitarian aid from the western world went to Singapore in the last fifty years to stimulate their growth and reduce poverty.
Boy, how people’s attitudes change when their bellies are full.
Americanization liberated Germany, Italy, Holland, Denmark, Belgium, Norway, Greece and France during World War II.
American forces came to the rescue of the German people in Berlin in 1948 with the Berlin airlift. To supplying the suffering Berliner’s with supplies, food and medicine.
American made 100.000 flights into Berlin with over 750.000 tons of supplies. At Christmas, they introduced Operation Santa Claus, bringing toys to over 10.000 children, just before the wall went up. I’ll bet they even said Merry Christmas.
Twenty-eight years later, an American president had to come back and tell their Communist government, “To tear down that wall”.
Israeli government in an attempt to slow down Americanization now requires their radio stations to devote half their airtime to Hebrew songs while the American school children are mandated by our left wing school system to learn and sing the dreidel and shun silent night.
Even Holy Ireland has adopted an attitude of anti Americanism, displayed by the protest of the Socialist Workers Party of Ireland, against our service men and women who stop over in Shannon Air-port from Iraq while the Irish people turn a blind eye.
Do you think the young people of Ireland ever heard of the “Fighting Sixty Ninth”, or man named Father Duffy?
Don’t ask, they’ll probably think it’s a rock band
Let us see how long Socialism last in Ireland.
Then we come to the worst of the lot, our domestic enemy. The American “Secular Progressives” who have become bleeding heart liberals forgetting their American roots.
With their anti-religion bilge, they cannot accept the fact that Judea-Christian ideals are part of our countries foundation. Over 90% of Americans believe in a religion and want it in their lives. Where was that more evident, when Four Army Chaplains gave their lives when the USAT Dorchester was hit by a torpedo and sank on February 3, 1943. They helped other soldiers board lifeboats and gave up their life jackets when the supply ran out. 230 men of the 902 aboard survived the attack.
The chaplains were Lieutenants Rev. George L. Fox (Methodist); Rabbi Alexander D. Goode (Jewish); Fr. John P. Washington (NJ native) (Roman Catholic); and Rev. Clark V. Poling (Dutch Reformed). The sank, the four chaplains calmed the frightened soldiers and sailors, aided in the evacuation of the ship, and helped guide wounded men to safety. The chaplains also gave up their own life vests. .”
"These four men of faith had given away their only means of saving themselves in order to save others. Men rowing away from the sinking ship in lifeboats saw the chaplains clinging to each other on the slanting deck. Their arms were linked together and their heads were bowed as they prayed to the one God whom each of them loved and served.
"The Dorchester sank beneath the icy waters of the North Atlantic, carrying with it the four chaplains and some 675 servicemen."
With SP logic for anti-justice, thank God that piece of garbage in Nickel Mines PA., who executed those innocent schoolchildren, killed himself. Can you imagine him going before Judge Edward Cashman. You remember Cashman, his the guy who sentenced the child rapist to 60 days in jail.
Anti Americanism would not be such a problem if the American people were united in standing up for their own country.
Therefore, what is good in America!
America provides an amazingly good life for the ordinary guy. America is the only country in the world where outsiders are welcomed and can become an American citizen. No other country in the world gives you that option.
Americans live longer and live a fuller life.
America is a country where you can write your own script in life.
America has found the solution to the problem of religion and ethic conflict. Go to any city in America and see the way in which Serbs and Croatians, Sikhs and Hindus, Irish Catholics and Irish Protestants, Jews and Palestinians work and live together in harmony.

Americans inherit liberty and freedom as their birthright. Muslim fundalmentalist argue virtue over liberty as superior because of it higher principle.
The only virtue fundamental Muslims foster is a coerced virtue, forced on the people. They have no liberties or freedom or the right to express their own ideas in their daily lives.
Can anyone name the countries and the millions of people America liberate in the last hundred years.
The leftist are crying. “Get out Iraq and bring out boys home”, on the other side of their mouth their saying “President Bush, stop the genocide in Darfur.” When Saddam slaughter over 100.000 of his people, wasn’t that genocide?
The attack on 9/11 by Muslim terrorist is over five years ago. When it happened I did not see the anger as I remember on December 7th 1941. I did not see the young men line up at the recruiting stations as I saw on that cold December night. There is no unity in our country demonstrating rage against the Muslim terrorist.
American citizens!, whether your born here or came on a boat, you best remember with all that freedom and liberty comes responsibility of stepping forward to preserve your republic. If you cannot accept that, then I suggest you leave.
Americans need a shot in the arm; maybe a man on a white horse to remind the future generations of Americans to reassess their values. Maybe take a trip to Washington DC to see and read the words on the Lincoln memorial. Visit the America archives and get acquainted with men like Washington and Jefferson whose ideas and leadership made this a great country and while their at it, I hope they take a walk over to Arlington’s National Cemetery and see what it cost.

The Flat Iron

Summertime in the city is hot and when the humidity goes over ninety, its brutal. Orders weren’t out for short sleeves yet, so we still had to wear long sleeves with a tie.
My regular partner didn’t show up for roll call. Lieutenant Brady said “He booked off with a summer cold, why not it’s Friday and he has the weekend off, what else is new. I was concerned; not for my partner, but who was going to replace him. Usually the assignment officer throws in a misfit, like a drunk or a guy just coming off suspension for violating rules and regulations.
After roll call, Lieutenant Brady handed me a new order, stating, “Every time the Patrol Car is left unattended, it will be locked and the handcuffs will be secured to a special hook provided for on the dash board, also he handed me the second set of keys for the car, stating “The two ass holes you just relieved, took the first set home with them.” and your working with John Casey, lots a luck.”
John Casey liked his beer; well he liked his I.W. Harper Bourbon with a beer chaser.
John was on his third wife, Gertrude who still received checks for the kids.
His second wife Cora, died of cancer and the present wife Gilda is a degenerate gambler. After she gets paid she drive’s to Atlantic City on Friday, and every Saturday night drive’s back home broke and then for the next two weeks, John has to supply her with cigarettes, gas money and make the payment on their up scaled condo with golf course attached.
“So why are living so high on the hog “, I asked John.
“Well”, he said, “That’s where she was staying with her daughter, when I met her. Plus she wants to keep up appearances, you know.”
Then with a grin he said, “Now you know why I drink.”
To keep from losing the condominium, John worked during the day at the department store as security and on weekends, he worked security at the Hospital.
He was a good cop, when he wasn’t drinking. You had to watch him thou when he drank too much He’d always seem to get into arguments that turn into fist fights, that he usually lost. He got himself arrested three times while in the Navy and four times as a cop, all for drunk and disorderly.
We get along pretty good. He knows when I know he has enough to drink.
Okay, so let us get to the story. A flat iron is used for ironing clothes, one end comes to a sharp point so you can get into tight spots when ironing shirt button , collars, etc. There heavy, if you drop one on your foot it could be a serious injury also it qualifies as a weapon.”
We were working the four to midnight shift in Spanish Harlem. The tenements along Orchard Street are occupied by mostly low income Hispanic’s. They were the red warning light that panicked the Irish and Germans to move to out of out of the neighborhood to safer ground.
John read the order with his usual response, “What bunch of ass holes wrote up this order?” Ya know Bat this could back fire out there on the streets.”
I rolled my eyes and said, What else is new, by the way, how were the two days off?”
He wrote down the mileage, “I feel like shit, I just come off a two day drunk.”
“No shit. How did Gilda do last week at Atlantic City?”
“John lit up a Phillip Morris and sucked the smoke down deep into his lunges and then let the smoke tickle through his nose. What else, she lost, the son a of bitch. It looks like I’m gonna have sell the condo.”
“Really, it’s getting that bad,”I said “What about the daughter, she’s over twenty, she works, right?”
He took off his hat and the sweat rolled down his forehead. “Yeah, she works, tell me about it. She spends all her money on clothes, or on that ass hole boy friend she goes with. She dosen’t hand over a penny. I’ll tell ya Bat ya gotta see this guy, he has hair down to his ass.”
The dispatcher squawked out the first job. ‘Car 15, 712 Orchard Street, women beating a man on the fourth floor’
We didn’t have air-conditioning and the temperature in the car was close to a hundred. The back of our shirts were already wet and I could feel the sweat rolling down my arms.
It took a while to snake through the rush hour traffic, we had to double park in front of the tenement.
We walked up the front door, “Hey,” John said did you lock the car?” with a grin.”
“Yeah, that’s right I said, this is going to be a pain in the ass, just a second.”
The front door to the tenement was locked and what you had to do was ring the bell and the party would buzz you in.
Knowing the situation and where we were, I rang all the bells and as expected no bell.
After heavy pounding on the door a women from the first floor came running out of her apartment with a terrified look pointing up to the ceiling lucha de la lucha . Her son pointed also “Their having a fight.” he said
We heard a lot of screaming and noise’s, like things breaking and stuff falling. We hit the steps two at a time , Forty-Eight steps in all., We reach the top apartment, the door was wide open and we can see a skinny man being chased around the room by a large robust women with a flat iron in her hand. The man ran into the bedroom room and locked the door. The women ran after him screaming, trying to break the door down with the flat iron. I grabbed her sweaty wrist, but it soon slipped out of my hand
“Put it down,” I said. She turned and came after me with the iron in her hand and fire in her eyes, rambling on in Spanish; something about, “I will kill him.”
I picked up the kitchen chair in self-defense to try and hold her at bay.
“John” I said “Run down stairs and get the hand cuffs, I’ll hold her off here till you get back.”
After the front door slam behind him, then did I realize that the door was locked and I had the keys.
It didn’t take long,, when John began pounding on the front door which locked when it slammed behind him. I screamed out into the hallway, “Some body, open the god dam door.
John came running up the steps, the whole Forty-Eight. He staggered in the room gasping for air. He gave me that look. I said, “I know the cars locked.”
”Okay John, here is the chair, I’ll run down and open the car. All you have to do is hold her at bay until I get back and for god sakes don’t shoot her.”
Back down I go and open the car door and discover that the second set of keys have no handcuff key. The handcuffs remained on the hook. I lock the car and return to the front door, which was locked. I pounded on the door a few times and could hear John screaming out for some one to open the God dam door. A little kid opened the door and back up the Forty-Eight I did go. John, now well spent, Ten years my senior and nursing a two day drunk, handed me the chair “I need a rest he said, and sat down on the couch. I grabbed the chair and the fat lady and myself circled each other around the room.
Outside the apartment in the hall, a crowd had gathered, I now had an audience and they were cheering me on. I asked if anyone spoke English, no response, just more cheering.
The only contact with outside help, was with our car radio or a concerned citizen.
I looked at John and he looked at me. He got the message. Back down the Forty-Eight steps goes John, forgetting that I still had the keys to the car. Here he comes; back up the Forty Eeight. I throw him the keys. Back down he goes again.
I turn back to my opponent, were both drenched in sweat. She’s starting to tire, that’s when I dropped the chair and tackled her to the floor where we rolled around in the dirt holding on to each other. I’m trying to hold on to her slipper body, but all I feel is sweat. I don’t know what the odds were, but I had to end this quick, I was beginning to tire.
Then I heard music to my ears, Police sirens and car doors slamming outside. I heard people running up the stairs, thank God they were wearing blue,
They subdued the women and handcuffed her. Another struggle ensued dragging her down stairs and then trying to pry her into the car.
John and I looked at each other’s sweaty bodies, with ripped shirts, dirty scratched arm.
Sergeant Block told us to go over to the city dispensary and get checked.
We both refused, saying “Were okay, just a few scratches.” But he insisted.
After two hours in the dispensary, we washed up and headed back to the Precinct to do the paper work on Mrs. Santiago.
After thirty minutes we handed in the paper work and Mrs. Santiago was brought out from the back room to be slated before the desk Lieutenant, “Where’s the complainant?” he said
At this time the Precinct door open and in walked the skinny husband, Mr. Santiago.
“Right here” I said. “Step up to the desk sir.”
His interpreter explained “”Mr. Santiago does not want to make a complaint, but came here to bail his wife out of jail.”
He posted bail, $50.00 Mr. and Mrs. Santiago walked out of the Precinct hand and hand with Mr. Santiago.
We got back in the car and I said “John ,I think we need a drink , let’s go.”

The End

Herman’s Head



Bertha and her husband Teleford Bork were born in Hell’s Kitchen of German parents. After their marriage, Teleford bought a sausage store on Tenth Avenue.
Through hard work and thrift, they bought a three-story brownstone at 439 Ninth Avenue, right in the heart of the tenderloin. It was a small step up from Hell’s Kitchen, only a block, but instead of listening to the wild Irishmen fighting and the constant tavern brawls, they devoted thenselves to hard work and the consumption of large amounts of lager and wurst. Their entertainment was the blare and thump of Bavarian bands in the beer gardens at Yorkville.
Bertha possessed the three B’s, she was Big, Blonde and Buxom.
Teleford possessed the three T’s, he was Tiny, Timid and Thirsty.
Neglecting his shop, Teleford developed a “Tenth Avenue” thirst and soon drank himself out of business.
Bertha’s outspoken contempt manifested itself into battling Bertha and sent Teleford tumbling down the cellar steps. The autopsy said it was an accident.
To keep the house and the larder stocked, Bertha decided to open her home to boaders.
The sign in the window produced Herman Burger, a thirty-five years old German American, with plenty of energy. He worked as a masseur at the Murray Hill Turkish Baths, rubbing down drunks and potbellies into shape.
Herman had six B’s, going for him, he was Big, Brawny, Boastful, Belligerent, Blonde and Blue eyed.
In addition to his masculine build and wavy blond hair, he had a Teutonic mural tattooed on his chest that made Bertha swoon when she sometimes inadvertently open the bathroom door.
For two year’s Herman and Bertha tripped the life fantastic, attending beer gardens, dancing to the tuba; they even shared the same bedroom life wasn’t bad, except for the times Herman drank a little too much and would start a jealous argument that turn into a punching match, with Herman doing most of the punching.
Bertha decided it was time for another boarder. The sign in the window produced Sigmund Schultz, a dandy dapper German American with a poetic manner. Sigmund had seven S’s going for him, he was Smiley, Slick, Sensitive, Sweet, Smooth, Slippery and Suave, with a scent of eucalyptus that tickled Bertha’s nose and stimulated her heart.
Sigmund worked at Brooks Brothers and dressed to prove it.
Bertha like Sigmund, she liked his politeness and manner of speech. She became tired of Herman’s erratic temperament that led to getting the hell beat out of her.
Sigmund seeing Herman as the brawny brute came to Bertha’s rescue and let her know that he wanted to step into Herman’s shoe’s, and possibly other intimate duties as well.
Herman suspected the attraction with loud objections and threatening gesture that put Sigmund and Bertha on the defense. Bertha’s bedroom became out of bounds for Herman. Bertha changed the lock on her bedroom door and the cat and mouse game began. The ménage at 439 Ninth Avenue became climactic. Something had to give.
New Years Day 1879 Herman stayed in bed that morning trying to get rid of the big bass drum that pounded in his head as the result of the New Years Eve party at “The Steuben Political Club” which gave Bertha and Sigmund a private moment alone, in Bertha’s bedroom.
“Happy New Year Sigmund” said Bertha “I hope 1897 is a better year.”
They both embraced. Sigmund responded with a kiss “Let’s hope so.
Bertha then slid back into their embrace with a smile.
The bedroom door opened with a bang, there stood Herman in his underwear with fire in his eyes and screamed out. “So this is what you two sons-of – bitches have been up to.”
Sigmund grabbed his pants but couldn’t make it to the door. Herman picked him up and threw him across the room. He then proceeded to beat the hell out Bertha. After the dust settled, Herman left, leaving Sigmund with a bloody nose and an aching head. Bertha survived with two black eyes and a bloody lip.
“The dummes schwein (dumb pig) has to go”, Bertha said tending to Sigmund nose.
Sigmund looked at Bertha’s two black eyes and said, “He won’t go, the next time he’s going to kill us. I don’t think I’ll be able to survive another beating like this one, the mans verruckt im-kopf (crazy in the head). I think maybe, I should find another place to live.”
“No Sigmund”, Bertha murmured through her split lip. I think I have a way. I think maybe we can get rid the schwein (pig). Listen, I have a plan.”
“Plan” said Sigmund. “What plan?”
“The plan is this Siggy!, we kill the son-of bitch.”
Sigmund held his head “Oh-mein gott, (Oh my god) you think we can get away with it?”
“Yes Siggy, I thought about it many times. First we find a remote spot, in fact I know of just the spot. It’s up in the Bronx, in the Ogden Woods section, right along the Bronx River. I can rent a weekend cabin. After you kill the schwein (pig) we’ll dump him in the river.”
Sigmund swallowed hard. “We, I never killed anyone before Birdie. Suppose they find the body?”
Bertha smiled back, “What good is a body with no head, meine liebe?”
Sigmund wide eyed said,” Ich sehe ich sehe, “ (I see I see.)
Right now Siggy we do nothing. We avoid each other and let that bastard cool down. Two weeks, ww’ll wait two weeks then we’ll do it. I have been thinking about this for a long time. Here’s what will need. Bertha picked up a pencil and began writing the following
1 dagger with a poison tip.
1 revolver.
1 bottle of carbolic acid.
1 carving knife.
1 hammer for the coup de grace
1 rope for hanging, just in case Herman dies as hard as he lived.
Sigmund still somewhat confused said, “But Birdie, how are we going to get him to come to the cabin.?”
“That won’t be a problem Siggy, leave that to me. Can you get the stuff on this list within the next two weeks?”
“I suppose so” Sigmund nodded.
“Oh and one more thing Siggy, you’ll have to rent a horse and trap to move the body. Can you manage that?
“Ya , I suppose so” Sigmund nodded again.
“Okay”, Bertha smiled. When he come home tonight say nothing.
That night Herman didn’t say to much, his evil eyes said enough.
Bertha was extra nice, she made his favorite knoxwurst with extra red cabbage.
A week later, Bertha dropped the hint that she was planning to spend a weekend up at Ogden Woods ice-skating on the Bronx River. This stirred Herman’s interest.
“Bertha” Herman said. “That sound like a good idea. Would you mine if I came too?”
“But Herman” Bertha frowned. I thought you were still angry with me for last week.”
“Oh that” Herman smiled. No, I think you learned your lesson and I’m sure it won’t happened again. Recht, meine liebe?”(right my love)
Antonio the barber dropped the hot towel on Herman’s face. So what’s the occasion, Herman?”
“I’ll be spending the weekend with a lady friend, Herman winked, up at Ogden Woods, in our own little cabin, ice skating”
“I dare say my friend, aren’t you the lucky one” Antonio smiled.”
Herman put on his derby ,looked in the mirror, straightened his tie and responded with a twinkle in his eye, “Abschied mein Freund” (farewell my friend) and left.
That evening, Willie waited in the back room of the cottage and Bertha prepared to receive Herman in the parlor.
After four quarts of ale and a jar of pickles pig’s feet, Herman loosen his belt and laid on the couch.
Sigmund dashed from the back room with revolver in hand and shot Herman three times and then plunged the poisoned knife into his heart that stopped Herman from thrashing around.
Bertha went to work with the carving and decapitating him.
The torso and head were left in the bathtub to drain.
They encased the head in a bucket of plaster of Paris, and wrapped it in canvas. One last act of identifying Herman, was left to Bertha with her carving knife, she cut around the tattoo on Herman’s chest and ripped it off.
Under pitch darkness of a cloudy night they loaded Herman remains, wrapped in canvas, plus his head into the wagon and dumped it in the the Bronx River. The head sunk first and then the body parts slowly submerged.
“So far, so good,” Bertha said.” Now we lay low and see if anyone misses him. Bertha suggested they split up. She told Sigmund, “You stay here and clean up, leave nothing to chance. I’ll go back to Ninth Avenue and if anybody asked about Herman, I’ll tell them, he gave his notice.”
That night a violent thunderstorm struck The Bronx, causing the river to overflow sending Herman’s remains to the foot of the river where his torso was discovered, minus the head.
The Bronx coroner stated that through an extensive and diligent autopsy his masterful deduction was that this was a homicide and may I add boasted, it was performed in the most mysterious and methodical foul manner I have ever witnessed.”
Before the police could really get the investigation on the road, William Randolph Hearst of “The Journal” took the forefront and flooded the city with reporters armed with pencils and pads.
The had a body, but no identification until a Hearst reporter picked up a conversation in a Tenth Avenye bar between the barkeep Paddy Murphy and a patron in a conversation about losing his best customer. “His name was Herman Burger, he would come in every day” Paddy said. The reporter armed with a name and an address gained further information from the Murray Hill Turkish Bath who gave the reporter the address of Herman’s barber Antonio. That afternoon Detective Byrne was banging on the cottage door in Ogden Woods.
He asked Sigmund about Herman Burger. Sigmund responded,”I know of a Herman Burger at 496 Ninth Avenue, but I haven’t seen him.”
The storm that night not only raised the Bronx River it also raised the level of the cabins cesspool causing it to back up and spilling a thick red solution over the yard. Detective Byrne couldn’t help but notice the red seepage that Sigmund couldn’t explain it.
Sigmund Scholz was arrested for the murder of Herman Burger. Two hours later, they picked up Bertha on the same charge,to joined Sigmund, as a resident in the Ludlow Street Jail.
“The Journal,” loudly, proclaimed that a conviction of the “Two Hellions From Hell’s Kitchen,” would soon follow.
The World newspaper orchestrated by Joseph Pulitzer insinuated that the Journal was persecuting two innocent people and engaged the top law firm in New York, for Bertha and Sigmund, “Hummer ,Hummer and Hummer”
The Police department contributed the quick arrest to the iron broom of newly appointed Police Commission Theodore Roosevelt, spurred on by Captain Patrick “Paddy” Ryan, (veteran and war hero of the fighting sixty ninth).
Despite the newfound gold in the Klondike that week, the murder of Herman Burger stayed on the front page.
Hummel Hummer the senior partner asserted that circumstantial evidence was all the prosecution had. There was even a question if the torso, was it Herman Burger or some unknown unfortunate.
Mum was the word Hummer impressed upon Bertha and Sigmund and he promised an acquittal.
The next day Hummel Hummer would present his summation. A summation that made Juries weep and sometimes even Hummel himself would weep. Everyone in the Justice system knew Hummel Hummer could sell the Devil a furnace.
Unknown to Hummel, Bertha was seeing a Reverent Trueheart, although not a prison chaplain, he did roam the corridors of the Tombs in search of lost souls. The day before the summation, the Reverend brought his seven-year-old son along to the prison. A charming, sweet engaging child climbed on the lap of Bertha, asked if she believed in God.
Bertha Bork described the following in her confession.
“When that adorable child pleaded with me to tell the truth, it was like a message from God himself, I couldn’t do other than to tell him.”
Hummel’s defense collapsed as did Hummel. He had to be carried from the Court Room. He still talks about it at the home.
The Journal had the confession on the street twelve hours ahead of the World.
The World swore the Journal made a deal with Trueheart and the prosecution to get Bertha off the hook at Sigmund’s expense.

Bertha sold the brownstone to pay Hummel.
Detective Byrne retired and opened a national detective agency.
Sigmund confessed and got life in Sing Sing Prison in exchange for the hangman.
Theodore Roosevelt went on to become President of the United States
Bertha got nine years and did six. She went back to Hell’s Kitchen a chastened and repentant woman.
You will find her working at the Murray Hill Turkish Baths, rubbing down the pot bellies, and over worked Banker from Wall Street.

The End
[

The Street Arabs

His chest sunken and his shoulders sloped; his little gray eyes sunk in a protruding forehead “What’ll you do with me?” said Johnny Moran to Officer Patrick Ryan, known through out Hell’s Kitchen as Paddy Ryan a veteran of the Sixty Ninth Division, who enforced the law with the end of his nightstick.
“Tell me kid, where’s your mother?
“Me mutter is dead, she died when I was a year old, that’s what he said any way. So tell me mister, what are they going to do with me?”
“Paddy Ryan’s six foot plus frame looked down atJohnny, “So what happened?”
“My old man wuz sick past a week now. He just laid around and groaned all day. I didn’t know what wuz the matter with him and I don’t think he cared either.”
Ryan took out his pad and pencil, “What’s his name kid?”
Johnny raised his dirty nicotine stained fingers to wipe his eyes and said, “John, the same as mine.”
“Did he work Johnny?”
He was a night watchman when he wooked.
“Tell me lad now, where would that be?”
“Down at the dock at Thoity-seventh Street at night.
“Tell me Johnny, did he say anything before he died?”
“Yeah, last night he asked me to help him get into the bed. He told me to get a rope and help him into the bed. I tried to drag him across the room, but he wuz too heavy. I got hungry, so I went out to get a roll and when I came back, he looked woist. Like his legs and belly all swelled up. Then last night he groaned something like awful. Then after a while, he stopped. In the morning, I called to him four or five times but he didn’t answer.
“Tell me Johnny, do you think he was dead.”
Yes sir, I knew he wuz dead, but I had to go to school, I didn’t what to go.”
Paddy Ryan stooped down to Johnny’s eye level. “Did ya tell anybody.
“I told some of the feller at school and they came back to the house and took five dollars out of his pocket. I took his watch. The big boy wouldn’t give me any of the five dollars and they ran away.”
“Okay Johnny, after they ran away what did you do?”
“I got hungry and went downstairs to tell the janitor and then he called the cops. I’m sorry the old man’s dead, he treated me good, he never kicked me; well not much any way. What are they going to do with me mister?”
“I don’t know son, do you have any other family?
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You better come with me or else your gonna wind up as a Street Arab,” Ryan said as he took him by the hand.
Johnny Moran had no one, a twelve year old boy, left to the streets of Hell’s Kitchen to become a member of the over ten thousand homeless children known as Street Arabs.
Hell’s Kitchen was on the brink of exploding, spurred on by the Irish Potato famine and waves of poor immigrants arriving with a bag clothes slung over their shoulder and hopes of a better life in their heart, only to be greeted by persecution that harden them into a mass rabble having to fight for their share of what America had to offer.
He would confront the perils of the streets.
If a wagon nearly runs him over, he would feel the lash of the whip to teach him to watch out. If he plays around the store front, the owner would give him a kick or cuff behind the ear to get rid of him, if the Policemen comes, he feels the justice of the night stick to notify him to play someplace else.
Ryan placed Johnny in the detention room in the back of the Ludlow Street Station House, next to the prison cells.
Confronted by the steel bars in the next room, Johnny thught of what his father told him about jails, ‘Johnny me boy,’ he would say, ‘Don’t let the coppers get ya in the jail house, or you’ll curse the day you were born.’
As soon as his chance came, he climbed out the rear window and ran back to the old neighborhood on Tenth Avenue.
Outside the tenement two negro’s were sliding the pine box in the back of the carriage.
For the first time in his life, he got scared, maybe because he was truly alone.
He went upstairs’, but the door was padlocked.
He went back downstairs to speak with the janitor, who told him ‘All that’s left in the house I locked in the cellar to cover the back rent.
That night he slept in the cellar until the next morning when he found his friend Timmy Kelly outside.
Timmy told Johnny he could come to their house and stay.
Timmy lived with his father, his older brother Willie and his baby sister Maggie. Timmy’s mother died of tuberculosis when he was three. After she died their father turned to heavy drinking turning the boys out on the streets as beggars to beg and steal whatever they could. Twelve year old Maggie, kept house for the family.
Old man Kelly let Johnny sleep in the basement that night but expected him to hold up his end if he wanted to remain. So he got Johnny a job down at the soap factory on the waterfront. He was given a skinners knife and wooden bench, where he put in a ten hour day scrapping the fat off the hides of slaughtered animals.
All the money that was made was handed over to old man Kelly to fill up his growler or you felt the razor stroop or the toe of his boot.
The only time they heard the word Jesus is when it was used as a swear word.
The curses and physical blows from old man Kelly set Johnny on his way. Timmy begged to come along and Johnny gave him the nod.
They knew of a gang that hung over at Park Row , called the Gophers.It was in the dead of winter, and the boys were fighting for a warm spot over the cellar grate that blew the warm exhaust air up from the press room where the machines rumbled out the printed word.
The grates were full of boys, so Johnny and Timmy lifted the coal shute on the sidewalk and slide down into the warm bin where they found refuge with about thirty other boys.
The coal bin didn’t last long, two nights later the Police cleared the cellar out with their nightstick.
Johnny and Timmy were in the group that escaped down to the banana docks along the East River where they found an abandoned brewery, they called the rookery. The boys made that their regular haunt that was shared by thirty some odd Street Arabs and about a million rats.
Their newfound friends were members of the notorious Gopher Gang that haunted the streets of Hell’s Kitchen feeding off the weak, dispossessed and extorting money from the push cart workers in exchange for there well being with a clenched fist.
At the end of every day, they met at the rookery and shared their swag what ever it may be. Scraps from the Slaughterhouses, stale bread, crushed fruit that the peddlers threw away made up their one meal of the day.
The drafty rookery took its toll during the winter months leaving the weak and sick frozen where they lay.
They looked out for each other in defense of the gangs that roamed through Hell’s Kitchen, especially the Tenth Avenue Gang headed by Dutch Hendrich, a brute who battled his way through the cobblestone street stealing from the unfortunates and attacking other gangs for the sport of it
Winter soon faded into spring, leaving the boys to suffer the hot humid summer month, which brought disease such as malaria, measles, whooping cough, scarlet fever and tuberculosis. Death was a poor man’s Doctor.
The only relief they found during the hot summer months, was swimming in the Hudson River tainted with the blood and bile of pigs, sheep and cattle waste from the near-by slaughterhouses.
Besides their one meal a day, they were supplemented with candy which consisted of glue, glucose, aniline dyes and coarse flour which played havoc with their stomachs. Cider that spoiled, was sold to the urchins for a penny a glass. Nobody would drink it except the street Arabs.
That summer took the lives of many kids, including Timmy sister Maggie. The talk was she died from consumption. Old man Kelly needed more money to fill up the growler so he sent her to the soap factory which destroyed her lungs.
Soon after, old man Kelly died from a knife wound in a bar fight. Nobody knew whatever happened to Willie. Some say he just got lost in the system. One of the Gophers said Willie was arrested for stealing a man’s wallet after first cutting the man’s throat. Years later it was heard he died at Sing Sing Prison.
Johnny and Timmy were picked up by the Railroad Police breaking into a freight car.They were taken to the Ludlow Street Station for booking.
The newly appointed Sergeant at the desk was no other than Paddy Ryan himself, he stood up and peered over the desk and said.
“Well if isn’t Johnny Moran, the last time I saw ya lad , ya wuz climbing through a window. Aye welcome home. And I see you brought a friend.”
They tell me you two rascal have been up to no good. Now tell me whatcha wuz doing in the karr, the truth now or ya feel the back of me hand.”
Johnny looked over at Timmy whose eyes weld up in tears, ”Ah, Mr. Ryan, Johnny sniffed,we needed a place to lie down. The Police cleaned out the Rookery and there was no place to stay. We didn’t take anything , honest we just wanted a place to stay for the night.”
“Did ya now”, Paddy said. The last I saw of ya wuz when yer old man died last summer. So what have you been up to? I’ll tell ya what you’ve been up to. Ya become a Street Arab , just like the rest of the divels in Hell’s Kitchen. Now mind ya, didn’t I tell ya come to no good. And who is this little shaver alongside ya?”
“Timmy, Mr. Ryan, he’s my friend.”
“Timmy, ya say, Timmy what? I sure he has a last name, what is it.? Paddy Ryan roared.
Johnny jumped back “Kelly, Timmy Kelly sir.”
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, may the saints save us, two more Mick’s, what’s to become of us.”
“Murphy” Ryan yelled to the reserve men. “ Come in here.”
“Yeah boss, whata ya need.
“Is that man from the newspaper still here?
“Yeah I think so,” Murphy said. “He’s in with the Captain.”
“Is he now” Ryan said. Go fetch him, tell em to stop by the desk before he leaves.”
“Okay boss and what about these two Arab?”
“Don’t mind yourself about the lads, just do what ya told.”
A tall well dressed man with a high collared shirt completed with ascot, walked out of Captain Kruger’s office.
Sergeant Ryan, my name is Trevor Wilkinson, I represent the “The Call Newspaper”, you wish to speak to me?”
Wilkinson , a born Englishmen came over to Hell’s Kitchen as a reformer with an idea to help wayward boys. He bought the The Call Newspaper and opened a newsboy home next to it and hope to put his ideas to work.
“Yes I do Mr. Wilkinson. Early today ya told me ya newspaper has a place for newsboys, a place where they can work and also stay. A home I think ya said, is that so?”
“Wilkinson looked down at the two boys, “Yes, that is correct, we take in homeless boys, give them a job selling newspapers and house them in a unit next to the plant. We introduce to them hard work, responsibility and self reliance. They get three squares and a place to sleep. Looking down at the boys he said. “Oh and may I add, we introduce them to soap and water, which is an agent to morale building, may I say more powerful than the pulpit.”
Paddy Ryan said with a slight smirk, “I get ya meaning sir. And would ya have a spot for these two dirty waifs in your home? I don’t think they can write their own names.
Wilkinson stepped back, looked the boys over then back to Ryan with a nod. “Yes Sergeant Ryan ,I believe we can accommodate these two lads. The door to ignorance only opens up wider. I assume their homeless?”
“Homeless as a Tinker,” Ryan smile back.
Johnny Moran and Timmy Kelly found themselves being ushered into the washroom with a bar of soap in one hand and a towel in the other.
The boys crawled between two clean sheets and pulled the blankets up to their chin. Just lying there looking at the ceiling alongside rows of other one time Street Arabs. Timmy turned to Johnny and said. “Ain’t it nice?”
That was a long time ago. Hell’s Kitchen lost the fight against Johnny and Timmy. They both survived to adulthood. Timmy graduated from the streets to working inside on the presses.
Sergeant Paddy Ryan they told me became Captain Ryan and his last act before retiring was to swear in a new recruit name John Moran.

The End