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  ***

  Fogarty was starting to cramp up as he crouched in the trees. He was ready to head back to his property when he saw a side door to the Wattle compound open and watched three people emerge. Wattle was motioning with his arms spread wide as if to show his visitors the vast expanse that he controlled. Fogarty focused his binoculars on Wattle’s two guests and could see immediately that they were out of their element. The man was wearing a fedora and sunbeams were bouncing off his leather shoes. With his dark suit and skinny tie, all Fogarty could think of was an aging wise guy stopping by to collect on a delinquent juice loan. Wattle handed the man a large envelope which suggested that some sort of business transaction had just been completed inside.

  The woman was wearing a pencil style white dress which nicely defined her hourglass figure. It was adorned with some pattern that Fogarty couldn’t identify and the short flutter sleeves left her tanned, slender arms exposed. She was tall and slim with short brown hair topped off with a flying saucer hat with a very wide brim. Shaded by sunglasses and her hat, Fogarty could not get a distinct look at her face but saw enough to conclude that she was a dish with gorgeous pins.

  After shaking hands with Wattle, the woman pointed to the Chrysler and seemed to be urging the ex-Mayor to follow her. As he did, the back window of the car was rolled down and an arm extended out. Wattle appeared to be startled and momentarily stepped back. Then, a broad smile crossed his face and he vigorously shook the hand that was extended to him.

  As the Chrysler rumbled away, Fogarty tried to get the license plate details but his view was obscured. He did note the dark blue background and white lettering on the back plate so he knew for sure that the car was from out of state. He turned back to Wattle, who stood gazing up at the quarry and fieldstone structure. All of the windows had expensive canvas awnings, adding a touch of elegance to his rural retreat. He seemed to heave a sigh of deep satisfaction as he took one more look around before entering his rustic manse. Fogarty couldn’t deny his envy as he thought of the humble cottage he was trying to finish.

  Fogarty slumped down amidst the trees with the binoculars on his lap, sorting through the implications of what he had just witnessed. He decided to jot down notes from what he had observed so as not to omit any details. He didn’t like to write up reports but he wanted to be thorough when he briefed Meacham the next morning.

  ***

  Sgt. Fogarty was sitting in Meacham’s office the next morning and had just finished reading from his scribbled notes summarizing what he had seen at Wattle’s cottage and then added, almost reverentially, “Beautiful long legs, Billy, went from the ground all the way up to heaven. Deeply tanned, too. She’s been sitting in the sun for a while somewhere.” Meacham smiled and asked, “What about the hair – or didn’t you look up that high?” Fogarty looked puzzled and then remembered, “Oh, yeah, she was wearing a broad-brimmed hat so couldn’t tell for sure but it was short and dark.”

  “Let’s check the car out quietly, Fogie, it may be nothing. We don’t want it broadcast like a manhunt, okay?” said Meacham. Fogarty understood and said, “That’s jake, boss.” Soon, the word would go out to look for a black Chrysler Imperial with out of state plates. If anyone saw it, they were to notify Sgt. Fogarty but take no action.

  After Fogarty left, Meacham sat quietly with his chin cupped in one hand as he leaned his elbow on the desk. He tap-danced the fingers of his other hand across his forehead as if he was trying to shake a clue loose. Certainly, nothing criminal or even improper had occurred and yet his instinct told him that Wattle was scheming again – assuming he had ever stopped in the first place. Who was the impeccably-dressed little man with the dazzling dame and, perhaps more intriguing, who was the mystery man in the back seat of the Chrysler? Was it just a coincidence that three strangers showed up in Parlor City to visit Wattle at the very time that Braun was being suffocated to death and Gwen’s car was sabotaged? Bobby Mildrake had clammed up and he needed to bring Gwen in to talk to him now that she was out of the hospital. He almost wished that Fogarty had said the woman at Wattle’s cottage had long blonde hair but that would have been too much to ask.

  ***

  Henry Burdett called his sister with the news of his revised death report on Woodrow Braun. “A little pressure and you got weak kneed, is that it? Well, it won’t save you, Henry.” Mildred Wattle said sharply. Burdett didn’t respond and Mildred was becoming increasingly annoyed when she added, “You understand that buckling to them will never get you re-elected, right? And now every move you make will be scrutinized because you didn’t have the guts to hold your ground. Not much of a stomach for a Coroner, eh? Well, be very careful what you say next, Henry, or it could be big trouble for all of us.” Before he could think to respond, the line went dead. Burdett had never found the words to argue with or challenge his Sister and today was no different.

  After Mildred told her husband that Braun’s cause of death was now classified as “unknown”, they agreed that it would be prudent to keep Bobby Mildrake up at Neidermeyer’s house in Patchinville a bit longer.

  ***

  When Rudy Gantz learned that Meacham had been in The Projects and paid a call on the Clintocks, he was immediately suspicious. He wasn’t buying the pretext that he had been looking for “that retard”, as he described Bobby Mildrake. Gantz had picked up some scuttlebutt at Devil’s Corner regarding Harry Macklowe, namely that he might be involved in distributing drugs locally, using a network of gas stations that he now controlled. Having launched his own little enterprise with Benny Mars and fearful that Meacham might have already gained wind of it, Gantz decided that now was an ideal time to placate the overly-inquisitive detective.

  “Does that buy me a little consideration, Detective Meacham?” Gantz asked, after embellishing his rumor about Macklowe. “Depends on what you are looking for, Rudy, and just how valuable your tip turns out to be. But don’t be looking for a get out of jail free card. Are we clear?” Meacham said decisively. Gantz banged down the phone and started cursing after he heard Meacham click off, sensing that he had played his card too early. The psychologist assigned to the Juvenile Division had already diagnosed Rudy Gantz as a weak-tempered individual prone to unpredictable violent outbursts. If she had eavesdropped on his conversation with Billy Meacham, she would not have been surprised at his reaction.

  After Meacham hung up the phone, he thought about his conversation with Big Red at the Pig & Whistle, specifically her complaint that loyal employees of her Father had been replaced by some riff-raff brought in by Macklowe. Could this possibly be a distribution network right under their noses or was it just Gantz’ lame attempt to curry favor? After a conversation with the Chief, during which it was decided to let the feds take a run at it, Meacham passed on Rudy’s tip to Wendell Crosbie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Other Mr. Kosinsky

  Arthur Kosinsky was known as “Silent Art” at the Aitchison Insurance Agency in Parlor City where he had established himself as a talented actuary. When the call came to join the fight against the Axis Powers, he immediately enlisted and was trained as a radioman in the Army’s burgeoning Signal Corp before being shipped over the choppy seas.

  While stringing field wire during the Tunisia campaign of 1943, he had been hit by shrapnel from artillery fire, losing motion in his left arm but otherwise was physically unharmed. Like many of his comrades, he felt lucky to make it home and still carried guilt with him, especially when, without warning, he saw images flash before him of his fellow doughboys lying in ditches and open fields with body parts blown away, never to be found. Kosinsky carried these haunting images home to Parlor City.

  For a while, his wife was sympathetic but then began to harp at him, annoyed that he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – shake off the war like so many other returning soldiers seemed to have done. As “Silent Art” became even more withdrawn, Ethel Kosinky was too embarrassed to socialize with him. Soon, they were living together as strangers, no l
onger sharing the connubial bed.

  Kosinsky would sit in his favorite chair in the evening after work, slowly sipping his vodka gimlet but never to the point of drunkenness because, if one were to notice, his actual consumption was usually limited to a single cocktail. Eventually, as the rest of the family would drift off to bed, he would retreat to the basement where he could carry on conversations with complete strangers all over the world.

  ***

  The boys were hanging out at the Kosinskys house one night soon after Jerry had been at the library to conduct his research on German bearer bonds. Woody’s Mother was on the mend and he was feeling better himself, oblivious to the cause of her accident. Priscilla was ensconced in front of the idiot box watching Cadet Happy and any attempt to dislodge her would have elicited a loud shriek and a confrontation with what Jerry now referred to as the “twin harpies”.

  Jerry had done copious research at the library but still had questions so Woody suggested that he ask his Father for help. Jerry was cautious rather than afraid of his Father whose withdrawn, insular personality had made him seem almost unapproachable to the boy when he was much younger. Jerry had stopped asking his Mother if anything was wrong since she invariably gave the same, sharp response. “He was in the war like a lot of other men” she would say before turning away. What was that supposed to mean, thought the boy, and why does she make it sound like an accusation?

  Lately, though, Jerry had found occasions to talk to his Father. Their conversations were usually instigated by some headline in the newspaper that the boy noticed when walking by his Father’s chair. Jerry looked forward to these impromptu chats and came to appreciate his Father’s quiet, reserved demeanor and knowledge of world events.

  Mr. Kosinsky listened attentively and was impressed as his son summarized what he had learned at the library. He folded the newspaper neatly on his lap before saying, “The German people were not all bad, son, but even many of the good ones were intimidated into silence. I never made it to the front line in Germany but we heard stories about Nazi plundering. People are still looking for the stuff they hid away, including priceless pieces of art, cash and other valuables. I would imagine that bonds were among those assets which they seized and hid.”

  “I am still not sure what they are, the bonds, I mean” Jerry said, starting to warm to the conversation. Even Woody wanted to hear more.

  Mr. Kosinsky went on to explain how valuable a bond could be, especially a bearer bond which he described to his son as allowing the person who it possessed to walk into a bank and exchange if for a “big pile of money.”

  As the boys were walking away, Mr. Kosinsky stopped them and suggested that they accompany him to the basement. Jerry was surprised and immediately thought of the Marilyn Monroe calendar. He had paid Priscilla fifty cents to keep silent about the boys’ foray into the workroom but now wondered if she had ratted on him.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Kosinsky turned to the boys and smiled before saying, “Grab the key, Jerry, you already know where I keep it.” Jerry hesitated before retrieving the key from its formerly secret hiding place and handed it to his Father. “I just keep it there for convenience. When you were younger, it was out of your reach. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself playing with my tools but those days are in the past.”

  After they entered the workroom, Mr. Kosinky pulled a second key from his pocket and held it up for the boys to inspect. As he was unlocking the inner door, he pointed to the poster that was covering its entire length, making it look like just part of the wall. “Now that, lads, is Betty Grable. She was what is known as a pin-up girl and quite possibly the most popular one among American soldiers during the war. I dare say some of the Germans liked her, too, but were afraid to admit it. Betty was cute but nothing like Marilyn Monroe, eh? If we had photos of her in her birthday suit, I’m not sure we could have concentrated on fighting the enemy.”

  Jerry’s eyes darted to Woody but he was exploring the ceiling. Jerry had taken off his glasses, inspecting them to buy some time and trying to think of something to say, when his Father touched his arm and said softly, “I know you were down here checking out the calendar, Jerry. But the next time you decide to sneak a peek, make sure you put it back exactly where you found it. Well, that’s that. When I found out, it did convince me that it was high time that I brought you down here to show you something else”, he said while pushing the door open to the sanctuary being guarded by Betty Grable.

  ***

  Mr. Kosinsky flipped the light switch and the boys looked around the room at a dazzling and bewildering network of equipment that was alien to them. All Jerry could think of was the spaceship gadgetry in Forbidden Planet. His Father let them walk around for a few minutes before saying, “That’s a ham, boys, or short-wave radio. I built it using surplus military parts and a kit I purchased, putting some of that Army training and experience as a radioman to use.” Mr. Kosinky pushed a button, adjusted a few dials and the room filled with static sounds. Before Jerry could say anything, his Father sat down, put on headphones and was clicking away furiously. He would stop and listen to the clicking coming from the radio, chuckle and smile, then start clicking away again after scribbling on a pad. After a few minutes, Mr. Kosinsky stopped, removed the headphones and turned to the boys.

  “Don’t worry, son, I’m not crazy. What you heard is Morse Code, a special language that lets you carry on a conversation with someone three miles or three thousand miles away – as long as they are a ham like me and you can pick up their signal.”

  Jerry was standing next to his Father and picked up a pile of colorful postcards, some with pictures on them, when Mr. Kosinsky explained, “Those are what are called QSL cards, sort of like calling cards for ham operators. When I connect with someone, they often send me their QSL.” Jerry was mesmerized and still speechless. He had walked through a door into an alien but exciting world and, at the same time, had witnessed a side of his Father’s life that had been literally hidden from him.

  “I can teach you some things, Jerry, and that includes Woody, but if you were actually interested, there is a great deal of study before you can get licensed as a ham radio operator. Of course, you would have to learn Morse code and pass some tests so hamming is not a hobby that one just jumps into. And even if you don’t pursue it, you are welcome to join me anytime just to amuse yourself, ok?” Jerry looked at Woody and they nodded at the same time.

  “All that wire across the back fence – I was curious but never asked …. “Jerry paused and his Father interjected, “That’s for the antenna, Jerry. Without it, no signal for the radio and no coded conversations. If you ever noticed me greasing the wire occasionally, that was pork rind. The salt in the pork improves the signal. Pork as in ham, son. There are lots of other stories as to how we got our nickname – that’s just one of them.” Jerry was speechless but he got it.

  “These postcards are neat,” said Jerry, holding up a few of the QSL cards and then handing them to Woody to inspect. “What do you send out, Dad?” Mr. Kosinsky opened a drawer and pulled out his QSL card. It had all his vital operator information on it and up in the corner was a picture of Jerry in his Sunday best. “I’ve probably sent out over 100 cards, Jerry. So you might say you are well known all over the world.” Jerry looked at his Father but was slack-jawed, unable to utter a word.

  Mr. Kosinky said nothing and turned away, full of emotion as he busied himself with shutting down the radio and tidying up around the room. Then, he put his arm on Jerry’s shoulder and walked him to the door with Woody trailing behind. As he locked the inner door, he held the key up again as if inspecting it and, with his eyes twinkling, said, “I keep this thing safe, Jerry. I don’t mind who wanders into the workroom but we don’t want the prying eyes of any ladies in the secret chamber now, do we?”

  As they ascended the stairs, Jerry stopped his Father and asked, “And who were you communicating with a few minutes ago that made you laugh?”

  “Oh, th
at’s a local guy over by the lake. He gives me weather reports and updates on where the fish are biting. Pretty harmless stuff most of the time. That’s kind of our motto. No controversial topics, just chit chat – unless there’s an emergency. Tonight, he was complaining about some big black car speeding down to the lake yesterday, scaring him half to death. I suggested that if he sees it again that he copy down the license plate and report the driver to the police” Mr. Kosinsky said as he flipped off the light.

  ***

  The boys went up to Jerry’s room, still enthralled by what they had seen in the basement and forgetting that they had wanted to watch the latest episode of Dragnet that night. Woody marveled at the look of wonderment on his friend’s face, not knowing at the time that it signified a profound alteration in how Jerry Kosinky saw his Father from that day forward. To break the awkward silence, Woody said “Jerry?” and gave him a nudge. Jerry looked at Woody as if he had been shaken from a trance and said “Well, I’ll be darned” while beaming from ear to ear. He had completely forgotten about the German bearer bonds.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Waiting Game

  Siebert was getting antsy. They had been holed up in the rundown motel on the outskirts of Parlor City for too long and he was starting to imagine all the things that could go wrong.

  Pinky had insisted on another trip to Wattle’s cottage to inspect the entire cache of bonds, saying that it was imperative that he double-check the sequence of serial numbers. Siebert begrudgingly approved but only after insisting that it would be the last visit before the final meeting to complete the transaction. He stayed behind but had Stella accompany Pinky.

  While they were gone, Siebert drove over near Patchinville and found an old roadside inn where he rented two rooms. Wattle has not recognized him in Havana but someone else in Parlor City might and he was not taking any unnecessary chances. As for Pinky’s Chrysler, it was too easy to spot so Siebert decided it would be hidden and the nondescript rental car would serve as transportation for the remainder of their visit.