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  While Siebert described their Riviera gambling enterprise, Bargani listened without interruption and smiled benevolently before saying, “Your talents are wasted as a manager, my Grecian-nosed friend. You are a creator. Why not let my boys take over the Riviera operation now? You will receive a fair percentage, say 25%, and be rid of all the headaches. Plus, I must tell you, we are all running out of time down there. According to my sources, those murderous Commie rebels are moving through the countryside seizing villages and slaughtering people at random. The government corruption is more rampant than ever and the natives are restless. Some very smart people, including some of my stubborn associates, will lose all of their investments in Havana - and maybe more.” As he made this final comment, he ran a beefy finger in a slicing motion across his neck and looked down darkly over his monumental nose.

  “You know me too well, sir” Siebert said, always polite and deferential at exactly the right time, before adding “Havana was a pleasant and profitable diversion but it is time for me to move on. I accept your timely offer. May I now describe a very enticing project that has fallen into my lap which I wish to undertake with your support and assistance?”

  “Go on, my friend” said Bargani, learning back in his chair and glancing up at the sculpture behind him while stroking his learned nose.

  ***

  When Siebert finished, Bargani leaned forward and said, “I like your plan, my friend, but I must say that I hope that you are not being reckless in returning to that little town. Nonetheless, you are right to see that someone like Pinky Benjamin will be integral to your success. But I must warn you that he is very particular about the projects he undertakes and he is as much interested in the artistic challenge as he is in the fee he will earn. I can also assure you that there is not a document that our bottle-nosed friend cannot copy to perfection. I defy you to choose the original over the fake.”

  “And if Pinky declines?” Siebert asked. “Let’s just say that it is unlikely that he will. Pinky is indebted to me for some past favors and we will leave it there. Give me a few days to set up a meeting and also to arrange for the references requested by your clients up in Parlor City” said Bargani with a knowing smile. He then got up from his chair to signify that the session with Siebert was over.

  As Bargani walked from behind his desk, Siebert noticed that he gave a soft pat to his sculpture as if he was rubbing a good luck charm. “And how is the little lady with the perfect celestial, upturned nose? Will I see her before you head north?” Bargani asked at the door, adding with a chuckle, “and remind me, what name is she currently using?”

  “As beautiful as ever, Moe. We would love to have dinner with you once our business arrangements with Pinky are settled. For now, she is traveling with me as Lily Sanswhite. We may both be taking on new names soon, as circumstances often dictate.”

  ***

  Clarence “Pinky” Benjamin had the lugubrious gaze of the bank examiner who shows up unannounced and then acts annoyed when every document he wants isn’t readily available. Elfin-like, he had soft skin with a pronounced rosy hue that caught almost everyone’s attention. With his rimless wire glasses and pinched face, he appeared much older than his 41 years. With strangers, he was diffident and demur, almost self-effacing to a fault. By nature, he was a melancholy man but he still carried himself with a dignity that made others respect him. He had tried to cheer himself up and develop a rosy outlook that matched his complexion by following Dr. Norman Vincent Peale’s weekly newspaper column on how to be happy. He stopped reading the popular minister when he saw no results.

  Pinky had been drawing since he was a young lad. At the age of four, or so he was told, he was expertly copying cartoons from the funny pages as his Mother looked on in astonishment. At school, he kept paper inside his textbooks, using them as a shield so that he could draw without detection. When an unflattering facsimile of his teacher fell to the floor one day and was confiscated by her while she was strolling the aisles, even Miss Marcum had to acknowledge his considerable talent before sending Clarence down to the Principal’s office.

  Bored with school and obsessed with drawing, Pinky eventually dropped out and found a job at the local newspaper running errands. It was not long before his inveterate sketching was discovered by his co-workers and eventually made its way into the hands of the editor.

  Before long, his caricatures were legendary in Miami and he had his own spot in the newspaper under the caption “Bloviating Buffoons”. His merciless depictions of politicians on the take, philandering businessmen and unscrupulous lawyers had readers laughing uproariously - unless you were one of Pinky’s targets, in which case you ran for cover. If you saw someone calmly reading the paper sitting on a park bench suddenly burst out with a gleeful laugh, you could be pretty sure that Pinky had lacerated some bigshot who would not be seen in public for several days.

  It was, perhaps, inevitable that Pinky would start to receive anonymous threats predicting imminent bodily harm. Usually, the threats were of a general nature but some made specific references to fingers mangled with pliers or hands crushed in vises. The newspaper made vague promises about protection and freedom of the press but Pinky, a timid and cautious man by nature, was not reassured.

  When “The Nose” came calling, Pinky racked his brain trying to recall any provocative or insulting sketches he had drawn of local hoods. He was relieved when Bargani praised his work. Somehow, Moe had sniffed out the threats against Pinky and let it be known that he would be safe under his wing.

  Shortly thereafter, Pinky quit his job at the newspaper and embarked on a new career under the tutelage of “The Nose”.

  ***

  With Moe Bargani’s encouragement, Pinky began to study and then to duplicate various financial documents, including bank notes, deeds and cashier’s checks. He would go the library and cut out flyleaves and blank pages from weathered books to practice on. He was also stockpiling supplies for future jobs assigned by Bargani. He became fascinated with a variety of inks, papers, chemicals and how they interacted to create the perfect specimen. He even studied the ancients and was astounded to learn that Roman merchants used to create fake Greek sculptures to meet the demands of local dilettantes. In short, he started to believe that he was part of a noble tradition.

  For several weeks, Bargani kept Pinky “in school”, testing him with more complex documents to replicate, gradually paying him more as the quality of his work steadily improved. Pinky worked sedulously but never questioned Bargani. He eventually figured out that his destiny was to work in the shadows as a world class master of forgery under the protection of “The Nose”.

  By the time Siebert arrived in Miami the first time, Pinky had been working for Bargani for several years. As if by legerdemain, he was at the pinnacle of his art, ready to take on his greatest challenge.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Big Red Has Troubles

  Meacham saw a piece of paper folded in half and tucked under the windshield wiper as he approached his car. It was a cryptic note from Cynthia “Big Red” Bigelow asking him to meet her at the Pig & Whistle on his way home from work. Meacham was tempted to ignore her request except that she had added the words, “It’s important, Billy. Please come.”

  Meacham had heard stories involving Big Red since her marriage to Harry Macklowe. Apparently, the bronzed hunk was still a man about town and had been seen at more than a few supper clubs with dames on his arm. Meacham felt sorry for Big Red but hoped she wasn’t planning to unload her marital problems on him. They had their fling but that was over with long ago, buried deep in the past as far as he was concerned. Now, he was reminded that his lingering relationship with her and his tendency in the past to vacillate on personal matters when it was in his best interest not to do so, had almost cost him his opportunity with Gwen.

  ***

  Big Red was sitting in a booth facing the door wearing sunglasses when Meacham walked into the town’s favorite greasy spoon. There were no bedroom
eyes this time, no mouth slightly open suggestively with moistened lips but instead just a tired, defeated face. Meacham winced slightly, certain that he had dodged a bullet and glad it was Macklowe’s shoes under her bed.

  “I need some advice, Billy,” Big Red began slowly. “You see, my father had been expanding his business before I got married, opened up a bunch of new gas stations – you might have noticed”. Big Red paused and Meacham nodded but said nothing, wondering where the conversation was headed.

  “Well, he got in over his head and then with the lavish wedding, he was in a bind. So he brought in Harry as an investor or partner, not sure which, and now it turns out he somehow signed over majority ownership of his business to my husband. Lately, Harry’s been firing some of my Father’s most loyal workers and replacing them with some unsavory-looking characters.

  “Yesterday, Harry took over my Father’s office and told him to find another place to sit. He was so proud to bring his new son-in-law into the business and now he’s devastated. I don’t know what to do, Billy,” she said imploringly as her eyes filled with tears.

  Meacham had never seen this aspect of brassy, confident Big Red and felt genuine pity but, at the same time, was disappointed that she was trying to drag him into what seemed to be a domestic or legal situation. Sure, they had been an item at one time but besides sympathy what did she expect from him now?

  Big Red’s mouth wrinkled and the once glossy red lips were now pale and cracked. He handed her a napkin when she started to sniffle. When she removed her sunglasses to dab her eyes, he saw redness and swelling high up on her left cheekbone and immediately understood that Big Red had bigger problems with Harry Macklowe than she had revealed so far. Was her battered face the real reason for the note on his windshield? Was it a cry for help?

  “Listen, Cynthia, if by chance your Father was defrauded or was coerced into signing his business over to Harry, you need to get a lawyer to take a careful look at the transactions that occurred. Until there is evidence along these lines, it is not a police matter just because he is treating your Father disrespectfully.” Big Red stared at Meacham beseechingly but said nothing and now he felt certain that she had contacted him for other reasons. He had not liked Harry Macklowe from their very first meeting but had to be careful not to let his negative feelings influence what he did or said.

  “Is there anything else, Cynthia? If not, I really must be going” Meacham said softly. “Well, he takes off sometimes for 2 to 3 days at a time and is all secretive about it. Last time he came back, I found matches in his pocket from some night club up in Montreal” she said despairingly. Big Red sensed that she had gone too far and was embarrassed. Meacham has an uncomfortable look on his face but said nothing. “Well, I will take your advice about the lawyer” she said while putting her sunglasses back on. “You will contact me if there is any other trouble that requires police assistance, right?” Meacham asked as she moved toward the door. Big Red nodded and walked slowly away.

  Meacham finally noticed that she was wearing a shapeless dress with a pattern that looked like one of his Mother’s flower beds. The curvaceous “Big Red”, the woman that men would rhapsodize over, had never been one to disguise her enticing figure but now Meacham was looking at an amorphous tent-like outfit that revealed nothing of the shape underneath. She stooped slightly and walked hesitantly from the Pig & Whistle as Meacham watched from the booth, thinking about the bruises around her left eye. Big Red didn’t explain how they happened and that in itself was telling. If Macklowe was a lout, that was one thing. But if he was beating up a woman, especially his new wife, that was unacceptable and it could become a police matter. Gwen knew all about his former relationship with Big Red but he felt certain that when she heard about her sad predicament that his wife would understand why Billy might need to get involved with his old flame again.

  As he was driving home, Meacham decided to ask around about Harry Macklowe. It was no concern of the police if he was merely cheating on his wife but Meacham wanted to learn more about his business dealings. More importantly, Meacham was saddened by the sight of Big Red. The gorgeous, self-confident woman of a few years back who turned heads wherever she went, was now a shell of her former self, no longer the strutting, voluptuous Big Red drawing stares but now just Cynthia Macklowe, a married woman with troubles.

  ***

  “She’s probably going to have a baby”, Gwen surmised when Meacham told her about his meeting with Big Red at the Pig & Whistle. “That would explain the muumuu and the awkward way she was walking, Billy” she added as Meacham looked at his wife with a quizzical look on his face. He thought of making a joke about the unintentional cow allusion to Big Red’s outfit but let it pass. “So, who’s the detective in this family? You’re not even there and pick up on those clues” Meacham said with a smile.

  “Well, I do have more experience with these things, Detective Meacham”, Gwen said playfully. “After all, I am a Mother and a nurse. But seriously, Billy, if she comes to you again for help or if you discover this Macklowe character is the brute he seems to be, you need to look into it, okay?” They were sitting on the couch together and Meacham moved closer to his wife and gave her a prolonged hug.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Visitor from the Capital

  Wendell Crosbie started at the Bureau of Prohibition in 1931, after having honed his investigative skills as a railroad cop in Western New York. When the 21st Amendment passed in 1933 ending the government’s forlorn campaign to regulate morality, Wendell was dismayed – even, one might say, heartbroken. He was a fervent, evangelical advocate of the temperance movement and an avid tea-totaler. Abstinence was a moral crusade for him, a campaign to save his country.

  Agent Crosbie was an intense, god-fearing man with an immaculate flattop that he had kept perfectly groomed. It was a rare display of vanity for a man who was practically an esthete. He had been inculcated with anti-booze fervor from his youth by his Mother, a prominent leader in the local Anti-Saloon League chapter.

  Crosbie learned early on in his career with the Bureau that he could find release in the middle of a raid on a speakeasy. Smashing gin bottles with a bat or breaking open casks with an axe highlighted his day and provided a cathartic satisfaction unmatched in his otherwise humdrum, straight-laced life. He relished the exhilarating moments when he saw rivers of booze running in the streets and feared what he might do when his moral mission was over.

  When his agency was dismantled by federal mandate, Crosbie and his colleagues were assigned to the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. He was disheartened to see a number of his corrupt and dissolute associates who had profited handsomely during Prohibition now assuming supervisory roles in the new agency.

  Crosbie received his first assignment and was dumbstruck. The new crusade against narcotics was inexplicably focused on the nefarious influence of predominantly black musicians and singers. He was sent to New Orleans, a decadent city that Crosbie loathed as a modern day Gomorrah. He was aghast when he was assigned to hang out at jazz clubs to catch black entertainers smoking dope. Why didn’t they just let this degenerate bunch with their devil-inspired music smoke their way right into hell, Crosbie wondered?

  His reputation as a squeaky clean crusader who refused to be silenced had preceded him to New Orleans. Soon, Crosbie was harassing his superiors with lengthy reports which worried the corrupt officials in his office. The campaign to ship him out to headquarters was quickly launched. Once there, they felt confident that he would be swallowed up in a Washington bureaucracy which was more interested in sensational headlines about the arrest of some dope-smoking trumpet player in a popular honky-tonk than the flow of illicit drugs into the country.

  Crosbie knew that anyone who cared to undertake even a cursory investigation could see that marijuana and other drugs were coming into New Orleans from the islands and being moved up the coast. After complaining vociferously for weeks, he was removed from his jazz club gig and assigned to monitor smuggling a
ctivity at the port. He quickly identified at least one major importer who tried to buy him off and who was astonished when Crosbie turned him down. His reputation for probity was an alien concept for many officials in the Big Easy.

  Crosbie was buried in paperwork and stonewalled at every turn, not just by his own colleagues but also by local police and custom officials. When the notice arrived with his transfer to Miami, a number of people in New Orleans breathed a sigh of relief. Frustrated and disheartened, Wendell Crosbie left town determined to fight on.

  Not surprisingly, Crosbie faced the same obstacles in Miami that thwarted him in New Orleans. It wasn’t long before his superiors tired of this quintessential crusader and engineered a transfer to headquarters in Washington, DC. Shortly thereafter, he would be sent into exile again.

  ***

  When Wendell Crosbie arrived in Parlor City unannounced, he immediately went to the police station and demanded to speak to the Chief, flashing his credentials at Desk Sgt. “Whacky” Donahue. With a shock of white hair and matching handle-bar moustache, the barrel-chested Donahue was a throwback to the wild old days of the Police Department and his idiosyncrasies were gladly tolerated by a thankful force. Today, he patrolled the front desk as fiercely as if every stranger was a threat to his domain.

  Intent on showing that he was not impressed by the arrival of a federal agent, Donahue glared and shooed him to a nearby bench, barking “You’ll see the Chief in due time, by cracky”. As Crosbie fumed, the Sergeant piddled around at his perch and then walked slowly back to Chief Braddock’s office, glancing back with a mischievous grin on his face, confident that he had brought Crosbie down a peg.