The Case Of The Lumbee Millions (Woody Stone, Private Investigator, Series) Read online

  “AW SHIT. The Marines have landed,” he boomed. A few customers bellied at the bar turned our way and smiled. They obviously were tuned in to Bull’s sense of humor. He came around the bar, shook hands with each of us and recommended pulling some tables together. “First round’s on me, boys.”

  Staff Sergeant Holeman answered when he asked our pleasure. Bull brought a tray with glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He stood beaming, big tattooed arms folded, as we all grabbed a chair.

  “I landed you boys on Iwo Jima. I was Coxs’n on a landing craft that made nine trips into Green Beach, right at the foot of Suribachi.” He started pouring the booze. “In all that hellishness, machine gun fire and artillery, my goose got cooked by plunging surf. Filled my craft with water and sand – broached her sideways and threw me into five feet of water, out cold like a friggin mackerel. Boys from the First Battalion, 28th Marines took time out of their busy day to save my life.”

  Bull poured himself a jigger and offered a toast, “To the Corps!” We all drank and slammed our glasses down. “I spent an hour on that slaughterhouse beach before I could get back to ship. That friggin black sand was like trying to walk in coffee grounds – no idea how you boys did it. Let me know when you want another bottle. That round, you’ll pay for,” he smiled big.

  We drank liquor and told all the Ed Kowalski stories we could think of, and then we retold the same old jokes. A couple of ‘Coxs’n’ comments came up, but nobody wanted to do more than whisper about it with Bull a few yards away. Holding his inverted shot glass in the air, Sekach declared that we were all going to become drunks. Holeman leaned back in his chair, “You know, I think it was Hemingway who said, ‘it ain’t drinking that makes you a drunkard, it’s opening bottles’.” After a couple of glances around, more toasts were offered, one for bartenders.

  We talked about the other Marines we’d lost, and then we talked some more about Eddie on into the night. Somewhere around 2200, with the bar half full, Bracket, who was in civilian clothes, tied on somebody’s uniform field scarf like an Indian headband.

  Dave Cournea pointed at the desecration of uniform regulations and yelled, “Hey, look at that. Let’s sing the Marine’s Hymn for Brack.”

  We all jumped to our feet and delivered loudly and in unison, “Him, hiiimmmm... FUCK HIM!”

  It was magic how fast Bull McDermott was standing by our tables, “Liberty’s secured, boys.” Nobody doubted he meant it. Holeman took up a collection and cleared our tab. As we left, Bull shook our hands and said, don’t be strangers.

  CHAPTER SIX

  (Tuesday, June 6, 1961. The Bronx.)

  I skirted the east side of the Bronx Park and New York Botanical Garden. The tangled woods grew right up to the guardrails on both sides of the highway. But a blind man would have known the location; the air quality had changed, got heavier and sweeter from the miles of forests and flower gardens. It took me back to the Mississippi, or the Ohio, or any one of a dozen waterways that old riverboat would transit. As a big-eyed kid, I worked them all as a deckhand. I was enjoying a serene moment piloting my rocket ship when I spotted the overhead sign for my exit, East Gun Hill Road - Exit 9.

  West on East Gun Hill for three blocks and I turned left on Hull Avenue. It was residential and it struck me how clean everything was. The neighborhood was trash-free; that was too much to hope for in Williamsburg or most anywhere along the waterfront. The first block of Hull Avenue was tenements, apartments with a few multi-family homes, but clean.

  South of East 209th, it changed to a tree-lined street with wide sidewalks, townhouses and separate brick homes - all painted pleasant colors and well maintained. The houses had brick or wrought iron fences, or a combination of both around their postage stamp yards. Many of the yards had shrubs and a few had their own tree. This could have been the outskirts of Memphis.

  I parked in front of 3247, the Braun townhouse, across the street from Public School 56. There was parking on both sides of the street along the whole block. Anna Braun answered the door when I rang the bell. About my age, she was a pretty little gal with lively eyes, a quick smile and a Prince Valiant haircut. She was all smiles this morning, showing a small gap between her front teeth. It confused me why I found that little gap so intriguing, but her wide smile turned a pretty face into a beautiful face.

  “Woody, my knight in shining armor. Come on in here. I got your message yesterday.” She took my hat and led me by the hand into the living room. Her home looked prepared for inspection, older furniture, starched curtains - all neat as a pin. Two tykes were playing with Lincoln Logs on a braided rug and a younger one was standing in a playpen staring out a window. The toddler in the playpen snapped his head around and stared, but the other two were lost in their construction project.

  “Your young’uns sure are well behaved.”

  “Shu-wa, in the mornings when they have lots of energy. They can get a little cranky later in the day,” and she flashed that enchanting smile. She got me seated and went to get a cup of coffee for each of us, “You take it black? That’s the way Coy drank his.” I just nodded.

  She handed me a cup on a saucer, and I asked, “Anna, how you been gettin along?”

  “Tryin to stay busy. Doin a pretty good job of it between the kids, looking for employment and working out at the gym.”

  “Do what now? Working out at the gym?”

  “Shu-wa. I used to tag along with Coy when he lifted weights - you know, just to be with him. Then I started lifting only light weights. Now, look at these guns!” She made a little muscle and laughed, “Seriously, now nothing lifts my spirits better than working up a good sweat.”

  My mind went to places it shouldn’t have with that statement. She looked spring-loaded first time I met her.

  Again, I explained how the Pension Fund Board had reviewed new evidence and reversed its ruling on her death benefit. I gave her Fred Wilkerson’s office number telling her he would help her with the required forms and be her advocate as needed. Of course, I reminded her, she could call me anytime.

  “Woody, what a Godsend. I thought we were going to lose this house. Coy’s parents live nearby and I so wanted to stay here. That was Coy’s mother you talked to on the phone yesterday.”

  “Oh, she said she was the babysitter.”

  Anna gave me that smile and laughed a little, “That’s probably what she’s starting to feel like, I’ve been out looking for a job so much lately.”

  She slid toward me on the couch and put both hands on my knee, one on top of the other, “Thank you so much. I literally feel like you saved my life. You’ll send me your bill.”

  “Mike Sekach has… taken care of that matter.”

  Water brimmed in her eyes, “You lugs! Well, I’m gonna cook a great big pot roast for you both soon.” Then she added, “I’d like you guys to meet my in-laws.”

  A commotion took her attention to the hooked rug, “Coy, let your sister play, too.” The little tow-headed boy turned to her and smiled sheepishly, revealing the gap between his front teeth.

  I worked the Studebaker west to the Henry Hudson Parkway and followed the east bank of the Hudson River south. It was a fifteen-mile drive to Dempsey’s Broadway Restaurant. The George Washington Bridge, the scene of the Braun Redemption, flew by on my right. Anna Braun was a real dish for the right guy. I didn’t know Coy Braun well, but I was starting to think he was a very lucky guy right up until he took three slugs through the ribs. ‘I wonder if Sekach likes kids’, crept into my thoughts.

  My stomach growled and I felt the hunger pangs. I finagled the cap off my flask and took a pull to quiet things down. One of Dempsey’s famous, whopping big sirloin steaks was on my mind. Four dollars and fifty cents was a lot to pay for a meal, but that included a baked potato, french-fried onions and a salad. The promise of a pot roast doesn’t feed the bulldog.

  Jack Dempsey won the Heavyweight Championship of the World in 1919 by defeating Jess Willard, ‘The Giant’. Dempsey used a ducking a
nd weaving style; the other fighters of the day stood upright with their fists at their sides. He rewrote the book. His restaurant was filled with ring memorabilia. It opened in 1935, and Jack spent a lot of time holding court and taking pictures with fans.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  (Tuesday, June 6, 1961. Midtown Manhattan.)

  Dempsey’s was my favorite bar. It was located on Broadway between 49th and 50th. One block over, I hung my hat at the Hotel Taft. The Taft took up the whole block between 50th and 51st on 7th Avenue. I planned to park my car at the indoor Mid-Town Garage on 50th and walk over to Jack Dempsey’s. Mid-Town was another screwing. The parking garage charged three bucks for twelve hours - another reason I needed to buy the building on Wythe Avenue.

  ***

  Ray Tasker, a Marine Corps bud, owned T&J Auto Repair on Delancey Street in the Lower East Side. I could park the Hawk in a stall off his alley for a song. But parking there still required a taxi ride, a train ride or a hell of a walk back to the Taft or across the Williamsburg Bridge to my office. Planning ahead for all that was getting to be a disruption to my business, and to my drinking time. Even in the city, there were times when I needed my bucket to get around.

  ***

  I hoofed over to Dempsey’s and landed about 1:30. I had time to grab a steak before meeting Lee Parris at three, assuming Gina rousted him. Inside the building, I turned right to go wash my hands in the bathroom off the bar. Dempsey’s Bar always cheered me up. The racetrack-shaped oak bar stretched out twenty-five feet in the middle of the room. Another island, inside that one, provided the work area for the bartenders. No bar mirror stared back and pointed a finger. Sculpted gold gilt ran from the bar lip all the way to the floor, and a three inch brass foot rail surrounded the whole production. A class joint, but not too swank.

  Louie Armstrong, having fun with the old Johnny Mercer tune ‘Jeepers Creepers’, was being piped in. Few customers this time of day and only two bartenders pulled duty. I walked past Chianti bottles hanging from an archway and spotted Al Vadelfi working the near end. A former boxer, with the kisser to prove it, Al hammered out a drink with the best of em.

  “Hey, Wood, How’s by ya? The usual?”

  “What the hell, Al, I could nibble one since you’re up.”

  He wiped the bar in front of me and slid a tumbler with two ounces of Jack Daniel’s my way. I lit a Lucky, tossed back a little of the amber liquid, and caught the eye of Seamus, working the other end of the bar. I shot him a wave.

  “Yo, Mr. Woody. Great day, isn’t it?” You could do pull-ups on his thick Irish brogue.

  The cool liquor hit the spot and quieted me down. I hadn’t realized how much talking to that sweet, brave young widow had affected me. I knocked back my drink and gave the up-nod to Al. He winked and delivered a clean, full glass before my empty hit the wood.

  A three-foot tall brass rail fence ran all the way around the room. It guarded a second level, two feet higher than the main floor. Small linen-draped tables occupied that level. They sat in front of giant painted murals of scenes from former hit Broadway shows.

  “Mr. Woody,” brought my attention back to the center of the room. Seamus, from the other end, set a favorite of the house on the bar, a plate of fresh chopped chicken livers served hot on toast. The wonderful smell hit me just as his voice did. “You hungry? A fellow ordered these at the kitchen window. He and his crapulous friends left before the order came up.”

  “Seamus, I could eat the south end of a northbound skunk.”

  He squeezed his eyelids shut for a moment, “I’m certain you’d enjoy these more; they’re mostly from the north end,” pushing the plate in my direction. That plate of chicken livers was the most delicious meal I could remember since coming out of the frozen mountains for hot chow in Korea.

  I motioned for Al to hit me again, “Hey, Al, is the Champ here today?” I had no business with Jack Dempsey, but asked out of habit.

  “He’ll prob’ly be in for the dinner crowd. You’re a little early yourself, ain’t ya?”

  “It’s never too early, but I gotta meet someone.” It struck me that I had intended to call Gina when I first got to Dempsey’s.

  A voice behind me, “Who you meeting with greasy fingers and crumbs on your tie?” All six feet, three inches of Leland Parris III folded himself onto the stool beside me and pushed the near empty liver plate forward on the bar.

  “Lee, you ol Leatherneck! How the hell are you?”

  “About a thimbleful behind you, twould appear.”

  “Hey, I just got here,” I protested as I motioned Al back over. “Al, another round.”

  “Yes, sir. A gimlet, Mr. Parris?” Lee nodded.

  “Don’t you like chicken livers, Lee?”

  “Reminds me of rationing during the war years. Tuesdays and Fridays were meatless all over New York. Eateries would slip in chicken livers to fill the gap. I since have not defined them as meat.”

  “Well, thanks for stopping by. I wanted to run something by you, something in the real estate vein.”

  “Ah, real estate, always interesting,” he said. “Before we get all grown-up, I sure like the voice of your secretary. What does she look like?”

  “Sorry, bo. She ain’t much in that department. Can’t have it all, I guess.” Lee sadly nodded.

  I suggested we grab a table; so we took our drinks, climbed the steps and settled in between the brass railing and a giant painting of Mary Martin in ‘The Sound of Music’.

  “What’s this all about, Wood? We’re getting an early start, even for us,” and he gave me his million-dollar smile.

  I watched Lee remove a fat oval shaped cigarette from a flat pack and realized I hadn’t formulated any questions to ask him. So, I ran down the list of positives that would result from buying my building, “I guess I’m just asking your thoughts and advice on buying the property.”

  “All things being equal, if you can swing it, you can’t go wrong. It’s a great Goddamn idea to get rich using other people’s money.”

  “Well, that’s the other thing, Lee. Businesses have been moving out of the area for the last few years, on down to Division Avenue. But the location is perfect for what I do and it’s one block from the East River. The values are depressed, but they can’t stay in the cellar forever.”

  “Okay, that’s the way to think about it. Do you know who owns the property and how badly he, she, they want to sell?”

  “I know who I lease the second floor with. A letter from the real owner came on Saturday telling me the property would be up for sale the first of November when my lease expires.”

  Lee stared at the red ceiling before speaking, “Well, that’s good. That letter might even be construed as an offer to you. You need all the information on em you can get. Check em out and figure how you want to approach them. Then there’s the whole financial side…”

  “Say, don’t suppose you’d like to invest in the future of Stone Investigations, would you? I’ve got an idea to expand, hire a couple of guys I can trust, train em and start providing corporate security. You know, private protection for bigwigs that have the heat on them. Mobbed up goons have their own army. Why shouldn’t the head of a company, for instance, be able to hire qualified guards already checked out and trained?”

  Lee gave me his best theatrical look of pity, “Wood, I believe in you, but you’ve probably got your head up your ass there. Who’s going to pay for security when it’s the Police Department’s job to provide it for free, on your tax dollar, of course?”

  “Well, it’s just an idea.”

  “It ain’t the money, bo. If you need the geetus, you got my number; I got my checkbook. Now, when you get the background on the property sale, I do know a real estate attorney who can give the pointers you need.”

  Lee couldn’t stay long; he had to go for a costume fitting. Seems the drawback of a long running Broadway show is, the actors wear out the costumes. I motioned for the bar waiter; he already knew mine. He gave me a quick salu
te and delivered it in two minutes. I imagined a tally sheet; the Wythe Avenue idea was sounding pretty good so far. I finally decided, ‘don’t be scared of the unknown. Get the scoop and take a look at it. I ain’t on the ropes and it ain’t life and death’.

  I lit a Lucky and enjoyed the velvet liquor as I watched the tide of humanity ebb and flow on the beach of Dempsey’s bar. It was more of a trickle, but business started to pick up. I chuckled at Lee’s attraction to Gina’s voice on the phone. What a bird dog. I made a mental note on that subject.

  ***

  Leland Parris III, besides being a heartthrob on Broadway, was wealthy. He inherited a family fortune in the late 40’s. The big money started rolling in fifty years before with his grandfather, Leland I. A chemist by trade, he perfected a way to capture the toxic gases released during the copper smelting process in southern Appalachia. Lee told me, ‘The resulting liquid sulfuric acid turned out to be a bigger money maker than copper’.

  When Lee graduated from The Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina in 1942, he was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant of Marines. He got orders to undergo sixteen weeks of training at The Officers’ Basic Course in Quantico, Virginia. Ten weeks later, a car wreck in Triangle, Virginia ended his brief Marine Corps career and cost him the full use of his left arm.

  ***

  Sally Spitieri appeared from the back of the room, heading for the oval bar. He lived in a small third floor apartment on the backside of the Muncey Building where Dempsey’s was located. He walked over, reached up and gripped the brass railing beside my table. Clean shaven and wearing a white shirt, if he’d had a coat and tie on, he could have been a businessman.

  “Hey Woody. What’s new?”

  “Hey, Sally. Good news on that Braun case.” I gave him the update, thanked him again and slipped a fin under his fingers. He nodded his thanks and stuck it in his shirt pocket.