Nevermind

Donna Joergenson held a matchstick in her hand that had the call letters of her radio station – WYYZ – engraved on its side in tiny gold letters. There was a sudden flash of fire as she flicked the tip of the matchstick with her neatly polished thumbnail. In one fluid movement, she lit the cigarette that was dangling from her lips, dragged in a deep breath, and blew the smoke out right into the face of a Philadelphia police detective who was standing in front of her. He didn’t even flinch.

After examining the detective’s nametag, which just said ‘Fitzgerald,’ Donna started telling him her story.

“Looking up at the station’s control room clock,” she said, “I saw it was ten minutes to midnight, only ten minutes left on my radio shift. I had just started playing the Rolling Stones song ‘Satisfaction’ and I decided to field one last phone call.”

“Hello caller, I said in my sultry radio voice, this is Donna on WYYZ radio, Philly’s Classic R&B and Rock station – what song would you like me to play for you tonight?”

“There was only silence, but I could tell there was somebody on the line. I could hear him breathing. I mean, normally I wouldn’t have fielded a call that late, but I decided to hold the line.”

“Who are you and where are you calling from?” I said into the microphone.

“After ten long seconds a young man’s voice responded. Nevermind, he said before hanging up.”

“I stood in the control room listening to nothing but static in my headphones. In the background I could hear the Rolling Stones song ending. I had already queued up my final two songs – the Beatles’ Let It Be and Bruce’s Born to Run.

“’Need any help from the Guru of Love?’ Barry’s deep baritone voice asked from behind me. Barry Black, you know, is the nighttime DJ. Apparently he could see I was shaken up by the call.”

“’No thanks’, I said, ‘I’m cool…’”

“’I’m cool too,’ Barry said, ‘But maybe you should let Mikey Q escort you to your car.’”

“’You mean my DJ-Donna-Mobile?’ I said smiling.”

“Barry laughed that deep honest-to-fucking-god laugh of his – I mean it wasn’t a fake radio laugh or anything like that…”

“I gathered my stuff – purse – cigarettes – book of poems – you know, all my shit – and I walked outside with Mikey Q. He’s just a kid but I think he lifts weights a lot.”

“I got into my lavender-colored Ferrari and took off.”

“I drove like the fucking wind down the Schuylkill and Vine Street Expressway, then over the Ben Franklin Bridge, my long blond hair blowin’ and listening to Barry’s show the whole way.”

“I love to cruise in my baby – you know – my car.”

“I stopped at some place right off the Atlantic City Expressway – Johnny O’s I think it was called – or maybe that was the name of the band that was playing there.”

“Anyway, I went inside and said hello to the bartender – Rick – yeah his name was Rick – black hair, nice tan, looks Greek. I had two Margaritas right away. Then Rick made me my favorite drink – Oklahoma Mother-Fucker he called it. It’s just a white Russian with a shot of brandy and coke.”

“You know – Coca-Cola.”

“I don’t remember much after that. There was some stripper there named Cupid. It was funny. I was stuffin’ dollar bills into her g-string and she was laughing. I thought it was funny too.”

“We talked for a couple of minutes, then I said to her, ‘You know Cupid was actually a guy.’ She didn’t get it at first. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘He was a little guy who shot arrows.’ Then she got it.”

“That’s all I remember.” Donna took one last drag off her cigarette. She crushed what remained of the cigarette butt into a green glass ashtray, then looked up at the police detective..

“That’s it?” Detective Fitzgerald asked holding up his pen.

“Yeah,” Donna responded, noticing that he seemed to be peering down through his glasses at her breasts.

Fitzgerald scanned through his handwritten notes. He scratched the bald part of his head. Then he looked directly at Donna again. His slightly gray moustache seemed to be twitching. The only sound was Stevie Wonder’s Superstition coming from a radio in the back room.

“I’ll be in touch,” Fitzgerald said as he slipped his notepad and pen into the inside pocket of his jacket.

They both went outside. Donna watched the detective as he walked about halfway down the driveway to his car. She took a cigarette out of her cigarette case, lit it, took a deep drag, and watched the detective’s car drive away. She blew out a huge ring cloud of smoke, then dropped what remained of the cigarette onto the asphalt driveway. As she walked back to the beach house, the rhythmic sound of the ocean surf and the salt-air smell of the beach behind her seemed inviting, but Donna decided to be good. She went back inside and quickly drained a shot of Tequila before hopping into the shower.

Ordinarily, Donna might have been disturbed by the detective’s seemingly senseless line of questioning. But not today. The songs she heard coming out of the radio during her almost two-hour drive from the Jersey shore to the northwestern outskirts of Philadelphia were just too ‘hoppin’’ to let her think of anything else.

Sam Cooke – Marvin Gaye – Aretha Franklin – Johnny Mathis.

After parking her car in the radio station parking lot, she left the engine running long enough to catch the last few bars of Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl.

“Miss Donna the DJ!” Tony Mc Gwynn, the assistant music director, greeted her as she entered the studio building. Some faraway speaker was piping out a Carole King song into the office space around them.

“That’s DJ-Donna to you,” Donna said, just then noticing that she was actually wearing a blue denim shirt and blue denim jeans and carrying a blue denim pouch purse.

“Yeah, well DJ-Donna, Mr. Sykes would like to see you in his Station Manager’s office.”

“I only got about ten minutes before air,” Donna snapped back. She had stopped at an empty desk and was fumbling through her purse for a fresh pack of cigarettes.

Tony’s head spun around, and his long brown ponytail spun with it. “The bossman said to send you to his office when you got here. Says we’ll cover you with a commercial-free block of classic R&B and Rock if we have to…”

Donna walked slowly up the corridor and knocked gently on the closed door that led to Jim Sykes’ office. Sykes asked her in. He was sitting primly at his desk reading some sort of government-type document. His crisply-pressed, designer shirt hardly seemed wrinkled. He nodded toward a chair and Donna plopped herself down into it.

“Philadelphia police were here today,” Sykes said sounding concerned. He put the document down on his desk and ran both hands through his neatly-groomed, slicked black hair. Then, he leaned back and interlocked his fingers behind his head.

“Detective Fitzgerald?” Donna guessed.

“Yeah, him and some lieutenant. They said they’ve traced the license plate to your Ferrari to our parent company – Galaxy Broadcasting.”

“So?”

“This is really about your missing son, isn’t it?” Sykes said leaning forward slightly. He was staring at Donna with cold, steely eyes.

“So, I’ve jumped jobs from L.A. to New York to Philly in the past year. What, if anything, does that prove?”

“It might prove that you’re looking for your son, or it might prove that you’re trying to make it look that way.”

“Look Jim,” Donna said leaning forward in her chair, “the fuckin’ truth is I’m looking for my son. He disappeared one night several years ago. I mean, you know, I woke up one morning and he was fuckin’ gone. It was right after his father died.”

“You mean his alleged father – the rock star – and the alleged drug overdose…”

“Fuck you, Jim.”

“So,” Sykes asked her, “do you think this mystery caller might actually be your son?”

“Like I said Jim, fuck you – and I’ve got a show to do.”

“For now,” Sykes said.

“Just remember Mr. Sykes,” Donna said getting up out of her chair, “the alleged suicidal rock star’s estate still pays most of your salary.”

“Yeah? And fuck you,” Sykes said as Donna left his office.

Either this shift is going way too slow or I’m not drunk enough, Donna thought as she glanced again at the control room clock. Ten minutes to midnight, only ten minutes left, and like clockwork the phone panel lit up.

“Hello caller, this is Donna on WYYZ radio, Philly’s classic R&B and Rock station. What song would you like me to play for you tonight?”

As usual, she could only hear faint breathing.

“Who are you and where are you calling from?” Donna asked.

There was a pause and then a young man’s voice sounded.

“Nevermind,” he said before hanging up.

Donna had already queued up a Santana song followed by Carly Simon to end her last set for the evening. She could see Barry Black’s huge frame waiting outside the control room door. As usual he was dressed all in black. There was light reflecting off his one earring. And Mikey Q was waiting there too. They looked sort of like an odd couple – a huge black man and a young, white, blond-haired boy.

“Thanks,” Donna said to Mikey once he had walked her to her Ferrari in the parking lot.

The drive out to New Jersey was surprisingly quick since Barry was playing some cool R&B tunes. It actually seemed like a warm summer night and Donna had the top to her Ferrari down as she pulled into the gravel parking lot of the club – Johnny O’s.

“Hey, Rick!” Donna said when she entered the club.

“For my Prima Donna,” Rick said sliding two already-made Margaritas down the bar to her.

Club seems crowded tonight, Donna thought as she lit a cigarette. She couldn’t remember if it was Wednesday or Thursday. She dropped her cigarette into an ash tray, placed her purse on a barstool, and downed both Margaritas in two swift gulps. Must be Thursday, she said to herself as she clanked both glasses down onto the bar counter to get Rick’s attention.

“Another?” Rick asked.

A live band was trying to play a Goo Goo Dolls song at the head of a crowded dance floor and Donna could barely hear him.

“How about an Oklahoma?” Donna said making some sort of gestures with her hands.

Rick quickly poured the appropriate liquid contents into a large, ice-filled tumbler glass. Then he slid the chocolatey-looking drink down the bar to Donna.

“Put it on my tab,” Donna laughed back at Rick as she picked up the glass.

Rick smiled.

“Hey lady, how’s about fillin’ my stockin’?”

Donna had already gulped down about half of the drink. She looked over at the voice that was addressing her then and saw the blurry figure of a fairly good-looking brunette who was wearing nothing but a g-string.

“Here,” Donna said handing the brunette a five dollar bill, “use this to buy yourself some clothes.”

The girl laughed.

“So, what’s your name tonight?” Donna asked her.

“Bambi,” the girl said.

Donna laughed a slobbery sort of laugh.

“Bambi,” she said barely containing herself. “Yeah and my fuckin’ name’s Thumper.”

Donna felt as if she was laughing hysterically. Then, she felt as if she was touching someone. Or maybe, someone was touching her.

Then, everything went blank.

“Miss Joergenson?” Detective Fitzgerald’s voice was beginning to ring in Donna’s ears like an errant alarm clock. “Miss Joergenson!” the detective’s voice chimed out again.

As Donna rolled over, the early morning sun hit her squarely in the eyes. Glancing around, she suddenly realized that she was sprawled out in the driver’s seat of her Ferrari.

“Thank God!” Donna said sitting up straight. “At least I had the fuckin’ sense to park in the fuckin’ driveway. What fuckin’ time is it?” She licked her chapped lips.

“Six-thirty a.m.,” Fitzgerald responded without looking at his watch. His moustache twitched slightly.

“Fuck!” Donna snapped. “And you had to wake me up?” Her long blond hair seemed like a tangled mess.

“Do you always sleep in your car at the foot of your driveway, Miss Joergenson?” the detective asked.

“Hey! For what was paid for this fuckin’ car, I ought to live in it twenty-four-fuckin’-seven…”

“And who exactly did pay for this car,” the detective asked, stepping back so he could see the license plate. “Someone from California – DJ-Donna?”

“Actually,” Donna said, rubbing her eyes hard, “sometimes I just pull over and go to sleep on the shoulder of the Atlantic City Expressway.” She glanced in the rear view mirror to see how much mascara had run around her powder blue eyes.

“Yes,” Fitzgerald replied, “the New Jersey State troopers told me.”

“Aren’t you just a little bit out of your jurisdiction here, detective?” She was trying to pull both a comb and a brush through her hair.

“Actually, I’m not here as part of any jurisdiction now, Miss Joergenson.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?” Donna said shoving both the comb and the brush back into her purse.

“I’m informing the LAPD that the Philadelphia Police Department is dropping the case, and I’m recommending that they should do the same.”

“What case?” Donna said as she opened the driver’s side door, picked up her purse and cigarette case, and stepped out onto the driveway.

The detective was silent for a moment.

“You know,” he said, “Your son disappearing in the middle of the night, the distraught mother bit, ya di da di da – oh Nevermind,” he said finally. “The whole story’s just too sobering.”

Donna watched the detective as he walked over to his conspicuously unmarked police car. “Better take care of yourself Miss Joergenson,” he said as he got into the car, “or you may find yourself in Poughkeepsie next.” His head was hanging out of the car window.

Donna watched as he drove away. Rubbing her temples slowly, she strolled up the driveway and opened the unlocked screen door of the beach house. As the door slammed behind her, she put her purse and cigarette case down and started to fidget with the door handle.

“Something wrong?” a youthful voice greeted her.

Donna turned around to find Mikey Q standing there. She examined his loosely-fitting, blue, terry-cloth robe. It seemed to be the only thing he was wearing. He was actually very muscular.

“Oh, that asshole cop’s just givin’ me shit,” she said. “Tellin’ me shit I already know. You know, like they’re the ones callin’ me at the station.”

Smiling, Mikey tightened the knotted tie-string to his robe. There was an Eric Clapton and B.B. King song playing in the background.

“Want me to knock him off, just like I did to dear old Dad?”

“Fuck Mikey! That ain’t funny. I mean somebody might actually fuckin’ hear you!” She slammed the inside door shut.

They both stood quietly for several moments.

“What kind of son are you anyway?” She stepped forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Just the basic rebel type, I guess,” Mikey said. “And what kind of mother are you?”

Donna thought for a moment. There were actually tears in her eyes. Then she wrapped both arms around Mikey and gave him a really tight bear hug.

Leaning closer she whispered in his ear.

“Nevermind!”

The Old Man
(Un Vecchio Uomo Italian)

For three days running, the old man, Guisseppe Geppetto, slept late. Then, upon rising, he was riddled with guilt. Rimorso. He was not outdoors this day with the other men. To him, it felt più freddo – colder than any other day he could remember – even for early Febbraio. Il gelo punge. He could feel piercing pangs inside of his old man’s petto (chest) as he labored to take in another breath.

‘Howa colda them workmen must be,’ he muttered to himself as he crossed both arms and clenched them tightly against his thinly veiled, old man’s chest. He could never let them see this – that he could barely weather the cold. He wondered if they missed him – the other men. He missed them too…

Trent’anni — thirty years — and he had rarely missed a day.

Peering out, he scoured the small town’s snowy landscape. The port-sized window was cloudy where he stood, hunched over as he was, exhaling smoke, with his massive, old man’s weight pressed down against the lower frame. He wished to soak in the haunting numbness of the mid-morning sun. But the sun was disappointingly dull, and oddly, an annoying, lifeless, orange sphere. It gave him a chill.

He whispered to himself… it should be warmer, … molto più caldo, … but it in’t…

He really didn’t mind the cold. He kept telling himself that. It wasn’t as bad as Agusto  – the steamy, hot summer months. He couldn’t decide whether to powder, wash, or trim his thickening white whiskers.

Finally, he decided none of it was necessary. Il gelo punge. Too much mess… He didn’t even try to re-comb his thinning, white capelli — the old man’s crop of hair he had brushed over with his thick fingers on the top of his balding, old man’s head.

Cold en’uff to freeza witch’s teet…, he mumbled to himself. One of the other men, Ernesto most likely, would have told him that. In all his years, he never knew exactly what he meant. A gooda strega or a bada strega? As if he could think it through logically…

Pro’bly a bada strega…

He had known a few bad witches in his day. A few good ones too. But they were all gone now. Not one of them was there to remind him of how cold it was. He didn’t mind. Il gelo punge, he kept reminding himself. Where were they now? Only paradiso or inferno could reveal to him the answer. He wondered if they missed him. The insistent women. He missed them too… he kept reminding himself of that.

He strapped on his workman’s coveralls, his workman’s shirt, and his workman’s boots. He was ready for work but had no worksite to go to. He decided to heat up some leftover coffee – what was left in the silver pot. At least he could still do that. There was probably enough since no one was there but him. But first, he checked behind the stove for the little topo. Tito, he named him – his secret friend – as was typical, he was quiet as a little mouse…

Waiting patiently, he couldn’t detect anything moving. His unsteady gaze was as expected now – even with those wire-rimmed spectacles – an unwelcome sign of advancing age. He accepted it, though, as part of his morning ritual. That, and his daily cup of hot, black coffee. Caffè amaro.

He set a lit match to the front burner on the stove to heat the pot. The sudden flame felt good. He then lit the remains of a sigaretto. He thought about treating himself to biscotti and marmellata. But then, no…. Instead, he would go to Bakery Italiano. How much would it cost? He slid his hand in and plucked out several bills from the ceramica jar on the side counter. Maybe that was where topolina was hiding.

But no…, he couldn’t detect anything moving there either…

Once ready, the old man descended the back stairs. Outside, the air was thinner and colder than expected. Main Street was scarcely crowded – several police officers, slow moving street cars, individual pedestrians.

Bells chimed when the old man entered the bakery – yet no one greeted him. “Do you know who I am?” he asked the baker once inside.

The baker replied, “You are the old man who lives up the road – you work with the men in the village – they build houses – you come here every morning to buy coffee for the men – caffè amaro – but you did not come today… they left without you – you are too late – no…?”

“I am here now!” the old man insisted.

“You are late – too late – the men left without you…”

“I am here now!”

But the baker just ignored him then as he went about his work – baking torte, and pasticcini.

Before leaving the bakery, the old man bought biscotti and a small cup of café au lait. He counted his change along with the remaining bills from his pocket. It seemed that there should have been more.

When he arrived at the town square, at the center of the village, the old man could see that the doors to the Catholic church were unlocked and partly open. Inside, the deacon was practicing Latin prayers with several schoolboys. The boys were wearing school uniforms. No one said anything to the old man when he entered the church.

“Do you know who I am?” the old man asked, interrupting the prayers.

The deacon looked up, somewhat annoyed. “Oh, you’re the old man who lives past the square – you work with the men in the village – they build houses…”

“I helped build this church,” the old man told him, “Father Rinaldo knows me.”

“Go away old man,” the deacon said, shooing him, “Father is tired and needs to rest before afternoon service – today is Feast of Saint Blaise and the children will be arriving to get their throats blessed.”

“I will come too,” the old man responded.

“As you wish.”

On impulse, the old man decided to buy flowers then. He exited the church and walked two blocks uptown to the negozio di fiori – Viola’s Bouquets..

“Do you know who I am?” the old man asked the flower lady after entering the shoppe. Barely glancing in his direction, the lady continued preparing an arrangement of flowers. “What is it you want old man?”

The old man peered around the shoppe. Such a radiant display of fragrant colors! He noticed there were several other women working near the rear of the shoppe preparing colorful floral arrangements.

“Chrysanthemums” the old man replied meekly, barely able to pronounce the word.

The flower lady laughed. “In Febbraio?”

“But you have so many fiori. So many fiori…”

“For Valentine’s” the flower lady told him. “Rose rosse… rose rosa… rose bianche…”

In Febbraio? the old man thought quietly. But then – ahh…, a rosa for my Rosa…

The old man left the flower shoppe with a single white rose – rosa bianca italian. He decided to walk three streets over and up the hill to the cemetery. As he came closer to the big War Memorial – he remembered two brothers who were lost to the war. Like a seasoned officer in the Italian Esercito (Army), he saluted the monument. He had fought in the war too. He would have fought in both of them if they had let him.

Venturing further into the graveyard, and after finding the stone he was looking for, the old man remembered the others who were lost.

Wife Rosa – febbre.

Daughter Collette – tumore al seno.

Niece Constantina – attaco di cuore.

The old man placed the single white rose upon the stone and whispered a prayer.

After stumbling back down the hill, the old man walked five blocks to the fish merchant tent by the sea. Outside the tent, fresh fish – crudo – were packed in boxes of snow and ice. He noticed the flap to the tent was pulled up, even with the cold. Il gelo punge. Inside, the fish monger was frying fish on an impromptu grill – persico. The fish were fresh – the old man could tell. It was warmer inside the tent, despite the smell of frying fish.

“Do you know who I am?” the old man asked when the fish monger acknowledged him.

“You’re the old man…,” the fish monger said. He seemed to be trying to remember.

“You’re the old man…,” the fish monger said again, this time as he flipped over a fish.

“Oh, you’re the old man who comes here sometimes to buy fish.”

“Per pranzo” (For lunch), the old man assured him.

“A volte a pranzo…” (Sometimes for lunch…), the fish monger agreed, “with other men… from the village.”

“I was a fisherman once…. pescatore.”

The fish monger gave him a quick glance. “That must have been a long time ago…”

After eating his fish, the old man made the trek back to the center of town. There he found a thrift shoppe since he remembered where it was located. The shoppe smelled musty inside. “Do you know who I am?” the old man asked the older lady who ran the shoppe.

“Oh, you’re the old man of the village. Do you need something new to wear?”

“A hat,” the old man decided, “Un cappello for my head.”

The lady looked around the shoppe, then she picked out a navy blue beret.

“Perhaps this will suit you.”

Seeing himself in a distant mirror, the old man was pleased. The berretto fit him well.

“Molto alla moda – very moderno,” the shoppe lady told him as she studied him wearing his hat, “But you still look like an old man…, and you smell – like fish…”

The old man left the thrift shoppe – negozio dell’usato – wearing his new hat.

At three o’clock sharp the church bells rang. Children filed out from the schoolhouse and headed for the Catholic church. The old man followed them there.

Inside, the old man could see Father Rinaldo up front near the altar. He was saying prayers quietly and blessing the throats of the children as they passed by in a single line. The deacon and altar boys, now dressed for church, were nearby assisting him. Perhaps they were saying their prayers in Latin. (Per intercessionem Sancti Blasii, episcopi et martyris, liberet te Deus a malo gutturis, et a quolibet alio malo. In nomine Patris, et Filii +, et Spiritus Sancti.  Amen.)

The old man took off his hat and waited in line to get his throat blessed. Would such a blessing have saved his wife Rosa, daughter Collette, niece Constantina? Could it even save him?

The old man said his own prayers as he knelt by the grotto of red and white candles. Then he followed the children as they all left the church. It was they – the bambini – who gave life to the village – this little Italian town by the sea – Piccola Italia. He followed them as they rushed wildly to the playground by the frozen lake. None of them seemed to feel the cold like he did. Il gelo punge.

“Geppetto – where’s your fantoccio (puppet)?” one of the children cried out, teasing the old man.

So, it was they who knew who he was!

Several school children enacted a scene from Pinocchio – a play about a wooden boy puppet who was brought to life by the puppet-maker – Geppetto. The old man played along with the scene. Many of the children clapped and laughed and started to sing.

At dusk, as it was getting dark, and colder, and most of the children had left for home, the old man contemplated visiting the broker at the pawn shop. When he arrived there, he asked the man “Do you know who I am?”

The pawn broker replied, “You’re the old man who sold me a gun to pay for your niece’s funeral – so you are alone now – and no one has bought your antique gun…”

The old man could see that the man was working alone in the shop. There were several racks of rifles on the wall and many guns on display, along with assorted goods with handwritten price tags, and an enclosed case with several rows of sparkling jewelry.

“Do you wish to buy back your gun?”

“No,” the old man assured him, “I have no need for such a thing…”

He had only come inside the store to see if anyone had purchased it.

The old man decided next to stop by the Italian café – Nicolo’s Caffe Italiano. It was a regular stop for him now and two waiters greeted him as he came through the front door. “Buona sera signore,” the first waiter said to him, “Table for one?”

The old man allowed the second waiter to pick a table for him near the rear of the café.

The café was barely crowded the old man noticed once he sat down and took off his hat. He liked it because it was quiet, clean, and well-lit. And there was no music playing. It was not that he did not like music, but he preferred it to be quiet when he ate his cena (dinner). Plus, he liked to drink alone – Arzente (brandy). And he did not like music playing when he was drinking Arzente. It tended to tarnish his thoughts.

Several hours later, the first waiter informed the old man that he could not order another drink. “You’ve had enough signore.” The second waiter stood nearby, apparently providing support.

“Another…,” the old man requested, pointing to his glass.

“I’m sorry signore, but we are closing soon,” the second waiter told him, “and you have had too much to drink…” The old man was confused as he counted the saucers in front of him on the table.

“Another…,” the old man insisted.

“I’m afraid you must have lost track of time signore,” the first waiter told him, “we are tired, and we wish to go home…”

The old man peered around the café. Except for him, the two waiters, and the barkeep, the café was empty. He wasn’t sure what time it was, or how it could have gotten to be so late. But the waiters were now pulling up the shutters and putting on their coats.

When the old man finally decided to leave the café, he slowly ventured the three blocks back to the tenement building where he lived – walking unsteadily but with dignity since he remembered to put on his hat.

Arriving in his his empty room, the old man removed his berretto and returned the leftover bills from his pocket to the ceramic biscotti jar on the counter. He decided it must be at least half past one. Perhaps little topolina had missed him. Or, perhaps, he was sleeping now. He did not want to bother him.

Instead, he decided to retrieve his Bodeo revolver which he had stowed in his top dresser drawer. That, and a single bullet. Other souvenirs he had kept from the war.

Peering out the window at the long, lifeless shadows of the jagged uneven line of village houses, the old man grabbed the gun handle tightly – he inserted the bullet into an empty chamber – ratcheted the cylinder continuously until he couldn’t remember which chamber held the bullet. He released the internal hammer block safety, cocked the pistol, and pressed the metal muzzle firmly against his upper right temple. Then, for the third time in three days – he pulled the trigger…

A Disingenuous Death – Under the Boardwalk – Down by the Sea…

A Typical Charlie Baskett Murder Mystery…

 There was a noticeable blue-haze, bone-chill in the air of the early frost morning of October 11, 1978 – since it was then that a harrowing discovery was made in the shifting, long drawn out shadows of an ominously-located, nearby sand bank… yes, … under the boardwalk…, down by the sea…. in the unsuspecting seaside town of Mystic Lake, New Jersey…

 The summer season – which had long since expired – seemed like a distant, dreamlike sequence now. What the village people (… no pun intended…) commonly referred to as the – ‘gentle’ season – was now in full swing… or so it seemed…

Mystic Lake, New Jersey – quaint, quiet, Irish, Catholic, American, Presbyterian, conservative, well-meaning, well-intentioned, wealthy, new money, old money, long-established, morally upright – so it seemed – until a pretty, deceased, Irish lassie washed up on its bleached-white, sandy shoreline…

I was working on an unrelated case at the time when I got the call. They refer to me as a private dick (… affectionately, of course…) but most of my major cases eventually go irreconcilably public.
And I jumped on this one – contemporaneously – hoping to keep it on the down low – for as long as was ‘humanely’ possible…

I perused my scantily scribbled notes:

• They discovered her lifeless, naked body on an Irish Celtic Claddagh Cross quilt blanket
  under the boardwalk … did I mention it was down by the sea…?
• They said ‘he’ was the last person to have seen her alive…
• They said ‘he’ was a drifter…
• They said ‘he’ said ‘he’ was from Princeton… New Jersey… (… University…?)
• They said the first thing ‘he’ asked upon being questioned was “Who found her…?’

I thought it a pertinent question –

They said ‘it’ was an open and shut case…

I says: “Not so fast Kemosabe…”

The Mystic Lake police were adamant –
… curious, I thought –

To say that the Mystic Lake police were ill-equipped to handle a typical Murder One homicide might be a serious understatement. To be honest (… and who’s not being honest…) I was ill-equipped to handle one me-self. But I found myself in the middle of this overly snafued ‘mess’. And as anyone could tell you, I could write a book about it… It seemed to be a typical Charlie Baskett murder mystery case…

I wanted to jowl with the suspect. I wanted to ogle the stiff carcass. I wanted to interview the poor Mohican who had found her – but all I got was relentless push back from Mystic Lake’s finest – the clean-cut men (… and one dick-less Tracy…) in blue…

“They says his name is Francis Scott Keyes, uh … somethin’…,” the desk sergeant, Fitzgibbon, informs me, “… uh, Fitz-gerald… Francis Scott Key Fitz-gerald…”

“Fitzgerald?,” I repeated, trying to zero in on Fitzgibbon’s mental acuity.

“Ah, yah…,” Fitzgibbon confirms, “Cute… huh? Maybe we should salute ‘im and sing our nation’s ‘nash-nal’ anthem as we raise ta’ union’s red, white, and blue banner to hallowed skies above…”

I detected the open-minded sergeant had suddenly acquired a more detectable Irish brogue.
As if we were both competing in that area… I mean, we both certainly seemed to fit the stereotyped roles we were playing – he, a stodgy, aging, somewhat overweight, Irish police desk sergeant, and me, a stodgy, soon-to-be middle-aged, but somewhat still in shape, hard-boiled private detective… and successful mystery writer…

“I say we cut ‘is freakin’ balls off…” Fitzgibbon blurts out, somewhat passionately.

“Was she…, uh, … sexually assaulted?” I inquired, thinking it appropriate.

“There’ll be a report…,” Fitzgibbon responds, “… from the coroner’s office… all I knows now is she’s deceased… poor lass… officially, quite dead…”

Now I was curiously adamant. “Where is this Francis Scott Key fellow now?” I demanded.

“Fitzgerald? … we shipped ‘mi up to Bell-mayr…,” Fitzgibbon tells me, “And they may have shipped ‘im elsewhere… As-brey Park perhaps… or even Tren-ton… maybe…”

I was starting to hope that someone besides Fitzgibbon had tagged the critical evidence.

“Is there any way I can discuss the incidentals with the suspect now?” I asked, continuing my ongoing discourse with the seemingly informative, but somewhat aloof, Fitzgibbon.

“I’m sure anyt’ing’s possible…,” Fitzgibbon tells me.

Forty-five minutes later – I’m with the accused – in a jailhouse holding cell. They told me to be discreet with regards to the exact location. As if I actually knew where the exact location was…

“Call me Scotty…,” the accused tells me, first off.

The next thing I notice is the scribbled writing on the wall… The Mammoth Beast …

The Mammoth Beast

The mammoth beast, the mammoth beast, most beastly of the beastly beasts,
Bequested, boastful, yet it sprawls
With jettisons of rustic wings and shamrock greens
Between the lake and sea.

With Vichy lace, a Sasson face
Or yet, perhaps, a Carolinian façade of coup de gracé
Nocturnally content to gaze beyond the crashing mist
With glassy eyes of candlelight, on this can one exist?

“Come closer,” sighed the Irish maid, as if with no alarm
Invitingly she beckoned him to sheath her sheetrock charm,
While lounging in her cushioned room, so dry, so warm, so neat
With towered bells and spangled frills duplexially sweet.

The beast came glaring down the hall to view the maiden’s quest
The beast stood standing in the hall as if the maiden’s guest,
And stopped he was before her door, no sheath, no charm, no key
While on the wall his firehose was hung for all to see.

“Quite causal…,” said the fire chief, when he heard what had been done
From volunteers who hosed the mess and counted up the endless sea
of ashes one-by-one…
And to this day the village speaks of sharp memories decreased,
Of plastered, painted, wooden worlds, once destined now deceased.

 

“I bet you didn’t know I wrote poetry…,” the accused elects to inform me.

“I bet you didn’t know I wrote mystery novels…,” I elected to respond to him.

“Actually, I did…,” he says, redressing me.

I thought it odd – his redressing me that way.

“The world needs more poets…,” he elects to inform me next.

I started thinking about it. I wasn’t sure if the world needed more mystery novelists.

Dashiell Hammett might have approved of it though.

“I need my Zelda,” he then informs me.

Again, I thought about it. I needed my Zelda too.

“For what it’s worth…” he tells me, “It’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be…”

That was all he told me – for what it’s worth… beam me up Scotty…

After a quick stop at the Mystic Lake Library, I decided to retreat to my usual ‘thinking’ place – Mrs. Sameroff’s Coffee and Hot Dog Stand at Ninth and Ocean Avenues in Belmar. As a kid, I used to pick up soda bottles off the beach and Mrs. Sameroff would give me two cents a bottle.

It was actually more than I was making now…

I sat at Sameroff’s food stand with my usual cup of hot brew and freshly grilled wiener.

No pun intended. Meticulously, I thumbed through my scantily scribed notes. There was something odd about his redressing me that way, I thought to myself again – like an omnisciently prescribed, unconventional mantra. Something the all-seeing fortune teller lady on the Point Pleasant boardwalk might have told me if I paid her enough.

The Mammoth Beast, I figured, referred to the Monmouth Hotel. Something they tore down several years ago. But there were two other hotels still standing – the Warren and Essex and Sussex. All three had been owned at one time by the brothers Mulligan – or maybe they still were. The brothers hadn’t talked to each other for years – at least that was the word on the street.

And it was well known that they each would import young lassies from the Emerald Isle each year to spend the summer season in Mystic Lake working as competent housemaids… and anything else they could conjure up in their mystical imaginations.

Much to the chagrin of Mrs. Mulligans 1 – 2 – and 3…

My attention turned to the sorry sap, or may I say – sorry suspect, thy had holed up in the little big pen… I paged through a reference book I had somehow managed to pass through the tightly monitored security exit door of the Mystic Lake Library.

Page 87 – it was all there in black and white –

Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald –
— second cousin, three-times removed from the actual Francis Scott Key –
Composer of the American national anthem –
— 20^th century American short-story writer and novelist – perhaps best remembered
for his third novel – The Great Gatsby…

 –– Goes by the pen name – F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Apparently the world needed more classic 20^th century novelists…

Next stop – Freehold Racetrack – and my most reliable informant– Joey da’ Rail –

I decided to brainstorm with Joey – to see if he had the goods on what was going down —
I found him, as usual, out in the yard – where the drivers already had their carriages mounted to assigned horses – and they were apparently trying to decide who was going to win the next race –

… the scent of it was sweet…

“Her name was Carin O’Brien,” Joey tells me, “Not what they say in the funny papers…”

Asbury Park Press had her name listed as Crystal Waterford.

No friggin’ way, I thought. Somebody’s idea of a joke?

Suddenly, something clicked. I thought I had met her once at one of the hotels.

Back when I was working as a bell hop maybe…

“They’ve got you on their radar my friend…,” Joey tells me.

I wasn’t really sure what he meant by that. But he had to go.

Joey schooled me how to bet. He told me to bet everything I had to win the next two races. I only had about fifty dinaros in my pocket. I watched as Joey rode the number one horse in the first race and hugged the rail all the way around the two length half-mile track. The shortest distance between two points, I guess. It paid off at two-hundred and twenty-two dollars. I watched the second race as Joey once again hugged the rail all the way to the end. This time I collected more like fifteen hundred.

I needed it – I was getting low on funds… and this was my main source of income…

Carin O’Brien – it was a familiar sounding name…

I thought about it all the way back to my next stop – the hallowed halls of Princeton… the Ivy-League University… why I went there I didn’t even know… and there was something strange in the voice that was addressing me there – I recognized it as John Nash – the famous mathematician…

I might as well have been speaking to Jimmy Stewart – the actor…

Nash delivers some sort of statistical odds as to which of the brothers Mulligan was most likely to be involved in the incident – I’d have to say it wasn’t what I would have been expecting. But said Nash – “In a dream, it’s typical not to be rational…”

I thought I might have been better off still jowling with Joey da’ Rail…

Nash was convincing though… and, I mean, he did win the Nobel prize…

I thought about sending him a Greetings from Asbury Park postcard as a thank you…

I traveled next to a freshly painted park bench right by Mystic Lake – right in front of Saint Catherine’s church – such a beautiful domed building… and it was still a nice, warm Autumn day… a little bit on the breezy side though…

My mind then transcended to that memorable evening…

She was wearing an orange-blossom colored dress. More like a late Autumn shade of peach… or burnt orange maybe? She was obviously dressed for somebody special, but I didn’t really think it was for me. That didn’t bother me though. I was just getting over a head cold, and I hoped she didn’t mind the sniffling…

I had made reservations for the Yankee Clipper restaurant…. in Sea Girt… my usual planned night out… dinner first, then a little bit of clubbing it… then, hit the beach – after dark… hoorah…

… that was the game plan…

At the restaurant, the piano man was playing some sort of light, elevator music. It might have even been the Billy Joel song Scenes from an Italian Restaurant, which seemed appropriate for some reason… The waitress convinced us to order a second round of drinks before the baked flounder entries were to arrive at our table, where the view was indescribable – glassy eyes of candlelight…?.

I’m typically a beer drinker, Michelob in the classic brown bottle, but for some reason this was my second scotch and water… with very little water… very little ice… hardly any ice… kind of a bitter taste in the glass – did I order that?

… for medicinal purposes, I guess…

It didn’t take long to break the ice.

She said she liked to ride horses… I told her I like to ride horses too… I mean, this wasn’t my first rodeo… I noticed there was now a fully-open, orange-blossom flower in her hair –

… the scent of it was sweet…

She said she liked the baked flounder – I liked it too, but, truthfully, I wished I had ordered a juicy sirloin steak…

After dinner, just as planned, we went bar hopping –

Kelly’s – D’Jais – Parker House – Stone Pony – ?

At the Parker House I caught her talking to some guy named Pedro…

Then, we landed at my usual haunt – Jimmy Byrne’s Sea Girt Inn – where the sounds of Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes were blasting out of the speakers and blowin’ the roof off the joint –  “I don’t wanna go home…” –

I didn’t wanna go home either –

Neither did she…

After that we hit the beach where there was a lot of sand – sand everywhere – under the boardwalk – down by the sea – pounding waves – darkness on the horizon – but a slight sliver of an orange moon shining…

I told her it complimented the flower in her hair – and her dress…

I heard her mumble something in her classic Irish moaning of a voice – “Chay-lee…”

It was a good sign – I mean, that was my actual name…

So, I thought…

“She’s nuts,” was all I heard someone say.

I thought they were talking about Zelda.

Then there were voices above me telling me to wake up.

So, I thought.

They were shaking me and telling me very forcefully to wake up –

The first thing I noticed upon waking was that I was lying on an Irish Celtic Claddagh Cross quilt blanket – apparently under the boardwalk… (… down by the sea…?) – and there was an imprint of a human body that had apparently been lying next to me – outlined in bloody red…

… the scent of it was sweet…

The first thing I thought to ask upon being questioned was “Who found her…?’

I thought it a pertinent question –

Looking up, I could see there were several Mystic Lake police officers towering over me.
I could barely make out their shadowy figures as they were each ‘haloed’ by my ‘migraine’ vision and by the early morning sun…

They were then quick to inform me –

“You have the right to remain silent…
Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law…”