Retirement Plan | CHAPTER 1

Detective Morgan Holiday believed that Satan, herself, invented blazers. She owned a dozen of them. Originally, she’d planned to have two for each season. As it turned out, her weight tended to go up and down depending on her case-clearance rate, and her clearance rate hadn’t been good lately, so she needed one for each season in three different sizes. At eight a.m., June 4, when the call came in, her slightly snug-in-the-shoulders black linen was hanging on the back of her chair. She was sipping strong coffee from the shop on the corner and chewing on a plain whole-grain bagel. Her partner, Henry Zimmerman, was in the building but not at his desk. He’d stopped pretending he was ready to work before ten o’clock a month ago when he announced that he was retiring soon.

The light on the phone flashed, and she hurriedly swallowed a partially chewed bit of bagel. “Homicide. Detective Holiday.”

The uniform on the other end identified himself, then dispensed with formality. “We got somethin’ here that don’t look good.”

                     
Holiday picked up a pen and took down the details. Then she grabbed her blazer and headed toward the break room to find Henry.

A few minutes later she was making a trip across town in the usual manner. She drove, Henry complained. She didn’t use the lights or siren; according to the uniform, the victim had been dead for a while. She crossed through downtown, fighting the tail end of morning traffic. Then she took a side street and drove through an established, high-end neighborhood. The houses, probably built in the 1940s or ’50s, were large two-story Cape Cods centered on half-acre lots where mature trees often hid them from view. She didn’t see the black-and-white on the first pass.

“I’m getting so I hate every call,” Henry said. “The excitement’s gone. This job feels like I’m thirty years into a bad marriage. I look at other guys my age. Nice cars. Grandchildren…” Henry had three divorces behind him. Morgan had one. “Christ, Henry,” Morgan said, “you’d complain if you were hung with a new rope.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Morgan shrugged. “Just something my ex-husband used to say. I think new ropes give a little. So if you’re hung with a new one, your toes might touch the ground.”

“Did he say that about you?” Henry asked. After a few seconds he added, “Did he think you complained a lot?”

Morgan glanced in Henry’s direction. He was surveying his side of the street although the even house number told them the address was on the driver’s side. All she could see was the back of his head. He’d had more hair when they first partnered up. She considered his question. “Did she complain a lot?” Not back then, she hadn’t. Her marriage had been a good one. Foolishly, she’d walked away from it because of her neighbor’s wife, which sounded like a goddamn cliché.

Henry turned toward her. His face was flushed and he sounded winded, though he hadn’t exerted himself. “Look, hon,” he said. (She hated it when he called her “hon” and he knew it.) “Old folks got a right to complain.”

Morgan spotted the black-and-white up near the house. She swung the unmarked car onto the wide driveway. As they got out, a young uniform came around from the side yard.

“It’s in back.”

“You or anybody move anything?” He probably hadn’t, but it was important to ask. “No. Trash collectors called it in a little over an hour ago. They’re waiting for you back there.”

With long strides, she rounded the corner of the house and the crime scene tape stopped her. She took everything in. A Ralph’s Garbage truck was parked, still idling, in the alley, which was easily 200 feet from the back of the house. Three men sat next to the garage on a wooden bench. The older one looked purposefully at his watch. The body lay in the sun. Holiday and Zimmerman ducked under the yellow tape and carefully approached the patio.

“Blood spatter fifteen feet or so.” The uniform pointed at the back of the house. Henry went toward it and he glanced back at the body. “Jeez. We got some brain matter here too.”

The late spring morning was heating up. Morgan was starting to sweat beneath her blazer. She pulled it off and draped it over her left arm.

“You okay?” Henry asked. He did this at every grisly crime scene. Blood and brains had stopped bothering her a long time ago, but Henry had been with her on the first call. He’d held her head while she puked and never let her forget it. “I’ll miss your coddling,”

Morgan said. She turned to the uniform. “You canvassed the neighborhood yet?”

The uniform dug a notepad from his back pocket and studied it. “Neighbors to the east are gone. House on the other side, I asked a woman,” he checked his pad, “Leona Pratt, if she saw or heard anyone, and she said that last night during Seinfeld, she heard something that might have been a shot. She’d assumed it was her teenage son,” he checked his notes again, “Joby, upstairs with his TV too loud. She said this guy, Zach Ingram, lived alone. Wife and kids moved out over two years ago. Worked long hours and rarely had company.”

Morgan pulled out her notebook and wrote the victim’s name. “Did she say where he worked these long hours?”

“She wasn’t sure what he did, but it had something to do with nursing homes.”

“Anything else?”

“After eight when my backup got here. Aside from a maid in the house across the street, the rest of the houses were already empty. Everyone probably gone to work.”

“Did you talk to the kid?”

“What kid?”

“Teenager with the loud TV.”

The uniform shook his head. “Mrs. Pratt was alone. The kid left for school already. She said he has a seven thirty calculus class.”

“Talk to her again. See what you can find out about this guy’s inner circle.”

“Right.” The uniform made some notes and walked away.

Moments later Morgan stood next to the body, staring down. Almost half the guy’s head was gone. The bloody wound, coagulated to black and crimson in spots, was alive with insects. Even the street gangs on the other end of town didn’t use weapons that would make this kind of mess. It had to have been an assault rifle or something military.

“This guy had his shoes blown off.” Henry pointed. “One over there beneath the picnic table. The other next to his left foot.”

“Probably should get some photos.”

“Camera’s in the car,” Henry said. “If you want to interview the garbage guys, I’ll take some pictures and watch for the crime-scene techs.”

Morgan nodded, turned away, and ducked under the crime-scene tape again. The trash collectors sat on the bench, waiting. The older, heavyset, light-skinned black man was probably the driver. Surely he wouldn’t lift and move full trash cans all day. A younger, darker, solid-built black man and a slim white guy, who, under closer scrutiny, could be a woman, sat as far apart as possible on the narrow bench.

Morgan motioned the older guy out of range of the others’ hearing and introduced herself. She recorded his name, Alonzo Thomas, careful to get the middle initial, J. She asked his age and discovered, though he looked older, he was in his late forties, just a few years older than she was.

Poised with notebook and pen ready, she said, “Tell me, in your own words, what happened this morning.”

He looked heavenward and said, “We was coming down the alley like any other morning. Cans supposed to be pulled out there, but this guy forgets often as not. Last time he did, we went on by and he called the office and raised hell. So when we come to this house and I seen the cans wasn’t out, I told Tashaun to take C. J., go up and carry them back.”

Alonzo Thomas stopped and took a couple of deep breaths while Morgan kept writing. Finally she prompted him. “You told Tashaun and J.T. to go up to the house — ” “C. J.”

“Yes, C.J., thank you.”

“Next thing I know, Tashaun come running back to the truck. He jump up on the running board and look at me all wide-eyed. So, I says, ‘What happen, boy?’ And he says, ‘We got to get out of here — they’s a dead body up there.’ I look past him and see C.J. standing over by the garage on her cell phone, and I say, ‘Who she calling?’ Turn out it was the po’lice. It was all I could do to keep Tashaun here. His parole’s almost up. He don’t want to be associated with no dead body. I told him it’d be okay. It will, won’t it, ma’am?”

A breeze carried the smells of garbage and exhaust fumes toward them. Sweat was running between Morgan’s breasts and the back of her neck was moist. She looked at the round-faced man, who was smiling, encouragingly, she supposed. “I just need to get a statement from those two and you’ll be free to go. I may need you to come down to the station later on. Those two will be going with you unless one or both of them have outstanding warrants.”

Alonzo Thomas nodded and said, “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be working late tonight as it is. We got most of the route to cover yet.”

Morgan interviewed the trash carriers one at a time. After she radioed in Tashaun’s name, he checked out. She took his statement quickly. Forensics had arrived, and she wanted to talk to them. The slender blonde, C.J. Kent, had a baby-butch thing going: short cropped hair, men’s work boots, a tight camouflage T-shirt, and thin but ropey biceps. Her skin was tanned from working in the sun. According to her driver’s license, she was nineteen. She seemed to want to talk more than the others, but she didn’t really add anything new. Morgan gave her a card with the Homicide Department number on it and told her to call if she thought of anything else. As Morgan finished the interview, Alonzo approached her again and asked if they should take the trash. Morgan sighed and said, “No. Not this week.”

As the Ralph’s truck started to roll, with both carriers holding on to the sides, Henry motion to Morgan from the alley. One of the forensics guys was working on the back gate as she approached.

Henry pointed to a spot behind a bush. “This is where he was. Grass is kind of beat down. This guy must be a sniper to get the victim in the temple from this distance. He’s either a marksman or damn lucky. Far as anybody can tell, there was just one shot.” Morgan turned and looked toward the house. She could have hit the guy from there with a rifle, but someone who didn’t spend several hours a week on the range would be hard-pressed to. She said, “You think this is professional?”

Henry put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me. I don’t think a pro would have left this spot in the grass. He must have remembered to pick up the casing. Should be off to the right, but I’ve gone over the whole area, including those bushes there, and found nothing.”

“I wonder if there’s more to the victim than meets the eye.” Morgan jerked her chin toward the body. “Maybe he’s involved in something shady. Maybe he owes money to the wrong person.”

Henry frowned. “I don’t think you can collect a debt from a dead man.”

Morgan scanned the alleyway. It wasn’t like the alley that ran behind her house. No broken glass. No abandoned tires. No bits of trash. In her neighborhood, a shell casing might be hard to find. But here the alley was clean. At last she said, “Let’s go see what forensics has come up with.”

Lois Burnett woke at dawn. She hadn’t been able to sleep and, not wanting to disturb Sophie, had gotten up to read. Even though the recliner was good for naps, her joints ached, and, of course, her shoulder hurt. Her Clark Kent style (although Sophie called them Mr. Potato Head) glasses were sitting cockeyed on her nose. When she righted them, she saw that her book had fallen to the floor. She hadn’t been able to read anyway. She didn’t know how Sophie could sleep. Lois had come home with adrenaline pumping. She had forgotten that killing a man could be so invigorating.

She’d aimed the rifle and squeezed the trigger, and, in an instant, she earned more than she got in three months from Social Security. But it wasn’t really the money that excited her. It was the power. She’d taken matters into her own hands. In addition, as a result of careful planning, the mess that came of it was someone else’s to clean up. She and Sophie had taken turns watching him — getting to know his routine. No current wife. Children grown. No pets. Everything in his life was by the clock. They’d narrowed his murder time down to the last cigarette of the day. At that time Lois could hide in the darkness in the alley behind the house, along which two mature, untrimmed bushes provided extra cover.

About ten thirty, when Lois and Sophie were usually sitting in bed reading, Lois had crept down the dark alley and knelt behind the bushes to wait until he stepped outside his back door. Damn cigarettes would kill him anyway. She was doing him a favor. Unlike lung cancer, a bullet through the brain was quick. She’d worried a little about the flash and crack of the single shot. But she couldn’t think of any way to avoid them.

Zach Ingram sat on top of a picnic table and lit up. Lois could see the orange glow of the cigarette as he brought it to his lips. The ember brightened as he drew on it, and his head made a distinct silhouette before the blue bug light. She squeezed the trigger gently, and his body slammed forward into the darkness. The blinding flash disappeared, but the smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Her shoulder hurt from the kick of the M-16, but she couldn’t use a tripod on this shot. She’d probably have a bruise.

The night remained quiet except for a dog several houses down that barked tentatively, then stopped. She knew the family in the house next door was on vacation. Plus the houses were well spaced in the west-end neighborhoods, but an M-16 made a helluva explosion.

Lois took a little time finding the casing in the dark alley. The thing had landed a good eight feet to her right. She pocketed the shell and, with shaking hands, she took off her glasses to clean off the fog. Her mouth was dry as she opened the back gate and stepped into the yard. She was excited. No longer swept along by poverty, old age, and economic circumstance, she was in charge.

Ingram had fallen face-down and, except for a couple of leg spasms, hadn’t moved again. Lois approached him carefully, hoping he wouldn’t need a second shot. He didn’t. Sophie had been waiting in the truck with the motor running at the end of the alley. Lois turned from the body and hurried away. As she passed the garage, closer this time, a security light flicked on. Light flooded the patio. She picked up her pace. Why had she forgotten about that damn light? They’d discussed it more than once.

She walked faster than she had in several years, down the alley to the waiting truck. When she was safely inside, she looked back. Nothing had moved. All was quiet. She and Sophie sped away into the night.

Lois Burnett and Sophie Long still couldn’t agree on when the killing-for-money idea took shape. Lois said it was on pinochle night — the night of the potato-salad incident. Because their hostess knew better than to ask this bunch of women to “bring a dish to pass,” she’d asked them to bring a salad of some kind. Sometimes Myrtle Dixon would come in with a slow cooker full of those little hot dogs in grape jelly and chili sauce. But others weren’t as reliable. So they’d end up with six bags of potato chips, three different-sized tubs of store-bought dip, a loaf of bread, and a bag of Oreos that got opened on the way over.

That morning Lois found the lettuce floating in brown liquid. They often bought fresh vegetables with the best intentions, but the stuff usually rotted in the fridge. She told Sophie, “I have a few dollars. We’ll stop on the way and buy a salad of some kind.”

“What kind of salad can you get with a few dollars?”

Lois shrugged.

They stopped at Save Mart a few blocks from home. While Sophie waited in the car, Lois went in. A long while later she came out of the store with a plastic quart of potato salad. Sophie said, “I don’t think that’s the kind of salad they meant.”

“They’ll eat it.”

“We should, at least, take it home and put it in one of our own dishes.”

Sophie squared her shoulders. “Well, you’re carrying it in.”

And it was settled. Lois walked into the house and went straight to the kitchen. When Sophie found her twenty minutes later, Lois was working with a pair of pliers trying to pull the lid off the container.

“What’s going on?”

“Lid’s stuck.”

“Let me see.” Sophie easily lifted the lid off.

“How’d you do that?”

Sophie pointed to an arrow. “Directions.”

Sounds of laughter came from the crowded living room. Lois set the tub of potato salad on a card table next to a slow cooker of little hot dogs and a bag of chips. She and Sophie sat opposite each other at one of four card tables.

Myrtle Dixon said, “Murder. That’s rich.”

While Myrtle, two tables away, continued talking, Connie something-or-other, a younger woman, probably high side of fifty, filled them in. “Myrtle’s ex phoned her from Florida. She’s been all in a twist about it.”

Lois looked across the table at Sophie. She returned a toothy smile that made crinkles around her eyes. They’d had their differences, but no breakups. No ex-lovers in Florida. Not a single infidelity. Although fidelity wasn’t a virtue for Lois because she’d never wanted anyone else since the day she met Sophie. Sophie was her best friend. They’d been through difficult times in the past thirty-two years. They’d disagreed on things, but Sophie had never even mentioned leaving, nor had Lois.

Connie went on. “Myrtle told us she and the ex had this plan for their old age. They’d become hired killers.”

Myrtle’s voice startled them. She was standing between the card tables. “Think about it,” she said. “Everyone has someone they want dead.”

Lois laughed, but Sophie asked, “What if you get caught?”

Myrtle said, “Then we’d have gone to prison and had a roof over our heads, three meals a day, and free medical. Why, they’d even pay for our prescriptions.”

Other women around them tittered nervously.

“There was just one problem,” Myrtle said. “We couldn’t figure out the killing part. It’s a messy business.”

“Use an assault rifle,” Sophie put in. “We’ll loan you ours.”

Myrtle shrugged. “Won’t work now. The hot-shot that came up with the plan is living in Florida with an ex-Playboy Bunny.” Before they could ask questions, Myrtle wandered off toward the food table. She picked up a paper plate and a fork and fished out a couple of little hot dogs.

For Sophie, the accident had set things in motion. She had been driving home from the drugstore when a teenage girl ran a red light and struck her broadside. The girl stepped out of her car, shoved her cell phone in a backpack, and hurried over toward Sophie. She yelled across her own crumpled hood and through Sophie’s broken driver’s side window. “Lady? Hey, lady, are you all right?”

When Sophie didn’t answer, the girl raised her voice. Traffic stopped, and people began to gather around the cars. Then a man in greasy coveralls leaned in the broken window and said, “Ma’am, we need to get you out of here. Your gas tank is leaking.”

Sophie shook her head trying to clear it. Finally the man appeared on the passenger side, worked the door open, crawled across the seat, and pulled her toward him. She tried to help him, but the pain in her left shoulder was nauseating.

The next thing Sophie remembered was sitting on the bus bench staring at her wrecked Subaru.

A paramedic asked her something.

“What?”

“Your name,” a voice said, “what is your name?”

“Long. I’m Miss Long.” She said her name like she’d said it every autumn for thirty years to the new fifth-grade class.

“Do you know who the president is, Miss Long?” the voice asked.

His face was close to hers. She could smell mint on his breath. He spoke again, louder this time.

“Who is the president, Miss Long?”

Sophie drew in a breath—she wouldn’t mention that she hadn’t voted for him. She exhaled. “Richard Nixon.”

That was all. The corners of her vision grew increasingly fuzzy, then the light shrank to a pinpoint and went out.

When Sophie woke again, Lois was sitting beside the bed, sleeping. A rumpled paper sack with some magazines was on the floor next to her. Sophie’s arm was in a cast, and she couldn’t move her head. She cut her eyes toward the nightstand. A porcelain vase from home held a bunch of crimson peonies from [MM1] the backyard.

A man’s voice startled her. “How are you feeling, Sophie?”

The older she got, the more often total strangers took liberties with her first name. She moved her eyes to the right but could barely see him. “Who are you?”

The man said, “I’m Phil, the dayshift RN.”

Not even a doctor. “I feel like hell.”

“You have a broken clavicle and a cracked ulna.” He moved into her line of sight — just a goddamn kid — looking at a clipboard. “Doctor says we’ll have to wait and see about the neck injury.”

“Where’s the little bitch that hit me?” Sophie said.

“I — I don’t know.”

Lois chimed in. “She got a bump on the knee. Didn’t even come to the hospital.” “That’s all?”

“Who knows,” Lois said. “Are you in pain?”

Sophie tried to nod, gave it up, and said, “Yeah.”

The nurse said, “You have pain medication ordered. I’ll bring it on my way back. Just try to relax in the meantime.”

When Phil the nurse left the room, Sophie said to Lois, “Scoot down a little. I can barely see you.”

Lois scooted her chair closer and into a better position.

“Why can’t I move my head?”

“You have a cervical collar.”

Sophie was quiet for a moment, trying to understand. Dismayed, she finally asked, “What am I going to do?”

Lois stroked her hand. “About what?”

“I haven’t been able to afford insurance on that car for twelve years.”

“The accident wasn’t your fault.”

“Do you think that matters? I’ll get a whopping ticket just for driving the car without insurance.”

Lois sighed. “The whole system’s stacked against us. I think Myrtle’s ex had the right idea — at least in theory.”

“I have a list of people I’d like to see gone, even if there were no profit. That kid with her cell phone is near the top,” Sophie said. “Hell, everyone thinks someone deserves to die. I say, find a person who wants another person dead enough to pay for it and oblige her for a modest price.”

“Good grief, Soph, murder’s a crime.”

“So is driving without insurance. We’re only talking about a matter of degree.”

Lois squeezed Sophie’s hand. “This will all work out. The important thing is to get you feeling better.”

The RN came back into the room and passed Sophie a paper cup containing a pill. He poured some water from the pitcher on the nightstand. Sophie tried to lean forward to drink, but winced. The RN said, “Easy now, honey. We’ll use a straw.”

When the nurse had gone, Sophie said, “Do I look like his honey?”

“He was just trying to be nice.”

“Don’t make excuses for him. I’m not in a generous mood. He sees me as a helpless old lady. He doesn’t know that I stood in front of a bunch of Catholic fifth-graders longer than he’s been alive. Most people aren’t tough enough to do that for one damn day.”

“I know.”

The room was quiet. After a while Sophie said, “What am I going to do without my car?” “The girl’s insurance company will pay for your medical. We’ll worry about your traffic ticket when the time comes—maybe we could make payments. You just lean back and rest for now.”

“How is a body supposed to keep going when even a bottle of generic aspirin is a major expense?” Sophie was already getting groggy, but her anger had momentum. “I paid for car insurance all those years and never made a single claim.”

“I said this will work out.”

Sophie yawned. “I’ve earned a comfortable life. Young people think seventy-three is too old for women to expect comfort. That teen on the cell phone has a rude awakening in store for her.”

“Aw,” Lois said. “She has no idea what it’s like.”

Sophie’s eyelids were heavy. The last sound she heard was Lois saying, “We’ll be all right.”

A week later Sophie’s neck brace was still in place and her arm was in a sling. She couldn’t dress herself, and she was still angry. The young woman who had crashed into her turned out to have third-rate insurance, and the adjuster was haggling over every penny. Of course, they wouldn’t pay anything until all the bills were in, and all the bills wouldn’t be in until she was back on her feet.

Sophie was lying on the couch watching TV when Lois came in from the kitchen and said, “I’m going to hock the M-16. I only kept it around because it meant something to Matt.” Matt had been Lois’s grandson. She and Sophie had raised the boy after his mother abandoned him. He had been killed in Afghanistan just three years before.

“No. I won’t let you.”

“It’s the only thing we own that we don’t need.”

“No.” Sophie held her ground. “Let’s use it.”

“How?”

“I’ve been sitting here,” Sophie said, “mad as hell. I’d really like to kill somebody — the damn insurance adjuster, for one. If I, an old-maid school teacher, want a person dead, I’m sure others with less refinement do too. If we were to provide that service, we could make some extra cash — untaxed income to make us more comfortable. We’d probably only need to do a job every six months or so.”

“You don’t know how to shoot.”

“We’re a team, aren’t we? I could be the brains — get the jobs and make the plans. All you’d have to do is show up and pull the trigger.”

Lois said, “You’re not serious.”

“I believe I am.”

“I don’t know — ”

“Okay, then teach me how to shoot, and I’ll do the jobs alone. I’m sick of living from the third of one month to the next. I’m sick of wondering what’ll happen when we can’t pay the taxes on our home. I’m sick of going without the things I need.”

“What if we get caught?”

“Then, like Myrtle said, we won’t need to pay property taxes. We’ll have free medical care and three squares a day. Of course, appeals could take years. We might never see the inside of a prison.”

“Don’t you think the M-16 is overkill?”

“Here’s what I like about it,” Sophie said. “There’s no way to trace it to us. That rifle’s never been used in a crime. You got it from the army-surplus store before there were FOID cards. Matt only fired it at hay bales. Anyway, who’ll suspect us of owning a weapon like that?”

Lois seemed to consider this. At length she whispered (for if they were really going to do it, they had to speak softly), “Tell me why you think we won’t get caught?”

Sophie was ready for this question. “We have no apparent motive to kill anybody. If anyone is suspected, it will be the person that hires us. So we won’t do killings for our friends. We need as much distance from our employers as possible.”
 

×

Widow | CHAPTER 1

The new red Jeep Rubicon sped up the horseshoe drive and squealed the tires as it came to rest half on and half off the curb of the emergency entrance. Bertha Brannon charged through whispering automatic doors, greeted by a curtain of cold air. The lobby was chaos. A line of people gathered at the admitting desk. She felt a tug on her shoulder, and then sixteen-year-old Doree stood in front of her. Panting, Bertha grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. “Doree, what the fuck?”
“I was leaving the mall and got a call from Fred.”
A vision of her own cell phone charging on the kitchen counter flashed in Bertha’s mind. She was trying to get used to her new phone, but she often either forgot to charge it or put it back in her bag. Toni insisted that she wasn’t highly evolved enough to carry a cell.
Doree rushed on. “He said your phone went straight to voice mail. I couldn’t reach you either, so I came.” Doree’s voice trembled. “Mom’s been shot, and they won’t let me see her.”
“Where’s Fred?”
“I think he was hit too. They won’t tell me anything.”
The fact that Fred Cook’d made the call suggested that he might not be as badly hurt as Toni. Bertha grabbed Doree’s hand and, in several long strides, pulled her past the admitting desk.
“Ma’am,” the girl, who couldn’t be more than twenty, called after them.
Bertha stopped. “Are you talking to me?”
“You can’t go back there.”
“I have a family member back here.”
“I’m sorry. You need to check in here first.”
Ignoring her, Bertha led Doree down a wide hallway. She heard the call for security just before she pushed open a door to several curtained-off treatment rooms. A woman in purple scrubs came toward her.
“Judge Brannon?”
Bertha recognized her as a nurse who’d taken care of her grandma a couple of years back. She skipped the pleasantries. “Where’s Toni?”
“She’s in surgery.”
Doree drew in a breath and exhaled. “How bad is it?”
Bertha squeezed the girl’s shoulder. It was all the comfort she had to give.
Purple Scrubs said, “Too soon to tell. You won’t be able to see her until she’s in the recovery room.”
“How about Cook? Is he still around?” Over the nurse’s shoulder Bertha saw an ancient security guard approaching them. A younger guy was a few feet behind him. What was Purple Scrubs’ name? Bertha drew a blank.
“I’m here.” Fred Cook, wheeling an I.V. pole, his right arm in a sling, stepped out from behind one of the curtains.
Bertha started toward him, but Purple Scrubs caught her arm. “Can you fill out papers for Sergeant Matulis?”     
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest you do that.”
“I will,” Bertha said. “Just as soon as I find out what happened.” She walked toward Fred Cook.  As he ducked back behind the curtain, his butt was exposed. Bertha stopped, and Doree bumped into her. Bertha opened her purse but found her car keys still clutched in her hand. She held them out. “Move the Jeep for me, will you?”
“Me?” Doree was currently grounded for coming in late, and that meant no car.
“Please.” Bertha softened her tone. “It’s right outside the door. Put it in the parking lot somewhere and come find me.”
Doree grabbed the key ring and hurried away. Purple Scrubs (was it Judy something?) stopped the security guards, and the three put their heads together.  
Bertha ducked behind the curtain. “Fred. What the hell happened?”
Fred Cook was pale. His left arm and the side of his face were skinned up, and his right arm was covered by a brace and sling. He winced as he adjusted the IV pole and scooted himself back onto the narrow gurney. “I don’t know who we’re dealing with. All I know is a domestic-violence call came from an address of a known drug house down on South Fifth. We were thinking this would give us a chance to go in there without a warrant.”
DV calls were the worst. Police never knew what they’d walk into. Bertha said, “Did you radio for backup?”
“We did, but the place looked quiet, so we went ahead to the front door. We didn’t even have time to identify ourselves before all hell broke loose. They had to know we were coming. The door flew open and two guys started shooting. I took the first bullet, a through and through, right shoulder. Knocked me on my ass.”
“They knew you—”
“What bothers me the most is they seemed to know it was me and Sarge.”
“What happened to Toni?”
Looking at the floor, Cook slowly moved his head back and forth. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and that bothered her.
This time venom crept into the question. “What about Toni?”
Cook shrugged. “She must have been hit—grazed maybe. She was knocked off the porch, but it seemed like she started returning fire before she landed.”
Bertha waited while Fred lay back on the gurney. She reached to adjust his pillow, though she felt like grabbing the front of his little hospital gown and baring her teeth. She managed to restrain herself, for now anyway.
He took a deep breath. “It all happened so fast. They fired off six or seven rounds and slammed the door shut. A few seconds later we heard the side door crash open. Still no backup, but Sarge was on her feet and running, while I was still trying to find my weapon. Then I heard shots, five this time.”
“How many times was she hit? Did she shoot any of them?”
“I don’t know. Ambulance got there and I sent the paramedics to Toni. All this time our backup hadn’t come, but right after the paramedics got there, a black-and-white, with its lights off, rolled up, and then couple of uniforms helped me into their squad car and drove me to the hospital. They told me she’d stopped breathing, but the medics got her going. When I got here, the people tending to her were running around like crazy.”
“We had to stabilize her before we could take her to surgery.” Purple Scrubs entered, not bothering to pretend she hadn’t been listening. “So in a way, it’s good that she’s in surgery. Come on, Judge Brannon. I’ll take you up to the waiting room.”  
“I have to stay. My daughter, remember?”
“How ’bout I ask security to watch for her and bring her up?”
Bertha nodded. In the elevator, on her way up to nine, the surgical floor, her head pounded. She held onto the rail and breathed deeply. But all she could hear was a mantra, five bullets, five bullets, five bullets.  

#

Cold in appearance, but warm in fact, the room where Purple Scrubs—what was her damn name—left Bertha had at least two other families waiting. An old woman and a middle-aged man sat together. She clutched an unopened bible with both hands and he was engrossed in People Magazine. In another corner a group of Asians, with every living generation represented, talked in little bursts of a language she didn’t understand. Bertha paced back and forth in front of a vending machine. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Doree approached her. “Mom’s in surgery?”
Bertha sighed. “She is.”
 Doree fell, rather than sat, on a nearby chair. She blinked back tears. “What happened?”
With her back to the other families, Bertha knelt beside the girl. “A domestic-violence call went bad. She ended up in a foot chase and at some point took a bullet.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
“I think she will,” Bertha lied. “We’ll have to wait.”
Doree grasped Bertha’s wrist and drew her close. “I’m scared.”
“Me too, honey. But all we can do is wait.” Bertha was amazed how this parenthood business worked. The day before she’d been so angry at Doree she didn’t want to be in the same room with her, but now she couldn’t imagine not having her here.
When she and Toni had met twelve years before, Toni, a single mother, made it clear she and the kid were a package deal. Doree had been a temper-tantrum-throwing preschooler, and Bertha was glad enough to escape to her own apartment. Then Grandma got sick and had to leave her home. The process of finding a place and getting her in had been so hard that Bertha’d cleared her calendar for a few weeks. Toni was with her most of the time, and with Toni came Doree. The kid was nine years old by then, and while Grandma was slow to warm to Toni, who was a redheaded white woman, Doree, Toni’s mixed-race daughter, fared only a little better. After Grandma was settled, one of the first things Bertha’d smiled about was Doree and a soccer game. Doree had grown into an athletic kid who ran circles around the other little girls. She scored the only point, and Bertha thought that of all the little kids from both teams and all the little kids she knew, she’d rather have Doree.
The Chicago White Sox game had been the turning point for the two. Bertha had bought the kid a ball cap, a hotdog, and lemonade. The cap went down over the kid’s forehead, but she wouldn’t take it off. In the eighth inning, a home run brought two runners in, and Doree threw both arms up. Bertha and the guy next to her were drenched in lemonade. Toni laughed and the guy next to her laughed and Bertha finally laughed with them. Relieved, Doree folded into Bertha’s arms. Bertha decided that she could love this kid. After they bought the house, she learned what most parents know—kids can be different every day—every hour. By then Bertha’d sold Grandma’s house, putting only her most precious items in a storage locker the size of a small garage, and Toni’d sold her trailer, then took what furniture they could use from both places and added some new. Their bed was new; no one had slept in it but them. Living in the same house, Doree started following Bertha everywhere.   
As Bertha waited for news, she searched her purse for a tissue. She rarely used the things, but she’d bought a little travel-size pack during pollen and cottonwood season. She said to Doree, “Dry up those tears now. You hungry? Thirsty?”
“I could drink a soda.”
Bertha heard her knees pop as she stood. Doree would want the real stuff, no diet for her. She bought two Pepsis. She’d drink the real stuff tonight too. Passing Doree a bottle, Bertha pulled her chair closer to her.
A man came through the door and looked at the three groups. Bertha’s heart lurched, but he said, “Hudson?”
An older woman, with what might be her son, stood. The man pulled off his scrubs cap and approached them. He said, “The laparoscopy didn’t get us to the problem, so we did the traditional cut. He’s a big man. But he came through the surgery fine and he’s headed for recovery. We’ll need to keep him a couple of extra days—”
Doree’s voice startled her. “Will that family be next, or will we?”
“They were here when I got here, but I don’t think that means much.”
“Well, no news is good news, right?”
Bertha nodded. “Right.”
Doree stretched her long legs out and crossed them at her ankles. She raised both fists, stretched, and yawned. At first Grandma, a dark-skinned old woman who’d been as racist as Simon Legree, had called her high yellow—or yeller—before she came to love her. But Doree’s mixed race wasn’t yellow—her skin was rather beautiful. Bertha and the kid both had white mothers, but of the two, Bertha’s skin was darker.
Bertha said, “Why don’t you lie down on the couch over there? We could be in for a long wait.”
“No. I want to wait next to you.”
Bertha put her arm around Doree. Soon the kid rested her head on Bertha’s shoulder and slept.
Bertha closed her eyes, but she couldn’t rest. She was going over the conversation with Fred Cook. Something was wrong. A lot of something. Toni knew that even if she got into the house, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about the drugs. She needed a warrant unless the stuff was right out in the open, and she could easily get one since she was close to a member of the bench. So why go to the door unless someone was in danger? Why wouldn’t Fred look her in the eye? He was lying about something and that made her angry. Why did Purple Scrubs want her out of the way down there? Bertha couldn’t even wait for Doree. Why would the guys come to the door with their weapons drawn? Even the most crazed criminal had an aversion to shooting a cop. Most houses in that neighborhood had iron bars on the windows and doors. If the door opened outward, as most storm doors did, how were the shooters able to get into a position to fire, unless they fired through the screen? Why would Toni leave a wounded partner for a dangerous foot chase?
A blue light near the ceiling started flashing. A cart rattled and rubber-soled shoes pounded on the speckled marble floor as several people ran toward the surgical door.
Doree sat up straight and said, “This doesn’t look good.”
Bertha fished for the girl’s hand. “Don’t even think that business is for your mother. Let’s muster some sympathy and compassion for that worried-looking family over there.” When things were scary or difficult, Bertha always tried to see beyond them. She would stay the night, in Toni’s room or in a waiting room if necessary. She would call her secretary, Alvin, in the morning and have him reschedule tomorrow’s cases. She would be with Toni and she’d make her get better. She had no life without her.  Doree needed her mother. They’d have to rearrange their lives until Toni was better, but she would get better. This was just one of those hard things that life threw at you now and then. Maybe in the long run, this was for the best. Bertha had wanted Toni on a desk since they’d moved in together. She would be safer than working on the streets.
The room grew quiet again. Even the Asian family, whose bird-like voices had risen to a crescendo, seemed to relax.
Bertha couldn’t hear what the woman said. She tried to focus.
Doree touched her arm. “She said Matulis.”
Bertha stood and together they waited as the woman, whose nametag said Doctor, approached.
“You’re here for Sergeant Matulis?”
Bertha smiled as if winning her over would ensure a good result. “This is her daughter and I’m, well…I’m...”
Doree saved her. “This is Judge Brannon, my other mother.”
They both beamed at the doctor.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, “We did all we could. Her wounds were just too serious.”
“She’s dead?” Doree whispered.
Bertha just stared at the woman dumbly. Toni couldn’t be dead—she hadn’t filled out the paperwork yet.

×

Tales from the Levee | CHAPTER 1

END OF AN ERA  -  1965

     Was there a feud?  Some folks will tell you they were bitter enemies.  Competitors.  Both with an eye on the money, both trying to squeeze a living out of a couple of bars in a "bad" area of town, the two women while very different, were connected by one thing.  In the days before the kids started calling Helen, "Mother," before anyone ever heard of Smokey, something happened.  Both agreed it was the saddest thing to ever take place on the Levee, a street with enough drama for a network of soap operas.  Through the years when they'd had a little too much to drink, they would quietly raise a glass to the summer of 1965 and the "End of an Era."

"Drive up banking," Helen sneered.  "What's that I'd like to know?"  She sat on her lawn chair outside the door of the Gee-I, fanning herself with a folded section of the Springfield Sun Times.
        "It's the wave of the future." Ethel sat her bag down and looked with Helen toward the theater.  Ethel had stopped, as usual, on her way to work the three-to-eleven shift at the bus station.  She came by every afternoon but Tuesday, her day off.
        A fan inside the tavern door blew warm air toward the street.  Helen wiped her forehead.  She was short and squarely built, with a mop of over-permed, gray hair.  Sitting in the webbed lawn chair, her feet barely touched the sidewalk.  She wore a faded house dress and nylon stockings rolled beneath her knees.  Sometimes in the afternoon there was a breeze from the west.  Today there was nothing.  She'd go in later.  Turn on the air conditioner and the six o'clock news.
        "TV’s taken the place of movie shows," said Helen.  "Maybe some day they won't even have theaters."
       Her friend Ethel was a large woman in a frayed white uniform that was somewhat yellowed by Clorox.  Though she was younger than Helen, wiry gray hair escaped from beneath a sideways hair net that gathered in the center of her forehead with a tiny brown knot.  She wore scuffed white orthopedic shoes and dark nylons, over Ace bandages, which covered her varicose veins.  She carried a large purse and shopping bag that held an umbrella (even on the driest days), a newspaper and Poli-grip.
        Ethel had worked at the Post House Restaurant for years.  She never missed work, never got promoted, and never complained—much anyway.  She had strong shoulders and a thick round body.  Her eyes were cornflower blue--child like, and it was in them that you could see her frailty.
        "You can't stop progress," Ethel said to Helen that day.  "The Orpheum's been there a long time.  It's old."
        "Ain't nothing' wrong with that building."  Helen's voice rose.  "Why, a month ago they had an elephant on that stage!  It didn't even shake.  It was built as a vaudeville theater.  My husband and I went there on our first date.  Now vaudeville is dead, folks stay home and watch T.V. and they won't get out of their cars even to do their banking."
        "The end of an era," Ethel agreed.  "Just like that party they threw, ‘The End of an Era.’"
"Goddamn crime, that's what it is." Helen rolled the newspaper and swatted at a lazy fly.  "Besides the movie theater, look at the other businesses they put out of that building."
        "Aw, the drug store got a better place down on Monroe," said Ethel.  "And Jack Robinson's moved right across the street."
        "They were fine right where they were.  You don't know how many times I needed that drug store.  And what about the bowling alley?  Gone."
        "We should get a bunch together and go to the last show," Ethel suggested.
        "Include me out!"  Helen's words were punctuated by the slap of the newspaper on the arm of her chair.  "I refuse to believe that someone won't do something to stop them."
        Ethel shrugged.  "Anyway, we'll have seen a movie."
        "What's playing?  Another of those damn Disney’s?"  Helen looked toward the theater, then back to Ethel.  "I don't need no damn Pollyanna telling' me to find the good in this."
        Ethel laid a hand on Helen's shoulder dramatically.  "You got to accept progress . . ."
        "God damn."  Helen shouted.  "There she goes!"
        "Who?"  Ethel looked one direction then the next.
        "There."  Helen leaned forward and pointed at a young blonde woman who had come out of the Tropical Isle across the street and was heading north toward Madison.  "Across the way.  It's that Lou.  The one that dates the strippers."
        "She dates women?"
        "Brings 'em right in my bar."
        "No!"
        "She's tending bar at the Alibi, says she's going to buy the place from Rose and Jenny.  Make it a bar for gays.  Meantime, she brings her women to my place to buy them beer."
        Local gamblers were Helen's regulars, along with an assortment of cab drivers and prostitutes.  Helen didn't mind the strippers, but their companion upset her.  "First time she come in, I slammed her beer down on the bar and threw her the change," said Helen.  "She just drank the beer and come back the next night."
        From across the street, Lou waved.
        "Drat."  Helen cursed.  Then nodding and waving, in a much louder voice she called, "How you?"
        "How you?"  Ethel echoed Helen sweetly.
        "You don't know her."
        "Just trying to be friendly."
        "I tell you what," Helen said, frowning. "This neighborhood is going to really go down hill with that theater gone."
        "Oh, there goes Miss Opal," said Ethel, swinging into motion.  Her boss was on her way to wake the three-to-eleven cashier who drank and frequently overslept.  That meant Ethel and Scout were both late, and Miss Opal would be mad.
        "See you later," Helen called as Ethel hurried away.

        There was a special closing program on the last night at the Orpheum, with intermission entertainment on the pipe organ at nine and again at eleven-fifteen.  A very forgettable Disney movie had run all week, but for the last night there was the premier showing of a Jimmy Stewart western.
        From her bar stool, through the open tavern door, Helen watched movie patrons.  It was early evening and the air was hot and muggy.  A sudden downpour made the early theater traffic seem chaotic.  Patrons caught without umbrellas rushed for cover under the lighted marquee.  The Gee-I was empty.
        At eight o'clock Charlie brought Helen's supper, cold fried chicken and potato salad left from lunch.  He sat at the bar nursing a beer and reading the newspaper.  Helen ate alone in the back booth, licking chicken grease from her fingers and listening to the last intermittent drops of rain.
        At nine, when the first show let out, Helen listened to the hiss of tires on the wet street.  A few people stopped at Jack Robinson's for twenty-cent hamburgers.  The smell of fried onions floated on the heavy night air.  Couples walked past the open door, glanced in, and kept going.  Helen put a nickel in the jukebox and selected a slow song.  Sometimes folks were lured in by a Ray Price ballad.  This night, they weren't.
        Ethel, finished with her shift at the bus station restaurant, came in shortly after eleven.
        "That girl who works the register left work at nine, drunk," Ethel complained.  "When they put her on the cash register, she started keeping gin and Squirt under the counter.  Hell, I don't think she's even old enough to drink legally.  She gets away with everything."  Ethel slurped her beer, smacked her lips, leaned toward Helen and confided, "She's young, and she puts out."
        "I thought you were going to the show tonight," Helen said.
        "You know I can't get off work," Ethel explained.  "Besides, I guess I forgot."
        Helen sat a beer on the bar.  "Trouble is, the whole town forgot.  They had their 'End of an Era' party in June.  They put everybody in town on the stage with an elephant thrown in for good measure.  I guess they figure they said good-bye proper."
        "Why, there's people there.  All the parking places are taken, and those people sure ain't in here."
        "You don't understand," Helen muttered, shaking her head.  "This town has sold its soul for $350,000."
        "What don't I understand?" Ethel demanded.  "That's a right nice price for a soul."
        "That theater cost over two million dollars to build back in the twenties."
        "They didn't sell the organ," Ethel continued to argue.  "It's going to be at the high school auditorium, where they can have concerts whenever they like.  Though I don't care for organ music myself."
        "Don't you know nothing about the acoustics?  That theater was built for concerts.  It has almost three thousand seats.  It's the biggest auditorium between St. Louis and Chicago.  This pissy little town will never make up the loss."
        "You're just getting old," said Ethel.
        "Yeah, maybe."
        "Folks tend to cling to things when they get old," Ethel mused as she turned and looked out the open door.  The conversation was over.
        A police car, red lights flashing, headed south on Fifth Street.  The women watched.  The sound of the siren faded.  Ethel stood up stiffly and walked to the jukebox.  She fished a nickel out of her uniform pocket.  The machine whirred to life.  Ethel danced back to her bar stool to the first lines of "King of the Road."
        "Do you have to be in such a good mood?" Helen sighed.
        "You put me in a good mood."  Ethel continued to hum along with the song.
        "Music these days . . ."
        "It's modern," Ethel laughed.  "Modern music.  Modern banking.  Get with it before someone puts you in a home."
        "Thank you, Shirley Temple."  Helen rested her head in her hands, her elbows on the bar.
        When the song ended Ethel finished her beer and left.

        Near midnight, alone again, Helen was watching a television revival and turning over cards in a lost game of solitaire.  The crowd from the last show at the Orpheum was nearly gone, and the street out front had quieted down.
        Helen gazed at the salt and peppershakers that were lined up on the opulent shelves behind the bar and wondered if she would have to buy a new roll of toilet paper before the weekend.  She'd cleaned the place up for closing, emptied the dented ashtrays, and wiped down the split vinyl seats in the booths.  On the snowy black and white TV a female gospel singer was strumming "Amazing Grace" on an acoustic guitar and singing the slow alto melody.  Helen hummed and snapped down three more cards.  
        A noise startled her.
        "You alone in here?"  
        Two cards fluttered to the floor.  Helen caught her breath. "Lands, you scared me to death."
        Lou was dressed in a black t-shirt and wheat colored jeans.  She wore black western boots and a wide leather belt.  Her light blonde hair was combed back Elvis-fashion.  She stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.  "You all alone?" she asked again.
        Helen nodded.  "You?"
        Lou jerked her thumb toward the open doorway and said, "I just came from the last show down the street.  Couldn't find a friend interested enough to go with me."
        Helen slid off her stool and waddled stiffly around the end of the bar.  "Come in then.  Take a load off."
        Lou sauntered to the bar and threw two quarters down. "Give me a beer.  Miller's, in a bottle."
        Helen pulled a beer out of the metal cooler, knocked off the cap and on one of her rare occasions, slid the quarters back.  "I'm buying' the first one," she said.  "How was the show?"
        Lou shrugged.  "It was a goddamn shame.  That's how it was and that's what it is."
        Helen opened a second beer for herself--her favorite Little Schlitz.  "You stayed for the organ music?"  
        "To the last sweet note."
        Lou didn't bother with the glass.  She tilted the beer bottle up and swallowed.  "I got a friend who can play that thing," she said.  "He works piano bars mostly.  Plays soft music for boozed up rich folks at the Southern Air.  He told me that organ was something to see.  A three manual, eleven rank Barton, with piano and several different percussions.  I mean, it can sound like about anything.  It's on a platform that raises out of the floor near the orchestra pit."
        "That so?" said Helen.  "He plays the thing you say?"
        "I said he could play it.  They only pay ten dollars a night," said Lou.  "Ain't worth it to him.  He has to drive all the way from Lincoln.  Give up an evening of tips at the piano bar.  No, it'd cost him money.  'Course now, no one will be playing it."  
        Helen scooped up the cards from the floor, and then hoisted herself back on the barstool.  "Someone should stop them.  I know I sound like a broken record.  I know folks stopped listening to me months ago.  Everybody just goes on like normal.  You know, I heard in Europe they're saving some of their rare old buildings.  'Course the Orpheum ain't really old.  Nothing's old compared to Europe."
        "This town is changing."  Lou tapped a filtered cigarette on the scuffed bar.  "Digging' that hole under the old court house for parking, opening fast food restaurants.  What does a town need with two McDonalds I ask you?  And now they're taking down that beautiful old theater."
        Helen sighed.  "What's gonna be left on this street?"
        "Nothing' but bars."  Lou's Zippo had a clear base that showed a picture of hunting dogs immersed in lighter fluid.  She snapped it open and it lit on the third twirl of the wheel.
        "And worse . . .” Helen moaned, reaching for her little Schlitz.
        Lou exhaled smoke out of both nostrils like a dragon.  "You mean folks like me?"  
        Helen didn't apologize—she simply stared at the handsome woman.
        "Ain't my money as good as the next?"
        Silence.
        Lou drained her beer and slid off the stool.  "I don't need this tonight.  I'll be going'."  She threw two quarters back on the bar and hesitated for a moment at the door, then plunged into the sultry night.
        She was almost to the alley when Helen called, "Wait."
        Lou stopped.  Fifth Street was empty.  There were only the streetlights and the shadows.
        "Come back," Helen said.
        Lou turned and looked at the old woman.
        Helen, short and stout like an aging elf in a housedress, stood framed in the dimly lit doorway.  She motioned with her arm and called out, "Come back."
        Lou took a step toward her.  Her voice had a soft southern drawl.  "What you want?"
        "Your lighter," said Helen, holding it up.  "You forgot your lighter."
        Soft yellow light fell through the open door onto the dark sidewalk.  From several blocks away a church bell rang.  Lou slowly retraced her steps.
        Helen dropped the hunting dog lighter into Lou's outstretched hand.  "I'm an old woman," she said.  "Set in my ways."
        "Times is changing," Lou said softly.
        Helen nodded, walked back inside and let the door whoosh shut.

        The theater sat still and empty through the heat of August.  Weeds grew up and broken windows were covered with plywood.  It was rumored that someone got into the lobby and carried off the last cases of Good n' Plenty, Milk Duds and Slo Poke suckers from the deserted concession stand.  Several nights later there was a windstorm.  The next morning every alley and doorway on Fifth Street was littered with candy wrappers.
        Helen swept the sidewalk in front of the door of the Gee-I only after the mail man tracked wet Slo Poke wrappers in on his shoes.  "When they dry off they'll just blow over to Sixth Street," Helen told Ethel.  "If I can just keep 'em away from the door 'til then."
        "The paper says they'll prosecute anyone caught in that theater to the full extent of the law," Ethel said.
        "Looks like it."  Helen swept candy wrappers toward the gutter.
        "Wonder how many cases of stuff they got?"  Ethel mused. "Better to feed the hungry than the crane."
        Helen shook her head slowly.  "Of all the things to steal.  Sure lets you know what kind of values people have."
        After the candy theft, a Pinkerton security guard was hired to watch the building.  Business fell off some without the nightly theater crowd.  Weekends were worst.  Lou dropped by from time to time, always with one woman or another.  Some of Lou's friends started coming in with her--young, pretty looking boys.  Helen didn't like the bunch, but noticed that they spent more money than her regulars.
        One afternoon, Lou introduced Helen to a man.  "This here is my friend Bill."
        Bill was a clean-cut, handsome man in his thirties.  He had dark hair with flecks of gray and a mustache.  
        Helen said, "Hello."
        "Remember, I told you about him?"
        "Can't say as I do."  Helen shook her head.
        "The organ," said Lou.  "I told you I knew someone who had played the organ at the theater."
        Helen perked up and eagerly extended a hand.  "Glad to meet you."
        Bill shook her hand warmly.  He looked like the television star, Guy Madison, when he smiled.  
        Helen set up the drinks.  Lou had her usual bottle of beer.  Bill drank scotch and water.  No ice.  When Helen put the drink in front of him she saw that his face was flushed.  He'd already had a few.
        Lou lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.  "He’s thinking of making a last trip to the Orpheum, today."
        "No," said Helen.
        Lou shook her head.  "They're shutting the power off sometime soon.  Then they'll bring in the cranes and wrecking balls."
        "There'll be an auction," Bill said.  "After that you won't know the place."
        "Ya’ want to see it before that happens?" Lou asked.
        "Are you drunk?"  Helen grimaced, and added with emphasis, "We could get arrested.  There are signs posted.  It's private property . . ."
        "Humph," said Bill.  "Property of the bank."
        "I thought you'd like to go," said Lou.  "One last look at the old place."
        Helen squinted.  "What about the Pinkerton security guard?"
        "Come on," Lou urged.
        "We could be shot."
        "I know what time he eats his lunch," said Bill.  "Goes across the street and has two Jack Robinson hamburgers, an order of hash browns and three cups of coffee."
        "How you know that?" Helen challenged him.
        "Been watching him," Lou said.  "Takes exactly one hour and five minutes."
        "You want to go today?"  Helen looked at her watch.  "This afternoon?"
        "Actually, now," Lou said.  "He should be just placing his order."
        Helen considered it.  "I'm alone here.  I'd have to close."
        "That’s why I came along.  I’ll watch the place for you," Lou shrugged, "Don’t look like you’re that busy . . . "
        "I could call Charlie," Helen offered.
        "We got to get over there now," Bill said.  "Some workmen have been dismantling seats and pulling down drapes.  Getting ready for the auction next week.  We need to get in there while the power is still on."
    “Go ahead,” said Lou.  “Count the money first if you want to.  I won’t rob you.”
        Helen asked softly, "What if we're caught?"
        "You'll get one phone call," Lou chuckled.  "Call Charlie then."
        Helen hesitated.
        "Go on," Lou urged.
       “Okay.  Okay," said Helen.  "Prices is typed up and taped to the register."   
         Lou stood near her as Helen and looked at the list.  There had been several things crossed off and rewritten in pencil.  Lou said, “I’ll manage.  See you in an hour.”  
Helen could smell alcohol on Bill’s breath as they walked south on Fifth Street on the rough, cracked sidewalk.  Helen asked, "How much have you had to drink anyway?"

        They went through the alley behind the theater, stepping over broken bottles, used condoms and empty beer cans.   Bill pulled a long thick screwdriver from his boot and looked over his shoulder.  "Watch for me," he said to Helen.  "If someone comes, act like you lost something there in the weeds."  The door was secured with a large padlock.  Bill wedged the screwdriver behind the hinge and pried.  
        The lock banged against the thick wooden door.  Helen jumped.  "You're making too much noise."
        "I about got it."  Bill wrenched the lock again.  It broke off and landed in the weeds.  He tried the knob.  The door wouldn't budge.  "Damn it!  Another lock."
        "Can't you get it?" Helen asked nervously.
        "Another damn lock.  I ain't Houdini," Bill shot back.
        "Give me that!"  Helen grabbed the screwdriver and wedged the flat end in the door jam.  She gave the other end of the tool a firm tap.  The door popped open.
        Bill led the way into the auditorium through the door that had once been an exit.  Light from the alley fell across the first rows of seats.  A dry, musty smell wafted toward them.  Bill pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and flicked it to life.  He made his way up the center aisle.  Helen waited.  A minute later the lights came up.  Three rows of seats to the left were missing.  Workers had left tarpons and tools scattered here and there.  Somewhat faded and dulled, the scheme of the auditorium was of ivory with a background of magenta, turquoise and gold.  They walked up an aisle between the rich terra cotta colored seats.
        Helen blinked as they went through the luxuriously padded swinging doors to the lobby.  Red carpet stretched out before them and seemed to go on forever.  One of the doors down front had a sheet of plywood nailed over it.  Other panels of glass were opaque with a dirty white frost--soap maybe, or wax, but the sunlight shone through.  The concession stand was empty.  Scrubbed clean.  Some of the glass was broken.  Helen looked at the ceilings and the seven-foot chandelier with shoulder-heavy nostalgia.
        "Old place has a kind of whore-house elegance, doesn't it?" Bill observed.
        Helen pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her upper lip.  It was warm.  She listened for any sounds of the security guard.
        "Yes," Helen agreed, "beautiful."
        Bill whispered, "I'm going down and crank up that organ.  You can come down to the pit with me, or just look around on your own."
        "Probably cooler down there."  Helen patted her forehead.  "How long will it take?"
        Bill led the way.  "Be careful.  They've been working everywhere.  No telling what's secured."
        "You think the organ will work?" Helen asked.
        "Don't know.  I guess I'll find out."  Bill sighed. "I want to try."
        "Do you mind the company?" Helen asked.  "I'd like to see it up close."
        "Not at all."  Bill walked toward a camouflaged door that was papered red and gold like the rest of the wall.  He wiggled the latch and pulled it open, flipped on a light switch and said, "Good, the power is still on for the workmen.  Follow me," over his shoulder.  His voice echoed slightly as he stepped down the steep steps.
        Helen gripped a wobbly wooden rail and followed him.  The plaster along a narrow, poorly lit hallway was cracked in places.  Pipes stretched overhead.  The floor sloped.  Helen had to hurry to keep up.  They passed bare light bulbs from time to time.  There were at least three areas where the bulbs were burnt out and the tunnel was dark.  Bill took out a cigarette lighter.
        "They would have never let these lights go out a few months ago," he said, holding a hand around the flame.  They passed two doors marked 'Dressing Rooms.'  At the end of the passage was a sign that simply read, 'Organ.'  Bill flicked on a light.  The organ, smaller somehow up close, was white and gold with louvered shutters across the back.  Helen moved closer.  It sat on a platform.
        "Come, sit by me."  Bill patted the seat beside him.  "We'll go for a ride."
        Helen slid onto the cool white bench.  Bill flipped a switch and waited. There was a whooshing sound of air.  He flipped another switch and the platform vibrated, and then started to rise.
        "Oh, my!"  Helen grabbed the bench and held on.
        "Hydraulic lift," Bill said over the whirring sound.  "There's a spot light in the back of the house.  If it's working, we'll be in it when we hit the top.  We're supposed to come up playing."
        "I don't play."  Helen felt goose bumps.  She was cool.  Excited.
        "Nothing?"
       "Well, Chop Sticks," Helen said, laughing.
        Bill hit the first notes.  "Come on," he urged her.
        "Where do I start?"  Helen looked at several rows of keys, confused.  She was afraid to let go of the bench.
        "Try there."  Bill pointed to the second row.
        Helen nervously placed two fingers on the keys and pressed down.  They rose out of the orchestra pit into a soft light.  Helen's gray hair and housedress suddenly had an elegant bluish cast.  Her short legs dangled from the bench.  She swung her feet to and fro with the lively music.  A pin spot of light high up beyond the balconies pierced a slight haze.  Helen turned toward the empty theater.  Lou sat in the third row, center.  She looked like a shadow.  Helen shaded her eyes and lost her place on the song.  She laughed and started over.  When they pounded out the final notes, the theater fell silent.  A hollow sound of clapping came from the auditorium.  
        Helen stood and turned to Bill.  "I can't believe we just played Chop Sticks on a hundred-thousand-dollar instrument."
        "And played it well."
        Helen pulled a much-used hanky from her pocket, sniffed and blew her nose.  "Seeing it up close makes this whole thing harder."
        Bill patted her shoulder, and said, "Let me show you what this thing can do."
        They had forgotten about the security guard.  Bill played parts of 'Rhapsody in Blue.'  The music seemed to go on forever.  They were lost in forbidden luxury.  When they remembered the time, there were only a few moments left.
        "You two go ahead and get out of here," Bill said.  "I'll put things back in place."
        "Be careful," Helen said, frowning.  "The old guy from Pinkerton takes his job seriously."
        Bill nodded.
        "I'll remember this place forever."  Helen looked at the ornate scene for the last time.  "I feel like it's a part of me."  Her eyes stung with tears; she refused to let them see her cry.
        "You better hurry," Bill urged as he softly touched her arm.

        Around midnight Helen had just opened a little Schlitz.  She was telling Ethel about the organ, about coming out of the pit into the spotlight and playing Chop Sticks in her house dress, when several well dressed men came into the bar.  She busied herself making drinks. The door opened again and more men came in.   
        "Bill sent us," they said.  "He's coming soon."
        Helen threw Ethel a "See, I told you" look and kept pouring drinks and taking money.  The men were tipping big, drinking the expensive stuff, and Helen was excited.  When Bill finally stepped through the door, she had his Scotch neat ready.  At closing time she let Ethel out and locked the door.  Bill and his friends were still drinking.  Around two o'clock one of her regulars knocked.  Helen went to the door and said, "Private party."  She made more money that night than she had all summer.  It was the first of many private parties.

        The crane came one overcast morning in October.  The marquee, cracked and broken in places, with light bulbs missing, still supported the thirty-foot "Orpheum" sign that loomed against the gray autumn sky like an ominous tower.  Everything of value had been sold, auctioned, given away or stolen in the months since the theater had closed.  The sidewalk was roped off, and barricades were set up on Fifth Street.
        Helen sat on her lawn chair in the afternoon.  She pulled a yellow cardigan around her shoulders.  Ethel stopped to talk as usual on her way to work.  She said a few words to Helen then silently watched the crane work.  People stood in groups on the street and listened to the crash and thunder of the ball, the rattle of falling bricks and the crack of splitting wood.  The sidewalk shook several times.  Late in the afternoon, a soft rain started to fall.  Helen brought a black umbrella from behind the bar.  She opened it, rested it on one shoulder, sat back in the lawn chair and continued to watch as the crane and a bulldozer raised dust in the drizzle.
        By four-thirty Helen was alone.  Curious on-lookers had opted for drier comfort.  Helen smelled cigarette smoke.  She turned.  A Styrofoam cup of coffee was thrust toward her.  
        "This should warm you up," said Lou.
        Helen reached for the steaming cup.  "Thanks."
        Lou squatted beside the lawn chair.  "Don't take long to come down, does it?"
        "Seems like it should of made a bigger pile of rubble," Helen said.  "Somebody destroys a way of life, it ought to make a helluva pile."
        "Seems like," Lou agreed.  She put her cigarette to her lips and inhaled.  The glow on the end of the cigarette brightened.  "This old neighborhood seems naked already."
        Helen sighed.  "I'll never use that bank."
        "Aw, hell.  It's right down the street," Lou said.  "Folks will forget.  We probably will, too."
        "I won't," Helen objected.  "Using that bank would be like walking on a grave."
        They were quiet for a minute.  Rain patted down around them.  In the distance, the sounds of the crane hummed.  The sidewalk vibrated.
        "Well, times is changing," Helen said sadly.
        "Yes ma'am, they surely are."
        Helen sipped the coffee, and then wrinkled her nose.  "This got sugar?"
        "Three spoons."
        "This your coffee?"
        Lou shrugged and said, "Looked like you needed it more than me."
        "I should go in," said Helen.  "They'll be quitting for the day soon.  I got to get ready for the evening rush."
        "Some day this town is going to regret losing that theater," Lou said.  "It was a splendid place."
        "Small consolation," said Helen.  "Here, scoot under the umbrella. You're getting soaked."
        "I'm all right," Lou said as she lowered herself to the sidewalk and stubbed out her cigarette on the rough concrete.  "Sometimes endings can be beginnings too, you know?"
        "Beginnings?"  Helen cocked her head.
        "I come to tell you I'm going to' see about buying the Tropical Isle."  Lou nodded, indicating the bar on the opposite corner.
        "What?" Helen sat up straight.  "He ain't selling is he?"
        "I guess he figures, like a lot of folks, that this street is in for a big change. I'm never going to' get ahead at the Alibi.  I always wanted my own place."
        "Competition?"  Helen asked cautiously.
        Lou ran her fingers through her damp blonde hair and smiled.  "Friendly competition."
        Helen chuckled, shaking her head.  "Well come on in then, I'll make a fresh pot of coffee.  We'll both warm up."
        "Thanks," said Lou.  "Don't mind if I do."
        Helen stood, balanced the umbrella on her shoulder and folded the lawn chair.  "Did I ever tell you Charlie and I went on our first date to the Orpheum?"
        Lou stood up and brushed off her jeans.  "No, I don't believe you mentioned it."
    Helen led the way into the dark tavern.

×

Tales from the Levee | CHAPTER 1

END OF AN ERA  -  1965

     Was there a feud?  Some folks will tell you they were bitter enemies.  Competitors.  Both with an eye on the money, both trying to squeeze a living out of a couple of bars in a "bad" area of town, the two women while very different, were connected by one thing.  In the days before the kids started calling Helen, "Mother," before anyone ever heard of Smokey, something happened.  Both agreed it was the saddest thing to ever take place on the Levee, a street with enough drama for a network of soap operas.  Through the years when they'd had a little too much to drink, they would quietly raise a glass to the summer of 1965 and the "End of an Era."

"Drive up banking," Helen sneered.  "What's that I'd like to know?"  She sat on her lawn chair outside the door of the Gee-I, fanning herself with a folded section of the Springfield Sun Times.
        "It's the wave of the future." Ethel sat her bag down and looked with Helen toward the theater.  Ethel had stopped, as usual, on her way to work the three-to-eleven shift at the bus station.  She came by every afternoon but Tuesday, her day off.
        A fan inside the tavern door blew warm air toward the street.  Helen wiped her forehead.  She was short and squarely built, with a mop of over-permed, gray hair.  Sitting in the webbed lawn chair, her feet barely touched the sidewalk.  She wore a faded house dress and nylon stockings rolled beneath her knees.  Sometimes in the afternoon there was a breeze from the west.  Today there was nothing.  She'd go in later.  Turn on the air conditioner and the six o'clock news.
        "TV’s taken the place of movie shows," said Helen.  "Maybe some day they won't even have theaters."
       Her friend Ethel was a large woman in a frayed white uniform that was somewhat yellowed by Clorox.  Though she was younger than Helen, wiry gray hair escaped from beneath a sideways hair net that gathered in the center of her forehead with a tiny brown knot.  She wore scuffed white orthopedic shoes and dark nylons, over Ace bandages, which covered her varicose veins.  She carried a large purse and shopping bag that held an umbrella (even on the driest days), a newspaper and Poli-grip.
        Ethel had worked at the Post House Restaurant for years.  She never missed work, never got promoted, and never complained—much anyway.  She had strong shoulders and a thick round body.  Her eyes were cornflower blue--child like, and it was in them that you could see her frailty.
        "You can't stop progress," Ethel said to Helen that day.  "The Orpheum's been there a long time.  It's old."
        "Ain't nothing' wrong with that building."  Helen's voice rose.  "Why, a month ago they had an elephant on that stage!  It didn't even shake.  It was built as a vaudeville theater.  My husband and I went there on our first date.  Now vaudeville is dead, folks stay home and watch T.V. and they won't get out of their cars even to do their banking."
        "The end of an era," Ethel agreed.  "Just like that party they threw, ‘The End of an Era.’"
"Goddamn crime, that's what it is." Helen rolled the newspaper and swatted at a lazy fly.  "Besides the movie theater, look at the other businesses they put out of that building."
        "Aw, the drug store got a better place down on Monroe," said Ethel.  "And Jack Robinson's moved right across the street."
        "They were fine right where they were.  You don't know how many times I needed that drug store.  And what about the bowling alley?  Gone."
        "We should get a bunch together and go to the last show," Ethel suggested.
        "Include me out!"  Helen's words were punctuated by the slap of the newspaper on the arm of her chair.  "I refuse to believe that someone won't do something to stop them."
        Ethel shrugged.  "Anyway, we'll have seen a movie."
        "What's playing?  Another of those damn Disney’s?"  Helen looked toward the theater, then back to Ethel.  "I don't need no damn Pollyanna telling' me to find the good in this."
        Ethel laid a hand on Helen's shoulder dramatically.  "You got to accept progress . . ."
        "God damn."  Helen shouted.  "There she goes!"
        "Who?"  Ethel looked one direction then the next.
        "There."  Helen leaned forward and pointed at a young blonde woman who had come out of the Tropical Isle across the street and was heading north toward Madison.  "Across the way.  It's that Lou.  The one that dates the strippers."
        "She dates women?"
        "Brings 'em right in my bar."
        "No!"
        "She's tending bar at the Alibi, says she's going to buy the place from Rose and Jenny.  Make it a bar for gays.  Meantime, she brings her women to my place to buy them beer."
        Local gamblers were Helen's regulars, along with an assortment of cab drivers and prostitutes.  Helen didn't mind the strippers, but their companion upset her.  "First time she come in, I slammed her beer down on the bar and threw her the change," said Helen.  "She just drank the beer and come back the next night."
        From across the street, Lou waved.
        "Drat."  Helen cursed.  Then nodding and waving, in a much louder voice she called, "How you?"
        "How you?"  Ethel echoed Helen sweetly.
        "You don't know her."
        "Just trying to be friendly."
        "I tell you what," Helen said, frowning. "This neighborhood is going to really go down hill with that theater gone."
        "Oh, there goes Miss Opal," said Ethel, swinging into motion.  Her boss was on her way to wake the three-to-eleven cashier who drank and frequently overslept.  That meant Ethel and Scout were both late, and Miss Opal would be mad.
        "See you later," Helen called as Ethel hurried away.

        There was a special closing program on the last night at the Orpheum, with intermission entertainment on the pipe organ at nine and again at eleven-fifteen.  A very forgettable Disney movie had run all week, but for the last night there was the premier showing of a Jimmy Stewart western.
        From her bar stool, through the open tavern door, Helen watched movie patrons.  It was early evening and the air was hot and muggy.  A sudden downpour made the early theater traffic seem chaotic.  Patrons caught without umbrellas rushed for cover under the lighted marquee.  The Gee-I was empty.
        At eight o'clock Charlie brought Helen's supper, cold fried chicken and potato salad left from lunch.  He sat at the bar nursing a beer and reading the newspaper.  Helen ate alone in the back booth, licking chicken grease from her fingers and listening to the last intermittent drops of rain.
        At nine, when the first show let out, Helen listened to the hiss of tires on the wet street.  A few people stopped at Jack Robinson's for twenty-cent hamburgers.  The smell of fried onions floated on the heavy night air.  Couples walked past the open door, glanced in, and kept going.  Helen put a nickel in the jukebox and selected a slow song.  Sometimes folks were lured in by a Ray Price ballad.  This night, they weren't.
        Ethel, finished with her shift at the bus station restaurant, came in shortly after eleven.
        "That girl who works the register left work at nine, drunk," Ethel complained.  "When they put her on the cash register, she started keeping gin and Squirt under the counter.  Hell, I don't think she's even old enough to drink legally.  She gets away with everything."  Ethel slurped her beer, smacked her lips, leaned toward Helen and confided, "She's young, and she puts out."
        "I thought you were going to the show tonight," Helen said.
        "You know I can't get off work," Ethel explained.  "Besides, I guess I forgot."
        Helen sat a beer on the bar.  "Trouble is, the whole town forgot.  They had their 'End of an Era' party in June.  They put everybody in town on the stage with an elephant thrown in for good measure.  I guess they figure they said good-bye proper."
        "Why, there's people there.  All the parking places are taken, and those people sure ain't in here."
        "You don't understand," Helen muttered, shaking her head.  "This town has sold its soul for $350,000."
        "What don't I understand?" Ethel demanded.  "That's a right nice price for a soul."
        "That theater cost over two million dollars to build back in the twenties."
        "They didn't sell the organ," Ethel continued to argue.  "It's going to be at the high school auditorium, where they can have concerts whenever they like.  Though I don't care for organ music myself."
        "Don't you know nothing about the acoustics?  That theater was built for concerts.  It has almost three thousand seats.  It's the biggest auditorium between St. Louis and Chicago.  This pissy little town will never make up the loss."
        "You're just getting old," said Ethel.
        "Yeah, maybe."
        "Folks tend to cling to things when they get old," Ethel mused as she turned and looked out the open door.  The conversation was over.
        A police car, red lights flashing, headed south on Fifth Street.  The women watched.  The sound of the siren faded.  Ethel stood up stiffly and walked to the jukebox.  She fished a nickel out of her uniform pocket.  The machine whirred to life.  Ethel danced back to her bar stool to the first lines of "King of the Road."
        "Do you have to be in such a good mood?" Helen sighed.
        "You put me in a good mood."  Ethel continued to hum along with the song.
        "Music these days . . ."
        "It's modern," Ethel laughed.  "Modern music.  Modern banking.  Get with it before someone puts you in a home."
        "Thank you, Shirley Temple."  Helen rested her head in her hands, her elbows on the bar.
        When the song ended Ethel finished her beer and left.

        Near midnight, alone again, Helen was watching a television revival and turning over cards in a lost game of solitaire.  The crowd from the last show at the Orpheum was nearly gone, and the street out front had quieted down.
        Helen gazed at the salt and peppershakers that were lined up on the opulent shelves behind the bar and wondered if she would have to buy a new roll of toilet paper before the weekend.  She'd cleaned the place up for closing, emptied the dented ashtrays, and wiped down the split vinyl seats in the booths.  On the snowy black and white TV a female gospel singer was strumming "Amazing Grace" on an acoustic guitar and singing the slow alto melody.  Helen hummed and snapped down three more cards.  
        A noise startled her.
        "You alone in here?"  
        Two cards fluttered to the floor.  Helen caught her breath. "Lands, you scared me to death."
        Lou was dressed in a black t-shirt and wheat colored jeans.  She wore black western boots and a wide leather belt.  Her light blonde hair was combed back Elvis-fashion.  She stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.  "You all alone?" she asked again.
        Helen nodded.  "You?"
        Lou jerked her thumb toward the open doorway and said, "I just came from the last show down the street.  Couldn't find a friend interested enough to go with me."
        Helen slid off her stool and waddled stiffly around the end of the bar.  "Come in then.  Take a load off."
        Lou sauntered to the bar and threw two quarters down. "Give me a beer.  Miller's, in a bottle."
        Helen pulled a beer out of the metal cooler, knocked off the cap and on one of her rare occasions, slid the quarters back.  "I'm buying' the first one," she said.  "How was the show?"
        Lou shrugged.  "It was a goddamn shame.  That's how it was and that's what it is."
        Helen opened a second beer for herself--her favorite Little Schlitz.  "You stayed for the organ music?"  
        "To the last sweet note."
        Lou didn't bother with the glass.  She tilted the beer bottle up and swallowed.  "I got a friend who can play that thing," she said.  "He works piano bars mostly.  Plays soft music for boozed up rich folks at the Southern Air.  He told me that organ was something to see.  A three manual, eleven rank Barton, with piano and several different percussions.  I mean, it can sound like about anything.  It's on a platform that raises out of the floor near the orchestra pit."
        "That so?" said Helen.  "He plays the thing you say?"
        "I said he could play it.  They only pay ten dollars a night," said Lou.  "Ain't worth it to him.  He has to drive all the way from Lincoln.  Give up an evening of tips at the piano bar.  No, it'd cost him money.  'Course now, no one will be playing it."  
        Helen scooped up the cards from the floor, and then hoisted herself back on the barstool.  "Someone should stop them.  I know I sound like a broken record.  I know folks stopped listening to me months ago.  Everybody just goes on like normal.  You know, I heard in Europe they're saving some of their rare old buildings.  'Course the Orpheum ain't really old.  Nothing's old compared to Europe."
        "This town is changing."  Lou tapped a filtered cigarette on the scuffed bar.  "Digging' that hole under the old court house for parking, opening fast food restaurants.  What does a town need with two McDonalds I ask you?  And now they're taking down that beautiful old theater."
        Helen sighed.  "What's gonna be left on this street?"
        "Nothing' but bars."  Lou's Zippo had a clear base that showed a picture of hunting dogs immersed in lighter fluid.  She snapped it open and it lit on the third twirl of the wheel.
        "And worse . . .” Helen moaned, reaching for her little Schlitz.
        Lou exhaled smoke out of both nostrils like a dragon.  "You mean folks like me?"  
        Helen didn't apologize—she simply stared at the handsome woman.
        "Ain't my money as good as the next?"
        Silence.
        Lou drained her beer and slid off the stool.  "I don't need this tonight.  I'll be going'."  She threw two quarters back on the bar and hesitated for a moment at the door, then plunged into the sultry night.
        She was almost to the alley when Helen called, "Wait."
        Lou stopped.  Fifth Street was empty.  There were only the streetlights and the shadows.
        "Come back," Helen said.
        Lou turned and looked at the old woman.
        Helen, short and stout like an aging elf in a housedress, stood framed in the dimly lit doorway.  She motioned with her arm and called out, "Come back."
        Lou took a step toward her.  Her voice had a soft southern drawl.  "What you want?"
        "Your lighter," said Helen, holding it up.  "You forgot your lighter."
        Soft yellow light fell through the open door onto the dark sidewalk.  From several blocks away a church bell rang.  Lou slowly retraced her steps.
        Helen dropped the hunting dog lighter into Lou's outstretched hand.  "I'm an old woman," she said.  "Set in my ways."
        "Times is changing," Lou said softly.
        Helen nodded, walked back inside and let the door whoosh shut.

        The theater sat still and empty through the heat of August.  Weeds grew up and broken windows were covered with plywood.  It was rumored that someone got into the lobby and carried off the last cases of Good n' Plenty, Milk Duds and Slo Poke suckers from the deserted concession stand.  Several nights later there was a windstorm.  The next morning every alley and doorway on Fifth Street was littered with candy wrappers.
        Helen swept the sidewalk in front of the door of the Gee-I only after the mail man tracked wet Slo Poke wrappers in on his shoes.  "When they dry off they'll just blow over to Sixth Street," Helen told Ethel.  "If I can just keep 'em away from the door 'til then."
        "The paper says they'll prosecute anyone caught in that theater to the full extent of the law," Ethel said.
        "Looks like it."  Helen swept candy wrappers toward the gutter.
        "Wonder how many cases of stuff they got?"  Ethel mused. "Better to feed the hungry than the crane."
        Helen shook her head slowly.  "Of all the things to steal.  Sure lets you know what kind of values people have."
        After the candy theft, a Pinkerton security guard was hired to watch the building.  Business fell off some without the nightly theater crowd.  Weekends were worst.  Lou dropped by from time to time, always with one woman or another.  Some of Lou's friends started coming in with her--young, pretty looking boys.  Helen didn't like the bunch, but noticed that they spent more money than her regulars.
        One afternoon, Lou introduced Helen to a man.  "This here is my friend Bill."
        Bill was a clean-cut, handsome man in his thirties.  He had dark hair with flecks of gray and a mustache.  
        Helen said, "Hello."
        "Remember, I told you about him?"
        "Can't say as I do."  Helen shook her head.
        "The organ," said Lou.  "I told you I knew someone who had played the organ at the theater."
        Helen perked up and eagerly extended a hand.  "Glad to meet you."
        Bill shook her hand warmly.  He looked like the television star, Guy Madison, when he smiled.  
        Helen set up the drinks.  Lou had her usual bottle of beer.  Bill drank scotch and water.  No ice.  When Helen put the drink in front of him she saw that his face was flushed.  He'd already had a few.
        Lou lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.  "He’s thinking of making a last trip to the Orpheum, today."
        "No," said Helen.
        Lou shook her head.  "They're shutting the power off sometime soon.  Then they'll bring in the cranes and wrecking balls."
        "There'll be an auction," Bill said.  "After that you won't know the place."
        "Ya’ want to see it before that happens?" Lou asked.
        "Are you drunk?"  Helen grimaced, and added with emphasis, "We could get arrested.  There are signs posted.  It's private property . . ."
        "Humph," said Bill.  "Property of the bank."
        "I thought you'd like to go," said Lou.  "One last look at the old place."
        Helen squinted.  "What about the Pinkerton security guard?"
        "Come on," Lou urged.
        "We could be shot."
        "I know what time he eats his lunch," said Bill.  "Goes across the street and has two Jack Robinson hamburgers, an order of hash browns and three cups of coffee."
        "How you know that?" Helen challenged him.
        "Been watching him," Lou said.  "Takes exactly one hour and five minutes."
        "You want to go today?"  Helen looked at her watch.  "This afternoon?"
        "Actually, now," Lou said.  "He should be just placing his order."
        Helen considered it.  "I'm alone here.  I'd have to close."
        "That’s why I came along.  I’ll watch the place for you," Lou shrugged, "Don’t look like you’re that busy . . . "
        "I could call Charlie," Helen offered.
        "We got to get over there now," Bill said.  "Some workmen have been dismantling seats and pulling down drapes.  Getting ready for the auction next week.  We need to get in there while the power is still on."
    “Go ahead,” said Lou.  “Count the money first if you want to.  I won’t rob you.”
        Helen asked softly, "What if we're caught?"
        "You'll get one phone call," Lou chuckled.  "Call Charlie then."
        Helen hesitated.
        "Go on," Lou urged.
       “Okay.  Okay," said Helen.  "Prices is typed up and taped to the register."   
         Lou stood near her as Helen and looked at the list.  There had been several things crossed off and rewritten in pencil.  Lou said, “I’ll manage.  See you in an hour.”  
Helen could smell alcohol on Bill’s breath as they walked south on Fifth Street on the rough, cracked sidewalk.  Helen asked, "How much have you had to drink anyway?"

        They went through the alley behind the theater, stepping over broken bottles, used condoms and empty beer cans.   Bill pulled a long thick screwdriver from his boot and looked over his shoulder.  "Watch for me," he said to Helen.  "If someone comes, act like you lost something there in the weeds."  The door was secured with a large padlock.  Bill wedged the screwdriver behind the hinge and pried.  
        The lock banged against the thick wooden door.  Helen jumped.  "You're making too much noise."
        "I about got it."  Bill wrenched the lock again.  It broke off and landed in the weeds.  He tried the knob.  The door wouldn't budge.  "Damn it!  Another lock."
        "Can't you get it?" Helen asked nervously.
        "Another damn lock.  I ain't Houdini," Bill shot back.
        "Give me that!"  Helen grabbed the screwdriver and wedged the flat end in the door jam.  She gave the other end of the tool a firm tap.  The door popped open.
        Bill led the way into the auditorium through the door that had once been an exit.  Light from the alley fell across the first rows of seats.  A dry, musty smell wafted toward them.  Bill pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and flicked it to life.  He made his way up the center aisle.  Helen waited.  A minute later the lights came up.  Three rows of seats to the left were missing.  Workers had left tarpons and tools scattered here and there.  Somewhat faded and dulled, the scheme of the auditorium was of ivory with a background of magenta, turquoise and gold.  They walked up an aisle between the rich terra cotta colored seats.
        Helen blinked as they went through the luxuriously padded swinging doors to the lobby.  Red carpet stretched out before them and seemed to go on forever.  One of the doors down front had a sheet of plywood nailed over it.  Other panels of glass were opaque with a dirty white frost--soap maybe, or wax, but the sunlight shone through.  The concession stand was empty.  Scrubbed clean.  Some of the glass was broken.  Helen looked at the ceilings and the seven-foot chandelier with shoulder-heavy nostalgia.
        "Old place has a kind of whore-house elegance, doesn't it?" Bill observed.
        Helen pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her upper lip.  It was warm.  She listened for any sounds of the security guard.
        "Yes," Helen agreed, "beautiful."
        Bill whispered, "I'm going down and crank up that organ.  You can come down to the pit with me, or just look around on your own."
        "Probably cooler down there."  Helen patted her forehead.  "How long will it take?"
        Bill led the way.  "Be careful.  They've been working everywhere.  No telling what's secured."
        "You think the organ will work?" Helen asked.
        "Don't know.  I guess I'll find out."  Bill sighed. "I want to try."
        "Do you mind the company?" Helen asked.  "I'd like to see it up close."
        "Not at all."  Bill walked toward a camouflaged door that was papered red and gold like the rest of the wall.  He wiggled the latch and pulled it open, flipped on a light switch and said, "Good, the power is still on for the workmen.  Follow me," over his shoulder.  His voice echoed slightly as he stepped down the steep steps.
        Helen gripped a wobbly wooden rail and followed him.  The plaster along a narrow, poorly lit hallway was cracked in places.  Pipes stretched overhead.  The floor sloped.  Helen had to hurry to keep up.  They passed bare light bulbs from time to time.  There were at least three areas where the bulbs were burnt out and the tunnel was dark.  Bill took out a cigarette lighter.
        "They would have never let these lights go out a few months ago," he said, holding a hand around the flame.  They passed two doors marked 'Dressing Rooms.'  At the end of the passage was a sign that simply read, 'Organ.'  Bill flicked on a light.  The organ, smaller somehow up close, was white and gold with louvered shutters across the back.  Helen moved closer.  It sat on a platform.
        "Come, sit by me."  Bill patted the seat beside him.  "We'll go for a ride."
        Helen slid onto the cool white bench.  Bill flipped a switch and waited. There was a whooshing sound of air.  He flipped another switch and the platform vibrated, and then started to rise.
        "Oh, my!"  Helen grabbed the bench and held on.
        "Hydraulic lift," Bill said over the whirring sound.  "There's a spot light in the back of the house.  If it's working, we'll be in it when we hit the top.  We're supposed to come up playing."
        "I don't play."  Helen felt goose bumps.  She was cool.  Excited.
        "Nothing?"
       "Well, Chop Sticks," Helen said, laughing.
        Bill hit the first notes.  "Come on," he urged her.
        "Where do I start?"  Helen looked at several rows of keys, confused.  She was afraid to let go of the bench.
        "Try there."  Bill pointed to the second row.
        Helen nervously placed two fingers on the keys and pressed down.  They rose out of the orchestra pit into a soft light.  Helen's gray hair and housedress suddenly had an elegant bluish cast.  Her short legs dangled from the bench.  She swung her feet to and fro with the lively music.  A pin spot of light high up beyond the balconies pierced a slight haze.  Helen turned toward the empty theater.  Lou sat in the third row, center.  She looked like a shadow.  Helen shaded her eyes and lost her place on the song.  She laughed and started over.  When they pounded out the final notes, the theater fell silent.  A hollow sound of clapping came from the auditorium.  
        Helen stood and turned to Bill.  "I can't believe we just played Chop Sticks on a hundred-thousand-dollar instrument."
        "And played it well."
        Helen pulled a much-used hanky from her pocket, sniffed and blew her nose.  "Seeing it up close makes this whole thing harder."
        Bill patted her shoulder, and said, "Let me show you what this thing can do."
        They had forgotten about the security guard.  Bill played parts of 'Rhapsody in Blue.'  The music seemed to go on forever.  They were lost in forbidden luxury.  When they remembered the time, there were only a few moments left.
        "You two go ahead and get out of here," Bill said.  "I'll put things back in place."
        "Be careful," Helen said, frowning.  "The old guy from Pinkerton takes his job seriously."
        Bill nodded.
        "I'll remember this place forever."  Helen looked at the ornate scene for the last time.  "I feel like it's a part of me."  Her eyes stung with tears; she refused to let them see her cry.
        "You better hurry," Bill urged as he softly touched her arm.

        Around midnight Helen had just opened a little Schlitz.  She was telling Ethel about the organ, about coming out of the pit into the spotlight and playing Chop Sticks in her house dress, when several well dressed men came into the bar.  She busied herself making drinks. The door opened again and more men came in.   
        "Bill sent us," they said.  "He's coming soon."
        Helen threw Ethel a "See, I told you" look and kept pouring drinks and taking money.  The men were tipping big, drinking the expensive stuff, and Helen was excited.  When Bill finally stepped through the door, she had his Scotch neat ready.  At closing time she let Ethel out and locked the door.  Bill and his friends were still drinking.  Around two o'clock one of her regulars knocked.  Helen went to the door and said, "Private party."  She made more money that night than she had all summer.  It was the first of many private parties.

        The crane came one overcast morning in October.  The marquee, cracked and broken in places, with light bulbs missing, still supported the thirty-foot "Orpheum" sign that loomed against the gray autumn sky like an ominous tower.  Everything of value had been sold, auctioned, given away or stolen in the months since the theater had closed.  The sidewalk was roped off, and barricades were set up on Fifth Street.
        Helen sat on her lawn chair in the afternoon.  She pulled a yellow cardigan around her shoulders.  Ethel stopped to talk as usual on her way to work.  She said a few words to Helen then silently watched the crane work.  People stood in groups on the street and listened to the crash and thunder of the ball, the rattle of falling bricks and the crack of splitting wood.  The sidewalk shook several times.  Late in the afternoon, a soft rain started to fall.  Helen brought a black umbrella from behind the bar.  She opened it, rested it on one shoulder, sat back in the lawn chair and continued to watch as the crane and a bulldozer raised dust in the drizzle.
        By four-thirty Helen was alone.  Curious on-lookers had opted for drier comfort.  Helen smelled cigarette smoke.  She turned.  A Styrofoam cup of coffee was thrust toward her.  
        "This should warm you up," said Lou.
        Helen reached for the steaming cup.  "Thanks."
        Lou squatted beside the lawn chair.  "Don't take long to come down, does it?"
        "Seems like it should of made a bigger pile of rubble," Helen said.  "Somebody destroys a way of life, it ought to make a helluva pile."
        "Seems like," Lou agreed.  She put her cigarette to her lips and inhaled.  The glow on the end of the cigarette brightened.  "This old neighborhood seems naked already."
        Helen sighed.  "I'll never use that bank."
        "Aw, hell.  It's right down the street," Lou said.  "Folks will forget.  We probably will, too."
        "I won't," Helen objected.  "Using that bank would be like walking on a grave."
        They were quiet for a minute.  Rain patted down around them.  In the distance, the sounds of the crane hummed.  The sidewalk vibrated.
        "Well, times is changing," Helen said sadly.
        "Yes ma'am, they surely are."
        Helen sipped the coffee, and then wrinkled her nose.  "This got sugar?"
        "Three spoons."
        "This your coffee?"
        Lou shrugged and said, "Looked like you needed it more than me."
        "I should go in," said Helen.  "They'll be quitting for the day soon.  I got to get ready for the evening rush."
        "Some day this town is going to regret losing that theater," Lou said.  "It was a splendid place."
        "Small consolation," said Helen.  "Here, scoot under the umbrella. You're getting soaked."
        "I'm all right," Lou said as she lowered herself to the sidewalk and stubbed out her cigarette on the rough concrete.  "Sometimes endings can be beginnings too, you know?"
        "Beginnings?"  Helen cocked her head.
        "I come to tell you I'm going to' see about buying the Tropical Isle."  Lou nodded, indicating the bar on the opposite corner.
        "What?" Helen sat up straight.  "He ain't selling is he?"
        "I guess he figures, like a lot of folks, that this street is in for a big change. I'm never going to' get ahead at the Alibi.  I always wanted my own place."
        "Competition?"  Helen asked cautiously.
        Lou ran her fingers through her damp blonde hair and smiled.  "Friendly competition."
        Helen chuckled, shaking her head.  "Well come on in then, I'll make a fresh pot of coffee.  We'll both warm up."
        "Thanks," said Lou.  "Don't mind if I do."
        Helen stood, balanced the umbrella on her shoulder and folded the lawn chair.  "Did I ever tell you Charlie and I went on our first date to the Orpheum?"
        Lou stood up and brushed off her jeans.  "No, I don't believe you mentioned it."
    Helen led the way into the dark tavern.

×

Nine Nights on the Windy Tree | CHAPTER 1

Bertha Brannon worked her Jeep into a tight parking spot and cut the ignition. Anxious to get out of the heat, she checked her watch and thought about the coming weekend.  For once there was nothing pressing.  The two days off seemed to stretch out like an empty highway across the flat summer prairie.  
Bertha waved at the new woman with the dark crew cut who worked in Lilith's Book Store and hurriedly pushed through the revolving doors into the Lambert Building, where the marble- floored lobby felt cool.
On the third floor, in her own office, Bertha kicked off her black pumps and rubbed her nyloned calves.  Despite a window air conditioner that worked day and night, her office was warm.  An oscillating fan rattled on top of a four-drawer file cabinet in the corner.  Late afternoon sunlight filtered between the vertical blinds and fell across the disheveled desk.  She rummaged through a stack of file folders looking for her appointment book.  Alvin, her part-time secretary, had left early for a dentist's appointment.
Bertha was pretty sure the whole afternoon had been blocked out for court.  If no one was scheduled at four, she would slide out of the panty hose too.  Her six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame wasn't meant for skirts and heels.  She only had two court outfits, one for summer and one for winter.  They usually hung on a coat rack that was obscured by a cluttered bookshelf in the corner.  She had several packages of Queen-Tall panty hose--the damn things usually ripped when she was getting in or out of them.  Bertha wore jeans and tennis shoes in the office--sometimes a blazer.  She'd never be the cut-throat professional,  African-American woman with a power wardrobe she used to admire.  She had given up trying to fit into that mold after two years at the state's attorney's office.  They had wanted her to stay.
Women, especially black women, were more at ease with Bertha.  They could tell her the ugly truths that would often make or break a case.  Sometimes Bertha longed for the security and regular pay check.  But she didn't miss the dress code.
    Several files slid to the floor when she pulled out the appointment book.  There was no one scheduled that afternoon, but dinner with Alvin and Randy had been penciled in at seven.
She was glad for the free time, but worried.  There had only been three new clients since Monday--two divorces, referred from the battered women's shelter, and a wage assignment for
child support.  None of them had the fifty dollars for the first consultation.  She had informed each of them that she took only so many cases on a sliding scale--then took them all.
     "Damn it, Bertha," Alvin swore when she'd handed him the last file to type. "The rent's due Monday.  If you keep taking these cases, you won't have time for the work that pays."
     "As long as I have the contract with the public defender, the rent will be paid," she'd said.  Why was she explaining her decisions to the secretary anyway?  She'd been in juvenile court all afternoon defending a fifteen-year-old boy who was charged with car theft.  Jimmy
Reed was a good-looking kid--tall, slim, blond hair, green eyes--with a brand new Mickey Mouse tattoo.  Jimmy "borrowed" his father's car, stole the stereo and a couple of blank checks, then used the money and the transportation to get himself and a school friend tattooed.  His dad pressed charges.  The boy lived with his mother.  Mr. Reed was remarried, behind on child support, and rarely saw the kid.  Though it was a separate issue, Bertha had been allowed to
mention the unpaid child support because they were in Juvenile Court.  Judge Wallace sent everyone out of the room except Bertha.   
     "Counselor, how long will it take you to produce a wage assignment?"
     Bertha wanted to cooperate but pointed out, "Mrs. Reed is not my client, your Honor."
     Judge Wallace's voice softened.  "If she had her child support, she could get some help for the boy.  Most of the kids we see are too far gone.  This one has a chance."
     "I can have it in front of you Monday."  Bertha had a form on the computer.  Most of the time she slipped them in with divorce packages.
     Judge Wallace gave Jimmy three months of court supervision and the standard lecture.
Bertha called his mother aside after the others were gone.  Mrs. Reed was a thirty-something, plump, red-headed woman who looked as uncomfortable in her court clothes as Bertha felt.  
     "How much is your ex-husband in arrears, Mrs. Reed?" Bertha asked.
     The woman said,  "I don't know.  He hasn't paid support for at least three years."
     "You never tried to collect?"  
     "I would stand a better chance if I were on welfare," Mrs. Reed said. "I work.  I make just enough that I can't get assistance with legal fees.  I signed up for the state program that tracks down deadbeat dads months ago."
     "No luck?"
     Pat Reed sighed and shook her head.  "It all takes so long.  He knows it."
     "Well, it looks like Jimmy has taken care of that for you," said Bertha. "Add it up and call my office Monday with the total.  Include medical costs or anything else your divorce agreement says he's responsible for.  Judge Wallace has instructed me to prepare a wage
assignment.  Mr. Reed does work, doesn't he?"
     "For the state."  
     Bertha felt good about the whole thing.  But payment for county contract work would take months and was irregular at best.  She didn't think she should have to explain that to Alvin.
But the reminder about the rent did make her nervous.  Running her own office, she didn't have to worry about dress codes or billable hours.  But she still had to worry about the bills.
     Bertha rubbed her right foot.  Her toes were cramping.  She ran her hands up her round, nyloned thighs and hooked her thumbs in the waist band of her panty hose.  She stood slightly behind her desk, rolled the things down over her hips, and pulled first one foot, then the other, free.  She picked up the damp nylons from the floor and tossed them into her bottom drawer.
     The air conditioner humming behind her was on high.  She turned and let the cool air blow on her neck.  She bent forward and felt the air beneath her blouse.  
     Through the third-story window, she could see the street below.  There was a line of cars at the drive-up bank on the corner.  Heat waves rose from the sidewalk like an electric stove left on high.  There were only a few pedestrians.
      Bertha wanted to get home and put some more Sulfur 8 on her itching scalp.  She cursed Alvin and his hairdresser boyfriend for talking her into the blonde hair.  Not only did she look like Wesley Snipes in "Demolition Man," but her hair was also drier and harder to manage than ever.
     "Excuse me." A voice from behind Bertha cut through her thoughts.  She turned to face a slender young white woman in a red sleeveless dress.
     Bertha quickly sat behind the desk.  She hoped it hid her bare legs.
     "I'd like to see Miss Brannon."
     "I'm Bertha Brannon.  Did you have an appointment?"
     The woman smiled apologetically. "Barry Levine, the attorney down the hall, told me you might be here.  I had an appointment with him, but he couldn't help me.  The outer office
was empty, but I saw you in here."
     "Barry thought I could help you when he couldn't?"  Bertha was suspicious.  Barry Levine never turned away a client.
     "Yes."  The woman glanced back over her shoulder as though someone was behind her.
     Bertha checked the empty doorway.  
     The woman asked,  "Do you have time to see me now?"
     "Well actually . . . "
     "It's very important," the woman pleaded.  "I don't know what I'll do if I have to wait all weekend.  Please, Miss Brannon."
     "Call me Bertha."  Bertha motioned to the folding chair next to the file cabinet.  "I only have a few minutes.  Now what is this about?"
     "My name is Sally Morescki."  The woman scooted the chair to the corner of the desk.
     Bertha pulled a pen from the center drawer and a legal pad from the bottom of one of the stacks on her desk.  "Can you spell that for me, please?"
     Sally started to spell her last name slowly, then flinched and looked behind her.  "Did you
hear a noise?"
     "No."  Bertha sighed.  "Look, if you need an order of protection, you can file for that
yourself."
     "I have one."
     "Well if he's violated it, you can call the police yourself.  Lawyers are expensive."  Bertha thought she knew exactly why Barry Levine had sent Sally Morescki down the hall.
     "Do you believe in the tarot?"  Sally asked.
     Bertha wiped beads of sweat from her upper lip.  The damn polyester blouse was soaked
under her arms and around her waist.  She wanted to go home, get out of the monkey suit and put on a pair of cut-off jeans.  "I know what it is.  Cards, right?"
     Sally nodded.  "Each card means something . . . "
     Bertha interrupted her.  "At the risk of sounding trite, can we cut to the chase?  It's been a long day."
     "I just came from a reading.  I was advised to get a lawyer."  Sally swallowed hard.  "I was advised to get one today."
     "Are you telling me that you had your fortune told . . . "
     "It was the tarot."
     "Tarot, tea leaves, what difference does it make?  You're getting a lawyer on the advice
of a gypsy?"
     "A witch," Sally corrected her.
     "And what exactly are you employing a lawyer to do?" Bertha made a mental note to thank Barry Levine for this one.
     "Defend me," said Sally Morescki.  "I'm going to be charged with murder."
     Bertha started scribbling on the legal pad.  "Now we're getting somewhere," she said.
"Who is dead?"
     "No one."
     Bertha threw the pen on her paper-laden desk a little too hard.  She sat back in the desk chair and glared at the blonde woman.  "You are going to be charged with murder, and no one is dead?"
     "I'm going to murder my husband."  Sally's voice was soft.  There was a hint of excitement, as if she were really looking forward to it.
     "Mrs. Morescki, if you say the man deserves to die, I believe you.  But I am required by law to report your intention to kill him."  Bertha spread her arms in a gesture to indicate the
situation was out of her hands.  "Maybe you shouldn't say any more.  When they arrest you, you'll be allowed a phone call.  Get in touch with me then."
     "I don't intend to kill him.  But the cards . . . "
     "I know, the witch-- "
     "Yes, she told me to find a lawyer today."
     "Where did this witch study law?"
     Sally Morescki sighed.  She picked up her purse and started rummaging through it.  She looked as if she was going to cry.  
     Bertha turned to the window ledge and picked up a box of Puffs.  She offered them to Sally.  
     "Thanks," Sally muttered and blew her nose.
     There was a long silence.  Finally Bertha said, "Why don't you tell me about him?"
     "My husband is a very influential man." Sally leaned forward and spoke softly, as if someone in the empty outer office might hear.  "We've been married for two years.  I thought things were going fine until last February."
     "What happened?"  Bertha looked the woman over and tried to figure how well-off this "influential" husband was.  Sally didn't really look rich.  The red dress was a simple affair.  The shoes could have been from Payless.  Her hair was cut short, in one of those white women's
shake-and-go cuts.  Sally was a blonde too, although hers looked to be natural.  There were subtle clues that things weren't going well for her- - the dark circles under her eyes, an ashen complexion.  She looked like one of  the women referred from the battered women's shelter.
Bertha had her own reasons for taking so many domestic violence cases.  And she knew that she'd do what she could to help Sally Morescki.
          "He didn't come home for a week," Sally answered.  "We quarreled."
     "You two fight a lot?"  Bertha thought she knew the answer.
     But Sally shook her head, "No, not until then.  He seemed very irritable.  I thought it might be pressure at his business or another problem with his ex-wife."
     "So you are the second wife?"  Bertha was making notes again.
     Sally flushed.  "I was his secretary.  There was a messy divorce.  I'm ashamed to admit that, when he disappeared for a week, I thought he was involved with Miss Cornwell, the new secretary.  After I was sure he wasn't dead, that is."
     "Why be ashamed of that?" Bertha asked.  "It's a natural assumption."  Bertha remembered her Aunt Lucy, who'd had five husbands, telling her that if you took a woman's man, some day another woman would take him from you.
     Sally met Bertha's eyes.  "You're very blunt, aren't you?"
     "Blunt.  Cynical."  Bertha sighed.  "Also hot and my feet hurt."
     "How much would it cost to retain you?" Sally asked.
     "As far as I can see you don't have a need to retain me," Bertha said.  "I could take your money.  But the fact is, you don't need an attorney.  That's probably why Barry Levine couldn't help you.  And it's the reason I can't either."
     Sally's forehead wrinkled in a frown.  She appeared puzzled.  "Do you know anything about criminal law?" she asked.  
     "I worked for two years in the state's attorney's office.  I handled my share of criminal cases there.  As a prosecutor, of course."  Bertha leaned back in her chair.  "There is one thing I know do for sure.  And that is, you have to have a crime."
     "But, Madame Soccoro . . . "
     "You're not planning on murdering your husband?"
     "Of course not!"
     "But you have an order of protection?"  Bertha didn't really understand why she was continuing the conversation.  Maybe it was because Sally kept sitting there, and Bertha couldn't leave the room without exposing her bare legs.
     "When he finally came home last winter, we quarreled.  He pushed me around."  Sally lowered her voice, "I went home to my mother's for a while.  He kept calling.  Mom insisted I get the order of protection."
     "When was the first time he hit you?" Bertha asked.
     Sally hung her head, "I don't remember."
     It was Bertha's experience that that was one thing a woman did remember.  She might forget all the times in between, but she could remember the first time, and maybe the last.
"Where is your husband now, Mrs. Morescki?"
     Sally shrugged, "I don't know."
     "When was the last time you saw him?"
     "A week ago."
     Bertha felt a drop of sweat run down her spine.  She discreetly checked her watch, then picked up the legal pad, and fanned herself with it.  "You want a divorce, Mrs. Morescki?" she asked at last.
     "Would you take my case?"  Sally seemed to be getting the idea.
     "Any children?" Bertha asked.
     "No."
     "Property?"
     "We own our home together.  Two cars," said Sally, "the usual."
     Bertha said, "I would need six hundred dollars flat fee.  If there are complications, there will be additional charges."
     Sally opened her purse and rummaged around.  "According to Madam Soccoro, there will be complications," she said.  "I'll feel better knowing you're on my team."  
     Sally retrieved a business size white envelope and opened the flap.  It was full of money.
She pulled out a stack of one hundred dollar bills and counted out six.
     Bertha's temple started a faint throbbing.  She ignored it, took the money from Sally's outstretched hand, and stifled a sigh of relief upon seeing the rent money in front of her, in cash.
"What are your grounds?"
     "Huh?"
     "For the divorce," said Bertha.  "We could file no-fault, but with property involved, it might be best if you were the injured party.  That is, unless he agrees with the divorce and our
ideas about the settlement."
     "Is mental cruelty all right?" Sally asked.
     Bertha shrugged.  "Okay by me. Any special considerations on property?  The usual fifty/fifty  split?"
     "I'd like for him to sell everything and split the money.  I suppose he'll want to keep his business.  He can buy my stock."
     "We'll try.  Bring me a list.  I'll get the paperwork ready to file Monday afternoon."
Bertha was writing on the legal pad again.  She stopped, reached for the bottom drawer and pulled it open.  Her panty hose were in a heap on top of the bank bag.  She tried to remember where Alvin kept the receipt book.
     Sally looked at her watch.  "God, I didn't realize it was this late."  She reached across the desk and extended her hand.  "Thank you for taking time to see me, Bertha."
     Bertha shook the Sally's thin, cool hand, and said, "I'll get you a receipt."
     "Can I get it Monday?" Sally was already stepping toward the door.  "I have another appointment."
     "Sure.  Sure." Bertha waved her on.  She was relieved to have the interview over.  She turned and scraped her shin on the open desk drawer.  She reached to close it, and when she looked up a second later, Sally Morescki was gone.
     Bertha pulled a blank file folder from a box on the floor and wrote "Morescki" on the tab.  She ripped two pages of notes from the legal pad and shoved them inside.  She decided to make the deposit herself rather than leave it for Alvin on Monday.  Until now there had only been four ten-dollar checks, sent by women who were paying their bills by the month, and one five-dollar check from a woman who couldn't put together the ten.  But the cash made her nervous, and she didn't want to leave it in the office all weekend.
     Preparing the deposit took fifteen minutes.  She listed the check number, amount and client's name in the A/R Ledger, added everything up twice, wrote six hundred and forty-five
dollars on the deposit slip, and dropped the yellow bank bag in her briefcase.   
      From her office door, she took one last look at the mess on her desk and promised herself she'd definitely sort it out Monday and have Alvin file it away.  With her inner door closed, the outer office looked immaculate.   
     The only things on Alvin's desk were a plant and his phone.  She closed the outer door and locked it.  
     When Bertha got off the elevator on the first floor, the lobby was empty.  Her dress shoes made hollow sounds on the gleaming marble tiles.  Passing the mailboxes, she thought she
heard a soft scrape.  She turned quickly, but saw nothing.  As she pushed through the revolving door out into the sultry air, she admonished herself for being so jumpy.   
     As bad as Sally Morescki, she thought.

 

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Therese Szymanksi

The Brett Higgins mystery series.

 “In Bertha Brannon, Martha Miller has created a surprising new character who is very real, interesting and complex.  Her first adventure fraught with true-to-life issues is set amidst a myriad of increasingly amazing, yet believable plot twists and turns.  Miller is unafraid to portray life as it is, with all its blessedly messy complexities, but neighborhoods, nasty pasts and addictions, lies, deceits, and the truths we so often do not want to face.”

Joan Brury

Author of The Other Side of Silence, Silent Words, Closed in Silence and Those Jordan Girls.

“Martha Miller graces us with a splendid cast of characters—people so real yu feel you know them or want to know them or are glad you don’t know them.  The relationship between the protagonist, Bertha Brannon, and her grandmother is worth the price alone?”

Lisa Neff

Chicago Free Press

“Bertha Brannon’s a good woman coping with hard times.  She’s a recovering alcoholic and drug abuser who’s lonely—the grandmother who raised her is in her final years and the woman she loved left before Bertha got clean.  . . . Brannon is struggling to pay the bills with a client base of mostly battered women and juvenile offenders. . . . This is a book, in part, a message book about big issues—social conscience, racism, addiction, love and violence.”

Juliet Sarkessian

Lambda Book Report

“Bertha Brannon, an African-American lesbian, 18 months sober and struggling to keep her law practice afloat, returns to her office on a hot Friday afternoon looking forward to a pleasant weekend.  What’s in store for her, however, is anything but. . . . Miller has written both an engaging mystery and a compelling family drama.  Each character is fully developed and given a distinctive voice.  The principal relationship between Bertha and her grandmother, is beautifully drawn and touchingly real. . . . Miller’s descriptions illuminate but do not overpower. . . . In Bertha, Miller has presented us with an Everywoman who, for all of her faults, is sympathetic and admirable.”

Deborah Piefer

Bay Area Reporter

“Miller has lots more on her authorial mind than mystery, although the mysteries in this novel, and there are several, are compelling and suspenseful.  Her characters are richly detailed, and through them we are urged to consider the large questions of truth and betrayal, and honesty and the lies that get us through the day.”

Dominic Jesse

The Illinois Times

“Miller’s prose is straightforward and highly readable.  There is very little exposition to get in the way fo the story line, and considering the large expanse of the plot, this is an asset.  Like the stressed out Brannon, the reader barely has time to catch his or her breath before a new development, whether it’s a mysterious arson next to her beloved Grandma’s house, another murder, or a rather fast-moving relationship with a female cop . . . One’s head could reel from although seemingly random happenings, though they do eventually converge. . .  Brannon is not just a private eye-type; she’s a strong-willed woman with emotions (especially towards Grandma), a level of frustration, and a murky past to confront. . . . the book is atmospheric enough to invoke a gritty and realistic world, an environment holding elements from both the “Big City” and the Spoon River Anthology.  Many elements are significant because of their believability from a local perspective—corrupt and powerful political familiar, under-the table-land dealings, and a subtle but persuasive conservatism held by the city’s power-elite. . . .Nine Nights is a gripping, locally oriented mystery that makes for a good read.”

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Skin to Skin | Garden of the Hungry Cats

On the island of Malta, up the street from the British Hotel, there's a garden of statues called Barracca.  It sits on the cliff overlooking the harbor.  One of the American women hiked up there Sunday while the others were in church.  She wanted to be alone.  To think.  To recover from the sting of Matty's words.  It hadn't really been a quarrel, just a firm reminder.
 
        She was the one who'd broken the rules.  Matty had been sticking to the plan.  But things were somewhat off balance.  Askew.  Regular customs and practices hadn't seemed to apply.  Maybe it was the sun bleached island in the Mediterranean, the hot wind from Africa that moaned like the Santa Anna's for the first two days and nights, the ancient stone runes, temples of the goddess--Tarxien, Hagar Qim, and Mnajdra--or the rotund stone figures of ancient women.  Maybe it was the archaeological focus of the group of women they traveled with, the three witches from L.A., corn-fed, healthy looking women, who shared meals and buses but otherwise kept to themselves, the voices of the Italian women that floated up through the balcony window from the sun bleached, stone streets in the mornings, or the cats that screamed at night like women, breeding and hunting in the narrow alleys below.  She'd never seen the sun so bright, glistening on the harbor like gold lame--never missed diet soda and endless cups of coffee so much.  Here images seemed backward, turned inside out, like a photo negative of possibilities, a picture where even the laws of nature had changed.
        At sunrise she'd sat on the balcony and watched a pigeon roosting on the eaves, silhouetted against the blue and coral sky.  She remembered the previous afternoon of sex in the primitive iron bed with squeaking springs.  White sunlight had streamed through the windows.  Sex had been slow, gentle and loving--without the desperation they felt in their limited time together back home.  She'd lingered over Matty's triangle.  Glistening black hairs as fine as silk.  She'd pushed her tongue to dark salty regions, caverns of pleasure previously unexplored.  Matty's fingers had left tingling trails of fire.  Her was touch hypnotic.  Enthralling.
         When they dressed for dinner she'd impulsively pulled Matty to her and said, "Leave him."           
    After an uneasy silence, Matty spoke softly into her shoulder, "You know I can't do that."        "We'll manage somehow."
         "You left your husband for a woman, and she left you...."  Matty's accusation had trailed off.
        Their eyes met.  The air in the room seemed heavy and still.  The woman dropped her arms and backed away nodding.  Of course, nothing here could change the certain realities.  Not even Malta.
         The woman heard Matty stirring in the room behind her.  She realized the roosting pigeon was gone, and wondered why she hadn't heard its flapping wings.  She watched the sun continue to rise over the ocean.  Small fishing boats made their way through the mouth of the harbor, moving slowly from a safe haven to the open sea.
        After awhile Matty said her name.  The woman turned.  Matty was dressed in her best black pants.  A scarf covered her hair.  "I'm going to church with the others.  Are you sure you won't come?"
 
        "I need some time alone."
        Matty nodded.
        The woman walked up the hill toward the garden.  In front of the gate a black dog slept under a sign that said "No dogs allowed."  She took a picture.  The paths were lined with dry bushes and palm trees.  A round fountain trickled at the center.  She looked out across the open sea to the place where it met the misty sky, then turned back toward the Valetta.  She could see the hotel—their room on the third floor, where a towel was drying in the balcony window.
        A noise startled her.  Close.  Shrill.  Like a woman's cry.  She turned frantically.  Saw nothing.  The sound came again.  She looked down.  Just off the dusty pathway, a gaunt, gray cat lay under a dry bush nursed two small kittens.  The cat looked wild.  Hungry.  She saw then that the garden was full of cats.  Maybe the same ones she'd heard hunting beneath her windows at night.  She remembered the dog laying patiently by the gate.
        "You left your husband for a woman, and she left you...."
    Here in this beautiful city, this place rich with history and romance, there lived hundreds of starving cats.  The garden was alive with them, under bushes, beneath the statues of the muses.
        As the American woman strolled back toward the hotel she thought about Matty and sighed.  She had paid so much, come so far, only to find this hunger.

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