dark domain - the artpacks.acid.org collection/darkdomain.iso/artpacks/1994/ice-9403.zip/PH-TIME.LIT

Text File | 1994-03-25 | 41KB | 1,367 lines

                               20
      Scott  wiped the sweat from his brow with his favorite

handkerchief, pushing up his grimy yellow "Jerico  Wreckings

Corporation"  hard hat.  There was nothing  he  wanted  more

than  to  be out of this goddamned bulldozer.  Anywhere  but

the  bulldozer.  Yet here he was, sitting in an  old,  torn,

leather seat behind the controls, moving the remains of what

used  to be Pelham Village Hall to make way for the new  big

bucks condos that had been contracted for this spot in early

1994.   Now, two years later, they had finally torn it  down

with a little time and dynamite, as his boss loved to say.

      Turning  back  to his controls, Scott manipulated  the

powerful  machinery to move load after  load  of  metal  and

concrete.   There was a certain feeling of power  that  came

with  operating a bulldozer, or any such machine.  He  heard

metal   whine  and  scream  with  every  movement  he  made,

amplified  a thousand times through the bulldozer.   He  saw

all  the blocks of concrete breaking like twigs at his well.

Sort  of fun, but hot as Hell and not exactly beneficial  to

your  hearing.   Scott  started  to  daydream  about  power,

crushing  Marty Stevenson beneath his giant.   If  he  could

only get his hands on that wife snatching bum, he would beat

him  to  within an inch of his life.  Scott imagined himself

over  Marty, who would be bleeding from a million  cuts  and

bruises.  Marty would beg for mercy, and then...



"***WHAM!***"



      The bulldozer came to a complete and utter halt.   The

gears  still grinded away, but the treads were just slipping

over  the  rubble, something was in the way, preventing  any

further  progress  forward.  Scott woke  up  with  a  start,

realizing  something was in the way.  It took a goddamn  lot

to  stop  a bulldozer, he thought.  He put the bulldozer  in

reverse,  went back about four feet, and slowly  transferred

his  rather  fat  figure from the bulldozer  down  onto  the

rubble.   He surveyed the area, and went up to the  pile  of

junk  that  appeared  to be causing the  trouble,  a  motley

assortment  of  steel beams and concrete  blocks.   After  a

closer look, it appeared to be a part of the foundation, the

base   of  some  pillar,  that  the  dynamite  hadn't  quite

destroyed.  However it was a pretty small piece,  just  made

worse  by  the junk piled on top of it, so he would probably

be  able  to  move it by hand, or at least by  hand  with  a

jackhammer, he thought, chuckling a little at his own joke.

      He went to the shed to find the jackhammer and someone

who had a big enough stomach to keep the fiery machine under

control.    God, he was funny today.  Maybe it wasn't  going

to  be  such  a bad day after all.  Dreams of killing  Marty

Stevenson came to his mind, and he reveled as he waited  for

the  jackhammer  operator.  However,  Scott's  pleasure  was

short  lived.  Within five minutes of when Scott had  called

for  him, the operator, a man by the name of Bob, had  come,

naturally  another  fat, balding guy.  He  pounded  away  as

Scott watched.  It was easy to tell it wasn't going to  take

him a long time to chop through the thin layers of concrete.

Poor  quality, it was.  He should know, for a long  time  he

worked  pouring concrete for bridges and such.  Bob's belly,

no  doubt  the result of a daily beer diet, shook in  rhythm

with  the  machine.  Within minutes he was down  around  six

inches,   when  suddenly  the  jackhammer  started  bouncing

wildly,  making  sounds like gunshots.  Scott  instinctively

ducked,  worried  that Marty Stevenson  had  found  out  his

thoughts  and  was  seeking  divine  retribution,  but   the

operator  got  it under control and flipped the  off  switch

very quickly, amazingly unperturbed by this chain of events.

       "Well,  let's see what we got here," Bob said  as  he

leaned  over  into the assorted rubble he  had  created  and

began  to  sweep it away with a gloved hand.   Gradually  he

began  to reveal something metallic, with a series of  dents

in  it from the jackhammer's blows.  "That's what was making

the  noise,  for  sure," he said.  Hoisting  the  jackhammer

again, he chipped out stone from around it and on top of it,

then  cleared  it away.  He looked up at Scott.   "It  looks

like some kind of barrel or something," he said.

     "Lemme have a look," said Scott.  Sure enough, there it

was.  Some kind of steel barrel, very little rust, encrusted

all  around with concrete, and apparently buried here before

the  construction  of the building or during  some  kind  of

repairs.   "Well,  I'll be damned.   Let's  get  it  out  of

there."

      Scott and the jackhammer operator spent a little  over

an  hour  retrieving the canister, with a little  help  from

some   passing  demolition  workers  whom  they   recruited.

Finally,  with the efforts of four men, they  were  able  to

hoist  it out of the rubble and up into the open.   It  made

suspicious  loud clanking noises, and they all commented  on

how unnaturally heavy it was.

      "Whadda  we  do  now?"  asked one  of  the  demolition

workers.

      "I dunno.  I guess we should open it.  Henry, go get a

welding  torch so we can peel this sucker open."  Henry  ran

off to do as Scott asked, and was back within the minute.

     "Here you go," said Henry, handing over the torch.

     Lacking any eye protection, Scott leaned over and began

to  work, burning a simple jagged line around the top of the

barrel.   The  sparks stung his face and hands occasionally,

but  they  weren't  that bad.  Eventually  he  finished  the

circle, and they pried open the top with a crowbar.

      They  stood around it, speechless.  For inside it  lay

dozens of what appeared to be bars of solid gold, Fort  Knox

style.   One  man  whistled.  Another  turned  away,  gazing

around  innocently.  Finally someone raised his voice enough

to  say,  "I  wonder what the hell all that...that...gold  I

guess was doing sitting in the walls of Village Hall."




       I  surveyed  the  damage done to my basement  by  the

virtual  river running down Sparks Ave. (there is a  picture

included) "Goddamned melting snow!" I cursed.  "This'll cost

a   fortune  to  fix,"  I  said.   Water  dripped  down  the

whitewashed walls everywhere and I stood in a lake in my own

basement,  maybe a foot deep in some places.  My  rugs  were

all  ruined  beyond  repair, the bricks in  the  walls  were

coming loose, everything was a mess.  It wasn't as though  I

didn't  have the money to fix things up, I had a decent  job

with  the Federal Bureau of Investigations and had inherited

a  tidy  sum from my father, who had run a successful  local

restaurant.  I just felt cheated, because instead of  taking

Jackie on a trip to Europe as I had planned, I would have to

spend  my  vacation  money repairing  my  basement,  of  all

things.   After  all, it wasn't as if you were  getting  new

furniture  or anything.  Nobody ever saw your  basement.   I

slammed  my fist into the wall to relieve myself  a  little.

That  helped,  but I was really angry now.   I  grabbed  the

nearest breakable thing, which happened to be a glass flower

vase, and hurled it against the opposite wall, watching  the

pieces fly everywhere.  Now I felt better.  But thinking  on

it  again, I realized that due to the weather and  the  time

commitments put on me by a current investigation in which  I

was  involved,   I  would  have  to  hire  the  local  firm,

McClellanl & Co. Although these guys did a decent job,  they

charged exorbitant rates and they were owned as a front by a

well-known gangster, John Morgan.  In fact, Morgan  was  the

reason  I was in Pelham that day.  I was here to try to  put

him  in jail for bootlegging and the serving of alcohol, but

I  was  having  a hell of a time getting any information  on

him.   Plus I wasn't so sure we should really be going after

bootlegging  anyways,  drinking was that  bad,  I'd  had  an

occasional  beer myself.  It wasn't any sin against  God,  I

figured,  to  relax a little, lawful or not.  Unfortunately,

however, I didn't call the shots around the department.

     You see, there is a moving speakeasy here in this quiet

town  of  Pelham, one which was pulling in large amounts  of

money  for  such characters as Morgan and his  friends,  and

actually  one  which I had visited with my fiance.   Without

this  local "business," people would have to go all the  way

to  New  York  City for their hooch, and with  the  kind  of

weather  we had had lately, that wasn't likely.   So  Morgan

had jacked the prices even higher than they had been before,

and  pulled in just more and more money.  I guess  that  was

why  I  joined  the FBI in the first place, I really  didn't

like  the fact that the guys who got to live it up were  the

same guys who were making all the money and were in control.

Hell,  I didn't like any people in control over me, even  if

they were the good guys.  But having the guy superior to you

rich and breaking the law, well then you could bust him  and

get your jollies.  There were, of course, some problems with

this.   We  couldn't figure out how he had hidden  all  that

money from the FBI. True, we had, and I personally received,

copies of, all his transactions with his bank account at the

Bank  of  Pelham, and there had been no money  deposited  on

which  he hadn't paid taxes.  So we couldn't go for  the  Al

Capone  type  of  bust.  We were basically screwed,  and  my

position  was just about pointless until one of  the  brains

figured something out.

      Mulling over my predicament, both with Morgan  and  my

basement, I turned around and walked up the stairs  and  out

into  my  kitchen.   It was rather bare, containing  only  a

stove  for  cooking my meals, my icebox, which was currently

jus  aboutempty since I had been spending so  much  time  at

Jackie's  house, true bachelor style, and various  cupboards

and  shelves on which I kept plates and cups and  silverware

(chipped  and otherwise), as well as some tinned  meats  and

vegetables.   Finally a tiny table and  a  stool  which  was

missing  pieces off of one leg, so I had it propped up  with

some books.  There wasn't even so much of a tablecloth,  let

alone  the  elaborate  knickknacks I  was  used  to  seeing.

Didn't matter to me, I always thought they were stupid,  and

I did my own thing.


      Out  the  back  door the supposed yard looked  like  a

swamp.  There  never  really had been  any  grass,  and  the

incredible amounts of water from the snow had made it a huge

sea  of  mud.   It had been days since I had  been  able  to

venture  out  there,  even to get to my  storage  sheds.   I

turned  from the door and went into the entry hall,  grabbed

my  beaten old overcoat and hat from the rack, slipped on my

galoshes, and stepped out into the river some might  call  a

street.   I  walked over to my car, an old,  brown,  rusting

Packard, and with the water flowing over my boots,  got  in.

I turned it on, very thankful that I didn't have to crank it

like my old Model T, turned it around, and drove up the hill

to  Wolf's Lane, where I made a right onto Wolf's Lane to go

to  McLellan and Co. first, and then to the bank  to  redeem

some of my money for gold and silver coinage.  (A picture of

the street is included.)

      It took almost no time to get to McLellan & Co. across

from  the  park,  where I saw several young couples  walking

about  as proper as could be, and one family having a picnic

all  laid  out  on  a  checkered  tablecloth  on  the  lawn.

Nextdoor to the masons was a flower store, and I could smell

the  roses  which were hanging outside as I  walked  in  the

door.   The  inside  of the building was rather  bare,  some

plaques  on  the wall that I did not bother to read,  and  a

desk in the corner of the cramped space.  There was only one

window,  and  it  did nothing to cheer  up  the  place,  and

neither  did the clerk, a somber looking fellow  dressed  in

gray  who was writing something down.  He took no particular

notice  in me, and said that they could have a team over  at

my  house tomorrow for what they estimated would be a week's

worth  of work.  I thanked the clerk, signed my name on  the

schedule,   handed  over  the  blueprints  I  had   brought,

(reprinted here) and left, intending to go to the bank,  but

on  impulse I walked up to the man outside the flower  store

and  bought a sweet smelling rose for Jackie.  Then I headed

for the bank.

      I  pulled up to the bank to redeem some of my treasury

notes  for  gold and silver, to pay back a debt  to  a  good

friend  of mine, by the name of Matt Jasinski.  Matt  was  a

good  guy,  charming and very stubborn, but he  had  a  real

problem with treasury notes, and banks, and anything  except

what  he  called "real" money.  This meant gold and   silver

and  nothing else.  And so, when I tried to pay him back the

five dollars I had borrowed from him a while ago to pay  for

my part of a meal we had shared at the charming Mother's Pub

on  fourth avenue, he refused my notes and insisted  that  I

pay  him back in gold or silver.  So, tiresome as it was,  I

had no choice but to agree, and here I was.

      I  opened the door and was glad to see that  very  few

people  had  decided to come to the bank on this  particular

day,  and  so I didn't have to wait very long for a  teller.

The  bank was one of the older buildings, all done  in  wood

and  such.  The floor was not exactly shiny, it was a little

haggard  looking, and the walls appeared to be sagging,  but

still the place had some charm, since most of the walls were

large multiframe windows that seemed to catch all the light.

      "May I help you, sir?" I found myself being asked by a

sweet  female voice.  I turned my head to see that  my  turn

had come up, and I was facing a teller on the other side  of

a  steel  grate.   She was an attractive younger  woman  who

spoke with a clipped accent I found hard to place.  She  had

a very pleasant air about her, especially when she moved her

beautiful  blonde  hair, and I was surprised  that  she  had

managed  to get a job in a bank, all the other tellers  were

middle aged men, not twenty year old girls.

      "Why  yes, miss.  I would like to exchange  this  five

dollar note for it's worth in gold coin, if you would,  much

as I hate to see your golden hair depart," I replied.

     "Why, certainly," she answered with a brisk smile and a

slight blush, and with a flip of her hair, she went off   to

get  the  money and do whatever they did with  the  treasury

notes.   I  chuckled a little at her enthusiasm, and  waited

patiently  until her return.  When she came  back  she  slid

over to me a minuscule gold coin.

      "Thank you very much, and a good day to you,"  I  said

as  I  took the gold coin,  "Though as pretty as you are,  I

doubt  you  have  very many bad ones."  As  I  was  leaving,

however, a sudden thought occurred to me and I turned around

to  ask her a question.  "Don't you need to know my name for

the records?"

      "We have no need, sir, to keep records of transactions

such  as  this one.  It would be a waste of time and  paper,

since  nothing  special is being done, and it  seems  to  be

happening  more  and more often for small amounts,  such  as

yourself.   If I were to buy something from you, do  I  need

your  name  and  entire  life's history,  as  well  as  your

financial records?  Of course not.  Now be off with you, you

foolish man." she said, giggling.

     I  laughed a little, thanked her, tipped my hat in mock

respect,  and left again, this time to go to Jackie's  house

for  dinner.  Her mother had prepared a wonderful  roast  of

lamb.   It  was a rather uneventful evening: I will  not  go

into  any  painful  details, we ate  dinner,  discussed  our

various plans for the week, sat by the fire for a while, and

then I bid her good-bye and returned to my poor, waterlogged

house.

     I  went in the door, took off my hat, coat, and  boots,

and  went  up  the stairs and entered my bedroom.   In  true

bachelor fashion, it was sparsely furnished with a  bed  and

night  table  and light, and not much else.  I disrobed  and

hung  my  wool  suit  on a hangar in  the  armoire.   Almost

immediately, I fell into a dreamless, untroubled sleep.

      I was awakened rather early the next morning to a loud

and incessant rapping on the door.  I leaped groggily out of

my  bed, and outside the front door, I saw a friend of mine,

a  fellow agent from the FBI.  Little as I really care about

my  appearance around friends, it would not do to leave  the

house  in  my nightclothers, so I told him that I  would  be

there  in a minute.  He sighed rather loudly, Matt is not  a

man  to get angry, and I ran back up the stairs to grab some

clothes.  In a jiffy, but without washing or shaving, I  had

put  on  a  white, crumpled shirt and semi-starched  collar,

along  with  a grey woolen sweater and grey slacks  and  was

back  downstairs and ready to go, however disheveled  I  may

have appeared.

      The  first words out of Matt's mouth were not  even  a

greeting as he skeptically surveyed my choice of attire  for

the day.  "And where were YOU last night, eh?"  He smiled  a

little,  something very unlike Matt, and then became  deadly

serious  again.   "We took down that speakeasy  last  night.

Nothing  special that you missed, bounced out of  our  cars,

burst  in  the  place  with tommys out,  and  everyone  went

silently.   We even caught the bartender trying  to  escape,

but  we  can't link him to Morgan in any way.  But I got  to

tell  you,  there  were some funny things  about  this  one.

First of all, the alcohol, which was all whiskey, not a drop

of  any  of  the  finer stuff, was in these  peculiar  metal

barrels,  instead  of the usual wooden ones.   We  tried  to

question  the  bartender  about it,  but  he  wasn't  saying

anything  about anything for anything, and  no  ones  got  a

clue.   Probably  just  some  frivolous  reason  though,  we

weren't  really concerned about it.  Second of  all,  prices

were  higher than other ones we've taken down in  the  past,

which  we  suspected from the start due to Morgan's monopoly

over  the  running in these parts.  Finally,  there  was  no

paper  money  in the place, the bartender was  insisting  on

coins  only, and those had to be gold or silver only.  Again

he  wasn't talking, and we can't figure out why that  was  a

requirement."  Something kinda stirred in my  brain,  but  I

pushed it aside for the more important matters at hand.

     "Did you get any of the customers?" I asked.

     "Sure enough.  We snagged only the drunk ones,. though,

because  there  were  too many to take  in  the  whole  lot.

Besides,  it was most of the upper class here, and we  can't

just  go  arrest  them  all in one  fell  swoop.   Too  many

connections," he said with something approaching a sneer  of

contempt.  "Goddamn connections.  We can't even do our job."

      "I'll need to talk to the ones you caught." I replied.

Without  even  thinking  about improving  my  appearance,  I

hopped out the door and into the street, realising too  late

I  had forgotten to put on my galoshes and was wearing  only

leather  shoes.   Needless to say, my feet  got  wet  rather

quickly,  and  I  scowled as I climbed in the  car,  a  true

antique, an original Model T which Matt was cranking up.

      "You know your street reminds me more of a stream than

a  street,"  Matt commented as we walked out  the  door.   I

laughed.

      "Unfortunately, however, you're right.  You should see

what  it's done to my basement.  Which reminds me, I've  got

to  be  back here at noon for the workers coming to fix  it.

It's  going to cost me an unbelievable amount of  money."  I

replied.

      We  drove over to the police station and Village Hall.

They  were  one and the same, though I had heard rumors  the

village was looking for a building to buy to make a separate

Village  Hall  where  they  could handle  all  the  everyday

affairs of the running of Pelham and keep them separate from

the crime control.  Regardless, right now they were the same

and so we walked in the main entrance and went to the police

station  wing, where we encountered the desk  sergeant.   He

was  sitting in a busy room, full of desks and cabinets  and

papers, and a few spitoons for those officers who could  not

go  to  a  pub  during  the  day.   However,  policemen  are

remarkably accurate, so there was a minimum of tobacco juice

on the floor.

      "And how can I help you two fellows?" he asked, rather

amicably for a desk sergeant, I thought.

      "FBI." Matt said, flashing his badge.  I did likewise,

and  we were waved unhappily over to another officer.  I got

the sense the boys here didn't take too kindly to the higher

eschelons  of  law  enforcement,  but  before  I  could  say

anything  Matt  went right along.  "Where can  we  find  the

customers and bartender arrested last night?"

      "They  were  all released this morning."  he  replied,

annoyed.   "All of them, on the grounds that  there  was  no

evidence  and we would be sued by the Morgans  in  order  to

keep  the police out of the lives of innocents.  Me, I don't

believe  it,  it's just a bunch of baloney  to  keep  Morgan

himself out of trouble.  But it's orders from the chief,  so

what  can  we do?"  It sounded as if he had taken a  beating

from his boss, and was looking to chew someone out.  Well  I

wasn't about to be it, I'd had enough chewing out that  day,

and no hay-penny local policeman was going to take his anger

out on me.

      However, I needed to do nothing to ensure that.   Matt

swore more on that spot than I have ever heard him do in his

entire  life before that moment.  Like I said, he is  not  a

man  you  want  to get angry with you.  He  chewed  out  the

entire department through that one patrolman, and I began to

feel  sorry for that poor jerk.  He had just been  following

orders to release them, sure he could have been nicer  about

it,  but he wasn't.  I would have done the same in his spot.

Finally,  after  five minutes of trying to  compose  himself

after  the  outburst,   Matt put in a  spoken,  nay  shouted

request   to see the records, ripping the official forms  in

half.


      The  sergeant   was  a little taken  aback  at  Matt's

colorful  little  speech.  He looked really skeptical  about

our  request and asked on what grounds we could ask  to  see

confidential  police records after having  screamed  at  the

police department and torn up the necessary forms.  At  this

I  thought Matt would go off like a stick of dynamite, so  I

quickly stepped up to the desk and told him who we were  and

showed  him  my  badge and tried to explain  a  little.   He

looked reluctant, but after looking at Matt's seething  face

he  appeared to think better of whatever it was he had  been

about  to say.  He led us through a maze of offices  to  one

even  more  full of papers than the ones before  where  each

day's  registry was stored after the day was through.  After

a  few  moments of digging through a file, he came  up  with

yesterday's  registry sheet and handed it  over  wordlessly,

face pinched and drawn.

      Listed were quite a number of Pelham's elitest of  the

elite, all for the crime of intoxication, then written  over

with  the  words: "RELEASED March 13, 1929."  I scanned  the

list and picked a name I sort of recognized.

      "Matt,  what  say  we go talk to  a  couple  of  these

people."  I said.  Matt just kind of nodded a little,  still

furious at the police station and everyone in it.  One  that

looked familiar was near Corlies and the Boulevard (of which

I have included a picture), so we headed over there, leaving

the office very quickly to ensure no blow up from Matt.

      The  house was practically a mansion, much bigger than

mine,  which  is considered very large by even  upper  class

standards.  So it was no wonder to me that, when we  knocked

on  the  door we were greeted by a butler wearing  waistcoat

and  tie,  very  proper looking.  I asked to  speak  to  the

master  of the house, a Mr. Joseph Savino whom I believed  I

had  read  about  in the paper at one time.   Naturally  the

butler  asked  for our names, and was very rude  in  general

until  we  flipped out our badges, at which point he  became

very  cordial and polite and invited us inside to wait while

he fetched his master.

      When  we  stepped  inside, I was  blown  away  by  the

lavishness  of  the place.  In the cavernous  entrance  hall

alone  there were a number of small delicate looking  tables

and  a  rug  that appeared to come from some  exotic  place.

Portraits and landscapes hung on the walls.  I couldn't have

told you who painted them, but there were certainly a lot of

them.   Added  to  this was a shining wooden  hat  and  coat

stand,  upon  which  a  maid  placed  our  hats  and  coats,

appropriately, even though it seemed bizarre to have a  maid

hang up my coat for me.

      The  master  of  the house was a rather  dour  looking

fellow with high-set cheekbones and a neat trimmed mustache.

He  was  rather short and slightly built, and I  could  tell

immediately  that  I did not like him, which  usually  makes

questioning more interesting.  When he spoke he had a manner

that managed to be both ingratiating and condescending.   He

invited  us  into the sitting room, a chamber of magnificent

proportions,  decorated in the same  formal  manner  as  the

front hall.  The heavy furniture was complemented by equally

heavy  draperies that blocked most of the sunlight.  In  one

corner  was  an  inlaid game table with  four  deep  leather

chairs around it  and a table with an ashtray in it on  each

side.   We  were  offered  cigars by  the  butler  and  both

accepted as we settled into the comfortable chairs.

      "May  I ask to what I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

he asked in a well-oiled baritone.  We said we would like to

discuss  whatever information he had about  the  unfortunate

incident of the previous evening.  "Ah, of course.  But what

makes  you  think  I  would  have any  information  for  you

gentlemen?"  he  asked.   We  indicated  that  we  had  some

information  that  he might have a number of  friends  among

those   detained.   He  said  nothing,  so  we   began   the

questioning without further social amenities.

      "How  did  you find out about the bar last  night?"  I

asked him.

      "Oh,  it was all the talk among my friends and myself.

I believe that John Morgan was the one who actually told me,

however.   Quite  the  place to be."  he  replied,  somewhat

snootily.

      "Can you tell us why you were required to pay in  only

solid gold and silver?"

      He  seemed  quite  taken aback by this,  but  answered

nonetheless.   "Well  I really don't  know,  but  given  the

nature  of  the small money box, it was probably because  it

takes up less space for its value."

      We continued along a line of useless questioning, then

thanked  him for his cigars and left.  For the rest  of  the

day we interrogated the elite of Pelham, and in almost every

instance the name Morgan was mentioned as the source for the

news,  and every time it was mentioned I grew more and  more

excited,  because  by the end of the day I  figured  we  had

enough  information that we could get a search  warrant  for

his  premises,  where  I  assumed we  could  find  something

illegal.  I figured that, since everyone was required to pay

in  gold,  that  was the way in which he stored  the  money,

never  bothering to go through the bank.  But we also picked

up  in our questioning the fact that this was the first time

the  customers were required to bring only gold  or  silver.

Prior  to last evening, all denominations of coin and  paper

had  been accepted.  I puzzled a little over this,  but  not

for  long, content to let the thinkers in the department  do

the  thinking, as they always had.  I always pictured myself

as a man of action.

      Matt  and I did not return to the police station  that

day.   Instead  we  started directly to my house.   However,

halfway  there  I  had  a  sudden thought,  about  which  my

curiousity was insatiable.  So I told Matt I needed to  make

a  last  minute stop at the bank, making up a  rather  silly

excuse, but he obliged me anyways and dropped me off  there,

from  which  I could walk home.  I got out into the  melting

snow  and  ice and walked inside, where I could see  it  was

nearing closing time.  I walked up to the same clerk who had

helped me yesterday.

     "Hello," she said.  "Back so soon?"

      "Why of course.  Only to see you, my dear.  But  I  am

curious,  have  you ever heard of a John Morgan  or  of  the

McLellan & Co. masonry firm?" I asked.

      "Why  yes, I have heard of both.  John Morgan  was  in

here just the other day, to make a deposit, and over a while

I  have seen all the members of the firm in here at one time

or  another.   But I have probably seen nearly everyone  who

lives here in Pelham at one time or another, including you."

she continued a bit coyly.

     "What were they doing here?" I asked.

     "Oh, I think usually making small transactions like the

one  you  were here for before, exchanging money  for  gold.

Come  to think of it, much of our gold reserves went out  in

the  last  couple of weeks.  We shall soon have to send  our

notes  to the treasury again for an exchange."  She  sounded

as  though  she thought I didn't know what she  was  talking

about,   so  I  played  the  game,  asking  the  appropriate

questions  and continuing the flirtation, but  my  questions

were answered.  After a time, I thanked her, and left.

      I  began  my walk down Wolf's Lane, which by  now  was

deserted.  I went past the bakery, which still smelled  like

fresh baked bread, one of the finer fabrics stores in a town

of  rich  people, and the grocery store, which was  stupidly

name, "Le Grocerie" since French was all the go.  But I  got

to  do  a  lot of thinking, and here is what I cam up  with.

Morgan  owned  the McLellan & Co. Firm as a front,  everyone

knew that.  But no one had ever thought to check up on their

routine  movements,  because  we  didn't  think  they   were

involved.  They probably still weren't, just asked to do the

occasional favor for the boss.  But these occasional  favors

involved  getting gold, which naturally Morgan  would  never

dposit, that would lead to questions and arrest.  So instead

he  just kept the gold and silver, spending it as any  other

money.  Confident I could now  finagle a search warrant from

the judge with a few tricks, and also confident I would find

untaxed  gold on Morgan's property, in fact sure,  I  turned

down Sparks Ave.  The torrent was slowing down, but I didn't

really  notice, even without galoshes, I was so absorbed  in

my  thoughts.  I turned into the entrance of my  house,  and

immediately left off all thought to check up on the repairs.

      The  masons, all dressed in white overalls  and  armed

with protractors, chalk, hammers and chisels, axes, and even

a  sledgehammer or two, had torn down a section of wall  and

were  redoing  it  with concrete instead of the  traditional

bricks.   Probably  would cost even  more  omney.   It  also

appeared  they  were  adding an extra foundation  pillar,  a

monstrous  affair  from what I could make  out.   I  made  a

mental  note to ask about that.  But in the morning,  later,

of course.



      The  next day I went directly to the Village Hall  and

stepped  up  before a judge, where I presented  my  evidence

against him.  He sat, a very old and decrepit specimen, on a

chair  high  above everyone else in a courtroom  with  large

windows  all  hung over with velvet curtains.  The  American

flag  stood  behind him, waving.  I noticed it  was  missing

more  than a few stars, it was a very old old flag, probably

from this guy's beginning judgehood, or whatever they called

it.  As  I begged and pleaded for a search warrant he looked

uncertainly at me over his spectacles, looking uneasy.   He,

the  honorable  judge Jurgis Wilson, offered  all  sorts  of

reservations  to  me against searching  the  property  of  a

prominent individual, and told me exactly what would  happen

to  me  if  I  should be wrong, but he said it  all  without

conviction.  Personally I don't take too well to being  told

what  to  do, so I began to argue, and he was very receptive

to  this, I think he wanted his mind changed for him.  So  I

said  I  didn't  care,  I needed that warrant  to  keep  the

justice,  and  the power of that FBI badge  scared  the  old

judge down, as I had been quite sure it would.

      But he would not relent on the fact that we had to  go

about it nicely, and he had a private conference with one of

the  court messengers, who went running off.  I swore  under

my breath, certain of his destination and his message.  This

judge  had  no sense of current practice, criminals  had  no

morals,  you  didn't  inform them of their  arrest,  but  he

seemed  quite determined to do so and be "proper" about  it.

I  couldn't stand it, but there was nothing I could do about

it.   The judge could do as he pleased in these matters, and

if  he denied me the warrant it would take days to go higher

up  to  get  it, and the damage was already done  so  I  was

forced to quietly hold my breath.

      After all that he agreed to issue the warrant, but  it

took  time to be drawn up, in the "proper" way.  This  time,

while  short,  was still too long.  I snatched  the  warrant

impatiently  from his shaking hand as he signed  it,  picked

five  officers at random from around the room, who I'm  sure

could tell I was not in a mood to be denied anything, and we

were out the giant oak door in seconds.

      We must have broken every traffic law in existence  as

we  sped along Pelhamdale Avenue to Colonial Avenue, next to

the  Pelham Memorial High School, but I didn't care,  all  I

cared about now was arresting that lowlife who was raking in

the money by breaking laws I had to suffer by.  We pulled up

in  front  of a large brick house, belonging to John  Morgan

himself.   It  had  a distinctive tiled  roof  and  a  large

assortment of trees in front to go with the two bay windows.

(  picture included, p.17)  I prayed we had made it in  time

as  we  pulled  up, bells clanging and making all  sorts  of

noise  in  general.   I  got out  of  my  car  without  even

bothering  to  turn it off and raced up the steps,  overcoat

flaring  out  behind  me, not a care in  the  world  besides

getting in that door as fast as possible, not even caring if

the other officers were behind me.

     I  hit the door running, and it was, fortunately for me

and  my  shoulder, unlocked.  I burst in  upon  a  scene  of

perfect  serenity,  and ran around screaming,  "Don't  move!

FBI!  Search Warrant!" but the only person I saw was the old

maid, feather duster in hand, to whom I must have been quite

a sight, shirt coming untucked, jacket dirty, feet wet, hair

tousled, and just bizarre in general.

      "Where  is the master of the house?" I roared  at  her

with uncharacteristic beastiality.

     "Why, he left just minutes ago.  I'm afraid you've just

missed  him.  However, I do think he went to go look at  his

workers over at whatever site they all are working on."  she

replied sweetly, with a slight southern twang.

      I let loose a tremendous string of profanities and ran

back  outside,  instructing  the  other  officers  to  do  a

thorough  search  of the house, but I knew they  would  find

nothing.   "How  could he have been so prepared,  especially

after  such  a shakeup?" I thought to myself as I  literally

through  myself in my car and sped back to my  house,  which

was  naturally where his workers were.  I was  getting  more

frustrated  by the second, and I was lucky I was  killed  on

that short drive home.

      I  screeched up to my house with a jolt,  noticing  in

some  part  of  my brain that the torrent of my  street  had

slowed  to  a  brookish  pace, which made  things  a  little

better, and that another car besides the workers' was parked

in  front of my house, as expected.  Again I leapt out of my

Packard and burst inside.  Now more than ever I wished I had

my  trusty  tommy gun so I could face that  bastard,  but  I

didn't  so  I  made do.  I just ran downstairs to  see  none

other  than John Morgan, surveying his workers finishing  up

pouring the cement of that new pillar.

      "Where  the  Hell  is the money?" I screamed  at  him.

"What  did you do with it?  Where did you hide it?   GodDAMN

you, you bastard!"

      "Why  hello  to  you as well, agent  Kiernan,  what  a

pleasure  to  meet  you.   My men have  been  working  quite

diligently  on your house, just filling in this new  central

pillar.   Oops, careful there." he said as a great  quantity

of cement spilled over the top of the setting area.  "Slight

miscalculation,  no problem, I assure you."   He  looked  as

calm  as  a  glass of water, especially in  contrast  to  my

raggedness and explosive introduction.  Thoughts left me  as

I  began to feel embarassed, but my anger was renewed when I

looked at him again, he was more smug than the cat who  just

ate  the  canary.  "So how are things at my house, I  assume

you  went  their  first?"  He was ignoring my  questions,  I

could tell.  But I said nothing.  "I am an official of  this

town  itself."   I gasped in disbelief.  An  official?   Not

likely.  He continued.  "While I have been at your house,  I

have  been able to look around, and that is why I  am  here,

waiting for your return.  I was appointed some time back  to

look  for  a  new site for Village Hall, you may have  heard

rumors  of its movement.  Your house, with all the  work  my

men  have  put into it, seems the perfect place, and  should

you  choose  to sell it, the Village will pay for  all  this

work my men have done, as well as for the house itself."

      "What  about  the  money you  pompous  ass?"  I  said,

seething.  He ignored me.

      But  inside I was dumbfounded.  I didn't know what  to

say.  In one sentence he had gone from smug looking gangster

to  town  official, whereupon he offered me a very  generous

sum  for  my  house, more than I could hope to  get  on  the

market.   I  couldn't understand what was happening,  but  I

agreed  to  the proposal, figuring maybe I could detain  him

and  question him.  Frustration built as I realized that  he

had escaped us once again, on our best shot in ages, and  he

had  even worked it so as I would not look like a fool,  and

no  word would get out.  All anyone would know was I went to

discuss  selling my house.  How?  How did he escape?   Where

did all the money go?  I collapsed on the floor, unaware  of

my surroundings.



      "This  is  quite incredible, bars of  solid  gold  and

silver  found buried in a foundation pillar.  I  can  assure

you  that your company will be rewarded most graciously  for

this  spectacular  find, and you have all my  best  wishes."

With  that the government man packed his briefcase,  snapped

it shut, and walked out the door.

      The  president of Jerico Wrecking still didn't  really

understand what had happened as he sat as his desk,  but  he

knew one thing, that government guy was a twit.