The conflagration roared, raging its way into the night sky, furious orange clawing black eternity. Within a half hour nothing remained of Hahn Manufacturing but a burnt husk; it was rubble and steaming ash as firemen hosed down the wreckage.
Police found the remains of the night watchman, Gus Deerfield, a beloved elder, and his faithful pooch, Fido, trapped in a back room. Ever since his wife, Becky, had died, Fido was the best friend of Gus.
When they were tossing Molotov cocktails through the windows of the plant, Walt Wankowicz and his union confederates hadn't intended to commit homicide. But they had.
Another firestorm took root as word spread, like wildfire on a parched prairie. Across Trottsville citizens were shocked. Then shock turned to anger, burning anger that demanded vengeance.
Gus Deerfield had been a doughboy, a Rotarian in good standing, a regular at the VFW. His hobbies had included model ship building. Not from a plastic kit. From scratch.
Gus and Becky owned a small farm, had six kids, boys and girls, romping in the yard, working chores, in church on Sunday morning in their Sunday best.
A mocha-colored man, mocha with a tinge of bronze, signs into the Randolph Hotel. Dressed in a tan gabardine suit, a white shirt and a striped silk tie. One incisor is gold. That tooth glints when he smiles. In his breast pocket, a squared-off white handkerchief. "Here you go, Mr. Beeks," says the proprietor, handing the mocha man a key to his room.
Small suitcase in hand, holding all his worldly goods, Beeks strolls to the elevator. On the way up to the third floor he sings to himself, "There I go, there I go, there I go, pretty baby, bee dee ree ree de bop..." His intonation isn't exact, but the feeling is secure, and betrays a hint of Tennessee hill country.
Shortly after he enters his room, Beeks opens his valise, hangs a clean shirt in the small closet. The phone rings. The voice, gentle yet authoritative, says, "Hiya, Beeks! I trust your travels were trouble free."
"Well as can be expected, suh! Well as can be expected."
Walt Wankowicz, weaned on brass knuckles and tire irons, stilettos and zip guns, traveled up the ladder from Canarsie street-tough to gang leader to union enforcer. He hit first, didn't ask questions. But he hadn't expected someone to die in the inferno. Not that he cared one whit about some old coot. Or some flea-bitten mutt. Who cares! As a dungaree teen, he got kicks out of lighting a string of firecrackers tied to a dog's tail, all in good fun. Street hijinks were a sort of prep school for a union thug. But this was serious, could be a federal rap. His duffel bag packed, he'd gotten about a block from the Randolph when he sensed someone sneaking from behind. He was about to turn when the sap hit him, good and hard, on the back of his bean. When he wakes, he's in a car trunk, gagged, his wrists handcuffed behind him, his ankles tied tight. The car starts and commences the journey.
The destination is a half hour north of Trottsville, the abandoned quarry.
A hard right off the highway, the ride's rough on the rocky dirt road, Walt bouncing in the tight black space, sweating.
Driving the Impala, two men, perfectly ordinary-looking men, officers in the Silver Society, a secret bund dedicated to free enterprise, to growth and prosperity, to law and order, to truth and justice and pure Americanism.
The car stops. The motor shuts off. Silence. Then Walt's jostled as the men step out of the car. He hears their doors slam shut with an ineffable finality. The trunk pops open and the two men lift Walt into bright cleansing sunlight and drag him to the edge of the quarry, to a drop of 50 feet, glassy black water below. While humming a popular song, a fellow chains a boat anchor to Walt's ankles. Across Walt's forehead, bullets of sweat; down his ribs, rivers of sweat.
Glancing around, Walt sees his three cronies in the same situation, and a few late-model sedans parked at angles. Besides the Impala, a Ford and two Chevys. Without a word, two men lift one of the union gangsters and give him the old heave-ho into the drink. He hits with a splash, plummets to the bottom. Before chucking Walt into the great beyond, Pete "Frenchie" DuPaul dances a little jig while singing:
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
"Tut-tut, mon ami! Stiff whistle, si vous plait! Eet will all be oh-vair anon!"
His life flashing before him, Walt reflects on the good times: he and his teenage gang finding a stray weakling, maybe a polio kid or an old granny, to beat the crap out of. Or stiffing a pro-girl after she's pulled a train. And if she squawked, the sheer joy of knocking a few of her lousy teeth out, slicing her kisser with a switchblade. What's she gonna do? Call the coppers?
All his life, Walt hated the weak. "They're like songbirds. What stinkin' good are they!" He fancied himself a tough guy, like in the movies. Cagney, Robinson, Raft! Heroes! With blazing guns! Now here he is, blubbering and moaning like a little girl.
For the first time ever, he considers, weighs, what a heartless psychopath he's always been. It'd never occurred to him. As far as he knew, he'd just been acting naturally, a regular guy. Now, as the clock ticks down, a shadow of doubt creeps into his mind. His knees are water; he's only held up by the firm grips of two stout Silver Society men.
A hale and hearty whoop of "Allez oop!" is the last thing the grubby gangster hears. Then he's sailing through the atmosphere, like Sputnik. Falling, falling, he thinks about Sputnik. And Khrushchev. And Eisenhower. Ike smiles at him, winks, and says, "Burn in hell, you bastard." Mamie Eisenhower swims into view and chirps, "That goes double from me, punk!"
Ike continues, "The agony you put Gus and Fido through was excruciating. But y'know what? It ended. In minutes. Where you are going, boy, will not end. You will burn for infinity. Right now, you cannot even imagine infinity. But I'm gonna tell you what: a billion years ain't a surface scratch on infinity..."
Walt hits the water, holds his breath for as long as he possibly can. Then icy water tortures his lungs, his pain reaches a pitch. And he has left our mortal coil.
"Tomorrow's another day," Beeks croons to himself as he heads down the elevator, out the Randolph's door. It's eventide and a blinking neon bar sign is the beacon for Beeks. He enters the saloon, orders a Manhattan, and gimlet-eyes a nickel-plated bitch, pushing 30, looking 45, at the shadowy end of the bar. Yes, she's been rode hard, but she's easy-peasy. Rounder heels would be difficult to find. "Excuse me, Miss..."
A nicotine-coated voice warbles a surprisingly musical, "Ross, Miss Ross."
"Miss Ross, wouldst thou grant me the sublime pleasure of purchasing for thou a libation of your choice?"
"Scotch, straight, no chaser." She opens her purse to retrieve a compact. While she spruces up a worn face, Beeks can't help but notice the gleam of a glass syringe in her pocketbook. "Yas, oh yasss," he purrs to himself, picks up his drink, relocates beside Miss Ross. All is comfy and cozy as they build a cocoon, first with alcohol.
Please to note: Beeks isn't any sort of a street addict. Not at all. He's a dabbler, a gentleman junkie. A boozehound and a teahead? No question. But not a junkie like this Miss Ross. She's hophead, writ large, in capitals.
The following afternoon, close to dusk, Beeks wakes in an unfamiliar room, groggy from whiskey and vermouth and heroin. He's sprawled in an easy chair. He looks over at Miss Ross on the bed. She's a delicate tint of robin's egg blue. The syringe is still in her arm.
"Oh... no..."