Crackstone Chronicles: Connections

Crackstone Chronicles

Connections

Bob Henneberger

Copyright 2010 Bob Henneberger

www.temptpress.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Books by Bob Henneberger

Crackstone Chronicles – Extinction

Crackstone Chronicles – Extraordinary Solution

Katz Pajamas

Katz Box

Katz Cradle

Hunting Paradise

__________________________________________________________

Published by Tempt Press

P.O. Box 77, Colchester, VT 05446

Crackstone Chronicles, v. 2

Ebook Edition, 2010

Copyright © 2010 Bob Henneberger

ISBN: 978-1-4524-1812-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010936731

The events and characters depicted in this novel are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the express permission of the publisher and the author. Your support of this and all authors rights are greatly appreciated.

To Sandy

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.

Contents

Author’s notes

1. Duck!

2. Funny feelings aren’t always humorous

3. Where everybody knows your name

4. Which way did he go?

5. Hide and go seek

6. What’s the difference between a lawyer and a crazy man?

7. Wake me when it’s safe.

8. You can train an old dog.

9. Follow me

10. Trained Monkeys

11. Let your dreams take wing

12. Lost in plain sight

13. Is that a totem, or are you just happy to see me?

14. Just because Alice fell down the hole, doesn’t mean we all have to.

15. Did I say something wrong?

16. Now, for something completely different.

17. Pack up all your cares and woe

18. You can go home again

19. Back in the saddle again

20. You raise me up

21. Damnit, I’m a doctor, not a magician

22. Things left undone

Author’s notes

I’m an anomaly in the equation. I’m here, but I’m not supposed to be here; I remember everything, everything. I’m not Billy Pilgrim at all, I’m not unstuck in time; time does not even exist. But, I will not live forever, and I do not know everything there is to be known. My anomaly, however, does allow me to remember everything connected with John Crackstone.

When one wants to gain awareness, sometimes it’s best to be lost for a while.

"O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself

a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams."

William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Since the primary audience for this story is human, all references are geared to contemporary levels of human science and social custom.

1

Duck!

There never seemed to be opportunity for reflection; in fact, John made sure he never had time for introspection. Taking brief stock of his life was all he would sometimes do, in spite of the glaring necessity to perform more in-depth self evaluations. Meanwhile, time passed. He dropped out of college in his Junior year to join the army to fight against the Hun; he was mustered out of the Army in 1919, entering as a second lieutenant and leaving as a captain. He remembered almost nothing of what occurred between those two ranks. There had to be more to that story, but damned if he knew what it was. So, it seemed only reasonable that he would want to spend his time solving other people’s mysteries and finding lost things, just not his own lost memories. It also seemed logical that he would become a detective in search of something a bit out of reach, something just on the tip of his tongue.

Although he didn’t realize, or didn’t want to realize it, in the past year he had gained sixty pounds, and as a result, John Crackstone walked slower. It was 1924, and the post Great War economy and John’s cash flow had at least kept pace with his expanding girth, or was it the other way around? It didn’t occur to him to reduce the tempo of his professional and social life; as a man of means, he liked a fast, flashy lifestyle at this particular moment in his life.

His main regret this past year was that he had to purchase three new gray suits since his size seemed to change every three months. He tried dark blue and pin striped, but gray looked better with his new measurements. John also continued to test out colognes; this seemed to be a life long experiment with him.

As a detective he specialized in missing persons; the jobs were simple and would take from two days to two weeks to complete if he screened them before he took them on. John’s caseload ranged from one to twelve clients in any given month, although lately he seemed to be getting fewer and fewer cases. He attributed that to the time of the year, winter. Family and financial problems, his bread and butter, seemed to simmer in hibernation until the full bloom of Spring. For some reason, people generally waited until the weather warmed up to hire a private detective.

John never kept accounts, although he found time to write down how much a client still owed him, especially if he had more than five cases or more in the air at the same time. Instead, he assessed his financial state by the size of his tab at Mullins Bar; the larger his tab, the poorer he was. Banks were for sissies so John either carried his savings in his pockets, or wore it on his back.

Besides his wardrobe, John splurged on the tool of his trade. This last year he had traded in his Smith and Wesson 38 caliber revolver for a custom built Colt factory engraved 45 caliber automatic pistol. In the Army, he had gotten proficient with a similar military version. He swore that as soon as he could afford it, he would buy a better quality pistol.

Although business slowed as the Winter slump plodded along, his social life picked up. He attracted a new girlfriend, Betsy Anderson, daughter to a millionaire. Sporting a beautiful heiress seven years his junior on his arm was a novelty. He didn’t mind having fewer clients, because when he ran out of pocket money, Betsy gladly paid, and, so far, this didn’t bother John. His friends told him he should be bothered by this; it would make him seem less a man, but John didn’t feel that way and he worried why.

Since he left the Army 5 years ago, John wondered why he felt and acted the way he did. Was there something to his memory loss that affected his character? He was honest and loyal, character traits he knew in his gut that he carried from childhood. But, he was aware of somewhat eccentric behaviors that didn’t fit the 1924 New York norms. Perhaps he should see a doctor about this memory loss and intermittent behavioral hiccups. Maybe; when he had enough cash on hand.

…………………

John enjoyed the slow trudge down Park Avenue to call on Betsy. The only thing on his mind, besides the upcoming meal, the fine Canadian whiskey and the possibility of magnificent sex, was the last case he had cleared that week.

John would take a potentially dangerous assignment, but it would have to be for a large fee. He valued his life and his limited free time. He had just finished such a well paid case, though he had yet to collect the fee. Maybe the District Attorney wouldn’t tell the mob lawyers the identity of the person who put the finger on the accountant and maybe no one at the New York police department would inform the mob that one of their dirty accountants was pressured into turning over the right set of books to the city attorneys. Maybe there is a Santa Claus and maybe nobody would aim a gun at him, but not in this lifetime. John was glad he had his new Colt strapped under his left arm.

………………..

As a rule, the butler answered the bell, but this evening Betsy answered the door herself. He would pick her up when she advised him her parents were absent. Kenneth Anderson, Betsy father, didn’t have much use for John; this way he could avoid further awkward moments. Although Betsy was twenty two years old, Kenneth tried to control his sole heir. When Betsy came out to the social elite at her nineteenth birthday party, her tried to arrange marriage for his daughter, four times, but she stubbornly refused each suitor. John was aware that this level of parental control was why Betsy was dating him; he told himself that that Betsy was unaware of her own motives. To Betsy, he was the ideal romantic, he was also the anti-husband stubborn dreams were made of.

I told Benson I would answer the bell, Betsy murmured. Her smile could melt iron.

Did your father tell him not to let you go out while they were gone?

Something like that. Where are we going tonight?

Betsy scooted out onto the front porch and closed the door behind her.

I thought we could catch an early dinner then head to the Sunset Café, I heard there’s a great jazz band there tonight.

That sounds swell, Betsy slipped her arm under John’s as she spoke. What about later?

Maybe my place?

John anticipated a positive response, even though Betsy had so far not accepted an invitation to his apartment.

We’ll see, Betsy replied. She looked away, teasing him.

He stopped near the curb on the corner of Fifth and Eighty First looking for a taxi. For a late March evening, the temperature was no more than crisp. The day had been warm and quite sunny, and the night was clear as well. John looked up and down Fifth Avenue at the evening crowds, noticing more foot traffic than usual, no doubt drawn by the fine weather and the equally fine selection of musical events New York had to offer that night. But he couldn’t flag down a taxi. He remembered the New York of his childhood and the lack of motorized vehicles. At that time, most of the traffic was horse drawn. Maybe a taxi was easier to get then, but the streets smelled a lot worse.

In the stream of automobiles that ebbed and flowed from block to block, John noticed a Ford forcing its way up Eighty First towards the park. The driver acted terribly rude, switching lanes aggressively, creating near accidents. Then John’s body went on alert as the Ford approached.

As the vehicle jerked to within ten feet of their corner, the man in the passenger’s seat pulled out a revolver, just showing from the bottom of the window. Without saying a word, John pulled Betsy down to the sidewalk; he put his body between the her and oncoming car.

John? Betsy breathed out the phrase as she thumped onto the sidewalk behind him.

Stay there, he insisted. I think there’s going to be some trouble.

What kind of trouble?

Betsy tried to look around his back.

Stay down behind me, John repeated as he pushed her head back down with his left hand. He pulled his pistol out with his right. Those men in that car have a gun pointed at me.

A gun? Betsy started to cry.

By the time the car reached the corner and the gunman had a clear shot at John, most of the crowd saw the revolver. Their reactions were not uncharacteristic of native New Yorkers; the women screamed and the men ran, trying to drag the screaming women with them, away from the obvious target. The pandemonium left the shooter without a clear shot since John, the target, was not running. The car halted at the corner, waiting for a clearer opportunity.

John was thinking. He must have pissed off Legs Diamond more than usual. Legs was the muscle for Arnold ‘Mr. Big’ Rothstein. The driver of the Ford looked like Legs himself, Mr. Diamond must want to see the killing up close and personal. Not waiting for the revolver to fire, John sent two forty five caliber slugs into the side of the car as soon as there was an opening in the crowd. That panicked the crowd even more, and the gap between John and the car closed up again with the yelling mass of people. The car hurtled away, turning north on Fifth Avenue.

Why did the automobile leave? John didn’t think he had actually hit the shooter since he hadn’t aimed to hit him. Would they come back around the block to try again? John knew the answer to that and several other questions as soon as he looked back up Eighty First Street.

Go back home. John helped Betsy up from the sidewalk. You don’t know me, and you were just out for a walk by yourself tonight.

John knew what the next few moves would be; it wasn’t complicated like a chess game. This situation was more like tic-tac-toe, very predictable. Betsy could not be associated with a gang related shooting, even more than she should not be associated with John Crackstone, small time private detective. Reality can be so ponderous at times.

What? Tears were rolling down Betsy’s face.

The cops are almost here and they will tell your father that you were involved in a street shooting because of me. John took in a fresh breath of air. I don’t care what he thinks of me, but I don’t want there to be any bad feeling between you and your father because of me.

I understand. Betsy sniffed as she wiped her face with the palm of her right hand. Her expression hinted that she was reassessing her relationship with him.

Put the gun down, sir! The first arrival of New York’s finest ran up, shouting.

Of course, John responded. He carefully placed his Colt on the sidewalk.

What just went on here? The cop demanded. A little bigger around the middle than John, more out of shape, he was gasping for air.

It seems I was fair game for the Jewish mob, John answered. My name is John Crackstone, and I’m a private investigator.

So, what’s that got to do with anything, Jonnie boy? another voice asked. A second policeman, this one in plain clothes, stepped out into view.

Gardinar? John focused on the second man. That is you, isn’t it?

John had met Rich Gardinar a little over a year ago at Mullins Bar. As a detective with the New York City Police, Gardiner had known Bill Mullins for ten years. John, Rich, Bill, and a few other men met for a friendly poker game every Thursday night for the past year.

Of course it’s me, but why don’t you answer my question? Gardinar asked.

I just handed over Arnold Rothstein’s bookkeeper to you guys and I don’t think he liked that too much, John retorted. Even though he had become close friends with this policeman, the evening’s events were more than boyish hijinks.

Yeah, I heard, Rich said. It doesn’t sound like a job you’d normally take on.

It wasn’t, John replied. I was hired by the owner of the accounting firm to find one of his missing accountants. That guy did mob books on the side, and when I found him he asked me, for a protection fee of course, to arrange a meet between him and the District Attorney.

That sounds more like you. Rich chuckled. So, what happened tonight?

Two men in a Model T drove up to this corner, the passenger pulled a revolver out and started shooting. I recognized Legs Diamond as the driver, but I didn’t recognize the man with the gun. John paused for effect. I understand why the uniforms showed up here so quick, but why is a detective here within minutes of a street shooting?

You’re always direct, Rich answered, in an official tone. I was following Legs.

Well, John said, grinning. He went that-a-way. He pointed up Fifth Avenue.

That’s not funny, you know. Rich sounded frustrated. Pick up your gun and get the hell out of here.

You’re letting me go? John carefully retrieved his Colt from the sidewalk and stuffed it back into its holster.

I guess so, Rich replied without changing his stern expression. If it were any other night, I’d have the officers haul you to the station for shooting in the middle of all these people, but tonight is your lucky night.

Thanks.

John wanted to ask several questions, but he forced himself not to. Time and headlines may let him know tomorrow, or maybe not.

Just one more thing, Rich added.

What? John turned to face the policeman.

That girl you were with, Rich said. The Anderson girl.

What woman? John looked at the streetlight, then back at Rich Gardinar. I’m alone this evening.

I don’t think so, John. Rich paused again. You know you have to not see her again, at least for a long while.

Well, if I had been with her, I would know that, John agreed.

Her father is best friends with the mayor, and there’s no way in hell I would tell anyone I saw his daughter here tonight, but don’t press even your exceptional luck any more after tonight.

I understand, John solemnly agreed .

………………..

Life ebbed low for John during the next week; his love life was nonexistent again and his professional life was even lower. Although expenses were small at the moment, due to said lack of social life and an inexpensive apartment, he had other financial obligations. One of those was a telephone answering service and he was a month behind. Without a telephone in his apartment, or an office, or a secretary, he conducted business only through this service and word of mouth.

The manager of the answering service was a plain looking woman in her early thirties with an obvious crush on John; he wondered how far that crush would take him this time.

I hope you came bearing seven dollars, Desiree Minter said, concern on her face.

A single woman, thirty one years old, Desiree stood five foot eight in flat shoes and weighed one twenty. She was the perfect flapper, tall and skinny with a flat chest. Desiree was born and raised in Flatbush and had struggled to change her accent for the past fifteen years.

No, John leaned in towards her But, if you have a message from a possible rich client, I might have the money for you tomorrow.

This is the second time you’ve been late, sweetheart, Desiree said with a tinge of regret in her voice.

That’s not too bad, John said quickly.

The second time, in three months, Desiree replied in a more forceful tone.

Her uncle owned the business, but she was responsible for the monthly cash flow.

John rummaged through both his pants pockets and pulled loose change and a few bills from both of them, placing all the cash he had in the world on Desiree’s desk. Will this work?

After carefully counting the cash, Desiree answered, This is four dollars and thirty nine cents.

Did I get any messages? John asked. Maybe you could just give me four dollars and thirty nine cents’ worth of messages.

You only got one, Desiree said with a sigh.

Well? John held out his hand.

I hope she hires you, Desiree replied as she handed John the slip of paper.

After reading the note quickly, John looked back at Desiree.

Do you know who she is? he asked.

No, but judging from the address she’s at least rich. Desiree smiled for the first time. If you get hired, come back here and pay the rest of your fee. Maybe take me out for coffee.

I will, and I’ll pay in advance for the next month too, John replied with a broad grin.

2

Funny feelings aren’t always humorous

Mr. Crackstone, John’s potential new employer intoned.

Susanna White pointed to the interior of her formal living room.

You may sit in there, I shall be back in one moment, she added.

Susanna was a woman who carried herself and described herself as statuesque; standing five foot even, she graced a room as if she were six feet tall. Slender and quite good looking, John was thinking, in her early thirties at most. Even at four in the afternoon and even though she wasn’t due to leave the house, she wore a proper, formal looking dress. Her hair was dark and long. It would have reached the small of her back, if she had not put it up in a neat bun on the top of her head.

Sure thing, Mrs. White, John obediently replied. He watched her walk down the center hall, to enter a room at the far end. She closed the door after her.

He wondered what she was doing. Maybe she just needed to step into the kitchen, or perhaps she wanted to speak to a servant. Meanwhile his mind went through his own appearance, checking for but finding no major flaws. About five foot nine, he weighed a little under 260 pounds, although how much under, or over, he would never know as he refused to ever weigh himself. His friends commented on his voracious appetite while he ate out. All he kept at his apartment was some crackers and whiskey. John was unsure if this was odd or normal. He spent some time pondering if either was true.

He always wore a three piece suit when he visited prospective or active clients; his color choice now was always gray. John had toyed briefly at wearing a hat, but most of his friends laughed when they saw him in one, so he gave up on that fashion item. As for accouterments of his chosen profession, beside the gun he carried, John wore a Waltham Vanguard pocket watch, railroad approved, which he carried in his right vest pocket attached to the middle button of the vest with a thin gold chain.

Scanning the area as he walked into the living room, John noticed that the late Victorian darkly upholstered furniture was at least twenty five years old, maybe older. The furniture was also well carved and placed. A faint but stale scent hung in the room; seeming to echo the atmosphere of old money that permeated the building. Appropriate for a massive home on Park Avenue, he thought.

John walked to the mantle to look at some of the photographs perched there. Three pictures sat on the mantle and all in the same style of ornate silver frame. Two were of an older couple, perhaps her parents, and the third showed Susanna White in a wedding dress, embraced by a husband who looked at least ten years older than her, maybe fifteen years older.

John glanced around the room again, studying the paintings hanging on every wall. He didn’t know that much about art, but they looked old. Most of the paintings were landscapes, and none of them looked like American landscapes. Perched on the wall above a writing desk was a portrait of a stern old man; this geezer seemed to look down in disdain at whoever stood in the center of the living room.

Two windows facing the street, both with heavy drapes which were partially drawn, let in a splash of sunlight which washed the dark carpet in yellow light. John wandered to a tall backed overstuffed chair and sat down. He pulled his Waltham from his coat pocket and looked at the time; it was not yet two in the afternoon.

I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Susanna White announced. She quickly ushered herself into the living room,

Would you like some tea?

John stood quickly, not having heard her enter the room. Politely refusing, he sat down again.

You must be wondering why I called you to come here. Susanna settled in the sofa across from him. She looked to be in a better mood. This time, her expression was less agitated as she smiled at John.

I would like to know why you picked me for this task? John asked.

Susanna looked somewhat taken aback. Well, if you must know, my friend Eleanor Billington hired you last Fall to find her missing niece.

Mrs. White was not used to an employee being so intrusive; that was not the social custom in her economic class.

I remember that case, John replied.

He quickly recalled the missing niece who had run away