Openers

Openers

Michael E. Benson

Published by Michael E. Benson and Shanty Town Books

Copyright 2010

Smashwords Edition

For Barbara

CHAPTER ONE

He hesitated a moment in the alley, eyes keenly searching for any unseen watchers. His nostrils flared and he lifted his head, wolf-like, as though he could catch the scent of humans long before he could see them. Satisfied, he lithely vaulted the chain link fence and landed silently, crouching in the tiny yard behind the house.

He moved like a shadow to the door at the back of the garage and tried it with a key. It unlocked easily and a grim smile flashed across his dark face as he slid inside and closed the door softly behind him.

He was nearly certain the house was empty. He had cased it for days and he knew the woman, Karen, was not there, but there was always that remote possibility that someone else, someone he knew nothing about, was inside. He thought he had been extremely careful on this one, even more than with the others. In fact, he thought with pride, he had become very professional in all phases of his criminal activity. From the entry into the house to the disposal of the body, everything like clockwork.

The house was empty and he did not expect anyone for several hours. He would be gone by then, and she would never know he had been there . . . not until he was ready for her to know. The look of surprise and terror when she saw his anger would be breathtaking to him. It would be almost as good as the pleasure her body would unwillingly give him. But not quite

It started as an accident. They were driving south on Troost, casing a liquor store near 47th Street, when a tan Lincoln in front of them stopped at a traffic light. Jerome Moore, the driver of the decrepit Chevy Nova they had stolen for the occasion, cursed the rain-slick streets and bald tires as he smashed the brake pedal down and slid immutably toward the collision. He fishtailed, then slammed into the rear of the luxurious automobile.

Jerome and his associate, Tyrone Biggs, bailed out of the stolen car, presumably with the intention of running away. In fact, Tyrone had already taken several long strides in that direction when Jerome did a strange and wonderful thing. The driver of the Lincoln came back to inspect the damage and Jerome stuck a chrome plated revolver in his face and took his money. Then they ran.

Tyrone, struck dumb by the audacity of his partner, grinned and shook his shaggy head in praise of Jerome. The job netted them enough for a two day crack binge with some left over for other sensual pleasures. It was as convenient as the drive-in teller at the bank. Hell, Jerome bragged to anyone who would listen, they hardly even got wet. No reason it would not work again.

It was stupid, of course, but no one had ever accused them of being anything else. They didn't worry about their fingerprints, which were all over the Nova and traceable to them because of their prior arrests for armed robbery. They were not concerned that a dozen witnesses had watched the robbery take place. If the spectators had not disappeared before the police arrived, or if the victim could have picked their mug shots from the hundreds the police showed him, it might have ended then and there. It was pure, dumb luck they got away with it the first time. No one even suspected they would be foolish enough to try it again. But they did, and they became known as the Bump and Run Bandits.

Tyrone and Jerome became media celebrities, pulling ten bump and run robberies in six days. Radio and television newscasters warned their listeners not to get out of the car if someone smashed into them, but to drive to the nearest police station. Cabbies and salesmen began carrying guns, half hoping to be the next victim.

While the reporters were having their heyday and treating the escapades of the two bandits as lighthearted fun, the Kansas City Police Department took a much dimmer view of their antics. Contrary to what the media led people to believe, these men were hardened criminals, two-time losers who would not hesitate to drop the hammer on anyone who interfered with their pleasure. In the Police Department view, it was only a matter of time until one of the two morons pulled a trigger. Equally important, the reputation of the Department was on the line. Every successful robbery made the police look more impotent, and the consequences were varied and far-reaching.

The police knew their identity within forty-eight hours of their first job. Everyone on the street knew it within twelve hours, and the word was surreptitiously passed through a long line of informants until it was at last whispered into the ear of Julius Frazier, the city's foremost homicide detective. Frazier passed the word to his superiors and the hunt was on. The latent fingerprints the duo left in the Chevy Nova and the word of a reliable informant were enough to establish probable cause and have arrest warrants issued, even without eyewitness identification.

Among the extra officers assigned to the Bump and Run Bandits were Frank Petrovic and his partner, Howard Thurman. The commander of the General Assignment Unit volunteered their services and ordered them to report to Robbery Division for temporary duty. It was a welcome change for Frank, who enjoyed variety, but not for Howard. With less than a week to go until his retirement, he wanted to coast. He certainly did not want anyone shooting at him. A waistline that had grown from thirty-two to forty-two inches during his thirty year tenure would be too convenient a target, and he knew it.

They had been together seven years, much to everyone's relief. Howard was a good detective, but he lacked imagination. He was the kind of dependable partner most investigators dream of, but he was slow and slovenly in his appearance. He did not own a necktie unmarked by condiments or food, and his trousers and dress shirts were at least one size too small because he refused to shop at the Big and Tall Men's Store or buy anything tailored. Too expensive and extravagant in his view. Given his eating habits, Frank admitted he was probably right.

Francis Anton Petrovic, who signed his name F. Petrovic and answered only to Frank, was his opposite. Tall and lean, he dressed neatly and was fastidious in his eating habits, but his constant, nit-picking preoccupation with insignificant details drove people mad. If you put Frank in a position where he had to interview a witness, it was rumored, you might as well plan on staying the night. His descriptions of suspects often included the color of their shoelaces and belt. Everyone knew these claims to be wild exaggerations, of course, but they had a basis in fact.

Frank Petrovic believed that to truly understand a thing you had to tear it apart down to the tiniest nut, bolt and screw, and then reconstruct it. It was what he did best, what he had done most of his life, and no one was better at it.

Unfortunately, it was a skill not often put to use in the General Assignment Unit where he had been for the past seven years, or in the Crimes Against Property Unit where he spent eight years before coming to G.A.U. It wasn't needed in Vice where he hassled pimps, prostitutes, gays and gamblers for three years, and his dog, Jock, didn't appreciate it during the four years they served in the K-9 unit. Nor was it much used on the streets he patrolled for five years as a district officer.

For the most part, people who did not know him well thought he was a little dense, and Frank appeared not to mind. It made things easier and people felt more comfortable around him if they believed he was a step too slow. Those who looked past the rumors and speculation found a man who grasped the larger view of most things almost immediately, usually faster than his contemptuous colleagues.

He believed his particular skills would be respected in Homicide, but the opportunity to join that elite group had always been denied him. On several occasions, his request for transfer seemed all but certain, but something always seemed to get in the way: a temporary budget cut; a sudden increase in some other type of crime that required his expertise; too much pressure from certain segments of the community to increase minority representation. Now, three years away from mandatory retirement, his chances for reassignment to Homicide seemed slim. Still, he turned in a request for transfer every month just in case they should suddenly reclassify Croatians as an oppressed minority.

It was nearly seven o'clock on a mild Friday evening in May. A faint breeze played through the budding leaves of a dogwood tree and Frank, who was driving that night, killed the fan inside the car and rolled down his window. Howard was savoring the last of three freebie chili dogs from a diner on Troost. The radio was nearly silent, and it occurred to both of them that an air of expectancy had suddenly electrified the atmosphere and set every nerve on edge.

They were in the parking lot of Donnelly's, a Catholic book store on Troost. The Bump and Run Bandits had not worked in three days, a new record for them. At the station, Frank spent an hour studying the pin map they were using to plot the location of the robberies. Most of the pins were south and west of the original bump and run and they had not operated on Troost since the first day. He decided, finally, that Troost between 54th Street and 85th Street would be logical. After such a long hiatus between jobs, it would be like starting over.

None of the higher ranking officers responsible for assigning the unit locations shared his belief. In fact, they reasoned, Troost would be the last place the Bandits would strike. It was too crowded. For that reason, when they created the deployment schedule the Troost assignment went to Howard and Frank, the over-the-hill gang.

Damn, Howard muttered as a drop of grease rolled off the end of a bun and landed on his tie. He brushed it away with a napkin, making the stain even larger. Ruined my tie.

You ruined that tie six years ago, Howard, Frank laughed. Just change the oil in it and maybe it'll go a few more months.

The radio suddenly crackled and split the silence with the tonal attention signal indicative of a hot call. Two-eleven just occurred, Brush Creek and Troost. Suspects identified as two black males, height and weight unknown, driving a white'79 Chevrolet Impala. Last seen southbound on Troost.

He had the car rolling before the dispatcher finished. The white Impala flashed by them and Howard grabbed the microphone to confirm the call, the last bit of chili dog still in his mouth. A huge burst of adrenalin surged through him, and he savored it. God, he thought, I'll miss this.

Frank hit the red lights and siren, swinging into the southbound lane as he mashed the accelerator to the floor, activating the passing gear. The Ford Taurus responded with enough G-force to slam Howard back in his seat.

Jerome made a high-speed left turn at 77th Street and smashed sideways into a parked car before he regained control and sped east. Howard struggled to get his seat belt fastened, screaming at Frank to slow down as visions of his own funeral flitted through his mind. This was his last day on the street, and Frank was trying to kill him.

The staccato beat of a helicopter and the sound of converging sirens, screaming like a pack of hungry wolves, filled the air as the Bump and Run Bandits sideswiped a railroad overpass on Hickman Mills Drive and caromed across the road. The car hit the curb and rolled three complete revolutions in the air before a patriarchal oak tree abruptly stopped its momentum.

Tyrone Biggs and Jerome Moore, neither of whom had mastered the complex manipulations required to fasten a seat belt, were thrown from their airborne conveyance when the vehicle reached its zenith. Tyrone seemed to be running before his feet touched the earth. Jerome landed on his hands and knees, rose up like a sprinter in the blocks, and clawed his way up the steep incline to the railroad tracks.

They've split up! Frank shouted to make himself heard above the pounding of blood in his ears. I'll take the one on the tracks!

He slowed the Ford to a crawl and bailed out as Howard slid across to the driver's seat. There was no time or need to argue about it. The sprinter would be in the next county before Howard could haul his girth to the top of the overpass, but he should certainly be able to drive faster than the other suspect could run.

On the tracks, Frank dropped his suit coat and loosened his tie and collar button as he ran. His quarry had fifty yards on him, but the lead was dwindling, faster as his leg muscles warmed to the task. He ran relaxed, breathing easily through his nose, secure in the knowledge he could maintain the pace for at least five miles, longer if he had the proper incentive.

Jerome had a good hundred yard sprint, but at that point the bottom dropped out of him as he gasped for air to fuel his stumbling, rubbery legs. He tripped over an irregular railroad tie and fell face down between the tracks. As he rolled over, he reached for the revolver he carried inside his waistband. Frank stopped five yards away and already had his weapon drawn and zeroed in on Jerome's left eye.

Don't do it! Frank cautioned coldly.

I quit! Jerome screamed. Don't shoot!

Get up on you knees and lock your hands on top of your head! If your hands come down before I tell you, this gun goes off! You got it?

Yeah, I got it, he agreed tiredly, assuming the position.

Frank disarmed and cuffed him, then helped him to his feet and read him his rights, even though he did not intend to ask him any questions. The walk back to the wrecked Chevrolet seemed endless as he trudged along behind his prisoner, studying his slumped shoulders and plodding gait. They both realized this could be Jerome's last walk in the sunshine. If the judge invoked the habitual criminal provisions, he could be facing a life sentence without the possibility of parole.

Halfway back, Frank was joined by a uniformed patrol sergeant, Kevin Ahern. Ahern had picked up the discarded suit coat and handed it to him as he fell into step.

Any trouble, Frank?

Nothing but old age. Did Howard catch the other guy?

Not yet. He's got him cornered inside a building. They're waiting for the K-9 unit.

Damn! Frank grumbled. I don't want to miss that! Let's get a move on.

By the time they reached Ahern's car, stashed Jerome Moore in the back seat, and drove to Lehmann's Furniture Warehouse where Tyrone had kicked his way in through the glass in the front door, the scene was chaotic. A dozen unmarked detective units and twice as many marked patrol cars surrounded the flat, sprawling building.

He found Howard squatting behind his car near the front door of the warehouse. He was listening to a raging argument between Major Jack Hocker, Commanding Officer of the Special Weapons and Tactics Unit, and Major Michael Mackey, presently the Watch Commander and formerly head of the K-9 Unit.

Get him? Howard asked.

Yeah. What's going on?

Hocker wants to send his storm troopers in and Mackey wants to use a dog. Major Hocker just finished a sterling monologue in which he extolled the virtues of his armed gorillas. Major Mackey countered with a remarkable comparison of the value of human life to that of a dog. I find it to be a stimulating and interesting discussion, although it really needs a Buckleyesque moderator . . . and I wish I had a spot of tea and a fucking crumpet.

Major Mackey ended the discussion by exerting his authority. He was, after all, the Watch Commander and on his watch his word was law. He put a hand on Frank's shoulder and lowered himself to one knee so he could make eye contact.

Did you arrest the other one?

He's in Sergeant Ahern's car, Frank confirmed. No problem.

Good work, Frank, he smiled condescendingly, clapping him on the back. Frank grimaced noticeably.

Officer Tony Jack Spitaleri and Hack, known by colleagues as Jack and Hack, checked in with Major Mackey. Hack, a hundred pound German Shepherd, seemed distant and inattentive. After a few whispered words, Spitaleri led Hack to the jagged hole in the front door and motioned him inside. The dog, tail wagging, gave a happy little bark and romped through the opening, all trace of his lackluster attitude forgotten.

Frank and Howard eyed one another with arched brows. The last rumor they heard had Hack labeled as untrainable when his handler was unable to break his peculiarly bad habits. Even the shock collar had no effect. Most German Shepherds will take whatever body part is closest to them when they attack, usually an arm or a leg. In training, their quarry presents a padded leather arm for them to sink their teeth into, but Hack, for some unfathomable reason known only to him, took a different approach. He ignored flailing arms and running legs and went straight for the crotch every time. Once his teeth found the target, he clamped them shut like a vice and he would not let go until he tired of having fun, an eternity for the hapless person trapped between his strong jaws.

Thirty seconds after he entered, Hack found the object of his search cowering behind a couch and one second later Tyrone's screams split the air. Mackey motioned for Spitaleri to enter the building and call off his dog. He ducked inside and a moment later reappeared with Hack at heel on a short leather lead. Hack's mouth was dripping blood. The Major gave the signal for Hocker's men to move in, followed by a team of Emergency Medical Technicians.

A few moments later, the Med Tech people carried Tyrone Biggs out on a gurney. He was covered with a sheet, a bright spot of blood staining the center. His face was ashen, and he seemed barely conscious.

Frank sauntered over to where Tony Jack Spitaleri stood leaning against the building. Hack yawned widely, bored again.

Hey, Jack, he greeted. Did Hack do what I think he did?

Yeah, the handler grinned, abashed. Goddamned dog!

The television news crews began moving in to interview the brass, and Frank watched with mild interest. When the cameras began to point in his direction, he quickly rejoined Howard.

Another job well done, partner. Probably your last, Frank jibed.

Tell me how well done it was after you write the fucking reports, rookie, he retorted, then we'll go to Luigi's and celebrate!

Maria Estelita Ortega de Leon left the offices of the Homicide Unit and stalked down the hall to the women's restroom, a journey which angered her every time she made it. The male detectives had their restroom in the office area. At least, she thought, I don't have to clean their fucking toilet for them.

She entered a stall and locked the door behind her, then peeled her panty hose down over her lavish hips. Sitting, she pulled them off and examined a run she noticed earlier. The hosiery was beyond repair. She rummaged through her purse. Beneath the can of Mace and her handcuffs, past her leather shield case and a short barreled Smith & Wesson revolver, past the extra ammunition and her cosmetics bag, she found the last of three hosiery containers she had purchased a week earlier.

Maria's rise through the ranks of the police organization had been phenomenal. She spent only three years in Patrol, barely beyond the minimum time necessary for assignment to a special unit, before her request for a transfer to Vice was approved. Two years later, she was assigned to Juvenile where she stayed for three years before transferring to Homicide. Now, seven months into the assignment, she had never been more miserable.

Maria de Leon was a token, a double minority to pump up the numbers in whatever unit she was assigned. She realized early in her career that being female and Hispanic was a definite advantage, and she was never hesitant to accept whatever benefits might accrue from her twin minority status.

The price of acquiescence was high, something she had not counted on, and the nagging doubts she had about her real ability remained a question mark.v Did she have any investigative skills or was she simply someone who looked good on paper? The question haunted her. She was too proud to endure such self-deprecation without a trial, but she knew she would not be given a chance until she complained loud and long enough to get on everyone's nerves.

She worked alone. Major Dowling, who commanded the Unit, had assigned four murder cases to her, each of which had already been thoroughly investigated. The consensus was that the murders were all committed by the same man, and he probably wasn't finished. Someone needed to be thoroughly familiar with the status of the previous investigations and keep the files open by continuing the inquiries. Dowling decided she should be that person. . . and she hated it.

She really didn't mind being without a partner. Every partner she had been assigned had tried to go to bed with her, including the one woman they teamed her with. But she had no choice. Without a partner they would never let her investigate any new cases. Alone, no one expected her to solve the cases or even come up with much in the way of new information. The original investigations were nearly perfect. She felt useless and betrayed.

There were logical explanations, of course. The organization always had those, no matter what the situation. The most recent justification seemed to rest on the fact that there was no one available for her to be teamed with. The partnerships that existed were old and happy, and satisfying to everyone.

She flushed the stool and retreated from the cubicle, then turned to confront herself in the mirror. Her anger showed in the tightness of her lips and the peculiar, rock-hard set of her jaw. It was time to show them, especially the Major, her fire and ice. If she failed to object to their treatment of her, it would constitute a waiver, and she certainly wasn't ready to settle for that.

Smoldering, her dark eyes flashing dangerously, she marched through the squad room and entered Dowling's office without bothering to knock. The other investigators sat at their desks and looked at one another with raised eyebrows and sardonic half-smiles. Most of them had more than twenty years on the department, but none would have dared face Dick Dowling in his lair without an invitation. They waited for the explosion.

Dowling sat behind his desk, facing the door, but he did not look up when Maria entered. There was no need. He witnessed her determined gait and observed the look of anger on her face immediately after she entered the squad room. Now, he ignored her, knowing that insult to be the best way to cause the seething, fire-breathing dragon that lived inside Maria de Leon to erupt.

The Major did not like women cops. In particular, he did not like them in the Crimes Against Persons Division, although he grudgingly admitted they sometimes did a fantastic job in the Rape and Sex Crimes Unit. But Homicide? The last bastion of male supremacy on the department? He would never admit they were anything but a damned nuisance and a lot more trouble than they were worth. However, Chief Bresette insisted so here she was in front of his desk demanding that everyone kiss her royal Mexican ass and treat her as if she really was a homicide detective. Dicks, he remembered, they used to be called. How do you call a woman a Dick? It was a contradiction in terms.

Yes? he asked finally, still not looking at her.

I spoke to you last week about getting off these damned serial killings. Have you done anything about it?

If you want a transfer to another division, put it in writing. I'll sign it.

I don't want to be reassigned. I want to work some active cases and I want a partner.

As I explained last week, Miz de Leon, he growled through clenched teeth, there are no other unassigned detectives at this time. Even if there were, I doubt if they would want you as a partner.

And why is that? she demanded, baiting him.

You have a bad attitude, and it's getting worse. He rose, stretching to his full six foot three height, and glared down at her. You don't seem to understand that you do not get to choose the cases you want to work. It's first come, first served. There isn't a detective out there who hasn't had his share of shit cases but you don't hear any of them crying about it.

But I've been on these cases for over six months!

I told you last week I'd see what I could do, and I will, he replied grittily. He moved closer and bent over so they could be nose to nose while he scowled at her. If that's not good enough then put in your papers and get the hell out of here.

Later that evening, Howard Thurman was seated at the place of honor exactly halfway down the long bar at Luigi's Tavern. Luigi, whose real name was Louis Lewis, had not a single drop of Italian blood in him, but he preferred the name Luigi's to Looey-Looey's, his moniker during his thirty year stint on the Police Department. He kept Howard's shot glass full of Jack Daniels as half the Department drifted in to wish the retiree bon voyage. The humor was coarse, unpredictable and dark and fit the mold of police humor throughout the world.

Frank sat next to him, taking short, infrequent sips of German beer as befit a designated driver and bodyguard. There was no question Howard would get drunk. In fact, it was doubtful he could leave Luigi's until he did. Someone would have to pour him into a car and drive him home, and that was Frank's job. He promised Marge, Howard's wife, he would take care of him and he viewed it as a sacred obligation.

I thought you told me Hack was retired, Frank complained.

That's what I heard. Christ, he did a job on that guy, didn't he? Howard responded, his speech beginning to slur a little.

They should save Hack and only use him on rapists and child molesters, Frank ventured. That would be instant, poetic justice. Listen, pal, just hang onto the bar if you start feeling woozy. I'm going to call Ivana.

He squeezed his way through the crowd, listening to snatches of a dozen conversations as he fought his way to the pay telephone hanging on the wall outside the restrooms. There was a line waiting to use it, so he ducked out the back door and walked to the phone booth on the corner.

Hello? she answered, her voice low and sultry.

Well, we made it to Luigi's. Howard has about another hour of consciousness left, then I'll take him home. What are you doing?

I saw you on the five o'clock news, she said, ignoring his question. You were standing next to some guy with an ugly dog. They said you caught the Bump and Run Bandits.

Yeah, I caught one of them. The dog caught the other one.

Guess which one of you comes across as being the hero?

I don't have to. Do you suppose if I'd chewed the balls off the guy I caught it would have made a difference?

Only to me, she laughed. Are you still coming over?

I'd like to, but it will be late.

Come anyway.

Don't wait up for me. I'll wake you when I get there.

By the time he returned to Luigi's, Howard was sitting on top of the bar leading the assembly in song. No two of them seemed to be singing the same thing, and his monotonous slur had no discernible melody.

Twenty minutes later, Howard passed out. Three husky officers slid his body into the passenger side of Frank's car and trussed him in with the seat belt and shoulder harness. Most of the patrons had spilled out onto the street to watch, and they shouted good natured obscenities and told Howard, who was beyond hearing, what he could do with his retirement.

It was nearly midnight when Frank pulled into the driveway of his home in the 4400 block of Genesee. For several long moments he sat in the car, contemplating the exterior of the two story frame house. It was his father's house; now it belonged to him. Whatever continuity existed in that arrangement, he thought, would probably end with him. He had never married. There would be no heir, no Petrovic to carry on the family traditions.

The events of the day had drained him of energy to the point that even his bones ached. He went inside and changed to a sweatshirt and jeans then drove west toward the Kansas line, Seventh Street Trafficway and Strawberry Hill.

On impulse, he turned east at Central Avenue and crossed the bridge that led to the bottoms. The moonlight on the river disguised the brown, muddy water and made it seem almost beautiful. Slowing the car, he gazed down at the shadowy bank, the spot where his grandfather, Anton Petrovic, had taken him fishing so often. He made a U-turn at James Street and headed back. He could see Strawberry Hill looming across the river.

Frank cut the engine and coasted into the driveway between Grandfather Petrovic's house, which now belonged to one of his cousins, and the house next door. That house used to belong to the Milosevic's. Now it was the home of their granddaughter, Ivana Spinelli. Still in a state of reverie, he sat awhile and studied the back yards of the two houses. It was there, he remembered as clearly as though it was yesterday, he first met her.

She was from Chicago where she married an Italian named Vic Spinelli on her sixteenth birthday. When he hit her once too often, she fled and came to live with her grandparents.

One day, not long after she moved in, Frank was visiting his grandfather when he noticed his Uncle Josef sneaking long looks at something from the kitchen window. It was Ivana, and she was bewitching. Her dresses were too short and too thin, and she seldom wore anything under them. Josef would hang around the kitchen for hours, hoping to catch sight of her hanging out the laundry or bending over to tend to her grandparent's small garden.

Several women of the neighborhood called on her in due time. They wore longer, thicker dresses and babushkas, and in a very direct way they suggested she dress a little less provocatively. She laughed at them and lit a cigarette.

Also, they told her, the women of Strawberry Hill do not smoke in public. Most do not smoke at all, but those who do would never dishonor themselves by smoking where everyone could see. Again, she laughed.

Traditionally, people on the Hill take care of their own problems and the police are seldom called upon to settle a dispute or disturbance. Quarrels between families are settled among themselves, often with the help of the priest. Outsiders who come to the Hill looking for trouble find more than they can handle.

Vic Spinelli found that out. He searched for a year before he finally located Ivana and called on her one day. He was in an ugly mood, and he seemed intent on starting the relationship again right where he left off: by beating her. She screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear and Spinelli suddenly found himself surrounded by heavily muscled men with rolled-up shirtsleeves and grim faces. Don't show your Dago ass on Strawberry Hill again, they warned, If you do, you won't leave here. He never returned.

When Frank first met Ivana, he was eleven and she was seventeen. She was tending the garden and he was a few feet away, behind a bush, watching her. She smiled and offered him a carrot. From that moment on, they shared a special relationship.

I'm going to walk over to the Granada Theater, Frankie, she said. Would you like to go?

He ran in the house to tell Grampa Anton and float a small loan. Anton was always ready to slip his favorite grandson a dollar or two under the table.

A lady killer at eleven, Frankie? he laughed, his eyes sparkling with devilment. Ah, I suppose it runs in the family. Here, take five dollars. You pay her way in and buy her popcorn. Sweep her off her feet.

He remembered, his eyes moist. Thoughts of Grampa Anton and young Ivana and an even younger Frankie. All dead now, in one way or another.

Life after high school was not easy for Frank. Most of his friends were either away at college or opted for military service. He had a dead end job clerking in a hardware store and his life was going nowhere. He drifted like a dispossessed soul for months until finally he could take no more. He had to get away, and the Army seemed like the way to do it. He enlisted for three years.

A few days before he was to report for active duty, he called on