Jitterbug: Bonaventura Cozy Mysteries, #1

Part One

The Fuller Brush Man – The Hope of the Rural South

Chapter One

Evenings in suburban Chicago were dusky like only the late 1950‘s could produce. There were very few nuclear plants, only one or two experimental ones here and there. Instead, the brilliant pinks and yellows streaking across the Midwest horizon at sunset were from the nearby coal burning electric plants. In rural Michigan, Wisconsin and Illinois, a thick, sulfuric, rotting smell rolled across the cornfields before the sky turned to indigo in the evenings.

Toyota did not exist as a compact car manufacturer. Rambler did. There were not very many compact cars in America. Gasoline was about fifteen cents a gallon. Most cars were V-8’s, vinyl-upholstered and the size of a small pickup truck. The heater coil was usually broken on used vehicles—giving passengers the stark, icy thrill of a freezer unit on the coldest days of winter. The plastic bench-style, non-bucket seats were like sitting on a frosty, crackling, plastic mattress that time of year—waiting to sear your bare legs raw in the heat of the summer. Moving around in the summer on one of those plastic bench seats in a pair of shorts was a lot like ripping a large piece of duct tape off the back of your bare thighs.

VINCENTE BONAVENTURA took the Chicago commuter train on the Burlington Northern line to work. He rode from the station near his new home in the suburbs to Union Station on Canal Street in downtown Chicago. Then he hopped a city bus from there to his job at the Sears building in Hyde Park, near Chicago’s South Side. His job was to paste up parts of the Sears Roebuck mail order catalog and type copy. All his business machines were manual. He worked in a hospital green partition with a frosted glass top and sat at a huge gray metal desk. With his white shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows (and in one of his satin vests), under the ubiquitous green glass glow of his desk lamp, he could type on his manual Royal upright as fast and as accurately as any female secretary.

EIGHT YEARS BEFORE that Vincente and Julietta Bonaventura began their journey to the north alone with a small dog, but without their twenty-some family members surrounding them, protecting them and interpreting the world for them. They were running. Running away from the love that Vince once knew with Emma, Julie’s mother, his wife. Running from the memories.

Running to? A bright, new future. A different kind of chance for his baby daughter?

A curtain opened slowly, revealing a beckoning, deep light as they drove towards Charlottesville. What will be? Will it be good—or will it just lead them back to Louisiana?

Que sera sera...

DRIVING INTO THE BEAUTIFUL afternoon sunlight, Vince began to hum to himself. He had fixed up Julietta’s basket in the back seat to get her out of the sun. He also stuck two of his t-shirts in the car windows to block the glare. He flipped the radio dial to a good song. Looking over his shoulder, he glanced into the back of the Studebaker. His heart stopped.

Due to arrive in Charlottesville, Virginia a few days after leaving his parents’ (Gracie and Saolomon’s) house in Shreveport, Vincente had stopped off to pick up some Fuller Brush supplies, then went to a local Texaco station to get some gasoline. Problem was, he was so excited about the Fuller business, that when he stopped for gas, he forgot something. Braking and rolling over to the side of the road, he inadvertently let a small cry escape his open mouth. Sweat broke out in small beads along his upper lip and a silent, single tear rolled down his cheek. He put the car into park, leaving the engine running.

He got out of the car and yanked the passenger side door open, pulling the front seat back and dropping the t-shirt covering the window into the dirt—trampling it under his feet. He checked the floor of the car in the back. The puppy jumped out and toddled behind him, whimpering softly.

Julie’s basket was not there.

Vince sat down suddenly on the shoulder of the road, feeling faint, and buried his face in his hands moaning, "Oh, no. Oh, no..." Crying openly now, he lurched forward and used the hot, dusty side of the Studebaker to brace his arm as he got up. He put the dog back inside and started the car, making a three-point turn. He accelerated in the opposite direction—driving back the way he had come.

Vince was an unusually quiet man. The times made him so. There was a lot of violence down south and he was a minority, being Italian-American, so he and his family had experienced some of that unfortunate activity. English was his second language. Although he spoke it well, he still had an accent which did not help in public. Hiding in the shadows was something he had done since childhood. He was used to hiding his emotions too, especially in public. But now, the one thing he loved in this world was gone.

His daughter was everything to him and the fact that she was missing was his own fault. This was not due to persecution or prejudice. It was his own stupidity, and his emotions broke loose like a huge wave tearing down a dam in a storm. He felt things he did not know he was even capable of. Feelings surged and re-surged inside his head and chest, welling up suddenly with a ferocity that he was unaccustomed to in himself. Maybe he had seen this in others, but not in himself.

The radio echoed around the car with the sounds of The Tennessee Waltz. Vince clicked the radio off with a grunt of anger and frustration. He began to think. Where had he been? He banged his fist on the steering wheel. He began to realize that he must have left Julie in her basket on the ground at the Texaco station about 30 miles back when he was filling up. He had taken Julie into the bathroom to change her diaper—and then went to pay the attendant and get a quart of motor oil, starting the car, opening the hood of the Studebaker and pouring part of the quart into the engine. He must have put her down somewhere. Where had he left her?! Vince searched his mind frantically; he couldn’t see her basket anywhere in his mind’s eye.

Tears coursed down his cheeks in heavy rivers. He could barely see. Loud sobs issued from deep in his chest. The sun was going down as hope began to trickle away from his mind. He had to hurry. The road was deserted except for him, so he pushed the accelerator down and roared forward, spewing road debris up against the sides of the Studebaker and almost anchoring the wheels in the weak dirt of that Tennessee road.

Within 15 minutes, he sighted the red Texaco star and seconds later pulled into the station, screeching to a stop in a billowing cloud of dust. The office of the station was dark, but the lights in the gas pumps were still on. Vince ran up to the door and began to pound on it, yelling, "Hello? Hello? Help me! This is an emergency! I need some help!" Nothing stirred. A dog began to bark somewhere nearby.

He raked his shaking fingers awkwardly through his hair. Thinking hard as sweat ran into his tears, he ran around the side of the service station, checking the ground for Julie’s basket as he did so. He heard a muffled noise at the back of the building and the rumble of a large service bay door being rolled up or down. Suddenly, a large black dog ran at him with his teeth bared, growling with the hair on his neck standing on end. Vince’s puppy ran around the corner of the building in the other direction, and hid underneath the Studebaker, his tiny tail between his legs.

"Diesel! Come here. Down, boy! shouted someone barely visible in the descending dusk. A man in greasy, oil-stained coveralls walked towards him and the threatening dog, carrying a leash. The mechanic shouted, Damn it. Down, Diesel!" again. This time the dog sat down and stopped growling. The man looked Vince over and clipped the leash on the dog’s collar.

I’m sorry, he said, not smiling. He looked at Vince with a questioning air. Diesel is a watch dog, so he’s not used to company. I leave him here at night locked in the station. Relaxing a little, the man asked, Can I help you?

Vince replied, trying not to gasp after being frightened half to death by the dog, Yes. Yes, sir. I accidentally left my baby here on the ground in a picnic basket when I bought some gas... about an hour ago.

The mechanic frowned and ran a greasy hand over his furrowed forehead leaving a streak of motor oil across it. "Myyy..., he mumbled, looking as if he was thinking back as he let the y roll. This place is pretty busy sometimes, but I do remember some Mexican farm workers with a picnic basket driving a beat-up old Ford pickup. They did seem to be awfully excited over the basket. Talking and laughing and such... The man paused, then extended his hand. My name’s Eustis, Eustis Parker. I own this here station. Come on into my office."

Vince shook his hand with a small, hopeful smile. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Parker.

Just call me Eustis. I think I know where those folks might be workin’. Let’s go on in and make a few phone calls. There aren’t many Mexicans around here and there are only two large farms in this locale that use ‘em. That pickup looked familiar, too. I knowed I seen it several times recently. Bet we can find ‘em. Come on, Mr....

Bonaventura. My name’s Vince Bonaventura.

"Okay, Mr. Ventura. Just follow me through the shop."

Thanks, replied Vince, heaving a long sigh, beginning to like Parker a little better, still wincing at his accent and the mangling of his name. Despite that, he seemed to care, at least enough to open his office to him after hours.

Vince and Parker walked through the service area into a small office filled with containers of motor oil, a confederate flag, a deer rifle, a dusty box of ammunition, anti-freeze and the like. Vince sat down rather uncomfortably on the edge of a chair. It was the flag and the rifle that made him edgy. Eustis Parker went around his desk, picking up the phone as he threw himself tiredly into a green, vinyl padded swivel chair.

Been a long day, he commented still looking down, opening a smudged phone book that lay underneath the dusty, over-sized confederate flag. Ah, here we are, he said as he ran his greasy finger down a page. He dialed the heavy black desk phone. Diesel lay down next to the desk. I’m pretty sure that those guys work for the Whittaker farm. I’m giving them a call now. Parker looked up and gave Vince a tentative smile. I wouldn’t worry too much. I might have been closing when they picked her up. Those Mexican guys are okay—they been here for years with no problems at all.

Parker looked up at the ceiling as his call connected. "Bob? Hi, this is Eustis over at the Texaco station. Oh, just fine. Just wanted to talk to you about a couple of your farm hands. I got a guy here, name’s Vince Ventura. He accidentally forgot his baby daughter who was in a picnic basket at the station on the ground.

I think I saw some of your workers pick her up. Yeah. Think you can go and check? It was those guys with the beat-up blue Ford. Okay. Sure. I’ll wait...

Parker put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Vince. Whittaker is going to talk to them right now.

Vincente wrung his hands and hunched over. Putting his elbows on his knees, he rubbed his face, feeling anxious, more worried about Julie than that stupid flag spluttering dust in the gas station fan.

Parker put the phone to his mouth again. Diesel got up, arched his huge black, shiny back and stretched, sauntering over to Eustis who scratched his head.

Hi, yeah. Yeah, she was in a picnic basket. Parker paused and wrinkled his forehead. Responding to the voice on the phone, he answered, Uh. Dunno. I saw them with a basket, and I thought they might work for you. Yeah, sure. If you hear anything, give me a call. He looked over at Vince, worried, and said, Jeez, I’m sorry, Mr. Ventura. They don’t have her. Those two guys packed their lunch in the basket. Parker squinted at Vincente’s dark, shiny hair and deep brown eyes. Smirking, he looked down, a little embarrassed. Glancing at the dirty over-sized confederate flag, he added, still smirking, You Mexican, or something?

Vince shook his head no, tensing as he sensed Parker’s eye movements and the strangeness in the question. I’m Italian, he replied as his present deep hopeless feeling started to fill with a quiet screaming inner anxiety.

Whittaker is calling the local police. They should be on their way over here in a few minutes. Parker glanced at his watch. Talking into the phone again, Eustis said, Thanks, Bob, appreciate it...Okay, bye. Vince’s anxiety lessened again, maybe the local police would be helpful. Maybe they had already heard something.

In about ten minutes, a dusty beat-up police car pulled up close to the Texaco office and two cops got out.

Vince got up hurriedly and walked out the door at a slight run, clenching and unclenching the fists at his side, inadvertently starting to cry a little.

Evenin’, said one of the cops, approaching Vincente with an odd careless expression on his face. He was wearing a rumpled, beige police uniform. The other officer unsnapped the sidearm at his bulging waist. He looked unduly threatening.

Confused, Vince stopped short of both policemen, wondering at their disheveled appearance. Beginning to sweat again and trying to hide his shaking, he greeted the first cop with as friendly a Good evening as he could stutter out and extended his hand. The officer ignored him and his hand as he looked at Eustis, who mouthed the word Dago... behind Vince’s back and stifled a laugh. Vince, sensing the antagonism, looked past the officers, his eye catching the confederate flag sticker on the windshield of the police. Suddenly feeling heavier, he could feel his feet sink deeper into the dust of the gas station driveway. His heart followed his feet. He felt grimy just from the unfriendly presence of the two officers.

In fact, irrationally, he felt like leaving. Getting help elsewhere. He felt stupid. Like it would help to take off after losing his daughter here. He wished he had a revolver.

Both officers brushed past Vince and entered the station office behind Eustis, motioning to Vince to follow. They all took seats around Parker’s desk. The officer in the rumpled uniform took a dog-eared notebook out of his breast pocket and grabbed a pen from the desk. The other officer, his service weapon still unsnapped, took a plug of chewing tobacco from his own breast pocket and began to chew it noisily.

Parker tried to introduce both officers, but they interrupted him and simply blurted their names at Vince in a sort of rude way, one of them with his chin angled up, looking at the ceiling. The rumpled cop was Sam Miller, and the tobacco-chewing officer was Don Adams. Adams pulled the trash can over to his chair and spit a long, ugly stream of brown juice into it.

Laughing at Adams’ disgusting display, Miller looked up at Vince with a smile still on his face and asked, So you think you left your baby here? Sounds a bit irresponsible to me. Are you sure?

Moving around in the squeaky vinyl chair nervously, Vincente cleared his throat and answered, Yes. I’m sure I left her here. I was filling my engine with oil and... Adams interrupted him with a loud sucking noise. Miller laughed again. In a whispering croak, Vince continued, ...I must have put her basket down next to the car.

Miller went on speaking, You stop anywhere else?

No, answered Vince, mopping his sweating face with his handkerchief.

You sure? asked Miller.

Vince frowned, getting angry and answering in a louder voice, Hell, yeah. I’m sure. Where’s there to stop thirty minutes north of here except the woods?

Adams withdrew the revolver in his holster and examined it, sucking on his tobacco even more loudly, spitting again into the trash can.

Miller looked up from his notebook and exclaimed, Hey! We’re only tryin’ to help you. Calm down! If you are goin’ to act crazy, maybe we should take you in and try and unravel your story at the police station. Even Eustis was beginning to look intimidated.

What!? cried Vince, trying to control his temper, thinking that he wanted to leave and get help later, maybe in Charlottesville. Not out in the country like this. Something definitely wasn’t right. "His dad would have to help him take care of this shit," thought Vincente, feeling like dumping the contents of the trash can over Adam’s head and watching the brown goo drip down his head.

Adams spit into the trash can again, wiping a dribble of brown spit off his chin with the back of his hand, saying, Okay, okay. Just give Officer Miller your contact information and we’ll put out a radio call for your daughter. Adams got up and went into the office bathroom. Leaving the door slightly open, he began to urinate loudly.

Right about now, Vince’s mind was spinning wildly. He was fighting the urge to pass out. "These guys were going to kill him!" he thought with mounting anxiety. He gave his father’s phone number and address to Miller and asked him for his information. Miller gave him the station info. Vince asked if he could leave. Adams called from the bathroom, still urinating, "Hey! What kind of father are you? You have to give us a photograph and description of your daughter."

Miller added with another, still ruder, smirk, You sure you’re the father? You know you can’t do this unless you are. We have to notify her relatives and talk to them before we can do anything.

Vince looked angrily at his now dirty saddle shoes and said in a controlled voice, I’m her father. Fishing in his wallet, he pulled out two photographs of Julietta, handing them to Miller. Adams walked up, wiping his hands on his pants and grabbed the photos out of Vince’s hand.

Those are recent photos. She looks exactly like that, presently. Miller and Adams leered at the photographs as Miller repeated, presently sarcastically. Adams laughed and seemed to have had some trouble getting his girth back under his belt. His shirt now hung half out of his pants, showing his large, round belly clearly from the side. His weapon was now holstered, though.

Vince stood up, disgusted, deciding that the two cops' help could be useless. He put his wallet away, starting to sidle out the door. Miller spoke up and smiled at him saying, We’ll let you know if we hear anything. Adams continued laughing and added, Yeah, we’ll get in touch.

Vince finally got through the gas station door and took a deep breath of fresh evening air, feeling like he was on fire. He could practically smell his hair burning up from his angry thoughts. As he walked past the police car to get to his Studebaker, he looked back at it memorizing the license plate and description and saw a sticker depicting a burning cross on the back windshield. Surprise, surprise, surprise. He laughed quietly with irony and threw his car keys in the air, catching them deftly close to his body, before the three men in the Texaco station were aware that he was elated that they had let him go without threatening to take him into the station again.

Had to be careful in this part of the country. This area was like Caddo Parish, which was not only a little piece of heaven, but was also a little piece of hell. His dad would have to deal with this. With twelve adult men in his family, and friends throughout northern Louisiana, they would find Julie. They would do it themselves.

His feelings went as cold as ice. Difficult as it was, he knew he couldn’t look for Julie here all by himself, alone. That was getting to be very clear.

Vince looked for Romeo as the evening light got even dimmer, on the edge of a lightless, thickly layered southern night. He called the dog's name and heard him whimpering. The puppy was cowering under the car near a tire. Vince pulled him out, cooing at him and petting him. Gently, he put him on the floor of the car on the passenger side, where the pup tried to climb up onto the car seat to get closer to the driver’s side.

Diesel came bounding out of the station as Vince hurriedly got in the car. Just as he slammed the door, the big black dog leaped at his window, baring his teeth again. Parker, Miller and Adams stood in front of the Texaco office, laughing nonchalantly and, in the case of Officer Adams, spitting.

Vince started his car, turned the headlights on and pulled out of the station, sorely tempted to run Diesel over, but wisely not doing so. Looking up through his windshield, he thanked the fading sunlight—and whatever else was up there watching over him—for letting him get out of there without getting hurt. He would need some help, all right.

Chapter Two

Leaning into the pines surrounding the gas station, as if he was hiding – and favoring his right leg, was a man who must have been over six feet tall. He limped over and paid Eustis (who hadn’t shut down the pumps yet) for gasoline. He watched Vince’s car pull out of the station and got back into his own car.

Quietly, almost soundlessly, the unnoticed gentleman drove away, heading in the same direction that Vince had gone, as if the stranger knew where Vince was going.

By the time Vincente got to Charlottesville, he was beat. He pulled up in front of Rosenbloom’s boarding house, an old Victorian home that his uncle had given him the address to.  Registering and getting his room key, he dragged his exhausted body up the stairs, thinking about a hot shower and some dinner. Rosenbloom didn’t mind a dark-skinned Italian man and regularly rented rooms to polite Italians.

After his shower, Vince went back downstairs and out to the car to get the suitcase with the rest of his clothes, letting Romeo walk a little on his leash to relieve himself. As he opened the trunk, he noticed that there was a black bag stuck in the corner next to a few other things. He frowned and thought, That’s odd. I don’t remember that bag. I don’t remember me or anyone else putting that there. He grabbed the bag, which was rather heavy for its size and trundled both suitcases back along the street towards the porch in front of the rooming house. The puppy would be okay in the car until he made arrangements for him later with his new landlady.

A tall, well-dressed man with a limp and a cane walked past him. He touched the brim of his fedora and smiled. Vince smiled back and said, Nice evening. The man said nothing in return but nodded his head. He stared at the bags in Vince’s hands, but continued walking.

When Vince got back to his room, he sat down on his bed. Curious to see what was in the black bag, he set it down and unzipped it. Maybe this was a gift from one of his relatives. He poked at one of five identical packages, pulling one of them out. It was wrapped in what seemed to be some sort of Plasticine. Under that, it was wrapped in wax. He pulled his pen knife out and stuck it into the package, opening the Plasticine and making a slight incision in the wax. He smelled it. It did not have a scent. He poked his finger inside the incision.

The package seemed to be filled with something like bath powder. Who would give him something like that? Baby powder? No one would think he would need that much. There must be about two pounds per brick. He noticed a label on the side of the package; there was a small sticker that said, Plaster of Paris.

Plaster? What the hell for? How did that get in his trunk anyway? It could not have been someone that mistook his car for theirs if they had to jimmy it. He had not opened the truck anywhere that he could remember. He thought for a moment. He tasted a touch of the powder on the wetted tip of his finger. Cocaine hydrochloride. He was sure of it.

Vince had been raised in the south and he knew coke when he tasted it. Uncut, too. The sweet taste of a glucose substance was not apparent. Until 1906 and the advent of the Pure Food and Drug Act, cocaine was not necessarily a labeled ingredient in the United States (which means it might have been in anything).

But by 1950, arrests were being made for non-medicinal powder cocaine trafficking, and Vince knew it. Up until that time, cocaine was basically legal, and widely available in the south. In the very early 1950’s, the penalties were not severe – about 6 months in jail and a $600 fine. A lot for a poor person like Vince, devastating for anyone poorer, but not much for a dealer. Cocaine traffickers usually also dealt in the physically addictive drugs as well, such as Turkish morphine and heroin. So, they had given him the lighter stuff. And then there was the gangster element and the violent conflicts between competing mobs in the cities. That’s what gave Vince the shivers as he rationalized his situation.

He thought of his daughter at the gasoline station and felt a prickling sensation up and down his spine. He got off the bed and looked at himself in the mirror. There were dark shadows under his eyes. He began to cry, also making wheezing noises from exhaustion.

Historically, cocaine was used mainly in the black community to increase work output and was introduced to them during the slave trade. It was used universally for toothaches and eye surgery, as well, since cocaine is also a topical anesthetic. It was also used recreationally among upper class professional artists at parties.

There were three more small boxes made of wood covering the cocaine packages, lightly hiding them. One contained about twenty Cuban cigars, labeled in Spanish (which, of course, Vincente could read). Another box contained maybe thirty small, brass-colored, round tins. He had no idea what they were. They were labeled, maybe, in Cyrillic – Russian?

He frowned. This was no gift. He thought of the gas station. Gas stations down south often used and produced counterfeit tax stamps, mislabeling cocaine as a medicine in order to transport it for recreational use elsewhere. This must have been something that Eustis Parker was involved in. Shaking his head, he saw a note that had fallen to the bottom of the bag. He picked it up and opened it. The note read:

By now, you have noticed this bag and its contents. Perhaps you do not know what is in the     bag. You do not need to know. The chess set is yours, a gift from an old friend.

We know that you travel with your baby daughter. If you want her, and you, to remain safe, follow these instructions. First, you must wrap this as a package to be mailed. Then, you must mail it without a return address to: General Delivery, Allston York, Princeton Department of Archaeology, Princeton, New Jersey. As soon as the package is received in New Jersey, your daughter will be returned unharmed. And you, too, will be safe.

Vince grimaced, rubbing his forehead. He opened the last box and gasped as he saw the finely crafted bejeweled chess set. He fingered it. Cocaine, cigars and some strange tins being mailed to a Princeton address? He thought it must be for a Princeton graduation, or fraternity house celebration. A slightly tarnished gift of some sort, but more likely a wealthy dealer. Folks used cocaine down south, but he had heard of the large amounts of money powder cocaine commanded up north – especially among the wealthy and well-educated. This was a new form of cocaine, not the lowland cocaine grown down south.