Mrs. Martinez was about to intervene when Higgs, his daughter, and Sam came into the house. Twenty-three, short and obese, Sam fit the description of an elephant. It was his great bulk that impressed people the most. At the same time he preferred to wear his tie undone. Like him or not he couldn’t be ignored.
Angela carried on about her wounded knight. Funny how that worked, as she sought George’s attention, and as she feigned the right amount of disinterest in him. Back and forth that way.
George’s letter was all the proof that she needed, and she was convinced that he loved her. She kept this treasure hidden, reading it over and over again, and she felt flushed whenever she was near him. She would’ve gone anywhere with him. When she heard that he’d been shot, she was devastated.
For her part Mrs. Martinez focused on Sam. George felt amazed at how quickly the investigator had gained the confidence of these people.
“Sam, what do you know about Alan Ramsey?” George asked.
“Later, George.”
Exaggeration and affected self-importance made Kitty appear conceited. To think that she had an audience showed her naïveté. Her eyes shone and her voice quivered as she recited an unfinished poem. During it George found himself silently editing the text to fit his own experience.
“See how you’ve exhausted him,” chided Mrs. Ramsey.
People were generally surprised by the intensity of Kitty’s work.
“Wow!” cried Sam. “When are you going to get it published?”
“No, publishing was not my goal.”
“Come along, Angela,” demanded Mrs. Martinez. “I concede. We’ve exhausted George.”
Mrs. Martinez intended to make a big deal about leaving but didn’t reach the door. Kitty and Molly questioned Sam relentlessly, as did Rueben. Higgs spoke to him in an official manner. Only Angela showed no interest.
“Cesar is no fool,” reported Sam. ”I suppose you all know him and know that.”
“We do, and he knows us,” said Mrs. Martinez.
“Dope, gambling and prostitution, those things all in the open. Like in the Old West.” It was clear that Sam had zeroed in on the Mafioso. George looked alarmed, and with good reason because he thought Sam shouldn’t have been talking about Cesar.
“Well, I don’t worry about the little things,” continued Mrs. Martinez. “Tell us what you found out about the murders.”
Sam wondered if Mrs. Martinez was naïve enough to think that he’d spoil his investigation by revealing what he’d found out.
“I always intended to retire but after Maggie’s murder, what choice did I have?” asked Higgs shrugging his shoulders.
“Sam, tell George about those kids hanging around outside, asking for him, four or five of them,” exclaimed Higgs. “Mrs. Ramsey’s boy and….”
“Alan? I knew it. I knew he was hanging around.”
Alan’s mother took it from there. “And me worried sick. Now that’s a real coincidence that he’s out there now with his friends, I suppose. There might be Potato Chip. Don’t know who else he hangs out with.”
By then Sam had moved out onto the porch and out of earshot. Rueben followed him.
Higgs’ revelation caused a hubbub.
“So what does it mean?” Higgs asked.
“George,” said Angela, “save us, and we’ll applaud.”
“We all want to see this town cleaned up,” declared Mrs. Martinez. “We’re not able to sleep at night. Cesar’s tentacles are everywhere.”
“There’s been more talk lately. Yes, more talk than ever before. We can only hope that it’s more than talk. More!” Mrs. Ramsey emphasized “more.”
George again questioned his sanity. As he led the crew out of the house he said, “I’ve met Mrs. Ramsey’s son, so I’ve an idea what these kids are up to.” And as they approached the boys George sincerely believed that no one was more morally bankrupt than Alan.
Four kids huddled under a streetlight. Three of them were henchmen, the fourth their leader, who talked with intense agitation and uncommon eloquence.
Molly slipped in behind George, who now listened to her try to tell him what to do. With a wave of his hand George invited the boys to come over to him. They were all so young.
Sam worried about the situation getting out of hand. Meanwhile, Potato Chip gave him a dirty look.
Of the four kids only one could’ve been over eighteen. George thought he’d seen this kid before. He was immediately reminded of Dante, and he struggled to hold onto reality. The older kid, the same as Sam, stood on the sideline but was ready if needed.
George immediately recognized first lieutenant Alan, and behind him came Bulldog. Bulldog was the youngest. Thirteen, he’d made private. Mean with a savage streak, he lacked meat on his bones. They all looked dangerous.
“Michael,” muttered the eighteen-year-old while introducing himself.
Finished with introductions the gang stood their ground. With defiance they seemed to say, “Fuck you.” It felt as if a war would erupt if anyone uttered another word.
Randy Ford
