the worst of the worst. In today’s movies, we have the worst type of debauchery the twisted mind can conjure up, but back in the ’50s, one could practically be burned at the stake for even thinking like this.
Who could have done this or, better yet, who had been doing this and committing the murders as well?
Pieces of flesh had been removed from the body parts that would suggest they would be the prime pieces if one were to practice cannibalism. This was not information that was in the newspaper or on the television, no chance. I got this from our friend Jackie, an older boy who would come around sometimes when he had nothing better to do.
His father was a deputy sheriff and told him all the grisly details about any events. I guess old man French wanted to see if Jackie could come back with any tips he could scrounge up out in the streets that could benefit the case.
As Jackie gave us the blow by blow of what he knew, us boys were practically throwing up on the spot, horrified by this news. The one girl who the detectives determined to be about fifteen years of age lay sprawled out naked on the stone table with pieces of her young, newly developing breasts missing as if they were bitten and ripped off savagely.
What kind of monster was now in our midst? Women all over town stayed indoors and only ventured out with their menfolk. Young girls were escorted to school by parents, and walking home became a thing of the past. Things really tightened up around my neighborhood. Since these latest murders were but three blocks from my house, the womenfolk naturally assumed they were next on the menu.
My friends and I went about our normal routines, walking to and from school. We had knives and other various weapons in case someone came about with trouble on their mind. Somehow, we weren’t afraid if the sun was out, but come night, we never ventured off our block, and we packed it in at a decent hour.
The area below the bridge and the area immediately under the bridge were cordoned off, and nobody was allowed in, except for law enforcement.
As we walked to school the following morning, we stopped by the bridge and looked down into the Garden of Gethsemane, where the brutality had occurred.
Chapter 22
Employment
The next day walking home from school, we noticed that the dance hall was completely down and was now just a big pile of rubble. The tents were covering the crime scenes, and forensics investigators were milling all around. Then we spotted some workers separating the wood into piles and the old bricks sorted out to another giant heap. That was when I went up to Mr. Jamison, who was standing there talking to Big Frank.
I guess Big Frank was the MFWIC on the job and called all the shots. I interrupted the two men (having those kinds of balls back then) and asked if us boys could have some work and that we could stack bricks with the best of them.
Big Frank took a shine to my style and chutzpah, saying, “Sure, you boys come back tomorrow with a note from your ma saying you can help us stack bricks. If you get the okay, bring some gloves and clothes that your mom won’t mind you getting dirty.”
The subject of money never came up as we were just happy to be part of a big crew. We were floating on clouds as we went home to beg our mothers for the required slip of paper Big Frank needed. My mom never let opportunity go to waste. When she knew I had to have something really bad, she would really turn the screws on me. When she finished with me and all the promises I had to make, I was ready to be marched down to the local cathedral and prepared for sainthood. Sheesh, that woman. Maybe all my smarts and cunningness came from that lady, but still, I mean, let up for once.
Walking home from school, Blackie, Tommy, Nicky, and myself started to think about the money. Should we even bring it up lest we be kicked off the job? We decided it would be best if I hinted around to Big Frank about a stipend or something for all our efforts. I was the smoothest talker and could broach the subject without him even feeling it.
“What do you want us to do, Mr. Frank?” I asked as we walked up to him.
“Hello, boys, did you bring your notes from home?”
We promptly surrendered the crumpled-up pieces of paper in our sweaty jeans that had been suffering through PE class, lunch, and the summer sweat.
“Okay then, here’s what I need you boys to do—”
I interrupted with a quick question, “What time is quitting time, and will we get paid at the end of each day or at the end of the week?”
All my friends gulped with the anticipation of being run off or yelled at.
He then informed us, “You will clean the concrete off the bricks and stack them up like that stack over there. The company will pay you one penny a brick for every brick you clean, and we will pay you at quitting time.”
That suited us all just fine as we set up our workstations, then Big Frank gave us each a hammer and a chisel to work with. I stacked up enough bricks for a work stool to sit on and commenced on chiseling away at the crusted cement on each brick.
My friends and I would exchange glances at one another as we worked; we were now in a competition. Two hours seemed to fly by and not soon enough. Our hands ached, and the sweat had drenched our dirty T-shirts. Along with the concrete and redbrick dust, the sweat stiffened the T-shirts as if they were ironed with extraheavy starch, but we were gratified by having accomplished a man’s task.
Big Frank came around and counted our stacks. Mine had twenty-four bricks, and the other fellows had the same or close to it. All I could think about was, seven cents of it was gonna find its way into the Chinaman grocer’s hands on the way home. A big bottle of Royal Crown Cola was all I could think about. We were all addicted to Coke back then.
The day’s work now over, it was time to head home for a shower. First off, that soda pop I mentioned earlier would be first on the list of to-dos.
Crossing the bridge, we stopped to glance down at the crime scene, which had a few people still milling around. The makeshift tents were no longer up, and the area had been scrubbed clean.
The local diocese sent a crew of nuns and priests down to clean the statues as soon as possible; it was a good thing not to have the desecration be evident much longer. Tommy asked if he thought we should go down and see if they would hire us to clean up the area for some money. We all laughed and went off down the street to Buck’s Market for some cola.
Buck was a cool old Chinese fellow. We thought we were pulling the wool over his eyes when we would quickly snatch a pack of Twinkies or some other treat to shoplift. The Chinese were here forever, it seemed, that they should be given the ultimate respect for the obstacles they had to overcome. I do not recall knowing a Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, or anyone else of Asian descent in my growing years. They came and set up shop in lower-economic neighborhoods, such as our predominantly Hispanic barrio. We weren’t poor, just middle-class folks a click up from the other side of the tracks folk.
Buck ran his market for a few years then sold it to another Chinese family. They renamed it Jeff’s Market, he being the young strapping butcher in the back. His father, whom we called Jeff as well, along with his mother, would sit up by the cash register, puffing away on Lucky Strike cigarettes all day. If you can conjure up the image of a frail ninety-eight-pound man who looked like he’d lived in an opium den his entire life, then you’ve got Jeff’s father.
They learned Spanish and got to know everyone in the neighborhood. They also extended credit, keeping the record in a little notepad, along with the receipt that had your signature on it for the purchases. The entire family lived in the back of the store, which we would laugh about, but in retrospect, they were quite possibly the smartest people on earth.
They sold a commodity that everyone was compelled to buy. Their rent was covered, along with the building’s mortgage, and they never went hungry, that’s for damn sure. It could not have been a better win-win situation for the strangers in a foreign land.
The main point is, whatever we thought we were getting away with, like the pilfered Twinkies or