Falafel Jones - The Kewpie Killer (8 page)

“Sure, that makes sense.” He seemed to get why I needed my mother to be just my mother and nothing else.

“I never realized this before. I guess I needed to talk it out. Thanks.”

“Glad to help. I often don’t know what I think until I say it.” He put his arm around me and I snuggled in.

My revelation led to more conversation about my Dad, a painful topic rarely discussed. When I rehashed the story of his funeral, how we had his body shipped back home, I started to cry. Eddie held me and stroked my hair until I stopped. Then, with a tissue in my hand, I shared memories of Dad, how much I loved him driving me in his restored ’65 MGB with the top down. When I talked about an interstate trip we planned but never got to take, I cried again.

We cuddled some more and after a while, we got around to his family and he told me about his folks. They lived an hour or so from Eddie where they retired to a barrier island off the east coast. I didn’t hear too much more of what he said because I kept dozing off. It wasn’t due to lack of interest and I hoped he didn’t notice.

When the sun rose, the light through the one big apartment window woke me. My hands went to my head to smooth out my hair and I saw we both fell asleep on the couch. Eddie stirred, looked at his watch and said, “Geez, I’ve got to leave for the airport in a few hours.”

“So now what?”

“Tomorrow, actually today, I go back to Florida and serve justice. You?”

“I go to the office and inform the public.”

“About what?”

“All the news that fits.”

“Would it be ok if I called you from time to time?”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Later that morning, Uncle Bill assigned me a new story. He wanted a feature for the Sunday edition about the effect of city construction projects on downtown businesses. Morty’s Dry Cleaning store wasn’t the only place that suffered when the city and contractors had a dispute.

The story seemed dull but he was right. Local business people and city management folks would probably read it. I wanted to seek a link between the victims in the Kewpie killings, but this new story gave me an excuse to talk to Morty again. I wanted to ask him more about Burke.

Once the city finished the sewer project in his neighborhood, business improved. Finding a parking space was hard before due to the construction. Now, it was hard due to the increase in business. Some folks would call that progress. After a couple of turns around the block, a spot opened up near Morty’s store.

When I entered, the little bell on the door rang and Morty looked up from his cash register. It only took a moment for him to recognize me and wave. His customer pocketed some change, took clothes from the rack and left.

Morty looked past me. “So, is Officer Robby here too?”

“No, just me.”

“Even better.”

“Morty, I’m a reporter for the Chronicle and we want to do a story about how city projects impact local businesses. Can we talk about that?”

“Oh… you’re not going to include what I told you about Robby and Burke, are you? I couldn’t have that get out. If I knew you were a reporter, I never would have said anything.” His head swayed loosely from side to side.

“No. It’s all right. Nobody finds out anything about what you told me before. That was different. Besides, we reporters protect our sources. OK?”

He relaxed and smiled when I rubbed his arm. “OK.”

“But, before we get to the story, could you answer one more question about Burke for me?”

“In confidence?”

“Yes.”

“I guess so.”

“After Burke died, who took over his accounts?”

“Well, I don’t know if anyone ‘took over’ his business, but these days, if folks need cash, they see Dimitri Fallinger.”

“Who’s he?”

“Owns the pawn shop on Third. Why do you want to know about him?”

“I want to know if Finley owed Burke money.”

“You think maybe he killed Burke instead of paying him? Then who killed Finley?”

“Don’t know. That’s why I want to talk to Fallinger. Maybe he took over and wanted to send a message?”

“If he did, that talk could be very dangerous.”

“Thanks, Morty. You’re a sweetheart. I’ll be careful. In the meantime, tell me and our readers, how did the city project affect your business?”

He beckoned me behind the counter. “Pull up a chair.”

After an hour with Morty, there was still time to see Fallinger before lunch. First Avenue divided the named streets from the numbered ones. Only a few blocks away, Third could have been in a different city. Once you crossed Maple to First, you could see the graffiti and the change in businesses. Buildings on named streets housed dry cleaners, boutiques and salons. Those on the numbered ones catered to poorer residents. Laundromats, second hand stores, furniture rental companies and bail bond offices peeped out between other buildings vacant and boarded. In addition, vendors populated the street corners selling whatever they could from folding tables and cardboard boxes.

It took only a short stroll to cross the economic divide, so after considering the fact that I was still driving Kara’s car, I left it where it was. A few minutes later, I saw an abandoned Waalbroek Savings and Loan building with three pawnbroker balls painted on a dirty window covered by a metal screen. Above the drawing, painted gold letters said, “CASH FOR GOLD”. No one seemed to be inside.

I tried to open the metal mesh covered door but it didn’t budge so I pressed the doorbell and waited. Letters on the door read, “Check Cashing, Mail Boxes & Safe Storage.” When I noticed a camera peered down from above me, I smiled and waved. The door buzzed. I pushed it again and entered the shop in time to see a man come out from a back room.

A waist high counter ran along each of the room’s walls. Some type of clear glass or plastic extended from the countertop to the ceiling. Except for a sliding window in one spot, it looked thick and possibly bulletproof. The man took a seat on a high stool behind the opening, smoked a cigarette and watched me.

“Mr. Fallinger?”

The man sat quietly smoking his cigarette.

“I’m Raquel Flanagan. Did you know Bradley Burke?”

He used his cigarette to light another one and then said, “I know of no such man.”

“You may know him as ‘Breaker’ Burke.”

“Ah, yes.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He is dead.”

“Yes, I’m a reporter… looking into his death. How did you know him?”

“He got mail here,” Fallinger exhaled cigarette smoke, “… and stored things in my vault.”

“His mail came here?”

He nodded. “Many of my customers live in bad neighborhoods where bad people steal mail, especially the government checks.”

“You have safe deposit boxes?”

“No, not like bank, but there is original vault from when this building was bank. I rent space in my vault.”

“Burke left behind a lot of business.”

“Yes.”

“So you took over his loan sharking and book making after he died?”

“No, no betting.” He made a face. “Collecting from gamblers is much work. I’m not shark either. I loan advances to some of my regular check-cashing customers. Take collateral. No strong-arm stuff. These are poor working people, not enough money to open and keep bank accounts. What they have, they have to spend. I help them.”

“You don’t charge them?”

“Of course, I do. If I go out of business, then what they do?”

“Standard bank rates?”

“Of course not. Look around. I can’t afford those kind of rates.”

“And Burke didn’t mind that you were competing with him?”

“We did not compete. For me, it is about the money.”

“… and helping people?” I asked.

“Yes,” he smiled, “that too. Burke, he loaned people money so he could hurt them. For him, it was always about the violence.”

“Mr. Fallinger, did you know a farmer named Morgan Finley? Did you ever loan him money?”

He removed the cigarette from his mouth and grinned. “No farms on Third Avenue.”

“Is that your way of telling me the information is confidential?”

“In my business, a man must be discreet.”

“I don’t want to know about your business, only Burke’s. He’s dead and his killer is still loose. No one knows why someone killed Burke. Maybe you’re next on their list?”

“If I help, what do I get?”

“Protection. Answer my questions or I’ll do a story about your, ah, enterprises. I’ll park a Chronicle photographer in front of your shop and shoot everyone that comes in.”

“My clients prefer to be private.”

“Then answer a few questions.”

“What you want to know?”

“Ever loan Finley money?”

Fallinger lifted a notebook from behind the counter and thumbed through it. “No.”

“Ever loan any money to a carnival?”

“Not a bank. No business with businesses, only people.”

“How about Burke? He ever loan money to Finley or to a carnival?”

“Don’t know.”

“Any idea how I can find out?”

“Check his ledger. Everything goes in ledger.”

“Geez, where am I going to find that?”

“I have it. When he died, he owed me vault space rental and mail. I keep his things for payment.”

“You have Burke’s ledger? Can I see it?”

“Yes, you pay me what he owed, it is yours.”

“How much?”

“Fifty dollars… cash.”

It was a good thing I didn’t eat lunch yet. My purse contained only fifty-three dollars. I said, “OK.”

Fallinger went into his backroom and came out with three books. An old leather book and two black and white marbled composition notebooks like those that kids used in grade school. We swapped my money for Burke’s books.

I opened the leather bound one. “These are names and phone numbers, Amber, Ashley, Agnese, Bambi, Bette…”

Fallinger raised an eyebrow. “I think I keep this one. Is pleasure, not business.” He reached out his hand and leered.

I gave it to him and looked at the two remaining books. Somebody wrote a year on the cover of each one. Burke made the earliest entry around two years before his death. I pointed this out and asked, “What about older records? Say, 20 years ago”.

Fallinger laughed. “No need past two years. Burke’s statute of limitations. Two years,” he shrugged, “…you paid or you disappeared.”

“Do you know? Did Burke ever spend any time in Florida?”

“Yes, Burke from Georgia… in US, not USSR. Hated snow. Used to winter in Florida. Go someplace warm a few months in winter… also take heat off in New York.”

“Thanks.”

“Do svidaniya.”

When he saw my puzzled look, he said, “Means ‘Good bye’… is Russian”.

Back in my car, I opened the earliest ledger. Each page listed dates, names, dollar amounts and a fourth column that contained either a check mark or a dash, mostly checks. I didn’t want to guess what the dashes meant.

Finley’s name did not appear in the first book. I was near the end of the second when my phone rang and the screen displayed Eddie’s number.

“Hi.”

“Miss me?”

“Where are you?”

“Still at the airport, wanted to thank you for last night.”

“You probably say that to all the girls.”

“Only the ones I sleep with.”

“Guess what I’m holding?”

“We’re about to board. Not enough time for phone sex.”

“No, really, guess.”

“No clue. Tell me.”

“Breaker Burke’s ledgers.”

“Wow, any loans in Florida?”

“Yeah, he wintered there but the ledgers only go back two years.”

“Anybody we know listed in there?”

“I looked for Finley but he’s not in the first book, almost done with the second.”

“Will it take long? My flight…”

“Done. No mention of Finley. He must have some different connection to Burke.”

“Or he’s not connected to Burke at all. Could be they’re both connected to someone else and not each other.”

“Oooo, you’re good. You should do this for a living.”

“I do but I won’t if I miss this plane. Can I call you later?”

“That would be great. What’s your name again?”

“Ha, ha. Good bye, Raquel.”

“Bye, Eddie.”

Eddie phoned me again that night after he settled in at home, but didn’t call again for the rest of the week. On the other hand, I heard from Kara… daily.

For example, Monday.

“Hi, Raquel. How’s the apartment hunt coming?”

“I’m finding a lot of toos.”

“You mean two bedrooms?”

“No. Everything is either too far, too much money, too noisy or too disgusting.”

Tuesday.

“Hi, Raquel, Find a place yet?”

“No.”

“Bet you’re not looking forward to moving back with your Mom, huh?”

Wednesday.

“Hi, Raquel. I was wondering if you needed any help packing.”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

Thursday, I couldn’t take it anymore and hired a mover to take my stuff… to Mom’s.

Friday.

“Hi, Raquel. You didn’t have to rush out, but thank you. Is it all right if the painter comes by today to get started?”

Saturday, I packed.

Sunday, my last article on Kelly’s Carnival appeared as the originally intended fluff piece. I had nothing more to write on the Finley killing. Even the Police called it a cold case and dropped their investigation.

Monday, I moved into Mom’s… my old room. Kara stopped calling and Eddie finally started.

We spoke every night and then after a week, he said, “Gee, Raquel. Talking’s great but I really miss seeing you. Can we Skype?”

“I didn’t know it was a verb. Yeah, I guess so, my laptop has a camera.”

We set it up one night while we were each eating dinner alone at home… together.

Eddie peered into his computer screen and asked, “What’s that you’re eating?”

“Cottage cheese and peaches.”

“For dinner?”

“Yeah,” I enlarged his picture on my screen. “What’s that?”

“Steak tidbits sautéed in onions and olive oil over brown rice with salsa and sharp shredded cheddar.”

Despite our dietary differences, after a while our “dinner dates” became the highlight of my week.