September 1934
Normally, I don’t go looking for trouble, unless I’m paid to track it down. Okay, sometimes misfortune seeks me out. This story revolves around one of those latter times.
* * *
Despite the increasing uproar of the throng, our seats were close enough to the boxing platform to hear Max Freeman, a local trainer, yelling around a dead stogie to his fighter, as he massaged the young man’s shoulders. “Move in and jab! Move back and jab! Jab through a flurry of his punches, if you have ta! But keep it up! And use your right! Your right! You’ve got ‘em on the ropes! Do me proud! Do yourself proud, son!”
While pounding on the canvas, a ringside man called out a verbal ten-second warning, barely audible above the clamor of the crowd. Then the bell rang to start the third round. Both fighters approached the center of the square, one more cautious than the other.
The favorite in the match, a highly touted bull of a heavyweight called “Lightning” Logan, was the worse for wear. Logan was what the fight game referred to as a “contender.” That meant he traveled the circuit fighting and, expectantly, defeating “club fighters” and “journeymen” to establish himself as a challenger for a world title. The pugilist was passing through our major metropolis on his way to New York City and the big-time promoters for a chance at a title fight.
He’d hoped to add our local hero’s scalp to his belt. It wasn’t working out the way his handlers had planned. “Lightning” got struck more than he did any striking. Logan hadn’t let a single blow get past his face. Yeah, he could take a punch, all right, but the number and ferocity of them were taking a toll. The hometown kid was doing as good a job bobbing, weaving, and dodging punches as anyone I’d ever seen fight. The clouts Logan had landed were nothing more than glancing smacks. This wasn’t to be the contender’s night. Another dream was making its way to the ash heap of the sporting world.
This wasn’t to be the contender’s night.
The homegrown kid, who fought under the moniker “Bomber” Barbella, was one of those “journeymen” I mentioned. Even our city’s sportswriters hadn’t favored the local boy to win. But I’d watched the kid train at O’Malley’s Gym over on Orchard Street. He had a right like a falling anvil, and it was quicker than a snake’s tongue. Did the boy have courage! And spunk! Like hot mustard on a frankfurter. I placed a nice-sized wager on him. The kid’d put the negative press regarding his chances out of his mind. He’d fought as if he owned the boxing world.
As the two pugilists circled one another in the ring, sizing each other up, the spectators’ anticipatory roar grew to a crescendo. Logan suddenly tried to deliver a roundhouse left. Barbella stepped inside it and let loose with a powerful right from the shoulder. It landed flush on his opponent’s jaw. The out-of-towner’s legs buckled and turned to jelly as he staggered backwards. Bomber delivered another solid wallop to the side of Lightning’s head. But it was unnecessary. Logan dropped to the canvas and didn’t move. I thought the onlookers were going to destroy the arena in celebration. Barbella moved to a nearby corner and waited, dancing from one foot to the other, blinking sweat from his eyes and showing a nasty sneer.
The referee finished his countdown and shot the timekeeper an up-from-under look as he bent over the supine figure. When he gave the ringside man a terse nod, the bell clanged a half dozen or more times. The ref straightened and walked to the pug standing in a neutral corner. He grabbed the Barbella’s right wrist and raised his arm. The packed house gave a great imitation of bedlam.
Agnes Corbett, my new love interest, celebrated by wrapping her arms around my neck as she bounced up and down and screeched for joy. The locals forgot the vanquished prizefighter, lying still on the canvas and now surrounded by his cornermen.
The house lights went up as the ring announcer stepped to the center of the platform. His official declaration of the outcome was scarcely audible above the babel of the crowd.
It crossed my mind the folks were celebrating having our boxing auditorium back as much as Barbella’s win. The operators of the Municipal Arena had put our city’s regular, extremely popular fight nights on hold when a promoter of six-day bicycle races came into town. He’d leased the joint and then had then had it temporarily converted to a track for the event. The races had been immensely popular in the latter years of the 20s and in the early 30s. Hundreds of cycling professionals rode the six-day circuit across the United States and made good money. The gang at Harry’s Paradise Tavern thought the races were a thing of the past until we got slapped with a newspaper headline one morning, telling of the upcoming event.
Corbett had dragged me to a segment of a race. Athletes or no, watching these jugheads ride bicycles around the large oval was boring beyond words, unless they crashed into each other, which didn’t happen often enough for me. I’d rather eat broccoli. And that’s saying something, brother!
* * *
It had been just over three weeks since I’d first laid eyes on Miss Corbett, the new waitress at The Wayside Café. I’d spent most of that time building up the courage to ask her out. She was a looker. I wasn’t.
Well, in truth, part of the time was getting over the loss of a client who’d hired me to protect and find answers for her. I found the answers she wanted, but too late to save her from those who wanted her dead. Of lesser importance, I was also recovering from two gunshot wounds. One was to my left shoulder and one had creased my left arm–what those who’ve never been shot term a “flesh wound.” Both had come my way in the futile effort to protect my client.
Of lesser importance, I was also recovering from two gunshot wounds.
Back to the Corbett girl. She was as sweet as Cracker Jacks. The strawberry blonde doll face had a smile in her voice that lifted me every time she spoke. And we had a great deal in common. Besides relishing Jack Daniels, the skirt enjoyed going to the prizefights almost as much as I did. Aside from the hunks in the contests, she admitted she relished watching the smug fat cats smoking dollar cigars at ringside, accompanied by their overdressed women.
My girl also followed the bangtails, too. She’d won a few bucks betting on Discovery in the recent Whitney Stakes at Saratoga. After his second-place finish in the Derby and third place at the Preakness, I figured the chestnut thoroughbred was on the decline. But the woman stuck with him and it paid off. When it came to baseball, she was a fan of the Cincinnati Reds, same as me. But she let it slip much of her attraction had to do with the letter “C” on their ball caps. “C” as in Corbett. I never mentioned the Chicago Cubs to her.
Word I was running around with her quickly made its way through the regulars at the tavern. As expected, I became the target of friendly jibes from them. For example, someone in the joint might ask loudly, within my hearing, “Say, what’s the tastiest dish at The Wayside Café?” Then another aspiring vaudevillian would call back, “The strawberry blonde!” I’d laugh along with the guys in their good-natured kidding. What did I care? I was in love. Or at least as close as I’d come in a long while. The waitress reciprocated my feelings. She called our relationship “l’amour fou,” which she translated for me as “crazy love.” I don’t speak Frog.
* * *
After the Barbella fight, we’d planned a late dinner at Cappacino’s Restaurant. Mama Cappacino greeted us at the door as she did all her patrons. The proprietor, who was like family to me, was crazy about my girlfriend and pleased I seemed to be settling down.
During our meal, my love mentioned a lakefront lodge she’d heard about from a woman who lived at her boardinghouse. She asked if I’d ever stayed there. The answer was no, though I knew of Lake Mohkihtanwi and the lodge there. I’d driven past them two or three times while working cases. The locals had shortened the longform of the name, an Indian word meaning God knows what, and just called it Lake Mohkih. The lodge, sitting along its shoreline, went by the same name.
When I asked why she’d mentioned it, the gal brushed it off as mere curiosity. I was sure there was more to her inquiry. Though I didn’t pursue the thing, I made a mental note. Her birthday was coming up in October. Things were progressing smoothly in our romance. Despite my growing desire for her, I was concerned about moving too fast. This relationship was different. October would be here in no time.
Though I didn’t pursue the thing, I made a mental note. Her birthday was coming up in October.
* * *
Several days later, I stopped by police headquarters to see if my pal, Det. Sgt. Rob Waddell, was in. Between working a few investigations which didn’t involve any local gendarme and spending time with my new passion, I hadn’t seen Rob in a while. When the desk sergeant called his office, the detective had me sent back to him.
As I entered, Rob was hunkered at his desk, puzzling over a document. Scraps of scribbled-on paper, crumbled and otherwise, cluttered its work surface. He glanced up. “What’s shaking, Gil? Peel off your coat and stay a while,” he offered absentmindedly as he returned to the text.
I walked around the desk to see what had him so preoccupied. He was studying a hand-written letter. “What’s this, Rob? Evidence in a case?”
“No, it’s not evidence of anything as far as I know for certain. But there must be something to it,” he moaned, passing a hand wearily across his face. Waddell tossed his pencil onto the desk, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. The detective shook a Camel loose from a deck and offered me one. I waved it off, opting instead for my brand. Rob inhaled deeply and let the smoke escape with each word, saying, “You recall the armed robbery at the First State Bank and Trust around a month ago? The two hoods, masked with handkerchiefs, got away with a pile of cash.”
“Yeah, sure.” I took a seat. The heist had made headlines for several days as the law tried desperately to hunt for the culprits. They’d found no trace of them or the money. The pair had made a clean getaway. “Does the note have something to do with it?”
“I’m pretty sure it does. Though the bandits hid behind large handkerchiefs, from the witness descriptions at the bank, we’d suspected Slats Underhill was one of the two. Didn’t let our suspicions out to the public, though. Still, we couldn’t find him.” The coppers knew the ginger-haired hoodlum well. His early pals gave him the nickname Slats because of his scrawny frame with protruding ribs. When he was a boy running with a group of street thugs, another kid in the gang said his ribs looked like the slats in a picket fence. The moniker stuck and followed him into his adult criminal activities.
“But, from what I know, Underhill never went in for involving himself in something as big as a bank robbery,” I suggested. “He was known to have the brains to plan one, but not the guts to take part in it. The crumb only involved himself in small-time, less-dangerous stuff.”
“That’s just it. According to a witness we now have, he teamed up with somebody who convinced him to get his hands dirty this time ‘round for a big haul.” Rob leaned back over his desk. “Yesterday afternoon, a desk sergeant took an anonymous telephone call from a mug who confirmed Slats had planned and pulled off the job. The guy added his partner in it was Sam Fulmer. The bank witnesses’ description of the second villain fit Fulmer to a T. And Big Sam’s been a suspect in a few armed holdups in the past. Sam, the caller said, was holed up with a dame in an apartment in the Riverside section of town.
“Yesterday afternoon, a desk sergeant took an anonymous telephone call from a mug who confirmed Slats had planned and pulled off the job.”
“As I said, the call was anonymous, but I took it seriously.” He scoffed, “Hell, we hadn’t had a lead in the month since the stickup. And, meanwhile, the shit’s been flowing downhill from city hall. So I rounded up a few of the boys and paid a visit to the address the caller gave. Sure enough, just after we arrived and crashed inside, Fulmer came toddling up the sidewalk big as life and twice as ugly. All this time, he’d stashed himself in the bedsit of a dancer from The Hot Spot, one Hilda Perkins. Hilda’s a part-time taxi dancer, part-time joy girl.” Rob added with a chuckle, “She spends her life either on her feet or on her back.”
I laughed and put in, “Sure, I understand the gambit. She dances with one leg, then with the other. Between the two, she makes her living.” I knew of The Hot Spot, a rough watering hole, frequented by hard bastards. It was a clip joint in the seedier section of the city featuring dime-a-dance broads. The only time I’d go near the place was if I was getting paid to do it. My brother Marty, a city copper who had been in the Coast Guard during the Prohibition years, knew of it as well. He once said he’d never known a sailor who could get drunk enough to go into the dive voluntarily. City reformers had tried unsuccessfully to shut it down.
Waddell continued, “It seems Fulmer had fallen hard for Hilda in the months leading up to the bank job. He made the mistake of taking the time to go back for her on his way out of town following the caper. As Hilda tells it, after she joined him and they hit the streets, he saw the dragnet we’d immediately set up. Sam told Hilda he didn’t think they could get through it. He’s a bit of a paranoid palooka that way.
“Anyway, they made a beeline back to Hilda’s place to hide out until things cooled off. They’ve been living from pillar to post since the heist, afraid to make a break for it. Perkins is cooperating, trying to get out from under an accessory-after-the-fact charge. Going back for Perkins was a dumb move. Apparently, Sam suffers from a natural male shortcoming.” When I arched my eyebrows in uncertainty, the detective smiled. “The problem is our Creator gave a man a brain and a penis, but only enough blood to run one at a time.”
I laughed and asked, “And the letter?”
“Well, Fulmer surrendered peaceably at Hilda’s place. But when they were booking him in last night, one of our men came across this unopened letter in his pocket. When the officer took it, Sam fought like a wild animal. It took four jailers to get control of him. I was there during the process and saw the tangle. Hilda aside, Big Sam has never struck anybody as the sentimental type. Consequently, the letter piqued my curiosity. I had the jail bulls turned it over.
“It was addressed to Fulmer care of general delivery at the main post office. Seems the big lug was coming back from the post office when he strolled into our arms. At least, that’s what Hilda told me when I went back and questioned her a second time. Her beau had told her he was expecting a letter from his partner that would lead to his share of the money and set them up for life. The note would be their ticket to the good life.
“The envelope bore a Kansas City postmark, but had no return address. So I steamed the thing open, you know, just in case.” Rob reached for the document and eyed it again. “It’s just a bunch of disjointed sentences I can’t make anything out of. And it’s not signed. My guess is the pair got split up somehow immediately after the robbery. Underhill managed to slip through the roadblocks and dragnet and get away with the money. As Hilda, who learned a lot from Sam’s pillow talk and nervous ramblings, told me, the thieves had prepared a plan for just such a contingency.
“If they didn’t make it out of the city together, there were two options. They’d both lie low here for a while. If whoever had the money got out alone, he’d find a suitable location and stash the dough in a pre-arranged town. We don’t know the name of the burg. Then that thug would move on to Kansas City, where the pair have contacts. Once in KC, he was to send a general delivery letter to his partner telling where he could find his share. There was a lot of trust between these two ruffians, I tell you.” Waddell snatched the document and shook it in frustration. “This thing has to have some sort of coded instructions for the lummox to follow to find his swag. But I just can’t figure it out. I’m no expert on code-breaking, but I’m no dummy either. This is beyond me.”
“There was a lot of trust between these two ruffians, I tell you.”
An idea came to me. “Can I get a copy of the thing for somebody I know to look at? The man’s damned smart and something such as this might be right up his alley.”
My buddy tossed a pad and pencil across the desk to me. “Sure. Help yourself.”
“No, Rob. I mean a copy, as in a photostat copy. If I hand write it, I may screw something, some word, some combination of words up. It might confuse the whole thing.”
Waddell knew me to be moderately resourceful. He only paused for a second before nodding and leaving the office with the correspondence in hand. A few minutes later he returned with photostats of the two pages. “Here you go, sport. You’ll let me know if your friend comes up with anything, right?”
I smiled. “Does Mae West sleep on her back?” He offered a tired chuckle. I left.
* * *
A half hour later, I was standing at the counter in Malaprop’s Bookstore, talking to its proprietor and my friend, Micah Kaplan. Micah was a wise old bird. Besides the rumor he’d been an attorney at one time was the buzz he’d worked with Herbert Yardley in the cryptographic section of Military Intelligence during the Great War. I never broached the subjects of the gossip swirling around my pal. If he wanted to share his past life, it was up to him. True or not, I knew he loved to play with words. Possibly he might help Waddell out of his jam. As I explained the situation, he showed a droll smile as if recalling happy times. He agreed to give the letter a look and call me if he found something.
* * *
Late that afternoon, I was at my office typewriter, preparing a case report for Luke Carelli, an insurance executive I worked for from time to time. He’d hired me to find a missing heiress, and I had. My telephone rang. It was Micah. He had something for me to take to Detective Waddell. I let him know I’d see him in an hour. Agnes and I had a date that night, so I had to hustle. I motored to the bookstore after finishing my report and dropping it by Carelli’s office while collecting the balance of my fee.
Inside Micah’s business, the old man was helping a customer who couldn’t decide between a copy of Anthony Adverse or Tender Is the Night. After a prolonged discussion, the lady, standing under an ornately feathered hat and swaddled in a fox stole, purchased both. My friend waited until the shop door closed behind the woman before speaking to me. “Your document was interesting, Gil, but not challenging.” After a brief, thoughtful pause, he added, “So as not to disparage anyone who tried to decipher it, let me clarify. It was easy for one trained in the art of decryption,” he finished with a wry grin before retreating to his back room. Through the open door, I saw him retrieve the photostats from a desk. “The letter is an acrostic composition,” Micah explained as he returned to the counter.
“The letter is an acrostic composition.”
“It’s Greek to me. I’m not with you, Micah.”
The man chuckled at my reference to the Greek language and explained why. Then he continued. “An acrostic is a composition, a letter in this case, in which the first or last letters of the lines, taken in order, form a word or a phrase. Acrostics occur in several books of the Old Testament, in Psalm 119 for example, and in the Tanakh. And they’re often used in verse.”
The bookstore owner slid a sheet of paper to me. “This a copy of a famous one written by Nathaniel Dearborn around the middle of the last century. If you read the first letter of each line, they form the name ‘Jenny Lind.’” I immediately saw the words in Dearborn’s poem. The store owner turned the photostats to me and tapped them with a forefinger. “That’s what the person who wrote this letter did. The first letter of each line, taken in order, forms a phrase.” When I scanned Slats’s letter, the pieces fell into place. Micah was all smiles, imparting the information.
While at the bookstore, I called Waddell to make sure he’d be in his office. Then I drove to the station house and met with him. I explained what Kaplan had determined and had shared with me and left the photostats.
Later, Rob told me he’d contacted the authorities in St. Louis and Kansas City. The St. Louis cops recovered the money waiting for Fulmer at a parcel depot. The Kansas City police finally located and arrested Underhill as he was boarding a westbound train at Union Station. Rob said the detective he spoke with there admitted they were still recovering from the shootout at the station with Verne Miller’s outfit in June of last year. Visits to KC’s Union Station always put them on pins and needles. Our district attorney set in motion Slats’s extradition back to our city to answer for the bank robbery alongside Fulmer.
* * *
When Agnes crawled into my LaSalle that night outside Mrs. Yonce’s boardinghouse, she said she felt like a show. When I asked her what she wanted to see, the tomato had her heart set on going to Fashions of 1934. I’d seen the name on the Modjeska Theater’s marquee but gave it no thought. The title alone told me it wasn’t something I’d be interested in. But–and as my pal Harry always says, “There’s always a big ol’ but”–love can make a fella do things he ordinarily wouldn’t do. So I went along with her choice, and we set off. My girl might keep up with the ponies and love prizefights, but she was no less a frail at heart.
On the drive, Miss Corbett told me she was too tired to go to a fancy restaurant. She suggested we grab a sandwich at Katz’s delicatessen next door to the Modjeska. I decided one of Katz’s thick pastrami sandwiches might ease the sting of sitting through a girlie flick. Again, I agreed with her.
We made it to the theater in time to see the newsreels. It was bad enough having to listen to my bartender-pal Harry rave about the season his St. Louis Cardinals were having compared to my Redlegs. Now I had to sit through a filmed news report of the “Gashouse Gang’s” winning ways. It included the Dean brothers working toward the forty wins Dizzy had promised at the beginning of the season. Thankfully, the Cards still trailed the Giants in the pennant race.
The motion picture, Fashions of 1934, was okay and pretty much what I’d expected, although seeing Bette Davis as a blonde was odd. And I could go the rest of my life and be happy without ever hearing Frank McHugh’s inane laugh again. The saving grace was a Busby Berkeley dance number around an hour into the show. It featured a number of women’s bare midriffs and belly buttons on prominent display in between coverups with ostrich feathers. I bring it up only because when I mentioned it later, my date said she hoped I’d gotten a good look. She explained one of the movie magazines she was so fond of had an article concerning a new production code on the horizon. It was going to make seeing so much women’s skin on the silver screen a thing of the past.
It featured a number of women’s bare midriffs and belly buttons on prominent display in between coverups with ostrich feathers.
* * *
Our relationship moved smoothly through the next few weeks. We enjoyed a nice dinner with Donna and Marty at their house. On another occasion, we met them at Cappacino’s for supper. Like Mama Cappacino, Donna appeared pleased that I might settle down at last. But, reading her face, I could tell she thought the waitress was a little too young for me. Marty hadn’t helped my cause any when he jokingly asked her why she’d taken up with me. Agnes nudged me and laughed, “A fool and his money are a great date.” We made our occasional appearances at Harry’s tavern, where I took a “verbal beating” from the regulars. She loved it.
Our mutual frustration built as we fumbled in the dark and steamed up the windows of the LaSalle browsing while parked at Crab Orchard Lake several nights. Going to her place at Mrs. Yonce’s rooming house was out of the question. Neither my apartment nor any of the city’s hotels had the atmosphere I wanted for our first “rendezvous.” My steady’s comment about the Mohkih Lodge stuck in my mind.
As long as I was flush from recent assignments and didn’t think it might break the bank, I placed a long-distance telephone call to the lodge and made reservations. The fella there set me up with a nice second-floor room overlooking the lake. I booked the thing from Thursday, October 11th through the 15th, Agnes’s birthday. It was to be a surprise.
Over supper at the Wisteria Gardens Restaurant that night, I told her of my plans for an extended weekend for her birthday. She was excited, but momentarily restrained at the same time. I wrote it off to my catching her off guard when she assured me it was just unexpected. She leaned across the table, wrapped her arms around my neck, and gave me a big kiss. When Agnes sat back in her chair, she immediately went into a discussion of what to pack and what there was to do at the resort. Then she thought aloud of whom to get to fill in for her at The Wayside Café.
When the waitress brought our fortune tea cakes, my date broke hers open and tittered. It promised she would have “a romantic rendezvous soon.” Then she slid her coffee cup across the table in my direction and leaned forward on her elbows. “Tell me,” she breathed in that smokey voice of hers, “what do you see us doing on this romantic getaway?”
“Oh, I’m sure something will come up to fill our time.” She took my meaning. We shared a laugh.
* * *
While I spent the next dozen days clearing my desk of pending cases, Agnes got her “travel wardrobe” together. When I gently reminded her, while a pretty swell place, the Mohkih Lodge was not the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, she simply beamed that compelling smile of hers.
* * *
That Thursday morning, I picked my girl up at her boardinghouse. Piling her bags into my LaSalle’s rumble seat, I accused the woman of carrying more stuff than Pershing and the AEF had taken to France during the Great War. She shot back I was just still sulking over Harry’s Cards fighting their way into the World Series and then lambasting the Tigers earlier in the week to take another title. I could only snort, shake my head, and load my heap. In an excited mood, we set out for the day-long drive to Lake Mohkih and the lodge.
Along the way, Agnes spotted a roadhouse with several long-haul trucks parked out front. She said she was getting hungry and suggested it was probably a good place to eat since the truckers appeared to favor it. We pulled off for a quick lunch. She was right. The food was great.
Back on the road, we wound our way along higher elevations toward the resort. Finally, we reached a tee in the road at the south end of Lake Mohkihtanwi. A sign there indicated a left turn would take us to the town of Fairview and points west. A right turn led up the eastern side of the lake to our destination.
* * *
In the late afternoon, we pulled into the inn’s parking area. The place looked great with the setting sun shimmering on the lake. We walked to the water’s edge and, for a few minutes, stood with our arms around each other, admiring the view. Then we returned to my crate. After carrying what bags I could manage to the registration desk, I signed the guest book as “Mr. & Mrs.” Agnes’s giggle brought an odd look from the manager. I smiled and let it drift. A kid, in the role of bellhop, took the bags and said he’d show her to our room. I gave him a buck for his trouble and asked him to bring whatever ice he could find to the room. Then I returned to the LaSalle for the rest of our gear.
Agnes was unpacking when I got to the room. She’d laid a few things out on the bed. Several of the items gave me a lump in my throat and brought a grin to my face. Though I tried not to show my pleasure, she saw me notice. Corbett told me they were her contribution to the merriments. I located two glasses, unpacked part of my input to the weekend’s festivities, and cracked open a bottle of Jack Daniels. The nubile young woman tossed me a provocative smile as I put ice in the glasses and poured drinks. We took our libations out onto the second-floor balcony that ran the length of the front of the place to enjoy the setting sun from Adirondack chairs.
Comfortably seated, I shook a Chesterfield from my pack and held it out for my companion. Her face twisted in disgust. She shook her head vigorously and sternly reminded me of the risk I was taking by smoking that brand. Recently, a rumor had circulated they’d found a leper working in the Chesterfield cigarette factory in Richmond. The company denied it emphatically. No evidence it was true surfaced. Many people I knew, fearful of catching the dreaded disease, switched to other brands. Not me. Like my old man used to say, “You pays your nickel, and you takes your chances.” She’d been teasing me about the rumor since it hit the press.
Recently, a rumor had circulated they’d found a leper working in the Chesterfield cigarette factory in Richmond.
When I pulled the pack back and set fire to the coffin nail, she broke into a mischievous smile. “Blow some my way,” she whispered sultrily, echoing a Chesterfield advertisement from nearly a decade earlier. “Better yet, fag me, Tanner.” I lit a second one and put it between her luscious, inviting lips.
I calmed myself and sat back to sip my drink and take in the lake. A footpath ran down the slight incline from the front of the lodge through a few trees to the water. A decent-sized boat dock extended out into the water from the foot of the trail. Agnes reached to me and rested a hand on my arm. We sat and watched two boats out on the water, occupied by fishermen as twilight enveloped them. The evening air had a slight chill to it. Despite my hormones, I was as relaxed as I’d been in a while.
* * *
Eventually, hunger overtook us. It had been a long while since the early lunch at the roadhouse. We freshened up before going to the inn’s small dining room. The menu was basic. It consisted primarily of fish supplied by the lake, though they also offered beef steak from a nearby farm, according to our waiter. The lady ordered a fish called crappie for her meal. The name didn’t sound very appealing to me, but she was familiar with and liked them. I settled on a steak.
During the meal, Agnes seemed to withdraw, close in on herself slightly. She seemed preoccupied. I figured she was just tired after the long day of travel.
Afterwards, on the way through the lobby, I found the bellhop kid and gave him dough for another run of ice. Back in the room, I fixed us another drink, finishing what little ice remained.
When I handed Agnes the drink, her face became tight, worried. “Sit down, Gil. I need to tell you something about myself. I’ve–”
A knock at the door interrupted her thought. I answered it and traded the bellhop our empty ice bucket for a full one. I returned to where Agnes stood, wringing her hands. With some unease, I sat in one of the room’s two Morris chairs. She sat on the edge of the bed. “Gil, I’ve been trying to build up to telling you something. And I know I should have told you before now.” I chuckled uneasily, tickled and intrigued by a seriousness she’d not shown before.
My girl told me something of her youth back in Arkansas. During her high school days, she’d fallen in love with a kid named Billy. He was the son of a wealthy, prominent businessman, Clyde Clinton, who was something of a bigwig in regional politics. Old man Clinton owned the mill where her father worked. Billy told her he was in love with her and wanted to marry her. He swept the girl from a poor, working-class family off her feet. One night, he persuaded her to part with her virginity. Shortly afterwards, she found herself “in the family way,” as she put it. The Clinton kid disappeared soon after he learned of her condition. She never saw him again. The senior Clinton refused to help her or even see her. Her old man, a deeply religious sort, threw her out of their house.
As she related the story to me, her china-blue eyes filled with tears. The woman moaned pitifully. I wanted to hold her, but hesitated, uncertain. She said she drifted, not knowing what to do. Someone eventually referred her to the Florence Crittenton Home in Little Rock, where they provided her with shelter and medical care during her pregnancy. She mumbled something about a dame named Maggie or Margaret Sanger, but my head was spinning by this time, and I didn’t catch exactly what she said through the sobs. So much was coming at me so fast, it was like trying to drink water from a firehose.
Someone eventually referred her to the Florence Crittenton Home in Little Rock.
She composed herself and continued. During her stay at the Crittenton Home, she realized she had no means by which to rear a child properly. Through sorrowful tears, she told me, when the time came, she put the baby up for adoption. Afterwards she moved from place to place, job to job, looking for some stability. She’d drifted into our city where Oscar offered her work at The Wayside Café and she settled in. “You know the rest,” she concluded.
I stood, lifted her from the bed, and took her in my arms. She looked up at me. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Before I could speak, she said, “You may decide to walk away, Tanner. I’ll be heartbroken, but I’ll understand. There’ll be no hard feelings on my part.” She held me tighter. “I’m only sorry I didn’t tell you before now. I was afraid.”
“You didn’t have to be afraid. I don’t care about all that. You’re here now, with me. That’s what matters to me. I–”
“Gil, I’m asking you … to sleep on what I’ve told you. I love you, but I want you to take the time to think it over. If afterwards you still feel the same way, that’ll be swell. But, please, think about it.” She cast her gaze around the room. “I can sleep in a chair tonight. Waiting another day won’t make any difference at this point. Please, sleep on it.”
After her bit of news, I wasn’t sure sleep was in my forecast for the night. Not that I’m a prude or a virgin, mind you, and certainly didn’t expect that of a future Mrs. Tanner. Nonetheless, her story took me aback. I relented, “Okay, I’ll think it over. But I can tell you right now, it won’t change my feelings for you. I love you. And you’re going to sleep in the bed. I’ll take a chair. I have one of these in my apartment and have slept more than one night on it,” I finished, jutting my chin in its direction.
After that bit of news, I wasn’t sure sleep was in my forecast for that night.
We sat and finished our drinks. Neither of us spoke. It was getting late. Agnes looked tired. The day traveling and the emotion of talking through her past had seemingly worn her out. She got up to get ready for bed. For her privacy’s benefit and the sake of my hormones, I decided to leave the room. I kissed her and promised, “I’ll be back in a bit. I love you.” On the way out of the room, I grabbed my cigarettes, my glass, the bottle of booze, and the ice bucket.
Out on the front balcony, I sat in the chilled darkness, sipping Jack, smoking, and reflecting on what the woman had told me. Agnes had an old head on young shoulders. I felt horrible for what she’d gone through, but her past didn’t impact, didn’t change my feelings for her. I had to convince her. And I kept recalling the little habits which endeared her to me. The way she sometimes called me by my last name. How her nose crinkled as she giggled when I returned the favor. Silly things such as the way she always held her coffee mug just under the rim to drink, despite the finger loop on the thing. It always made me smile.
As I mulled over our conversation, I heard the noises of a boat rowing to the lodge’s dock. Though the sounds came to me across the water, I couldn’t see the source. The night was dark with the moon a waxing crescent. The low clatters at the dock gave way to men, speaking softly, making their way up the path to the lodge. I knew there were those who enjoyed night fishing, though I didn’t see the joy in it. Out of a natural inquisitiveness, I dropped my feet from the balcony’s rail and leaned over it for a better look. Initially, I couldn’t make out their words.
As they get closer, I heard the names Ed and Mick or Mickey. When they entered the glow of the porch’s lights below, I saw there were three men, each carrying a creel, but no fishing poles or rods and reels. It struck me as odd, but I’m not a fisherman. The mug doing most of the murmuring sported a thick Teddy Roosevelt-style mustache. He was saying something regarding having “to do it.” As I was at the far corner of the second-floor balcony above them, they didn’t notice me. I said nothing and glanced at the luminous dial of my strap watch. It was just after two o’clock.
The mug doing most of the murmuring sported a thick Teddy Roosevelt-style mustache.
Ultimately, I made my way back to the room and snuggled up, as best I could, on a Morris chair, with the adjustable back reclined as far as it would go. Agnes had left a pillow and blanket on it.
* * *
I opened my eyes to Agnes gently shaking my shoulder. “Gil, do you want breakfast?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” As I tried to move, the awkwardness of my sleeping position jolted my joints. I groaned.
“Are you all right?” she asked tenderly. “What time did you come in? I had a fitful night, but didn’t hear you come back.”
“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m jake. Just a little stiff. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Can we talk before we go downstairs?”
“Sure. But, before you ask, nothing concerning the way I feel about you has changed. We both have baggage, if you want to call it that. Buckingham Palace doesn’t have a closet big enough to hold all my skeletons.” I looked up into her face. “I love you.” I stood, and we held each other for a time. It felt good.
“I love you, too, Tanner,” she whimpered into my shoulder. She pushed back slightly and looked up at me. Her eyes were moist. “I’ve already had a bath. It’s at the end of the hall on the left. Why don’t you get ready and let’s get breakfast? Then, let’s go exploring.” I agreed.
* * *
At breakfast, I noticed the mustached fisherman from earlier that morning. He sat with two other fellas I assumed had been his companions on the lake, but I didn’t recognize them. The trio huddled in quiet conversation. He seemed to lead the discussion as his eyes, filled with mean lights, darted furtively around the room.
When we finished eating, Agnes returned to the room to grab a sweater to ward off the morning chill while we walked. I strolled out to the porch for a smoke. As I stood there, one of the three anglers brushed past me and walked to a machine in the parking area. He put the case he was carrying in the car before breezing back toward the hotel. The lug saw me watching him and threw me a menacing glare as he climbed the side steps. I shot him my best just-to-piss-you-off grin.
Agnes appeared, and we started walking the track running along the shoreline. Soon we came to a boulder formation overlooking the water and stopped. My girlfriend climbed onto a large rock and sat down. “Are you sure of your feelings after what I told you, Gil?” It was a heartfelt question.
Sitting beside her, I laid back on the stone and put my hands behind my head, smiling. “Yeah, I’m sure.” After a pause, I added, “By the way, you’re working the hell out of that sweater.” The doll reclined, laying her head on my chest, but said nothing. We looked up through a tree shading us. The oak’s twisting branches spanned high and wide. Cool breezes rustled its reddish-orange leaves and the few remaining acorns. The sun peeked through wind-blown gaps, creating dancing glimmers of light in the shade below its canopy. We stayed there for a long while, before continuing our hike.
When we finally turned back for the resort and passed the boulders again, Agnes suggested getting sandwiches for us to have a picnic there the next day. She then informed me I was also going to rent a rowboat or canoe and give her a tour of the shoreline the following day.
* * *
The temperature had dropped a few degrees as we’d trekked the lake. The lodge had a fire roaring in the sitting-area hearth when we returned. While I climbed the stairs for the bottle of Jack and more fags, Agnes staked a claim on two chairs near the fireplace. We spent the next several hours enjoying the smoothness of the whiskey, smoking “leprosy-infested” Chesterfields, and making small talk. At one point, I said tenderly, “I love you.”
“Is that you or the Jack Daniels talking?”
“It’s me talking to the Jack Daniels.”
She busted out laughing. “That tears it, you big lummox. Let’s get something to eat while we can still walk.” We did. Afterward, we went to our room and made up for lost time. Without meaning to sound maudlin, it was a glorious night!
* * *
The next morning, I stepped out onto the porch to light up an after-breakfast gasper. My breath made gray clouds in the cold air. A county copper was walking around the nearby parked cars, peering through their windows, and noting tag numbers. My interest aroused, I strolled over to him.
“What’s up, deputy?”
As he turned my direction, he tersely corrected, “It’s sheriff, mister. Sheriff Barney Taylor.” The large man squared up to me, his working hand resting on the butt of his sidearm. “And you are?” He had a heavy-featured face and shoulders you could serve dinner on. He appeared tense. I held my hands out to the side slightly and introduced myself. Around that time, Agnes walked out onto the porch and called my name. Sheriff Taylor’s eyes shifted to her, then quickly back to me. “And why are you so worried about my business, Tanner?”
The large man squared up to me, his working hand resting on the butt of his sidearm.
“Just a natural curiosity, sheriff. Only that.” I briefly explained the racket I was in and the purpose of our trip to Lake Mohkih. The man seemed to relax.
“I supposed you go around strapped, workin’ your line in the big city. You bring a rod with you?”
I nodded. “It’s up in our room in my suitcase.” He tossed me a funny look as I spoke. “Force of habit, Sheriff Taylor.”
While we were talking, Agnes eased up beside me and slipped her arm around my waist. Taylor touched the brim of his western-style hat and nodded to her. Returning to me, he asked, “Whaddya carry, caliber-wise?”
“The only thing I own is a .45 automatic. You’re welcome to look it over, if it’ll make you feel better.”
“Maybe.” He rubbed his eyes wearily.
“So what’s all the noise about? Why so interested in my hardware?”
“Well, two men carryin’ revolvers knocked off the bank in Fairview, across the lake, Thursday afternoon. Well, three men if you count their driver.” He sighed audibly. “One bastard shot Luke Morgan, a teller. Doc Nottley ain’t sure if ol’ Luke’s gonna pull through. I aim to find the sons of bitches and take ‘em in. Dead or alive. Makes no never mind to me. But either way, I’m gonna get the money back.” He glanced at Agnes, nodding. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“No offense, sheriff, but Fairview doesn’t sound as if it’s a sizeable town. How much money could they have gotten away with?”
“It just so happens, Tanner, we got a big paper mill outside of town. Thank God it’s one of the few industries that ain’t been laid low by this depression. You can’t hardly find anybody hereabouts who don’t depend on that place, directly or indirectly, to survive. Anyhow, the mill pays its folks on Fridays. So the bank lays in extra cash to meet the payroll.” He shook his head and continued, “There was enough to make it worthwhile. And that’s why I suspect it was some locals who pulled this job. Somebody who knew the bank would have a lot of money on hand. Problem was, the duo was wearing large bandanas over their faces, so nobody got a good look at ‘em.”
He paused before adding, “This lake has over a hundred miles of shoreline. And the whole thing’s in my county. This ain’t my first stop and won’t be my last. I intend to check every cabin, roadhouse, farmhouse, and outhouse along it. I started in town and worked my way south around the lake to this point. My best deputy started north from town. I expect to meet up with him a little north of here.”
“I intend to check every cabin, farmhouse, and outhouse along it.”
“Did the culprits come this way?”
“Well, no. When they hightailed it outta town, they headed west. But Thursday night a couple of kids was parked on the shore just outside of town … doin’ whatever.” He eyed Agnes again and blushed slightly. “Anyway, the couple … came up for air long enough to see at least two men pushin’ a car into the lake. It scared hell out of the kids, who drove off in a big hurry. Pardon, ma’am,” he offered, touching his hat again.
“The boy reported what they’d seen. We was able to find the car in shallow water. It was the escape heap, right enough. We’re still tryin’ to find out more about it. I figure it to be stolen. I also reckon the robbers left town headin’ west and then doubled back to Lake Mohkihtanwi. They had another car waitin’ for ‘em there. After the gang ditched the first car, they drove off in the second. State police, who’s got a post in Fairview, had roadblocks set up real quick. So the thieves gotta be around here somewhere.”
Agnes gently tugged on my arm. “Let’s go, Gil,” she said softly.
“In a minute,” I responded out of the side of my mouth, patting her hand. “Sheriff Taylor, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, but be quick about it. I got a lot more ground to cover ‘round the lake.”
“How sure are you the crooks drove away after they ditched the car?”
“How sure? Whaddya mean? You think they flew away?” he snorted.
“Could they have rowed away?”
Rubbing a thumb and forefinger down the sides of his nose and looking at me with steady eyes, he considered the idea for a minute. “Well, I guess they could’ve, but we haven’t found any boat as yet. And I’m thinkin’ somebody might’ve seen ‘em at some point.”
“Well, you said it was dark when the kids saw the men dump the car in the water. Aside from the chance of the kids being there, they could have done it and rowed away in the dark without being noticed. Somebody might’ve noticed a motorboat, might’ve heard it, but a rowboat?” I gestured toward the dock. “And, if they rented the thing, you won’t necessarily find it abandoned somewhere. Possibly they just returned it instead.” Taylor looked at the rental rowboats and canoes tied to the lodge’s dock. I finished my point by asking, “How far is it from the town across the lake to here?”
“I reckon it’s ‘round four miles or so,” he replied absentmindedly, still studying the watercraft.
“What if they rented a boat, say, from the lodge here on the pretext of fishing, then rowed across in broad daylight on Thursday? Nobody’d pay any attention to them–just another group of happy anglers, trying their luck. So they rowed over to a pre-positioned car. Nobody’d give any notice to the car either since, I assume, folks park along the lake to fish or whatever all the time.” I paused to let my notion sink into the sheriff’s brain. “It’d be a simple matter to tie the boat up to a tree or something and return to the spot after their heist. Then ditch the getaway car under cover of darkness and row back over here.”
I paused to let my notion sink into the sheriff’s brain.
Taylor gave me a cynical look. “But in the dark? It’s a grand theory, shamus, but that’s all it is. You–”
“First, the lights on the porch there would make a great beacon at night if they had their bearings to begin with, even at four miles. What if I told you I was sitting up on that balcony at two o’clock Friday morning and saw three men row to the dock and come up to the lodge?”
“What?” He paused, thinking. I waited. “Well, what makes you think they weren’t just out fishing?”
“When they came up the footpath from the dock, the only fishing equipment they were carrying was creels. Now I’m not a fisherman, but do you leave your rods and reels and tackle just sitting in a boat anybody has access to?”
“And that was early Friday mornin’. They’re long gone by now!” he harrumphed.
“Uh-uh. The three I’m referring to are still here. I saw them at breakfast just a little while ago. And that’s their Auburn over there,” I declared, pointing. “They’re still inside, as far as I know.”
“Hell’s bells!” This time there was no apology to Agnes, who squeezed my arm. “Are you sure about what you saw Friday mornin’?” I nodded assertively. Taylor glanced around, apparently strategizing. His face darkened and the muscles in his jaw stood out like I-beams. He turned to me. “I can’t get hold of my closest deputy for help. The other two are mindin’ the store over in Fairview. To be honest, I don’t cotton goin’ up against three armed men alone unless I absolutely have ta.”
Trouble was in the works. Concerned things might break wrong, I told Corbett to take the LaSalle down the highway to a country store we’d passed driving in Thursday afternoon, park there, and stay put. “Get a Coca-Cola or something and stay there ‘til I come for you,” I instructed.
When the sheriff heard my directions, he grabbed her arm. “Wait!” Barney said in a stage whisper. “I need her to do something for us first.” Us? “I can’t go inside without maybe starting a dustup with the outlaws. That’s something I want to avoid with guests, maybe caught in the middle. And I need you, Tanner, with me in case the gang comes out.” He took Agnes by both arms and spoke directly to her. “Listen, go inside and quietly speak with the manager, Glendon Archer. Have you met him?”
My protective nature stepped in. “Yeah, we met him briefly when we checked in.”
The lawman kept his eye contact with my girl. “Okay. Good. Go in and tell him I sent you to use the phone in his office. In his office. Got it?” She nodded her understanding. “That’ll keep you from bein’ overheard. Have him contact my office in Fairview for you. Tell Deputy Haney to get Donnie Manley’s speedboat and get the hell over here as quick as he can. Tell him I think I got the bank robbers cornered. Got it?”
Again, Agnes nodded vigorously with an ironic smile on her lips. She always showed an interest in my line of work and had, occasionally, asked to work a case with me. I’d kept her at a distance from my racket. The woman probably figured this was as close as she’d ever get. The strawberry blonde was in heaven. She trotted across the parking area, up the steps, and inside. A few minutes later, she reappeared and moved in our direction. “Haney’s on his way,” she breathed from the corner of her smiling mouth as she passed us on the way to my crate. Corbett acted as if she were Mata Hari, passing along a state secret to an espionage contact. I smiled at the fact she was having fun and would be out of harm’s way.
“Haney’s on his way,” she breathed from the corner of her smiling mouth as she passed us on the way to my crate.
As the LaSalle moved off, Taylor turned to me. “It’ll take Haney the better part of an hour to get here if he can find Manley. I may not have an hour. Tanner, you willin’ to be deputized for a little while?”
Now came the us he’d mentioned a short time before. But I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. What do you want me to do, sheriff?”
“I don’t think we have time for you to go get your heater. Instead, I need you to get one of the robbers out here. Just one. I’ll deal with them one at a time if I can. Think you can do that? Get ‘em out to their car, maybe. I’ll be waitin’ just ‘round the corner of the building to waylay ‘em.”
“Sure. If it works, he’ll be the mug right behind me. The second fella,” I emphasized. The big guy deputized me, and I loped away.
Inside, I saw no one in the lobby area. I stuck my head in the dining room. Two couples were finishing late breakfasts. Where I’d last seen him, the Teddy Roosevelt look-alike sat alone, lingering over a cup of coffee. Starting with the man and woman closest to the door, I made my play. “Excuse me, but do you own the gray Auburn sedan out in the lot?” I asked loud enough for the mustached goon to hear me. After a negative reply, I moved on to the pair at the next table. “Excuse me, but do you–?”
“Hey, mister! That’s my car. Is there a problem?” he called out.
I walked over to him to keep the conversation as quiet as possible. “Yeah. Somebody just ran into it. Did some heavy damage to the front end.” I chose the part of his car he couldn’t see from the lodge’s porch. “The jerk tried to take off, but my pal and me stopped him. He–”
The thug jumped up from the table. Taking the lead, I hustled through the lobby and out the door. My target was three paces behind me. Just as I hit the bottom step leading to the parking lot, I turned back to our mark. Sheriff Taylor eased around the corner of the building and crashed the butt of his Colt .45 Peacemaker on the side of the guy’s head. Hard. The hooligan dropped as though he were an old-growth tree.
Sheriff Taylor eased around the corner of the building and crashed the butt of his Colt .45 Peacemaker on the side of the guy’s head.
“Jeez,” I exclaimed, stunned at the force the lawman had used, “that was pretty fierce!”
“Too bad for him,” he muttered, throwing his voice over his shoulder like a length of rope. “‘Cause I don’t aim to have no shootout like the Feds had with Dillinger’s gang at that lodge in Wisconsin.” Taylor turned and straddled the prone man’s body. He gave me a hard up-from-under look as he bent over him. “You damned well better be right about this, Tanner! Or you’re gonna owe us both apologies. And the one to me might have to come through cell bars.” He rolled the man over. “Well, hell! It’s just what I suspected!”
“What?”
“This here’s a local hoodlum! Name’s Eddie Cochrane. Small-timer, but mean as a snake. Hell, he’d start a fight in an empty hearse. Likely the one who shot Luke, too, I reckon.” Barney pulled a roscoe from Cochrane’s waistband under his jacket and slid it into his coat pocket. After a pause, he asked, “What d’you say the other name you heard was?”
“Mick or Mickey.”
“Makes sense. This fool runs around with another punk named Mickey Barrow. He’s almost as nasty as this idgit. C’mon, help me get Eddie outta sight.” As an afterthought, he cautioned, “We gotta be as careful with Mickey.”
We carried the unconscious man and laid him next to a tall woodpile, where Taylor handcuffed him. Just as we started to return to the porch, a second robber appeared with a load of suitcases. Taylor ducked behind the stacked wood. “That’s Mickey!” he murmured excitedly. “I can’t let him see me! Might be gunplay! You gotta take him!” The lawman more or less shoved me in his direction.
I felt naked without my gat and didn’t have time to ask my companion for Cochrane’s gun. So I quickly improvised. Stepping around the pile and grabbing an armful of small logs, I walked in Mickey’s direction. He turned toward me as if startled by my sudden appearance. “Just stoking the lobby fireplace,” I chuckled.
“Oh, yeah,” he answered, relaxing. “A tad bit on the chilly side this mornin’.”
As he turned toward the Auburn, I dropped all but one log and slammed it across the base of his skull. He staggered and pitched forward onto the leaves and dirt, out cold. Barney joined me. “Good job, Tanner. Let’s stack him with Cochrane and get the last of ‘em.”
When we knelt to pick up Barrow, the third member of the gang appeared on the porch. The sheriff drew his weapon as fast as I’d ever seen Buddy Roosevelt, Tom Mix, or William S. Hart do. The bandit squealed, dropped the suitcases he was carrying, and threw his hands high above his head in the universal posture of submission. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
The sheriff drew his weapon as fast as I’d ever seen Buddy Roosevelt, Tom Mix, or William S. Hart do.
Barney took him into custody as the sound of a motorboat, running full bore, came to us over the water. Deputy Haney had made better time than Barney figured. Shortly, the lanky deputy joined us and cuffed Mickey and the third bandit.
After Taylor and Haney loaded the three into the sheriff’s car for the drive to Fairview, they frisked the men’s luggage. The lawmen found the bank’s cash and more firearms. Taylor decided they’d come back for Manley’s boat later. He wanted Deputy Haney with him on the ride back around the lake.
The lawmen and the outlaws filled the official car, so I rode its running board down the road until we found the LaSalle parked at the country store. Sheriff Taylor dropped me off after getting the information to contact me back in the city in the event they needed me to testify at a trial. He thanked me with a firm handshake and, as a parting gesture, revoked my deputy’s status with a chuckle.
Inside the store, I found Agnes playing checkers with an old man while two others watched. The proprietor scrutinized the game from behind a counter. She glanced up at me before returning to the board. “Are you ready to head back to the room?” I asked. “Jack’s waiting for us there.”
“Almost finished,” she answered without looking up.
“Yeah, young feller, take her with you,” one of the older men, sporting what appeared to be a civil war kepi hat, laughed. “She’s too good at this here game. Beat the tar outta both a us. I figger she’s on her way to beatin’ Aloysius there, too.”
When her last jump finished the game, Agnes stood triumphantly, grinning. “Next time we’ll play for money, fellas.”
The men scoffed at the idea, but smiled and pleasantly said goodbye to the lady.
* * *
We returned to the lodge to finish our romantic interlude, as they say in the dime novels. Agnes still had time to arrange for sandwiches from the lodge’s kitchen for the picnic she’d planned. A cool afternoon on the rock formation passed under a cloudless sky. During that time, we saw Deputy Haney traveling back over the lake toward Fairview in Manley’s motorboat.
On Sunday, I rented a rowboat and gave my girl a grand tour of the lake’s shoreline–at least as far as I could manage rowing the damned thing and still figure to get back to the dock. Then we drifted on the water and talked until I felt rejuvenated enough to row us back. We had a swell time.
I rented a rowboat and gave my girl a grand tour of the lake’s shoreline.
Monday, Agnes’s birthday, the frail said she just wanted “to laze around.” We walked the trail along the shore in the opposite direction from the one we’d taken several days earlier. At one point, we saw the country store through the trees. It was across the road from Lake Mohkihtanwi. Agnes said she was thirsty and wanted a soda. So we walked through the woods and across the road to the joint. As we ambled, I accused her of only wanting to stir up the old timers again. She didn’t reply, just shot me a mischievous grin over her shoulder. Inside, the same men populated the place. When they saw my lover, they feigned aggravation before smiling and giving her hugs. But they steadfastly refused rematches with her.
As I suspected, Agnes forgot all about being thirsty and had fun chats with the elderly men. Back at the lodge, we parked our backsides in two Adirondack chairs on the balcony and whiled away the day, sipping and being lost in small talk. Here’s to little old Jack Daniels!
That night, we had the special meal I’d arranged with Mr. Archer for Agnes’s birthday. Afterwards, we spent the night, as we had the other nights since Thursday, in “carnal rapture,” as my lover described it.
Tuesday morning, we started an uneventful trip back to the city and took up our humdrum lives again. Agnes seemed to have enjoyed our time together. And I damned sure did!
Who said I was too old for the girl? ©