Chapter XXI - Accidents Do Happen
May 29, 1932, St Paul, Office of Horace Forster
Horace is alone and hard at work, computing figures in a ledger book. It is getting late into the evening. Horace looks at his gold watch attached to his tailored waistcoat by a heavy chain. He removes his reading glasses, and rubs his forehead. Some of the numbers do not add up. Well, they don‘t total up correctly the way Horace has presented them. He unclips the page and screws up the offending document. Tossing the unwanted paper ball into the trash bin, Horace murmurs to himself, “Start again. Do it right. Gotta be right.”
His murmurings halt when he thinks he hears the downstairs main door creak open. Then there is silence. “Must be cracking up.” Horace yawns and stretches his arms in determined readiness to start all over again.
He is not hearing things this time. Heavy footsteps clearly indicate someone running up the stairs. His office door bursts open, and a well-dressed large man is in the doorway. Horace is struck dumb, but eventually lets out a little whimper. The door is slammed shut, and the visitor calmly locks the door.
Horace’s stammer returns with a vengeance, “Er…er…who are you?”
“Don’t worry about my name. You’re Horace Forster, right?”
“Well, that’s what it says on my door”
“Don’t get smart, wise guy. You owe a friend of mine some money.”
“D-dah-d-do I?”
“Yeah, you do, and guess what—he’s sick of asking you for dough. Don’t worry, I know you won’t have too much cash in here. He just wanted to leave a calling card. So you’ll know not to mess with him next time.” As Horace trembles, the Hit Man confidently strides behind the desk and slaps Horace open-handed across the face, hard. The blow almost breaks his jaw, knocking him from his chair. Horace crawls back to his feet, dazed. Then drops to his knees, pleading for “m-m-mercy.”
The Hit Man is bemused and tells Horace to stand up so that he can give him another whack. Scared and confused, Horace does as he is asked, but staggers backwards towards his open sash window. The Hit Man approaches him swiftly and whacks him again, with a clenched fist to the back of Horace’s ear. The victim is propelled away from his attacker and grabs the side of the window frame to prevent another fall. The Hit Man keeps on coming at him and reaches out to grab Horace’s shirt-sleeved arm, yanking him forwards. Horace pulls himself free from the Hit Man’s grip and backs off to the window.
The Hit Man sneers. He is enjoying his employment. It is a game of cat and mouse, and the timid mouse is no match for the stalker. Horace glances sideways toward the open window. He weighs up his options in an instant of terror: get beaten to a pulp or use his only means of escape, the window. The thoughts of the agony of a perhaps broken ankle and falling into the lifesaving arms of a passer-by seemed appealing. Horace’s head was still throbbing with pain. He could not think straight.
In a split-second of indecision, Horace races two paces forward, wondering if he can get to the locked office door before his nemesis who is positioned behind the desk. The Hit Man covers the move straight away, reacting to Horace‘s hopeless plan and blocking his exit path. Horace freezes in blind panic but then surprises even himself by making one giant leap towards the window ledge. The Hit Man reaches out to prevent the mouse from ending the game. He has instructions from his leader, Jack, to “dislocate the weed’s shoulder or something like that.” He always delivers. The Hit Man manages to catch Horace’s trailing leg. This frantic action only succeeds in spinning Horace’s airborne body into a horizontal position. Horace disappears headfirst out of the window.
A sickening thud can be heard in the office. The Hit Man gets up off his hands and knees, having tumbled during the final melee. He looks down at the crumpled mess on the pavement below. Horace twitches on a quiet sidewalk. Blood starts to pool around his head. A last shudder of Horace’s battered body indicates that he’s drawn his last breath.
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End of May 1932, Mason City, Velo Building
Merrill unwillingly spits out a mouthful of coffee across his leather-topped desk. He had been lazily reading the morning papers, trying to avoid the auditors which he knew were around all that Monday morning. The thorough bean-counters would want to check his sales figures prior to the monthly midday board meeting. He had pulled his office blinds down to give the signal to junior staff that he was not to be disturbed. A short article in the Globe-Gazette had caused the coffee outburst. It said that another Midwest businessman had leapt to his death, after a spate of shocking suicides last week in Chicago. The reporter informed readers that this plague of misery was getting closer to home. A depressed man called Horace Forster had gone through with the ultimate act in St. Paul, Minnesota, on Saturday evening.
In a call a week ago, Merrill had been pre-warned by Mr. Dineen that his alleged payment defaulter would not be at work on Monday. Jack had said, “Give him a day or two to see a doctor, then call on him at home. Tell him to get well soon, and see if he’s found his wallet.” Jack’s cruel laugh had brought a lump to Merrill’s throat. A deal’s a deal in any business.
Merrill mops up his stained desk-top and paces around a while. He has no choice but to make the telephone call. After asking the Velo switchboard girl for an outside connection, Merrill dials the number on J. Dineen’s card. He half-covers the voice receiver with one hand, just in case an imaginary presence is trying to listen in. The relentless hubbub beyond Merrill‘s office partition continues. It is more than unlikely anyone could hear his voice even if he opened the door.
Jack accepts the call on his personal line down at his nightclub base. Merrill decides to talk cryptically fearing that the line could be tapped. He has read that telephone technology can be abused for all sorts of reasons, “Hi, Merrill. Everything okay?”
“My God, Mr. Dineen. I just heard that our contract got completed early—but the end result is not what I had in mind.”
Jack tries to assure him, “Look, Merrill, accidents happen, and this was a pure accident.”
Merrill has many questions. “But I could have you sued for wrongful undertakings. Your accident-prone associate will be wanted by the authorities, will he not?”
“I hope that’s not a threat, Merrill. Listen up and listen good. There’s been an accident, right? A real estate guy in this city committed suicide. That’s what’s in the papers. So it must be true. You just sit tight. Maybe you’ll get your money in his will.”
Merrill interrupts, “…but I’m not happy with the workmanship. Questions will be asked.”
“There’s only one question you need to answer: when are you going to pay your invoice, Merrill? Your bill has been readjusted. You now owe four grand.”
Merrill, tries not to raise his voice—“What?! Four thousand dollars. I only had less than three hundred left to pay.”
“Too bad. You actually got a much higher quality finish, whether you like it or not. That’s how we work in my industry. You pay for what you get.”
Merrill’s head is racing. He struggles to compose the appropriate response, “Even so. What about the quality inspectors? You know. The authorities.”
“That’s why you came to the experts, Merrill. Don’t you worry about any pussy-cat police. We take care of everything. And that’s why you owe four big ones. Now, we only take cash, so be sure to call in the club when you’re next in town.”
Merrill’s mouth has gone desert-dry. He can only repeat the word, “But—”
“But nothing, printer-man. We know your appointment schedule, by the way. So don’t avoid us. It gets embarrassing for everyone. We always like to see our regulars calling by. Be seeing you buddy. Don’t leave it too long.”
Merrill just has to get out of the Velo Building. In the street, he gulps in not-so-fresh city air. The Hanford Hotel looms large in the distance—a place of refuge. Merrill dashes through the lobby to the public phone booth. He is out of breath and perspiring. He had sprinted up the street from the local Velo HQ. He fears that Dineen’s mobster contacts will be asked to watch him from now on. He dials another number in St. Paul, and tries to act calm.
“Howdy, Mrs. Kennedy. Could you run up the stairs and get Sabrina to come to the phone. Thanks.”
Sabrina‘s landlady recognizes the voice. “Hold the line, Jim.”
Merrill waits impatiently, staring closely at every smartly dressed stranger buzzing around the upmarket hotel. His rudeness is not appreciated by some passers-by. At last, Sabrina comes on the line. “Hi, Dad,” she half-whispers, knowing that Mrs. Kennedy is nosily cocking an ear in her direction.
“Listen, Sweetheart. I ran into a bit of trouble trying to get that inheritance money. No, no. Don’t worry, it’s definitely on its way. I’ll tell you everything on the weekend, but don’t be answering your door to any strange-looking guys. Just stick to the story. You’re on your own, and your pop Jim often calls by at the weekend when he’s not working on the river boats. Okay?”
“What’s up…..um, Dad.?” Sabrina has to force out the last word, almost forgetting their scam immediately. She is genuinely alarmed at Merrill’s strange message. He never calls during the day, normally.
“As I said, no need to worry. A couple of guys might be snooping around because they know I’m getting the money, and I owe them a few dollars from a card game. I spoke to one of them at work today. He’s getting impatient. Nothing to worry about at all really.”
Sabrina doesn’t know what to say except that she understands. She is aware that another two female neighbors are now also listening in. New teenaged mother Sabrina is the subject of much gossip in the tenement. Her baby awakes and bawls out in a distant room. After replacing the public phone call receiver, Sabrina runs past the older mothers without saying a word.
At the same time, Merrill scurries back down the street to his workplace, with the Hanford Hotel manager studying his bizarre behavior from the hotel steps. Merrill darts up the polished staircase and bypasses his own office. He lands outside a semi-glazed door with gold lettering proclaiming that this is the room of his boss, Robert Corsair. Merrill composes himself and raps confidently on the frosted window pane, and then peers inside.
“Merrill, come in. Have you got the Minnesota and Wisconsin sales figures ready? The board meeting is only thirty minutes away.”
“Yeah, nearly done, Bob. I just wanted a word before the other guys roll in.”
“Fire away.”
Merrill pulls a chair up to his boss’s desk, “You know, I’ve done nearly two years on the road for you since the divorce. I’m getting a bit old for all this traveling around. That’s a job for the younger guys.”
Corsair looks puzzled, “So? ....”
“Any chance of a role back here? I don’t mind what it is. Accounts. Workshop manager. You name it.”
“My, my, Merrill. What’s brought this on? Two years ago, you insisted that you remain an executive manager, and the Iowa president, in title anyway. You said you wanted to get out and about again. That’s why you got the important Northern Region Sales post. Are you planning early retirement?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m just a bit tired. And the girls will be finishing college soon. They’ll need me around, and I need to find a new house for them. I can’t stay at the Hanford forever, nice and handy as it is there.”
“I see,” acknowledges Corsair.
“House prices are starting to come down in Mason. I need to be on the spot to snap up a bargain. What d’you say, Bob?”
“Are you offering to relinquish all presidential functions?”
“Yeah. Anything for a quieter life - as long as there’s no pay cut.”
“Ha! Ever the shrewd negotiator, hey, Merrill? Well, not so fast now. We can plan an amicable end to your long presidency—all positive publicity. The shareholders will demand that.”
“Whatever you say, Bob.”
“And we shouldn’t rush because we do need a local old-timer from Le Mars to front our Iowa State schools and public office contract renewals. The governor is tightening the belt with this recession showing no signs of abating. You’ve known him a long time. I’ll tell you what—you stay out of trouble on the domestic front, and I’ll try and persuade the board it’s time for a management restructure.”
“Great, Bob. You won’t regret it.”
“Merrill, you know what, I’m planning some open house days and press conferences. We’ve got to convince the major investors to stick with us. You’re going to be the voice box. Good ol’ boy Merrill. ‘Local lad made it all the way to company president.’ All that sort of stuff - but I’m writing your script. Then we’ll have to shunt you sideways. Okay?”
“Sounds fine to me, Bob. I never was any good at writing my own speeches. I always tripped up and blurted out something I shouldna have.”
“Indeed. Your off the cuff jokes offended many a customer. That’s all going to change.”
Merrill accepts the reprimand which he’s been given dozens of times before, “By the way, Bob, any chance of a small company loan? Say, four or five grand?”
Robert Corsair nearly spills his iced water, and sternly snaps back, “No, Merrill. Not after last time.”
“Please, Bob. I’ve fallen behind with some bills for the girls’ holiday home. Velo can take the cottage as security.”
“Look Merrill. You keep your nose clean for six months, and we’ll bail you out if you’re still sinking. We’re all starting to struggle a bit, but you just keep on partying. Get your priorities right. Don’t keep relying on that inheritance fund. That’s what got you into trouble the last time a few guys here invested in your schemes. Now, Merrill, go away, and come back with those sales figures.”
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1932, St Paul, Jack Dineen’s Club
The mob boss is chairing his own board meeting. “See the newspaper, there. That Horace guy was sat on a big investment fund belonging to an old dear. What was that creep Merrill trying to achieve, eh? There could be some big bucks involved here.”
The gathering of crooks all nod. Some support their respected leader’s concerns by mumbling endorsements: “Iowa jackass.” “He was takin’ you for a mug, Boss. He’ll get what’s coming.”
Jack Dineen did not get to his elevated position among the Irish criminal fraternity without plotting cautiously: “Joey, you see if you can find out about who’s taking over from Horace as the guardian of the Forster fund. You other guys—make sure anyone in that office building knew that Horace was a screwball. In fact, I’m sure that one or two poorer neighbors might even have seen him jump, get me? We don’t want the cops crawling round that place again. The Chief’s been paid off once, but the young dicks are always trying to make a name for themselves. Off you go ....”
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1932, Mason City, Merrill’s Hotel Suite That Evening
Merrill is intermittently pacing up and down, fidgeting around, and generally on edge. He eventually finds the courage to ring Sabrina again. Mrs. Kennedy says that Sabrina is “right here on the landing.”
Merrill talks quietly into the phone to Sabrina, “I got a shock today at the board meeting, honey. Corsair needs me back in Mason for a few weeks, just until some new contracts are finalized with an old friend of mine. It’s alright, though, because Bob’s given me next week off to clear up my accounts in Minnesota before a young guy covers for me, so I can spend all week with you. I won’t be over this weekend though. Corsair wants me to take the Mayor out to dinner—sort of soften him up before I go to the City Hall with the contracts next month.”
Sabrina has heard all this kind of patter before. Her heart sinks.
“Hear me out, Dearest. We might even find time for a few days at Clear Lake. Baby Paul will love the fresh air out there.”
There is no reply.
“Okay honey? Stop sniffling. We’ll be alright, you’ll see.”
2011, Sligo
Jed takes stock of progress: “The picture’s becoming a little clearer. Yer man Merrill gets a teenager pregnant in 1931. Signs baby Paul’s birth cert in 1932 in Minnesota--so he’s still in touch with the teenager. Most middle-age fellas would’ve run a mile. Then in 1933, this girl, Sabrina, is suing Merrill for not marrying her and not providing for baby Paul.”
“So they must have had a big bust-up when Merrill came to his senses, you reckon?” Sue reasons.
“Right on. But Sabrina was a gutsy lady—taking on an established businessman in his own local courtroom. No wonder she got on in D.C. when she turned up there a decade later.”
“Or it could be much sweeter. Merrill could have fallen in love with this young girl. Why else sign a paternity contract and attend the birth? Then his poor daughters, teenagers themselves, find out about Paul and what has been going on, and Merrill reluctantly calls off the whole affair.”
“That’s a typical female assessment: all romance, flowers and candle-lit dinners, eh? Huh, it was more sordid that that, I‘m sure. Sabrina was barely seventeen when she fell under Merrill’s evil spell. It doesn‘t matter; she disappears off Merrill’s radar after some kind of pay-off at the beginning of 1934, so none of this explains where Merrill was in 1935 when his Clear Lake cottage went up for sale. Then, you tell me, he shows up back at a few social gatherings in Mason City in early 1936, if we believe the Globe Gazette.”
“Don’t start doubting the old newspapers, for Christ’s sake. Surely they weren‘t as corruptible as their modern counterparts.”
Jed puts on an amusing deep voice, sounding more mystical as he finishes his sentence. “Merrill - or James O'Hara - where are you? Where did you go? Send me a sign.”
October 7, 1934, Mason City, Cecil Theatre adjoining the Eadmar Hotel
Merrill has sneaked through a side door to watch a revue featuring scantily-clad showgirls. He sits alone at the back in the darkness. There are many empty seats, but there is an eager crowd of aging gents up by the front of the stage. Part way through a dance sequence, a well-fed man wearing a dark suit and trilby suddenly sits down next to Merrill.
“What are you doing here, Charlie?” whispers Merrill, trying not to disturb other theatre-goers. The man is a well-known acquaintance, Carlos Ferreira, an infamous bookmaker in Mason City.
“Well I’m not here to watch the dancing girls, Merrill. What d’ya think? I come here looking for you.” Carlos is the eldest son of an old Italian immigrant family. The Ferreiras have been in Mason City for a few decades now. Some of the offspring had tried to muscle in on the established businesses of Irish and Jewish mobsters around the state. For their troubles, these members of the extended family were either in the Catholic graveyard or in the State Penitentiary.
Charlie and Merrill speak in low voices. “Salvador at the Hanford told me he booted you out. He’s still waiting for you to settle a large bar bill, amongst other things.”
Merrill just shrugs, “So what?”
“Well, that sorta thing worries me, and I guessed I’d find you here, at the Eadmar, not down in Missouri with the boys for the ball game. I’m just checking that you’ve put a bit of cash aside to clear your tab with me.”
“Charlie, I always square up, you know that. We go back a long way.”
“Merrill, I know of late that you’re round at my office in seconds if one of your dog track bets comes good. That sounds like a man needing the readies to me. Never used to be like that. I gotta watch your account these days. You only pay in after a lucky pay-out.”
Merrill decides to go for the Italian’s Achilles heel; a shared affliction - “Listen, Charlie, give me evens on Detroit to finish off the Cards in the World Series for everything I owe you. You can’t lose. I know you’ll set off the bet with your St. Louis buddies. If the Tigers win, my account’s cleared.”
“And what if that dirty Gashouse Gang rough up the little pussies on their home turf? They’re still favorites in my book.”
“Well ... not to worry,” Merrill assures him. “I get that Minnesota inheritance money through this month. I’ll settle up anyway. I just love taking money off you. We got a deal?”
“I dunno, Merrill. D’yah know your account has passed the one-thousand-dollar ceiling again?”
“All the more reason for you to stand a fair flutter, Charlie.”
Carlos cautions, “I tell you, Merrill. I’m watching you. I know you’re still seeing that girl in St. Paul. If you mess me up, God help you. I know some pretty unpleasant characters who operate round there, and your two college girls wouldn’t want to hear what you get up to most weekends when you‘re s‘posed to be at the ball game, would they?”
Merrill laughs off the threat. He has managed to evade the menace of the Ferreira family for almost ten years now. These Italians appeared (to Merrill) to be small-time gangsters. Carlos had even been invited to Harrison family christenings and the like. Merrill treated the Mason City mob as amateurs, after witnessing first-hand the rackets that terrorized honest traders in the Twin Cities. However, the compounded menace of Charlie ever exposing his misdeeds in St. Paul did worry Merrill intensely—but he could not show it.
“Cheers, Charlie. You’re a sport. See-yah, I need a drink next door.” Merrill exits back to his tatty digs, the Eadmar Hotel, stage right.
October 9, 1934, Mason City, Eadmar Hotel
Merrill is in his hotel bedroom, a much smaller affair than the multiple-roomed suite he occupied for years across at the Hanford. He listens to the big baseball game on a bedside radio, but he is not enjoying the transmission. With horror in his eyes, Merrill thumps the pillow. It’s the deciding seventh game of the World Series being broadcast from Detroit. The game is rough, as forecast. The Detroit Tigers have crumbled under the St. Louis Cardinals’ unyielding physical approach. The umpires are not intervening.
Merrill squats to fully comprehend what he is hearing coming over the crackly airwaves. The usually loyal Detroit crowd has turned; they are booing their own team. A commentator’s voice gives no comfort: “I’ve never seen anything like this. The game will have to be held up. Bottles are raining down in the outfield.”
The Cardinals are romping to an embarrassingly easy victory. The game ends 11-0. Many Italian families became very wealthy overnight. A new racket has arrived. The untouchable game of proud Americans will never be the same again for a long while. Remarkably, disbelieving small town folk in the Midwest didn’t cotton on for years.
Merrill goes to his compact bathroom and washes down his perspiring face and forehead. He stares at himself in the mirror, “I gotta get out of here.”