Chapter XXVI - Homing In

2011, Sligo

Jed skypes Kathy again. Her outline appears on Jed’s PC monitor, a bit blurred with her facial images jumping around the screen because of satellite signal strength variations. As expected, Kathy is on a cell phone connection.

“Hi Kathy. I got your e-mail. You say you’re in Minneapolis today, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Just picked up some stuff from the Historical Society for my own drab project. I wondered if I could check anything out for you regarding that melancholy Horace guy and his family.”

“Perfect timing, Kathy, as always. I was thinking about giving you a call. Could you get over to the state library and dig out some 1930’s street directories for me? The online collection is missing a multitude of pages. And check if any electoral rolls have been preserved. I’ll even pay you this time, girl.”

“That’s the idea, Jeddy-boy. I gotta feed the kids somehow. Gimme the names you’re after.”

“Check the 1932 editions through to 1938, say. We’re looking for folks called ‘O'Hara,’ either ‘Sabrina’ or ‘James E.’ He could be listed under ‘James Ellis’ or even ‘M. E.’ or any combination of initials.”

“Slow down. Sounds weird. ‘J. E. O'Hara’ or ‘M. E. O'Hara?’ You obviously ain’t too sure of your facts. Poor research, Jed. Poor research,” Kathy mocks as she takes notes.

Jed decides not to even attempt to explain the long drawn-out research trail of the last few weeks. It has become more like a giant garden maze. He has traversed for decades along promising paths, some covering a great geographical distance. Then he had hit an impenetrable barrier of improbability, and had to cautiously make his way back, ensuring that every side-alley had been thoroughly investigated.

“Check out the cities of Minneapolis or St. Paul, and some surrounding counties.”

“Can you be any vaguer? It’s a metropolis, you know. It’s not some quaint old Irish village with a population of a hundred and one, plus a coupla donkeys.”

“Oh, you mean ‘Ballygobackwards’? I know it. It’s the capital of Fantasy Island. Don’t be condescending, Kathy. We’ve just got a digital jukebox in the village pub, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Have you got my old favorite song Paddy McGinty’s Goat on there?” Kathy always tosses in the last friendly insult.

“I give up. You doing this for me, or not?”

Jed resists doing his little jig of Irish dancing for Kathy because the skype connection is threatening to evaporate completely.

“Don’t worry, Jed. I got my mobile scanner with me. I’ll just copy all the old directory pages featuring O'Hara listings. You can sort out who’s who. Ten dollars a page, okay?”

“Okay. Okay, Kathy. Don’t go mad, though. Ireland’s in a recession too you know.”

 

Early September 1937, St Paul

Charlie, an angry Iowa bookie, shows up at the re-opening of the Green Lantern, a post-Prohibition saloon bar in St. Paul. The tackily refurbished drinking establishment is the latest acquisition in Jack Dineen’s expanded entertainment empire. It is a sort of shrine dedicated to the former owner, Jack’s infamous criminal compatriot, Dapper Dan Hogan. Years ago, through the bloody mists of racketeering time, Jack and Danny were rivals. Then they came to a sensible Irish agreement, and inter-gang peace reigned—“You don’t step on my turf, and I won’t take what’s yours.”

That was before Danny became the victim of the world’s first car bomb back in ‘28. Dapper Dan lost a leg and a lot of blood in the explosion. It was telling that Police Chief O’Connor was the first in line to donate blood for a series of critical transfusions. Then the Chief ordered all his constables to join the queue. Dan lasted a night or two, but a new and younger Irish mob moved on to his patch before the funeral mass reached Holy Communion. Chief O’Connor was justified in his anxiety. The younger thugs were more ruthless than Dan, and he had been feared everywhere west of Chicago. For a while, back then, Dineen was out of control.

Carlos Ferreira wants to have a word with the club and saloon owner, Jack. He’s an old acquaintance, firmly on first name terms. Charlie is welcomed into an exclusive VIP booth. He tells Jack he's on the look-out for a dumb guy called “Merrill Harrison” who's not been seen in Mason City for six months or more. He has some serious gambling debts. The bookie has been recently reminded that Merrill once had an affair with a young country girl called “Sabrina” who settled in St. Paul. This relationship seemed to last, on and off. The mobster is very interested in this tale. He, too, knows Merrill as it happens. Dineen has his own “Most Wanted” list, and Merrill seems to have been a permanent fixture in the Top Twenty for five years now.

Jack explains, “I have a big score to settle with that jerk. Your reckless gambler Merrill only paid our firm a deposit for the job of scaring a weakling real estate guy called Horace. This sad guy tried to leap from a window instead of accepting a fair beating, so Horace ends up dead. We covered up for Merrill, so he owes us big-time.”

Charlie chips in, “Ungrateful little shit.”

“Yeah, exactly. He knows the score. He got a full-blown hit and walked away scot-free. Never showed up to show his gratitude. But there’s more, Charlie.”

“I’m all ears.”

The mobster elucidates why he feels so bitter about Merrill—about the fact that “this Horace guy was sat on an inheritance fund worth millions, so Merrill probably got a big pay-out and blew it on his gambling habit.” In return, Charlie reveals the four-figure sum owed to him which Merrill had just laughed about when Charlie had pretended to be a printing client and caught him unawares on the phone a good while back.

“He just needs finding, Jack.”

“You sure, Charlie? Has he got the folding green stuff?” The Minnesota entrepreneur and the Iowa bookmaker team up.

 

2011, Sligo, After Midnight

Jed is alone in his dark office with just a corner desk lamp illuminating the scene. A flickering monitor screen intermittently lights his face. He appears to be talking to himself, or maybe to the computer: “She’s still there. ‘1934. Apartment 5, San Juan Apartments, St Paul.’ “

Jed is impatient, putting out yet another cigarette. “Come on. Come on Kathy.” His PC bleeps: a third e-mail has arrived. “Yes!” Another message complete with electronic images fills his inbox. “More Minnesota city directory listings—in Sabrina’s name again. 1936 …‘1425 3^rd Avenue South, Minneapolis…Secretary.’ “

After another irritatingly long pause, Jed rushes to open and read yet another e-mail from Kathy, “And 1937…Sabrina in Minneapolis again…‘Secretary for MN Emergency Department.’ ”

The PC beeps again a short while later. It’s just e-mail text from Kathy‘s address. No images attached. Jed reads aloud, “That’s it. Nothing in ‘38 onward. No voters lists. No more Sabrina. No mention of a James O'Hara either. I’ll send through the extra scans—but it’s $60 worth of nothing. Sorry.”

Jed rubs his bleary eyes. He suddenly looks very tired, drained to the point of exhaustion. He stares at an almost-full moon out of the office window, which lights up his garden as it appears from behind a cloud and rises above the hillside. Needing some fresh air, he slips quietly out the front door. Jed stands in the middle of his large front lawn. The only sound to be heard is the steady rush of water tumbling over the rocks of the mountain stream. Jed starts talking manically to the moon, in a feigned American accent: “I’m coming up your street, Merrill; nearly on your doorstep. You wanna ‘fess up, buddy? D’ya think I believe that bull about Horace jumping from a second story window, as high as my bedroom there, huh?”

He looks up at where Sue is trying to sleep, missing her human comfort blanket. Jed’s eyes are focused on the window ledge. “You can’t kill yourself from that height, man. Think I’m stupid? And another thing, Catholic boys like Horace don’t get cremated. I got the full coroner’s report now. What ya’ hiding, punk?”

Sue thought that she heard foreign voices over by the river. It was a warm night. The top window pane is open for a reason. “D’ya push him, Merrill; d’ya push him? I won’t tell no-one. This story will be our secret. Okay, Merrill?”

 

 

Chapter XXVII – Background Research

 

September 1937, Minneapolis

The Mob have their own way of doing things. In an alternative world, top gangsters would have made excellent detectives. If Dineen was Chief Inspector, then Joey Welsh would have been his trusted sergeant.

Sabrina O'Hara had been tracked down. So far, it had not been too difficult for Joey to suss out. Merrill’s ex-girlfriend was listed in last year’s City Directory, in the Minneapolis edition. This publication was to make its way to the local state library reading room many years later. For now, it was the most contemporary way of getting a colleague’s business contact details, or tracing former neighbors who had moved across town.

On and off, Sabrina had no fixed residence. She was ashamed of her itinerancy, but proud of her respectable employment in the state government buildings dotted around the city. As a compromise, Sabrina volunteered her brief personal details to the Polk’s Directory man when he was permitted to ask all the Minnesota public servants to contribute to his compilation. Sabrina listed her job title, employer, and workplace address, but left the residence section blank. She knew that this section would be obsolete in a matter of weeks. Why bother?

Joey made his way over to Sabrina's office block late in the afternoon. On demand, he could be the most charming of hoodlums. He sweet-talked the pretty girl on the front desk into allowing him to sit in the side-room reception area. He claimed that a mutual friend had a gift for Sabrina, but “the dope’s lost her home address.”

“I think she moved house recently,” says the girl.

“That‘s right. She gave my friend the new address, but you know how you misplace these scraps of paper. Did you ever give your address to a boy, and he never called round? That‘s what happens—but he‘s the loser.” The girl giggles, fluttering her eyelids. The flirting receptionist says that Sabrina is being considered for a big secretarial promotion.

“Really? She’s a bright thing, ain’t she? Don’t let me keep you. Go back to your desk. Just point her out for me when she comes down the stairs to go home. Don’t spoil the surprise though; I’ll catch her in the street. Wouldn’t want to make her jump.” The reception girl makes a slow walk back to the main desk, accentuating the sway of her hips. She hopes that Joey might ask for her address.

Sabrina is followed home. She collects Paul from a neighbor up the street serving as a nanny. Then her apartment block is watched for a few hours. Much later on, at night, the mob look-out sees Merrill from a distance, but he looks much older than he appeared at Dineen’s club five years back in 1932. The look-out had never spoken to Merrill face to face. He had just hovered in the background when Merrill was absorbed in card games. It doesn’t help that Merrill has grown a moustache, and cropped his thick hair, but the experienced watching gangster had been warned to be aware of possible image changes. The look-out is not absolutely convinced it's Merrill, but his quarry would not get off the hook quite so easily.

Ten minutes after Merrill disappears up the apartment entrance’s stone steps, the look-out approaches other residents, coming and going from the building under surveillance. When questioned, one neighbor says the old guy is Sabrina's father, “as far as I know.” Another inebriated local resident staggers out of a small bar at the top of the street and heads towards the prowling mobster. On the off-chance that this drunkard might have conversed with the grey-haired man on the second-floor, he is not discounted from the secret investigation. “Yeah, I had a drink with him once. Told me he used to be a-hic-composslitter. I mean compositor. Sorry, Mack, I gotta go lie down.” The slurring drunk bounces off a wall and vanishes behind a ground-floor door. The mob foot-soldier decides to report back to base. They now know that Sabrina has a male housemate, and that this cagey man will not be running anywhere fast, unless provoked.

“Good work, Tony. Get your guys to watch that place discreetly, day and night.” Jack Dineen is happy with the first day’s research progress. “We gotta get proof somehow though that the guy in Sabrina's cave is definitely Merrill. Certainly sounds like it, if we can trust the drunk.”

But more importantly, wise old Jack already knows that he needs a sure-fire way to line the mob’s pockets with cash if Merrill is to be exposed or executed.

 

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September 1937, St Paul, Dineen’s Night Club

Charlie the Bookie has been invited over for an underworld meeting. The mood at the club is calm. Whilst waiting for Jack’s delayed arrival, Charlie takes up the challenge of a game of Stud Poker. Eventually, a line of tall henchmen breeze into the room. Charlie spots the smaller and stockier Jack in the middle of the group, and calls out a greeting.

“Deal me in, boys,” says Jack, pulling up a seat. “Good to see-ya, Charlie. Guess what, I’ve just been taken for a few drives by Sabrina’s place. It’s him, my friend. I seen him. Definitely our Merrill, crawling the streets of Minneapolis. And he has a print workshop down by the factories.”

“What ya gonna do next, Jack?”

“I already done it. I had to clear the way. Been down to see that gypsy Kid Cann. Merrill’s living on the Jew-boys’ patch. We can’t go into Minneapolis all guns blazing.”

“What’d the Kid say?”

Jack turns a playing card and throws it across the table in disgust. “He understands, Charlie. Merrill took out his little contract on our turf, not his. He owes us, and half of your fellow-citizens by the sound of it. Anyway, we got the green light, but he wants a small cut ....which is only to be expected.”

The cards are stashed when Joey gets lucky with a royal flush, and scoops up a few crumpled dollar bills. Jack reveals what is really on his mind: “We still got the big problem though. If we just finish Merrill off, we get nothing except the satisfaction of removing another scumbag from our streets. He owes big-time, so we need to find someone who’d pay handsomely for the hit. But even if we get that far, we then gotta prove we’ve hunted down the right man. Merrill’s been in and out of Minnesota pretending to be ‘Jim O'Hara.’ No-one’s gonna pay big for any look-alike corpse.”

Jack eyes up the listeners in his inner circle. All of them stare blankly. It’s a deep problem, and no bright ideas are forthcoming. Then he turns to Charlie: “Tell me anything else you know about Merrill Harrison. Anything.”

“Well, he once married and divorced Steve Conway’s widow. You know, the rich newspaper man from down our way.”

“Any angle there?”

“Wouldn’t think so, Jack. She’s straight as a die, and in bad health these days. Anyhow, her lawyers clawed back everything she’d given him. Merrill’s assets were seized and sold.”

Jack curses, but wants more, “Anything else?”

“The biggest mess he got himself into was when this young broad Sabrina tried to sue him. So it hit all our local papers. Merrill has a daughter the same age. Two, in fact. But she didn‘t go through with it.”

“What was the charge?”

“You’ll love this…’failing to marry her.’ ”

The younger gangsters all begin to cackle. “Randy old devil.” “Yeah, wanted his cake but wouldn’t commit.”

When the laughter dies down, Charlie casually continues, “and not paying the maintenance for her kid.”

“What, Charlie? Are you saying that kid with Sabrina is Merrill’s? He’s the father?”

“Appears that way. He denied it at first. I thought you knew.”

“Joey here tells me that the boy is called ‘Paul.’ Aged about five or so. It’s gotta be the same kid. Well, well, well. A happy little family, eh?”

 

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1937, St Paul, County Registrar’s Office

Joey, the sweet-talking hoodlum, is chatting up a different office girl. This one is not as young or pretty as the Emergency Department receptionist. The County Registrar’s principal clerk is rather plain and sad-faced. Today, Joey has chosen a much shabbier outfit as his working uniform. His clothing might help him in more ways than one. Joey hopes that his spiel will get the same positive result as it did over at Sabrina’s office, except he does not fancy ending up in bed with the targeted frumpy lady stood before him.

He spins a yarn that he is Sabrina's father from Iowa, and that he plans a surprise visit to see his “grandson Paul.” He says that he’s almost certain it’s the boy’s fifth birthday in the fall, but he “can't remember the date.” Joey half-whispers, “You see, me and Sabrina don't see eye to eye. Long story.” Other junior Vital Record clerks are flitting around in the open-plan office.

After trawling through a filing cabinet over in the corner, the head girl returns and declares, "Here he is: ‘Paul O'Hara.’ Oh dear, Mr. Rourke, you missed his birthday by a few months. He was born on—“

The ersatz father interrupts and asks if perhaps he could have a copy of the birth certificate, “so that I will never forget Paul's birthday again.”

The rebuke is swift. “That‘s not permitted, Mr. Rourke. Only the parents can request a signed duplicate copy.”

Joey expands his sob story, about how he‘s not seen Paul since he was a baby, and his very sick wife has never seen him at all: “She was in hospital when he arrived. Truth is, she’s dying now, and stuck back on the farm in Iowa. I guess she would die happy even if she just saw a copy of her grandson’s birth certificate.”

The sad tale has appealed to the clerk’s sensitive nature. Joey had more than hoped it might. Yesterday, Joey’s sidekick had learned that the principal clerk had only just returned to work after nursing her cancer-stricken father to the end. Across the desk, the eyes of Joey’s latest conquest are darting around the room. The now glassy-eyed and receptive clerk silently slips Joey a spare carbon copy from the file and ushers him out of the building.

 

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Early October 1937, St Paul, Dineen’s Club, Jack’s Backroom Office

A long interstate phone call is in progress. “Charlie, we now got paper-proof that James Ellis O'Hara, a small-time Minneapolis printer, is Iowa’s most-hated man Merrill Harrison. So we can push ahead with the rest of the plan.” The Mob leader tells Charlie more about other events back in 1932—over and above Paul’s birth, and Horace’s death a fortnight later.

He commences a convoluted tale about how he became acquainted with the respectable Black Widow, Mary Novak Forster. His brighter gang members had discovered that Mame, the Black Widow, must have been behind the attack on Horace all along. “Mame was a co-signatory with Horace to a massive bank account. She wanted the frighteners put on Horace, and she got Merrill to do her dirty work.”

Jack continues, “Then, remember how Merrill panicked about Horace's ‘suicide’ and ran away from St Paul? Well, with both of them gone, Mame steam-rolled her way into becoming sole guardian of the Forster millions. This fund held in the name of a legally insane old aunt called ‘Edith.’ The widow could then help herself to the big money, see? She‘d been pilfering thousands for years.”

“Got it, so far,” Charlie was enthralled.

“Well, back then, I got my accountant Nathy to call on the Black Widow for a cozy chat. Nathy tells Mame that Merrill is threatening to blackmail everyone, including her, about possible involvement in Horace's little accident. Pure baloney. We told the widow that there had been witnesses, but they could be silenced. She was scared that she’d lose the fund guardianship if investigations got messy. So she agreed to support the ‘melancholy suicide’ verdict, which the local media guys were asking awkward questions about.”

“What did you get in return, really?” Charlie knew there was more to it than that. Jack and his fellow mob-godfathers virtually owned the Minnesota police and press rooms.

“Ha! For a dirty robbing bookmaker, you ain’t dumb, Charlie.” The put-down is taken in good heart by the Iowa man.

Jack tells all, just as it happened. “Okay, we asked Mame what her deal was, with Merrill. He wouldna come round my place if it wasn’t worth employing a professional heavy. It turns out that Horace was in line to inherit a quarter of the Forster Fund when Aunt Edith died, as was Merrill‘s family. The rest would go to Mame in a roundabout way—but Merrill knew about something which threatened to reduce Mame‘s share.”

Charlie grasps the basic storyline, “So Mame had no choice but to team up with Merrill.”

“Spot on, Charlie, and it transpires that Merrill needed quick money. He’s a distant relative of the Black Widow through marriage. Mame told him that he would get no cash from Aunt Edith’s fund whilst this strait-laced Horace was in good health, as she put it. Horace was trying to do things by the book. No rackets, nothing.”

Charlie is then told that Mame decided to “encourage“ Horace to give up his inheritance fund management, “say, through ill-health—and that‘s where Merrill comes in.” Mame promised to make Merrill the direct beneficiary of his deceased wife's share of the Forster money. “She even had a draft legal agreement all neatly written up. Geddit? The money belonged to Merrill’s dead wife, through her aunt, but it was rotting away in a trust fund. Merrill needed the dough in ‘32 or as soon as. At any cost.”

“Well, he had a second family to support, didn’t he?” Charlie observes. “Go on ...”

Charlie hears that Jack’s accountant had studied the terms of the written agreement. Mame had ensured that no legal wrong-doing could be pinned on her, and Merrill was desperate for any piece of paper which confirmed his direct entitlement to an inherited nest egg. Merrill could use the agreement to secure advance loans until the nest egg materialized. Jack explained that there was a clear condition though—Merrill would only get his full share if Edith died naturally before Merrill, and there was a time limit. “The agreement ceases when his youngest daughter Laura becomes a legal adult at age twenty-one.”

Charlie is getting a little lost. “I can set fast odds, but I ain’t no lawyer. What’s all that about?”

“That’s how these things work, Charlie, when wealthy bachelors or spinsters have dough, then pass on. Rich families’ money goes to the siblings, but Edith has no brothers or sisters. So her millions goes to nephews and nieces or the younger generation kids when they’re twenty-one, unless there’s a will or legal document saying otherwise. Mame has a couple of her own kids in line for the lion’s share—but she wants the lot, and back then, the legal inheritance deal was that Horace and Merrill’s family were going to take a big slice of the pie.”

It’s starting to make more sense to the bookmaker: “Ah, I see. Horace is gone. The Black Widow gets her filthy hands on more. Just Merrill and his kids left. So she uses the lure of Edith’s money to pay off Merrill with a lump sum, and keep him quiet about any other transgressions. Crafty lady.”

“You’re getting it, now. And she gambled that Edith wouldn’t die before Merrill’s kid turned twenty-one. When the time limit’s up, Mame can argue in court that Merrill signed away his kids’ entitlement to inheritance. She‘s probably kept some evidence of small pay-outs to Merrill to keep him quiet, and to confound the legal guys as to who‘s had what in advance.”

“Jack, I know Merrill. I s’pose he thought Edith would croak in no time. He’s a piss-poor gambler.”

“Yeah, and mugs place stupid bets after being fed false information. You know that too. The Black Widow took Merrill for a ride. She laid it on thick about Edith being in and out of mental hospitals most of her life, and about how this crazy aunt was always stabbing herself, trying to do herself in. Mame told him that Edith was always picking up serious infections. Merrill had never even met Aunt Edith. Mame told Merrill that Edith was at death’s door on the day he virtually signed his inheritance away. Ha, our Mame would make a great gun moll.”

“So, Jack, how you going to get our money back?”

“Well now—I sent Nathy, my accountant, downtown today to see our company attorney. He went to discuss the terms of this neat agreement between Mame and Merrill. The attorney reckons that the time limit bit about the daughter reaching twenty-one won’t wash. Mame will still have to give Merrill’s girls their share—if they wise up and get a good lawyer.”

“And that jerk Merrill wouldn’t hesitate to egg them on and then rob his own family,” says Charlie.

“Maybe, but hear this. My attorney swears that the Harrison girls will get nothing unless they can prove that their father outlived Edith. Otherwise, a Probate Judge will argue that Merrill possibly took the Harrison’s share as guardian of the girls due to this prior agreement with Mame. The legal guys call it a ‘Cross Guardian Contract.’ And if Merrill dies within the time limit of the agreement, then the Harrisons claims are null and void, my friend.”

“Holy Moses, Jack! Are you saying Merrill’s gotta be taken off the streets before Laura’s twenty-first birthday—if Mame’s going to benefit?”

“Exactly. Joey’s done some checking around. This Edith is still alive. And guess what? Laura is twenty-one in just a few weeks’ time. So naturally, I’m going to ask Mame what she thinks about a lowlife called Jim O'Hara just ‘passing away,’ no questions asked. We don’t give two dimes about any other secrets that Mame is hiding. I reckon that the devious old Black Widow might like the idea. She’s done a few property deals with me since Horace was cremated. Bumping off Merrill might just trigger a few more transactions, and we can negotiate our cut of any Forster dough that was due to Merrill or his daughters.”

The interstate criminals laugh away the rest of their phone call. Jack replaces the receiver in St. Paul and strides into the adjoining bar-room. “Drinks on the house tonight!” he broadcasts out loud. The regulars worship the ‘guvnor’ and would do anything for him.

 

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Late October 1937, Minneapolis, The Forster Mansion

The Black Widow is berating her daughter Teresa, “What do you mean, Edith still won’t sign the paperwork? That daft old bitch. Only you and Leo ever visit her. We’re her family. Does she want to give half her estate away to those Harrison girls—a couple of Iowa college kids who don’t even know what she looks like? After all the investing I’ve done on her behalf. It just proves she’s round the bend.”

Jack’s accountant, Nathy, had recently contacted Mame to let her know that her 1932 agreement with Merrill Harrison had a loop-hole. He was testing the waters, and Mame reacted furiously on the phone. Nathy calmly advised that his associates had a “solution” for her, but she slammed the phone down saying that her personal matters were nothing to do with the Mob. She then attempted to sort things out herself by soft-soaping Aunt Edith with a spate of Forster family reunions. Mame and Edith had talked about the past with fondness; all the gory details were conveniently forgotten. The Black Widow kept emphasizing how much her children, Teresa and Leo, adored their favorite aunt.

Now, Mame knew she had to relent. The doorbell is heard chiming. A housekeeper announces that Mr. Dineen has arrived for his appointment. The Black Widow tells Teresa to “go shopping, or something.” Jack is shown in as Teresa speedily departs.

“Ah, Mr. Dineen. Welcome. I hear that your new club is all the rage. You got a bargain there. I should have opted for a lease agreement. Would you like tea, or something stronger?“

“How ya doing, Mame. Nothing for me, thanks. I just want a quick chat about that matter which my accountant brought up a coupla weeks back.”

“I thought as much. Now tread carefully. Buying and selling property is one thing. Trying to muscle in on my family finances is quite another, and rather distasteful, don’t you think? Are you sure you won’t take tea with me. It’s my best oolong…very refreshing.”

Jack refuses a second time. He is itching to get to the point.

“Okay. I am prepared to listen, Mr. Dineen. We’ve always got on swell since the first sale back in ‘32. Let‘s keep it that way.”

“Mame, this is real estate business of a different kind. I won’t mince my words. How would you like Merrill Harrison to ‘disappear presumed dead’ just before Laura's twenty-first birthday?” The unveiled Black Widow shows her surprise by raising one eyebrow. A knowing look is exchanged between a highly dangerous gangster and a malevolent sixty-five year-old widow during a silent pause.

Mame remains fully poised, and eventually speaks, “The last I heard, our old acquaintance had run off to the hills. Set himself up on a farm in Montana. Best place for him—back among the horse manure he came from.”

Jack does not divulge more than the necessary, “We found him.”

The semblance of a smile tries to force its way on to Mame’s always-stern face. “Well, that news is of interest to me. So, how can I help, Mr. Dineen?”

Jack relaxes, knowing that he is approaching the final straight, “I was simply wondering if you would like to make a hefty donation to one of our Masonic charities? All tax-deductible. Why give it to the government, eh?”

The Black Widow has more than warmed to the idea. She sips her tea and casually asks how much would get rid of “the problem.” Jack proposes some figures: installments totaling over $20,000. “You in, Mame?“

A gracious silent nod tells Jack that his main proposition is approved.

“And maybe later on, we can discuss a certain piece of land you’ve been hanging on to. My accountant tells me you’ve been talking crazy money. Perhaps you’ll soften your stance when I send round some Iowa scumbag’s ID documents, and a photograph or two to burn on the fire.”

The widow cringes at the thought. She says that she doesn’t like Jack or his accountant calling round too often. “It lowers the tone of the neighborhood.” Jack takes the insult in good spirit. He is even more joyful when the darkly-dressed widow sashays across to the far side of the large room. She has decided to pay 50% of her charity donation right there—in dirty cash—out of the big safe hidden within an antique cabinet in the corner of her sitting room. Mame cranks open her big old Victor strongbox and gathers up an appropriate number of bundles. While Jack lays out the booty into his briefcase, he is taken aback to detect what appears to be a wink from the old lady.

“I would be delighted to donate the balance in a month's time, when my dear Aunt Edith might be persuaded to sell the adjoining lot to your night club—for a fair price, mind.”

“Attagirl, Mame. That lot’s no good to you. We’re lowering the tone of the neighborhood there too.”

The co-conspirators cannot help but laugh out loud, as Jack readies himself to leave.

Snootily, Mame quips, “They’ll be legalizing prostitution next. You might need some extra bedrooms.”

A fleeting ray of sunlight from the French windows is refracted around the scene by the magnificent crystal chandelier centerpiece. Jack‘s gold tooth illuminates his departing smile. The outwardly respectable Mr. Dineen cannot but help reciprocate with a wink instead of saying goodbye.