Two Wrongs

I ditched the old Pontiac down the back alley, grabbed my backpack and headed back to the old man’s house on foot. The EMTs were just loading his blanketed body into the back of the ambulance.

“What happened?” I asked a cop.

“Hit and run. What’s the world coming to when someone can run over a 98-year-old man with a walker and just drive away?”

Sue, from the agency, had called me yesterday about the job. “We need someone to take care of an old man.”

“I don’t have any experience,” I balked.

“There’s always a first time,” she answered. It’s easy money. How much trouble can an old man be?”

A young policewoman approached us from down the street.

“Neighbor called it in, Sarge. Said she heard a sound like brakes squealing and then a thump. By the time she got to the window, the vehicle was gone. The old man’s daughter, Bianca, took care of him, but she got COVID and died suddenly.”

“The only remaining kin is a granddaughter, Amanda. They had a big falling out and she moved out of state. Never came back. After her mother passed she hired a caretaker through some agency. Supposed to start today, but no one’s shown up yet.”

“Something’s bothering me,” she continued. “The neighbor said she hasn’t seen him in years. He never goes outside. Now, suddenly, he’s running around the street in his pajamas?”

The older officer shrugged. “The only reason there aren’t more 98-year-olds running around in their pajamas is because their families have the good sense to put them in a home.”

“We’re done here,” he told her. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”

“Watch yourself,” he said to me. “There are a lot of crazies out there.”

My phone rang.

“Hi, this is Amanda. I got your number from Sue.” The police hadn’t wasted any time notifying her of his death.

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry about your grandfather,” I said.

“Yeah, well, things happen.” There was no emotion in her voice.

“Listen, I need the house cleaned out so I can put it on the market. I wondered if you’d be interested. I’ll pay the same we had agreed upon for the other job.”

“Umm, yeah, I guess I can do that.” I needed the money.

“What should I do with his things?”

“His things?”

“Furniture, valuables, personal items.”

“Throw out the junk and donate the rest. If you find something you want, take it. I don’t want anything that belonged to him.”

Sue had given me a key. When I open the door, I stopped short. The house was a mess: furniture upended, drawers emptied and thrown aside. It looked like someone had been searching for something. Or perhaps some kids from one of the gangs were harassing an easy target. Whoever they were, they were gone now. The old man’s behaviour was starting to make sense.

I found a few boxes and started in the kitchen.The handful of dishes, glasses and utensils went into the box. The oven mitt and dishtowels had too many stains.

“Two points!” I said as I tossed them at the trashcan. Both fell short. Story of my life.

It was the same in the rest of the rooms. The most valuable thing I found was fourteen pennies sitting in a dish on his dresser. I scooped them into my pocket.

A small bedroom had been used as an office. The chair and rolltop desk were in decent condition. I gathered up the items on the floor. A handful of desk supplies went into the donation pile. Despite Amanda‘s instructions, I saved the scrapbook. She might change her mind.

As I slid the drawers back in place, I remembered that these old desks often had secret compartments I wondered if the vandals knew that. Sure enough, one of the smaller drawers was slightly shorter than the others. You wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it.

I pulled a hollow box out of the cavity behind it and did a little touchdown dance when I found an old skeleton key nestled inside. But what did it open? It joined the change in my pocket.

Only the living room was left. An old rocking chair faced the bay window. Despite the heavy lace curtains, there was a great view of the streets. I watched a silver SUV park behind a dark blue sedan in the next block. A school bus belched kids onto the sidewalk in the other direction. The old codger had probably spent his days watching the world come and go.

I got back to work. The table beside the rocker held an ugly lamp and a bottle of pain reliever. I tossed the Tylenol towards the trashcan. It fell short and spewed medication across the floor.

‘When will I learn?’ I asked myself as I chased a pill into the hall closet.

When I bent down to retrieve it, something seemed odd about the baseboard. It took me a moment to realize there was no molding anywhere else in the house. Why would there be trim in a closet?

A quick tug removed the panel and exposed a small opening. My phone’s flashlight revealed some kind of rodent feces and a long-abandoned spider web. I ran my fingers around the inside and almost missed the small shelf six inches above the floor.

The wooden box was surprisingly heavy. I smiled when I saw the keyhole on the brass lock and carried my treasure to the rocking chair. The key in my pocket was a perfect fit.

The edges of the black leather notebook were worn, but the quality workmanship was obvious. Each well-thumbed page started with a series of eight numbers followed by two or three letters and ending with several more numbers. There were too many digits to be phone numbers. They looked more like serial numbers or maybe bank accounts. There were so many they filled the notebook.

I puzzled over it for a while before picking up the scrapbook.

Two faded faces smiled up at me from a variety of celebrations. A wedding photo was the only picture of both of them together. So, this was the old guy in his prime. Slicked back dark hair, gold watch. His wife was a real looker.

One daughter grew through the events on the pages. A christening, a communion ceremony. ‘Happy Birthday, Bianca’, announced the candled cakes. And then, the child with a child. Another girl celebrated -Amanda. The pictures stopped when she hit fifteen.

There were a few postcards from family vacations: Disney World, the Jersey shore, and a brochure for the Poconos.

The back of the scrapbook was filled with newspaper articles, yellowed and brittle with age. The first clipping was from the Chicago Tribune in 1929 and covered the St Valentine’s Day massacre, one of the most infamous mob killings. Witnesses said the hitmen were disguised as cops. The killings were never solved.

The next page told the story of a reporter gunned down. Although a mobster was convicted of the crime, rumor had it he’d been set up and the real killer got away.

I flipped a few more pages to 1936 and read about Machine Gun Jack McGurn, another unsolved mob murder. The rest of the scrapbook chronicled a Who’s Who of mafia mysteries, including the most famous of all, Jimmy Hoffa. He had disappeared in the summer of 1975.

Something clicked. I grabbed the notebook and leafed through it until I found the right page. 07301975JH125 Hoffa disappeared on July 30, 1975. These were the initials of mob hits and the dates they occurred. I still didn’t know what the last numbers meant.

Then it hit me. People kept scrapbooks as reminders of their achievements in life, something to look back on when they got old. Just like his family photos.

‘What if the old man was the hitman for these jobs? What if I had taken out one of the greatest hitman of all time? Maybe he was The hitman, the one they called when they wanted someone to disappear and never be found.’

A chill ran through me. If my theory was right I could be in a lot of danger.

I dropped the notebook and the corner of an envelope poked out of the pages. ‘Bianca’ was scrawled across it in faded, blue ink. It had been scratched out and replaced with ‘Amanda’. I opened it.

Dear Bianca,

If you are reading this, something has happened to me. I hope it is from natural causes, but we both know the reality. Go to the spot marked on the enclosed map. Dig and you will find the chest Mama and I got on our honeymoon. You and Amanda will be well cared for. Use this to get you started. Be careful you are not followed.

Love,

Papa

The map in question had a red line outlining a trapezoid. I had seen that shape before, but where?

The scrapbook! I tore through the pages until I found the property brochure and opened it to the lot choices. I laid the hand drawn map next to the plat. They were an exact match! And stapled to the back of the brochure was the deed to 135 acres in the middle of the Pocono Mountains.

There were still unanswered questions. I read the note again.’Use this to get you started.’ What did that mean?

I grabbed the box and examined it, poking and prodding until the hidden chamber opened revealing two stacks of nonsequential, circulated bills. Untraceable 20s and 50s. Each was tightly wrapped with rubber bands and tucked under the elastic of one was a scrap of paper marked with the code 08312006AZ20. I barely breathed while I counted the bills. $20,000 AZ20. The last set of numbers must have been the price paid for the hit!

Page after page, I added up the amounts until they got so large my palms are sweating. I knew where he had hidden it all. If anybody discovered what I’d found...I shivered. I peered out the window again. Nothing had changed.

I had to move quickly. The overflowing trashcan was at the curb and I texted the number of a local junk removal company to Amanda so she could make arrangements for them to pick up the furniture. I relocked the box, stuffed it in the bottom of my backpack, and layered the scrapbook and my jacket over it.

I locked the house, dropped the key through the mail slot, and walked to a nearby bus stop. It was nearly rush-hour now and I was out in the open. My imagination started to run away with me. I was considering calling an Uber when the bus arrived. Better not to leave a trail.

I decided to sit at the back of the bus so I could keep an eye on everyone. As I was sitting down, I glanced out the rear window and started to panic. A dark blue sedan was stopped two cars behind the bus. Was that the same car that had been parked down the street all day?

The bus closed its doors and maneuvered into the left turn lane. I leaned back in my seat and watched as the sedan drove past and disappeared down the street. I took a deep breath and relaxed.

My phone dinged and and lit up with the message that a deposit had been made into my Venmo account. A second ding was a ‘Thank you!’ from Amanda.

‘No, Thank You!’ I grinned and started to plan.

The Poconos were less than two hours away. If I left first thing in the morning, I could get there and back in one day, unless I found something else of interest. After all, 135 acres could hide a lot of things.