Parker grabbed at the bottle. “Whatcha got there, Doc?”
Heltone pulled it from the pained man’s reach, twisted off a small black cap. Poured liberally into Parker’s open wounds. “Settle down, tough guy. Styptic tonic of stinging nettle here. Coagulates blood. Iron absorption guards against anemia against all you’ve lost. From stains on Nelle’s Aubusson, I’d call that no short supply. You got prostrate problems, hell, we just fixed that up too.”
Harvey Highwater guffawed. “Imagine that. Ford Parker with manly malfunctions.” He hunkered down, curious at Doc’s side. “This bubble up like when Ma put peroxide on cuts? All white and foamy and – “
Parker gasped at overwhelming burning sensation. Clamped hand over heart. Doubled over. Doc Heltone spun sideways. Flung deep green sulphuric phosphorus to Harvey Highwater’s eyes. Highwater’s vision faltered. His hands clutched his face. Frantically. His revolvers dropped. Losing balance, so did Harv.
Jasper Brattleboro fired two guns at once. To Doc Heltone’s chest.
The battered black bag, doctored with metal-plate linings, raised in place in time. Diverted bullet one. Highwater’s fall took the next.
Nelle’s Colt shot low. Rage has no lowdown fury like a woman knowing how a man has raped: Titillation – Sexual advance – Violent disregard for passion of the moment having its way – Forcefully taking its way. Integrity ravaged in rape is worse than torture. There’s a shadow-side to crimes… but vile complacency to victimizing women by blaming allure. Brattleboro would do such no more. Nelle’s shot was sure. The detective shot the dick.
“There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the way and the truth that warms the heart… Neither is independent of the other or more important than the other.”
That was Chandler too. Enlightened reflection. Lesson learned. Nelle pummeled her Smith-Corona, comprehending noir-candescent nights, where one mind takes another. How it packs for the journey.
Both short-sighted Harvey Highwater and emasculated Jasper Brattleboro took a journey. To the state of Louisiana. Extradited by none other than Detective Callahan’s proud pop on the Narragansett police force. Officer Patrick Callahan waiting in back wings on back stairs to give Matty Heltone time to not heal wounds. Guy was a pro.
Callahan shot in when guns did. “Justice, Kid?” he’d quipped to his daughter. Professional pride ranged as far as parental.
Naturally Ford Parker healed up. Doc Heltone’s a pro, y’know. No charges incurred from two New Orleans vicious rapes to a dapper man strolling streets of New York at time of the crime. No indictments either, once Detective Nelle Callahan provided testimony to Inspector Howard Finney’s NYC crime-laboratory.
Professional curiosity sparked Nelle to consult on the Mad Bomber case. Absolutely. Likewise, she wanted to see Jim Brussel taken seriously. Successful psychological crime-profiling leads insights past the shadows which rough up innocent folks on evil nights. Nelle knew illusions were never all they’re cracked up to be, but Insights? They fathom further gleanings.
She was gratified to read the following follow-up:
“George Metesky was arrested by police in connection with the New York City bombings. His name had been changed from Milauskas. He lived in Waterbury, Connecticut, with two older sisters. He was unmarried. He was unfailingly neat. He attended Mass regularly. He had been employed by Con Edison from 1929 to 1931, and claimed to have been injured on the job. When he opened the door to the police officers, he said, “I know why you fellows are here. You think I’m the Mad Bomber.” It was midnight, and he was in his pajamas. The police asked that he get dressed. When he returned, his hair was combed into a pompadour and his shoes were newly shined. He was also wearing a double-breasted suit-buttoned.”
Ford Parker met up with Nelle Callahan once more. In Newport, on a fine day in June, at the best little café between Bar Harbor and Key West – Zelda’s on Thames Street. Well yes, of course, he tried to kindle spark or spark kindle, pitch woo. My Nelle? She gave him the ol’ 23-Skidoo. Sent him packin’. Recited a Dorothy Parker verse, is what I heard:
“By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying.
Lady make note of this -
One of you is lying.”
Zelda’s Café has entertaining history. Certainly entertained me. Nothin’ like a day in June, eh? And isn’t my Nelle swell? Her moxie’s the cat’s meow.
Regaled one of the finest brick and brownstones ever built in Newport, Zelda’s was constructed in 1895 to be bustling brewery and liquor store. Function-designed, the roof slanted to collect water to cistern in the basement. Boosted brewery business, bountifully.
Did double-duty as a private function hall. Big shindigs there. I’ve been. My partner, Doc Aloysius Nelson – we called him ‘Doc’ cause he could ‘fix things’ – gambling-odds, horse races, rum-runnings, leaky faucets, even broken hearts. He never broke mine. What I did to his - Another story, another time. Anyhow, Doc told me his daddy drove Clydesdales loaned from the stables of mansions on Bellevue Ave. Delivered beer direct to the good folks of Newport. Now that’s caring for clientele! You see, proprietor Ernst Voight invented the tradition “Treating Customers Right”, even believed in giving good customers complimentary meals. Great business builds on the hallmark of gratifying worthies. I admit putting a thought into the present day pubkeeper’s mind. Our Nelle finished up her Oysters Rockefeller in style, gratis. Rockefeller? That too – another story another time.
Doc and I ran our operation there as the local speakeasy. Joint was hailed McGee’s Pub. Bootlegging grew and we set up our own place ‘cross the Bay ~ The Narragansett Social Club. Heard of it? Lordy, those were the days!
When McGee retired, the establishment got dubbed Café Zelda, after F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife, darling of our roaring 20’s lifestyle. By Gatsby, doesn’t this story serve up its own on-the-house round of poetic justice?
My name? My notoriety too. They still hail me, I hear ~ “Charm & Courage Bootlegger”. I like that, absolutely I do. I’m Angel Towse Callahan and by Gatsby and gumption, that’s another story too.
END
(Acknowledgements) Giving Credit Where Credit’s Surely Due:
Quotations from Raymond Chandler, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Dorothy Parker inspired the professional crime-mind gleanings of ~ Nelle Callahan.
Excerpts from the NewYorker magazine article on The Mad Bomber by Malcolm Gladwell inspired this author to cite a crime and site a criminal… elsewhere.
“Charm and Courage Bootlegger” Angel Towse, whose name means ‘Tough’, made her first appearance in Matt Hilton’s ~ ACTION: Pulse Pounding Tales, volume 1. You should read it – “Angel Tough”, and all the other crime-sensations Hilton put together like a posse on a mad mission.
BIO: