had really become concerned for my welfare. After dinner, my dad turned on the television right at news time, which was like clockwork every night with him.
Bulletin: Two teenaged girls found brutally murdered on the west side of town.
One girl was found on the riverbed sand, and another girl discovered on the stone table where the statues of Jesus and his apostles had their “last supper.” These statues still exist below the Congress Street bridge. The area is called the Garden of Gethsemane, which I believe Google has a site for them as they look today. They looked the same fifty years ago as well, but without the brick floors, walls, and fencing. They were just out there in the dirt on the riverbank. On the opposite side of this display on the opposing bank stood the old dance hall.
Back then, there was no fence, and people moved about the area freely. This area also had a statue of Jesus on the cross and still does to this day. As miscreants, my fellows and any other fellows who came around never bothered this area. We respected the reverence of it all, and though we were jokers, this area was off-limits.
Throughout the years, as moral compasses became more lax and disrespectful, vandalism reared its ugly head. Hands, noses, and heads of the statues have had to be restored from time to time due to the new breed of assholes who were coming up in the ranks. My group of guys always swore that if we ever caught someone in the act of defiling the statues, we would drag them over to the swampy area and let them feel some quicksand for a while until we feel we had scared the shit out of them. Now there had been murders on the site.
Someone had now placed a mutilated and defiled teenaged girl on the “last supper” table; this was beyond sacrilege. This type of evil was not yet commonplace in our society; it was the worst of the worst. In today’s movies, we have the worst type of debauchery the twisted mind can conjure up, but back in the ’50s, one could practically be burned at the stake for even thinking like this.
Who could have done this or, better yet, who had been doing this and committing the murders as well?
Pieces of flesh had been removed from the body parts that would suggest they would be the prime pieces if one were to practice cannibalism. This was not information that was in the newspaper or on the television, no chance. I got this from our friend Jackie, an older boy who would come around sometimes when he had nothing better to do.
His father was a deputy sheriff and told him all the grisly details about any events. I guess old man French wanted to see if Jackie could come back with any tips he could scrounge up out in the streets that could benefit the case.
As Jackie gave us the blow by blow of what he knew, us boys were practically throwing up on the spot, horrified by this news. The one girl who the detectives determined to be about fifteen years of age lay sprawled out naked on the stone table with pieces of her young, newly developing breasts missing as if they were bitten and ripped off savagely.
What kind of monster was now in our midst? Women all over town stayed indoors and only ventured out with their menfolk. Young girls were escorted to school by parents, and walking home became a thing of the past. Things really tightened up around my neighborhood. Since these latest murders were but three blocks from my house, the womenfolk naturally assumed they were next on the menu.
My friends and I went about our normal routines, walking to and from school. We had knives and other various weapons in case someone came about with trouble on their mind. Somehow, we weren’t afraid if the sun was out, but come night, we never ventured off our block, and we packed it in at a decent hour.
The area below the bridge and the area immediately under the bridge were cordoned off, and nobody was allowed in, except for law enforcement.
As we walked to school the following morning, we stopped by the bridge and looked down into the Garden of Gethsemane, where the brutality had occurred.
Chapter 22
Employment
The next day walking home from school, we noticed that the dance hall was completely down and was now just a big pile of rubble. The tents were covering the crime scenes, and forensics investigators were milling all around. Then we spotted some workers separating the wood into piles and the old bricks sorted out to another giant heap. That was when I went up to Mr. Jamison, who was standing there talking to Big Frank.
I guess Big Frank was the MFWIC on the job and called all the shots. I interrupted the two men (having those kinds of balls back then) and asked if us boys could have some work and that we could stack bricks with the best of them.
Big Frank took a shine to my style and chutzpah, saying, “Sure, you boys come back tomorrow with a note from your ma saying you can help us stack bricks. If you get the okay, bring some gloves and clothes that your mom won’t mind you getting dirty.”
The subject of money never came up as we were just happy to be part of a big crew. We were floating on clouds as we went home to beg our mothers for the required slip of paper Big Frank needed. My mom never let opportunity go to waste. When she knew I had to have something really bad, she would really turn the screws on me. When she finished with me and all the promises I had to make, I was ready to be marched down to the local cathedral and prepared for sainthood. Sheesh, that woman. Maybe all my smarts and cunningness came from that lady, but still, I mean, let up for once.
Walking home from school, Blackie, Tommy, Nicky, and myself started to think about the money. Should we even bring it up lest we be kicked off the job? We decided it would be best if I hinted around to Big Frank about a stipend or something for all our efforts. I was the smoothest talker and could broach the subject without him even feeling it.
“What do you want us to do, Mr. Frank?” I asked as we walked up to him.
“Hello, boys, did you bring your notes from home?”
We promptly surrendered the crumpled-up pieces of paper in our sweaty jeans that had been suffering through PE class, lunch, and the summer sweat.
“Okay then, here’s what I need you boys to do—”
I interrupted with a quick question, “What time is quitting time, and will we get paid at the end of each day or at the end of the week?”
All my friends gulped with the anticipation of being run off or yelled at.
He then informed us, “You will clean the concrete off the bricks and stack them up like that stack over there. The company will pay you one penny a brick for every brick you clean, and we will pay you at quitting time.”
That suited us all just fine as we set up our workstations, then Big Frank gave us each a hammer and a chisel to work with. I stacked up enough bricks for a work stool to sit on and commenced on chiseling away at the crusted cement on each brick.
My friends and I would exchange glances at one another as we worked; we were now in a competition. Two hours seemed to fly by and not soon enough. Our hands ached, and the sweat had drenched our dirty T-shirts. Along with the concrete and redbrick dust, the sweat stiffened the T-shirts as if they were ironed with extraheavy starch, but we were gratified by having accomplished a man’s task.
Big Frank came around and counted our stacks. Mine had twenty-four bricks, and the other fellows had the same or close to it. All I could think about was, seven cents of it was gonna find its way into the Chinaman grocer’s hands on the way home. A big bottle of Royal Crown Cola was all I could think about. We were all addicted to Coke back then.
The
