head home for a shower. First off, that soda pop I mentioned earlier would be first on the list of to-dos.
Crossing the bridge, we stopped to glance down at the crime scene, which had a few people still milling around. The makeshift tents were no longer up, and the area had been scrubbed clean.
The local diocese sent a crew of nuns and priests down to clean the statues as soon as possible; it was a good thing not to have the desecration be evident much longer. Tommy asked if he thought we should go down and see if they would hire us to clean up the area for some money. We all laughed and went off down the street to Buck’s Market for some cola.
Buck was a cool old Chinese fellow. We thought we were pulling the wool over his eyes when we would quickly snatch a pack of Twinkies or some other treat to shoplift. The Chinese were here forever, it seemed, that they should be given the ultimate respect for the obstacles they had to overcome. I do not recall knowing a Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, or anyone else of Asian descent in my growing years. They came and set up shop in lower-economic neighborhoods, such as our predominantly Hispanic barrio. We weren’t poor, just middle-class folks a click up from the other side of the tracks folk.
Buck ran his market for a few years then sold it to another Chinese family. They renamed it Jeff’s Market, he being the young strapping butcher in the back. His father, whom we called Jeff as well, along with his mother, would sit up by the cash register, puffing away on Lucky Strike cigarettes all day. If you can conjure up the image of a frail ninety-eight-pound man who looked like he’d lived in an opium den his entire life, then you’ve got Jeff’s father.
They learned Spanish and got to know everyone in the neighborhood. They also extended credit, keeping the record in a little notepad, along with the receipt that had your signature on it for the purchases. The entire family lived in the back of the store, which we would laugh about, but in retrospect, they were quite possibly the smartest people on earth.
They sold a commodity that everyone was compelled to buy. Their rent was covered, along with the building’s mortgage, and they never went hungry, that’s for damn sure. It could not have been a better win-win situation for the strangers in a foreign land.
The main point is, whatever we thought we were getting away with, like the pilfered Twinkies or potato chips, well, surprise, surprise, we weren’t getting away with a damned thing. The old Chinaman kept a note of what and who took stuff, quietly charging the parents when they came in to pay the bill. The parents were grateful that no police were ever called, and the grocer still got his money without making enemies of his customers.
The world ran smooth back then. So these days, I have the ultimate respect for the Asian people who, by the way, though they may barter and get squeaky cheap, will not cheat you. They are honest people. That old Chinaman would get his hands on a dollar bill, and he could really make ole George Washington piss.
Okay, so getting back to my ice-cold soda, it tickled going down my throat and was as rewarding as anything could ever be. I could appreciate the laborer getting off work and going in to get his ice-cold six-pack of beer. I earned my pop.
Old Jeff would let us hang around outside and lean on his building, slugging down the soda and puffing on a nice Lucky Strike cigarette.
The fellas and I wore our designated old work clothes to school because we would go straight to work after school without a moment or a few pennies to lose. The kids at school would laugh when they saw us, calling us the hobos and tramps of the town. They became real envious when we explained why we looked so shabby. We had jobs, and we were earning money to boot.
Chapter 23
The Death Chamber
When we arrived at the job, we were amazed at how much of the building was down with the floor now totally exposed. After an hour or so, one of the workers yelled out to Big Frank, “Hey, get a load of this,” causing Frank to stop what he was doing and make a beeline over to the worker’s area. The worker had noticed a slit in the linoleum and pulled it up to expose a door in the floor.
We were stationed near the front of the building, cleaning bricks, and were able to be right next to the discussion that ensued next. My friends and I perked up, focusing on the floor and the workers that had now joined Big Frank around this mysterious door. Mr. Jamison went to get his set of blueprints to see if there was any mention of a door anywhere in the floor. He returned promptly and reported to the work crew that there was no mention of any such door on the plans. Blackie looked over at me, and I knew what he was thinking. We now knew what the slamming noise was when we were in the dance hall months before. I for one had a slight chill running down my spine knowing that what was coming next wasn’t going to be good.
“Open her up, boys,” Big Frank commanded after getting Mr. Jamison’s approval to proceed.
My friends and I stopped working to concentrate on what was happening. We weren’t on the clock, so no one could say a thing to us.
The creaking of hinges, rusted and in bad need of oil, kept us on pins and needles. The door was fully opened and a wooden staircase now exposed, as an aroma crept up into the room that none of us had ever been familiar with. It was pungent and gave one the impression of something related to death. I edged closer into the group of workers to catch a glimpse of the bowels of the dance hall.
My friends and I knew something no one else knew, so I had to see what was down below at all cost. The work crew were treating the discovery without any real concern; we were preparing for something really wrong on the other hand.
The men were deciding who would go down the stairs first and who among them would write a report about the discovery. I just had to go down there, but not before an army of workers were down there with me. Mr. Jamison called out for a lantern so he could go down and see what to make of this newfound room.
Big Frank called out for someone to bring him a lantern as well; he had to determine how this new addition would affect his project. Mr. Jamison inched his way down the staircase, brushing aside some small cobwebs, until he reached the floor below. Big Frank started the descent as well, shedding more light on the room as he made it down into a room that now reeked with the stench of death and decomposing flesh.
Before Big Frank could make his way halfway down the stairs, Mr. Jamison came rushing back up with a handkerchief over his nose, ordering Big Frank back up and outta there. He shouted to a foreman to call the police immediately. Now every one of us who was standing around just had to have a look, but it was out of the question now.
“What is down there, and why can’t I go down and see for myself?” Big Frank asked.
“You do not want to enter hell,” Jamison said as he made his way off to the side of the crowd, vomiting violently.
By now, the odor was starting to waft up from the basement, making everyone give one another that look of disgust. I just had to go have a look, but it was impossible; I had no lamp. And who was I but a kid who was starting to be underfoot.
I could now hear the approaching sirens from the police cars as they made their way toward the dance hall. The first cops on the scene took immediate charge of the situation and moved everyone back a few feet away from the entrance to the basement. A portly policeman who happened to be a sergeant was the first to descend the stairs.
Emmet French was his name (Jackie’s dad), and he was a character right out of the funny papers. He had a wad of chewing tobacco tucked between his cheek and bottom lip and was spitting here and there like he was out on a baseball field. Nevertheless, he made his way onto the scene as he
