Chapter 5

It was easy to see my succulent secretary was fairly busting to break the news to me about the box-seats at the ball park. She gave a short spiel about how she got the info from a source she called “That darling boy at the team’s front office.” I got the distinct impression that no money changed hands in the procurement of the intelligence but her mood indicated she was running on all eight cylinders in the information gathering operation and probably rewarded him in a more personal manner.

“Oh, Mike, you will never guess who owns that box permanent like.”

It was difficult, but I made an effort to keep my yap shut because I knew that the overly excitable Julie would spill the beans in matter of seconds if I just listened and didn’t try to rush her.

“It’s that nasty radio announcer that got into all the trouble over the alleged rape of the maid at the Essex House over the Fourth of July.”

I have to admit that startled me because I knew that Freddie Lombardo was a prick of the worst sort and not the type that would be a baseball fan unless there was something in it for him that went beyond balls and strikes. It was only the previous summer that I had gotten into a pissing match with him over some neighborhood kids that were high-spirited enough to throw water on him and his entourage as they tried to cover a double murder at the barber shop on the corner with the floors still covered in blood and hair and a bit of brains sprinkled on top to remind new customers that sometimes you get more than a haircut at Luigi’s on Eighth Avenue.

I was already off the force and working undercover for my Uncle Joe hitting the streets for background info on the crime scene and looking for the all important “motive” that usually solved most murder cases unless you had the benefit of eye-witnesses that were not too scared to open their mouths. The so-called general public was notorious for suddenly becoming “D and D” (deaf and dumb) as soon as the cops showed up to get their statements. In most of their minds, at least the street-smart ones, it was worse to be a rat than to be the guy that did the dirty deed. I could identify with that cold, hard fact despite the close relationship I had with my uncle who was sort of a father-figure to me. I had already figured out that the innocent bystanders had a right to remain silent considering the fact that they were all doomed to serving life sentences in the neighborhood unless they got lucky and won the lottery or moved out to the island or even over to the swamps of New Jersey and found a life outside the Big Apple.

I let Julie give me the rundown on Freddie she had gleaned from her many sources including both friends and enemies of the shady newscaster. I had already formed my own opinion of Freddie Lombardo and it was not a very nice one. He was reputed to have an appetite for young girls that had an attitude of never asking for a birth certificate before getting his selection for the evening into his bed. Strangely, that had never harmed his credibility with the press and he was welcomed into the homes of the rich and famous as if he was a visiting prince from some exotic country.

It is probably fair to mention that I was distracted by Julie’s pretty pink panties peeking out at me each time she crossed and uncrossed her nylon covered legs. I could also see that interesting white splash of color that meant they were hooked to her panty belt with flesh-colored garters showing her sense of decorum in the office-place. I know I was sporting a sizable arousal but I did my level best to hide it from her accusing eyes because I knew the last thing on her mind at the moment was sex. You might think I was being a little bit slow by not taking advantage of my position as the guy that paid her paycheck each Friday like clockwork no matter if we had pulled in any dough or not. I respected her frugal lifestyle and the fact she was rooming with a couple of would-be actresses that shared all the expenses with her.

I expect that one or both of them shorted her from time to time as they met with devious casting directors that only wanted to test them for their horizontal position rather than a real job. I had met both of them and they reminded me of Betty and Veronica of “Archie” comic book fame. It was simply because one was a brunette and the other one was a bleached blonde. The blonde had the bluest eyes I had ever seen in a gal with formerly mousy brown hair of impressive length. The brown hair had to go because it looked far too normal for a girl with artistic ambitions.

Of course, Betty and Veronica was not their real names.

I don’t think I ever knew their real names. I only knew their “stage” names of Jessica and Trudy. They had last names of Green and Black, but I always got that confused and stopped at Jessica and Trudy whenever I felt the necessity of addressing them directly.

Julie had a two bed room apartment and she slept on a pullout sofa in the sunroom that opened out to the living room and she gave each of her room-mates the bedrooms. The place only had a single bathroom and I suspected Julie was happy to have the large bathroom with a shower at the office to make up for her crowded conditions at home.

I did my best to rip my eyes away from the under skirt promises between Julie’s long sleek legs and sorted out the names that she mentioned as his guests on the day in question.

The ticket stub indicated the stiff with the last name of Anderson (first name still unknown) came out of his pants and placed in a clear bag marked “contents of post mortem search John Doe 331/1959”