The Yellow Packard (11 page)

A stunned George looked across the table to the play money. Picking it up, he studied each bill. All of them had Parker Brothers written on them. Yet the money Carole picked out of this batch was real. He hadn’t put them there, so who had? Rose? He was sure of one thing. The money hadn’t been on the table when he did the taxes. Rose must have brought it in. Rushing out of the kitchen to his child’s room, he found her in the middle of her bed playing with a stuffed lion.

“Rose, where did you find that money you brought into the kitchen?”

“From the game.”

George dropped the play money he clutched in his hand onto the bed. “Not this money, the money that looked like this.” Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a five-dollar bill. “There was some money you had that looked like this mixed in with the play money. Where did you get it?”

The little girl studied it for a few seconds and shrugged.

Sitting down beside her, George took the lion from her lap and tossed it into a chair. Holding the five in front of her face, he softly begged, “Honey, this is very important. I need to know where you found the green money. It looks kind of like what I’m holding here.”

She said nothing. Instead she jumped from the bed and walked toward the back door. George followed her through her room, across the kitchen, and outside. It seemed spring had come early. The temperature was in the fifties, and after a long, cold winter it felt like spring was just around the corner. Thus neither he nor his daughter bothered with a coat as she led him to a place beside the garage. There, next to an old ash can, she pointed to a spot where the shade from the garage’s overhang had protected a patch of snow from the sun’s direct light.

“You found it here?” George asked, bending over to examine the area.

She nodded.

“Was there any more?” he asked. “Or did you bring it all in?”

“Just that. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten.”

“Wonder how it got here?” he whispered. Pushing the ash can to the side, he scanned the rest of the ground. Nothing! Peering into the trash bin, he saw nothing as well. But Rose had found this money, and it had to have come from somewhere.

As he stood erect he noted the wind was blowing about ten miles an hour out of the south. Maybe the bills had blown in. Maybe someone had dropped it out of a purse or a pocket, and the wind had caught it. Maybe that was it. But ten of them? That part was hard to explain. If someone lost it, that person was going to be awfully upset. He had to find out. As much as he didn’t want to, he had to know the truth.

“Rose, let’s go back inside and put on our coats. You and I are going to take a walk and knock on a few doors. We need to find out if someone lost any money today.”

What he figured would be easy wasn’t. An hour and a half later they had knocked on every door within five blocks without discovering anyone who was missing any money.

“Rose,” George said as he rapped on a final door, “if no one here is missing any money, then I guess we’ll just have to figure it fell from heaven.”

“Or was dropped by a bird,” she added.

George hadn’t considered that. Crows were notorious for stealing things.

As he turned to head back toward home, George noted a scruffy man approaching. He hardly looked like someone who had ever seen a hundred-dollar bill, much less lost one, but he decided to ask nonetheless.

“Excuse me, sir,” George said, his words stopping the man in his tracks. “I’m George Hall and this is my daughter Rose. Did you lose some money?”

The stranger was older than George, ill-kempt, and smelling of a mixture of alcohol and tobacco. His dark eyes were menacing, and as he opened his mouth to speak, George could see that his teeth were stained.

“How much?” the man growled.

George pulled Rose closer to his side, trying to shield her from the man’s glare, before answering. “We found a few hundred-dollar bills.”

There was an awkward silence for a few moments before the man grinned. “If it was anything more than a quarter, I ain’t lost it. Never had much in my whole life. Just haven’t been lucky.”

“I see,” a relieved George replied. “We’ll be on our way, then. And thank you.”

“Sure,” he replied with sly smile. “I know your face. You’re the guy with that yellow Packard? I’ve seen the ads in the magazines.”

“Yes, that’s our car and I’m that guy.”

“That’s a mighty fine ride.” The men laughed. “Mighty fine indeed.”

“Well, good luck,” George replied. “We need to be on our way. My wife will be home soon.”

George was in such a hurry to put the stranger behind him he all but dragged Rose down the walk. Though he didn’t look back, he felt the man’s eyes on him well after they’d turned the corner.

He’d seen lots of hoboes during the past few years. Scores of strangers walked the highways or hopped on trains. But there was something about this man’s eyes. They looked evil. And his voice had an edge to it that reminded him of the villains in horror films.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, a strange, unsettling feeling kept George awake and finally pulled him out of bed. He wandered out to the garage and made sure the doors were locked and then walked through the house, checking the locks on each door and window. After finishing his mission, he glanced out through the front door and thought he spotted someone across the street standing by a tree. Stepping away from the window, George flipped off the lamp. When the room was completely dark he glanced out again. There was no one there.

Chapter 18

H
e’d dug through drawers and in chair cushions in his dilapidated three-room house and still couldn’t find very much money. He doubted the meager amount he’d uncovered would buy him the time he needed to fully explain the situation. Yet the information was too important not to make the call. Even though he wasn’t sure he had the coins he needed, he headed out into the night air and walked the five blocks out to the highway.

There were three pay phones he could use at this time of the night in Oakwood. One was in an all-night gas station. That place was always too crowded for privacy. Another was in the lobby of a travel court, but the owner was the town’s biggest gossip. So that was out. Thus, though it required the longest walk, he had to go to the garage out on the highway. He figured no one would be there, and they had a phone booth beside the station. That would work.

He was lucky. Dylon’s Garage was bathed in complete darkness. Except for a cat hiding under a bench in front of the office, not a living thing was visible. After taking a final look over his shoulder, the man stepped into the booth and slid the door closed. Pulling out his billfold, he found a slip of paper and set it on the tray under the phone. He studied the number for a moment before lighting a match so he had enough light to see and dropping a nickel into the machine and dialing a zero. After a woman picked up, he spat out a number and, before she could reply, growled, “I need to reverse these charges.”

“So this is a collect call?” the operator asked.

“That’s what I said.”

“And your name is?”

“Just give the party on the other end the initials—G. T.”

“That is ‘G’ like in
general
and ‘T’ like in
truck.
”

“Yep.”

“Just a moment please.”

“And who is it you want to speak with?”

“The guy who answers.”

“His name?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he barked. “The guy I want will be the other end. Just make the call. A front’s moving in, and it’s cold in this booth.”

“Yes, sir.”

The temperature had dropped twenty degrees since sunset, making it painfully obvious that winter wasn’t finished with Illinois just yet. As the shabbily dressed man shivered in the tiny booth, he glanced out toward the highway. Except for an occasional truck, the world had gone to sleep. That suited him just fine. He had little use for people any time of the day or night.

“Hello,” a sleepy voice grumbled into the phone.

“This is the operator. I have a collect call from a Mr. G. T.”

“What?”

“I said I have a collect call from a Mr. G. T.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” he barked.

“No sir, this is the operator, and I was instructed to place this call. Will you accept the charges?”

“No one would call me at this time of night. You must have the wrong number. So you call tell the caller to go to—”

“Operator, tell him the G. T. stands for Go To,” the man in the booth cut in.

“Sir, the party says that the G. T. stands for—”

“I heard him. Yeah, I’ll accept the charges.” The man waited until he heard the operator hang up before he snapped, “Thought I’d heard the last of you. You can’t pinch any more from me. I’ve given you the last dime you’re going to get. This well is dry!”

“I doubt that.”

“You’re even more stupid than I thought then,” he hissed. “I can’t believe I accepted these charges!”

The man in the booth allowed those words to grow as cold as the night wind before saying, “It seems some of the money might have turned up today.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“How much?”

“From what I can gather, a few hundred, maybe a bit more.”

“Where?”

“Beside a garage on Elm Street.”

Suddenly interested, the man on the far end of the call asked, “How?”

“I don’t know that yet, but I’ve got a theory. A good one, too! I’m not going to let you in on it right now. That will only come when we speak face-to-face.”

“I’ve got enough dirt on you to send you up for a long time,” the man warned.

“Shut up. I’ve got just as much on you, and you’ve got a lot more to lose.”

“So you actually know where it is?”

“It’s been right in front of us all the time. Yet I don’t think I can get my hands on it without a big diversion. You will have to help me carry off the plan. We need to meet very soon.”

“When and where?”

“I’ve got no wheels,” the man in the booth explained. “So you have to come here.”

“At your place?”

“No, in Danville. There’s a bar on State Street. It’s called the Lamplighter Tavern. Be there at three in the afternoon tomorrow. Not many folks there at that time.”

“This better be on the level.”

“It is.”

“So you going to be there?”

“I’m making it.”

“If you don’t, you’ll pay for it dearly!”

G. T. didn’t wait for a reply. Dropping the receiver back onto the hook, he slid the door open and stepped out into the harsh wind. The first few flakes of a March blizzard were swirling around his uncovered head. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and retraced his steps back to the drafty rented house he called home. With any luck, his mailing address would soon be changing to a warmer climate. That day couldn’t come too soon.

Chapter 19

March 27, 1940

C
arole’s first week at the store had been incredible. She’d been signed to do two weddings and was the designated flower shop for one of the largest funerals the community had seen in decades. Milt Bauer had been the state’s wealthiest farmer and one of the county’s most influential citizens. Everyone owed him. Thus almost all the families in the region called in and ordered flowers. It seemed each caller wanted to have the most expensive spray there, and thus each new order made more than the previous one. The fact that a heavy snow had prevented many of the locals from being able to drive to Danville to pick arrangements had created even more sales for the little Oakwood business. Thus Carole, Rose, and the yellow Packard made scores of trips down the snowy streets from the flower shop to the Bacon Funeral Home.

On Monday morning at ten, things had finally slowed down. Carole and Rose had the store to themselves. Rose was playing with her dolls in a corner of the office that had been converted into a child’s activity center. There was a dollhouse, a half-dozen picture books, and some wooden building blocks all designed to keep the little girl occupied. Against the back wall was a small bed for afternoon naps, though so far the store had been far too busy with deliveries for Rose to be able to sleep. Most of the child’s naps had been in the backseat of the car.

As Rose played dress up with her Shirley Temple doll, Carole switched on the radio. After the local forecast, which called for clearing skies and above-freezing temperatures, the disc jockey announced, “‘When You Wish Upon A Star’ by the Glen Miller Orchestra.”

“That’s going to be a big hit, Rose,” Carole told her daughter as the song’s first few lines burst through the speaker. “Got a good message there, too. But you just remember, it’s not wishing, it is praying that works miracles.”

She looked at her daughter and smiled as Rose sang along with the tune. What a wonderful child she was. She was no trouble at all. She could pick up and go on a moment’s notice or play for hours without complaining while Carole worked. And she was so smart. She was already reading from first-grade primers. She was artistic, too. Her drawings looked like cats and dogs; they weren’t just scribbled lines. And on Saturday she had even helped Carole arrange flowers in the display case. The results were so impressive she’d left a few of Rose’s creations in place. Even if she and George never had another child, this one would be more than enough. She was simply so perfect Carole couldn’t imagine life without her.

A ringing phone pulled the woman from an order she was filling out and over to her desk.

“Carole’s Flowers.”

“Honey, it’s me.”

“George, I thought you had the day off and were going over to the park with Glen.”

“I did,” he assured her, “but I’m back now. Do you need any help? Want me to watch Rose for you?”

“No, you just rest. This is my first slow day. And believe it or not, I’m grateful for that. I can handle things here, and I think Rose likes playing in the shop. Guess it’s a case of like mother, like daughter. Besides, I just got her pigtails fixed. They look so cute and she’s so pretty, I want to show her off a bit.”