Genesis of Evil (6 page)

When they approached the yard, Willie was delighted to see the locomotive sitting on a siding next to the street. He stopped the Lincoln in front of the huge driving wheels and they all got out for a better look. The object of Willie’s interest was a Gresley A3 Pacific locomotive that stood thirteen feet tall and stretched out more than seventy feet in length. Ready for the road, it weighed in at something in the neighborhood of 175 tons. As Willie and his friends stared at the iron leviathan with wonder, Gianni “Crazy” Alizetti started toward them in a red Diamond-T dump truck.

Crazy Alizetti was slightly pissed off at Willie No-Fault for squeezing him out of the imported liquor business. He had seen the big, red truck sitting in front of the gate at the city dump the night before, hot-wired it and drove it to within a block of Willie’s house where he parked and waited. When Willie drove off in the Lincoln that afternoon Crazy followed him in the foul smelling dump truck. As Willie pulled up next to the locomotive Crazy was happy to see that the huge machine sat at ninety degrees to a street that ran straight toward it. He wheeled the dump truck through two alleys and a side street, then stopped with the truck’s nose pointed at the Lincoln, which was about three blocks distant. Crazy climbed into the back of the truck, dragged out an old mattress that was mixed in with the garbage, hauled it into the cab and draped it across the steering wheel. Having just invented the forerunner to the airbag, he yanked the truck into gear, aimed it at the standing Lincoln and mashed the gas pedal flat on the floor.

Willie and the boys heard the roaring truck at the same time, turned in unison and stared in shock at the approaching vehicle which, by that time, had reached almost fifty miles an hour. By the time they gathered what few wits they possessed and decided to run, it was too late. The Lincoln Continental, which had only 168 miles on it, wound up some eighteen inches wide and flat against the side of the Gresley locomotive. Willie No-Fault and his soldiers were squashed between the machinery like cockroaches beneath a size thirteen boot. The rim of the steering wheel in the truck snapped off, leaving the column to skewer first the mattress then Mr. Alizetti. They didn’t call him Crazy for nothing.

The Gresley A3 Pacific didn’t even rock on its wheels.

Somebody in the switch tower at the yard called the cops, who called the fire department. Both arms of the city government arrived at the same time. Nobody could figure out why it had happened. When the cops checked the license plates and discovered that the dump truck was stolen and the principals were dead gangsters they closed their notebooks and drove off. A tow truck spent some time hauling off the trashed vehicles while firemen spent the next hour flushing odd bits of Sicilian off of the new locomotive and into the gravel between the rails.

Marcello and his mother, Ghita, mourned the loss of the Lincoln more than that of Willie No-Fault. He had developed a nasty habit of beating the dog shit out of both of them whenever he came home with a snoot full of his latest batch of product.

The soldiers that weren’t flattened by the garbage truck vowed their continued loyalty to Ghita and Marcello so the business continued unabated. When Ghita died of ovarian cancer Marcello had just celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday. He changed his name to Mark Birrell and moved to Miami.

Everything went smoothly for years until the city became overrun with illegal immigrants from Cuba, Haiti, Jamaica and several other Caribbean islands that Birrell couldn’t name. It was an element over which he had no control. He began liquidating the shady side of his enterprises and concentrated on legitimate business investments. So when Norbert Hicks came to him with the idea for the mall in Trinidad, he thought about it for several days, saw nothing wrong with the plan and bought into it. Needless to say, Norbert Hicks was beside himself.

Chapter Seven

September 19, 2004

Even the most jaded observer had to admit that the Trinidad Mall was a tribute to its designer. The main entrance presented the point of a “V” to the parking lot. It was not unlike the prow of a ship. To right and left swept the two wings that housed the stores and shops. Projecting out into the cove and bisecting the 144-degree angle spread between the wings were the boatel and marina, exactly as Norbert Hicks had envisioned it.

The entry rose almost three stories and was dominated by a central waterfall that seemed to erupt out of thin air to cascade magnificently across two terraces before disappearing into the floor. To either side of the waterfall, and scattered throughout the entry, were tropical plants and palms inhabited by monkeys, parrots and the occasional toucan—all in plastic and animated, of course. Behind the entry, just past the intersection that led to the stores, was a food court. The stands were operated by fresh young boys and girls wearing costumes fashioned to remind one of Pacific islands or Central American resorts. It was like stepping from Trinidad, Florida directly onto a movie set. On the day of the grand opening the parking lot was filled to capacity and both sides of the street were lined with vehicles for a quarter mile in each direction. Although it was illegal to park on the shoulder of the road, Gerhart had instructed his patrolmen to forego the writing of tickets for the first three days of the Grand Opening.

Martha Dennison and her daughter, Amanda, were among the first to enter the mall. They wandered in and out of the stores that lined the south wing. An hour and a half after entering the building they walked into Bonmark’s, the anchor store at the tip of the wing. The first department was Ladies’ Wear.

“Oh, Mama,” cried Amanda, “just look at that gorgeous dress! I just love it. Can I try it on, please?”

“Of course, sugar, but don’t take too long. Your mama has to use the little girl’s room.”

Amanda Dennison riffled through the dresses until she found two colors she liked and then carried them off to the fitting rooms. Martha stood and looked about at the displays of trendy clothing. Spotting a skirt and blouse combination she felt would take ten pounds from her figure, she took one in her size—and one a size smaller—and followed the route taken by her daughter. Once in the fitting room she stepped out of her shoes, stripped off her slacks and sweater and tried on the mauve combination. She turned this way and that, checking the result in the full-length mirrors. Somehow, the combination didn’t do the job of slimming she thought it would. After trying on both sizes, she slipped out of the larger and looked around for a hanger.

She hesitated for a moment, frowned and stared off into the middle distance of the mirror. She carefully folded both outfits and placed them in the center of the floor. And then, Martha Dennison, member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, Past President of the Florida Chapter of the Order of the Eastern Star, volunteer at the Trinidad Memorial Hospital, past Girl Scout Leader, mother of three beautiful children and wife of George Dennison, city council member and a respected CAP, did the most extraordinary thing.

She slid her panties down, squatted with her feet apart and urinated quietly onto the neat pile of brand new clothing.

When Amanda came out of the fitting room, Martha was waiting for her next to the aisle.

“It just doesn’t fit right, Mama. It’s too baggy around the waist. Come on, let’s find the little girl’s room.”

“All right, sugar, if you have to.”

“But, Mama, you said you had to.”

Martha frowned and shook her head slowly. “Not me, sugar. You must have misunderstood.” She took a deep breath and smiled brightly. “Let’s go get something to eat. As your father always says, shopping is hungry work.”

Blackbeard’s Cove was between the Heron Key Marina and the Flying Bridge Boatel. It was filled to capacity and there was a one-hour wait for a table. In keeping with the name of the place, the décor was designed to resemble the deck of an ancient privateer. A life-sized statue of Blackbeard, complete with cutlass and eye patch, stood in the corner at the end of the bar and glared down on the drinkers. In the dining room, four tables were pushed together near a window that overlooked the cove. Norbert Hicks sat at the head with his wife on his left. Then came Manning and Naomi Richards, the mayor and first lady respectively; Gerhart Kable, Chief of Police, and his wife, Virginia; Otto and Shirley Klein, owners of the
Trinidad Probe
; Michael Penton, Mall Manager, and his wife Luella. Hicks had thrown the party as a celebration. Gerhart wondered why he had been invited but had no doubt that, somehow, Virginia had engineered the invitation.

The food was fantastic. Each member of the party had partaken of a different meal and the chef was voted a genius by one and all. The waitress was now clearing away the empty plates and dishes.

“How about dessert, folks?” she asked as she whisked the used dinnerware onto a wheeled cart. “There’s an absolutely fabulous chocolate mousse this evening.”

Everyone groaned and looked around the table at the other guests.

Norbert Hicks raised a hand. “What the hell,” he said, “in for a dime, in for a dollar. I may have to slip most of it into my pocket, but I never could pass up chocolate. How about you, sweetie?” he asked, turning to Sheila.

Everyone, with the exception of Naomi Richards, nodded in agreement. Naomi was as tall lying down as she was standing up and was a new member of Weight Watchers. The waitress thanked them and headed for the kitchen with their final order.

Manning Richards leaned forward, picked up his coffee cup and waved it at the man seated at the head of the table. “I would like to propose a toast to old Norbert, here. Thanks to his judgment and foresight, Trinidad may finally be on the map!”

Everybody raised a glass and drank a toast to a beaming Norbert. Sheila Hicks smiled beatifically at her husband as she slipped off a shoe, stuck a toe under the mayor’s trouser cuff and rubbed a bare foot up and down his leg. Richards almost dropped his glass but, being a professional politician, managed to immediately regain control while casting a furtive glance at his attacker.
 

The waitress returned with nine orders of chocolate mousse.

It was a little after 3:00 A.M. when the first cramp hit Gerhart. He sat straight up wondering what was wrong. Suddenly he knew. He leaped from the bed and galloped for the bathroom, fearful that he was leaving a trail. As he sat he tried to remember what he had eaten that could have contained so many prunes. He heard the toilet flush in the next bedroom. Ten minutes later, between spasms, he dashed into the hall and stuck his head into Virginia’s bedroom.

“You got it, too?” he asked as she shuffled from the bathroom.

“What do you think I was doing in there, putting in a new faucet?” she hissed. “I feel like my insides are falling out. What the hell did they feed us, anyway? Jesus,” she said. She dropped onto the bed and sat staring balefully at her husband.

Gerhart’s stomach growled and he dashed back to his bathroom.

By eight the next morning Gerhart felt he would probably live, but he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. He wandered weakly into the kitchen and put water on for tea. As he was loading the toaster, Virginia entered and plopped onto a chair.

“You look like you just left your tomb, not your room,” he offered with a wan smile. “Want some toast and tea?”

She nodded and propped her chin up with both palms. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “We both had something different, except for that damn chocolate mousse.” She rubbed the back of her neck then stood and struggled to the phone.

“Naomi? Virginia. Not so good. You didn’t have any of that chocolate mousse last night, did you? I didn’t think so. How’s Manning? Really? Ten times thinner than the Mississippi River, huh? We did, too. I think it was that mousse. Yeah. Give him some dry toast and tea. Okay. Talk to you later. Bye.” She hung up the instrument and crawled back onto her chair. “Did you get all of that?”

“Yeah,” Gerhart grunted as he squeezed a tea bag with a spoon. “I’ll call the restaurant.”

Five minutes later, he hung up the phone and finished his toast and tea. Virginia went to answer what she hoped would be her last call of nature for at least two weeks.

“What’s the story?” she asked when she returned.

Gerhart poured hot water into her cup and dropped in a tea bag. “I’ve never heard anybody apologize before they said hello. The manager told me the phone at the restaurant was ringing when he walked in this morning and hasn’t stopped yet. After he fielded fifteen or twenty calls, he started asking questions to the rest of the help as they came in. Nobody seemed to know anything, but the guy who fixed all the desserts last night didn’t show up for work. The manager opened his locker. Guess what he found?”

“Don’t play Twenty Questions with me, Gerhart, I’m not up to it.”

“Sorry. There was almost half a case of chocolate laxative in there.”

Virginia sat straight up in her chair. “A laxative? We had a laxative for dessert?”

“Along with half the citizens of Trinidad, apparently. There were three or four dishes left in the fridge. I told him to set them out in the alley and see if the rats get the shits.”

“So, what is he going to do about it?”

“What’s to do? The cook flew the coop. It’s hardly the manager’s fault. The dessert chef came with the best of references. I’m going to send somebody around to the guy’s apartment to see if he’s there, but I’m not holding my breath.”