Stunner (6 page)

“What are your names?” I ask. “Only your first names.”

“Jerry,” says the one who called me
sugar
a moment before.

“T-T-Tony,” answers the other on the hood of my car.

“Ok, Jerry. Tony.” I stand still as a statue next to Warrior. “Slowly move away from my car, but not toward me.” The boys comply. I look at them. They’re pathetic, but perhaps I can use this situation to my advantage.

“Tony, reach into your SUV and toss the keys as far as you can over there.” I point. “Away from Warrior here.” He throws the keys toward a large sign, and they land on the gravel.

“OK. I’ve got a few questions for you.” They stare at me like two deer caught in some powerful headlights. “Relax. Warrior may bite, but I won’t.” I smile a little. “Unless you piss me off.” They’re not laughing at my humor.

“OK, Jerry. Do you and Tony hang out here much?”

Tony jumps in. “Th-th-this is where we—”

“Did I speak to you, Tony?” I ask in a harsh tone that I hope makes me sound like one of their high school teachers.

“N-n-no, ma’am.”

“Then, Tony, wait your turn.” I motion to the other guy, Mr. I-think-I’m-so-sexy. “Jerry?” Warrior gives a low growl.

“We’re here a lot, when we have time off from our jobs.” The sweat circles under Jerry’s arms are even more pronounced than when this encounter started minutes ago.

“Either of you ever run into a guy named Bobby Taylor?”

A look of pure panic passes between them.

“Yes? No?” I ask.

“Wh-wh-wh-we heard about him more than
know
him, ma’am.” Tony shifts from leg to leg, and Warrior watches him closely.

“He was part of a gang a long time ago,” Jerry pipes up. “There’s lots of bad-ass stories about the guy. We been hearing, like, forever, that he’s a mean dude.” If this Bobby Taylor is the same guy who sent Juliana that repulsive box with the dead bird, then, yes, I would agree with them.

“Yeah, and now he’s b-b-b-b—”

“Get it out, Tony!” Jerry snaps.

“Back!!” Tony says. “Since a week ago.”

“And he’s been hangin’ here,” Jerry says. “A guy pointed at him when we was here last night. But we don’t talk to him or nothin’. We don’t know nothin’ about his business.”

“Do you know someone named Teresa, who might be friends with Bobby Taylor?” I ask. They look at each other, this time seeming confused. “How about Frankie? Is he one of Bobby’s friends?” Their eyes are blanks, and I realize they’re clueless.

I click my key and unlock the car. “You two are going to walk toward the gate over there. When you see that I’ve left the stadium, Jerry, check your watch and wait five minutes with Tony before going over to the van. Don’t even think about following me. If I see you in my rearview mirror, I will…” I gesture with my cell phone. “…email these pictures with your license plate to the police. Do we understand each other?”

They nod yes.

“Start walking.”

They run.

Well done, Ronnie. But my own legs are a little shaky, too, as I walk Warrior over to my car.

~~~~~

After lunch, I sit at a microfilm machine in the reference room of the public library in Scranton, scanning through 1987 issues of the local newspaper. Taking off the red-framed drugstore magnifiers that I wear as glasses, I rub my nose, thinking how the nice surprise of my day has been my visit to this town. Here I had thought Scranton was in decline, only to discover a transformation of its once vacant but architecturally distinctive downtown due to extensive renovation.

Stay focused, Ronnie. Back to work.

An older librarian remembered the Scranton Gang story from back in ’87, maybe late summer or early fall, and directed me to look at that period. Now I put my glasses back on and scroll slowly through the reel that includes August, September and October, 1987, finally hitting pay dirt in early September of that year.

Fugitive Family Arrested After Allentown Crash.
And the subhead:
Scranton Teens Nabbed After Police Chase.
Front page, above the fold, September 9, 1987.

After a 25-mile chase and shootout in Allentown, police apprehended the so-called Scranton Gang. Officers took into custody two brothers, ages 16 and 13, and a female cousin, 13. Following a bank robbery at a JNC branch in Stroudsburg three days before, the gun-toting, fast-driving teenage lawbreakers had invited comparisons to Bonnie and Clyde. Eyewitnesses reported the female gang leader fired shots…

This article and others I find in the microfilm archives go on to describe the girl as being a suspect for also shooting at a police officer as the gang fled Stroudsburg. The teen trio briefly went into hiding before heading south and showing up in Allentown in a beat-up, stolen, 1974 orange Ford Maverick.

An observant 7-Eleven employee called the police before the brothers came inside to buy snacks and three Slurpee drinks while their cousin filled the Maverick’s tank with self-serve gas.

I continue reading and discover that when Allentown police approached the 7-Eleven, the 13-year-old female gang leader—had to be Teresa Gonzalez, of course—fired a weapon toward several officers as the three fled in the car. Fortunately, she missed.

The chase ended when the Maverick crashed and rolled on the highway. The 13-year-old male—and that must have been Bobby Taylor—jumped out of the car and fled on foot, but police quickly apprehended him. They arrested all three and took the juveniles to the hospital to be treated for minor injuries.

I study a bank surveillance camera photo of a gun-toting Teresa robbing a teller. She has on sunglasses while a baseball cap hides her hair and face, making it difficult to see her features. So young and already holding up banks—unbelievable. Was she really just a kid bad to the bone, or had something traumatic happened to her that led to such an early life of crime?

After their arrests, the story quickly went cold, because the Taylors and Gonzalez were juveniles with sealed records. But one comment from the police catches my eye—that the Scranton Gang was trying to get to Orlando, Florida to start a new life near Disney World. In addition to being bank robbers, it seems Bobby, Joe, and Teresa were also everyday kids who fantasized about visiting the famous theme park.

But what does Bobby Taylor have to do with my brother’s girlfriend, Juliana Wentworth? And who is this Teresa? Then, too, what about Frankie, the other name in the beak of the dead bird in the box? Where does he fit in?

The class is spread out in pairs on the mat at the dojo, and I come at Will Benson with an overhead strike called
shomenuchi
. I attack him as if my extended arm is a sword and my hand is the blade (often referred to as
tegatana
or
hand sword
). My intent is to slice Will in half, starting right down the middle of his skull.

Actually, when practicing at the dojo, we aren’t supposed to beat up or hurt each other, as that isn’t the intent in Aikido. Certain types of attacks in Aikido, like
shomenuchi
, are based on sword movements, which may be a far cry from what happens on the street—but practicing in this manner eventually prepares us to deal with any type of attack. That’s the plan anyway.

We also learn how to blend our energy with that of our attacker and apply techniques based on the physics of motion, using circular movements. Rather than forcing our opponent with football-player testosterone, we attempt to redirect our attacker’s own power and throw him to the ground or immobilize him with joint locks.

So back to the mat. I attack Will with a
shomenuchi
strike, and he executes a technique we call
irimi nage
or
entering throw
. Often called the twenty-year technique,
irimi nage
encapsulates the essence of Aikido movement and, hence its nickname, takes a long time to master.

As I move forward and attack Will, he disappears by entering in behind me. Before I know it, he takes over my assault by grabbing my neck, controlling my spine, and redirecting me in the opposite direction. My body drops to the floor. Though I make an effort to stand up, while I’m doing so, he attaches me to his shoulder, and I feel as if he has made me a part of his own body.

While I struggle to get away from his firm grasp, Will follows my movement with a turn of his torso and his shoulder rotates and arm curves up and over me, pouring me yet again down to the ground. Lucky for me I’ve received this technique so many times I’m able break my fall safely and roll out of the way.

You’d think I’d be nervous practicing with a strong, muscular guy like Will, who’s fifteen years younger than I am, about six-foot-four, and a third-degree black belt in Aikido, or
Sandan
. Especially since I’m a tall, small-boned older woman with numbers on my last bone density scan tipping into osteopenia. But I don’t worry about accidentally breaking something when I practice with Will, because he’s polite and doesn’t muscle through a technique the way so many other guys can’t help doing.

Back to
irimi nage
. When I first learned this technique, I thought it was way more intimate than I cared to be with strangers on an Aikido mat. After all, this technique makes everyone pretty sweaty and stinky, because it’s so aerobic. Think about it. When your partner has you glued to his shoulder, you pretty much have your face plastered right next to his armpit, and it’s often someone you barely know. The upside? All of us in the dojo are probably immune to every kind of germ by now.

After about ten minutes of Will and me throwing each other around using this technique, Isabella
Sensei
claps and finishes the class with breathing exercises to help us cool down. We bow then and thank our partners.

“Will, have a minute?” I step off the mat.

“Sure,” he answers.

“I know you’re a private investigator,” I say, keeping my voice low while getting a drink of water from the cooler. “I may have a job for you…something I don’t think I can do on my own.”

“OK, let’s meet in a few minutes at your car.”

Once we’re in our street clothes and outside, Will explains that most of his P.I. work is on the Northeastern Seaboard but at times takes him all over the country. He doesn’t specialize and handles everything from marital-dispute and infidelity surveillance, to financial-fraud investigation and finding missing persons.

I give Will the broad strokes, describing the Scranton Gang and telling him that I’d like to know what happened to the three kids after their arrest in 1987. He says that even though records are sealed on juveniles, he may have a way of getting at that information and helping me.

“I tried Googling all three,” I say. “I found millions of entries for their names, and still thousands when I narrowed the search to just Pennsylvania—but who knows if any of them still live there.”

Will nods, understanding the problem. “Ronnie, let me start with the Scranton Gang and work forward from there,” he suggests.

I hand him copies of the newspaper articles I found the day before. We exchange email addresses, and since I’m a new client, he says he’ll send me some paperwork to fill out.

“Ronnie.” Will shoves his hands partially into his jeans pockets, which I can’t help but notice hang low on his narrow hips. I guess he probably has six-pack abs under that shirt… “Don’t mean to intrude,” he goes on. “But why you want to know about these kids?”

“I’m interested because…” I hesitate and then collect my thoughts. “…because I’m concerned about a possible connection between these kids and a family member of mine.”

“Just know, when you start an investigation, what you find may take you down a road you might wish you’d never traveled.”

~~~~~

On my way home, I stop by Meadow Farm to drop off a couple of gorgeous heads of lettuce I’d bought at a nearby vegetable stand. I walk through the foyer on my way to the kitchen and glance into the dining room. There I’m surprised to see Juliana on her knees folding up a corner of an old Oriental carpet. Her fingers gently rub the pile where the shadow of an old stain barely shows.

“Someone, way back, dropped—oh, what was it?” I walk into the room. “Some kind of sauce?”

A startled Juliana drops the corner of the carpet. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.” She gets up quickly. “You caught me daydreaming.” Her voice is smooth, not flustered.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.” I walk over. “Daydreaming about a spot on a carpet?”

“I love old carpets.” She looks down at this one. “They have so many stories to tell about the people who’ve walked on them.”

“Well, this one would have a lot of Rutherfurd stories to tell, since my great-grandfather gave it to my grandparents when they bought Meadow Farm.” I look at the old stain and then at her. “And of course lots of stories about family friends and the wonderful people who worked for us over the years.”

I see a momentary hint of something cross Juliana’s face, and she says, “Well, it’s a most beautiful carpet.”

“Kind of worn around the edges.” I use the toe of my shoe to rub the stain. “But that’s how we like it here—nothing too shiny and new.” I link arms with Juliana and feel her pull back slightly as I turn her toward the kitchen. “Now how about an iced tea?”

“Juliana.” It’s Frank, calling from outside.

“Ronnie, excuse me.” She disengages from my linked arm. “That’s Frank. He’s taking me to meet a friend of his. Don’t mean to rush off.” But Juliana does rush off to go join him outside. I hear laughing between the two and then a car motor rev up and take off down the gravel road.

~~~~~

I walk into the kitchen and place the fresh lettuce in the fridge.

“Hi, Ronnie!” Meadow Farm’s longtime cook and housekeeper breezes in, a petite bundle of energy with a pencil and pad.

“How are you, m’dear?” I respond. Rita Hendricks is adored by all our family. In fact, I don’t know how this place would run without her organizational talents and general TLC. “Everything under control over here?” I ask.

“Yep. I’m heading out to pick up the mail and do some grocery shopping.” She adds an item to her list on the pad. “Frank and his new lady friend are driving to Mantoloking and will be there until this evening.”