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If you need to call for help,
please don't stop here!!!
By KENT HOLSATHER
of TheColumnists.com
There was always a way around the law when it came to prohibition and John Elias had become a fine practitioner when it came to the art of illegal liquor distribution. The meddling Billie Sunday had swayed the populace with his fiery sermons. “Sip the devil’s brew and you will be cast down the pit with him.”
The county fathers buckled under the pressure and quickly voted to go dry. Every tavern closed down and the local brewery resorted to men like John and his friend William Sloan to deliver the brew to thirsty customers door to door. It was a shadowy business that the local cops routinely turned their backs on.
It was Halloween night that found John and Bill slowly chugging up Pine Street with their delivery. The lack of street lights had made the job of reading the addresses nearly impossible so Bill decided to take action. “Let’s stop and check addresses; it can’t be that tough to find 1401 Pine.” Bill jumped out of the car and proceeded up the street on foot to get a better look at the numbers while John waited by the headlights.
Ten minutes passed before John began to
get anxious. Bill was nowhere to be seen and it was beginning
to rain. Where did he go?
John looked up and down the street. The dark skies had opened
up to unleash a torrent of rain so black and thick that only
shadows were visible to his eyes.
“Bill!-----Bill!” He screamed
as loud as his lungs would allow but it seemed as if the raindrops
themselves were snatching his words from the air and driving
them into the ground around his feet. He tried in vain to wipe
the rain from his eyes as he staggered towards the nearest house
on the block. A lone light flickered behind a closed curtain
as John hammered on the wet door with his fist.
An eternity seemed to pass before the door cracked open, letting
a sliver of light pass over John’s face as a voice as cold
as a death rattle seeped through the hinges.
“What do you want?”
“My name is John Elias and there’s been an accident or something out here!”
“Go away!” the voice boomed.
“I can’t go away. I need to call the police and you’re the closest place. Please let me in!”
There was a moment of silence before the door creaked open. John saw no one as he rushed in to get out of the downpour. He squinted from the sudden brightness of the room as he searched out the source of the voice.
“Is anyone here?”
His question was answered with a bang as the door slammed behind him. He whirled around to face William Sloan. John shuddered at the site before him. William’s face was purple except for the lifeless stare of his bulging white eyes. His body rocked back and forth until it collapsed face first at John’s feet, a dagger protruding from the back of his neck.
“Welcome Mr. Elias.”
The voice startled John as a man stepped
from the shadows, a man who had seemed to have crawled out of
the ground. He was old and covered with dirt from head to toe.
“Who are you-----what’s going on?” chirped John,
his throat tightening with fear.
“Who am I?” The man began to laugh. “Why I’m just a poor grave digger trying to make an honest living----mostly honest I guess. You see, they put in that new fancy cemetery out on the other side of town. All the rich folks are getting buried there and all the poor ones are being planted here; ain’t no money in digging graves for poor folks, is there.”
John’s voice began to tremble. “What
are you talking about?”
“What I mean to say is-----there’s other ways to make
money in my profession. I’ve been known to, on occasion,
provide a service to some of the most respected surgeons in this
town. I provide them with let’s just say------parts.”
“You’re a grave robber!” John stammered as he glanced quickly at the body while slowly shuffling towards the door.
“I’m a business man just like Mr. Sloan here. He found a way around the law to sell beer and I found a way around the law to make death a little more profitable for me.”
“But you killed Mr. Sloan” stammered John.
“The Docs pay more money for fresh than for stale. I think it’s a good business move, don’t you?”
“I don’t know who you are or what your name is but you’re flat crazy, old man!”
“Smiths the name-----Josh Smith and I’m no more crazy than you are” answered the old man as he pulled a double bladed ax from behind his back. “I got a lot of practice with chickens as a kid but I find that men take a little more back swing to get a good cut through the tendons.”
John lunged for the door but it had mysteriously locked. He picked up a chair and threw it at one of the windows. It bounced off like it had hit a steel plate, something was wrong. He could see out the window; two policemen were inspecting Sloan’s car, there was hope.
“Help, help!” John hammered at
the window with his fists but the cops didn’t seem to notice.
He screamed until his lungs hurt but nothing seemed to work.
The police were completely oblivious to him as they slowly walked
around the car.
“Having a problem getting their attention?” laughed
the old man. “Maybe you need to call the cops on my phone.
That’s what you wanted to do in the first place, right?”
“Yah----yah, your---you're right,” John answered in
a whisper, his vocal cords frozen in fear.
“It’s on the wall over there,” the old man cackled.
John dashed to the phone. Ripping the receiver off the hook, he spun the phone crank and called the operator. There was a moment of silence until a voice came on the line.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, get me the po…………”John caught himself in mid-sentence; he recognized the voice. “Josie --- Josie Beard?”
“Why yes, yes it is. To whom am I speaking?”
John grew white as he let the phone slip from his fingers. It swung slowly back and forth as a muffled “Hello? Hello?" leaked from the ear piece.
Josie had been his wife’s best friend.
They were nearly inseparable until two years ago; that was when
Josie died of pneumonia.
John turned to the old man. “What is this place?”
“This is my home and, if you remember, I didn’t invite you here but I’m sure glad you came.”
The old man raised the ax above his head as he began to stalk his prey.
“What are you doing?” gasped John as he backed up against the wall near the phone.
“Tonight I had a call for two bodies and at first I assumed that I couldn’t fill my order but then you came along and just insisted on helping me out. For that, I’m most grateful”
John’s scream was cut short as thunder boomed from the sky.
The rumble had shaken the two cops as they picked up the soggy paper that they had found near the car. One of the men squinted his eyes as he looked up into the darkness.
"Boy, it’s nasty out here tonight.”
The other officer pulled out his flashlight to read the address penciled on the paper “1401 Pine Street. Well, I’ll be hog-tied!” His partner walked up to him, grabbed the paper and read it. "Boy, this is starting to get old.”
The other cop began to think out loud. “You got that right, this is the very same spot where we found that other beer vendor’s car last year; we never found him either.”
As one of the officers surveyed the empty lot in front of them,
he shook his head in disbelief.
“When these beer vendors get an order called in, you’d think they would check the address a little closer. There hasn’t been a house at 1401 Pine Street since the old Smith place burned to the ground a couple of years ago. As I remember, the old man who lived there was completely cremated in the fire. There wasn’t enough left of him to put in a jar.”
“Wasn’t that Josh Smith, the gravedigger?” questioned his partner.
“Yup, the nicest man you’d ever want to meet too, a real gentleman.”
They circled the car one more time before
heading back to their Model T and as they were about to open
the doors to the auto, one of the cops stopped dead in his tracks.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what”
“A whistle, I think I heard a whistle.”
His partner cupped his ears in the direction of the lot and strained to listen. "I don’t hear anything.”
They both stood in silence for a few minutes until one of them muttered softly, “It must have been the wind.”
His partner shrugged. “You’re probably right. Let’s get going. We’ll send a car out here tomorrow at first light. It’ll be better to work this place during the daylight; we’ll see if they can bring a bloodhound out to do some tracking.”
They climbed into their auto and started the engine. It was time to get back to the station and it would be none too soon. The midnight Halloween party was a tradition at the station and it would be a shame to miss it. The car lurched forward, ground a gear and disappeared into the blustery night.
©2007 by Kent Holsather.
The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895
Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column
first posted Oct. 29, 2007.
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"The Editors" or Kent Holsather. To send an email,
click here and don't forget to mention Kent's name: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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