A Crossworder's Holiday (10 page)

49.  Road turns

55.  WWII craft

56.  Set down

58.  FAA predecessor

59.  Question

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N
AH
, nah, the first Freddie Five Fingers was killed back in 'Fifty-four at Fifth and Fitzwater on February fourteenth … Way before my time, obviously, but sort of Philadelphia's version of the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre … Of course, Freddie was the only goon bumped off, so
massacre
's kind of a stretch of the imagination, even by South Philly standards.”

Jack Keegan stabbed his fork into his one remaining gingered shrimp and popped it into his mouth. Although he'd eaten lunch in Chinatown—Noh Joy's, to be precise—twice a week for the last thirty years, he still had yet to warm up to the idea of chopsticks. “My hands are like potatoes here,” he was fond of saying. “I trip over my own fingers. I mean, look at these mitts.” Then he'd flex his broad hands, emphasizing their size and strength—the necessary tools of the trade when one's trade was mixing it up with underworld characters on a daily basis.

Jack Keegan had spent his entire FBI career chasing down mobsters in South Philadelphia. Up until now, it had been a more or less break-even situation, or as he liked to say: “Sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you.” Lately, however, law enforcement had been on the winning side. A number of high-ranking, high-profile hoods had been convicted of an assortment of crimes and dispatched to a
tight
facility in Western Pennsylvania, resulting in a marked slowdown in nefarious activity south of South Street.

“Since the summer things have been—”

Jack was interrupted as Belle Graham abruptly sneezed. In unison, he and Rosco said, “God bless you.”

“Thanks. I hope I'm not coming down with something—” She sneezed again, pulled a tissue from her pocket, and dabbed at her nose. “I had no idea Philadelphia had such a colorful history—other than the Declaration of Independence, Liberty Bell, Constitution, et cetera, which are obviously no slouches in terms of national significance … But the Mummers Parade … Would you say it's like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, except cold?”

“Cold. Right …” Jack nodded. “Anyway, I was gonna say that things were pretty quiet around here until Christmas Day. That's when Freddie Five Fingers—the
second
Freddie Five Fingers, that is—turned up dead.”

“Not to be flip,” Rosco interjected, “but doesn't everyone have five fingers?”

“Yeah, right … but
this
Freddie's real name was Hermann, so he just adopted the name from the
first
Freddie, hoping the slimy lowlife reputation would follow. It has a better ring than, say, Horse Head Hermann; at least in South Philly … Then, over the years he kind of lost the
Fingers
part, and was basically just known as Freddie Five.”

Rosco shrugged, unsure if his question about the five fingers had been answered or not.

“And Freddie was a bookmaker?” Belle asked through a sniffle, using her cup of green tea to warm her hands.

“Ostensibly. He was real good with numbers, real good. But Freddie Five was into just about everything—none of the rough stuff, though. Never a hit or knee capping.”

“And you never knew it was Freddie Five who was secretly sending you those, ah …
instructive
crossword puzzles?” Rosco asked.

“Well, they never went directly to the FBI; they were always submitted to the local newspaper, the
Philadelphia Inquirer
—known hereabouts as the ‘Inky'… When Freddie's first puzzle arrived—this was about four years ago—one of the editors got suspicious and forwarded it to us. The messages were always fairly obvious; DRUG DEAL ON NINTH—” Jack looked at Belle with a proud smile. “Fifteen letters, right? Fits right across a daily puzzle grid, huh?”

She nodded and sniffled once again.

“Yeah, I remember that one … Anyway, Freddie'd do something like: CORNER OF KIMBALL, BE THERE AT FOUR AM, LOOK FOR JOEY DOGS; that sort of thing. He was real good … I mean, the things looked like the genuine article … Actually, they were the genuine article … Like this one I gave you. Which is why he never blew his cover … So as I was sayin', these crossword tip-offs would appear every six months or so. The editor would send them to the Bureau, and we'd move in and make the bust. But we never knew it was Freddie Five who constructed them. Never would have figured he was a snitch. Freddie was a real high-profile guy—”

“Until he turned up dead.”

“Right. That's when we found that puzzle in a kitchen drawer.” Keegan pointed at the
Mum's the Word
crossword. “We realized that Freddie Five had been our informant all this time. The handwriting's a dead ringer—if you will—for the other puzzles. But for the life of me, we can't make hide nor hair of this one.”

“It has a nice symmetry,” Belle agreed, “but you're right, there's nothing foreboding about these answers—just a slight New Year's Day theme.”

“I sure appreciate the two of you making the trip down from Massachusetts to help out with this. Like I said before, your reputations precede you. And I figured if anyone could get into Freddie Five's word-game psyche, it would be Belle. I'm guessing he wouldn't have made that puzzle unless he was trying to tip us off to something. Something big.”

It was Rosco who posed the next question. “I'm assuming you believe his associates had uncovered his double life?”

“I'm certain of it. It was a classic mob hit: .22 right behind the ear. But I don't think they knew
how
Freddie was passing the skinny to us, or they wouldn't have left this piece of evidence behind. His place was torn apart.” Jack split open his fortune cookie and groaned. “‘All things come to he who waits.' What the hell is this?” He turned and looked toward the kitchen. “I think Noh Joy sets me up with these cookies … She sees me coming. She likes to torment me. She knows I'm not a patient kind of guy.”

Rosco reached for his own cookie. “But I don't see why Freddie would snitch on his own people … What was in it for him? Clearly, he wasn't on the Bureau's payroll.”

“No way. But every goon he ratted on was into him for five or six large ones, and—”

“Large ones?” Belle interrupted.

“Large ones. A grand … thousand dollars. Each of these guys Freddie fingered owed him over five thousand dollars in gambling losses … Sometimes, a whole lot more … And these musclemen are notorious for sticking bookies with their losses. They're the first ones at the door when the Eagles beat the point-spread, but they're nowhere to be found when it comes time to collect the damage … Guys like Freddie just have to write it off as bad debt—protection money, if you will. You push 'em for the coin, you wind up in Pennsylvania Hospital.”

“But Freddie found a way of getting even,” Belle mused.

“You got it …'til it all caught up with him.”

Rosco opened his cookie. “‘Dance and the whole world dances favorably'… Must have lost something in the translation.” He shrugged and tossed the slip of paper into the ashtray. “Any idea who might have killed your man?”

“I'd bet money it was ordered by Nicky Grapes, but he probably wasn't the trigger man. He seems to be the one most likely to step into Sonny Pancakes's shoes since Sonny got sent up last summer.”

“These are real names—Pancakes, Grapes?” Belle asked.

“Nah. All these guys have street names. Like Sonny never got any sun? Never went ‘down the shore,' as they say. He was always white as batter … So they called him Pancakes.”

“And Grapes?”

“Grapes. You know, it's slang for …” Jack cleared his throat and looked at Rosco for help.

Rosco said, “Eh … I think it might have something to do with wine consumption.”

“Hmmm,” Belle said, sneezed once more, and read off her fortune. “‘Seek and you shall find the truth.' I like that. I guess I should be studying this crossword a little closer …”

“Freddie was always very clear on the:
WHO, WHAT, WHERE
, and
WHEN
clues … But I'm not seeing those in this puzzle.” Keegan made no attempt to hide his frustration.

“Well, we do have JANUARY FIRST as the solution to 13-Across and 4-Down. And MUMMERS at 14-Across. That's a start.”

“Along with the title,” Rosco added as he looked at Agent Keegan. “It looks to me like you're right in suspecting that something might be going down at the Mummers Parade tomorrow.”

Jack groaned again. “That's what I kept coming up with. Freddie's got MARKET at 38-down … That's the main street for the parade route. Center City. What a nightmare. Have you two ever been to the Mummers Parade?”

“I saw some of it on TV when I was young,” Belle said. “It looked like fun.”

“Unless you're trying to look for someone—or something. Every person marching is a member of a club—a real old tradition: one hundred years plus, and still going strong … Quaker City's one of the more famous groups, prize winners, too; Irish American's another club; then there's Ferko, Satin Slippers, Hog Island, 2nd Street Shooters—”

“2nd Street Shooters?” Rosco asked. “Wouldn't that be a logical place to start searching for your alleged killer?”

Keegan chortled although the sound was less than cheery. “It's just a name, Rosco … like Hog Island, which was the location of the largest shipbuilding enterprise during World War One; ‘Hog Islanders,' they called themselves … Anyway, the clubs are divided into Fancy Brigades, Comic Divisions, and String Bands. Some have real elaborate floats, maybe entire production numbers with sets that split apart … and every participant is gussied up in sequins and feathers—the gaudier the getup, the better—with masks or painted faces. You wouldn't recognize your own brother if he came up and spat on you.”

“So you've got your
WHERE
and
WHEN
, albeit fairly vague.” Belle's tone was pensive. “Maybe if we can determine the
WHO
and
WHAT
, we could narrow things down a little.”

“Right, but remember we're talking about two
WHO
s here—the perp and the mark—and we can't ID either one.”

“You mentioned the man who liked Grapes?” Belle said.

“Uhh … Right … But there's another possibility.” Keegan pointed to the puzzle. “57-Across, ESCAPEE. We had a guy break out of a medium-security joint up in Sesquichi about a month ago—Tony Starch.”

“Because of his shirts?” Belle asked.

“Huh?”

“Because he liked extra starch in his shirts? That's how he got the nickname?”

“Oh … I see. No, no,
Starch
is his real name. His street name is … Well, it used to be Tony November, but he now goes by Tony Scorps. That's why I use his real name. It gets confusing after a while.”

“Oh, I get it …” Belle answered. “November, because he was born in that month, and Scorps, because he's a Scorpio.”

“Not bad … You're definitely getting the hang of it. He's even got a scorpion tattooed on the back of each hand.”

Belle sneezed for what seemed like the hundredth time. Rosco put his arm around her shoulders. “You sound terrible. I think we'd better get you back to the hotel. I'm afraid your tour of the City of Brotherly Love is going to have to come out of the guidebook.”

She leaned into Rosco's shoulder. “You're probably right …” Then she looked at Jack Keegan. “I'm sorry I couldn't be more help. Where do you go from here?”

“As much as I hate to say it, this Mummers thing is all we have to go on. Some of the brigades are rehearsing at the Convention Center. I know a few guys, inside guys … I'll see if anything fishy's going on.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Rosco asked.

“Be my guest. I need all the help I can get … And, Belle, you keep the crossword. You never know. You might get a flash of inspiration. Save us all a heck of a lot of trouble if you did.”

Instead of responding, Belle sneezed again.

T
HE
Philadelphia Convention Center was much like other big-city convention facilities, with one major exception: a portion of the building had once served as the grand terminus of the Reading Railroad; and the classic nineteenth-century architecture had been artfully incorporated into a newer, even more expansive structure that gleamed with strategically placed laser and neon lights and long, sleek surfaces of stainless steel and marble. Modern multicolored sculptural installations dangled from the ceiling, appearing to defy gravity. Philadelphia past and present, the hub of nineteenth-century commerce boldly embracing the twenty-first.

“This is really something,” Rosco said as he and Jack Keegan stepped off the escalator that had brought them up from street level.

“Yeah, they were going to tear Reading Terminal down before someone got the bright idea to save it. Back in the old days trains used to bring in the produce from Lancaster County. The original marketplace is still right below us.” He pointed at his feet. “Hasn't changed a lick in a hundred years. Fruit and vegetable merchants, poultry and egg vendors, fishmongers, and the best French and Italian cheeses north of the Italian Market on Christian Street. My grandad had a butcher stall … Hell, I damn near grew up in this building. Woulda been a real tragedy to have lost it. You want real Philly-style food: porchétta and pepper sandwiches, scrapple, cheesesteak. You come here.”

A tall, thin man in a red sweatshirt with
TEMPLE LAW
stitched on the front approached, and extended his hand to the FBI agent.

“Yo, Jack, what's shakin'? Come to watch us strut our stuff?”