The Case of the Forlorned Friend

The Case of the Forlorned Friend

         There’s lots of characters living and working in the city. Spam came into contact with all kinds. Some of them he liked; some of them he didn’t like. Some of them he tried to forget; and some of them he would remember forever. The tricky thing was determining which was which. It’s hard to guess who will be your friend. Spam considered himself lucky. He had a few friends. That’s more than most people have. Proof of this was when Ruben walked through his office door one afternoon.

         By most people’s standard, Ruben was considered the resident drunk at Hannity’s Bar. The fact of the matter was that being drunk was his usual condition. But that was not who he was. Ruben was obnoxious in that he would bore your socks off when cornered in a conversation. But he was a good person—gentle and somehow compassionate. Spam considered Ruben a drunk, but he also considered Ruben as a friend.

         Spam watched intently as Ruben walked up to his desk. His course was true with no sign of alcohol influence. It was still early in the afternoon.

          “Spam, I need to talk to you.” Ruben announced soberly. “I’ve got business with you.”

          “Sure, Ruben, let’s talk.” Spam answered still looking for signs of alcohol influence in Rubens actions. “Just what kind of business do you have in mind?”

          “I need to hire you, Spam.”

         Spam’s interest was peaked and he was somewhat amused. “Is that so? Just what is it that you need me to do for you Ruben?” Spam could not help but grin at Ruben’s sudden announcement.

          “It’s murder, Spam. My friend has been murdered and no one cares who did it. I want you to find the person who murdered my friend.” Ruben spoke with conviction and passion, something that Spam had not witnessed before. The grin left Spam’s face and was replaced with a furrowed brow.

          “Ruben, that’s a pretty serious charge. You need to tell me a little more.”

          “Do you remember seeing a bum in the area—he wears an old G.I. jacket and collects trash and stuff that others throw away? He lives on the street and carries the stuff he collects in a little red wagon?”

          “Yeah, I’ve seen the guy, Ruben. Is that your friend?”

          “His name was Jerome. He was a nice guy. He called me Mr. Franklin. Jerome and me--well, we go way back, Spam; we got history. He didn’t see me as a drunk, and I didn't see him as a bum. I gave him some of my old clothes—coats and hats mostly. He would always thank me, and I could tell he really meant it. Sometimes in the early afternoon he would sit with me on the park bench and we would talk about the things that were in the paper. I’d always give him that paper. I’m not sure he read it. I think he probably used it for kindling. It doesn’t matter though; he was always grateful when I gave him anything. We were friends, Spam.”

          “It’s a good thing to have a friend like that Ruben,” Spam agreed, “What happened to him?”

          “I don’t know. All I know is that yesterday morning they found Jerome laying in the alley. He had been beaten to death. None of his stuff was missing. His little red wagon with all that stuff was sitting right there next to him. No one wanted his treasures.”

          “I’m sorry to hear that, Ruben. But, I’m sure the police will work on any leads that they have.”

          “That’s not true Spam. When I called to ask about the case, the desk sergeant said that it had been placed in the inactive files. He was just a bum that no one cared about. The police are busy with more important people. Spam, I want you to find the people who did this to Jerome. I’ll pay you. Will you help me Spam?”

          “I’ll check in on it, Ruben. Don’t get your hopes up. I’ll see what I can do. We’ll see about hiring me later.”

          “That’s all I can ask, Spam. But, if you find the guys that did this to Jerome, you see that they fry.” Spam thought he detected tears in Ruben’s eyes; he couldn’t be sure. But, he was sure of the emotion felt by his typically tipsy friend.

*************

         Spam stood in the cluttered office of Lieutenant Dave Frisco, his long time friend and associate. Spam had few friends in the police department; Dave was one of them.

          “Yeah, I know the case, Spam, “Dave Frisco said thoughtfully as he leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling recalling the particulars of the case. “The old man was beat-up pretty badly. Whoever did it enjoyed it. The way I have it figured, Spam, he was either killed as a random pleasure kill or he witnessed something that he shouldn’t have.”

          “Have there been any other pleasure kills in the area recently?” Spam quizzed.

          “No, nothing like that. For once in a long while we don’t even have any active gangs that would do something like this as an initiation,” Dave agreed. “My guess is the old man saw something that he shouldn’t have and paid the price for it.”

          “Any witnesses?”

          “Not a one; at least no one who would be willing to risk coming forward. Life’s pretty cheap out there, Spam. No one would get involved in a murder of a ‘throw-away.’”

         Spam shook his head and mused, “Times are pretty bad when the worth of a life depends on their status in the community. The old man didn’t deserve this, Dave.”

          “None of them deserve it, Spam. That doesn’t keep it from happening.”

          “What do you know about the old man, Dave?”

          “Well, we found a pair of G.I. dog tags on him. It’s pretty amazing what we found when we ran him through the system,” Dave spoke with some interest.

          “Yeah, what’s that?” Spam’s curiosity was peaked.

          “His full name is Jerome Dennison Ledbetter. It seems as if our Mr. Ledbetter is actually Sergeant Ledbetter of the 82nd Airborne. He received a Purple Heart for being wounded in the Battle of the Bulge. In addition, he and seven of his buddies were captured by a German patrol. Seems as if Jerome was able to overpower a guard and kill the rest of the German patrol with the German’s own weapon. He then led his squad across the frozen country-side back to the American lines. He refused to be hospitalized but rather joined his company and continued the fight until the duration on V.E. day. He was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. After he came home, he found his sweetheart married to another man and his parents both dead from natural causes. The world just lost touch with Jerome, that is until we found him dead in that alley.”

          “Geez,” Spam whistled, “you never know, do ya?”

          “”Never,” Dave agreed.

************

         Motivated by this new revelation of the bum that he bumped into occasionally, Spam returned to the scene of the crime to do a little investigation of his own. The alley was a typical alley. It was dirty and it stank.

         Spam was saddened by the thought of such a worthy life ending so tragically. He walked around the site, looking at every crook and cranny, looking for something that appeared to not belong, looking for a hint that would give him direction. Then, he noticed something. At first it was just a shape. However, the longer he looked at it and the closer he got to it; the more promise it gave. Spam reached around, in back of, a trash can. It was a piece of cloth. Close examination revealed that it was a woman’s glove. It was a fancy glove with a couple of pearl buttons used to secure the glove at the wrist. Spam concluded that this certainly did not belong in this alley.

         A glove this fine would certainly be proudly worn by its owner. There were two restaurants near the alley opening to the street. Spam thought that it was worth a shot to see if anyone had seen this glove. Both restaurants were Italian restaurants. The first was little more than a pizza shop. The owner, chef, and waiter was the same person. He quickly confirmed that he had never seen such a glove before in his life

         The second restaurant was Antonio’s Bistro. The clientele at Antonio’s were used to obtaining reservations for their evening dining. Upon checking with the owner, Spam was informed that there was one young lady, on duty right then, who was also working on the evening of Jerome’s murder. Angela Carpillo was a young raven haired, Italian beauty. Her family immigrated from the ‘old country’; however, Angela was born in the States. Spam approached Angela while she was waiting at the kitchen pick-up window for an order.

          “Hi, Angela,” Spam greeted with his best measure of charm. “Your boss said that I could ask you a couple of questions.”

          “Yeah? Well who are you and why should I answer any of your questions?” Angela was not belligerent, just careful.

          “Well, you could help an old man who died a pretty violent death.”

          “If he’s dead, how can I help him?”

          “You’d be helping some people who cared about him, really.”

          “You should’ve said that. What do you want to know?”

         Spam fished the glove out of his pocket. “You ever seen this before?”

         Angela looked closely at the glove. Then she slowly reached out and picked it up from Spam’s hand, continuing to study it. “Yeah, yeah, I have seen this. Let me think. Yeah, it was last Wednesday night. There was this guy and a lady. She was wearing these gorgeous gloves with pearls as buttons. It looks just like this glove.”

          “Have you got any idea who the lady was?”

          “No, I don’t know either one of them by name. However, I seen the guy here before. Antonio has set him in my area. But he was always with a different lady. I’d ask Antonio. Hey, I think the guy’s a doctor, though. At least I heard someone call him that before.”

          “Thanks, Doll. You’ve been a great help.” Spam nodded to the young woman and made his way to the front desk to speak with Antonio, who was counting money and putting it into the different trays of the cash register.

          “Antonio?”

          “Yes, Mr. Hummer,” Antonio responded looking up from his counting.

          “Last Wednesday evening you sat a man with a dame at Angela’s table. She said she thinks he’s a doctor who comes in here frequently—always with a different dame.” Spam waited for Antonio to register who it may be. “You got any idea who that would be?”

          “A doctor, a doctor, let me see; I vaguely remember a doctor. I can’t quite remember.” Antonio smiled at Spam and shook his head slowly.

          “Can’t quite remember, huh? How about twenty-bucks—does that help your memory any?” Spam laid a twenty-dollar bill on the reservation book.

          “Oh, you must be talking about Dr. Phillip Bates. Yes, I do believe Dr. Bates was in here last Wednesday. At least I think it was Dr. Bates?” Antonio mentioned with a slight question in his voice.

         Spam laid another ten-bucks on the reservation book.

          “Yes, yes, it was definitely Dr. Bates.” Antonio smiled broadly, picked up the money, folded it, and placed it in his pants pocket.

         Spam shook his head and walked towards the exit and muttered under his breath, “This is a wonderful country—a real land of opportunity.”

***************

         Cassidy spent the afternoon calling hospitals, clinics, and private practices to track down a Doctor Philip Bates. What should have been an easy job was complicated by the fact that she finally discovered that the good doctor was not an MD but rather a PhD who worked as an economic advisor to banking executives. Spam considered himself fortunate that Cassidy was bright as well as a good worker. She was the perfect girl-Friday.

          “Doll, you’re worth a million dollars,” Spam grinned at Cassidy as he studied the address and telephone number written on the slip in Cassidy’s handwriting.

          “Then just write the check and I’ll be back next week after my trip to Rio,” she winked at him as he walked away.

         Spam chuckled, “You’d never leave me. It’s not my money; it’s my dynamic personality you love.”

          “Sure, Spam.” She responded shaking her head. But, she knew that it was true. She was totally devoted to Spam. And it wasn’t the money.

          “Cass, I’m gonna go over and have a little talk with the good doctor. Hold down the fort, Doll.” Spam walked out the door slipping his coat on.

****************

          “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Doc” Spam remarked as he sat in the plush seat across from Philip Bates.

          “Well, my secretary tells me you have an emergency situation that needs my attention. Just what is it that brings you here, Mr. Hummer?” Bates asked as he nervously fiddled with a silver pen.

          “Actually, I exaggerated a little bit. The situation should be described as more sensitive than an emergency.” Spam purposely turned his gaze towards Bates’ credenza, which displayed several framed photographs of wife and kids. Bates was obviously very proud of his family.

          “Has this got something to do with my family, Mr. Hummer?”

          “Not directly, Bates. I take it that the young lady you were out with a week ago last Wednesday was not your wife?”

          “You must have me mistaken with someone else, Mr. Hummer. I believe this meeting is over.” Bates rose to his feet and began walking to the door.

          “You may want to reconsider, Bates. We can do this right now or you can do it with your wife down at the police station—your choice?” Spam remained seated.

          “Police station?—are you with the police? What’s this got to do with the police?” Bates stopped and then retraced his path back to his chair behind the desk. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

          “First of all, Bates, I’m not a cop. But I’ve got a friend who is, and he’ll be very interested in talking to you. If I’m correct, I’d say you were involved in some sort of incident last week in the street outside Antonio’s Bistro. That incident somehow led to a man getting killed. The cops will be very interested in knowing what happened there and what your part in that murder was.

          “Hummer, I don’t know anything about anyone getting killed. If there is a crime, I’m the victim. My associate and I were leaving Antonio’s when these two punks accosted us. They had knives. They said they’d cut her up if I didn’t give them money. I gave them what I had, which was significant. They stole her purse and ran off into the alley. That’s the last that I saw of them. Needless to say my associate was very shaken. I didn’t see any need to report it to the police. I just took Deidre, I mean my associate, home. Those things happen, Hummer. As to a murder, I don’t know what you were talking about.”

          “Can you describe these two men?”

          “They were two average looking guys—they were Hispanic. One of them is named Frankie.”

          “How do you know that?”

          “Well, after they took my money, one of them said, ‘Get her purse, Frankie!’ that’s when they stole her purse. That’s all I know. There’s no need of talking to my associate. She doesn’t know any more than that. Does my wife need to know about this?”

         Concealing his contempt, Spam replied, “No, she doesn’t have to know. But you still may be contacted by the police to identify these two guys. And, if there is a trial, well, you’ll have to testify. However, there’s always a chance that they’ll confess. Hey, the probability is that they’ll never find the punks.”

          “Good, there’s no reason to upset my wife or my associate.”

         Spam rose and walked to the door, stopping just before opening it to leave. He turned and spoke, “You know from the pictures on your desks, I can see that you have a very beautiful wife, Bates. Take if from a guy who knows, you need to be spending more time with her. Your associates don’t need you half as much as your family does.”

**********************

         It was a couple of days later when Spam walked into Hannity’s bar. “Jocko, give me my usual.”

         Jocko grinned; he had already begun to mix the drink when Spam walked through the door. Two drinks, every night, Spam was as regular as clock-work. Spam took the drink and walked to a table over by the window. Ruben sat there alone with his second drink of what would be many for that evening.

          “Can I sit with you, Ruben?” Spam asked.

          “Sure, Spam, have a seat. You got anything on Jerome’s death?”

          “Actually there’s quite a bit on that, Ruben. It seems that a couple of street punks named Frankie and Alberto Ruiz were the guys who killed your friend. They were picked out of a line-up by a guy who they mugged the night Jerome was killed. It appears that your friend Jerome witnessed the mugging. Those two punks beat him to death because they didn’t want him talking about what he’d seen.”

         Ruben held his hand to his face, covering his eyes. Spam heard a quiet sob as Ruben cried for his friend.

         Spam gave him a moment with his grief and then asked,“Ruben, can I ask you a personal question?”

          “Sure Spam, I’ve got nothing to hide from you.” Ruben wiped his eyes as he regained control of his emotions.

          “I noticed that ring on your finger. It’s pretty unique. Tell me about it, Ruben”

          “This ole thing? Well, I don’t talk about it much, but I served in the Army in the war. I was in some pretty tight spots. This ring here is one of eight. There were seven of us who came out of that place alive. We had these rings made so as to never forget what we experienced or each other.”

          “What’s the symbol stand for, Ruben?”

          “That’s the symbol for the 82nd Airborne. I was airborne in the war.”

          “That explains a lot, Ruben.”

          “”What’dya mean?”

          “When they arrested the Ruiz boys, Frankie had this ring on his finger.” Spam dropped a ring on the table. It was identical to the one that Ruben wore. “The initials on the inside of the ring are JDL. Those initials convicted Frankie. He confessed to being party to the beating that he and his brother gave Jerome. Their greed cost them their freedom. If they’d left that ring on Jerome’s finger we couldn’t have tied them to Jerome.”

          “I owe Jerome my life. I was freezing in the snow, wounded and captured. He knew I was gonna die if I didn’t get out of there. Jerome killed the guard and then the rest of that German squad. He then half carried me back to the safety of our lines. We all owed Jerome our lives. I ran into Jerome a couple of years ago. He’d become a bum and I was—am—a drunk. But together we were brothers of something greater than the both of us. I tried to watch after him as well as I could. He didn’t deserve to die like that.” Ruben spoke with a tear escaping down a wrinkle in his face.

          “No, he didn’t, Ruben.” Spam stood as he spoke. “But he did deserve you as a friend and you were a good friend, Ruben. Keep the ring. I kinda think he’d want you to have it.”

         “Thanks, Spam,” Ruben spoke as he looked up to his friend, “thanks for everything.”