In the last episode of Special Delivery, Rocky and James Wong talked to art historian Dr. Henry Rutland, who told them about the statue's origins and the strange curse placed upon it. The following takes place on the afternoon of April 26, 1949:
I borrowed the book Dr. Henry Rutland had been using for research. The legend of Il Pollice Nero had all but disappeared from the schoolbooks but it had been a pretty fierce item in its day. For a time in the 18th Century, the statue stood on a pedestal in the square of the small Italian village of Vitello. The townspeople brought freshly-baked bread to it every day, and every night the bread would disappear, presumably swiped by some poor man in need. Travelers would come from all around to climb up the pedestal and touch the thumb of the statue. The villagers knew well enough to stay away, but the visitors would still arrive, even though they should have been alerted to the fact that the only burgeoning business in Vitello was the mortuary business.
A banker named Giorgio Mangiamelli took possession of the statue somewhere around 1831 and became one of the wealthiest men in Tuscany, although his eldest son Marco died young, supposedly at the hand of The Black Thumb. It changed owners several times and the same stories came from those sources: instant death or constant wealth. Then the timeline stopped, somewhere before the turn of the century. No new legends to report.
I gave Wong the lowdown as he sped to the hospital. His lip curled, amused at the tale. “Death for Hoffman. For his wife...”
“She inherits all his wealth,” I said, finishing his sentence. “That's too easy. I don't buy the magic statue bit, no matter what this book says.”
“What a great story, though. Bet Hoffman believed it.”
“Yeah,” I mused, “but why would he do it? The man had more money than he knew what to do with. Even if he believed the legend was true, what could he hope to get by touching the thumb of the statue?”
Wong shrugged. “Peace of mind?”
“Or a trip to the morgue,” I added, and let out all my breath in one shot.
Hoffman's body was being kept below City Hospital. The poor sap had been wandering around the Earth just 24 hours earlier and now he was just filling for yet another coffin, a victim of an old wives' tale. We disappeared into the hospital and found the nearest dark stairwell leading down, and at the end of it was a sterile room, white as a ghost. A pale young man met us at the door. “You can't come in,” he said.
“Too late,” Wong replied.
I looked the kid dead in the chest and said, “We request the honor of Sid Hoffman's presence. I understand they shipped him down here and there's still one or two questions he can answer before they put him the ground.”
The kid laughed, then coughed, then tried to do both at the same time and had to get himself a glass of water.
“What's so funny?” Wong asked him.
“Sid Hoffman.” He laughed again, and when he realized the joke wasn't catching on he got serious and explained: “My boss, Mr. Pinkman. He got asked about the body once already today. That stiff's a popular guy.”
“Who was it? Who talked to your boss?”
“Some lady. I never got her name.” The kid grinned as he pictured her in his mind, a lecherous leer that could only mean one person in my mind: Jesse Weller.
Wong swiped his sunglasses off and stepped up to the kid, sliced his eyes into him to see what would happen. The nasty look fell off his face, replaced by one of fear. “We came here to see Hoffman, not play around. Where is he?”
He gulped in some air as he thought his answer over carefully, but in the end there was nothing to tell us but the truth: “Mr. Pinkman...he sent him to the crematory. There's nothing left of him but an urn full of ashes.”
What killed Sid Hoffman and who is trying to cover it up? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
I borrowed the book Dr. Henry Rutland had been using for research. The legend of Il Pollice Nero had all but disappeared from the schoolbooks but it had been a pretty fierce item in its day. For a time in the 18th Century, the statue stood on a pedestal in the square of the small Italian village of Vitello. The townspeople brought freshly-baked bread to it every day, and every night the bread would disappear, presumably swiped by some poor man in need. Travelers would come from all around to climb up the pedestal and touch the thumb of the statue. The villagers knew well enough to stay away, but the visitors would still arrive, even though they should have been alerted to the fact that the only burgeoning business in Vitello was the mortuary business.
A banker named Giorgio Mangiamelli took possession of the statue somewhere around 1831 and became one of the wealthiest men in Tuscany, although his eldest son Marco died young, supposedly at the hand of The Black Thumb. It changed owners several times and the same stories came from those sources: instant death or constant wealth. Then the timeline stopped, somewhere before the turn of the century. No new legends to report.
I gave Wong the lowdown as he sped to the hospital. His lip curled, amused at the tale. “Death for Hoffman. For his wife...”
“She inherits all his wealth,” I said, finishing his sentence. “That's too easy. I don't buy the magic statue bit, no matter what this book says.”
“What a great story, though. Bet Hoffman believed it.”
“Yeah,” I mused, “but why would he do it? The man had more money than he knew what to do with. Even if he believed the legend was true, what could he hope to get by touching the thumb of the statue?”
Wong shrugged. “Peace of mind?”
“Or a trip to the morgue,” I added, and let out all my breath in one shot.
Hoffman's body was being kept below City Hospital. The poor sap had been wandering around the Earth just 24 hours earlier and now he was just filling for yet another coffin, a victim of an old wives' tale. We disappeared into the hospital and found the nearest dark stairwell leading down, and at the end of it was a sterile room, white as a ghost. A pale young man met us at the door. “You can't come in,” he said.
“Too late,” Wong replied.
I looked the kid dead in the chest and said, “We request the honor of Sid Hoffman's presence. I understand they shipped him down here and there's still one or two questions he can answer before they put him the ground.”
The kid laughed, then coughed, then tried to do both at the same time and had to get himself a glass of water.
“What's so funny?” Wong asked him.
“Sid Hoffman.” He laughed again, and when he realized the joke wasn't catching on he got serious and explained: “My boss, Mr. Pinkman. He got asked about the body once already today. That stiff's a popular guy.”
“Who was it? Who talked to your boss?”
“Some lady. I never got her name.” The kid grinned as he pictured her in his mind, a lecherous leer that could only mean one person in my mind: Jesse Weller.
Wong swiped his sunglasses off and stepped up to the kid, sliced his eyes into him to see what would happen. The nasty look fell off his face, replaced by one of fear. “We came here to see Hoffman, not play around. Where is he?”
He gulped in some air as he thought his answer over carefully, but in the end there was nothing to tell us but the truth: “Mr. Pinkman...he sent him to the crematory. There's nothing left of him but an urn full of ashes.”
What killed Sid Hoffman and who is trying to cover it up? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
Go to Part 14 Protecting the Widow Hoffman
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