The Crowded Streets, Part 8

In the last episode of The Crowded Streets, Rocky was questioned about the death of the mysterious Mr. Franklin, the legal counsel of Congressman Howard Dixon, who drove his car off the pier at San Carlos Beach. In the meantime, Rocky spotted Lauren Walters, secretary of Franklin's spiritual advisor George Inglehoff, in the crowd:

Past the pier at San Carlos the landscape changes into a stretch of bars and grills, in that order, including a plain, gray fronted dive with a minuscule sign above the door to distinguish itself from the others as Mickey's Place. It's a landmark to those who need a quick belt or fourteen without the hassle of food or conversation or adequate lighting, but despite these drawbacks, it was the closest and quietest place I could take Lauren Walters to get her side of the story. I suggested it and she shrugged and took my arm, scanning the heads of the on-lookers as if someone nearby was watching us. Her perfume was as subtle as a sailor with his jaw wired shut, but she looked better up close and she had a natural friendliness to her that I liked.

When I opened the door to Mickey's Place, I felt pressure coming forward and I let the knob go. A man fell out and landed on the sidewalk. He just lay there in a stupor like a giant door stop, blocking the way with a deep grin on his face. Lauren stepped over him unconcerned and into the cloud of smoke that billowed out through the only escape route while I found us a table. The only unoccupied one visible to the naked eye was covered in the remains of pretzels and spilled drinks. She rushed to that one and dutifully swiped all the mess aside with a paper napkin she found handy.

“I heard the news on the radio going home and I knew,” she said in the middle of her efforts. “Poor Mr. Franklin. I knew something wasn't right about it.”

I sat as she continued to sterilize the area. “Something wasn't. Nothing was. Inglehoff said a word to him and it triggered him to bolt. As much as I'd like to talk about poor Mr. Franklin, I'd like to know what you know about George Inglehoff.”

She had been at ease with everything that I had said and we had seen in the last few minutes but the mention of his name made her sweat. Her eyes glanced at the door as she continued to scour the table down. A barmaid in a dress that left only her shoe size to the imagination stepped out of the smoke and began to help her. I ordered a ginger ale neat and she nodded. Once the table was finally clean enough for democracy, Lauren absently ordered a Jane Withers on the rocks and eased herself into the chair next to me. The barmaid disappeared into the smoke.

Lauren pursed her lips like she might whistle, and said, reluctantly, “What would you like to know about him?” One of those things people who don't want to talk about something say. I wasn't going to be deterred.

“My guess is he left shortly after I saw him. Have any idea where he might have gone?”

She shook her head.

“He ever talk to you about what he does?”

As if ashamed, her chin dropped to her chest. “No. he never told me,” she replied. “I asked him once and he just smiled and asked me if I'd like to make an appointment. It sounded like a line to me, so I never did. Most of his clients were women, you see. Young women. Attractive.”

I didn't mean to laugh but I couldn't help it. “I wonder what he saw in Franklin. Any other appointments he had. With men?”

Lauren Walters sighed heavily. She was willing to tell me about the women in Inglehoff's life all day if necessary, but men were a different matter entirely. She glanced at the door again.

“Do you want to help me find out what happened to Franklin or not?” I added. “George Inglehoff is the reason they fished that man out of the ocean this afternoon and you know why, don't you? That's why you came to see me. Spill the beans, kid. It'll do us all a favor.”

She bit her lip. Her mouth opened to speak but the words weren't quite ripe enough and stayed locked in her throat. The barmaid came by with the drinks just long enough to break Lauren's concentration and flitted off to parts unknown. Lauren bit her lip again and made a noise like a '27 Packard. “There was a man,” she said, and was hoping she could leave it at that.

“Go on.”

She swallowed the smoky air. “He showed up one day just before noon. He passed by my desk without a look in my direction, like he didn't want to show me his face. There was something strange about it from the start. Two minutes later he came down with Mr. Inglehoff and they left together by the side entrance. I knew he wasn't a client because I always announced his clients. Mr. Inglehoff was gone for several hours, and when he came back, he asked me if I saw the gentleman he left with. I said, no, and he said, 'Are you sure? Because you need to make sure. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.'”

“But you did see him,” I reasoned. “You recognized him, too. Otherwise you wouldn't be so scared. Who was he?”

Lauren looked around to make sure no one was listening in, not that we could see more than ten feet in any direction from the smoke. She nodded. And then she dropped this little package in my lap: “You know that guy who's running for Congress?”

I sat up. “You mean George Wilson?”

She nodded again. “That's him.”

What does congressional candidate George Wilson have to do with the death of Congressman Howard Dixon's employees? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!

Go to Episode 9: The Beginning of the Campaign