The Grifters

By Bennie Grezlik

Mix one rich retired general and his crippled daughter with a low-life drifter posing as a savior; add a beautiful, Gypsy-like woman and her partner, a seasoned con-man. Mix them with strip-land coal leases, séances, Ouiga boards, and what do you get? A recipe for mystery, danger, romance, and death. The Grifters lays bare the grit of hard times and the enduring spirit of the human heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bennie Grezlik
• Release date: Jul 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476308388

Bennie Grezlik

Bennie Grezlik has been writing and publishing lies since 1978. In the last few years, Stonegarden.net has released three of his novels, the latest being The Search For Earth. He has written stories for a number of anthologies, the most notable being a series of zombie tales for Yard Dog Press. He also wrote and produced for about five years the Skip Thruster, Space Detective plays that were brought to life for ApolloCon by enthusiastic actors, otherwise known as fans. Skip Thruster radio plays were first aired on KPFT, Houston.In another life back in the psychedelic sixties, Bennie was a technician at the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston from 1966, through 1969. You read that title correctly. This was before the center was named for its mentor, Lyndon B. Johnson. And, yes, Bennie used a slide rule because it was sexy and because it was B.C. (Before Calculators).

Book preview

Chapter 1

In the early summer of 1938 Cal Phillips stood in the window of the Bleaker Street Pool Hall watching the automobile traffic. There was very little traffic even though it was almost lunchtime. Lack of traffic suited Cal, although it meant he might have longer to wait for his chance to boost. He had time.

He leaned against his cue stick while billiard balls clicked behind him. He thought of his need for money. The summer was shaping up worse for him than the summer of '33. That was a very bad summer. He didn't like to boost, especially in broad daylight, but he had no choice.

Your shot, buddy, said a voice behind him.

Cal turned, walked a few steps to the pool table and stroked a quick, careless shot at the three ball. The three ball bounced around ineffectually, then nudged the eight ball into the corner pocket.

His pool partner grinned. Ha, ha. You blew it, buddy. Counting the first game, that's four bits you owe me.

Damn. Tell you what. I'll give it to you when I come in tomorrow. I'm kind of short right now.

The man's smile disappeared. Hey. That's a hell of a thing to pull. Why didn't you say you were broke before you bet me?

Cal shrugged. I'll catch you tomorrow.

The man stepped around the pool table and looked up into Cal's eyes. Cal was tall and thin. The man was short and squat with bulging biceps beneath rolled-up sleeves.

I could break you in half, the man said.

Cal blinked. Christ, Sweeney. No need to talk like that. I'll be here tomorrow. With some money. Cal tried to look him straight in the eyes, but he couldn't do it.

Sweeney placed a beefy hand on Cal's chest and shoved him back slowly.

I oughta mop the floor with you. But you ain't worth it. He turned and walked to the door then stopped. You be here tomorrow.

Right, said Cal. The man left.

Cal wiped his forehead and went back to the window. He would have money tomorrow, one way or another. He would make it a point to stay away from the Bleaker Street Pool Hall for a few weeks.

Just then Cal saw what he had been looking for. A late model Buick, a '36 Cal thought, a coupe, pulled to the curb a few doors down from the pool hall. Cal laid his cue stick on the pool table and headed for the door.

Put it in the rack, said a man from behind the counter.

Cal ignored him.

Out on the sidewalk Cal casually tailed the man who had parked the Buick. The man went around the corner and into a barber shop. There was only one barber and three other customers waiting.

A good half hour, Cal said to himself.

He walked back to the Buick. It was parked with the driver's side at the curb. The windows were down. Cal opened the door and settled into the driver's seat. The keys weren't in the ignition, but that would have been too much to ask for. He fiddled with the dashboard knobs as he glanced up and down the sidewalk. There was no one in sight.

Big Earnie at the River Street chop shop had told him that it was easier to boost a car in broad daylight than at night. Just act like you own the damn thing, he had said. If the sucker didn't leave the keys, just lay down under the dash and hot wire it on the spot. Act like you own it and a whole parade going by ain't gonna give a shit.

Cal wasn't so sure. He had boosted a few cars before, but always at night. Those were mostly for fun. This was for cash. Two hundred dollars Big Earnie had promised him if the car was what he wanted.

Cal took a deep breath, opened the door wide, and flattened out on the flcorboards. His feet splayed out over the running board and onto the sidewalk. He pulled wire cutters from his hip pocket and went to work.

Chapter 2

Inside a clinic on Bleaker Street, half a block down from Cal and the Buick, Doctor Felix Rineman sat at his desk and looked at the papers one more time, searching for a flaw in his analysis, a clue that might spring to life from the cold black-on-white print and tell him that he was wrong. He found none. He had shuffled these same papers the day before, when the report had arrived from the clinical testing laboratory.

Under the circumstances, perhaps it was better to say as little as possible.

He looked at the old man, General George Clayton, sitting across from him. He saw a face of wrinkled leather, rough and ruddy from decades of commanding soldiers on the world's battlefields. He had retired with one star, he had told the doctor, and he was damned proud of it. The military eyes, at inspection alert, stared back at the doctor.

Doctor Rineman shifted his gaze to the young lady, the general's daughter, Mary Lee. She could not have been more than twenty years old. Her hair was black, her complexion pale.

There was a certain beauty to her delicate features, but she could not be called beautiful. She looked back at him expectantly, her coy, blue eyes innocent of the doctor's world of drugs, scalpels, and pain; yet those eyes were somehow pleading with him, not for mercy, he felt, but for him to tell her the worst.

I have polio, don't I, said the girl, with complete conviction.

Doctor Rineman raised his eyebrows. What makes you think you have polio, Mary Lee?

She blinked, and he could see the cloud of confusion pass over her face, but then she recovered, and her eyes drilled him with irritation.

It's the symptoms, like I told you. I've been getting weaker, almost daily. My legs are especially weak. Pretty soon I won't be able to walk and I'll have to get around in a wheelchair, just like President Roosevelt. That sounds like polio to me.

Doctor Rineman leaned forward. You admire the President, then?

Mary Lee looked down without answering.

The general spoke for the first time. No, we don't admire the President. He's been giving away our money now for more than five years. Just giving it away to people who don't like to work, in my estimation. How's that helped the country? Looks to me like we're sliding deeper into a hole. Besides that, he's a Jewish communist.

Doctor Rineman stared at him. I'm a Jew.

Well, no need to get touchy. Of course I don't mean that all Jews are communists, or even visa versa.

Look, General Clayton, these are the facts. Doctor Rineman held up a hand and folded his fingers down one by one.

One, President Roosevelt had polio. Two, whatever you think of his politics, FDR has overcome a personal handicap in magnificent style. Three, the president isn't Jewish-

The general harumphed. So you say.

And four, Doctor Rineman continued, Mary Lee does not have polio.

Mary Lee looked up. What makes you so sure?

Doctor Rineman glanced at her sharply. She sounded disappointed. It's the stool specimen you gave me last week. If you had polio, it would show up in there. There's nothing there. He couldn't resist saying it any longer. You sound to me as if you want to have polio.

What the hell are you talking about, snapped General Clayton. Who in God's name would want to have polio? But if she hasn't got polio, what has she got?

There are a number of possibilities-

Possibilities? interrupted the general. You don't know, do you? Might even be some kind of bug you pill pushers don't know about yet.

That's true, said Doctor Rineman, I don't know what's going on. He did not bother to add that he had a strong suspicion of what was going on.

It's not a matter of money, is it? Because I've got money. I'm not one of those charity cases you see on the corner selling apples.

I'm sure you're not, said Doctor Rineman. No, it's not a matter of money.

The general was somewhat mollified. Mary Lee never was very strong. Not like my dear, sweet Helen, God rest her soul. Isn't that right, honey?

Yes, papa, I was never like mama.

The general let his eyes linger on his daughter for a moment to convince himself that she wasn't being sarcastic. But she was never sarcastic. Her mother was the best there was. It's been nine years and five months since she went to her reward, he looked at his daughter for her confirming nod, but it seems like yesterday. No, Mary Lee is not as strong as her mother. You can read the record there in front of you, Doc, about how many other doctors we've visited with Mary Lee's problems all through high school.

Doctor Rineman nodded his head, embarrassed for the young woman. Those were fairly minor ailments.

Minor my eye, said the general. She's been getting worse over the years. She was sick enough in high school that I had to pull her out. Now she's got this, this... Whatever it is. It seems pretty serious to me. You tell me that you don't know what it is. Maybe we'd better look for another doctor.

Now the young woman looked at her father.

I like Doctor Rineman, papa.

The desk lamp caught the crystalline glint of tears in her eyes. The admission surprised Dr. Rineman. Her father ignored her.

I've had a few doctors under my command before, said the general, and they can never make up their minds about anything.

You're free to shop around, of course, said Doctor Rineman, but other doctors would order the same tests I've ordered.

It looks simple to me, said the general. You can't find the problem, so you've given up.

I haven't given up. I want to examine Mary Lee again a week from now. I'll have some specific suggestions at that time - for both of you.

The general rose. If that's the extent of your medical advice, we'll be going now. Come along, Mary Lee.

Doctor Rineman also stood up. General, could I have a word with you in private before you go?

Eh? I don't know what good it's going to do, but I suppose so. Mary Lee, wait out in the reception room, honey. Read a magazine. Mary Lee began to rise, falteringly. Wait. I'll help you.

The general helped his daughter to the waiting room, then went back in to the doctor's office and closed the door behind him. Mary Lee picked up a magazine and tried to concentrate.

She began the same story three times before she gave up and set the magazine aside. She could hear the murmur of voices coming from the office, but try as she might, she couldn't understand a word.

The receptionist sat behind a window. She looked up and smiled as Mary Lee looked at her. Mary Lee looked away. An old man, another patient, Mary Lee presumed, sat across the room staring at the floor.

Then she heard her father's voice booming a denial. The old man sitting across the room looked at Mary Lee, then at the floor again. The office door flew open and her father strode across to the receptionist. As he settled the bill, Mary Lee could see his shoulders hunched in anger. Doctor Rineman watched from his office doorway. He smiled and nodded to Mary Lee.

Outside the doctor's office, the general and Mary Lee stood on the sidewalk of Bleaker Street, Steubenville, Ohio. The general held his daughter tightly, as if to ward off the cold.

But it wasn't cold at all. The noonday May sunshine was bright, and the air was cleaner than it had been a decade previously when the prosperity of the steel mills and coking plants had blotted the sky with sulfurous fumes.

Steubenville was a small, grimy industrial city, but the general liked it. So, the general asked himself, why was he holding his daughter as if the forces of evil were about to descend? He relaxed his grip.

Mary Lee questioned her father with her eyes. His own eyes were still red with anger. She couldn't hold his gaze for more than a second before she had to turn away.

What now, papa? she ventured, her eyes averted, her voice hardly rising above the street noise. She half expected an explosion, but instead she could feel his muscles relax.

What now? he repeated, as if the question puzzled him.

Then a gear in his military bearing meshed and he straightened his back and looked at her. The anger in his eyes was gone, replaced by a glint familiar to Mary Lee; her father was once again her commanding officer and she was about to receive her orders.

We go to another doctor, that's what now. Not the one recommended by Doctor Jewboy, either.

Who did he recommend, papa?

It doesn't matter. There is a good doctor right in Antwerp. Maybe we should have gone to him first.

You mean Doctor Palmer? He's a chiropractor, papa.

I know that, said her father with irritation. But you don't know him. I do. He's a good doctor. I've seen him myself, when I had my back trouble. Fixed me right up. He'll fix you up. It was a command.

Yes, papa.

Hey, don't look like a whipped dog. You're always having this depressed look about you. I would never put up with that from the troops under my command. I demanded cheerfulness from my outfit.

Yes, sir.

Your mother was always cheerful.

Mary Lee had no reply to this. Her father patted her shoulder. Come on, give me a big Clayton smile.

Mary Lee mustered a crooked smile, lest her father refine the specification to conform to her mother's smile.

Lunch! boomed her father. That's what you need. A good, hot lunch. I love to eat out, don't you, honey?

She wrinkled her brow and looked up at him. Couldn't we just go home, papa? I could fix lunch for you.

You shouldn't be fooling around the kitchen when you're so weak. We'll eat out today and worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes. Actually, I've been thinking of hiring someone to take care of things like that.

You don't think I'm much of a cook, do you, papa? Or housekeeper either, as far as that goes.

That's not it at all, honey. But you're always sick. You're just so delicate. Not at all like... oh, hell, you know what I mean.

Yes, papa. Defeat.

Let's go find a restaurant. You can walk a little ways, can't you, honey?

I guess so. I'm feeling a little better now.

Probably temporary, said her father. I'm going to shop around for one of those wheelchairs for you. A folding model so we can put it in the Packard. They have those now, you know. I think that would be best. Whatever you have might be with you for a long time, honey.

You're probably right.

The general patted his shirt pocket. My glasses. I must have left them inside. You wait right here. I'll be right back.

Her father went into the clinic. Mary Lee looked up the sidewalk in time to see death approaching.

Chapter 3

Cal began to sweat. The day was warm. In his awkward position on the floorboards, he had to strain to reach the wires under the dash. To add to his misery, the clutch pedal kept digging into his left ear.

He found the little junction box he needed and traced some of the wires back to the ignition switch. The trouble was, some of the wires also ran back to the starter button. He had hot-wired a car once before but it wasn't this new and it wasn't a Buick. He cursed at the inscrutability of the tangled wires.

He fished a roll of wire from his pants pocket and clipped off a piece half a foot long. He skinned each end. One end of his jumper he stuck into a terminal that had a thick red wire connected to it. He was pretty sure that this was a hot wire. But the others! Green, blue, yellow, brown, black, striped. He hesitated in an agony of indecision. The hell with it, he said to the tangle and stabbed the end of his jumper into a random terminal.

Two things happened at once, both of which surprised Cal a lot; with a bright spark, the jumper wire welded itself to the terminal, and the Buick began to move forward. The movement was jerky and slow, but Cal decided that he had had enough. As his feet dragged on the sidewalk, he twisted around to his stomach and tried to push himself out of the car. At that moment the car bounced up onto the curb and the door closed on his legs.

Now in a panic, Cal pushed away again. The door swung open and Cal stumbled to a trotting crouch. When he tried to turn away and let the car go he found that he couldn't; something on the door had hooked into the pocket of his trousers.

Cal struggled with his trousers pocket as he ran faster and faster to keep up with the Buick. It sounded to him like not only the starter was grinding away, but that the ignition had fired up. When he looked up he was shocked to see that he and the Buick were running on