Hard News: The Coming of Age Story of a Criminal

By JH Gordon

Being a crook doesn’t mean a person is dishonest. Dishonest people are mostly elected or placed in positions of power that are above their emotional or mental quotients. People who only divert money, crooked or not, are honest about it. It’s the ones who want to control you that are the most dangerous. And you can recognize them in an instant. Resist them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JH Gordon
• Release date: Mar 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301619443

JH Gordon

Who and what am I? I'm an American expat living in South America working on my next book. In addition to Fireclosure, "Joe Detective" is a seven book noir detective series with number eight coming soon. I ventured south for a number of good reasons not the least of which is a type of isolation that frees me from California distractions. South America renews me. Ancient culture struggling with the new is interesting since all the "new" is something out of 1950's America. My background ranges from the detective business to the business of business having been an entrepreneur most of my life in diverse businesses and lifestyles. Rock m'Roll to commerce to consulting to seminars. From real estate investment to a construction outfit. I've done too many things to list and it's hard to remember some. As such, I've seen the duality of morality in the way society wrestles with being civilized and comes up wanting. It may be that somehow, by writing things about criminality and simmering violence, I prevent myself from becoming one of my characters. (Leaving the evidence in writing as it were.) My love of the underdog and the realist comes out in my stories. I'm finally doing what I love best. I'm having new adventures every day and I get to be a story teller. I write for people who know a camp fire and their imaginations are better than 70 millimeter film even with Sound Around. I can only hope they forgive my errors in spelling and my sometimes stumbling expression. I think they do. In person I display the usual human frailties. I'm neither good nor completely bad. I value my liberty more than anything else, and a small eclectic group of friends. I love life and stress on it as little as possible. I'm of an age where I'm conscious of time running out. But I look forward to what comes next. As Joe Detective said, "Death is like a traffic accident, you'd love to stay and watch, but you're out of popcorn." I always make too much popcorn and I think that's what life is about. Stories I do fairly well, I'm told. But when it comes to writing a personal description I can only say my life is a decades old run-on sentence and you'd have to have been there to understand. Lucky for me, I've outlived the statute of limitations many times and more than a few of mine enemies. Thanks to my valuable friends... JH Gordon

Book preview

Hard News

The coming of age story of a criminal

By

JH Gordon

Copyright 2012 by JH Gordon

Smashwords Edition

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CHAPTER ONE

There are two things worse than belly flopping into a river after jumping 40 feet off a bridge. When it’s the dead of damn winter, I could have landed smack on a chunk of floating ice; and, the fact that I had to jump because a hail of bullets perforated my car and were trying to perforate me so I’d sink.

The death-defying belly flop was one thing, but the ice-cold water instantly sapped my strength and I was running, or should I say swimming into unconsciousness.

The water was velvet black streaked by bullets leaving crooked rivulets of silver bubbles. I wasn’t intentionally diving below them, I was sinking. I could feel my muscles failing to respond. I didn’t mind really. Then it occurred to me I’d better mind! The explosion in my head wasn’t a bullet. It was the power of panic and fight and flight and I was fighting to fly to the surface.

The fast moving water and the darkness put me too far away from the bridge to worry about more bullets. I was only worried about staying alive and another jolt of panic induced adrenaline kept my numb limbs flailing.

There was thrumming sound all around me and I thought it was in my head until my head bumped into something hard. I was too cold to feel any pain but the last of my breath bubbled out and I knew I had no more fight left in me and no more air at all.

Then I felt a sharp gouge at the back of my neck and my body being dragged up. Somebody manhandled me and I landed with a slap on a boat deck.

Hey, here’s Packard’s guy! And he’s still breathin’…!

I remember how painful it was wrapped in that thin blanket on the hard deck of that Harbor Patrol boat. The guy who’d used a grappling hook on me shoved hot coffee in my hand and my fingers could hardly hold the cup. Then he pulled open a hatch covering the huge diesel and heat hit me like a blast furnace. Every nerve ending in my body was electric and screaming.

You’re Ambrose Packard’s man, ain’t cha…

It was a statement, not a question. I was able to nod a confirmation.

Man, did we get lucky!

The crew on the boat and everybody else knew Ambrose Packard could be very generous with those who did him a personal favor. Yanking me from the freezing cold river was a favor indeed.

I was in charge of the Packard organization; Ambrose was semi-retired and liked it that way. He also liked me; as the guys who’d just tried to assassinate me were about to find out. And, unless I got my head together and in touch with Ambrose, there’d be nothing I could do to save them. And nothing I could do to prevent another bloody gang war and we’d be sucked into it.

I choked down the hot coffee and used the blanket to channel heat from the engine to my body’s trunk. I nodded at the guy who watched me.

Thank you, I rasped. Get me to shore and a phone; I’ll make it worth your while.

The young man started to turn but another guy stepped to his side. He was wearing an expensive overcoat and a smirk. I knew who he was.

You’ll be callin’ Packard alright, and I’m gonna pick him up too. You guys are done.

I remember thinking I was better off in the water. Ira Spats Greenberg was taking over Pauley Rizzo’s territory and we had concessions he wanted. It was just business and I’d have made a deal with him if he capped Rizzo and the Families let him get away with it. But this guy had the same eyes Capone once had; he was kill-crazy nuts.

You got too many witnesses Greenberg, and you like breaking things. You’re not gonna last. It sounded hollow to me too as he laughed out loud.

Nobody’s gonna talk, punk. Unless they want to be made examples, nobody fucks with me.

The crewman who dragged me out of the water put his hand on Greenberg’s shoulder and shoved. The wave from the bow covered him and he didn’t come up. There were two more splashes on the other side of the boat. Those guys didn’t come up either. I turned to the crewman as three others joined him. The motor dropped to idle and the pilot stepped out.

I don’t know how to thank you men.

It’s ok; Mr. Packard wouldn’t have liked those guys.

CHAPTER TWO

I first came in contact with Ambrose Packard when I was a kid of 12. I was aware of him before that of course; his name was as if indelible graffiti painted in awe. He was respected. He wielded influence in my neighborhood and many others.

Almost everyone had a healthy respect for him, and those who didn’t kept their distance or they had health problems of the terminal type it was said; some just disappeared. If true, Ambrose was not a showy man. If he did dispense retribution of that nature, no one ever found a corpse. Rumors were affective enough it appears.

And it’s possible they were only rumors. The things of legends whispered and embellished, but never found on police blotters. Nor were those rumors proclaimed in any crusading newspaper. I know, I sold those papers and I was Ambrose Packard’s favorite newsy.

The newspapers I sold cost five cents in those days and Ambrose Packard would always pay me a dollar. He was my favorite customer. He was the reason I had coffee for my breakfast and dinner at night. And he was the main reason I stood and shivered on that windy corner every single morning.

I suppose I looked pitiful to him. Dressed in raggedy clothes and stamping my feet against the cold I waited anxiously each morning to see the big chrome grill of his limousine. It could get so cold I would play with the clouds of steam from my breath. Winters were hard.

The winter of my 14th year was a personal record. It was that wet kind of cold that is the most miserable of all. When it snowed, the air was dryer and you didn’t mind the temperature so much. But on mornings it turned to slush, the cold seemed to radiate off of everything and penetrate my bones. The only warmth I could count on was what I felt in my skinny chest when Ambrose Packard’s limousine would glide to a stop in front of me.

He’d lower the rear window on that big black Packard, touch the brim of his hat; then he’d and smile his usual greeting.

Any good news, kid? he’d say.

Just the comics, I’d grin. It was a daily ritual.

He’d shrug with a smile and hand me a dollar. I’d hand him his paper and pretend to fumble for his change.

He’d always touch the brim of his hat and tap the front seat with the paper. See ya tomorrow kid, and the driver would swing the car from the curb. I’d always wave at the receding car as I stuffed that dollar in my pocket. I’d stuff it as deep and as fast as possible.

I’d learned the hard way not to stand and stare at my treasure. There were bigger and tougher kids that coveted eating as much as I did. I had to be always wary.

I’d back away from the curb quickly and tuck myself into the corner recess of the brick building. It’s where I kept my stack of papers. They were somewhat protected as was I from the biting wind. I weighted them down with a length of angle iron and a chunk of brick that served the same purpose just in case I had other uses for the iron. The wind was far from the only predator I had to face.

My livelihood and that of my family depended on that corner and on Ambrose Packard’s daily tip. I guarded both with my life. It was the Depression and life was as tenuous as it was quick.

By the time I was 14, I’d defended my corner, my papers, and my meager funds too many times to recall. I’d learned to survive. I had a small scar near my right ear from a bottle and a star shaped one at the corner of my eye from a boot. The battles were always a surprise and brief. That piece of angle iron saved me more than once. I fought as if it meant the food on my family’s table because it did.

I’d attached a length of wire through hole in the angle iron with a loop for my wrist wrapped in electrical tape for padding. The wire loop allowed me to swing it in my grip or let it fly the extra two feet to widen a circle around me. And there were always those chunks of brick that had been replaced several times.

That year I’d grown too long for my thin coat and my bare wrists stuck out like winter branches. I kept one arm wrapped and covered by the daily news and the other stuffed in my coat like Napoleon.

In the winter of 31’ and I guess I looked pretty ragged but so did everyone else; everyone but the businessmen in their cars with their fur bundled ladies beside them, and Ambrose Packard, of course.

That morning Ambrose gave me a funny look as we went through our usual litany. He stared at my wrist as I held out the morning news. He could see old newspaper sticking out from my sleeve. I’d learned that yesterday’s paper under my shirt was as warm as a pair of long johns but I was embarrassed as he stared at it. Most people I knew lined their clothes with newspaper so it was far from unusual.

You have a family, kid? he said as he handed me a dollar.

Yes sir, surprised by his question.

I want to see you in a warmer coat tomorrow. You know what to get. Then he handed me $5 dollars, tipped his hat, tapped the seat in front of him with his paper and was gone. See you tomorrow, kid.

I stared as the limo pulled away with my hand still raised in the air. Then I stared at the sawbuck between my cold fingers. I don’t know how long I gazed at it before I remembered the danger of waving money around. I shook my head and stuffed both bills deep in my pocket. And for the next two hours, I sneaked the five out just to make sure it was real. I kept imagining I’d dreamed it.

I did as I was told of course. I took the neatly folded five out of my pocket and watched as Saul Erlbaum counted out my change. Saul was the owner of the used clothing store where the wardrobe of my life had come from.

The coat I chose was much warmer and slightly large. And it looked used. The thread and fabric were still strong and I knew it would take time for me to outgrow it. I also knew that a new looking coat would only invite someone to steal it off my back.

Before my story goes much further it’s important to say I wasn’t unhappy. Life was tough for everybody but kids adapt. I was thrilled to have my new coat. I don’t think I could have been more thrilled had it been a new bicycle or a yacht.

I filled the sleeves with newspaper just like my other coat; I already had layers of paper under my shirt. I walked home warmer than I had been all winter.

I gave the $3.50 in change to my Mom and I felt very proud. Saul Erlbaum had offered 65 cents for my old coat but I took it home and gave it to a kid in my building. I felt like I’d won the Irish Sweepstakes.

We lived on the fourth floor of a building that looked like every other building crammed shoulder to shoulder in an over-crowded neighborhood. My dad was the building Super and we paid half rent. The Building Super had three duties; fix the pipes when they broke, sweep the entry and the stairs, and take out the garbage cans at 5:20 AM. For that, we paid half rent on a cold water flat. We were lucky.

My pop came home from the Great War minus a leg and with a silver plate in his head. After that, he’d worked as a pressman for the newspaper where he got caught in a press. The machine mangled his right arm and shoulder to mostly useless and turned him into a