The End of Innocence

By S E Brom

Between the great depression and WW II was a time of innocence. Women were respected, neighbors were trusted and rape and murder never entered the world of ten year old Eddy Brinker.

When petty thief Leo Thorpe is forced to commit murder to protect his identity, he must eliminate Eddy, the one person who can place him at the scene.

Leo’s pursuit of Eddy soon becomes a life and death game that could be the end of Eddy, the end of Leo, but is undeniably the end of innocence...

• Language: English
• Publisher: S E Brom
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311809117

Book preview

The End of Innocence

By S E BROM

Copyright 2014 S E Brom

Smashwords Edition

FOR EDWARD

Prologue

His hand slid under the linen doily that covered the top of the mahogany dresser. A satisfied smirk crossed his lean angular face as he withdrew a tiny key, tossed and caught it before fitting it into the lock on the jewelry case. Of course, he could open it with his knife, but dames always made it so easy for him.

Quickly he fumbled through the tangle of gold chains, extracted an antique oval locket and slipped it into his pocket. He pulled out the velvet lined ring drawer. A silver ring with delicate filigree around an amethyst caught his eye and it joined the locket. Junk, mostly junk! Practically a waste of his time.

He could hear the radio from the kitchen. His time was almost up. He always liked to complete his jobs by noon, too much danger of being caught after that. He replaced the key and hurriedly checked the scene.

Just as he reached to straighten the tortoise shell brush and comb, he glimpsed movement in the mirror. A young woman stepped quickly into the room, head bent as she concentrated on a broken fingernail. She stopped abruptly at the sight of a pair of men's shoes. Her eyes followed the trouser legs up to see the startled face of the man. She opened her mouth to scream.

Like a jackal, the man leaped forward and covered her mouth with his hand as his other hand grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. Briefly their eyes met in the dresser mirror.

It's you! she thought as her eyes widened in recognition just before he snapped her neck.

Lorraine, come on dear, it's starting, a voice called from the kitchen. Someone turned up the volume on the radio. And now, 'Our Gal Sunday', the story that asks the question…

Controlling his panic, he let the limp frame slump to the floor. He forced himself to take the time to think about his situation. Instinct told him to replace the stolen items. Carefully, he put everything back as he had found it and wiped all surfaces clean with a handkerchief. He looked again at the young woman sprawled on the floor, her head lay at an abrupt angle. Not a bad lookin' bitch, wish I had more time. Cautiously he lowered himself from the bedroom window, letting his butt hold the screen out as he slipped down and onto his sample case. It was getting late. He looked up and down the backyards filled with wash fluttering from the clotheslines. Just as I thought. Every damn broad is inside listenin' to that stupid program. He picked up his case and set it on the other side of the backyard fence. He easily jumped the wire fence, retrieved his case and crossed the neighboring yard behind a curtain of clean white sheets.

Chapter 1

The view I had was half a picture; like the projector at the movie house was not framed correctly and had cut off the top halves of the women standing on either side of the wire fence. The skirt of Mom's cotton print housedress was creased with wrinkles from sitting, shortening the back just enough to show the hem of her white petticoat. I was in my favorite place, under the back porch. The areaway to the cellar, with its concrete stairs and retaining wall, was my personal bunker. I could prop my Daisy BB gun on the wall and pluck clothespins out of the ground thirty feet away.

The earth there was cool and clear of grass. I had foxholes and trenches dug in an intricate pattern, crisscrossing the entire area, ready to move my lead soldiers from one strategic point to another in the never ending battle that existed in my nine year old mind that June of 1938.

It’ll be time for lunch soon, I reasoned to myself. The same routine every Monday during the summer eliminated the need for a watch. At eight o'clock, after Pop left for work, Mom started the washer -- white clothes first -- and after she had put them through the wringer into the first rinse tub, she'd put the next load usually shirts and dresses -- into the same sudsy water, then towels and other laundry. Never ladies' undergarments, though; they were washed by hand in a basin and hung indoors. We don't need to broadcast our personals," Mom justified.

I believed that Mom and Mrs. Schmitz planned their wash loads so they could hang clothes on the line at the same time, making it possible to exchange pleasantries while working. The lines, stretched tautly from back porch to garage with the aid of wooden clothes props, and the clean white sheets flapping gently, was a sight repeated in yard after yard along the row of neat brick houses on Hermine Terrace in south St. Louis.

As they picked up their wicker laundry baskets to go back into the basement to wring, rinse and gather another basketful of wet clothes, they stopped and talked quietly over the fence. I heard a tisk-tisk or a muted gasp or giggle and I knew they were gossiping. I called it gossiping Mom called it being neighborly; but Pop had his own term for it - fencing!

Somehow, as if by magic, the washing was always finished just before 11:30. It seemed to me that Mom paced her last load to come to an end at just that time, then she hurried into the kitchen for a glass of lemonade and the daily broadcast of Our Gal Sunday.

I heard the muffled sound of our radio on the Kelvinator: Our Gal Sunday, the story that asks the question, 'Can a girl from a small mining town in the west find happiness as the wife of a noble and titled Englishman? Join us today as we look in on…

As my soldiers fought another imaginary battle, I pictured Mom sitting with her elbow on the kitchen table, her chin resting on the heel of her hand, completely engrossed in her soap opera.

For the next hour, the only thing moving in the yards were the clean clothes; not a woman in sight. After fifteen minutes of Our Gal, they listened to a couple more sob stories. When One Man's Family was over, I heard the click of Mom's heels on the steps. She found Mrs. Schmitz and, as she leaned on the top fence rail, they proceeded to discuss that day's episodes and what they believed Our Gal would get herself into or out of the next day.

Mrs. Trautman and her daughter, Lorraine (an old maid of twenty-five or so), appeared at the fence on the other side of our yard and, between rows of clothes, the social event of the day took place as they all expressed opinions about the past hour's broadcast. Then, like a giant gong had sounded, they all stopped talking and turned to go in for lunch. Mom bent down and looked under the porch. Eddie, come in for a sandwich now. Yep, almost one o'clock. I noticed the wall clock as I entered the kitchen -- right on schedule!

South St. Louis was mostly a German settlement. Outsiders called us the scrubbing Dutch because there was always someone in the neighborhood on hands and knees scrubbing the white limestone doorsteps. Mom and our neighbors took great store in having freshly cleaned porches and steps. We lived in a newer part of town. Pop had a supervisory job with Union Electric, so Mom and some of the other women could afford to have their scrubbing done for them.

Otto was a big, burly man. He wasn't just right in the head and we kids, and sometimes the ladies, teased him by trying to get him to say difficult words or telling him he'd missed a spot way over in the corner of the wet porch. He made his rounds of the neighborhood with his can of Old Dutch and two scrub brushes, old socks (foot cut off) pulled over his knees to protect his trousers. Mondays, he was always on Hermine Terrace scrubbing down the concrete porches and steps along with the limestone doorsteps. He rinsed them off using the rubber water hoses every household had hanging near the spigot in the walkway between the buildings. For fifty cents, and sometimes a sandwich or a glass of lemonade, he worked on his hands and knees, those muscled shoulders and arms quickly removing whatever dust had settled during the week.

The porch was bordered by a brick railing with a white limestone ledge on top, finishing the bricks and providing sitting space for salesmen or a jumping platform for me and my friends. Old Otto liked to join us in our games by peeking over the ledge and shooting us with his forefinger. He laughed his snorting laugh, showed unkept teeth, and then ducked behind the brick porch wall. One time he shot me with a cold stream from the hose, but after a brisk scolding from Mom for getting me all wet, he never tried that again. I used to feel sorry for him but, when I thought about it, he was making a pretty good living at fifty cents a house.

That particular Monday, just after lunch, I walked out to the front sidewalk and looked up and down for Otto. He was nowhere in sight, so I sought the coolness of my private place while I waited. I was inspecting one of my soldiers, the only one I had that was on a horse. The cast had not come out well because of its size. It was the largest of a five piece set and I had a hard time getting a mold out without air holes and uneven edges. I had just decided that I would have to make a new mounted soldier as soon as Aunt Frieda brought me some more lead pieces, when I noticed a hand putting a wooden suitcase over our fence. Then, two hands were on the white 2x4 along the top of the wire and I could see a man's legs spring over into our yard.

I watched from my hidden spot as the hand retrieved the worn suitcase and white and brown wing-tipped shoes made their way between stark white sheets to the fence separating the Schmitz and us. The heels were badly run down and the white polish had smeared onto the soles, a carelessness that my pop would never had been guilty of. Brown trousers with light pin-stripes paused, then leaped that fence and disappeared among the fluttering clothes in the Schmitz' yard. I had never seen that before! Salesmen always came to the front door. It would sure be a lot easier for him to walk down the alley.

I heard the squeak of the water being turned on and scampered out to meet Otto unwinding our hose. Sure is hot today, Otto. Why don't you just cool me off with a little light spray from that hose? He gave me a frightened look, probably remembering the tongue lashing Mom had given him before. I grinned at my teasing joke and followed him around to the front.

Looked for you a few minutes ago I continued.

Didn't see you down at the Klein's.

Klein give Otto sandwich, ya, He spoke in his broken English.

I figured you’d be in the breezeway between houses every chance you'd get today. 'Sposed to hit 90 this after- noon. I leaned back on the front lawn and watched those powerful hands sprinkle cleanser on the wet surface and start scrubbing. Then we talked about the Cardinals, his favorite and maybe his only subject. For a guy who wasn't just right, he sure knew his baseball!

Listen to the games yesterday? I asked. When your boy gets mad, he can sure play ball. The Cards had split a double-header with the Boston Bees at Sportsman's Park.

Otto grinned and nodded his head in agreement, Ya, ya. Pepper Martin was Otto's hero. He could recite more statistics on Martin than a normal person could ever remember.

Won the game he did, ya, he said with that smile on his face. Abruptly, the grin was replaced by a deep frown, Lose second one; number six now. I knew he was referring to the National League Standings. Don't worry, Otto, I reassured him. The season is young; it's just the first week of June."

Hold up, Sammy, I gotta tighten my skate. I sat on the curb and, taking the shoestring from around my neck that held the skate key, I fitted the square opening on the bolt and tightened the steel toe clamps. One more time down and back, then I'm resting. The sweat was rolling down my face and I felt sticky from the heat of the morning.

We labored up the slight incline of our street then took off our skates. After buckling the two leather straps together, I tossed the pair over my shoulder. Call you after lunch, I said, and walked to the side door that opened onto the walkway and led up the narrow stairs to our kitchen. Mom's stories were almost over, so I went quietly to my room and hung the skates on a nail in my closet. I sat on the bed in front of the screened window and fanned myself with my hand.

My window was opposite that of Lorraine Trautman. The copper screen had darkened with age and I couldn't see into her room, but sometimes at night, when her lights were on, I could see the shadow of her figure through the drawn shade as she got ready for bed. If my light was still on when she raised the shade to let in the night breeze while sleeping, we'd wave to each other. There was no one in her room; she worked during the week as a hairdresser. Sundays and Mondays were her only days off. I liked her. She wasn't pretty, but she smiled a lot.

I heard the radio announcer start talking about Ivory soap, then the click of the switch. Soon as Mom came in from talking to the ladies, it would be time for lunch. We had waffles that morning (my favorite), so I predicted grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. Mom had seen a picture in the Ladies' Home Journal that had grilled cheese sandwiches made in a waffle iron; so, while the iron was out, she made them for lunch every time we had waffles for breakfast. They were pretty, but they never had enough cheese on them because she was afraid the cheese would run onto the grill and make it hard to clean. I should have asked if Sammy could eat with me. He loved