The Beadle Files: Graveyard Promises

By Ken R. Abell

Graveyard Promises is the first installment of The Beadle Files, a hardboiled suspense series set in the Roaring Twenties. Prohibition is the law of the land. Social and economic fluctuations are sweeping across the country, and organized crime has become a volatile influence--it is the era of gangland infighting for territory and control of the flow of liquor.

The main character in the ensemble cast is LC Beadle, a World War I foreign correspondent who is now stateside in Durango, Colorado. Following a lead, the newspaperman gets caught up in a murder mystery that has conspiratorial undercurrents involving the Chicago rackets. Trouble or the threat of it is an ever-present reality leaping off the pages like an aggressive terrier.

Schemes and plotlines jump from the Backdoor Vault to Triad Medical to Rooster's Barnyard to Jewel's Tea & Spice Emporium to the Kilkenny Social Club. The narrative entwines around the life and times of a legendary lawman and his family. Supernatural elements are woven into the fabric of story arcs as the age-old war between good and evil continues unabated.

Despair is at odds with hope while hints of tragedy lurk in the shadows. The words of Yaz Lightfoot, a deeply spiritual Lakota Sioux man, serve as an overarching theme: "Justice demands the fidelity of principled men."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Jan 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781498244961

Ken R. Abell

Ken R. Abell is a teller of tales who understands that there is strength in a story well-told and well-lived. A consummate seeker and learner, he’s a transplanted Canadian who resides in Pennsylvania with his wife, Anita. He is currently working on the eighth episode of The Beadle Files. His work can be found at www.danceswithcorn.com.

Book preview

9781532618994.kindle.jpg

The Beadle Files: Graveyard Promises

by Ken R. Abell

8150.png

The Beadle Files: Graveyard Promises

Copyright © 2018 Ken R. Abell. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

Eugene, OR 97401

www.wipfandstock.com

paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-1899-4

hardcover isbn: 978-1-4982-4497-8

ebook isbn: 978-1-4982-4496-1

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

The Lone Trail from Songs of a Sourdough by Robert W. Service, Public Domain.

Marmion by Walter Scott, Public Domain.

The Vagabonds from Flint and Feather by E. Pauline Johnson, Public Domain.

Be Strong by Maltbie Davenport Babcock, Public Domain.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgements

I: Beginnings & Endings

II: Tangled Webs

III: Villains

IV: Troubles

V: More Troubles

VI: Quandaries & Quagmires

For Anita Irene, my soulmate and consigliere. To sit beside her holding hands in a candlelit room is to be in a place where dreams and storylines are birthed.

&

For our sons and grandchildren. May they be strengthened by difficult challenges and seize every opportunity to explore the complex mysteries of life.

&

For my mother and father, Barbara June and H. Kenneth. Their tender toughness instilled in me the grace and grit to forge ahead undeterred by obstacles and dead-end roads, for which I am forever grateful.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to William D. Hastings and Joe Screnock for reading the manuscript in progress, and offering suggestions or asking pertinent questions that spark new ideas. Moreover, the copyediting of Kathi Ellicott is always much appreciated. I have come to be dependent on her proficient expertise and eagle-eye skills.

Also by Ken R. Abell

Nonfiction

An Ordinary Story of Extraordinary Hope

Fiction

Days of Purgatory

Shadows of Revenge

Echoes of Evil

Nightmares of Terror

Pieces of Justice

Altars of Tomorrow

Website

www.danceswithcorn.com

I

~ Beginnings & Endings ~

The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried; you tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide . . . 

~Robert W. Service~

The lean man in a gray herringbone flatcap was perplexed. His hands were fisted against his cheekbones, elbows resting on the table as he listened to the crumply-faced black man across from him. He couldn’t decide if the source was intelligent or a burnt-out deadbeat not to be taken seriously. Or was it all an elaborate ruse designed to divert him from the investigation?

623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. Trinity, trinity, trinity. His eyes darted side to side in the throes of paranoia, voice scratchy and almost lifeless. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. Triad, triad, triad. Tremors and hyperactive seizures bedeviled his body—he convulsed as the numbers and words came off his tongue in a catatonic rhythm that never varied. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. Triune, triune, triune.

The journalist had scribbled the sequence down twice, and was now merely listening to the twitchy-eyed man regurgitate the same data. He removed his fists from his cheeks and closed the notebook, then leaned over and stuck it in his khaki canvas knapsack which was hanging by its shoulder strap on the back of the chair. He glanced around the barroom.

The Friday evening crowd was smallish, but it was still early. National Prohibition had been in effect for six months—the Volstead Act, ratified to accomplish the intent of the 18th Amendment put no damper on the flow of liquor in the freewheeling establishment owned by Jack Whistler. The Backdoor Vault, housed in the basement of a four-story building and in business for more than a decade, had a reputation for good times and keeping secrets.

Gasps broke the informant’s crazed delivery for a moment. His eyes popped wide and stopped zipping back and forth for an instant in which he appeared lucid. Helplessness rose from his pores the way stink wafted off a basket of gone to rot fruit. He blinked again and again, then babbled anew. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. Trinity, trinity, trinity.

Wait! Wait! the newspaperman demanded, holding a hand up.

623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. Triad, triad, triad. His speech slurred as though his larynx was being compressed in a winch. The movement of his eyes became more rapid and reptilian. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. 623, 263, 326. Triune, triune, triune.

What’s the hook? This is soup. Meaningless soup, he groused above the unresponsive soliloquy. His curiosity was expressed uniquely; one eyebrow arched upward while the other dipped low. He removed the flatcap and scratched his forehead before putting the hat back on. He assumed his previous posture, elbows on the table with his head propped on knuckles.

The saloon was smoky. A rollicking ragtime tune filled the empty spaces. The willowy black woman sitting erect on the bench at the piano made the keys come alive and had the ability to shift seamlessly from one style of music to another. A pleasant smile was permanently stamped on her face. If a regular customer or even a stranger needed encouragement, it was a known fact that Emma Rafferty could listen better than anyone ever.

The reporter appreciated the music, but intentionally blocked it out so as to concentrate, and mentally record every conceivable detail of the jabbering man’s face. No charm or elegance graced him, but rather, his craggy kisser had repulsive ugliness written all over it. There was abnormality in the tint and texture of his dark skin—yellowish and sickly, and dominated by flabby folds of jiggly flesh, which indicated age in the neighborhood of eighty.

A question chased through the newshound’s head: How did a trail that began in the mess hall of a ship at sea twine its way to Durango? He stymied a smile, remembering wise guidance received long ago that predicted the stories would find him. His eyes, as crystalline blue as western skies on a perfect summer day, tightened on the subject of his inquiry.

Antonio Nunzio entered the Backdoor Vault. The granite-faced man had the collar of his trench-coat turned up. He stopped on the entrance platform to survey happenings in the spacious hangout. His threatening gaze locked on the sinewy man behind the bar who was slowly reaching beneath it. Nunzio gave an abrupt shake of his head that communicated much—the streetwise proprietor gradually placed both hands palms down on the mahogany bar.

Nunzio bent his head in the direction of the Negress at the piano. She didn’t miss a note as she switched to a melody that was a hymn-like anthem. His mouth puckered sourly as he put his attention on the man using his fists as underpinning for his head. He plodded down the two stairs to floor-level and angled to come directly behind the chinwagging black man.

Without warning or wavering, Nunzio withdrew a snub-nosed handgun from under his coat and fired two shots in the back of the talker’s skull. Blood and brains splattered across the tabletop and splashed on the newsman’s pale green shirt. Shouts and screams rebounded off the low ceiling, and chairs were tipped over as patrons hurriedly jumped to their feet.

Nunzio calmly returned the weapon to its shoulder holster. He sidled a yard or so and pressed an index finger against his lips. Smug satisfaction flared in the darkness of his eyes as he slowly wagged that digit at the investigator. Then, cool and nonchalant, the killer lumbered out of the bar. It wasn’t until the heavy oak door slammed shut that the piano became silent.

A half-mile away, Sonny Trego was running as if his feet were on fire. He had a telegram in one hand and a wrinkly column clipped from a newspaper in the other. The fuel of excitement enthused the churning pistons of his legs, and his lungs were responding with ease as he raced effortlessly to reach his destination quicker than a lick.

The accumulating shadows of twilight were creeping over the city cradled in the picturesque wonder of the San Juan Mountains. It was where he was born, and since he was nine years old, mostly raised himself getting pickup jobs here and there. He thought of the streets and alleyways as his personal network, and he knew every feasible route to any address.

His snug-fitting newsboy cap was tugged low on his forehead. In another two months he’d be fifteen years old, but in his heart he wanted to be thirty. To his way of thinking the thrills and possibilities of life were leaving him behind. He aspired to go and do and be somebody—to make his name noteworthy. His imagination was boundless, and within its meanderings, he surmised that fame awaited nothing more than for him to seize hold and make it his own.

The August evening was hot and muggy. Stars were beginning to twinkle in the roof of the sky and a ghostly half-moon was on the rise. He never slowed or broke stride as he turned into an alley to take a shortcut, but then, immediately slammed into the brick wall of a solidly built boulder of a man in a trench-coat. Trego bounced off him and landed squarely on his buttocks. His eyes slanted upward to see a scowling face that conjured images of death.

Outta my way, punk!

Sorry, mister, Sonny sputtered breathlessly. He crabbed backwards, gape-eyed in fear. The scary man grunted the Lord’s name in vain and strode past him. It was at that moment that Trego realized both hands were empty and he was hatless. The sudden tumble had sent the items airborne. He retrieved his hat soon enough, but had to do some scrambling to secure the telegram and newsprint, then after gulping a lungful, Sonny Trego was off and sprinting onward.

What evildoing did you bring into my hideaway?

Jack Whistler, a money-maker entrepreneur and the master of information, rushed from behind the bar with a sawed-off shotgun in hand. He was incensed. This is a helluva jackpot. For the sake of my diminishing sanity, please tell me you know what this is all about, LC.

I haven’t got the foggiest idea, Jack.

Judas Priest.

Answers are still forthcoming.

Whistler grimaced, tersely studying the dead man. The upper body was folded on the table and blood was seeping into a pool. Emma, he barked, spinning around. Tend the bar, will you. He looked into the shock-eyed faces of those pressing into a cluster. The price of drinks tonight is silence. When the coppers arrive no one saw anything, right? It all happened so fast and we were involved in our own business. No one saw a damn thing. Fair enough?

A smattering of voices responded affirmatively. Whistler, broad-shouldered and slim at the waist, gave the gawkers a brusque backhanded wave. Now, get the frig away from this section. Give me and my friend a semblance of privacy and air to breathe. As the lookers-on complied and straggled to the bar or to a corner of the saloon, Whistler ushered Beadle to the table next to the one where the deceased was bleeding out like a freshly slaughtered pig.

Beadle sat edgy on his chair. What do you figure?

At this juncture I ain’t figuring nothing, Jack replied, casually laying the scatter-gun on the table. A glint of anger flashed in his distinctive gray eyes. "I wasn’t the one engaged in a conversation with the man when he got his brains blown out. What do you figure?"

Not much.

Do you know who pulled the trigger?

Never saw him before, Jack.

Antonio Nunzio.

The name means nothing to me.

Whistler dragged a hand through hair that shaded close to black and was dotted with speckles of white. Allow me to enlighten you. Antonio Nunzio a.k.a Tony Nono, is freelance muscle out of Denver with ties to Chicago and the state of New York. Nunzio is a wop bulldog on the leash of Saint Paddy Croyle, and he’s one mick you don’t ever want to screw.

An Irish mobster?

That doesn’t quite paint the picture of the man, Jack said, scratching at his prominent chin. Saint Paddy is a pious and vindictive bastard with long arms and deep pockets.

So whatever I got, it’s big.

If by big you mean dangerous, then yeah.

Beadle grinned lopsidedly. The cat’s out of the bag so let’s go.

This is fun and games to you?

Holding culprits to account, you betcha.

Did you get dropped on your head as a baby?

I don’t have any mental defect, Jack.

A death wish?

Not a chance.

You think you can tell secrets with impunity?

It’s what I do, Jack.

Type words and publish them with no repercussions?

Time and chances, Jack. Time and chances.

Let me tell you about time and chances, Jack shot back, bending forward to get eyeball to eyeball with him. Tony Nono icing a stoolpigeon while he’s yakking at you is no accident or coincidence. It’s a cautionary message to be heeded because the next bullet’s coming at you.

Am I supposed to ditch my investigation?

You’re swimming in deep sewage, LC.

Trouble is as trouble does, Jack.

You ought to back off.

That isn’t an option.

Whistler jerked a thumb at the stiff. Who’s this joker?

Joey Cotton is the name I got on him.

What’d he steal and from whom?

I don’t know.

Who’d he piss off?

I don’t know that either, Jack.

What did Joey Cotton know?

That’s the question, isn’t it?

For a crackerjack you don’t know much, do you, LC?

I can track a story better than anyone.

Are you willing to die to prove that assertion?

Beadle shrugged indifferently. "I have a rendezvous with Death on some scarred slope of battered hill. When Spring comes round again this year and the first meadow-flowers appear."

Is that Bible?

Nope. Poetry by Alan Seeger.

Depressing crap.

Nope. Stark realism.

Whistler frowned quizzically. Where’s your brother?

Our paths have not crossed since I got stateside.

Then you need a bodyguard.

Nope.

Beadle, don’t be a hero.

I’m no hero, Jack. I got a job to do, is all.

Don’t get stiff-necked on me, LC.

I can handle myself, Jack.

Maybe so, but I’m putting a shadow on you.

It’s a free country.

Whistler smiled wryly. What I want to know is who’s got the juice and balls to arrange for a hit to occur in my tavern. The only name that surfaces is Croyle. If you had any smarts you’d get and keep as far away from Saint Paddy as doable, but I can see the set of your jaw, so I tell you what. I’ll use my contacts and poke around some. See what I can uncover for you.

I’m grateful for help wherever I can get it.

My guess is you’ll need help and luck on this case.

Help, luck and old fashioned sweat, Jack.

And shoe leather.

Likely lots of shoe leather.

How long have we known each other, LC?

Ten, eleven years.

Whistler nodded agreeably. He laid his hands on the stock of the shotgun. Before you went off to Europe, on how many stories did I provide background or source material?

More than a few, Jack.

What about the tip on malfeasance in the statehouse?

Gold, Jack. Pure gold.

It made your name and career, did it not?

I had to do the digging and connect the dots.

I gave you the dots, LC.

Exposing corruption in government isn’t all that difficult a proposition because it’s an ever-present reality, LC said, smirking offhandedly. Show me a politician who hasn’t got a taste for larceny in their soul and I’ll introduce you to an angel from the realms of glory.

True enough, but I still gave you the dots.

Are you going somewhere with this, Jack?

Did I supply any bum tipoffs?

I doubt I was ever played for a fool.

Or a trail of bread crumbs that went nowhere?

Not that I am aware of, Jack.

So trust me on this one.

It’s not about me trusting or distrusting you, Jack, the newshawk replied bluntly. Saint Paddy? Tony Nono? It’s obvious that I’ve pried open a can of worms, and who knows what will slime its way into the light? I’m not clued in to where the deep niches of your business interests reach, but my gut tells me that what I’ve stumbled onto will become a problematic cesspool.

Let me see what I can get, LC. I might surprise you.

I don’t want to put you at risk, Jack.

Whistler guffawed and slapped a hand against the table. Are you trying to make me feel like a doddering jackass? Risks aren’t foreign to me, and being of sound mind and body, I will be jumping feet first into this morass. Joey Cotton went to the big sleep in my joint. I take that as a personal affront. He slouched back and craned his head around the barroom to see that their tête-à-tête was the main attraction for the drinking spectators. No more beefs, LC.

Alright. Whatever tribulations come we’re partners.

Now get out of here before the cops roll in.

Moments later, Sonny Trego burst into the Backdoor Vault and skidded to a stop. He was sweaty and breathing rapidly, but not from exertion—his run-in with the trench-coat clad boulder of a man had set-off irrational anxiety in him. His eyes bulged when he spotted the body draped over a bloody table. He steadied his rubbery legs and yelled, Telegram for LC Beadle.

Beadle rushed to the entrance platform. Hand it over, kid.

Trego fumbled with the newspaper clipping. His hands were shaking. The prattle of a dozen or more conversations became a tidal wave of noise crashing over him. His focus blurred and his eyelids momentarily fluttered. He stared at an artist’s black and white rendering of the column’s author, then at the man waiting in front of him. Are you really him?

What? Who?

LC Beadle, the war correspondent.

LC Beadle, yes. War correspondent, no, he answered, lips crimping in humor. The great war to end all wars is over, didn’t you hear? There were headlines in all the papers.

Huh? Yeah. Sorry. That was stupid.

Easy, kid. I was cracking wise. What’ve you got for me?

Trego gave him the envelope. Beadle removed the flimsy paper and read it.

It has happened. You have something that belongs to her. You must bring it back now without delay. Other urgent matters. Come quickly. Mandy.

Damnit, LC muttered, teeth clenched and moisture showing in his eyes.

What is it, LC? Jack asked, coming alongside him.

Life, Jack. Life. I have to get to Creede.

What about this bag of shit here?

The probing is on hold, Jack. I’ll be back and digging it up quick enough, the columnist replied, turning to the Western Union runner. Wait a minute for me, will you, kid?

Sure, Mr. Beadle.

Sonny, Jack said in a voice that snapped like a bullwhip. He powered forward, eyes hardening as he got intimidatingly close to the teen messenger. You never saw a stinking thing here, did you? No blood, no dead body, no nothing. Do we understand each other, kid?

Yessir, Mr. Whistler.

Keep your head in the game, Sonny.

Like you taught me, Mr. Whistler.

Pay mind to my advice and you’ll make out okay, kid. Whistler turned to the newsman, smiling bleakly. And you, Beadle, what’s it going to be? In for a penny in for a pound?

You betcha.

No qualms or hesitations?

Ready for whatever comes.

It might be a shitstorm, LC.

Maybe so, but it can’t be worse than the trenches of Normandy, LC said, grim and angry. Lice and bugs. Lousy rations. Broken supply lines. Men dying of dysentery. Mustard gas. Month after awful month of no hope, no changes, no chances for a breakout. His mouth flinched. After experiencing horrors up close, taking on the Irish mob doesn’t scare me.

Don’t be foolhardy, LC.

Careful and wary. I’ll be back, Jack.

Until then, no one can be trusted.

Skepticism will be the rule of thumb.

Try not to make these perils any worse.

I do what I do, Jack.

You ain’t no badass samurai warrior.

Meaning what?

That you can’t right all the wrongs, LC.

I can give it a helluva whirl, Jack. He went to the table where the body was slumped over and paused to give it a thorough inspection, then grabbed his knapsack off the chair and slung it over his shoulder as he hurried to the exit. Someone has to tilt at windmills.

So you’re Don Quixote?

Not a chance, the man in the flatcap countered, shoving the hat up his forehead. His eyes narrowed in determination. I’m Langton Coburn Beadle. And in case you’ve forgotten. I don’t quit, Jack. Not ever. He cocked a finger at him like a pistol and click-clicked, then as Sonny Trego yanked the door open, he scooted outside with the teenager on his heels.

The pair stood side by side. Coolness was beginning to weave through the sultry air. Beadle shifted on the balls of his feet as he drank in the magnificence of the star-speckled vastness. A nighttime sky amongst the mountains of Colorado is an awesome sight.

It’s the only sky I’ve ever seen, Mr. Beadle.

Mayhap the future will take you other places.

I surely hope so, sir.

Jack was sort of rough on you, wasn’t he, Sonny?

Nah. Mr. Whistler’s a good egg.

You know him well?

He mentors me.

At what?

Collecting facts. He says I’m his special project.

Jack has his moments of softness.

That he does, Mr. Beadle.

The name’s LC, he replied in a droll tone that had a sly snicker rippling in it. You keep calling me Mr. Beadle and I’ll be expecting to be served a summons or subpoena.

Fair enough.

Got your pad ready? LC asked, and waited until the lad had a pencil pressed against paper, then dictated a reply: "Be there as fast as possible. Don’t start without me. LC."

Done.

I’d be interested in having a deeper interchange with you, Sonny, LC said flatly. Jack keeps a room upstairs vacant for me. When I return, I’d be happy to explore the potential of employing you as my eyes and ears in Durango. You seem to really know your onions.

I’m no Dumb Dora, sir.

Mum’s the word, Sonny.

Just between me and you, sir.

Now I’m heading to the train station.

I can get you there fast, LC.

I’m following. Let’s go.

Dr. Rueben Hernandez, Executive Director of Triad Medical, a man of enormous appetites, was meticulous about his appearance. He never allowed his public persona to be ruffled—he projected the façade of a newly made-up corpse in a casket, decked out in stylish suits, with fingernails polished and buffed, and every silvery-white hair in place.

He was educated at Loyola University in Chicago, then returned to his home state of Colorado to attend Denver College of Medicine, from which he graduated with honors. His specialty was neuropathology with extracurricular PhD emphasis in the field of psychiatry. He had spent his professional career delving into and researching the complexities of the nervous system as it related to the intricate mechanisms and anomalies of the brain.

Human behavior fascinated him. What motivated people to do what they did? Was it genetics? Upbringing? Social pressures? Legislative pronouncements? Religious dictates? Were quirks learned or inherited? What caused dysfunctions and aberrant patterns? Did authentic choice exist or were the parameters of personality determined in the womb?

Early on he ascertained that heredity was the overriding dynamic that trumped all others, and he came to that line of reasoning