Mistaken Identity

By Stephen Simon King

My book takes place in Bangor, ME after WWII. It is a story about a group of USMC vets of WW II. One such vet has an attack of vertigo while driving. A local policeman, noted for his aggressive tactics, pulls the vet to the curb for his erratic driving. During the ensuing questioning, the vet vomits on the cop's Blues. Enraged, the cop uses his ever present blackjack on the ex-Marine. The ex-Marine dies on the operating table.
Awareness of the vet's death, coupled with knowledge of this cop's short temper and rough tactics arouse a spirit of revenge in the Marine heroes buddies. They plot revenge, preferably by hit-and-run auto.
Once settled on a plan of action, the vets wait for an opportunity, which comes during an epic downpour. A positive ID was made by one of the vets, who contacted the others to proceed with the execution.
Unknown to the 'hit squad', The police had made a shift change after the plan was set in motion. The USMC vets actually killed the wrong cop!
The remainder of the story deals with a shoddy police investigation, police tunnel vision, local police meddling with State police policies, guilt, flight and a 'no consequence' aftermath.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503536623

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

October 1947

W WII had been over for a little over a year. We, the witness generation, had been privileged to view one of history’s greatest events.

We are the witness generation because we saw the Great Depression while wearing short pants. And by the time WWII was over, we were still underage for mandatory conscription, which was still in force after WWII.

This was a time for the United States to get back to living in peace and continuing our lives after the rude interruption by fascist dictators, who strove for world dominance.

We had been struggling with economic woes since October 1929. Now we faced the problem of assimilating eight million men and women from the military into the workforce. Military service was not concentrating on preparing personnel for peacetime jobs. Some, however, had been fortunate to acquire new skills that would be useful in peacetime. Others looked forward to a college education under the GI Bill. Others used their GI veteran’s bonus to buy a new automobile or, at least, a down payment on one.

A large number of veterans were unable to find work after mustering out of the military and were forced to join the 52/20 Club—fifty-two weeks at twenty dollars a week for unemployment compensation, courtesy of Uncle Sam.

That translated into eighty-six dollars and sixty cents a month, which was far greater than the twenty-one dollars a month earned by a US Army buck private. A common attitude among returning GIs was I can buy a helluva lot of beer and cigarettes for twenty bucks a week. Indeed, they could.

The US job market was flooded with able-bodied GIs returning home. This story is about a group of those GIs who came home to their birthplace in Central Maine.

A favorite gathering place for returning GIs was Cap’n Mickey’s Bar and Grille located in downtown Pickering Square. It was a place to congregate; sip or swig beer, depending on your inclination; eat lunch or a snack; talk about things that happened before the war, which were mostly hunting and fishing stories; and recount some combat tales that were genuine horror stories.

Eddie Wilson was one of the returning United States Marine Corps veterans. Eddie was a regular at Cap’n Mickey’s. The veteran was most always in the company of Larry Fogarty, Vinny the Wop Cipriani, and Myron the Professor Corbett. Three of the four were Marine Corps veterans. Larry Fogarty was not, but that will be explained later.

The foursome was a fixture at the restaurant owned and operated by a retired New York City policeman, Michael Salerno, a.k.a. Cap’n Mickey, Fat Mickey, and Mickey Fats.

Fogarty, like the others, had gone to the Marine Corps Recruitment Office with the other three, passed the written test, and was sent to Portland, Maine, the nearest naval medical facility, for his physical examination. All medical and administrative work for the marines was handled by the United States Department of the Navy.

The Marine Corps have no administrative personnel. Their recruitment sergeant told them, Every marine is considered a rifleman. The United States Marine Corps have no pencil pushers, just grunts.

Fogarty had received a lot of ribbing from the other three recruits because of his diminutive stature. At five foot four, Larry was the brunt of endless short jokes. Larry might not be very tall, but he sure ain’t very big around.

The others referred to Fogarty as the poor girl’s Mickey Rooney even though Larry was two inches taller than the popular five-foot-two movie idol. Larry took this comparison as a compliment. The slant he hated was being compared to character actor Peter Lorre, who was also vertically challenged. Larry Fogarty was aware that his prominent cheekbones and large blue eyes, combined with his small size, gave the little Irishman a stronger physical resemblance to Peter Lorre than to Mickey Rooney.

What Fogarty lacked in physical size, he more than made up for in his masculinity. Vinny often remarked about the size of Larry’s male member. "He should be breeding small cattle because he’s got a schwanstucker like a Shetland pony."

Professor Corbett stated, If Larry had grown into his dick, he’d be seven feet tall.

The jokes started after a hunting trip. The foursome had paused for a necessary bladder relief in the woods. Larry, after finishing, was attempting to shake off the inevitable last drop.

The others heard a slap, slap, slap.

What the hell are you doin’, Larry?

Look, he answered, with a gleeful, impish sound to his voice. The group observed the little guy with his member held in one hand, shaking the last drop, and the surplus penis slapping on his wrist.

Good Lord! How do you expect to get laid with that thing?

I guess he’s gonna be a genuine cow puncher when he grows up. Myron surmised.

Christ, if he gets any bigger, he’ll haf to bang elephants, Vinny chimed.

Fogarty had passed the required physical examination, but since his older brother, Bobby, a career United States Army enlistee, had been captured by the Imperial Japanese Army in Corregidor, Philippine Islands, and died from malaria during the infamous Bataan Death March, Larry became the last name–bearing heir in the Fogarty clan. He received a hardship discharge just four weeks into boot camp. It had been a solemn train ride from Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, to Bangor, Maine.

A host of GIs, while serving in combat, prayed for the million-dollar wound during WWII, which is a wound by enemy fire severe enough to receive a Purple Heart medal and a trip home but not severe enough to cause permanent disability.

Larry Fogarty’s discharge had a threefold blessing. First, he did not have to endure boot camp. Second, he avoided combat and the chance of being wounded, captured, or killed. Third and most important from a moral viewpoint, his reason for not being in uniform was lawful. He avoided the stigma associated with political deferments, the fraudulent medical claims. Larry’s brother, Bobby, had made the supreme sacrifice. Nobody could blame Larry’s mother, Mrs. Molly Fogarty, a widow, for holding fast to the last male Fogarty. An unseen bonus for the little Irish kid from Bangor was the complete lack of young single male escorts for the ladies during WWII. Military service had claimed most male youths.

Within days of arriving home from boot camp, Larry met a stunning brunette named Ann Barstow, a telephone operator working for the New England Telephone and Telegraph Company.

After a few dates, the couple had become intimate, and Ms. Ann Barstow couldn’t contain herself when some of her coworkers bragged about their dates, mostly members of the Eighth Army Air Force stationed at Dow Field in Bangor. The airedales, as opposed to army dogfaces, were here today but only as a stopover to bases in England and North Africa.

Larry Fogarty would be in Bangor for the duration of WWII. And his masculinity was prominent to an absurdity, as Ann Barstow discovered.

Larry’s prowess spread as fast as any wartime rumor, but unlike wartime rumors, stories about Larry were true. Some of Ann’s more aggressive friends found the truth for themselves.

Larry’s mother, Molly, asked her son why he was dating so many different women.

Jus’ doin’ my part to uphold morale on the home front, Ma, he replied. Larry had become the darling of NET&T Co.

Myron Corbett was given his Professor nickname because of his seemingly inexhaustible supply of trivia, which sparked some interest, but Myron claimed, with resignation, just worthless crap that will never make me a dime.

Nevertheless, Corbett would spout his vast knowledge, and the group would give polite attention but often followed with a negative comment.

You’re full of crap!

Prove it!

The Professor never made a statement of fact without solid proof. That was his style, his modus operandi. Dazzle them with your footwork, and baffle them with your bullshit, he often mused.

Larry, the Professor stated emphatically one day, you’re goin’ to die within six months of your birthday.

What kind of bull crap is that? Larry was sitting up straight, eyes wide and looking belligerent.

Yeah, what have you been drinking? demanded Vinny.

Lighten up, guys. The Professor had them at his mercy now. Think! There are only twelve months in a year. So, we are always within six months of a birthday, all of us. I read somewhere, the Professor continued, that when a man reaches age thirty-five, he contemplates his mortality daily and does so for the rest of his life.

Jesus, leave it to Professor Weird to come up with something like that, Larry opined. You are one strange piece of crap.

The others groaned their agreement.

Hell, Prof., I thought for a minute you smoked some of that stuff they caught Gene Krupa with. Larry had regained his composure. You scared the crap out of me.

Hey, I know a lot of stuff, but no one can predict the future. You guys should know better.

Amen, the group chorused in unison.

Rabbit Wilson drained his glass. Tomorrow’s November 1. Deer season opens. You guys goin’ out?

Naw, answered Vinny. Larry and me are goin’ up to the cabin on Brandy Pond next weekend.

Takin’ any more greenhorns with ya? The Professor grinned with arching eyebrows.

Greenhorns? asked Eddie.

Yeah. The Professor continued, Just before the Japs nailed us at Pearl Harbor. It was 1939 or 1940.

Larry called Vinny and asked, How would you like to be a Maine guide for the weekend?

Vinny told him, We don’t have a Maine guide’s license. That would be inviting trouble.

Larry picked up the story with his impish grin.

I told Vinny I had met two guys in town, and they asked me about deer hunting in the area. So I told them about my Uncle Ralph’s cabin on Brandy Pond, and we had unlimited access to the whole shebang. As you know, the place is teeming with all kinds of wild game, including black bear. Larry giggled at the last term. "Anyway, these two guys had never been hunting and were dying to go and would we take them. So I played hard to get and put them off.

"The next day, I ran into them again, and they started with the questions again. Now, they’re willing to spring for all the costs—food, gasoline for the Plymouth, even ammo, because the older one owns a sporting goods store. I tried to tell them it’s not an easy chore. The cabin isn’t on the pond, it’s on the stream. We can drive to within about two