The Beadle Files: Gypsy Curses

By Ken R. Abell

Gypsy Curses, the sixth installment of The Beadle Files, begins in Buffalo where LC Beadle is investigating the mysterious disappearance of Bernadette Millier, a cabaret singer climbing the rungs of success. During the course of his digging and inquires, he discovers a bombshell secret about her manager Alfonso Kosteas, which the pair had conspired to keep hidden.
The narrative weaves its way around organized crime circles populated by gangsters, including Stefano Galleo, an authoritative kingpin who is somewhat obsessed with Bernadette Millier. His fixation results in him pulling strings and manipulating events on her behalf.
In Durango, Tatiyana Baglio, proprietor of Jewel's Tea and Spice Emporium, is kept busy by those seeking an advantage in receiving a glimpse of the future, including Jack Whistler and a pair of veteran mobsters, Hacksaw Maddox and Jimmy Pachino.
Josiah Grassley, along with Cynthia Sue Hopple and Megan Kitner, are on an urgent quest to recover a treasure entrusted to Josiah then stolen by a pair of ne'er-do-well flimflammers. The travelers form a bond and experience misadventures whilst being enlightened or entertained by a neverending commentary from Cynthia Sue telling longwinded stories gleaned from her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Mar 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781666790481

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

I

~Genesis~

"In visions of the dark night

I have dreamed of joy departed

But a waking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted."

~Edgar Allan Poe~

In June 1926, LC Beadle had to deal with a puzzling situation. He was in Buffalo investigating the disappearance of Bernadette Millier, a talented cabaret singer he had profiled. Shortly thereafter she went missing, which prompted the journalist to dig into her life and times by arranging to interview her manager at The Chippewa, a downtown hole in the wall saloon.

Alfonso Kosteas sat across from him chain-smoking cigarettes and sipping beer. He had a swarthy complexion and woolly-worm eyebrows. I don’t know anything that’ll be helpful.

Let me be the judge of that, Mr. Kosteas.

I’ve been looking after her business for ten years or more, he told him while absently scratching his forehead. Whatever happened to her couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Why?

Her stint here at the Blue Bison Tavern garnered much attention and interest. I’ve got her booked at the Cotton Club in New York City next week, he said excitedly. Nothing but the glare of the spotlight and big cash. Bernadette was an up and comer on her way to the top.

Was? Don’t be so quick to put her in the past tense, LC advised, sharp and terse. He took a no-nonsense look at the man. Unless you know something you’re not sharing.

Know something? No. Just got a bad feeling.

Take a step back from your feelings.

"Do you know something you’re not telling me?"

Suspicions, Mr. Kosteas? Yes. Knowledge? No.

What kind of suspicions?

Nebulous and sketchy, LC said, leaning over to reach into his knapsack. He retrieved a pen and notepad. Is there anything significant you can tell me about Bernadette Millier?

What are you looking for, Mr. Beadle?

Friends? Enemies?

Everyone she ever met became her friend, Alfonso answered, a strident edge in his voice. Enemies? An unthinkable possibility. Bernadette was loved and respected, Mr. Beadle. As far as I’m concerned, you’re responsible for whatever it is that has happened to her.

Me? That’s malarkey.

The article you wrote.

The piece was positive.

True enough, Mr. Beadle.

I’m waiting for a but or however.

It put her in the crosshairs.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Kosteas.

Bernadette has a past.

Meaning what exactly? LC fired back, scribbling notes. Are you suggesting that she has hidden skeletons or such that would make her susceptible to blackmail or intimidation?

That’s spot-on, Mr. Beadle.

Tell me her secrets.

No can do.

Why not, Mr. Kosteas?

Because I am a man of my word.

Perhaps this is the exception, LC opined, hands flexing rapidly. If you are correct about my article being the catalyst for whatever has occurred, then give me a tidbit of gossip or something to use for a follow-up piece in which I can put some pressure on the investigation.

Kosteas wagged his head ever so slowly. He stubbed a smoldering cigarette out. I highly doubt that is at all possible, he said while getting the fixings to make another rollup. Therefore, it’s not worth an effort. His fingers were quick and nimble. Do you understand? Don’t bother me again. He put the ciggy between his lips, then got up and hurried away.

Beadle made a cursory note before glancing around the sparsely populated barroom. He twiddled with the pen while pondering options for how to pursue the story. There was a detective he needed to interview, but so far, the cop had proven to be elusive, which only stoked the fires of determination in him. He shouldered his knapsack, then LC Beadle headed for the door.



It’s best we lay low awhile longer, Mags.

You’re being downright skittish.

Eddy Olenski gave her a devil-may-care shrug. Skittish? The hell you say? Cautious is a helluva long way from skittish. There are those who would gladly put the screws to us to learn a small handful of the secrets to which we are privy. Hellfire! Our latest venture will put us in The Ferret’s crosshairs. I guarantee Stefano Galleo knows about our escapade with Bernadette.

What’s he care about Bernadette Millier?

Who do think owns the Blue Bison Tavern?

Galleo? Holy shit!

All his rackets are run through that speakeasy.

How come I’ve never seen him there, Eddy?

Galleo is a notorious recluse.

A recluse? Really?

Indeed, he told her cavalierly. Ole Stefano seldom if ever ventures outside, preferring to remain penned up in an apartment above a pizza joint in the Canal Zone on the west side.

Magdalene Vitali, brown eyes glinting anger, exhaled a snide laugh. His fortress, from which he issues orders that eliminate rivals. She began to stride around the office of Olenski’s Market, then abruptly stopped to stare at the former Buffalo Police Department detective. No ifs, ands or buts bullshit, Eddy. Are you going to come along in these things I have to do?

That depends.

On what?

How far over the line will I have to go?

What line, Eddy? I’ve never seen any line.

That’s not new information, Mags.

What can I tell you? she asked glibly. My boundary line between right and wrong is flexible and entirely dependent on what provides the best outcome for me. Call me selfish or egotistic, but I learned long ago that no one will ever make my interests first and foremost.

That’s a lousy thing to say.

Why?

What about me?

Magdalene tilted a thumb at him. As long as our interests are in alignment we’ll get along together just fine, but if there’s disagreement, you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine.

That’s cynical and distrustful.

Realistic is more like it, Eddy.

You’re seeing trouble where none exists.

Or am I being clear-eyed and pragmatic?

A clear-eyed pessimist to be sure.

Just looking out for number one, Eddy.

Is that right?

As you taught me to do.

Lessons you obviously learned well, Mags.

I had lots of practice while being exiled.

The ex-cop dragged a hand through his short-cropped salt and pepper hair, then smirked and tapped a Lucky Strike out of a crinkled pack. After the assassination of your father you had to get out of harm’s way. Matteo Vitali had many friends and enemies. It took time to broker a peace that guaranteed your safety. Even so, it’s the thinnest of possibilities that it will last.

What of our involvement with Bernadette Millier?

If The Ferret learns of that all bets are off.

Meaning what, Eddy?

Galleo will contract Jimmy Pachino or Hacksaw Maddox to kill us, he said with a matter-of-fact nonchalance that was chilling. Pachino and Maddox are his personal torpedoes.

Magdalene gritted her teeth in a resolute smile that projected strength and inflexibility. She began twisting strands of her darkish chestnut hair around the fingers of her right hand. So, I’ll be tiptoeing on thin ice for the foreseeable future, but not forever. You get word to Pachino and Maddox that I am my father’s daughter. If they want to talk business, then I’ll listen.

Are you serious, Mags?

Damn straight serious, Eddy, the forty-one-year-old woman replied earnestly. I intend to rebuild my father’s empire and may God have mercy on anyone foolish enough to doubt me or get in my way. So, I’ll ask you again: Are you going to come along in these things I have to do?

What choice do I have, Mags?



Meanwhile at Jewel’s Tea & Spice Emporium in Durango, Tatiyana Baglio felt uneasy. She was flipping through a scrapbook of newspaper clippings she had collected for years. The content of the articles didn’t interest her, but the bylines flooded her eyes with pride. Each one was written by Sonny Trego and had been published in newspapers across the country.

The bell above the door jangled. She looked up. A combination of surprise and wariness chased over her face. She hurriedly shoved the collection of memories onto a shelf under the serving counter as her expression hardened. What do you want? You are not welcome here.

Jack Whistler, slender and lanky, strolled across the storefront shop with a palpable arrogance. I’ve been coming and going as I please since I was a street urchin in San Francisco.

Why did you come?

Exercising my freedom to do so.

Why Jack?

Wondering what the future holds for me.

I thought you considered such doings twaddle.

Times change, Tatiyana. I figured I’d give it a whirl.

Why now, Jack? What’s going on?

A little tit and tat quid pro quo.

That’s nonsensical gibberish.

Is it? I’m not quite convinced.

What have you gotten yourself into?

You’re the clairvoyant, Tatiyana. You tell me.

She regarded him for a long while, then told him, Your past is coming back.

What’s that supposed to mean?

You will be privy to its meaning soon enough. She went around him to lock the front door, then quickly adjusted the wooden shutters across the bay window and secured the latch. Her footsteps were catlike as she led him through the archway at the back of the room. She gestured for him to ease on past her, then tugged a heavy curtain over the doorway.

Am I going to get my money’s worth, Tatiyana?

No worries, Jack. It won’t cost you a dime.

I don’t deserve such generosity.

True, but I’m feeling charitable. Besides given our history don’tcha think we’ve put the necessity of exchanging banknotes behind us? She lit one tall candle, then got busy touching its flame to the wicks of dozens of votive candles in glass holders on the three narrow shelves above decorative wainscoting on each of the walls. Our past gives us a unique view on the future.

I’ll have to take your word on that, Tatiyana.

With the room filled with candlelight, the dark-eyed Gypsy took a seat at an oval pedestal table in the middle of the room. She withdrew a tarot deck from its drawer and immediately began riffle-shuffling the seventy-eight cards. Are you prepared to accept the foretelling?

That depends.

What will be will be, Jack.

So you say, Tatiyana.

Are you trifling with me?

His shoulders stooped forward. Not at all.

The cards do not lie.

Meaning what?

You cannot bend or change the future.

Don’t underestimate me, Tatiyana.

Any notion or attempt to exploit or manipulate what you learn here will have disastrous results, she said, sternness in her husky voice. Do you comprehend what I’m telling you?

I hear you just fine.

Do you comprehend?

Get on with it, Tatiyana.

She cut the deck and flipped the top card over. The Wheel of Fortune Reversed.

What’s it mean?

No control, Jack.

Explain in plain English.

You will cling to control.

He chuckled wryly. Who? Me?

There’s nothing funny here, Jack.

What is it? Tell me.

Bad luck.

Which I can turn in my favor.

Not at all likely, Jack.

Flip another card.

She did so. The Emperor Upright.

His gray eyes revealed curiosity. What now?

Authority, structure, control, fatherhood.

Enlighten me.

The Gypsy smiled thinly. You do not have the capacity to change, so you are destined to be in continual conflict with yourself, which is expressed in your scheming and refusal to tell Sonny Trego that you are his father. He’s a fine young man, Jack. You ought to claim him.

That’s my cue to make my getaway.

The truth ought to come from you.

Not any time soon, Tatiyana.

Stop living the lie, Jack.



West of Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado, Clyde and Patsy Lobato were lollygagging. The middle-aged southerners sat side by side against the trunk of a towering ponderosa pine watching wispy clouds drift aimlessly across the sky. Husband and wife had a prevalent lazy streak, and on this particular day, they exhibited no gumption or get-up-and-go to do anything or go anywhere.

We got us a fine campsite.

That we do, Clyde.

No reason to be on the move anytime soon. He leaned back on his elbows. It was a godsend when we came upon this little hillock. We’ve got all we need, Patsy. Shade, a nearby stream and enough branches and loose timber laying around to fuel a fire for a week or more.

Indeed.

Foodstuffs?

A paltry supply of hardtack biscuits.

That’s all we got, Patsy?

Plus a meagre meal of deer jerky.

I’ll set some snares for rabbits.

We need to get somewhere and do what we do, she said, a pithy complaint in her tone. When we’re around people we are never without funds or the means to live high on the hog.

You got that right.

What are we doing here, Clyde?

Now don’t be getting snippy.

I asked a simple question, is all.

One which you got no business asking, he told her as his roundish face wrinkled into a scowl. Let me refresh your memory. As I recall, when we wore out our welcome in Pagosa Springs, you were gung-ho about moving eastward to test our luck farther on down the trail.

Pardon me all to hell.

Why should I, Patsy?

Hell or high water, Clyde. Hell or high water.

For pity’s sake, what are you telling me?

No matter where we go or what happens, we’re in this together, the honey-blonde reminded him, irritation sparking in her bluish-green eyes. Instead of grumbles and complaints, you ought to be dreaming and scheming newfangled flimflam schemes we can put into play.

We already know everyone in the book.

Come up with a new one, Clyde.

Why bother? What we do works.

We innovate according to the situation.

That’s what we exceed at, Patsy.

Especially the false Good Samaritan.

We’ve given it a twist a time or two.

Indeed, Clyde. It has never failed us.

Nope. Got us thrown in jail once.

True. Cuba wasn’t our kind of town.

Sheriff Gonzales was a hard-ass.

Patsy rolled her eyes. "Sheriff Miguel Gonzales. Her voice crackled as she put emphasis on his name. He thought he had us, but when push came to shove, he couldn’t prove a thing."

He called us malcontent troublemakers.

That he did, but we beat him.

And were a thousand dollars richer.

Money long gone, but well spent.

Any cash reserves in our poke now?

A few shekels, Clyde.

How much?

Less than two dollars.

Not to worry because there’s no place to spend it here, but first chance, we’ll get busy and do whatever is necessary to replenish our finances, he declared with a tangible certainty.

Right now, we ought to just get busy.

Feeling randy, are you?

Indeed, Clyde.

Let’s get to it.



Vultures are lurking on the horizon.

The razor-edged words had become a continuous echo that haunted him night and day, whilst he slept and when he was awake. Josiah Grassley could not escape them—even if it were his profound desire to do so, the significance and requirements of his Navajo name prevented him: Bizaad Yik’eh Yileehii, which meant The One Who Does According To His Word.

The seventeen-year-old held a two-and-a-half-foot long wooden box which was nailed shut. It seemed as though the container possessed supernatural power because his facial features were marked by a relentlessly fierce tenacity. He had no inkling of a clue as to its contents, but whilst resting in the shade of an oak tree, he understood its importance and recalled every detail of the conversation with a dying woman that was the catalyst for an adventurous journey.

Be faithful and that curiosity will be fed, Sally Twosongs assured him, hugging the box tight against her bosom. This speaks to me about love and faith and music filling my soul.

What must I do?

Deliver this to my daughter.

Where is she?

Colorado.

Colorado is large, Sally Twosongs.

"Bethsuelo Twosongs Weitzel lives at WT Ranch."

How will I find it?

"Go to South Fork. WT Ranch is nearby," she replied, shifting slightly in a feeble effort to lift her head. Her frailty seemed to be increasing by the minute. She wheezed a shaky breath.

What is it, Sally Twosongs? he asked again, doubt in his voice.

Is your promise to deliver contingent on receiving an answer?

Of course not. I am Bizaad Yik’eh Yileehii.

The One Who Does According To His Word.

Yes. At birth I was given a charge to keep.

The Great Spirit blessed you, Josiah.

I stand in humble submission before him.

Be faithful to his hand upon your life.

I will be faithful or die, Sally Twosongs.

I depend on you being true to your name.

I am Bizaad Yik’eh Yileehii. I stand ready to serve.

You will have troubles.

Which I will defeat, Sally Twosongs.

Do not be proud and haughty.

I will strive to be bold and courageous.

Vultures are lurking on the horizon, Josiah.

Vultures?

Fear not.

Daring and bravery casts out fear.

Vultures are lurking on the horizon, she repeated, struggling to shape the words. She summoned and fought against the creeping weakness seeking to smother her. Have no fear. I’ve sanctified it and spoken magic words. Her eyelids fluttered. Some bandits or troublemakers will surely try, but no one except Bethsuelo Twosongs Weitzel will be able to open the box.

My word is a pledge to keep or die, Sally Twosongs.

Vultures are lurking on the horizon. Josiah jerked as though the cutting words had struck a nerve. He tightened his embrace on the wooden box. His hands flexed while inhaling a breath, which he held for a moment. When he released it as a whispery hiss, Josiah Grassley stiffened his resolve to do whatever necessary to deliver the box to Bethsuelo Twosongs Weitzel.



Ziggy Adler, a sociable high-yellow black man, had a secretive and mysterious aura about him which was accentuated by his insistence that he belonged wherever he chose to be. Tall and brawny, the gregarious fast-talker had worked as a blacksmith in Tallahassee for twenty years, but a week ago, he decided to put Florida along with the anvil and hammer behind him.

Now, figuring he was somewhere in Georgia, he had a dry-throated thirst which he was seeking to quench. Spotting a barn off in the distance, he picked up his pace on a meandering pathway through a stand of oak trees. His output of energy increased and he skip-hopped into a loping run that carried him to the edge of a grassy meadow decorated with buttercups.

He stopped and forced himself to breathe evenly. His tongue clung to the roof of his parched mouth, but he managed a squinty-eyed smile. Less than a hundred yards away there was a well with a hand-pump situated midway between a barn and a yellow farmhouse trimmed in gray. He walked speedily and was within spitting distance when a shout startled him.

Stop!

Adler did so, then took a hopping backward step when he saw a bald man cradling a double-barrel shotgun in the crook of an arm. No trouble from me, mister. I mean no harm.

Where do you think you’re going, bucko?

Just want to wet my lips.

Not now, not here.

What’s the problem?

You’re a nigra.

What? Who? Me? A nigra! Ziggy slapped his thighs and cackled laughter. "My mammy and grandmammy were fine upstanding white ladies. I got plenty of white blood in my veins,