Black Cat Weekly #39

By Wildside Press

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #39.

It’s hard to believe BCW is 39! As with every magazine, our goals include not just entertaining our readers, but making every issue better than the last. I finally feel like we’re on top of production methods, and the contents keep offering a selection of great stories for every reader’s taste. (If you can’t find something you love here, I’d be very surprised.) From classic pulp fiction to modern SF and mysteries (not to mention our ventures into adventure fiction and westerns), we cover all the bases.

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Last Seen Heading East” by Joseph S. Walker [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“A Little Boy Is Missing,” by Saul Golubcow [short story]

“A Secret Admirer,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]

“A Close Shave,” by Art Taylor [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Case of Angus Blair, by Hulbert Footner [novel]

The Affair in Death Valley, by Clifford Knight [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Last Ride of German Freddie,” by Walter Jon Williams [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

“The Rat Aloft,” by John Gregory Betancourt [short story]

“A Question of Salvage,” by Malcolm Jameson [novella]

“The Secret of Kralitz,” by Henry Kuttner [short story]

“The Monster-God of Mamurth,” by Edmond Hamilton [short story]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: May 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667639574

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

LAST SEEN HEADING EAST, by Joseph S. Walker

A LITTLE BOY IS MISSING, by Saul Golubcow

A SECRET ADMIRER, by Hal Charles

A CLOSE SHAVE, by Art Taylor

THE CASE OF ANGUS BLAIR, by Hulbert Footner

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

THE AFFAIR IN DEATH VALLEY, by Clifford Knight

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

THE LAST RIDE OF GERMAN FREDDIE, by Walter Jon Williams

THE RAT ALOFT, by John Gregory Betancourt

A QUESTION OF SALVAGE, by Malcolm Jameson

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

THE MONSTER-GOD OF MAMURTH, by Edmond Hamilton

THE SECRET OF KRALITZ, by Henry Kuttner

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Last Seen Heading East is copyright © 2022 by Joseph S. Walker and appears here for the first time.

A Little Boy Is Missing, is copyright © 2022 by Saul Golubcow and appears here for the first time.

A Secret Admirer is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

A Close Shave is copyright © 2020 by Art Taylor. Originally published in The Swamp Killers. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Case of Angus Blair, by Hulbert Footner, was originally published in 1937.

The Affair in Death Valley by Clifford Knight, was originally published in 1940.

The Last Ride of German Freddie is copyright © 2002 by Walter Jon Williams. Originally published in Worlds That Weren’t. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Rat Aloft is copyright © 1990 by John Gregory Betancourt. Originally published in Starshore, Winter 1990. Reprinted by permission of the author.

A Question of Salvage, by Malcolm Jameson, was originally published in Astounding Science Fiction, October 1939.

The Secret of Kralitz, by Henry Kuttner, was originally published in Weird Tales, Oct. 1936.

The Monster-God of Mamurth, by Edmond Hamilton, originally appeared in Weird Tales, Sept. 1935.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #39.

It’s hard to believe BCW is 39! As with every magazine, our goals include not just entertaining our readers, but making every issue better than the last. I finally feel like we’re on top of production methods, and the contents keep offering a selection of great stories for every reader’s taste. (If you can’t find something you love here, I’d be very surprised.) From classic pulp fiction to modern SF and mysteries (not to mention our ventures into adventure fiction and westerns), we cover all the bases.

It’s Memorial Day weekend here in the States, so I’ve been very busy with family activities. One of our sons has been visiting and keeping us busy outside the house. But as always, with the help of our contributing editors—Michael Bracken, Barb Goffman, and Cynthia Ward—we pulled together another great issue. Plus I’ve snuck one of my own stories in this time, a story set in the same universe as my novels Rememory and Johnny Zed.

Here’s the lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Last Seen Heading East by Joseph S. Walker [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

A Little Boy Is Missing, by Saul Golubcow [short story]

A Secret Admirer, by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]

A Close Shave, by Art Taylor [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Case of Angus Blair, by Hulbert Footner [novel]

The Affair in Death Valley, by Clifford Knight [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Last Ride of German Freddie, by Walter Jon Williams [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

The Rat Aloft, by John Gregory Betancourt [short story]

A Question of Salvage, by Malcolm Jameson [novella]

The Secret of Kralitz, by Henry Kuttner [short story]

The Monster-God of Mamurth, by Edmond Hamilton [short story]

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

LAST SEEN HEADING EAST,

by Joseph S. Walker

Sitting in the passenger seat, Travis did a rough count of the bundles of cash in one of the three big canvas bags. Little over a hundred and fifty grand, he said. If the others are the same, we’re in good shape.

We won’t be in good shape for a while, Andre said. We left a hell of a mess back there.

It was Conklin who put those guys down.

Find me a judge who’s gonna care.

He was gripping the wheel so hard his hands were cramping. He had to remind himself to keep within a couple of miles of the speed limit. The whole time Travis was counting, Andre wanted to yell at him, wanted to grab the money and throw it out the window. Of course, he was enraged with himself. Andre had rules that were supposed to keep him and Travis from ending up on the wrong side of steel bars. After the mess last month in Baton Rouge, though, cash reserves were low and there was nothing on the horizon. So, Andre broke his most important rule: he went on a score somebody else planned.

It’s a cakewalk, Conklin promised them. This armored car picks up cash deposits from businesses all over St. Paul. At their last stop they park behind a mini mall, completely out of sight of the road. We come in with a car from each direction, they’ve got nowhere to go. And get this, I know a girl who works dispatch for the city cops. She can make sure there are no cruisers around.

How many guards? Andre asked.

Just two. Couple of fat retired cops. I’ve watched them. They’re lazy, do things the easy way. Never been hit, so they don’t expect it.

Retired cops can still pull triggers.

"I’m telling you, man, these guys won’t be a problem. Look, you ever heard of Minnesota Nice? It’s their damn slogan up here. They, like, pride themselves on being pushovers. Hell, they’ll probably offer to carry the bags for us."

Minnesota Nice. Sounded better than some places he and Travis had worked. They hadn’t set foot in Texas since the jewelry store, three years back, where every single clerk and customer turned out to be carrying. Travis damn near got ventilated by a mouthy old woman in a wheelchair who started firing the Sig in her purse without bothering to take it out. Conklin made Minnesota sound like the anti-Texas. That was enough for Andre to break his rule.

Just like every other time he’d broken a rule, he was paying for it now.

He and Travis were ferrying bags of cash to the cars when the two loud shots came. They spun to see Conklin standing over the dead guards. He claimed they were making a move. Andre had his doubts. Conklin suddenly reminded him of guys who just plain liked killing, liked it so much they stopped being useful. There was no time to debate the issue. The back doors of three of the mini-mall shops opened as people looked out to see what was happening. Conklin took off one way, Andre and Travis another.

Now Travis was looking at his phone’s GPS. This ain’t the route to Milwaukee.

No. Heading for Milwaukee had been Andre’s plan for immediately after the job. It would put them across a state line quickly, and from there it would be easy to catch a flight. They could be in New Orleans or Phoenix or, hell, Alaska before the job was twenty-four hours old. Conklin changed the math. While Travis counted, Andre had edged around the northern suburbs of Minneapolis and turned west, sticking to state roads. With two dead they’ll be watching the nearby borders and major roads.

So, where we going?

Denver.

"Denver? What, did you fall in love with this car?" It was a deliberately anonymous black sedan, a beater they’d bought three days earlier through a Craigslist ad, using phony ID.

Fleming is working in Denver, last I heard. He can clean the money. Andre forced his attention to the road, trying to erase the image of Conklin standing over the guards. We’ll head west, take our time, cut south in a day or two. Stay out of trouble.

* * * *

360 MILES TO WALL DRUG

FREE ICE WATER!!!

The tired old cowboy on the billboard was taking a bath in a horse trough, his clothes draped over the pump handle and his trusty steed drinking from the other end. Sal Russo had been looking at him for two years. There was nothing else to look at. The gas station he was given to manage when he went into witness protection, complete with a sagging single-wide out back to sleep in, sat at what had to be one of the loneliest intersections in America, where two Minnesota state highways crossed near the South Dakota border. The closest town was five miles away, and anybody trying to get anywhere took the Interstate fifteen miles to the south. The land stretched out flat and green in every direction to distant stands of pine. Aside from the gas station and the roads themselves, the billboard was the only manmade thing in sight.

Sal hated it.

He hated the cowboy. He hated the horse. He hated whoever drew them and whoever built the billboard and put them on it. He hated the cheerful suggestion that ice water was some kind of treat. He hated the billboard almost as much as he hated the gas station, which was almost as much as he hated the trailer. More than any of it, he hated Marshal Lacey Bertolet, who picked this place for his exile. Even worse, she chose his new name: Steve Robinson. Something that damned white bread had to be a deliberate insult, and after two years Sal still couldn’t think of himself as Steve. The way he saw it, Steve Robinson was the smallest offensive lineman on his high school team. Sal Russo was the guy dealing weed under the bleachers and screwing Steve’s prom date behind the concession stand, while Steve had his ass handed to him out on the field.

He knew which guy he wanted to be.

He was sitting on the bench in front of the station drinking beer near the end of another day in purgatory. The long October twilight was just gathering as a black SUV turned into the gas station lot from the southbound road and rolled to a stop at the pumps. Lacey Bertolet climbed out. Third Thursday of the month. Sal’s least favorite day.

Bertolet was wearing mirrored sunglasses, and her gun and badge were clipped to her belt. She put the gas nozzle in the SUV and started it, then walked over and took a beer out of the cooler between his feet. She twisted off the cap and took a long swallow.

You wear the glasses while you’re driving? Sal asked. Or do you put them on when you get here because you think they look badass?

She touched the cool glass of the bottle to her wrists, not looking at him. How’s business, Mr. Robinson?

Raking it in. I’m surprised you could get here through the crowd.

You missed your last mortgage payment.

Sal snorted. What do you want me to say? Check’s in the mail? I never asked to own a damn gas station.

Bertolet finished the beer and dropped the bottle, which broke against the asphalt. It’s witness protection, Mr. Robinson, not the lottery. We give you a way to live clean. The rest is up to you. And until you pay it off, we own the damn gas station, not you.

Sal finished his own drink. I wish I knew why you hate me so much, Marshal. Did I piss on your birthday cake or something? Kill somebody you’re related to?

Given the number of people you killed, I can see where you’d lose track, Bertolet said. But I don’t have anything personal against you, Mr. Robinson. This is just a job.

Sure. You treat all your witnesses like something scraped off a shoe.

I think I have some complaint forms in the car. You want to fill one out?

Sal shook his head. Just forget it. You’ve done your duty, Bertolet. I’m still here and I’m not hosting coke parties or plotting to overthrow the government or whatever. See you in a month.

Sooner. Bertolet propped her foot against the bench and leaned forward, stretching her back leg. Sergei Lebedev’s trial starts next week. Time for your starring role.

Be damned. His lawyers finally ran out of motions to file?

She ignored the question. I’ll be here at nine on Monday morning with three other agents. I’m not telling you what airport we’re going through and I’m not telling you what hotel we’ll be using in Miami. We can’t be sure when you’ll actually be called, so you should pack for a stay.

Sure. I’ll have my valet pick out some nice pastels. Sal shifted on the bench. Sergei will be right there in the room?

Bertolet straightened up. For the first time she looked directly at his face, though he couldn’t see her eyes. This is the deal, Russo, she said. The whole deal. You get cold feet now and I will put you in a hole that will make you long for the good old days pumping gas.

Nobody’s getting cold feet. I just want to be sure I’m safe. I’ve seen what Sergei does to people who cross him.

Don’t try to play citizen, Bertolet said. Up until two years ago you were the one Sergei sent after those people.

I know better than anybody. Be damned sure there are no leaks on your end.

You’ve been here two years. If there was a leak. you’d be dead. She walked back to the SUV and put the gas nozzle back in its cradle. Be ready Monday morning.

You gonna pay for the gas and the beer?

We’ve been over this, Mr. Robinson. Until you pay off, it’s our gas station. She slid into the SUV. Monday morning. Until then, all you have to do is stay out of trouble.

* * * *

We need gas, Andre said.

Dusk was giving way to night. His head and lower back ached from the tension and monotony of hours of two-lane blacktop. Every time they seemed to be building up momentum, they hit a little town where the speed limit dropped to 25, or they were trapped behind a piece of farm equipment. At one point he made a wrong turn and went forty miles north before realizing his mistake and backtracking. He wanted west, not Canada.

There’s a gas station, Travis said. Looks closed.

We’ll take a look. I need to stretch my damn legs.

The station was a ramshackle little building with a couple of pumps. A blue tarp covered a car parked to its side, and a trailer squatted behind it. The big halogen lamp over the intersection spilled some of its light over the station lot, but the surrounding fields were dark.

Crude lettering on a piece of cardboard taped to the pump read Closed at 7PM. Use credit card.

Damn. Andre exited the car, tucking his gun into the back of his waistband. He had a couple of hot credit cards, but he couldn’t be completely sure they were still safe. I’d rather pay cash. See if there’s somebody here who can open up for us.

Travis put his small .22 into the front pocket of his cargo shorts. Another of Andre’s rules, drilled into him so often that he didn’t think about it: always have a gun within reach when you’re on a job. Until unloaded the cash, they were still on the job. He shook the station’s locked door and walked around to check the trailer. Andre paced between the car and the pump, wondering what the hell kind of place advertised having ice water.

In a minute Travis came jogging back, holding his phone. Nobody in the trailer, he said. But we have bigger problems. Conklin texted me. That police girl says somebody back there got our plates. There’s a statewide bulletin out.

Andre swore, bouncing a fist off the top of the car. This is what I get for breaking rules. Conklin better hope he’s never in the same room with me again.

Travis stuck his hands into his hip pockets. We’re almost to South Dakota, right?

Sure. But they might have put it out to neighboring states. Andre let his gaze drift to the west, waiting for an idea.

We could take whatever that is under the tarp, Travis said.

So, Mr. Trailer comes back from dinner or whatever and finds his car stolen and this one sitting in the lot. We might as well send the cops an invitation letting them know where to pick us up.

Okay, Travis said. We just take the license plate.

Andre raised an eyebrow, looking it over. That’s not bad, he said. With a little luck the guy might not even notice until we’re done with the car anyway. He turned back toward the pump. Okay. You go get the plate and I’ll try one of the cards.

* * * *

There were about three nights a year when the trailer wasn’t miserably hot or punishingly cold. Sal had never been much for TV, anyway. He was in the habit of sitting out in a lawn chair on clear nights, drinking and listening to true crime podcasts or nothing at all. The problem was that people who stopped by after closing time could find him and demand service, so he started carrying the chair twenty or thirty yards out into the field and setting it up on one of the little rock outcroppings. From there he could keep an eye on things, but once the sun went down, he was essentially invisible.

He was working on a bottle of Jack and thinking about seeing Sergei Lebedev again when a beaten-up black sedan turned into the station off the westbound road and parked by the pumps. A Black man got out of the driver’s seat. He stretched his arms, and even at this distance Sal could see the gun, a big automatic, in his right hand. He tucked it into the back of his pants as a white man exited the passenger side and put a smaller gun into his pocket.

Out in the protective darkness, Sal straightened. He screwed the top on the bottle and set it gently on the ground. The guns didn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of people out here in the sticks went around armed.

Still.

The two men conferred briefly. The white man went to the door of the station, rattled it, and cupped his hand to the glass to try to see inside. Seeing nothing, he trotted around and knocked at the trailer.

Moving slowly, Sal eased out of the chair. He folded it and laid it flat on the ground, where some glint of light wouldn’t catch the aluminum tubing. Half crouched, he took a few cautious steps toward the station.

The white man was looking at his phone now. He broke suddenly into motion, running back around the station and yelling. Sal couldn’t make out the words. Whatever it was seemed to be bad news, judging from the way the Black man punched the roof of the car. The two men talked for a minute, both looking around.

Sal thought he knew what they were looking for.

His hands ached for a gun. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to have one, and of course, he didn’t have one. He had two. The Glock nestled under a cutaway section of floorboard next to his bed. He could roll off the bed and push his hand through and have it in less than two seconds. The sawed-off was tucked over a loose ceiling panel just above the gas station cash register. Knock the panel askew with a broom and the weapon would fall right into his hands.

Very clever. Assuming he was inside when trouble came.

The white man walked over to Sal’s car. He flipped up an edge of the tarp and started doing something Sal couldn’t see at the back. The car was a vintage red Trans Am. It had belonged to one of the locals Sal sometimes paid to cover shifts, until she received her third DUI and lost her license. Sal picked the car up cheap, getting rid of the rusty pickup that had come with the station. He took it into town a couple of times a week to buy food, and to Sioux Falls once a month or so to find a woman. He kept it under a tarp most of the time because he grew tired of idiots who wanted to talk about Smokey and the Bandit.

The Black man was pumping gas. Sal moved forward more quickly, still bent low. He’d be more visible as he crept closer but hanging back wasn’t an option anymore. He’d been expecting this for two years. They’d found him.

The white man was completely absorbed in what he was doing, and Sal had spent a lot of years learning how to move quietly. The man had no idea he was there until Sal’s left arm clamped firmly around his neck as his right hand closed over his nose and mouth.

* * * *

The first card Andre tried in the pump worked. About time we had a piece of luck. He watched the numbers climbing, leaning against the car and keeping half an eye on the roads. Wouldn’t do to have somebody show up while Travis was busy lifting plates. He grunted to himself. Might as well get the bad plates off this car while the gas was going. He pushed himself upright and went around to the back of the car. A noise came from over where Travis was working, like something heavy hitting the ground.

Travis? he yelled. You okay?

* * * *

Sal took the gun from Travis’s pocket, grimacing when he saw it was a piss-ant little .22. He thought about going for one of his guns, but speed was more important. The Black man was yelling. Sal stepped over the dead man and walked around the corner of the station, gun held straight out in front of him. As soon as he saw the Black man coming from the rear of the car he started firing.

* * * *

Andre had taken a couple of steps in Travis’s direction when a bearded man he’d never seen before came around the corner, firing a gun. Andre swore and spun, trying to break for cover and draw his own gun at the same time. For half a second, he couldn’t decide between heading back to the car or running for the more substantial cover of the building. The hesitation cost him. He felt two solid blows slamming into his left side. He fired back blindly and half-ran, half-stumbled toward the gas station, going around the corner at the other side.

He could get to the trailer. Or go around the back, find Travis, team up to take this guy out. Except Travis was probably dead, right? His foot caught on something in the gloom, and he fell forward, the gun flying away. Hitting the ground knocked the air out of him. He tried to push himself up, to reach for the gun. He wanted to do those things. He waited to feel himself doing them, but nothing happened.

Then he felt the hand on his shoulder, rolling him over onto his back.

* * * *

The left side of the man’s shirt was dark with blood. When Sal rolled him over, his mouth was hanging slack and for a minute Sal thought he was already gone. But then he blinked. His eyes rolled around until they found Sal and focused on his face.

Sal knelt and let him see the gun. I’ll get help, he said. But you gotta tell me who sent you.

The man looked calm but confused. His eyes wandered over Sal’s shoulder like he was looking for somebody.

Your partner’s gone, Sal said. Forget him. You can get through this. Just give me the name. Was it Bertolet?

The man was looking straight up into the sky now. Sal slapped him lightly, brought his focus back.

Tell me who sent you, he said again. Bertolet, right?

The Black man made a weak sound. Sal realized he was laughing. Probably slipping into shock. Sal slapped him again, a little harder. The little chuffing laugh stopped, and the man’s lips moved. Sal leaned forward to catch what he was saying. What the hell happened to Minnesota Nice?

I’m from Florida, Sal said. He held up the gun again, waved it until the man’s eyes fixed on it. Last chance. Give me a name.

Conklin. The man’s voice was thin but clear. Jason Conklin. Thief out of Pittsburgh.

Jason Conklin, Sal said. This Conklin sent you after me?

No good. He was talking to himself.

* * * *

There was a leak somewhere. That was clear enough. Maybe it was Bertolet and maybe it wasn’t, but Sal sure as hell wasn’t going to call her and ask, and he wasn’t going to wait to see who turned up next.

He grabbed the Glock and his little stack of emergency cash from the hidey hole and tossed some clothes into a bag. The Trans Am was registered to Steve Robinson. Whether Bertolet was dirty or not, there were about to be a lot of people looking for Steve Robinson. He took the keys to the sedan from the black man’s pockets. The back seat was heaped with big, bulky bags. He could check that out later. Right now, the priority was putting as much distance as possible between himself and this corner.

He peeled out of the lot, raising a middle finger to the cowboy as he passed the billboard.

By the time he reached the Interstate he had a rough sketch of a plan. He’d start in Pittsburgh, see if he could find this Conklin and figure out where he fit. Had to be Bertolet, moving against him now to keep him from testifying. The Black man said Conklin was a thief. Bertolet must have busted him at some point, put him on a leash. If Sal could put her on the other end of that leash, she’d spend the next big chunk of her life in Leavenworth.

He smiled at the image as he merged onto the Interstate heading east.

It was twenty minutes later when the blue and red lit up the rearview mirror.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joseph S. Walker lives in Indiana and teaches college literature and composition courses. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Mystery Weekly, Tough, and many other magazines and anthologies. He has been nominated for the Edgar Award and the Derringer Award and has won the Bill Crider Prize for Short Fiction. He also won the Al Blanchard Award in 2019 and 2021. Follow him on Twitter @JSWalkerAuthor and visit his website at https://jsw47408.wixsite.com/website.

A LITTLE BOY IS MISSING,

by Saul Golubcow

Wednesday, May 23, 1973.

Success isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I thought as I stopped before the smoked glass door to my grandfather’s office that read: FRANK WOLF DETECTIVE AGENCY. It was 9:55 AM. A year before, Zaida, using the Yiddish word for grandfather, had with a bit of my assistance solved the murder of Joseph Stein, a butcher in the Boro Park section of Brooklyn, and so saved New York Mutual a $100,000 life insurance payout to Stein’s family. If you want some details, you can find them in the May 19, 1972 issue of the New York Times.

I was sure that when word got around the orthodox Jewish communities in Brooklyn and perhaps beyond, business would really pick up for Grandfather.

That’s all he needs, my mother had lamented when I shared my enthusiasm. I don’t know if it was the Stein case itself or something more, but your grandfather seems tired to me. He says he’s fine, but I’m worried.

My mother could have saved herself the worry. Business hadn’t picked up and may have even dropped. Although he went daily to his office near Brooklyn’s Boro Hall to wait for the phone to ring or a client to walk through the door, he had only a case or two a month come his way: a check on a future business associate, background on a proposed partner in an arranged marriage, or an investigation of suspected infidelity.

Grandfather wasn’t surprised when I brought it up. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and in his elegantly accented English commented: I expected this result. I have angered many in our community who believe I violated a certain code by helping the insurance company ‘against one of our own.’ I stand indicted for depriving Joseph Stein’s widow of the money that would have bolstered her after her husband’s death, regardless of the claim’s illegitimacy.

Are you sorry we took the case?

Not at all, Yoeli. That was Grandfather’s pet name for me. When I took on this honorable profession, I committed to seeking justice with no favor nor disfavor to the rich or poor, the weak or the powerful. I am greatly sorry the outcome negatively impacted Mrs. Stein, but New York Mutual also deserves justice. I ask of you, what would have occurred if the original police report had remained indicating that Stein was killed by a youth gang that included various minorities? Suspicion, hatred, revenge all arise when justice fails.

Just a few hours earlier, I had been fast asleep after completing my second year law school exams the day before. I wanted to sleep late and spend time with my new girlfriend, Aliya, for the next two weeks before I started my summer clerkship at the Brooklyn DA’s office. Although I dreamily heard the phone ringing in our Flatbush apartment where I lived with my mother and grandfather, I was jolted fully awake when Mother knocked on my door.

Joel, she said tensely. That was Zaida calling. He wants you at his office by 10:00.

By 10:00! I sputtered. But why, and what time is it now?

It’s now a few minutes past 8:00, and I don’t know why. But Zaida said it is ‘critical’that you come by 10:00, and when he uses the ‘critical’ word, it’s something very important. So you’ll get up and rush over?

I guess, I answered half-heartedly, sitting up at the edge of the bed. Is there any coffee?

Yes. My mother came over and stroked my hair. I also must run to open the store on time. She meant the jewelry store that she managed in Manhattan. There are some hard-boiled eggs in the refrigerator that you can eat quickly with the coffee.

She kissed me on the cheek, and as she was about to leave, turned toward me, looking worried. I hope your Zaida hasn’t gotten himself into anything dangerous.

I felt sorry for my mother. I knew that the six years she spent as a young girl in hiding with my father in the Austrian countryside during the Holocaust, her mother dying during that time, and my father’s early death when I was 14 had left her constantly fearful.

I’m sure there’s no danger, I said in a soft voice and got up from bed. I’ll get dressed, eat quickly, and hurry over there.

* * * *

When I entered my grandfather’s office, I saw the back of a heavyset man seated facing my grandfather. A large black velvet skullcap sat over the man’s short, cropped hair. He glanced my way when I entered.

Joel, my grandfather called out. This is Avi Raskin from the Williamsburg Shomrim Society. A little boy is missing in Williamsburg. He is here to ask our assistance in finding him. Mr. Raskin, this is my grandson and at times associate, Joel Gordon."

Mr. Raskin stood up and shook my hand. He was stocky, about 50, with glasses, had a few days of stubble, and wore a white shirt that showed stains around the neck. The shirt was badly tucked into dark trousers, and knotted ritual fringes or tzitzit dangled on both sides of his pants pockets in the manner of some orthodox Jews.

I indicated to Raskin to resume his seat. I moved to the side of grandfather’s desk. Shomrim Society? I asked.

Yes, Raskin said eagerly. His accent was half Yiddish and half Brooklynese. We are a Jewish civilian patrol in Williamsburg. We are unarmed and patrol mainly at night to prevent muggings, burglaries, vandalism, and domestic violence. We also help to locate missing people.

My two years of law school provoked a sense of law and order being circumvented. But shouldn’t these matters be left to the police? I asked sharply.

Raskin answered calmly. We are not vigilantes. We don’t make arrests, and we immediately call the police if we come across criminal behavior. Many Jewish families in Williamsburg were victimized and murdered by fascist or communist police and military units in Europe. It’s not just they have no trust in the police; they also fear the police. So we serve as intermediaries between the community and the police.

My grandfather rarely was inpatient, but he became clearly so, And a little boy is missing now two days. The Shomrim are assisting the police, and we must also try to assist.

Grandfather handed me a few pages of stapled papers. Mr. Raskin brought us the police report. Joel, please make a quick perusal.

I thumbed through the reports quickly. Eight-year-old Yosele Rosenstock disappeared around 4:00 in the afternoon the previous Monday. Raskin had also brought a photo that showed a wispy looking boy, slight for his age, with wiry dark hair cut short, ear locks, and piercing eyes. He was last seen leaving his yeshiva, a religious school, at 95 Boerum Street and never arrived home. His older brothers at the school, Shimon 12 and Levi 10, explained that Yosele was not permitted to walk alone, but when they came to meet him at the school’s entrance, they learned that he had already left, heading west down Boerum toward Leonard in the direction of the family’s apartment.

They ran to catch up with him so as to avoid their mother’s anger if Yosele showed up by himself. Looking in all directions, they hurried two blocks down Boerum to Union Avenue and a long block up Union, turning a short left to 468 S. 5th Street, where they lived in a second floor walkup. They asked boys playing punch ball on the street if they had seen Yosele, but the boys said no. Hoping that Yosele had eluded notice and was in the apartment, they ran upstairs, but no Yosele.

Their mother Leah said she immediately ordered the boys along with their older brother, Reuven, 17, to join her out on the street to look for Yosele. Sister Dinah, 15, was left at home in case Yosele appeared.

They searched to no avail. When the father, Yaacov Rosenstock, came home at 6:00, first unleashing his verbal fury on Shimon and Levi and then the other family members for not finding Yosele, he contacted the Shomrim, who also took up the street search after notifying the nearby 90th Police Precinct. The Williamsburg Jewish Community Relations Officer, Sgt. Max Fink, along with a canine search unit, came within minutes. But it had turned dark, the stores along the route were closed, and the search dog picked up no scent.

The next day, Tuesday, Fink’s team worked with the Shomrim to question every merchant and resident along Boerum and Union. No one remembered seeing Yosele. Boys at the school confirmed what his brothers had reported. Was he carrying anything? Yes, he had his usual ragged, plastic backpack. The K-9 once again sniffed out the route. Nothing.

After finishing my reading of the report, I addressed Raskin: But what can we bring to the search that the police or you can’t?

A good, important question, Raskin acknowledged. "Your grandfather is an experienced investigator in the Orthodox Jewish community, and we hope his knowledge and analytic skills will lead us to the boy, as we are totally baffled. Your solving the Stein case may have caused resentment in some of the community, but we in the Shomrim, when we learned of your work and understood how you unraveled the intricacies of the death, we were struck by the brilliance of the detective work.

And, here Raskin stopped and looked at my grandfather who signaled permission to go on, "we looked into your grandfather’s background and learned that he knows the Rebbe, the spiritual leader of the missing boy’s family, Rabbi Moshe Koenig. We’ve arranged for Mr. Wolf to meet the Rebbe and ask him to direct his community to cooperate with the investigation. Right now, there’s very little they’re telling us, including the boy’s own family.

So around 5:00 yesterday, I decided to contact your grandfather. The first 24-48 hours are critical with missing children. I called the number here, but there was no answer. I took a chance, and at 7:30 this morning, I was at your door. Mr. Wolf thankfully arrived 15 minutes later.

After a few more minutes of conversation, Raskin left. I then asked Grandfather: How do you know Rabbi Koenig?

Instead of answering, Grandfather stood up with more energy that I had seen over the last year and pointed to papers on his desk that were maps of Williamsburg.

A little boy is missing, and there is much to do quickly. I will explain more about my relationship with Rabbi Koenig later, but now let us gain an understanding of the boy’s neighborhood and the facts behind the case, yes?

I had plans to go into the City with Aliya, but I had rarely seen Grandfather this agitated. I didn’t know Aliya very well yet, but I would call her and hope she understood.

What do you want me to do, Zaida?

Thank you, Joel, for your support. It will be of immense help in our endeavor. He then opened a desk drawer and took out a Polaroid Land camera and two rolls of film. I had no idea that he owned a Polaroid.

Sensing my surprise, Grandfather handed me the camera and film: A modern detective must obtain information quickly and also document environments. A modern detective cannot wait for the film to be developed. The Polaroid is a great advance in the technology that supports my work.

And I’m to take pictures of what, exactly?

Ah, Zaida responded with a twinkle in his eye that always charmed me as a child, have you ever been to this particular Williamsburg neighborhood?

No,. What would have ever brought me to that neighborhood?

I immediately realized how childish I sounded, as if I were casting a neighborhood of Brooklyn no more than five miles away from where I lived as some forsaken habitat into which I never would have tread.

I’m sure my grandfather noticed my conceit, but he let it go. Good then, since the area will be new to you, why do you not let your curiosity guide you? Certainly, we need pictures of Yosele’s school, his home on S. 5th Street and the immediate neighborhood, and the route he was expected to have taken between the school and his home. In addition, if you find something of interest, take a picture. Good?

I nodded. Hopefully Grandfather’s trust in my sense of curiosity would be well founded. And you want me to go right now?

Yes, yes, quickly, a little boy is missing. No time should be lost. Use up both packs of film, which will give us 24 photos. It is now half after 10:00. I will meet you at Epstein’s delicatessen where Broadway and Union Avenue come together at 2:00 for a quick lunch, and you will show me the pictures you have taken. Then we will walk over to Rabbi Koenig’s dwelling on Harrison Avenue. Mr. Raskin has established a 3:00 appointment for us. It will be of a short duration. No more than 20 minutes.

Grandfather reached into his suit pocket for a skullcap. "You will wear this kippah when we are eating and during our visit to Rabbi Koenig, yes?"

Yes, of course, I answered quickly. I was amazed how well my grandfather knew Williamsburg.

I was about to head out when Grandfather added, pointing to a location on a map: And Joel, there are additional activities on our schedule. At 4:00, you are to meet with Sgt. Fink, the Williamsburg Community Relations Officer at the 90th Precinct just here at Division and Lee. He will have materials for you to review. While you’re at the precinct. I will do my own perambulation of Yosele’s neighborhood.

Wow, is that all we’re doing today? I asked. After my time at the precinct, we meet up and head home together?

No, Grandfather smiled, suddenly hurrying me toward the door. At 5:30, every member of Yosele’s family is to be present at the Precinct for interviews. I will speak to each individually and expeditiously. Mr. Raskin is also making this arrangement with the family. Immediately after the interviews, we will determine our next actions.

* * * *

I walked out of the underground Union Avenue exit of the Broadway Station into bright sunlight. The temperature in the window of the Williamsburg Savings Bank read 90 degrees, unusually hot for late May. Dozens of posters littered the street or were attached to lampposts, mailboxes, garbage cans, storefront windows, and entrances to apartment buildings. I picked one up and saw the same picture that Raskin had given us in Grandfather’s office, a little boy’s face smudged with a city’s grit along with missing and the Shomrim’s’s contact information. The poster promised a $500 reward for his safe return.

I stuffed a poster into my shirt pocket and walked a short distance south to Boerum Street intending to make my way to Yosele’s school and then retrace the path to where he lived. While I noted a mixed ethnicity, particularly of Hispanics, Blacks, and Asians with a mélange of languages, my eyes and camera that I carried at my ready were on the ultra orthodox Jews that heavily populated Williamsburg. Pictures I later reviewed with Grandfather showed a man walking determinedly alone, head and back bent forward, looking neither to the left or right, as if he were shielding out distractions to his mission. Another caught two men facing each other in heated discussion. I got close enough to hear their conversations in Yiddish, which I understood much better than I spoke. They were discussing the price per pound of used clothing shipped out of the country. Two other men nearby were in passionate Talmudic debate which I could not follow at all. Neither pair took notice of me.

Most of the men wore large black fedoras over curled ear locks, some to the chin, and full beards. Despite the day’s heat, black frock coats over fully buttoned white shirts came down to their knees over baggy black pants and black shoes, quite a contrast to my floral shirt and stovepipe pants that were tight to my knees and slightly flared at my ankles.

Married women appeared in groups of at least three and wore coiffed wigs under kerchiefs or dark berets. Each, for the sake of modesty, was outfitted in a long-sleeved blouse and ankle-length skirt that barely exposed stockinged legs.

Some rocked baby carriages or dealt with the tugs of young children as they discussed food prices, children’s ailments, or the plight of certain still-unmarried friends. There were no school-aged children with them. After all, it was late morning on a school day.

The women also took no note my picture taking.

But at Boerum and Lorimer, my eyes and camera lingered on a group of five girls in what I pegged as their late teens or very early twenties. Each wore white, long-sleeved blouses buttoned to the neck and black or navy skirts falling below the knee to stockinged mid-calf. Each had pinned long hair of different hues, not wigs as Grandfather later explained, which was required only after marriage. When I eased close enough, I heard them speaking giddily in a combination of English and Yiddish about marriage prospects of various acquaintances.

I found each attractive. I never shared this thought with Grandfather, but I arrogantly romanticized their falling for my alluring modern look and escaping from arranged marriages to the pale, old world-looking young men who passed by.

When I pointed my camera and took the picture, one of the girls with shiny red hair noticed and pointed me out to her friends. Immediately they linked arms and walked in the other direction from me. As they did so, the red head turned and glared contemptuously at me.

Embarrassed, I increased my pace and headed east the few blocks on Boerum to Yosele’s school, taking photos of a mixture of structures along the way: high-stooped brownstones that were probably grand decades before, a hardware store, a grocery, a fruit market, a three-story building claiming to be the Breslau Pickles Building, and a four-story apartment building. As I crossed Leonard Street, on the north side of Boerum, a decaying large structure with a large sign hanging over a façade of broken windows exclaimed Williamsburg Can Co.

But what stopped me right before Yosele’s school was music pulsating out of a double-spired brownstone church with a high, brightly colored sign indicating Life of the World Church—Pentecostal Puerto Rican and right below, faded but still visible, the etching of First Methodist Church of Williamsburg. Probably as part of a mid-week service, the blend of guitars, maracas, and piano filled the street, and with my high school knowledge of Spanish, I made out the repeated lyrics of Dios abre nuestros ojos—God open our eyes.

As I moved just a bit further east on Boerum to the edge of the building that housed Yosele’s school, the church music and the hum of a few hundred voices in Talmud study played against each other, neither vying for center stage. The school’s three-story light brown brick building looked well maintained. Concrete steps with a rail in the middle rose to a first-floor entrance framed by thin Doric columns. A half-moon window sat over two closed oak doors. and over that lay a white sign giving the name of the school.

I glanced at my watch and saw it was noon. Then the doors burst open, and a swarm of boys ran down the steps. Some stopped to eat their lunch along a railing that fronted the school almost to Manhattan Avenue, while others took over the street to play punch ball.

Dodging cars and sometimes causing them to come to sudden halts, they ran to bases designated by certain parked cars. I was an avid baseball fan, and having often played punch ball in my Flatbush neighborhood, I smiled hearing the slap of a ball followed by a call in Yiddish of Leif, Moti, leif,—Run, Moti, run. I wanted to join in their play, and as I snapped a picture, I became distracted from why I was there.

But that distraction didn’t last long. I felt a large hand on my right shoulder from behind. I spun around to look at a bear of a man, well over six feet and probably around 300 pounds. with a black, bristly beard, ear locks, and black fedora.

What are you doing here on this block, and why are you taking pictures? he asked in unaccented English. His voice was not at all threatening, but it didn’t have to be given his size compared to my