Get Bek

By Lanny Larcinese

Max Bek is a 1970s wunderkind and Philadelphia's answer to the nation's better-known gurus and transgressors who graduated from the free love and drugs of the sixties, to the cusp of Reagan era business and New Age values. He is highly intelligent, charismatic, and sees himself as a link between environmentally conscious youth and a business community seeking connection to the demographic that is his following. He has all the qualities that pretty and accomplished Linda Record left Texas to find when she chose Bryn Mawr College in Philadelphia instead of her parents' choice for her, the University of Texas.

She moves in with Max shortly after meeting him, but even her benign nature, finds difficulty with Max's narcissistic eccentricities. One of them is answering the door naked, but more disconcertingly, his promotion of an open relationship in which each is free to have sex with others—discreetly, of course—yet he proves capable of jealous outbursts.

As his darker side unfolds and Linda gathers strength with the help of friends, she decides to leave him. But before she does, she mysteriously disappears. Private detective Owen Bridger is called in by her parents to uncover why Linda failed to pick up the ticket left at the airport for her to fly to Dallas. He is joined by Philadelphia homicide detective Michael Haywood. They soon surmise Linda has been killed, and Max an early suspect. Haywood finally obtains a search warrant and Linda's desiccated body is found in a trunk in Max's porch closet.

Following his arrest, he is released on a shockingly low bail while awaiting trial. Meanwhile, what began as a circumstantial case ripens into solid, conviction-assured, physical evidence. But immediately prior to trial, Max jumps bail and goes on the lam to Ireland. A cat-mouse game ensues between Max and his two pursuers. Locating him proves difficult. Max has friends in high places and develops a following owing to his research and rap about parapsychology and psychotronic weaponry. When word emerges he's wanted for murder in the States and he is located, his becomes a cause celebre among French free-thinkers, after which a public relations and extradition battle ensue.

Ultimately, Max's defenses and political hopes dissipate. He is extradited from France to face his fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667859484

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Get Bek

©2022 Lanny Larcinese

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 978-1-66785-947-7

ebook ISBN: 978-1-66785-948-4

Contents

Prologue

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part II

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Part III

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

PART IV

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Author’s Note

Prologue

No case gnawed at private investigator Owen Bridger like this one. This was a family he knew and a young woman he knew, but he was never so stymied this far into a case. Almost a month, and still no sign of Linda. He believed by now she was probably dead…somewhere. The Record family’s hope might be crushed, but they could still have faith—at least for finality and justice. Maybe Detective Haywood at Philly Homicide had a lead. If so, it might get them to finally open a case file.

Linda’s live-in lover, Max Bek, Philadelphia’s very own hippie-guru, was smart, but so was Bridger. Bek was clever, but so was Bridger. Yet Bridger could use the help of a cop like Mike Haywood, who brought his own brand of justice to the table with the doggedness of a hungry wolf.

The miles dissolved on the train from New York as Owen Bridger’s mind contorted and spun like a Rubik’s Cube. After renting a car near Thirtieth Street Station, he found himself parked down the block from Max Bek’s apartment at 3709 Hamilton, near Drexel University.

He took off his jacket, reached for the clipboard with Linda Record’s eight-by-ten glossy and began yet another witness canvas.

3743 Hamilton

Apartment 1: No answer.

Apartment 2: No answer.

Apartment 3: We only moved in last week.

Apartment 4: Yeah, she looks familiar but that’s all I can say.

Apartment 5: Vacant.

Apartment 6: She goes with Max Bek, doesn’t she? Other than that, I don’t know a thing about her.

3737 Hamilton

Same story.

And so it went, all the way down the block until Bridger approached a girl who emerged from 3723 under the weight of a bulging backpack. He identified himself and showed her Linda’s photograph.

That’s her all right. She’s missing? Oh my God, and she’s so nice! What happened? Mid-August? Let me think…I didn’t see her, but I remember seeing Max around that time. He had extra trash and asked could he put it with some of ours. I thought it was weird, but I loaned him the dumpster key.

Why did you think it was weird?

Because all the buildings on the block have their own dumpsters.

Did you see him put any trash into your dumpster?

Loaned him the key is all I recall. Returned it under my door the next day…

Bridger filed it away. It could have been Linda’s body or body parts or normal trash. Except blind alleys cost time, time Linda didn’t have if she was still alive or if she wasn’t, as Bridger suspected, time the Record family would never abide.

And more luck yet at 3715: Bridger caught the young man with tattoos up and down both arms who was about to mount a skateboard. The kid studied Linda’s photo.

I didn’t know her except to say hello, the young man said. But I’m buddies with the guys who live beneath Max Bek. They complained about a stubborn stain with a funky odor that leaked onto their closet ceiling. The closet’s outside, on a screened-in porch on the rear of the property. Animals must have chewed in and died. They had me over to smell of it just last week. Stank like nothing I ever smelled. I told them try bleach.

No reason to believe this kid would recognize the odor of a decaying body. If that’s what it was. Mice and squirrels chewed into buildings in heavily treed neighborhoods like Powelton. Neither a strange odor nor the dumpster incident could support a warrant. At least not now, not given Haywood’s story about Philly PD’s latest experience with the black robes. It was under the gun for recently botched warrant searches—two wrong addresses and exceeding scope on the third.

Nor would Bridger interview the tenants beneath Bek just yet. Word might get back to Bek, spook him, allow him to cover tracks in the event he had something to hide. Plus, he was known to have a modicum of political juice. Eighty percent of these cases involved husbands or boyfriends like Max Bek—but his charisma and reputed one-fifty IQ could accommodate a lot of secrets. Jumping the gun could let Linda Record’s possible murderer slip the noose. No, better to do things methodically, seduce Bek into a blunder. Homicide was hard to prove without a body—not that it couldn’t be done—but would open defenses enough to make a sieve look like a gushing spigot.

So, back to Dallas for now, see after the firm’s other business and report to the Record family.

Their current agony was on the cusp of becoming soul-searing torment. A month since their daughter was last seen and Bridger unable to buoy their hope. He tried to assuage their yearning for Linda’s return with meager comfort that he would continue to pursue the matter rigorously. If the worst had happened, he thought, capital punishment might mitigate feelings of survivors’ guilt and being cursed by fate, but it wasn’t time yet to make that case. To Owen Bridger, being a good private detective for Linda Record’s family meant more than discovery and uncovery, it meant a soft landing for one of the most crushing pains a life could endure.

You don’t think she’s alive, do you? Rebecca blurted, daring him to extract a final whit of hope from her beleaguered heart.

I don’t know, Bridger said, the situation is difficult.

What do you mean ‘difficult’? Rebecca shrieked, adding stabbing air quotes and face flushed with barely controlled hysteria. Difficult to solve or a ‘difficult’ outcome? Why don’t you quit the double-talk!

Bridger took no umbrage. Rebecca and her family needed to do this, needed to reconcile themselves to a tragic ending—only recently a mere possibility, now the one most likely.

Both, Bridger said.

Rebecca’s face reddened. She stood tall, squared her shoulders, and spoke through a clenched jaw.

If harm has come to my daughter at somebody’s hand, I’ll burn his house down with him in it! And if he has a family, them too!

She swung a sweater over her shoulders, stormed out the door, and disappeared sobbing into the moonless night.

After a moment, the PI diverted his attention from the emotional train wreck of the once-happy family and turned to the grieving father, who gulped brandy from a snifter two-thirds full.

Where do we go from here? Ronny Dale asked.

"We continue to investigate. Odds of her being found get slimmer by the week. But it’s critical to find out what happened. There’s another person I intend to see, a former professor. He’s in LA."

Will he help? Ronny asked in an almost-despairing tone. Brandy trickled down his chin as he took another pull from the amber anesthetic.

We need to try everything. This Max Bek is shrewd. He’s popular. We’ll need to squeeze him every way we can. We can’t believe anything he says. We’ll depend on others who know him to get the real story about him and Linda, but these things take time.

Do the necessary, Owen. I’ll support Rebecca and the kids as best I can.

Keep an eye on Rebecca, Bridger said. By the way, do you keep any weapons in the house?

Part I

Chapter One

Max Bek awoke an hour before the sun broke in the east, the arc of its rim bent downward, a frown for having to compete with a golden boy needing less sleep than the sun itself. At least that’s how Max saw it. Extra hours awake yielded more time to read and further his projects—not yet saving the world, maybe soon. In a typical morning, well before birds began their incessant racket, Max would have read half a book, scrolled through his rolodex to schedule the day’s calls, and graded essays from his freshman English students at Penn.

He kept his life simple, all work and study, not burdened by the need for much beyond the bare bones required for sustenance. He eschewed conspicuous consumption, even comfort: the mattress was on the floor; the lone table doubled as a desk as well as a place to sit naked, sip chamomile, and prop up a book as he ate; the floor-to-ceiling bookcases of cement blocks and two-by-six boards were packed; additional books and bound manuscripts were stacked on the floor.

His large studio apartment in the Powelton section of the city was handy to both the University of Pennsylvania and Drexel. Dense with cheap student housing and artist lofts, it was a neighborhood of free thinkers, progressive thought, and alternate lifestyles—surrounded by slum to the west and downtown Philadelphia to the east. It was perfect for Max. At thirty-two in early August of ’78, Max Bek saw himself as a man of thought and grace, despite his disheveled, occasionally repulsive appearance and bizarre personal habits. He had matters of urgency and importance to which he dedicated his life, and for which important people sought him out.

Like today.

Why hadn’t Linda awakened with him for his big day? At least seventy-five thousand, maybe a hundred thousand people would look up at the stage built atop the Belmont Plateau, a forty-foot mound in Philly’s Fairmount Park. He intended to enrapture them with lyrical urgings articulating the sanctity of the environment and the wisdom of Native Americans, many of whose quotes he’d committed to memory over the last few days and would sprinkle throughout the speech. His presentation would be pure Bek—poetry and beauty meant to inspire rather than agitate. People followed you because you made them feel good about what you wanted. So many leaders failed to understand that. It informed much of his counsel when he could get the ear of others—among the many reasons serious people reached out to him despite his eccentricities and soup-stained, dashikis.

C’mon Linda. It’s today.

What time is it? she asked, with one eye barely open.

What difference does it make? It’s today. Later this morning. Don’t you want to see me?

But she had already dropped off again.

Just as well. Let her sleep. She’d find her way to the event. He liked that she was independent that way, part of why he cared for her.

He’d get to Fairmount Park early. The mayor would be sitting in his limo prior to taking the dais. It would allow Max private time with him, thank him for supporting his work. Then he’d mingle with the bands in the VIP area. Their New York and LA connections would be useful. He’d check out their bios and playlists first. Young people who had camped-out awaiting the event—his students sure to be among them—would keep him attuned. He could identify dozens of symphonies and operas at the drop of a needle and name-drop them when opportune, but so-called punk rock was a gap in his knowledge. Pop music trends were not part of his forward thinking. His vision, with which business and civic leaders found currency, was more about where the world was headed ten years hence—big-picture subjects like ecology, technology, and education. Not the Sex Pistols, though he couldn’t deny the name had charm. Sex was a pistol all right.

It was another reason he was with Linda. She offered her body any time day or night or any number of times in a single day. His gifts of stupendous energy and ability to absorb huge skeins of information did not crowd out libido, in fact gave it power and urgency, which was also why he availed himself of other women, surreptitiously when expedient. Linda was deeply devoted to him. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her feelings, but it was also imperative that he tend to his own needs.

He walked the two miles to Fairmount Park, waving to well-wishers and acknowledging nods of familiar faces along the way. It was still early. As he approached the park he was shocked at the turnout, larger than expected. Tents, campers, vans, and buses jammed the access roads and lawn for hundreds of yards surrounding the Belmont Plateau, from which he’d be able to look down upon the throng.

Workers were wiring the amps and testing the sound system. His dated tie-dyed tee, baggy denim overalls, sandals and scraggly beard blended in with the crowd of mostly young people as he circulated among them, trying to catch snatches of conversation. It was mostly upbeat, party mode. But also, serious faces, warrior faces.

As expected, he saw the mayor’s limo. He approached it and from ten feet away, got the attention of the police sergeant standing as security.

Tell Mayor Frisk it’s Max.

The cop motioned him closer and spoke into the open window of the unmarked, black limo. He opened its door for Max to slide in.

Mr. Mayor, this is a wonderful day for Philadelphia and your enlightened administration.

It’s what the people need to hear, Maxie. Ring the bell loud and clear. We don’t need for the Schuylkill River to catch fire like the Cuyahoga did in ’69. We appreciate your work. These kids will follow you. You’re their guru.

Max feigned an aw-shucks demeanor.

Where are we about an environmental czar? It’s 1978. We need one.

I’m moving slow on that. My deputies are all jockeying for it to be under their umbrella. There’s turf to consider.

I have some thoughts on how it could be organized. Can I submit a proposal directly to you?

Mail it to me.

Give me thirty days, Max said, and gave a faux salute as he exited the limo. And thanks for everything again.

No simple task, that. Effects on manufacturing, tax revenue, jobs, citizen cooperation would be among the myriad issues. This is what Max did, what made him valuable, kept him close to power while never submitting an invoice. He was a broker of information and goodwill. But it wouldn’t stop him from suggesting himself as consultant.

At the end of his speech, he was to introduce the mayor, another opportunity for angel points. He’d lay it on thick—might help him get that consultant gig.

Max smiled, laughed, and kibitzed as he resumed mingling among the crowd. By now he was looking for Linda to tell her about his private meeting with the mayor. As he circulated, people stopped to shake his hand or say something nice about his work for the community or tell him they looked forward to his speech. He greeted each with a full gaze and attentiveness to their words, responding with something self-effacing or upbeat and encouraging, deploying a shrill laugh to put them at ease over his daunting verbal prowess.

But where was she? She should be here by now.

As he meandered toward the area behind the stage, he noticed her slip through security and under the stanchion ropes to embrace one of the musicians. The tall, black-haired guitar player who had been tuning his instrument slid it behind his back and pulled her to him. She held the back of his head with one hand and with the other around his waist, planted a too-long kiss fully on his lips. They both smiled widely as she leaned back, his hands low on her hips practically to her ass-cheeks, pulling her groin into his.

Max continued watching from a distance as the guitar player introduced her to other members of the band. She gave each of them a warm hug.

Though Max had feigned indifference during their discussions of an open relationship—it was his idea, justified mostly by demands on his time by important people, but with the caveat to keep things secret from the other because, after all, she had needs too—he found himself in an emotional quandary seeing her engage with someone with whom she had obviously had sex, and by all measures, might still again.

Images of them together flashed through his mind, accompanied by an odd mixture of perfumed but toxic emotions—sexual excitement combined with nausea at watching her do it with another man; open-mindedness mixed with jealous anger and hurt.

But most of all, a desperate feeling of losing control.

Chapter Two

When Linda had picked up the phone, she could tell by her mother’s voice that a tsunami of disapproval headed her way. It was a couple months after she moved in with Max.

"I don’t know why he doesn’t make money, Mama. He says he wants to do more important things.

Why can’t he do both?

A lot of people look up to him.

Her father piped in from an extension.

That’s even worse! From that tape you sent, his apartment looks like a rathole. I thought he was some kind of university professor. And why does he dress like a bum?

He’s an adjunct.

She was at a loss to explain exactly what it was Max did. He certainly knew a million people, even had a fairy godmother who sent him periodic checks—some wealthy matron in New England who liked what she read in an article he had published in Boston Today. And everybody on the Penn campus knew Max. He was frequently mentioned in Philadelphia Magazine, The Daily News, and once, New York Magazine. Most of the articles were about him being a futurist of sorts, a man able to extrapolate current trends and project them into the eighties, maybe into the next century. He even did consulting work for the CEO of Pennsylvania Bell.

He works pro bono, Daddy.

It’s no excuse to live like a goddamn bum. Your mother and I don’t trust this guy. Neither should you!

They would get over it. They were excitable but Linda was secure in their love. When she had announced her intention to attend Bryn Mawr instead of the University of Texas, they were apoplectic about her leaving the Lone Star State. Austin was the farthest from Dallas they could tolerate. She soothed them with promises of numerous flights home and constant phone calls and letters to them and her siblings.

They were a tight, warm family, her father a successful Cadillac and Mercedes dealer, her mother on the Board of Directors of the Dallas Library System. Her upbringing was Jewish Texan—an upper middle-class, blond, pony-tailed, high school cheerleader, track star, and senior class valedictorian.

But Linda Record wanted to get out of Texas. Despite its two hundred seventy thousand square miles, big-city amenities, and population of friendly, down-home folks, its conservative atmosphere fed by religiosity suffocated her. She wanted more. She wasn’t sure more what, but more. Maybe New York someday. Philadelphia seemed like a good way station.

Following her graduation from Bryn Mawr, she knocked around with part-time jobs and began graduate school, coaxed by friends. Maybe a masters in English. Two of her pieces had already appeared in American Poetry, and others in lesser anthologies, but she dropped out after two semesters. Academia had become too stifling. She wanted to get out of the suburbs and into the city. It was how she met Max Bek. He was giving a talk at Penn’s International House titled, The Future is Within Reach. Her friends had raved about him and urged her to go. She sat in the center of a group of a hundred or so. He was a fascinating speaker, modulating his voice in places and gesticulating widely when he referenced big notions such as the world and time and the genius of our species, peppered throughout with references from Descartes to Derrida and Camus. During much of his talk, his eyes glommed onto hers as she listened in riveted attention.

She lingered as people gathered around him following the talk. He was gracious to each, answering questions with an erudite air and laughing and joshing with warm affability. As the hangers-on melted away, he ambled to where she sat and plopped into the seat next to her.

I really like your bangs. There’s a tearoom up on Spruce. Join me, would you?

The band, called the Mojos, in which Guitar Guy played bass, had taken the stage to warm the crowd. Its front man, evidently wanting to appear serious despite his gold body suit and silly wig shedding sparkle dust, rapped about environmental justice.

We gotta do this, man, he exhorted. Don’t let nobody shit you.

Max noticed Linda wandering around the area.

He came up behind her, gripped her arm, and spun her around. His smile was forced, as if facial muscles did the work instead of the heart. He shouted above the noise of the speakers as the band began to play.

So, you finally made it, he said.

Of course! You didn’t think I’d miss your big day, did you?

I wasn’t sure when I left you this morning. Who’s the guy?

What guy?

The band guy you were kissing.

Oh, him. His band played at Bryn Mawr.

Did you fuck him?

I thought we didn’t talk about our lives outside our relationship.

You fucked him, didn’t you? I could tell by the way you kissed him.

You’re being a dope. Don’t get yourself into a state before your speech. You’re the one I love.

His grip on her arm tightened.

You’re hurting me.

I wanted to tell you about my talk with the mayor, but you were too busy messing around. Did you fuck the whole band?

She touched his face and smiled.

Did you hear me? I said I love you. Please stop drilling me. I want you to make a wonderful speech. I want you knock ’em dead like you always do. I want everyone to know that I’m with you. So please stop.

He loosened his grip. The tension in his face dissipated.

I don’t ever want to lose you, he said.

She took both his hands in hers.

Silly, you’ll never lose me. Now go get ready. The crowd is waiting for you.

Stand right here. In front of the stage. I want to see you during my speech.

Yes, Max. I’ll stand right here. You want me to throw my panties at you?

You can keep them on until later, he winked. I’m going out with some people after the event. We can discuss it again after I get home. Wish me luck.

By now, organizers were lining up chairs on the stage. Max would introduce the mayor who would introduce the head of the State Department of Environmental Protection. After their brief speeches, Max would take the mic. He guessed the crowd at one hundred-fifty thousand. He decided to give the event a name. He branded it The First Annual Save the Planet Day.

Before ascending the stage, he sought out the chief organizer of the event, the commissioner of Parks and Recreation.

Hey, Bill, that band is really great. Maybe you can persuade them to stay on and play for the crowd after the speeches.

Viewed from the stage, the enormous crowd surrounding the Belmont Plateau roiled with excitement. Painted faces, signs and placards, spontaneous dancing, girls swaying on boyfriends’ shoulders—all were electricity for Max. This was his moment. None of his life before this—not cheering crowds when as a tight-end he scored against Boys Latin for the city championship; not the gasping adulation of family and guests at his bar mitzvah when he quoted Hannah Arendt’s Origins of Totalitarianism; and not the standing applause he routinely received from students at the end of the semester. Nothing came close. Given the size of the crowd and his