Street Talk

By George L L Proferes

The discovery of a body in an eastern Long Island cemetery sets in motion a complex murder investigation, which quickly stalls. It cannot be determined where the victim was murdered! The conflict expands when the missing victim of a second major crime, arson, becomes a suspect in the first major crime, the murder investigation! Two locals, criminal attorney Marc Lorenzo, and private investigator Joe Cash, find themselves thrust into the two cases, which now also involve three separate police agencies as matters of jurisdiction continue to impend the search for justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645848745

Book preview

Chapter 1

Currently, I do a little writing, John Atwell would say whenever he was asked what it was he did for a living.

Other aspects of his personal life, however, he would choose not to divulge to his recently acquired acquaintances in this newly adopted seaside village of his, nestled on the south fork of eastern Long Island.

When asked if any of his writings had ever been published, a common-enough follow-up question, he would laugh and shake his head in a show of self-deprecation, his reaction usually enough to quell any residual curiosity.

A marginally handsome man, somewhere in his early middle years, exactly where, chronologically, it was difficult to determine. This was probably due to an unruly head of youthful reddish hair that he wore long, sometimes in a ponytail. A big man, he carried a lean two hundred pounds athletically and easily on a six-foot-three-inch frame. The thing that most people would most recall about him, however, were those steel-gray eyes of his, almost opaque in certain lighting. He had a way of staring down a person as if he were looking completely through the other individual.

Mitigating that disquieting stare, however, was a charming smile with which he would often favor an acquaintance.

His choice of wearing apparel was quite simple, favoring jeans sweatshirts or short-sleeved pullovers in the warm months, with sneakers or loafers on his feet and wide-brimmed bush hat for his head. And during his first winter season that he had found relatively benign, he had added a gray hooded parka and a woolen knit hat.

A year ago, he had arrived, unknown and unannounced, by train with nothing more than a battered old suitcase and the clothes on his back. As if by design, he had somehow found his way to Jake’s by the Lakes, a popular watering hole a mile north of the village of Ocean View.

He and the tavern owner, Jake Manheim apparently seemed to have struck up a comfortable relationship on Atwell’s first visit and it had been Jake who had sold him that old red bike. Word on the street had it that he had also rented a room above the tavern on that first day in the village, from the tavern keeper.

On his bike, the tallish man with the flaming red hair soon would become a familiar sight, in and around the village, spending time each day at the local library, following early morning breakfast at the Atlantic, the village’s local diner.

More often than not, he would take a late afternoon meal at Jake’s, after the lunch crowd had gone and before the evening business had begun, seemingly more comfortable when there were few customers at his favorite stool near the overhead television set.

No one it seemed, including Jake, knew exactly where Atwell had gone to live after he had left his room at the tavern, following an incident that would propel the quiet newcomer to the attention of the entire village population, only weeks after his arrival in Ocean View!

As Jake Manheim would tell it, one afternoon Atwell was finishing his daily late afternoon meal, seated on his customary bar stool watching the end of a Mets game on the large overhead television set when who should breeze into Jake’s but Mel Grisson, a summer resident of nearby Southampton who was currently ranked number one in the world of professional tennis at the age of twenty five. Grisson’s prowess on the tennis courts was well known to sports aficionados, as well as his local reputation as a high-living bachelor who liked to party whenever he would find his way back on the island.

Grisson, obviously feeling the effects of a day of barhopping, loudly announced that he was buying drinks for the house. The only problem was that there were, at that moment in time, only two other customers, a regular named Hal and Atwell himself about to leave having finished his meal who politely declined Grisson’s offer. Grisson wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that Jake give Atwell a drink. One look at Atwell, however, and Jake knew not to accede to Grisson’s offer. He poured Hal his beer then asked the tennis star what he was having.

Nothing unless the big shot over there has one with me, Grisson replied. Atwell had heard enough and stood to leave only to be called a rather offensive name by the obviously inebriated tennis star.

John took on that stone-cold glare of his, staring Grisson down, and I thought he was about to do him harm. But then he simply said that Grisson was a punk and certainly no John McEnroe! He then turned around to leave. But before he was out the door Grisson shot back, ‘Put your money where your mouth is, old man!’ Then John stopped, turned around, and said, ‘Meet me at two tomorrow at the local school tennis courts,’ and then he walked out! Grisson, laughing at the leaving Atwell, ordered a scotch on the rocks, gulped it down, then threw a bill on the bar before also storming out leaving me and Mel to marvel over what had just happened. This had been the tavern keeper’s eyewitness account, one that he would be asked to repeat many times over the next few weeks to his many interested patrons of Jake’s by the Lakes.

Naturally, word would get around the village concerning what seemed to be the possibility of a tennis match challenge between the world’s number one player, Mel Grisson, and the village’s bicycle man, as Atwell had now become known.

And so, at ten of two the next afternoon, a crowd of about fifty people, who were waiting at the courts of the local school, would welcome him with a rousing cheer as Atwell, riding his old red bike and dressed in tennis whites, arrived.

Acknowledging their reception with a nod and smile, he retrieved his racket and can of balls from the bike’s basket and proceeded to walk onto the nearest court where he began to bang a couple of tennis balls into the net, demonstrating a rather capable form to those who were now avidly watching as they awaited the arrival of the world’s number-one tennis player!

Despite Atwell’s gestured wish not to be photographed, several shots were taken by some of the bystanders as he continued to warm up while excitement and expectation mounted throughout the crowd!

Ironically, the real story involving this anticipated event would not be the tennis match at all. Rather it was the startling fact that Mel Grisson never appeared for a match! The general consensus from the disappointed inhabitants, who had arrived to watch the expected confrontation, many of them aware of Grisson’s social habits, was that he had probably tied one on after having departed Jake Manheim’s tavern and had probably forgotten his challenge to the customer who had refused to accept his offer of a drink.

When Atwell finally decided to leave, half an hour after the appointed time for the match, he obligingly grinned to the assemblage, waving his goodbyes and shaking a few hands while refusing a local reporter’s request for an interview, saying that it was a private matter.

When he got onto his old bike for his departure, however, he received another rousing cheer, this one much louder and more raucous than the one that had welcomed him to the school court.

The failure of this confrontation to take place between the global star and a local newcomer naturally made the local radio stations as well as a local paper, and was quickly picked up by some national media outlets due to Grisson’s celebrity prompting a spokesman for the tennis star to declare that the entire story was a fabrication; that Grisson had no idea who this man was nor had the tennis star been to Jake’s by the Lakes on the day in question. Mr. Grisson is contemplating a lawsuit against the parties who have fabricated this story was the spokesman’s final words, concluding his interview that had been arranged for him by a New York City sports outlet.

Learning of this prompted Jake Manheim to immediately contact his good friend and attorney, Marc Lorenzo, who agreed to meet with him, mentioning that he had already been contacted by John Atwell concerning the matter and would meet with both of them.

I didn’t know that you two were acquainted, replied the surprised tavern keeper.

I knew of him through a brother-in-law of his, was Lorenzo’s guarded reply. So, Jake, call my office whenever the two of you can come by. By the way, your friend John is an interesting man, Lorenzo had said before terminating the phone call.

When weeks passed, however, with no further news regarding the incident, it seemed to have been removed from the public’s collective mind, to the utter relief of John Atwell who had settled in the rural village, valuing his privacy. And thereafter he would refuse to discuss the incident whenever anyone would bring it up in his presence. His silence regarding the incident, however, merely served to exaggerate the myth of Ocean View’s bicycle man.

One rumor circulated that Atwell had played tennis for a southern university. One day, in a light moment, however, he admitted to Jake Manheim that he had never played any competitive tennis. Just some football, he had said that day, the last time he had mentioned his past despite Jake’s interest in this new and intriguing friend of his.

In fact Atwell’s sightings, even at Jake’s, began to decrease toward the end of the spring season. No one could put a finger on exactly when people began to ask after the reluctant cult hero. While he would still drop into Jake’s on occasion for a meal his visits had become sporadic. When Jake would ask him where he had been keeping himself, he would simply reply that he was busy, also refusing to tell Jake where he had relocated after leaving the tavern’s rented room, simply telling his friend that he valued his privacy. I don’t need the publicity would be his standard reply.

Jake, using the man’s spoken words, had been able to explain Atwell’s seeming withdrawal from village life, which had pleased Atwell. Everything would have been fine except that Mel Grisson decided at about the same time to put in one of his impromptu appearances at Jake’s by the Lakes.

It was a rainy afternoon only a few days before the fourth of July, overcast with gunmetal-gray cloud cover that promised a heavier downpour at any minute.

The temperature was hovering in the low sixties with a strong wind from the northeast, driving the precipitation horizontally, an absolutely miserable day for locals and vacationers alike.

At the Manheim brother’s establishment, however, the restaurant trade was thriving.

Jake and his brother Bob were both working behind the circular bar, servicing the resulting crowds from the beaches and streets. Most of the tables were filled, and the establishment’s three waitresses were busily taking orders and delivering luncheon plates, along with trays of drinks for the hungry and thirsty crowd, while the two chefs in the kitchens were up to their elbows in orders.

Suddenly the door to the bar entrance was flung open, and Mel Grisson, accompanied by two other men, burst in leaving the door wide open.

Hey, close the blasted door! a bar patron shouted over his shoulder as the cool blast of damp air descended on him and his fellow bar patrons.

Close it yourself! It was Grisson who shouted a reply, obviously annoyed to see that there were no available seats at the bar.

Well, well, would you look at who’s here, cried Hal, the regular who had witnessed Grisson’s confrontation with the bicycle man, John Atwell, a year earlier.

What’s the matter, Grisson, you have to pick a rainy day to come here in case the bicycle man might want to take you up on that tennis challenge? You remember, the one you ducked out on?

Ignoring Hal’s wisecrack, Grisson shouted to a nearby waitress, who was serving a couple at a bar-side booth, and asked for a table. She motioned over to a small line of people waiting to be seated, before walking away toward the kitchen. Grisson, incensed by the way he felt he had been treated shouted after her, calling her a stupid beer bitch, causing many of the nearby patrons to stop what they were doing to stare at the man who was creating such a disturbance.

Bob Manheim, Jake’s younger and much larger brother had heard and seen enough. Slipping out from behind the bar with the speed, agility, and size of an NFL linebacker, he took Grisson by the arm and bum-rushed him out through the bar door where Grisson attempted to take a swing at the large bartender only to be set on his rear with a short jab to his middle. Grisson’s two friends, rushing through the door to aid their famous friend, were stopped in their tracks by Manheim’s raised hand and deadly stare. Deciding that discretion was called for, they went to attend to their downed friend.

When Grisson was back on his feet, Manheim warned him not to come back.

We’ve had quite enough of your nonsense, he said before going back inside to a welcoming roar from the bar crowd, which he acknowledged with a bow before slipping back behind the bar.

It was not until the following day when a story in a local paper told of the incident at Jake’s that things began to heat up a bit. A local radio station succeeded in contacting one of Grisson’s publicity aides who stated that Grisson would now be filing the defamation suit against the proprietor of Jake’s by the Lakes that he had threatened to do a year earlier. And we are also looking into the possibility of filing an assault charge against the younger brother of the tavern’s owner, Jacob Manheim. Let us see how they enjoy the notoriety that will soon befall them, he added, concluding his interview.

It’s time we had that meeting with Marc Lorenzo, a tired Jake Manheim muttered over a cup of black coffee as he and his brother were cleaning up the tavern after the busy previous day and night’s business with another similar day upon them due to another rainy day.

I’m sorry I lost my temper with the punk, his brother Bob replied.

Hell, I’m not, Robert! I wish it had been me that got to him first! the feisty old man shouted. You could do me a favor though. Drive over to Marc’s office and tell him to drop in. We need to talk! Then get back here soon. It’s going to be busy again!"

Chapter 2

The phone call at six in the morning jump-started Joe Casamonte’s day in a most unpleasant manner. Reaching groggily for the receiver, he inadvertently knocked his silver Rolex watch to the floor in the process, causing him to curse, inadvertently, into the phone. Yeah? he shouted angrily, surprised and curious when a voice from his past answered.

Sorry if I got you up, Cash, but this is important, Vinnie Montana said, sounding stressed. You have a minute? he asked before Casamonte could reply.

Well, hello to you too, Vinnie! After ten years you wake me before the birds are even singing, then ask if I have a minute? So I’m waiting with baited breath, and it’s your dime, or whatever it costs today. Talk, Casamonte barked, while leaning over the edge of the bed in search of his watch, which had disappeared under the edge of the bed. The expensive timepiece had been his first purchase since becoming Ocean View’s one-and-only private detective, his gift to himself, and he wasn’t in a very receptive mood, wondering if he had damaged the costly watch.

Cash, old buddy, I need you to find someone for me, Montana said. If you track him down, I want you to give him a message from me. I hear you picked up a PI badge, he added, as if to explain the call.

Why not do it yourself, Vince? What’s the matter, you forgot how to work the streets? he asked. Montana, his former street-crime partner, had been promoted steadily in the ten years since Casamonte’s retirement. Somewhere he had heard that the guy was now a Police Chief.

It’s really kinda sensitive, Cash. If I’m right about this, I need to distance myself, publicly, from the individual in question, if you know what I mean, Montana replied.

No, Vinnie, I have no frigging idea what you mean. I’m getting a headache, and I think I broke my watch, so spit it out! Who’s the guy and what’s the message?

You’ll get an envelope with your retainer, in cash, with the name and what I need him to know.

Wait a minute, Montana. You can’t tell me over the phone? And what makes you think you know what I charge for my services?

I’ll add my cell number to the note. You call and tell me if it’s satisfactory, Montana said, hanging up abruptly without answering Casamonte.

Well, he hasn’t changed, and he can go straight to hell, Casamonte said under his breath