Redemption

Benny was a nobody, a nearly unnoticed good-for nothing, and now his life is a life-changing example of redemption.

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A N O V E L L A I N T H R E E P A R T S

P A R T O N E / B E N N Y

Everybody thought Benny Gantz was a Jew. Ya’ know, ‘cause of the name. If Benny had ever been a Jew, it must’a been a long time ago. Now he’s just a nickel & dime crook, the kind’a guy Chandler would’a called a street punk. Benny looked out for Benny.

The only higher-power, he respected was anybody better at boostin’ than himself.

Benny lived on what the mob guys couldn’t be bothered with like, shopliftin’, bad checks, smash n’ grab, small cons, ya’ know, all that kind’a stuff. Benny was street-smart, very cool. Nobody could con him because he was a con. He kept track of all the talk sliding ‘round the corners.

He wasn’t gonna blind-sided by anything.

Then he was.

Benny and his pal, JD, robbed a small delicatessen. Hardly worth the doin’. The haul

was only a handful of bucks outa the cashbox. It wasn’t much but it was easy, except - except this time, the codger behind the counter put up a fight. JD knocked the old guy to the floor. They left him there, out cold and bleeding. Just routine.

Too bad about grandpa. Too bad there wasn’t more cash. Oh well, tomorrow.

Tomorrow came.

The old man was dead.

JD was a big guy, his one punch killed Mr. Gillato.

Man, talk about bad luck. It turns out this particular Mr. Gillato was father to Dolores Gillato. Dolores was girlfriend to Joey De Mato. Joey was number-two capo for the Mob down in Stringtown.

Benny didn’t know ‘bout any of this because Joey had been doin’ his wooing of lovely Delores on the q.t. - Joey was a little old fashioned, only his closest soldiers knew.

Night before last, Joey had gone hat-in-hand to the home of Mr. Gillato to ask permission and blessing for the hand of his daughter in honorable marriage.

JD’s bloody, bashed remains were bagged two days later.

The police called it, “overkill”. Joey De Mato somehow found out that it was two guys did the robbery. They also found out that JD was one’a them. They grabbed JD and did their best to beat the other guy’s name outa him. JD kept his mouth shut. They kept on beating him. Then they beat him some more.

They kept on beating him until he could’nah opened his mouth even if he’d wanted to.

They still wanted his pal.

Benny’s head was spinnin’. “At least they don’t know my name. Not yet. They’ll find out. What the hell am I gonna do? How come JD didn’t tell’em? Maybe he did? Maybe they put out the story that he didn’t… just to trick me into stayin’ put. I don’t know. Why didn’t JD rat me out? I didn’t even know him that well. Hell, I don’t even know what JD stands for. Well… JD stood up for me. . . Ha, sure, stood up. . . more like fell down. Why’d he do that? I gotta get out of here.

Maybe I should get a gat. Yeh, a gat for Benny Gantz. Wait a minute. Nobody says gat anymore. I’m thinkin’ crazy… but I better get a gun. Yeh, then I better get outa town.

No, no, they’ll track me down if I try to score a gun . . . Maybe I should get outa town first, then get a gun. I didn’t do nuthin’ to deserve this. . . What was JD thinkin’. . . why didn’t he crack”?

Why, why? . . . It was just a bad break . . . just an accident.

Benny Gantz us’ta know everything. Now he didn’t.

The clack-clack-clack of the up-state train put him to sleep. Benny woke up to the noise of the depot. He didn’t know where he was.

Perfect. Maybe Joey De Mato wouldn’t know, either.

It was a small town, just big enough to be called a city, just big enough to get lost in. Benny decided to stay. He got a room in a run-down hotel close to the depot. He shaved off his mustache and parted his hair on the other side.

He also needed a new name; a name that didn’t sound Jewish, or Italian, and he needed some kind’a background story to go with the name.

From now on Benny was history.

Jack Reed took his place. Jack came from a backwoods County south of Knoxville. He had no living relatives. He’d come north looking for work.

The work would have to be of the temporary sort; sweeping up, dish-washing, stockin’ shelves - jobs where no questions were asked. There were a lot’a them in the run-down part of town ‘round the rails and depot.

Benny, Err… Jack, changed jobs every few weeks, sometimes every few days. He did the same for the cheap rooms he rented. Sometimes he went back to jobs and rooms he’d had before. Few remembered. Those who did remember, didn’t care.

Months went by. Nobody asked questions.

Benny started to relax. Maybe he even started to half-way believe he was Jack - Jack Reed,

a simple rube from the country - the kind’a guy Benny used to scam. Imagine that; Benny scamming Jack. It made him smile.

By the end of the first year, Jack was thinkin’ of Benny as a guy he us’ta know, not such a nice guy, either.

He remembered how Benny was always cool, smart; he took what he wanted, he did what he wanted. Nobody owned Benny. Yeh, but nobody wanted to own Benny.

If they said anything about him, they’d usually spit afterwards. Benny had a lotta respect for Benny. Nobody else did.

Well, so what, Benny was hip, he didn’t need nobody.

Yeh sure, thought Jack, and nobody needed Benny, either.

Benny never knew where his next crooked dime was coming from. He spent most days

lookn’ out for cops and trying to find his next mark. He was usually on edge, jittery, always lookn’ over his shoulder.

Jack thought of a line he’d heard, somewhere, “no rest for the wicked”. Even on the lam, Jack was doin’ better than Benny ever did.

Jack didn’t have to worry about cops because he didn’t do no crime. He didn’t have to worry about money because he always had some. He didn’t get paid much, but he didn’t need much. The shabby rooms he rented were pretty cheap. So were his meals.

Once a week, he’d stock-up on bread, salami, cheese and a six-pack. Sometimes, if he had a little extra, he’d get a few tins of sardines or a can of peaches. It was enough.

One rainy day between jobs, Benny, who was now Jack, made himself a sandwich, opened a beer, listened to the rain outside and relaxed for the first time in a long time – maybe even for the first time. Life seemed good. Was that crazy? He had food, a roof, and a funny peaceful feeling. For the first time in his life things seemed good and right.

If that was crazy, he was happy being crazy.

That was the day Benny went away for good, and Jack was born.

Jack settled into his new life. He didn’t look back much. Every now and then he’s pick up a home-town paper down at the depot newsstand. Folks passin’ through on the trains liked to keep-up with what was goin’ on back where they’d just come from. Jack didn’t know why he bothered. There was never much to read.

Until there was.

Front page, too - with a banner headline, “JOEY DE MATO: DEAD”.

Delores had put a 38-Special an inch away from Joey’s ear and blasted his brains all over their rarely shared bed.

Turns out the brief marriage of Joey and Delores had not been happy.

Delores blamed Joey for her father’s murder. She got it into her head that Joey’s enemies had killed her father to get back at Joey. That didn’t really make much sense, but neither did her dad’s murder. She couldn’t shake the thought.

She stayed married to Joey because she was a good Catholic girl, but she couldn’t give herself to the man who was the only reason her father got killed.

Joey started runnin’ around with other women. That was the last straw for Delores. She pulled the trigger, confessed to the cops, and then blabbed everything to the papers.

The reporters couldn’t get enough. They ran stories on the murder for one whole week. None of the stories mentioned JD, or Benny. Mr. Gillato’s murder was always described as a senseless homicide.

It was over. Benny could go home.

Except, he didn’t want to.

There was nuthin’ for him there but bad memories.

Funny, the papers didn’t mention JD. He died for Benny and nobody even knew.

Benny didn’t care about that, but Jack did. Jack’s head was full of thoughts that were not there before. “Why this, and why that”? But now he wasn’t askin’ these questions about himself;

he was askin’ why everything, why anything - what did it all mean?

Jack Reed went back to the temporary jobs, the cheap rooms, and the salami sandwiches that had kept him sheltered and fed for the nearly two years he was forced to live undercover. He didn’t have to do any of that anymore. He was free to do whatever he wanted.

He could have changed but he didn’t. He could see now that what he had been forced to do might also be what he wanted to do. He liked the freedom of temporary jobs and temporary rooms.

He liked the freedom.

Jack thought, “Benny liked his freedom, too, that’s why he was a crook. He thought bein’ a criminal made him free. It didn’t. Every day was a scramble for angles. Every day somebody might be comin’ for him. He worked harder than Jack ever did. Benny was a schmuck.

What? Where did that come from?

Jack remembered that people always thought Benny was a Jew. Schmuck was a Jewish word. Maybe Benny was a Jew. Nah, no. . . he would’a known. Still, the thought. . a little doubt, stuck. When guys got cheated outa money they’d say, “I got Jew’d”! Benny cheated a lotta guys outa money. Maybe another reason they thought he was Jewish?

Thinkin’ thoughts like these, he walked into a synagogue he’d walked past many times before. It was a little box of a building. You wouldn’a known what it was, except for the sign outside.

Jack sat close to the door. He couldn’t make out what was goin’ on. Some of what they were sayin’ was in English; some was in a foreign language. Jack was thinkin’, “probably talkin’ Jewish”. When it seemed like it was over, Jack started for the door.

He was stopped by some older guys with the usual questions that come with welcome talk. Questions made Jack nervous. Then he remembered that he didn’t need to worry anymore about questions. One’a the guys gave him a small book. It was a Torah, in English. Jack said, “thanks”, put the book in his coat pocket and made a polite getaway.

When Jack got back to his room he put the Torah in the bed-side desk drawer, next to the Gideon Bible that was in every room he ever rented. Several nights later, he pulled both books

out. He was surprised that both books started out the same. He wondered why. He put the books back in the drawer.

Next morning, without thinkin’ ‘bout it much, he put the Torah in his coat pocket and walked off toward the tracks.

For the next few days he’d be unloading some freight cars stored on a side-line of the main track. It was near the end of winter, almost warm, and this job paid a little more than most of his jobs.

Jack was happy.

By the end of the day the weather changed to cold and slush. Jack pulled his hat down, his collar up, and started back across the tracks.

He walked a little faster than usual. He smiled, thinkin’ of his warm room up ahead.

He heard the train comin’. It was ten minutes away. He would’a had plenty of time to

get across except for the ice.

The fall pushed one foot through the loose gravel under the rail, where it stuck.

The clean-up crew waded through about thirty feet of flesh, bones, and organs lookin’ for ID. All they found was a bloody battered pocket-sized, Torah. They couldn’t tell who the guy was, but they were pretty sure he was Jewish – ya’ know, ‘cause of the Torah.

Well. . . That’ the way I heard it.

Lt. Crowley crushed out his smoke . . . Who’d you hear it from? “Why, Jack, of course”.

“Jack told you about his own death”? “No, no, I just guessed about that. “When he didn’t show up last night, I didn’t know what to think. This mornin’, I heard talk about some guy getting’ killed on the tracks. Then I heard about the Torah. “What else could’a happened”?

That’s quite a story!

Lt. Crowley went to the door, “Jenny, please come in here - bring your notebook”.

“Jenny, this is Gus , , , what’s your last name”? “Bennet, Gus Bennet”. “Well Gus. This is Miss Jenny Carson. She’s going to take down your story and then type it up for your signature. I’ll be back later with a few more questions”.

Lt. Crowley told Chief Cox about Gus’s story. “I guess we better let the Bluth P.D. know about this. It could help solve a couple of cold-case homicides”. The chief agrees. “Another thing, Chief . . . my reporter pal, Tom Dubray, might be interested, too. Would it be ok to let him cover all this”?

“Sure, I guess. Why not”.

P A R T T W O / T O M’ S S T O R Y

“Hey, Lt. Jimmy, what have I done now”?

“Nothin’, It’s what you might wanna’ do. I think I got something right up your alley.

Tom’s mother was Yankton Sioux. He loved his mother, but he rarely talked about her. Folks around Platte City had a lot of family stories passed down from pioneer days; there weren’t many that included happy memories of Indians.

Half-breed heritage was better left unsaid. Tom’s father’s name sounds French, but nobody from Tom’s branch of Dubray had thought of themselves as French for at least two hundred years. If you asked Tom his nationality, he would say, American. If you asked his profession, he would say – Writer.

Tom Dubray wrote for two newspapers, The Platte City Times and The Bluth Gazette. Despite that, he did not consider himself a reporter.

Reporters write plain-fact articles about: who; what; when; where; why; how. Tom wrote stories that put flesh on the bare bones of reported stories. He wasn’t an employee of either paper. He sold permission to print the stories he wrote, which were about whatever he wanted to write about.

He had neither assignment nor deadline. It was an arrangement that suited all.

Gus’s was nearly finished with his testimony by the time Tom got to the station. Introductions over, Tom said he’d like to hear more about Gus’s story. Gus seemed fidgety, saying, “Yeah, Sure, sure. . . but I gotta get to work right now”. “I’ll give you a ride”, says Tom, we can talk on the way.

“So, where’s work”?

“The Come Rite Inn - down by the corner of 182 & Dakota. . . been washin’ dishes there two, three weeks. Jack got me the job”. “Good job”? “Yeah, yeah, they treat me good. . . food’s pretty good, too. It ain’t no fancy place, but It ain’t no dive, neither. I can take home whatever

I want, of whatever’s leftover. . . It’d go bad otherwise”.

I could talk to you tomorrow, but I don’t get up ‘till ‘bout ten o’clock”

“Ten o’clock it is. Cabin 8, the O.K. Motel”?

“Yep”.

Tom brought a carton of Chesterfields’ and a pint of Old Crow for Gus. “Thanks for

the smokes”, said Gus. You keep the booze. That’s what got me in trouble to begin with”. Gus poured some coffee for them both, lit one Chesterfield for himself, and offered another to Tom.

The smoke curled in lazy swirls around their talk.

“So, how did you meet Benny”? “He’s Jack to me”. “Jack then, how did you meet Jack”?

“Well, it was last winter, freezin’ cold. . . must’a been fifteen below. I was huddled up in an alley tryin’ to stay out’a the wind. Jack walked right by - then he walked right back. He said, ‘Nobody hangs around an alley in a snowstorm unless they got no place to go”.

“You come along to my place. I’ll make some coffee. You can warm up”. “I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what he was up to. Jack just smiled and said, ‘Well, if I kill you, that’s still better than freezin’ to death”.

That made sense to me”.

“Jack turned out to be the nicest guy I ever met”.

“Next mornin’ I woke up warm. . . right here, in Cabin 8.

Jack was gone, but he left a note: ‘Gone to work. Help yourself to the sandwich in the icebox. I’ll be back tonight – Jack”.

I didn’t even know his name until then. That’s how I meet Jack”.

Gus said he owed his life to Jack. “Jack knew a lot’a ‘bout me without even askin’.He knew it was the booze that turned me into a bum. He knew that bums don’t get hired

for anything. He said I didn’t have to be a bum. He was gonna help me.

I don’t know why, but he did.

Next day he got me a razor and some clothes from the Salvation Army. He said “Clean

neat people ain’t bums. When you get cleaned up, you won’t be a bum. When you show up for work, sober, on time, every day, you won’t be a bum - you’ll be a man - a man respected and employed, for a very long time”.

“I knew he was right. I guess I always knew that, but somehow, now, I knew it different than I did before - deep down.

Jack did that. Jack saved me”. He got me jobs, too. I did the best I could. I didn’t want to let Jack down. After a while, I didn’t want to let anybody down. Pretty soon, people started askin’ me if I could come back next day. That made me feel real good”.

That’s how I got the job I have now. Folks at the Come Rite Inn asked me to work for them full-time. I guess you could say Jack brought me back to life.

“Jack stopped worryin’ ‘bout me. I was bringin’ in money. We was friends. That’s when Jack started tellin’ me ‘bout his life before, when he was Benny. Ya’ know, all that stuff I told

Lt. Crowley ‘bout”.

Tom and Gus talked right through a pack and a half of the Chesterfields.

Toward the end, Tom asked how Benny and JD got together. Gus couldn’t remember, then he said it might have been at a boxing gym. . . “Yeah, yeah, that was it. . . JD was a boxer. Benny went to one of his fights. Turned out it was JD’s last fight - a fight he lost. Benny was havin’ a drink at the gym’s bar when JD walked over from the locker room”.

“Tough luck, kid, can I buy you a drink”?

JD took the drink and said, “ It wasn’t bad luck. I just can’t box”. “Well, you sure got a helluva punch. “Yeah, but that’s all I got. I trained and trained, worked on my footwork, even got better, never enough, don’t think I’ll ever be enough. I’m quittin’.

Benny nursed his drink, considering . . .

“I got a job you’d be good at, you interested”?

“What kind’a job”? “Bodyguard - for me”. Benny explained. I loan a lotta guys money, guys that own small shops and stores, when it comes time to pay back the money, sometimes they don’t want to pay – they say, ‘come back next week’. Sometimes they say that for a lotta weeks, Sometimes they don’t wanna pay, ever.

That’s where you could help me”. “You want me to beat’em up”? “No, no. You’re a big scary guy, you walk in with me, they’ll pay up right away”.

“I don’t know, what if they don’t”?

“Then I don’t get paid. We walk out and that’s the end of it”.

“But they’ll pay. I know how these guys think. We go in ‘round closin’ time, after the customers have cleared out and the cash box is open. We go in fast. I look really nuts-mad.

I yell, “gimmie the money’, they look up and see you lookin’ mean and hard. I guarantee they won’t be able to hand that money over fast enough. . . and if they don’t, we just walk out”

Of course it’s robbery, but the kid thinks he just helpin’ a guy get back money he’s owed.

The first two times worked just like Benny said. The third time was the delicatessen.

Tom shakes his head, “That’s crazy”. ”Yeah, I know, but that’s what Jack told me.

After thanks and goodbyes, Tom took the pint of Old Crow with him, along with his notes. Then, before leaving for Bluth City, he went to see his friend, Jim Crowley.

Lt. Crowley gave the Old Crow to someone who would appreciate it. He advised Tom

to talk to Sgt. Jim Kelly at Bluth P.D. headquarters. “He’ll know something or other you’ll want

to know about”.

“Thanks Jimmy, I’ll see what I can find out”.

Sgt. Kelly said the info from Gus’s story helped fill-out the file on Mr. Gillato, but they still couldn’t close the case because JD - being presumed dead, couldn’t be charged. Plus JD’s murder couldn’t be investigated because there was no body. Plus they didn’t know JD’ real name. “Hell, we couldn’t even prove he ever existed. Ditto for Benny Ganz” “Thanks, anyway, maybe you’ll be able to turn up something.

Oh, one more thing. . . when you’re poking ‘round Stringtown, be careful askin’ questions about any De Mato guys”. Tom asked about Dolores. Sgt. Kelly said she was doing five years at Rockwell. It was a pretty light sentence for Murder-1.

Both Judge & jury were sympathetic. Dolores was sweet. Joey was a gangster. Had the law permitted, they would have let her go free. Tom wondered if Gus’s revelations would make her feel better, or worse.

Next stop: The Bluth County Historical Society.

Miss Eleanor Allen, spinster and Chief Archivist ran the Society very efficiently from the ground floor of her home. Eleanor recognized Tom from his byline on the stories he had

written for the Bluth Gazette. She was pleased to share her extensive knowledge of Bluth County with an intelligent young writer as charming as Mr. Tom Dubray.

She knew a lot - all of it interesting, some of it useful. They chatted for an hour or so. Tom took notes, thanked her for her scholarly assistance, then bade her goodbye

in order to write-up what he had learned.

In 1863, Gordan Stuart Bluth sailed from Edinburgh, Scotland to New York City, America.

He next traveled by rail to the growing stockyard city of Chicago. From Chicago he traveled partly by rail and partly by wagon to the intersection of the Missouri River and the well-worn Indian trail that stretched from Kansas to the Dakotas.

G. S. Bluth was eighteen years old at the time. He had been putting away money and planning for this trip since he was fourteen. He came supplied with several wagons of dry goods, lumber, assorted tools, and cash.

Very few people lived on the windswept prairie that sprawled for hundreds of miles

in any direction around this spot. But there were some.

Most were pioneer families trying to scratch through the tough buffalo grass to the fertile soil below. Young Mr. Bluth hired several sons from these few families to help him build a general store and blacksmith shop. When this work was done, he hired one of the lads to help him manage the store and another to do the blacksmith work.

It was the right place at the right time.

Gordan’s German father, Oscar William Bluth, had wandered restlessly all over Europe, before finally settling in Edinburgh, Scotland - where he improbably courted and married

the lovely Mary Stuart Tweed.

Oscar’s family background was largely unknown. Mother Mary’s family was linked in precisely delineated branches to the great Scottish House of Stuart. G. S. Bluth consolidated the proud resolution of his mother and the adventurous spirit of his father.

The result was the small community that blossomed around G. S. Bluth’s General Store & Blacksmith Shop – a community that later became the town of, Bluth, Iowa.

As the years passed. The village of Bluth became the town of Bluth, then the city of Bluth.

Sometime between village and town, disreputable businesses such as brothels, saloons, and gambling halls started sprouting like weeds along the old Indian trail that was now known as, Dakota Trail.

Everyone called this row of wicked enterprises, Stringtown.

Townsfolk, churches, and city council all frowned on these Stringtown businesses. They liked the tax revenue though, and also most of Stringtown’s customers didn’t come from out-of-town; they were Bluth citizens, husbands and fathers.

Stringtown grew along with Bluth as a semi-autonomous district - not completely accepted, but tolerated. The biggest surge came with the Eighteenth Amendment to the American Constitution.

Overnight, most of the nation went dry.

Bluth City remained wet; nowhere more so than in Stringtown.

At the time, Big Jim Stanton ran Stringtown in his own rough and unsteady way. Murder, rape and mayhem were rampant. Big Jim addressed only the crimes personally interesting to him, such as any disturbance that disrupted business - his businesses - and the many other businesses that paid tribute to him.

The Bluth P.D. avoided the area as much as possible.

The dollars passing through Stringtown increased, then doubled, then tripled.

The scent of so much green attracted larger business interests.

Chicago sent emissaries to manage the harvest more efficiently.

Heading up Chicago’s delegation was, Luca Santos De Mato. Mr. De Mato was well respected in the organization as both an earner and as a manager. He was now settling into the Golden Years of his long career. He brought his eldest son, Joey, with him to handle the day-to-day, and more physical aspects of the work.

Joey’s first task was to persuade Big Jim Stanton that relocating further west would be

in his best interest.

Big Jim reluctantly agreed.

With no more bloodshed than necessary,

Mr. Stanton transferred his operations to the bright lights of Grand Island, Nebraska. It was a good decision for everyone. Stringtown was very soon a safer town for commerce.

Customers who habitually caused trouble were escorted to nearby, Pawnee Flats.

There hadn’t been any Pawnee or any other living thing at Pawnee Flats for quite a long time. The area was distinguished by a singular geological oddity - a long narrow gulch perpetually filled with a thick black muck. Anything thrown onto the muck would slowly sink some six feet to the solid slate slab below - never to be seen again.

Questions about sudden disappearances were usually answered: “I think that guy moved to Pawnee Flats”.

It didn’t take too long before such disappearances became unnecessary.

The administration of the De Mato organization was widely viewed as a much-needed improvement to public safety.

Stringtown blossomed. Old buildings were renovated. New buildings were built. Everyone was making money.

If the De Mato Family required a certain percentage of this new money as payment for their services, none complained. It was considered much like the taxes paid to Bluth County - except that the benefits were easier to see.

The north end of Stringtown merged carelessly into the city of Bluth. It was an old part

of town, mostly residential, with a few Mom-and-Pop shops attached to owner’s homes, a few boarding houses, and a few quiet neighborhood saloons.

The largest building belonged to Jamie Johnson. The sign outside read: Jamie Johnson’s Boxing Gym & Emporium. Jamie didn’t exactly know what an emporium was, but It sounded

The first thing Tom saw when he opened the door was the boxing ring. It dominated

the large two-story high room. Behind it, on the left, were the standard punching bags and exercise equipment. To the right, stacked high, were some two hundred wooden folding chairs. These were for the comfort of boxing match audiences. There was a small bar at the front left. Behind the bar a dangerous looking man was washing glasses. Tom walked over to him.

“Hi, I’m looking for Jamie Johnson”.

“You got an appointment”? Tom stammered. . . “No. . . I didn’t know . . . I . . .” “Hah”! The dangerous looking man slammed his paw flat on the counter - “Just kiddin’. I’m Jamie Johnson, What can I do ya’ for”?

Recovering, Tom explained.

“Well, I sure do know JD. . trained him myself. This guy, Benny Gantz, I seen him around, can’t say I ever talked to him”. “Did you ever see JD and Gantz together”? “Not that I recollect. Might be he came ‘round to watch one of JD’s matches. Don’t really remember”.

“What kind of boxer was JD”? “Mmm . . well . . . ? JD was more promise than delivery.

He had a helluva punch. The same day I signed him up for training, I put him in the ring

with Dickie G. just to see what he could do. Dickie has spared with the best. Three minutes in, JD knocked Dickie to the canvas. JD was pretty pleased with himself, but he really didn’t know a dammed thing about boxing.

I told him why. ‘First of all, you ain’t supposed to kill your sparrin’ partner. Second, Dickie landed fourteen solid punches. You didn’t land any’. ‘I knocked him down’. ‘You hit

his gloves, you didn’t hit Dickie”, ‘Well, he was jumpin’ ‘round’ ‘Yeah, that’s called footwork,

of which you got none”.”

“I trained him, every day, for about four months. That’s not much time, but he learned,

a little, and he was rarin’ to go. He won his first two matches by knockouts – but only after takin’ a lot of punches.

He could knockout anyone that’d give him a clean shot - which boxers don’t much do. He fought two more rounds to bloody draws. He won his fifth match by decision. He lost his sixth match. After that, he quit. He was discouraged. I think he realized that despite his big punch, he was never gonna be a boxer.

Never saw him after that”.

“Did you know his real name”? “Yeah, I did, can’t remember it though. When he signed

up for boxing he signed his real name, and an address. Got it back in my office”.

“Here it is . . . Jagr Drdla. Now I remember why I forgot it”.

The name reminded Tom of a Czech name he’d seen somewhere. He had no idea how

to pronounce it. He took down both name and address, thanked Jamie and started toward

the door.

A young Indian woman carrying baskets of dirty gym laundry was just walking out. Tom called to her in Dakhota. Surprised, she turned and asked, speaking Dakhota, “You are Yankton”? Tom answered in English, ”my Mother”.

He explained that he had forgotten most of the language he had known as a kid on

the reservation. They exchanged names. Hers was ‘Sue’. Tom asked how she was called by

The People. She answered in Dakhota, ’Walks-with-the-Wind’. “That’s a pretty name”, said Tom,

thinking how Indian names so often sound like poetry because Indian languages don’t have many words for modifing their nouns and verbs.

‘Why did they call you, ‘Walks-with-the-Wind’? Sue said they called her that because she was

a day-dreamy sort of girl.”

“Where did, ‘Sue’, come from’? ‘Oh, when I first come to city, people say, ‘who are you’?

I say, ‘Sioux’. They think I say, ‘Sue’. It was easier. I keep, ‘Sue”.

Tom asked her about JD and Benny Gantz. She knew nothing. She turned to pick up

her baskets and leave. Tom said goodbye in Dakhota, and wished good fortune for her laundry business. As she walked away she smiled and said, ‘I do good’. Wasicu have plenty dirty laundry”.

Tom wondered if she had intended the irony in her words.

Sgt. Kelly received JD’s real name and last address nonchalantly. “Well, now we know

the guy actually existed. We still don’t know he was murdered. The dead guy we bagged two days after the Gillato murder might’a been him, might not, no way to identify the body. Thanks anyway. I’ll add it to the file”. . . .

Oh, wait, we found something on Benny - a complaint.

Cissy Beech had waited weeks before going to the police. Her tenant, Benjamin Gantz,

had not paid her on the first of the month. She wasn’t worried about the money. She was worried about Benny.

“He seemed like such an industrious young man, always away on some sort of business, hardly ever in his room, always paid promptly on the first of the month. I’m worried something dreadful has happened to him”. Cissy’s made her complaint twenty-seven days after Mr. Gillato’s murder. She was a very patient lady.

Tom didn’t try to talk to her. She had probably already said all she knew.

He did drive by her boarding house. It wasn’t far from the address JD had given Jamie Johnson. The house at that address was boarded up. Next door, an elderly couple was sitting on their porch taking in the pleasant evening air. Tom approached them.

“We aint’t buyin’! “That’s good. I don’t have anything to sell, just wondered what you could tell me about that boarded-up house”.

“Didn’t know those folks too well” - His wife added, “They was foreigners, Bohemians”. Tom said he believed they had a son called, JD. They remembered JD. “Big kid. . . wasn’t ‘round too much”. They also remembered the father as a drunk and the mother as being sickly. “ they died, ‘bout two years apart, the old man first. House’s been empty ever since”.

“Do you know what school JD might have attended”? “Sure, Freemont, only school around, down by the river on Coulter St. just across from the library.

The Principal fished through the files . . “Here he is: J-a-g-r D-r-d-l-a. . . must’a been Bohemian. He graduated seventh grade, never showed up for eighth. I’m sure Miss Hamilton would remember him. Wonderful teacher. She’s retiring next year. We’re gonna miss her”.

Miss Hamilton was the kind of teacher all teachers should be.

She took great personal interest in all her students - she remembered everything. She remembered JD. “Oh yes, he was an unusual boy, not so much as a student, but as a person. He was very big for his age. Once, on the playground, he rescued a younger boy from being bullied. Gerald Lande was pushing and hitting little Billy Preston. JD walked over to them, picked up Gerald and threw him on the ground.

The other children really respected him for doing that. But you mustn’t think he was violent. He was usually quiet and withdrawn.

He didn’t care for schoolwork, but he did like to read. I’ve always kept a shelf of books for any children that might want to explore them. JD often stayed after school to read a book.

I don’t think he had a happy life at home.

He talked to me about two that really impressed him: King Arthur & the Round Table, and Kit Carson, Indian Fighter. He told me he liked the way the knights stood up for each other and how Kit protected helpless people and how they all lived by a code of honor. Such an interesting child. I was so sorry he didn’t return for eighth grade”.

Tom didn’t tell her JD was dead, or how he died.

Miss Hamilton’s remarks went a long way toward explaining why JD so inexplicably gave his life to protect a man he barely knew – Benny Gantz.

Tom decided to take a look at the scene of Mr. Gillato’s murder. He stopped for coffee

at a doughnut shop along the way. The shop turned out to be owned and operated by a lively

attractive lady only barely past full bloom - Roxy Peterson.

The sign outside read: Roxy’s Sinkers & Joe - below the name was a colorful cartoon

depicting a virile cup of coffee dancing with a flirty fried donut.

Roxy thought it said all that needed to be said.

“Hard to disagree” said Tom. He lingered over his coffee because he enjoyed Roxy’s

company. This was the middle of the afternoon. Tom was the only customer. By the second cup

Roxy had discovered what Tom was doing in Bluth. . . “Ya’ know Delores worked here”.

“What”?

“Yeah, for a couple years, right outa high school. She was a sweetie pie, and I needed some

help. For years I only made fried cake donuts, after I started makin’ raised donuts - ‘specially

the ones with the maple frosting. I got a lot more people comin’ in. ‘Should’a done it earlier.

Anyway, it was gettin’ harder to keep up with making the donuts and serving customers

at the same time. Dolores shows up looking for work, I hired her right away. She was great.

A lot of young guys suddenly developed a craving for maple frosted donuts. I let her run the

counter, I stuck to makin’ donuts.

“That’s how she met Joey De Mato. Joey comes in one day with two of his goons to try

out these new donuts he’d been hearing about. Joey was impressed, but he was impressed with

Dolores more than the donuts.

Dolores thought he was a very important businessman ‘cause he drove up in a fancy new

car with two assistants. She was so cute. I didn’t have the heart to tell her he was a gangster.

I guess I should’a ‘cause he came in more and more often. It wasn’t too long before they were

deeply in love. It wasn’t too long after that, they was getting’ married.

Ya’ know, even if I’d told her he was a gangster, I don’t think it would’a made any

difference. True love don’t care ‘bout bein’ smart.

Tom was surprised to find Mr. Gillato’s delicatessen open. A tall dignified gray-haired woman was behind the counter. She graciously agreed to answer Tom’s questions - she may have even wanted to.

She was Allegro Gillato - Delores’s sister - some twenty years older than Delores.

For most of her life she was known as, Sister Clare Teresa. She had been granted dispensation of her vows in order to attend to her ailing mother.

After Mr. Gillato’s murder, his wife, Loretta, ran the delicatessen. She had to, it was

her only source of income. Delores tried to give money to her mother, but her mother refused.

“Gangster money! I don’t want no gangster money. . . don’t know why your father let you marry

a man like that . . . God will punish Joey De Mato . . . I pray He won’t punish you, too . . . I don’t want anything to do with that dirty gangster money ”.

Delores talked Joey into encouraging more business for the delicatessen. It wasn’t hard.

Joey loved Delores and Joey was still brooding about the assassin that got away – He was happy to do this small service to help make things right - or at least a little better.

Loretta noticed the new customers, but didn’t make the connection. Things went well enough until the stroke made it impossible for Lorretta to keep up with the day-to-day work.

That was when Sister Clare Teresa became once more, Allegro Gillato. All this Tom learned from Allegro.

She had more to say – much of which would have been unbelievable, except that Allegro

Gillato did not seem like a woman who knew how to lie.

The Gillato family did not discover that Joey De Mato was a gangster until after Delores’s

marriage. They did not know about the De Mato crime organization. They didn’t know anything

about gangsters, at all. “How”, asked a stunned Tom, “is that possible”?

Allegro explained. “We were a very religious family, and we were Catholic.

As you know, there are not many Catholics here in Bluth or for many miles around.

We rarely talked to anyone other than the congregants in our small parish church downtown.

Mother drove me, and later, Dolores, to the small Catholic school next to the rectory,

every day, of every school year. That was the only reason we owned a car. We kept to ourselves.

Our thoughts were on God.

“Even so, your father must have heard something - loose talk from his customers, some

something”?

“If so, he would have paid it no heed. He certainly would not have said anything

about it to us. He did not approve of gossip”.

That was the end of it. Tom couldn’t think of anything else to investigate. There was

nothing more to report to Sgt. Kelly, or Lt. Crowley. Some crimes are beyond the reach of the

law. Tom returned to Platte city, organized his notes, and started to write.

The result was a six-part series that ran in both The Platte City Times and The Bluth

Gazette. The last part, of the last part of the series, combined summery with soliloquy:

One thing led to another, meaningful consequence grew out of seemingly random and

unconnected events. How often does that happen? Every day? All the time? Maybe, I don’t

know. Maybe there is purpose to it all. Maybe not

I do know that the process turned Benny Gantz, a small-time street punk of little use

to anyone into a much better man, Jack Reed - who turned a drunken dying bum, Gus Bennet,

into a man respected and employed.

Redemption upon redemption?

A robbery gone wrong that ends in unintended murder. A young knight that gave his

life to defend a friend. Was it the most honorable moment JD could have ever hoped for in his

otherwise unpromising life?

Did Mr. Gillato die in vain, or did he fulfill his scheduled destiny?

Was Dolores’s misguided murder of Joey pointless, or one more turning point for events she couldn’t have imagined.

The Greeks of classical times characterized tragedy as linked events that led to a final horror that could not be avoided. Redemption was impossible.

I don’t agree. Redemption is always possible.

Epilogue: Tom’s series was later reprinted in the Des Moines Register. Later still, it was developed as a radio broadcast of WHO Radio. The station modeled their production on CBS’s popular, Mercury Theater on the Air. The story is still Tom Dubray’s most successful work.

P A R T T H R E E / A F T E R B E N N Y

How long had it been? Tom wasn’t sure. Ten, maybe twelve years. Funny how the days run together when you’re not workin’. Tom reflexively corrects the not working part: “No, that’s not true, I still write for The Platte City Times and The Bluth Gazette - at least every now and then, plus a couple of articles for the Des Moines Register, and my play for WHO’s Radio Theater on the Air is comin’ along. That’s not nothing”.

No, that’s not nothing; still, Tom Dubray couldn’t lose the feeling it wasn’t enough.

Tom was restless. He knew he’d been coasting, resting on his laurels after the success of The Redemption of Benny Gantz. He’d enjoyed the literary praise, the fame of renowned local-boy writer. Most of it exaggerated. Now, It was fading. How long ago it seemed.

Young folks don’t remember the story at all.

Tom tamped out his Chesterfield. “I wonder what happened to those people? I wonder if anybody else would like to know? I’d like to know”?

The old car ran smooth and true, it seemed as happy as Tom to be on the road again. Tom pulled into Bluth city ready to report and write. His first stop was Jamie Johnson’s Boxing Gym & Emporium. The building was there. The gym was gone.

Now it was a tire store, specializing in used tires.

When Tom walked inside he saw a familiar face. “Hey, Dickie, remember me”? “Yeah, sure, of course, Tom Dubray. You’re famous ‘round here for that story. Jamie Johnson kept extra copies of the newspapers for anybody that didn’t know about it”.

“What happened to Jamie? What happened to the Gym? What happened to you? I never did get your last name”. “Didn’t miss much. Last name’s Groton”.

Jamie died of a heart attack two years ago. Damn shame. He was just shy of sixty. Couldn’t keep the place going after he died. His wife sold the Gym to old Jim Thornton who reopened it as a tire store.

I started workin’ for Jim as a tire salesman ‘cause there’s not much use for a sparring partner when there’s no gym. It’s not so bad. I’ll be retiring in a couple of years. So, what’re you doin’ here”?

“I’m not sure. Got to wondering about all the people in that story. Thought I’d go find out. Might be interesting enough for a new piece. Thinking of calling it, After Benny.

Say, whatever happened to that Indian girl, Sue”?

Dickie didn’t know. He thought she might have gone back to the reservation. Hadn’t seen her since the Gym closed down. “Hardly seen any of the old Gym crowd. Hey, Good luck with that, After Benny, story you might write”.

“Thanks, Dickie. Think I’ll go visit Roxy’s donut shop - if it’s still around”.

It was still around.

The sign outside read: Roxy’s Sinkers & Joe - below the name, was the same sassy cartoon depicting a virile cup of coffee dancing with a flirty fried donut.

Apparently Roxy still thought it said all that needed to be said.

Tom walked inside. Roxy Peterson was still on the job.

“Hi Tom, the usual”? “Yeah, I’m amazed you remember”. “How could I forget a customer

like yourself.

Besides, now you’re a famous writer, also you made me a little famous, too”. I sold more

maple-frosted after that story than ever before”.

Tom noticed Roxy was older but just as attractive as before. He said, ”You’re as charming

as you ever were”. “Yeah, you too; flattery will get you everywhere. How’s the coffee”?

Tom replies with a little donut still in his mouth, “Mmmph, wonderful, it’s good to see

you again, adding, It’s nice when good things stay that way”.

Roxy smiles, “Thanks, Tom. Good to see you again. What brings you back to Bluth”?

Tom explains he’s thinking about writing a new story about what happened to all the

people after the “Benny” story was published. Roxy likes the idea. She likes the title, too, saying,

“I can tell you a lot”

Tom says, “I’m sure you can. First, I think I should try to talk to whoever’s still around. Y’know, Jamie Johnson’s Boxing Gym & Emporium is now a used tire store and Jamie Johnson’s dead”.

Roxy nods, “I heard. About the only thing I ever knew about Jamie Johnson and that Gym was what you wrote about in ,”Benny”. I imagine most of the folks in that story never heard of each other before you wrote about them”.

Tom responds, “You’re probably right. I’ll let you know what I find out”.

Roxy waves, saying, “See you around. Don’t be a stranger”.

It seemed to Tom that, After Benny, was starting to be more like a real project than just

an idea.

Tom drove down Dakota Trail, through Stringtown, and down the street of Benjaman Ganz’s former boarding house. The sign in the window still advertised: Rooms for rent.

On impulse, Tom pulled into the drive way. A young lady in her early twenties answered the door. Tom introduced himself saying, “I like to rent a room for the month if you have one available”.

The girl said, “ Sure, of course, I’m Leanne, the rent’s $30, due on the first of the month”.

Tom handed Leanne the money, “The first was a week ago, but I’d like to move in tonight. Would that be alright”? “Sure, I guess”.

Tom had other questions for Leanne he’d ask later.

Tom left next morning for JD’s elementary school, Freemont. It was standing just where he’d left it, down by the river on Coulter St. just across from the library.

Tom wondered if the same Principal was still Principal.

He was.

Tom remembered the man, but not the name. His reporter’s eye caught the nameplate on the desk: Principal: Lawrence Murry. “Hey, Principal Larry, remember me”? “Sure, sure, Tom Dubray. That was a heck of a story you wrote. How could I forget”?

“When I was here last, Miss Hamilton was about to retire”.

“She did retire, but she kept in touch with the other teachers at Freemont. Last year, illness convinced her to take a room at Crestmont. Haven’t seen too much of her since. I’ve visited her a few times at Crestmont. She’s as alert as ever, she’d love to see you. You should drive out to Crestmont and say, hello”.

It was a short drive.

“Well, oh my, my . . . Mr. Dubray, is that really you. It’s been so long”.

“Too long, Miss Hamilton. You look wonderful”.

“Pshaw, I look like an old woman as anybody with eyes can see, thanks anyway”.

When we first talked about young Jagr Drdla, I’d no idea our conversation would show up in the story you wrote - and, shame on you, you didn’t tell me Jagr had been murdered”.

“I’m sorry. It didn’t seem the right thing at the time. Nothing was certain. The police didn’t have a body they could identify with any certainty. They didn’t even know JD’s real name.

It seemed best to not say what I wasn’t sure of”.

“Well, no matter. I followed each installment in the Bluth Gazette and I’ve kept them all. The many twists and turns kept me surprised. The oddest surprise to me was that even though

I’ve lived in Bluth City my entire life I never heard of any of those people, except of course, for poor Jagr”.

Tom sighs, “Miss Hamilton, you’ve correctly noticed the underlying mystery in the Benny Gantz mystery. No wonder you’ve been such a wonderful teacher”.

Tom expands on the underlying mystery, “None of the characters really knew each other. None of them suspected the effect their actions would have on people they never heard of. None of them had any way of seeing their fated entanglement”.

Miss Hamilton adds, “Nor do any of us. Your summery/soliloquy referencing Greek Tragedy was a perfect ending”.

Tom bows his head, “I appreciate your appreciation, and I appreciate even more, your erudition. I don’t imagine many other readers in northwest Iowa have given much thought to Greek Tragedy”.

Tom shifts in his seat to look at a small grey cat that has just walked through the open door. The cat glances at Tom, sniffs his shoe, and walks back the way she came.

Miss Hamilton explains, “That’s Emily.

She was here before I came, she’ll probably be here after I’m gone. Her job is to monitor all the comings and goings at Crestview. You’re registered now, if you come again, Emily will duly note you as an authorized guest”.

Tom wasn’t sure what to make of that. “I should leave now, I’ve imposed on you too long, and I’d planned to drive to the Gillato family’s delicatessen before the afternoon is done”.

Miss Hamilton scolds, “Get on with you then! Leave the old lady to her lonely solitude”.

Tom objects, “I’ll be back. You’ve an incisive mind. I’d like to go over my notes with you

when I’ve finished taking notes - and before I return to Platte City - if that’s alright with you?

Miss Hamilton smiles, “Can’t think of anything I’d like better”.

On the way to Gillato’s Delicatessen, Tom notices he’s out of smokes and low on gas.

Chink’s Gas & Groceries is just ahead.

A heavyset man walks out to the pumps. “What’ll you have”?

Tom inquires, “You’re Chink? That’s an unusual name”. “Yeah, I’m Chink. People call me

Chink because the fat on my face pushes my eyes into slits, like a China man”.

That was more candor than Tom expected. “Well, nice to meet you, Chink. I’m out of

Chesterfields and gas”. While Chink is sliding a nozzle into the tank, he asks, “Pack or carton”?

Tom decides on carton.

Before going back inside for the cigarettes Chink checks, “Need milk, eggs, anything else?

I got everything a traveler would need, including auto repair, alcohol, and ammunition. Whatever you need, I got it”.

Tom demurs, “Thanks, smokes and gas is enough for now”.

Back on the road, Tom reflects on the peculiarities of Bluth City, “It’s a city not much removed from the frontier. Sometimes the streetlights and modern buildings seem out of place”.

Gillato’s Delicatessen has a bright new sign: Dolores’ Deli.

Tom walks in, pretending not to recognize the lady behind the counter. She’s a decade older, but somehow more attractive than the newspaper photos of her younger self. The years had done nothing more than transform a pretty girl into a lovely lady.

Tom introduces himself, ”We’ve never met, but I believe we’re well acquainted, I’m Tom Dubray”. Dolores says nothing. She walks to the door of the shop, switching the open sign to closed. “There’s so much I want to ask and say. Let’s go into the house, I’ll make coffee”.

Tom settles himself at the table. He reaches for a cigarette, then thinks better of it.

Dolores notices, “Please smoke, I don’t mind, if fact, I think I’ll have one, too. It’ll be just like the long smokey talk you had with Gus Bennet at the beginning of your story”. Tom says, “Sounds good, you’ve a fine memory for detail. Fortunately, I just happen to have a fresh carton of Chesterfields”.

The Chesterfield haze was sweetened with many cups of dark Italian coffee. It lasted long into the evening. There was so much to say.

Dolores tells Tom she read his series in the Blume Gazette while she was was doing her five years at Rockwell. “I was so confused then. I never even heard of Benny Gantz, or any of those other people. I started reading because the other girls told me I was in the story”.

The more I read, the more I finally understood. I’d killed Joey for a crime he had nothing to do with. Joey always told me he was innocent.

“Funny huh, an innocent gangster”.

“That’s why the judges gave me such a light sentence. The public had no stomach for sending a sweet-young-lady to prison just because she murdered her gangster husband.

I didn’t think I was too guilty either, until I found out I’d murdered Joey for the one crime he didn’t commit.

Back then, I didn’t care about prison sentences or anything else. I killed the man that murdered my father. Nothing else mattered”.

“I didn’t have any regrets until I read in your story I’d been mistaken”.

Tom offers a little consolation, “We all make mistakes”?

Dolores flares, “Oh yeah! You’ve killed someone who didn’t deserve being killed because you made a mistake! Yeah, sure . . . I’m sure you did. Doesn’t everybody does that . . . I don’t think so”!

Tom didn’t expect that burst of emotion. He reached for a Kleenex from the box on the cabinet. “Sorry, I didn’t intend to make light of all you’ve been through - I‘m sorry”.

Dolores calms, pressing the Kleenex to her eyes, “I’m sorry too. Didn’t mean to get all teary and mad. I guess I’m still a mess - but I’m getting better.

If you hadn’t uncovered the all the complications of those days, I might have ended up in a crazy house. Thank you”.

Tom changes the subject, ”You’ve done a great job with remaking this place. It looks like a brand-new enterprise”. Dolores, recovered, says,” Did the best I could. It was getting rundown. Daddy opened this place only a few years after he and mom got here from Italy. It was looking old and, also, some customers didn’t want come here anymore, they couldn’t get the bad things out of their mind. Every time they opened the door, bad memories came in with them”.

Now, it’s all bright and new. It was Allegro’s idea to make the place over. She helped me so much with everything, from right after I got out of Rockwell - and still.

Sometimes I tease her by saying, ’You may not be a Sister anymore, but you’ve a good sister to me’. Allegro just smiles”.

Tom asks, “How is Allegro? I thought she’d be behind the counter”.

“Allegro missed the church. She left the business after a few years to return to the parish

church downtown. I think she has a small room there, maybe at the rectory.

Allegro knows she can’t be a Nun again, but she still wants to be useful to the Catholic

Church. She doesn’t care about having a title. She just wants to help. I know the clergy at the

church appreciate her as much as I do”.

Dolores adds, “You should stop to see her before you head back to Platte City. She’d love to see you”.

Tom agrees, “I’d planned on seeing her again. Not sure when - now it’s late. I’d better say goodnight so you can get some sleep. Dolores ask’s, “How about you? You got a place to stay? Allegro’s room has been empty since she went back to the church”.

Tom says thanks, and tells her he’s rented a room at a boarding house in Stringtown.

Next morning, he sets off for the Bluth City PD.

Sgt. Kelly didn’t recognize him.

Tom extends his hand and says, “I didn’t expect you’d remember me. I’m Tom Dubray. We met when I was writing a story about an unsolved murder and a body that couldn’t be identified - “bout ten years back”.

“Yeah, yeah, now it comes back to me – The murder of Mr. Gillato and a suspect bashed beyond recognition. I remember your newspaper piece too. Interesting story, but still no real evidence”. “You’re right”, says Tom, “You’re the cop, I’m just a writer.

Surprisingly, Sgt. Kelly got a lot out of the history of Bluth City Tom had included in the piece. “I’m not usually too much into history, but that stuff you wrote about how the De Mato Mob replaced Big Jim Stanton in Stringtown was really good.

I guess I should tell you the Mob disappeared ‘bout a year after Dolores wacked Joey. Her release wasn’t related to that though. The old man, Luca Santos De Mato, died. After that, they all took off. Some went back to Chicago. Some went to Hot Springs Arkansas, at least that’s what I heard. Some folks were sorry to see them go. The Mob didn’t tolerate street crime because it was bad for business. Petty theft, burglaries, and mugging have gotten way out of hand since the De Mato Mob left town”.

Say, what brings you back to Bluth”?

Tom explains, “I’ve returned to the scene of the crime, ten years later, to write about whatever happened to the people I wrote about”. Sgt. Kelly snuffs, “Good luck finding them. Might be, some are dead, others just gone.

Wait a minute, I have something else for you, Gillato’s daughter, Dolores, got early release from Rockwell. I hear she’s running the delicatessen”.

Tom thanks Sgt. Kelly for the tip. He didn’t bother to tell the Sgt. he’d spent the previous evening with Dolores. He did ask the Sgt. directions to the downtown Catholic Church, saying he intended to interview Allegro Gillato, whom he had heard had returned some role in the church. Sgt. Kelly waved dismissal saying, “Good luck with your new writing”.

The church was easy to find. It was the tallest building around. It looked like a little piece of Europe had mysteriously materialized in northwest Iowa – which wasn’t far from the truth.

There weren’t many Catholics in the area. Outside of Bluth City, the closest Catholic Church was in Des Moines.

Grand double doors were open to the passerby. Inside, on the left side of the entrance,

a Nun seated behind a large desk greeted any visitors. “Welcome to Our Lady of Good Council. how may I help you”?

Tom, hat-in-hand, asked politely if he might speak to Miss Allegro Gillato. “Yes of course” said the Nun, rising, “please follow me”. It was very quiet. The gentle tap on the door sounded louder than it should have. A smiling Allegro opened the door.

“Mr. Dubray, Dolores has told me you might visit. Please come in”.

Allegro’s very small room had a bed, a table, and two wooden chairs. Allegro motioned Tom to take one of the chairs, she settled into the other. Allegro opened by saying Dolores had told her of Tom’s new project”.

Both she and Dolores thought it a good idea.

“Your story about the redemptions that followed my father’s murder revealed so much about the subtlety of redemption. Benjamin Ganz didn’t intend anything but theft. JD didn’t intend murder. Gus Bennet didn’t intend anything but the bottle. Yet, all three were redeemed

In spite of their intentions.

You compared the inevitability to the drama of a Greek Tragedy. It was inevitable, but God turned inevitability, not into tragedy, but into redemption. Your compassionate writing revealed as much about yourself as it did about redemption. You are a good man”.

Tom, humbled, said “You’ve described my story exactly as I intended. Your words are perceptive - and kind. I’m not surprised. I knew when I first met you, ten years ago, that you were exceptional. Few would choose to so humbly abandon their dedicated advocation to serve the temporary needs of their family”.

Allegro bowed her head, slightly, “Now it is you that are too kind. I didn’t see it as a choice”.

Allegro added, “I learned a great deal from your story that I didn’t know - or even imagine, about people and goings-on around Bluth City.

I might excuse that as a consequence of being a Nun, but I cannot. A Nun should know as much about this World as she knows about the Word of God. How else truly understand our mission?

I’m sure your new story, After Benny, will tell us as much about actions and consequences as, The Redemption of Benny Gantz”.

Tom answers, “You’re an inspiration. I’ll do the best I can. Thanks for taking time to meet with me. I know you’re busy, so I‘ll leave you now”. Allegro holds up a hand in benediction saying, “Bless you”.

Tom’s next stop was, The Bluth County Historical Society. It was closed.

A front door plaque proclaimed The Bluth County Historical Society to be open, Sundays, or by appointment with: Beatrice McGarvey, Phone B. 259. Tom wondered if Beatrice McGarvey was related to Miss Eleanor Allen, the spinster and Chief Archivist he’d met ten years ago.

Tom found a phone and called, B. 259

The pleasant voice of Miss Beatrice McGarvey answered the call. “Yes, Bluth County Historical Society, can I help you”?

Tom introduced himself and was surprised to find that Miss McGarvey knew who he was. “Aunt Eleanor clipped your articles from the Gazette. She sent all six to me when I was at the University of Iowa. We were both delighted with your story”.

Tom was delighted with that response.

He said, “I’m doing a follow-up story on the story. May I come visit you tomorrow”?

“Yes, of course. Would 1:00 in the afternoon be good for you. Good! I feel I already know you. Meeting you in person will be a pleasure”.

Next day, a smiling Beatrice answered the door.

Tom said, “I was very impressed with your aunt’s deep historical record of Bluth county. The editors thought I put too much of it in, perhaps interrupting the flow of the story. It didn’t seem so to me. I thought the history added important understanding to the background of the story”. Beatrice nodded, “Aunt Eleanor thought the same. Me too. We thought the history added context to the complexities of personalities and coincidence that followed”.

Tom was charmed by Beatrice’s thoughtful words. “You’re more sophisticated than many young ladies around here. Is that because of your collage education”?

Beatrice answered, “You’re kind. I suppose so - in part - but really, Aunt Eleanor always encouraged me to think and learn”. We exchanged a lot of letters analyzing your story. We had to write because we were the width of Iowa apart at the time”.

Tom was intrigued. He asked, “What were your studies at the University of Iowa”? Beatrice’s answer was equally intriguing, “English Literature, especially the writings of Thomas Hardy. I was going to do graduate work on that, but then, when Aunt Eleanor passed, I was needed here to carry on her work.

I’d come back for Aunt Eleanor’s funeral. The Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce was there, too. We got to taking. He asked if I would consider taking on Aunt Eleanor’s role as Curator for the Historical Society. I said I would be honored. So, here I am”.

All that made sense to Tom. Aunt Eleanor would be honored as well.

Tom stirred a little in his chair saying, “I’m surprised so many people in Bluth not only read my story of Benny Gantz, but remembered it. You, your Aunt Eleanor, Allegro, and Miss Hamilton, may have read more deeply than I wrote. I’m grateful. I’ve a few more interviews I should get to, you’ve been a delight”.

Beatrice says, “Wait, before you go . . . Will you speak to the Indian girl you met at the boxing gym? You wrote only a few paragraphs about it, but I imagined the meeting more important than either of you let on. I sensed the attraction of soul-to soul. I hope you’ll try to see her before returning to Platte City”.

Tom said, “You’re sensitive. I asked about her at the former gym. No one knew where she went. I was told she might have returned to the Reservation. I’m not entirely sure where it is”.

Beatrice beamed, “It’s about an hour drive over the border into South Dakota, just five miles north of the Dakota Trail. There’s a sign marking the road to the Reservation”.

Tom said thanks and goodbye.

The map placed the Yankton Indian Reservation about 100 miles from the City of Bluth, less than a nighty minute drive. If Tom started in the morning, he could get there before noon, that is, if were to go there at all. Tom was uncertain.

Beatrice had noticed the attraction between the Indian girl and himself. He had originally skimmed over that attraction because It had nothing to do with the story he was writing.

He gave it no further thought . . . no, that’s not true. . . he’d thought about Walks-with-the-Wind many times over the last ten years. She was lovely and charming, and something more. Something deeper.

Beatrice’s romantic implication forced Tom to think seriously about the possibilities.

First, “The attraction was real, but I’m almost old enough to be her father. Second, her world is Yankton Sioux. I’m half Yankton Sioux - but I’m more than half, Wasicu.

I grew up with a Wasicu way of thinking; a white man’s way of thinking. Walks-with-the-Wind grew up with an Indian way of thinking.

We could get by the age difference. Could we get past the cultural difference? Yes, for

a while, probably not for a lifetime. Some things aren’t meant to be”.

Tom decided against going to the Indian Reservation.

He spent the rest of the day alone in his boarding house room mulling everything.

“What am I doing? Most of the people in the story of Benny’s redemption had never heard of Benny Gantz, JD, or each other. They wouldn’t have cared either except that all of them had played a role in a mystery of murder, mishap, and ultimate redemption.

The entanglements made for an interesting story. Would anyone, including themselves, care about what had happened ten years later? As Sgt. Kelly said, “Might be some are dead, others just gone”. I haven’t discovered much else. Have I discovered enough to write an interesting, After Benny, story”?

Tom decided to check with his editor at the Bluth Gazette.

Managing Editor: Clayton Pearson, had only been Managing Editor for a few years. He was a Jr. Editor when he worked with Tom on The Redemption of Benny Gantz. The success of that story played a big role in his promotion. He was inclined to like the idea of a follow-up.

Tom and Clayton talked while going though Tom’s notes. Both thought the interviews would make good reading. Both thought the lack of action would be a problem.

Clayton pushed back his Managing Editor’s chair and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“Maybe we should take a different tact.

The title, After Benny, will lead readers to expect something happened. What if we tell them right off in the introduction to the piece that nothing much changed, that the important part they’re about to read about is the decade-later reflections of the original players”. People are nosey. They’re intrigued by what other people are thinking”.

Tom agreed, he could do something with this.

It was a nice sidestep from crime and mystery into a broader view.

Tom decided to feature his interviews with, Miss Hamilton, Allegro, and Beatrice McGarvey. All three had read with perspicuity. “No, thought Tom. Can’t say that.

Readers will trip over the word, even though it’s the right word.

How would Roxy put it to her customers at the donut shop? She’d say, ‘Those three ladies were smart cookies’. Beatrice might say, ‘They were, understanding’. Allegro might say, ‘Thoughtful’. Miss Hamilton might say, ‘Perspicuity is a perfectly fine word, and no other word else says it so precisely”.

Tom considered, “Why say anything at all. There’s no point in characterizing their words. Their words speak for themselves.

Besides their comments, I should also include the words of the several others characters I talked with, even if briefly; Guys like Chink, who was a character in several ways and guys like Sgt. Kelly, who had his cop perspective on my follow up, and guys like Dickie Groton who told me what became of Jamie Johnson’s Boxing Gym & Emporium. Each added personal color to the story. I should include everyone I talked to”.

“Clayton may disagree. I’m sure he’ll let me know”.

“What next”? Rough draft? No, first, I’ll take what I have down to Roxy’s donut shop and see what she thinks”.

“Hey, Dolores, Look who’s here, our favorite writer, Mr. Dubray”. Dolores, looks up from her coffee, “What a surprise, I thought you’d gone back to Platte City”. “Nope, just been busy.

I think I got some interesting stuff . . . I think”.

“I’d like to know what you two will make of it - and also, I’m just Tom to both of you”. Roxy serves Tom a coffee and still warm maple glazed donut, saying, “Do tell”.

An hour or two later, after several coffee’s, more than a few donuts, and a lot of talk, the ladies convince Tom that what he’d not been sure was any more than random field notes, was well worth writing about.

Both ladies had a lot to say.

Dolores wondered why her sister never said all that stuff to her. Roxy was curious about

The way Miss Hamilton, Allegro, and Beatrice McGarvey took the story apart and thought about every piece. “Never knew anybody ‘round Bluth ever got that deep, but then I guess heavy thinkers don’t hang ‘round donut shops”.

Dolores said, “I guess Allegro was always a thinker. She put the family’s trouble, and my troubles, before any other thoughts. We really didn’t talk about anything else. Maybe that will change now. Maybe”.

Tom said, ”You’re both analytical, but you say it with a different way of speaking”. Roxy laughs, “Well, that’s sure a different way of putting it”.

One of the other customers, an older fellow, got up and came over to the table. “Pardon me, I was in Miss Hamilton’s class a long time ago. I’m glad to hear she’s still alive. She was a wonderful teacher. I loved the way you described her in your story. I really liked the whole story”. Holding out his hand to shake, he said, “It’s an honor to meet you”.

Tom left the donut shop feeling encouraged.

He worked up a draft and took it to the Bluth Gazette. Managing Editor: Clayton Pearson made only a few changes. He liked the “personal interest” inclusion of all the people Tom had talked to. “We’ll run it as a series, just like the original story, but with an introduction by me, and a tailpiece offering the Novel version”.

Tom looked up, “What Novel version”?

Clayton smiled, “I’ve got a friend at Open Plains Publishing in Kansas City. I think he’d be very interested in putting the original story together with your follow-up, and publishing it as a Novel. How’s that sound”?

A few months later, The Redemption of Benny Gantz was printed and ready to ship.

The Bluth Gazette started the series, and Open Plains Publishing started selling copies.

Tom made sure a complimentary copy was sent to Roxy, Delores, Allegro, Miss Hamilton, and Beatrice McGarvey.

The Novel sold well - not spectacularly - but well.

Tom was satisfied.

Benny Gantz was a nobody, a nearly unnoticed good-for nothing, and now his life is a life-changing example of redemption - and the strange way bad things sometimes become good things. His story is a morality tale about the mysteries hidden in every life.

--- The End ---

Tom wondered if he’d made the right decision

about Walks-with-the-Wind, but

that’s another story.

By K. L. Shipley

Website: https://www.eclecticessays.com