Authors: Myles (Mickey) Golde
Jack’s face turned an ashen color as he looked on, his hooded eyes barely visible as he took her hand, whispering, “don’t worry. I’m here and everything will be alright. I’ve got the best doctors at the hospital waiting for you and you’ll be there in less than an hour. The helicopter is just outside the gate and as soon as the doctor says you’re ready to travel, we’ll be on our way. I won’t leave your side until you’re safe and everything is under control.”
The helicopter lifted off shortly after that with Shirley on board and Jack at her side.
Two days later Jack, his clothes rumpled and needing a shave, summoned Paul Freed to his office.
“Jesus Jack you look terrible. Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I haven’t left her side or slept in two days. Close the door and sit down.”
Freed moved quickly. “How’s Sally””
“She’s gonna make it, but she’s in pretty bad shape. I’ll tell her you asked and keep you informed. But do us all a favor and keep this situation—what happened to her—as quiet as possible. Sally’s got it covered on her end.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
Jack paused and then looked up, his fingertips touching. “I think it’s time for the world to get along without Howie Rabin.”
After a short stay in the prison hospital followed by three months in solitary confinement, Howie returned to a regular cell. His hair was almost all grey and he was much thinner. One of his front teeth was missing and there was a jagged scar on his lip from where the guard clubbed him the day of the attack.
“Hey, Rabin, how you doin’man? You really did a job on your old lady,” muttered his former cell mate when they ran into each other in the mess hall.
With a scowl, Howie glanced at the man, murmuring, “Yeah, that bitch had it coming. I shoulda killed her.”
“I heard she really fucked you over with the kid.”
Howie kept moving, ignoring more conversation. Several other inmates shook his hand and whispered to him, as he shrugged them off, and walked away.
Doc Stanton came over in the yard that afternoon. “When I heard what you did, I figured you got what you wanted.”
“Yeah, that lyin’ bitch, I stuck her good. And when I get outta’ here, I’ll finish the job. I’d do it now but I can’t get my hands on any money.”
Getting back into the routine was difficult. Howie had no regular job but was assigned to clean-up details. He also had a daily appointment at the dispensary to receive pills to relieve the pain he still had from the beating he took.
On the fifth of August, the temperature outside was over ninety degrees. Howie had just finished mopping the floor in the mess hall kitchen following lunch and his shirt and pants were soaked with perspiration. He pushed the mop bucket to the utility closet down a hallway near the dock where they stored the garbage containers and wrung the mop, hanging it on a wooden peg attached to the wall. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve he turned on the faucet and splashed some cold water on his face and neck. He started emptying the dirty water in the slop sink near the floor. Carefully and with some effort he tilted the heavy bucket against the low sink to avoid splashing and bent to lift the pail to get the last few drops.
At the same time a wide bodied white man in stained cook’s whites and a chef’s hat pulled down low crept slowly in the door from the dock holding a large kitchen cleaver and raced to the utility closet. He managed to remain concealed by the open door with Howie behind it. Swinging the door back he attacked from behind, slamming Howie into the sink and slashing the weapon into his neck where it joined the shoulder. Blood splattered and the assailant turned ripping off his blood soaked shirt and ran out the way he had come in.
Howie screamed, falling face down, sprawling in a bloody watery mess, knocking over the bucket. Two guards, startled by the screams, rushed to him, not seeing the attacker slipping away. No prisoners responded but all in the area stopped, most turning away. Squirming on the floor, Howie howled and fought the guards trying to help him.
A loud warning horn blasted and prisoners stopped all movement, but stood transfixed, straining to see what was going on down the hallway in the direction of the screams. Two more Guards raced to the Utility closet and helped pull Howie out. There was blood on the walls and a widening pool under him. The bloodstained weapon was on top of the drain where it had fallen as Howie went down.
Additional guards appeared and herded the prisoners back into the mess hall and barred the doors, as two officers kneeling at Howie’s side applied cloths to the wound and attempted to calm him. He was groaning loudly and jerking around in spasms on the floor when the doctor arrived and quickly injected a large needle in his arm. As Howie’s moans subsided, the doctor shook his head and motioned to the guards to move him to the hospital.
The day after Howie Rabin was slain John Shay showed up at Vic’s brightly lit campaign office in Glenview at noon with a young red-headed photographer . Encountering three young women in jeans and T-shirts stuffing envelopes with campaign literature, he shuffled over to the closest and bellowed, “I’m looking for Mr. Wayne.” The girl he addressed didn’t answer but glanced back at Darlene’s office.
Motioning to the photographer to follow, Shay tucked his shirt in his sagging khakis and headed back. Stopping at Darlene’s door, he peered in and smiled. “Well, well, Mr.and Mrs. Wayne! Just the two, I’m looking for.”
Looking up from behind the desk, Darlene took off her reading glasses and stood as Vic, who was sitting across from her with his back to the door, tie loose and collar open, swung around. “What’s up, John? We’re busy.”
“So am I,” answered Shay. “Your pal Howie Rabin was murdered yesterday at the penitentiary in Florida and I wanted to know if you think it had anything to do with you and the coming election?”
“Don’t answer, Victor,” Darlene cautioned as she glared at the reporter. “How dare you, Mr. Shay, Just what are you inferring? ”
Vic held up his hand, looking at Darlene, then turned on Shay. “I’m not going to respond to any garbage like that. I’ve told you and the public that there is no connection between me and those people in Florida.”
A flash bulb popped and Vic jumped up. The thin photographer slipped behind Shay as Vic stood and sputtered, “Goddamit, Shay, enough is enough.”
Darlene came around the desk to step between him and Shay. Putting her hand on Vic’s arm, she said, “Easy Victor, remember: You are a candidate for Congress and Mr. Shay is a reporter for a prominent newspaper in our state.”
Vic puffed up his cheeks and let out along breath, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned away.
Shay looked down, referring to some notes and stuffed them in the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. “Look, Mrs. Wayne, I recently found out that shortly after your husband met with Sally Ray, he and his brother made a trip to Fort Lauderdale, where she lives; and now her husband is mysteriously murdered. I want to know if there’s a connection.”
“There’s no connection Darlene.” Vic spit out the words through clenched teeth.
“Okay, Mr. Shay,” she said, “we’ve got nothing more to say. I think it’s time for you to leave. Next time, call first.” Moving toward Shay, she ushered the two newsmen out of the office.
At the door she watched Shay pull away in a beat up Chevy and saw Vic’s brother slip his black Jaguar into the space. She waved as Frank approached and pecked her on the cheek.
“He’s here isn’t he? Is he okay, I just saw that troublemaker from the Tribune pull away.”
“Yeah, he’s in his office,” she answered turning to answer a phone.
Entering the office, Frank closed the door and sat across the desk from Vic.
“I just heard that Howie Rabin’s been killed. Is that what that fucker Shay was here about?”
“It’s getting worse,” Vic muttered. “Shay’s found out about our trip to Florida and wants to know if it had anything to do with Rabin’s murder.”
Frank leaned forward, adjusting a French cuff. “That Shay is really trying to carve you a new asshole. He knows the public loves the Sally Ray sex angle and the murder of her husband is the kind of trash that sells newspapers.”
Vic bit his lip. “The son of a bitch has a direct line to someone in our office and I gotta find it. Who do you think is feeding him this crap?”
Frank shook his head. “What difference will it make if we find out where he got his information, the damage is done. You have to tell what really happened. Stop trying to hide from Darlene and your kids.”
They were interrupted by a knock. Darlene called through the door, “What’s going on in there?”
Vic arched his eyebrows. “Frank and I are talking, give us a minute.” To Frank, he whispered, “I can’t. Darlene won’t understand.”
Standing, Frank shook his head and whispered back, “I know I promised you I’d never discuss what happened in Florida, but for chrissake, you didn’t have anything to do with Sally Ray but save her kid’s life. You gotta go public and get the Tribune off your ass.”
Darlene’s voice rose. ”Victor! I want talk to you, too, and
right now
!”
Raising his voice, Vic answered. “Let me finish with Frank, it’ll only be a few minutes.”
Frank leaned across the desk as Vic slumped in his chair, his hands clutched in front of him. “Vic, tell her,” Frank said softly. “If you don’t I will. Darlene’s pissed and if you don’t level with her, you’ll never get her or your kids back—or win this election.”
“What’s going on in there?” Darlene called again through the door.
Vic cupped his hands around his face, covering his eyes. “Frank and I are almost through; just give us another minute,” he called back.
Looking up, he leveled his gaze on his brother. “Stay outta this, Frank. I’m afraid that after what’s been going on with our marriage this last year, if Darlene finds out I was screwing around when I was going with her, it’ll be over for us for good. If I keep quiet, we’ll still have chance.”
“Bullshit,” Frank spat out. “I don’t want you to go down like this. Let me tell her.”
“No, stay out of this, it’s my call, I have to do it on my own,” Vic said as the door handle turned. “I hear what you’re saying. So, just leave me alone, I’ll handle it.”
Darlene charged in, pushing past Frank. “What the hell is going on here?”
Frank stood and half turned with a shrug, his hands turned up in front of him. Hesitating he looked back at Vic and then veered out around Darlene, closing the door as he did.
Vic looked up and walked from behind the desk to sit in one of the chairs in front of it. “Close the door and sit down,” he said. “We have to talk.”
Returning to Shirley’s house after the graveside service, David insisted on making an omelet for the two of them. As it sizzled in the pan, he set the spatula down and turned to Shirley.
“By the way, is that a new coffee table or did you just replace the glass after you fell?” he asked, moving to the kitchen table to check out the left side of her face. “That was a nasty gash.”
Turning away, she touched the scar and quietly answered, “Just the glass, the table was fine. I told you, it was my fault. I stepped on the hem of my robe and went face down.”
“Turn your head and let me look at your cheek,” he said, leaning down. Touching her chin, he looked closely. “My God, the surgeon did a great job. I can hardly see where you were cut. When I first saw you after the accident, I was worried.”
“Don’t worry about your old lady,” she said, smiling as he turned back to the stove to flip the omelets, “it wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
David slid the omelet onto two separate plates.
“You’re right, though, the doctor did a great job,” Shirley continued. “The swelling went down pretty fast and as long as I use the right makeup, you can’t even see the scar.”
David set the plates down. “Like old times,” he said, chuckling softly as he took the seat next to his mother. “It seems so long ago when I think of leaving Chicago and how excited I was when we moved to Florida.”
Shirley smiled, watching him eat as she picked up her fork. “You look like you’ve gained weight and you’ve got some color in your cheeks. You look terrific.”
“I feel better,” he said, sloshing some ketchup onto the eggs with his fork. “I’m up to one-sixty, which is only fifteen pounds less than I weighed before I got sick.”
She winced watching him slap the tall Heinz bottle for more. “Well, you’re five-eleven, so one-sixty’s not bad.”
Seeing her reaction to the Ketchup, he grinned. “I’m still sorta skinny, but getting there.”
“Well I think you look great. Your hair came in as dark as it was before and I like the long sideburns.”
Chuckling, his blue eyes sparkled. . “Hey Mom, it’s the style and the girls like it.”
“Girls?,,,,Anyone special?”
“Nothing new, but I am getting out more after being out of touch for so long.”
“Oh honey, that’s good,” Shirley said nodding. “You’re thirty-six and about time you started thinking about making me a grandmother.”
David stopped eating and leaned back, setting down his fork.
”Mom, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, his eyes suddenly narrowing under a furrowed brow.
“Oh David, are you alright? Is it the leukemia?” she gasped, reaching out to him.
Shaking his head, he took her hand. “No, I’m doing fine. It’s something else.”
Pursing his lips and pausing as if choosing his words carefully, he said, “As long as Dad was alive, I didn’t want to ask you, but now I’d like to know about Victor Wayne.”
Her lips parted as she stared at him and lowered her eyes, attempting to avoid his intense gaze. “Why are you asking?” she whispered.
Leaning closer, he put down his fork and tilted his head trying to get her to look at him.
“Mom, I’m a doctor. I know how difficult it is to find a donor, especially someone not related. I want to know about him because he’s my father.”