The Girl in White Pajamas (5 page)

Elizabeth McGruder sat in the large leather chair behind the mahogany desk in the den. The old woman’s hands shook as Matt MacDonald told her Bud’s body would be released to the mortuary on Commonwealth Avenue. “That’s where you wanted him to go isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said shakily. “He will have full honors.”

“I don’t know,” the broad-chested man said hesitantly. “He wasn’t on duty.”

“My son will be honored as a fallen police officer!” Elizabeth shouted. “He will have a walk through at the funeral home. He will have the full complement of officers escorting his body to the Park Street Church and then to the cemetery. He will have three bagpipers and full honors,” she screeched at the top of her voice. “And
you
will make sure that happens!”

Matt MacDonald ran his fingers through his brown hair and nodded. “If I have to, I’ll go to the commissioner or the mayor.”

Elizabeth nodded slightly.

After a long silence, Matt said, “This is such a terrible time for us, and I apologize for even bringing it up but…Bud—”

“Bud what?”

“You know he’s Christopher’s godfather. He promised the boy he would pay for his college education. Chris was accepted to Brown, and I…we were waiting for the first semester’s tuition money…to hold his place. Bud said he was a bit short, but he’d talk to you.”

Elizabeth’s hand moved to her mouth, and she cried. “I didn’t know. He didn’t say. It was a lot of money. I didn’t mean to fight with him.” She covered her face and sobbed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. McGruder. I didn’t mean to add to your pain.”

Elizabeth opened the middle drawer of the desk to retrieve her large leather bound checkbook. It was gone. “Ann, James, Trudie!” she screeched.

The petite woman came into the room with the old couple two steps behind her.

“Where’s my checkbook!” Elizabeth McGruder demanded.

“Mother, don’t you remember? The accountant said to hold off on writing checks until the account was reconciled,” Ann McGruder said.

“Bring me my checkbook!” Elizabeth McGruder demanded. “It’s my money, and I’ll write checks whenever I want!”

Without speaking Ann McGruder left the room and returned with the checkbook. She placed it on the desk and gestured for James and Trudie to leave the room with her.

Standing outside the den, Ann listened as Elizabeth McGruder asked, “What’s the amount of the check?”

After a slight pause, Matt MacDonald said, “Sixty..sixty thousand…”

“I’ll make it out to Christopher.”

“No!” Matt said quickly. “Write it out to me, and I’ll pay the school directly.”

Ann McGruder pressed her forehead against the wall wondering if this bad dream was ever going to end.

Fourteen hundred miles from Boston, two men sat at the kitchen table in the small ranch-style house in Palm Springs, Florida. Their hands were wrapped around their mugs while they inhaled the aroma of the coffee and waited for it to cool. John Carpenter, still in his robe, sighed. “I can’t believe you! Another guy in your position would be out partying, tying one on instead of sitting in the house moping around. You did the right thing! You took responsibility for your actions and asked her to marry you. She’s the one who ended it. Let it go!”

“She wouldn’t have ended it if I hadn’t acted like a chicken-shit asshole,” Randy said dejectedly.

“Bullshit! You don’t know what her father is capable of doing.” He pointed to his blackened jaw. “Look what that scumbag did to me!”

“He never laid a hand on
me
,” Randy said sadly.

“That’s the thing about him! He has killer’s eyes. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t talk much; he doesn’t even give you a warning. He just kills somebody and keeps on going.”

Randy shook his head. “Now
that’s
bullshit! He didn’t try to kill you; he just kicked you in the jaw. He was always decent to me. He didn’t give me a hard time when I started dating Mandie, and he certainly didn’t threaten me.”

“That’s the beauty of the ‘Bogie Man’. He decides when your time is up, and you’re gone, history.”

“I still think a lot of that story is hearsay. I wish you hadn’t told me that shit. When he walked to the car and gave me that look, I thought he was going to rip my throat out. That stupid story was going through my head.”

“You’d rather I let him kill you?”

“At least I wouldn’t have acted like a piece of shit. Mandie’s lost all respect for me!”

“
Respect
! You think she was sleeping with you because she respected you?” John asked. Without waiting for an answer he said, “That girl is a spoiled brat. The only person she cares about is herself! She parades around in those skimpy clothes showing off everything she owns. And her friends! Those girls are tramps!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Randy asked angrily. “Tiff’s father’s a lieutenant with the Riviera Beach Police. Zoe’s father is some big money wheeler-dealer.”

“They’re still tramps!” John Carpenter argued.

The men angrily looked down at their mugs and started taking sips to avoid looking at each other. Randy believed his father was taking great joy in his misery and embarrassment since John was the one who planted the poisoned story in Randy’s head.

That story would be told for years to come.

It happened in a quiet middle-class neighborhood in the Village of Palm Springs, a community nestled between West Palm Beach and Lake Worth.

It started with a thirty-six unit apartment complex. After the owners of the property died, their kids were only interested in collecting the rents through a real estate company. After years of neglect, the place turned into a dump. The rents were consistently lowered to attract somebody, anybody to live there. Those who occupied the apartments were the underbelly of society. Coke and meth addicts as well as pill poppers of every variety lived there. One day, a second floor tenant was cooking meth in his apartment, and the rig blew up. The building caught on fire after a propane tank exploded, flew through the air and crashed into the swimming pool, destroying the pool. Three apartments were engulfed in flames and later cordoned off. The other occupants went about their usual business of taking, making and dealing drugs. Fights broke out every night. Tenants shot and stabbed each other. Police cars arrived there on a daily basis. One night a swat team from the Palm Springs Police Department went in and kicked ass and took names, but a week later the occupants were back in business.

John Carpenter was becoming the brunt of fellow deputies’ jokes as they suggested he transfer to the Belle Glade area of Palm Beach since he was accustomed to living in a war zone. The situation seemed hopeless.

One day the rumor mill started churning out reports that some guy from Boston was going to buy the place. People mentioned a big guy who was inspecting the property and talking numbers to the realtor. Months went by, and no one heard any more until the guy drove up in a beat-up truck. He had a muscular Latino man beside him. The Boston man didn’t look well. He was thin and walked with his shoulders stooped like he was afraid to move. His hair was all gray. Both men went over the blueprints right in front of the building pointing to areas of interest. Two days later, bulldozers moved in and took down the rental office. The construction on the main building began. Three months later, the building was complete. The man moved about better and had a nice tan. He began to look more toned than sickly. While the work was going on, the tenants were sent notices to vacate the premises. All the apartments were going to be completely overhauled. The tenants laughed believing they were going nowhere since even the cops couldn’t uproot them. The tall stranger from Boston had other ideas.

On a Wednesday, between four and five o’clock in the morning, a caravan of U-Haul trucks pulled into the parking lot of the complex. Twenty men dressed in black, wearing balaclavas broke down doors simultaneously, carted off residents, their possessions and any paraphernalia in the apartments. By the time the sun came up, the buildings were empty and the trucks were gone. Before the workday started for most people, the apartments in building number one were being gutted.

It didn’t take long before the neighbors noticed the change in the neighborhood. The sounds of gun shots and police sirens were replaced by loud construction noise during the day and quiet at night. Those who witnessed any part of the removal became minor celebrities. They shared stories of the speed and efficiency with which the occupants were removed. As time went on, the stories grew and had the U-Haul trucks transformed into tanks and armored personnel carriers with teams of Navy SEALS descending on the complex and carrying out body bags. No one complained or reported tenants missing. The former residents were never heard from again.

The man from Boston was the quiet hero of the neighborhood. But the neighbors kept their distance because they believed he was dangerous and not one to be fucked with. He continued improving his property, and the neighborhoods’ property values increased.

The unsung neighborhood hero then brought his lovely teenage daughter to live in the main building where she would be safe for the next two years until a blonde man from Dayton, Ohio moved in with his father and fell in love with her.

After running from the Omni Parker Hotel to the end of School Street, Bogie turned left onto Washington Street and raced to the end then stopped, ran in place looking for something, telling himself he had no interest in the investigation into Bud’s murder. Faint blood stains on the sidewalk could be seen by an experienced investigator. Bogie stared at One Boston Place realizing it had been given a face lift since he last saw it—more glass on the building, seating outside. Mellon Bank New York was now the primary tenant and they were showcased inside and out on the first floor. Above that, about fifteen thousand legal folks worked on filing suit against anyone, anywhere. Facing the building from across the street, Bogie noted that the old theater marquee that served as the Pi Alley sign had been replaced by a flat sign to blend in with the surrounding buildings.

Reminding himself he had no interest in Bud’s death, Bogie picked up his pace and ran to the corner and sprinted up Court Street which seemed like little more than an extension of State Street. He turned onto Tremont Street and caught sight of the Steaming Kettle as Bailey’s lovely face and almond-shaped eyes flashed through his mind.

After he made a quick right turn onto Beacon Street, Bogie vanquished her from his thoughts and started up the slope. As he moved past the State House on the right and the Boston Common on his left, he got his rhythm and kept moving. Crossing Arlington Street he almost smiled knowing this street was a line of demarcation between the Beacon Hill Area, where the McGruder’s
claimed
they lived, and the Back Bay, where they
actually
lived. It didn’t take long before he reached the brownstone. When he approached it, he saw Jeannie’s banged-up, gray Toyota Forerunner parked twenty feet from the McGruder townhouses. Bogie was surprised to see the Forerunner on the street. He heard Jeannie had lost her driver’s license years earlier for too many DUI’s.

As he ran across Berkley Street, Bailey snuck back into his head and wouldn’t leave. Those full pouty lips that begged to be kissed! Oh, how she gave him those adoring looks when she was eighteen years old! He thought it was ‘cute’ having someone so young having a crush on him. He refused to admit that he loved her and cast aside her overtures telling her she was too young for him. When he saw the hurt etched on her face, he wanted to rip his tongue out but reminded himself he was raising a young girl. What kind of example would that set for his daughter? Rather than apologize, he quickly found a condo for Bailey and her twin brother Jack to live while they attended Boston University. He made sure it was on the other side of the city so they would only see each other on holidays.

As he ran across Clarendon Street, Bailey’s tear-filled eyes took over his brain and studied him as he again rejected her when she graduated from Boston University. She was going to Suffolk Law School and she would, he was sure, meet someone her own age. Again, Bogie rejected her advances. But that time, her hurt was more tinged with anger.

Crossing Dartmouth, Bogie almost smiled remembering Bailey in her second year of law school. Her uncle had died, and she and Jack needed a co-signer for their student loans. Jack was grateful. When he told Bailey that he had remarried, she was enraged. Rather than thanking him for co-signing for her loan, she punched him in the mouth and walked away. That was a surprise!

But then he remembered their law school graduation celebration at the Four Seasons Hotel. That made up for the waiting and abuse he’d endured. He finally believed she loved him as much as he loved her. Although he was still committed to a sham marriage, he told Bailey the marriage would end and they would be together without discussing any details with her.

Sex with Bailey was incredible. Bogie never felt like that before in his life. He melted into her and wanted more and more. When they were together, he’d start thinking of the next time they would meet. Remembering those times, Bogie wished he had a ‘do over’. He should have told her about his plans, his dreams for their future.

Chastising himself as he ran, Bogie checked out the large brownstones on Beacon Street that had been built as single-family dwellings to showcase the owners’ wealth. They had long since been converted to businesses, condos or apartment buildings since few could afford the upkeep on them. He wanted to run to Mass Ave, but figured that counting the return trip to the hotel he’d clock in his minimum daily requirement of exercise.

After his run, Bogie walked back up Beacon Street carrying his suitcase, laptop case and a bag of groceries purchased at a local convenience store. As he walked past the State House again, he was glad that he had checked out of the Omni Parker ten minutes after he took his post-run shower because now he was not in a good mood. He was unhappy when Carlos didn’t answer his cell phone or the office phone. Bogie left a terse message on the answering machine then noticed that he barely had two reception bars left on his cell phone. That was when he remembered that his phone charger was in the zippered section of the garment bag resting on a sofa in Palm Beach.

Bogie felt it was almost impossible for him to get a good night’s sleep in the tiny, claustrophobic room. At one point in the night he considered opening the door so he could hang his feet out and stretch out on the bed.

When he reached the McGruder home, Bogie rang the doorbell. He had never been given a key. When James opened the door, the old man looked tired and nervous. Concerned, Bogie greeted him with, “What’s the matter, James?”

“The missus was up again last night and Miss Amanda tried to keep her from leaving the house. She said terrible things to Amanda, accused her of stealing guns from the den and then stormed out the back door. She stood in the yard yelling at the back of Bud’s house, picking up rocks from the garden and throwing them at the house and windows. Thankfully, Jeannie didn’t respond to her. The missus has been deteriorating for years, but Bud’s death has been too much for her.”

“How much has she been drinking?”

James paused to consider if he was betraying family confidences then said. “About a half a quart a day.”

“Before Bud died?” Bogie asked.

James nodded.

“And after?”

“More. And she’s a small woman.”

“And Ann?” Bogie asked.

James stared at him then finally said, “The same.”

“Thanks, James. I figured as much.”

Bogie lifted the bag of groceries. “I brought some treats for breakfast. Where’s Trudie?”

Bogie followed James down the hallway of the quiet house on their way to the kitchen where Trudie had white bread sitting in the toaster and an Entenmann’s coffee cake box resting next to it. Packages of instant oatmeal were lined up beside the coffee cake. With the old fashioned percolator perking, the kitchen had that wonderful smell Bogie always remembered. Bogie hugged the little, round lady and said, “I’m going to steal you away from James. You know I am!” The two old people laughed.

Bogie placed the bag on the counter and said, “I bought some things for breakfast.”

Trudie looked at him surprised. “You can see all the things for breakfast are here. The coffee’s even ready.”

Trying not to hurt the old woman’s feelings, he said, “After I had a heart attack, I had to have open-heart surgery. In order to get better and stay better I needed to change the way I live, the way I eat.”

Confused Trudie asked, “Don’t you eat breakfast anymore?”

Bogie nodded. “I do, but it’s different.” He started removing containers of yogurt, fresh fruit and a box of herb tea from the bag. He lifted a large Cadbury chocolate bar from the bag and handed it to Trudie. “For you…since you don’t need to diet.” He took two packs of Tareyton cigarettes out and handed them to James who thanked him as though he’d handed him gold.

Trudie’s eyes filled with tears and she smiled. “You always remember.”

“Of course, we were neighbors!” Bogie said referring to his assigned bedroom in the house which was on the third floor in the servants’ quarters. “And how many meals have we had together?”

James and Trudie both shook their heads as they sadly remembered the poorly-dressed boy and his cardboard suitcase holding a white slip of paper as he stood at the front door. He awkwardly introduced himself as Boghdun Uchenich and added that his father, Baxter McGruder, was expecting him. Baxter, however, showed him no kindness or hospitality. McGruder instructed James to take the boy to the third floor bedroom so he could put his suitcase down. When the unsophisticated boy returned to the ground floor, he was led to the dining room where Baxter, Elizabeth, their son Bud, and little Ann were already at the table. A bottle of wine was opened as Baxter sat at the head of the table. China plates with the food decoratively placed on them were brought in from the kitchen by Trudie and James. Trying to be polite, Boghdun looked around the dining room and addressed Baxter and Elizabeth. “Do yunz eat like this every night?” he asked speaking in his typical Pittsburghese. They flinched as though he’d cursed at the table, and Bud smirked. When no one answered him, the boy started to eat. He ate quickly and hungrily since he hadn’t eaten since he left Pittsburgh that morning. As he gobbled his food, he used the index finger of his left hand to push it onto his fork since a fork or spoon was the only cutlery he’d ever been given. Bogie continued to eat until he noticed the silence in the room. He looked up to find Baxter and Elizabeth studying him as though an animal was sitting at their table. Bud continued to smirk, his round dimpled cheeks puffing out. Baxter put down his knife and fork. He stood up and called, “James! James!” James quickly walked into the room. He watched as Baxter pointed to Bogie. “Take him out of here! He’ll eat in the kitchen with you until he learns some table manners and how to talk!”

Mortified, Bogie rose from his seat and followed James from the room. None of the uneducated, classless people on the South Side of Pittsburgh had ever humiliated him the way these fancy Boston folks had.

Bogie never ate another meal with the McGruder family.

As the months passed, Bogie worked on removing the Pittsburghese from his vocabulary while Trudie showed him how rich folks used forks and knives. When Baxter asked if he was ready to join the family for a meal, Bogie said he wasn’t. Two years later, Baxter asked him the same question and Bogie gave him the same response. Baxter’s only comment was, “Fuck you!” When Bogie muttered something in Ukrainian under his breath, Baxter grabbed him by the throat and pushed him against the wall. “I can understand that hunky talk, you punk! You’ll show me some respect!” Bogie’s suspicions were confirmed, Baxter was a liar. Once, when Bogie’s mother wasn’t too drunk she told him that Baxter had difficulty pronouncing Boghdun and made no attempt to learn Ukrainian or any other Slavic languages spoken on the South Side. Besides, if Baxter had actually understood what Bogie said, he probably would have knocked his teeth out before he put him through the wall.

As Bogie, James and Trudie shared meals together, they formed a bond. With no children of their own the couple tried to look out for the boy. When Bogie was ready for school, he was required to take placement exams. He overheard Baxter telling Elizabeth that the short bus would probably be coming to the house to pick Bogie up for school since Baxter believed the kid was another dumb hunky. More than anyone, Baxter was shocked to learn of his son’s extremely high IQ and placement in the prestigious Boston Latin School, which was free for gifted Boston children. That was an accomplishment that neither Bud, with a legion of tutors, nor little Ann would ever attain. James and Trudie were as proud as if their own child had won the Nobel Prize. Trudie got out a mix and put together a cake to share that night. By then, Bogie knew that Trudie wasn’t really much of a cook. Her culinary skills were limited to opening packages and cans and displaying things nicely on plates. That was fine with Elizabeth and Baxter. It wasn’t the food so much as the presentation and pretense that made up the meal.

Trudie was shocked when Bogie fixed himself a cup of herbal tea and passed on the coffee. “But you love coffee!” she protested.

“I love coffee, I love cigarettes, I love beer, but I love something more–my life! I want to enjoy my life with my children and grandchildren. Giving up those things is a small price to pay.”

“Speaking of your children, what about little daughter, Isabella? Are you going to see her?” James asked.

“So far, her mother hasn’t told me she exists.”

James studied Bogie. “Are you being stubborn or are you afraid Bailey won’t let you have a part in the child’s life.”

“Both.”