Counter Blow by Robert F. Clifton (ebook reader for pc .txt) 📕

Counter Blow

by

Robert F. Clifton

PREFACE

The reader is advised that this is a work

Of fiction. Any similarity of any persons or the names, places or events are purely coincidental.

R.F. Clifton

Copyright © 2013 by Robert F. Clifton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

Editor; J. William Blackmore

Chapter One

September In The Rain

It was a typical September night. By seven o'clock in the evening Abe Silverstein thought about locking the door and closing the store early. A steady warm rain had been falling since early that morning often pelting the large windowpane with wind driven drops of water. Rain had kept customers away from wandering into his liquor store most of the day and staying open for business for three more hours didn't make too much sense. The most he had sold since noon were three pint bottles of Tiger Rose Wine. Besides, he was tired. It had been a long day, one that didn't show too much profit. He had spent most of the day in the living room watching television. His living quarters were at the rear of the store, two steps higher then street level.

For the past fifteen years he had got out of bed, had his breakfast at the same time, reading the Nautilus Beach Press. Then, after a shave and putting on a clean shirt he would walk to the two steps and used them to descend into the store. There he would unlock the door and turn over the hanging sign that read, CLOSED changing it to OPEN.

He looked across the small living room at his wife Selma. She was seated in a stuffed, brown, corduroy fabric chair watching the end of the nightly news that came out of Philadelphia on Channel Six.

As he started to rise up out of his chair the door to the liquor store opened. When it did a brass bell situated over the entrance doorway gave a sharp ring as two men entered. Both men were black and their clothes wet from the rain. Drops of water dripped off of their clothing forming a small puddle on the linoleum cover floor. One man was taller and had a darker complexion then the other.

Abe stepped down one step and when he did he noticed that one of the men was carrying a, long, cloth sack.“Odd”, he thought to himself. Before his foot touched the last step he stopped, frozen in fear as the man with the sack said, “Alright Hymie, this is a holdup. Come down here and open the cash register”.

Moving slowly, Abe stepped down on to the floor and walked behind the counter. With a hand shaking with fear he pulled the large key chain connected to his belt out of his pocket and his fingers fumbled as he searched for the small, brass key that would open the register. Somehow he managed to unlock the cash drawer. He stepped back and to the two men said, “It's not much, I'm telling you. Not enough for an old man who works all day to scratch out a living. Fifteen years I've been in business. Fifteen years and never any trouble. No problems with people in the community. Now you rob me. Take, take, take my money then go away and leave me in peace”.

Abe stood and watched as the taller man reached over the counter and removed all of the paper money that was in the till. “That's it? That's all you got?”, said the tall man.

“How, much is there?”, asked the shorter man. He watched his accomplice count the money that he held in his hands.

“One hundred and thirty seven dollars”, the tall man replied.

“Come here from behind the counter”, said the man with the sack.

“Abe did as he was told, all the while hoping that his wife didn't hear what was going on in the store and sat continuing watching television.

When he stood in front of the men. The shorter man said, “How much is in your pocket, Heeb?”

“I'm telling you mister, I'm just a poor merchant. I sell beer and schnapps. I am not a rich man”.

“Give me your wallet”, said the man with the sack.

Silverstein reach back for the wallet he carried in his right, hip pocket. His fingers closed on the black leather billfold and he drew it out and handed it to the robber.

The thief opened the wallet and removed two fifty dollar bills along with a ten and twenty. “You stand there and lie to us. Poor, you said. Just making a living. You sad sack of shit”.

Abe saw the man raise the cloth bag, heard the loud explosion of a twelve gauge shot gun and the instant, agonizing pain as nine pellets stuck his leg just below the knee. As he fell to the floor in pain he watched the two holdup men leave and run past the large plate window. The red neon sign behind the window was blinking on and off, “Inlet Liquors. Inlet Liquors”.

He heard Selma shouting, “Oy vey ist mir. Oy vey ist mir”, over and over as she stood and watched her husband trying to stem the flow of blood pumping out of his injured leg. “You are calling for an ambulance Selma. You are calling for an ambulance”, yelled Abe.

The next morning, Captain Robert Wallace stepped off of the elevator on the second floor of the Nautilus Beach Police Department. He nodded to those who greeted him in the hallways as he made his way to his office. In his left hand he carried a white paper bag containing a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, three paper packets of sugar, three creamers, two stirrers and one large lemon doughnut, the bill of fare that he traditionally started with each day.

Before going into his own office he stopped at the Detective Bureau. As he entered, he walked by victims talking to detectives, those under arrest for one violation of one law or another and news reporters hovering about like hungry vultures needing a story which usually dealt with some one's misery.

Back in one corner of the room, Captain Ernest Haynes sat behind an old, coffee and tobacco stained wooden desk. He looked up from the paper work he was reading, looked at Wallace and said, “Morning, you need something?”.

“Nope, I had my receiver on last night, so I heard everything that happened with the robbery and shooting at Inlet Liquors. Right now I want to know if the victim is going to live. If not then I want to know everything that went down last night. If he's going to make it, then I wish you luck on making an arrest”.

“The old guy is going to live. They couldn't save his leg. He lost it”, said Haynes.

“Did he resist the robbery?”, asked Wallace.

“No, as far as we know he did everything the two of them told him to do”.

“And, still they shot him?”

“Yep”.

“Alright, keep me up to date. If the victim dies let me know”.

“No problem there, I'd gladly turn this case over to you Wally”.

“I bet you would. Talk to you later”, said Wallace as he walked out of the Detective Bureau and entered The Major Crime Squad, a unit that he commanded.

He placed the paper bag on his desk, removed the blue blazer he wore, placed it on the clothes tree then sat down at his desk. As he was stirring his coffee and thinking about the doughnut, Detective Carol Myers knocked on the door and walked in. “Morning sir”, she said.

“Good morning Myers. How are you?”

“Fine Captain. I've been going over three cold case files. One is the Kenning Jewelry Store B&E. I just discovered that the statute of limitations ran out”.

“Has it been that long ago?”, asked Wallace Wallace.

“Yes sir”.

“And the other two?”

“They are the Henry Mullen’s case. A larceny at the Flamingo Motel. The victim claims he woke to find that he was missing twelve thousand dollars that he was going to use to put down on a real estate deal. The limitations will run out in two months”.

“And, the last one?”

“The Gladys Verona Case. She claims she was drugged and a thirty thousand dollar diamond ring was taken from her. That case has four months until limitations”, said Myers

“Time sure flies. O.K. close them out as time expires. I still figure the Kenning case was an inside job. Mullen’s got what he deserved when he picked up a hooker. Hell, he couldn't even remember if she was white or black. And good old, Mrs. Verona who enjoys both sex with younger men and coke dealers was probably high the night her ring went missing. Anything else?”

“No sir”.

“Still on your diet?”

“Yep. I've lost three pounds”.

“Good for you. Let me know when you want me to bring in a pastry”.

Chapter Two

Mom & Pop

It had been a pleasant October day. Many who entered the small corner grocery store of Emanuel Weiss commented on the weather, calling it a nice Indian Summer day. At the same time business on this day was good. Yom Kippur was approaching and those in the neighborhood stopped and shopped buying items needed for the Erev Yom Kippur, a day when two festive meals are served.

Emanuel was not a pious Jew, but like many worshiped in the Synagog on Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Each year on this day he would attend five services praying to God And asking forgiveness for any and all transgressions.

As he stood behind the counter he removed the watch from his pocket and noted the time, four fifteen P.M. soon it would be sunset, and when that occurred he would lock the door to the store and begin to prepare for the holiest day of the year.

He watched two black men entering the store. One man tall, the other short. The short man carried a cloth sack.

“Alright old man, just do as you're told and you won't get hurt”, said the tall man. The man with the sack kept turning his head, nervous, looking out through the large glass window, afraid someone would see what was happening.

The tall man pushed the key that opened the cash register and removed all of the paper bills. “Got it, let's go”, he said jamming the cash into his pocket.

“Right behind you”, said the shorter man as he struck Emanuel in the face with his fist repeatedly.

Semi-conscious, Emanuel lay on the floor of his store. One bruised eye was shut, swollen. Blood dripped out of his broken nose and he had trouble breathing with a broken rib caused by his assailant who kicked him again and again before he left. Through the pain and blood he said aloud almost in a whisper, “Why?, Why?”

***************

Captain Wallace looked for, found and took a seat at the rear of the conference room. With the other line unit commanders he waited for the arrival of Chief Jerry Monahan.

Those in the room stood at attention when the chief entered, then sat again when they heard the words,”As you were”.

Wallace leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and made himself as comfortable as possible. He had been in these emergency conferences before. Each time it had been due to a recent particular crime spree that brought the unwelcome attention of neighborhoods, relatives, and ethnic groups of victims to the politicians.

When that happens, “shit slides down hill”, as the saying goes. Right then, in that room Monahan was the guy holding a sack full of that shit and he was about to unload it on the unit commanders.

“All of you are here this morning because of the two brutal armed robberies