Locomotive to the Past by George Schultz (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“Yeah,” agreed Schwartz. “Let’s just say that your charming ex-husband is not altogether pleased… by the turn of events! Quite upset, actually… with the way things are going. Try and control your grief, over that, Mrs. Mahoney.”

“Actually,” furnished Phipps, “he is a little bit distraught… the way things are shaking out!”

“Yeah,” chuckled the one in uniform. “Just a little bit!” The remark brought on a full-bore belly-laugh, from the driver.

“There are some things,” explained the lieutenant—to the still-distraught woman, “that you’re simply better off not knowing! Much better off!”

“Yeah,” added Schwartz—with a significant amount of glee! “And you couldn’t drag it out of us! Not out of either one of us! Not with a million horses!”

“I… I still don’t understand,” rasped Ella.

“You don’t have to understand it,” responded the plainclothesman. “In fact, it’s better… if you, honest-to-God, don’t! Just accept the fact… that you’re a free woman! That’s it! No more . . . and, certainly, no less!”

“I… well…”

“In about a half-an-hour, the folks… the ones, at Child Protective . . . they’ll be bringing your kids! Bringing ’em… back to you,” informed Phipps.

“Yeah,” agreed the driver. “And the lieutenant has a check… a mighty damn hefty one… in his pocket! It’s for you! From your darling ex!”

“We found out… excuse the snooping… that you’re a payment behind, on your mortgage,” expanded Phipps. “You’ve only got three-and-a-half years left… to pay, on that house! Then, it’s yours! God forbid… you should ever lose the place!”

“Plus,” added Schwartz, “every man and woman, on the Force… is looking to find a job, for you! Not just a job! But, a good job! A damn good job!”

“I… I just… I don’t know . . . don’t know how to thank you! Thank you… thank you, both!”

“Well.” suggested Phipps, “you might agree… to having dinner, with me! Breaking bread with me… sometime! Some time… after all this crap settles down! And the smoke finally clears away!”

“If they ever do.” Her voice indicated an overwhelming degree of being—well—overwhelmed! Plus a generous amount of plain fatigue!

“They will!” assured the detective. “They will . . . eventually! It’ll all settle in, for you! Eventually, things will settle down! Even start going your way! Believe me… they will!”

TWENTY SIX

On Thursday—April 9, 1942—the Red Wings would run their winning streak, in The Stanley Cup Finals, to three straight victories, by defeating the Toronto Maple Leafs, by a score of 5-2, at Detroit’s hallowed Olympia.

The sainted Hurley Stackhouse materialized, at the housing project—at 3:40PM—on Friday afternoon. His stone-faced expression was troubling! Even more disconcerting—from Jason’s standpoint—was the fact that Eric loomed! Lurked upon the scene! He was—ever-so-nonchalantly—standing nearby! He’d, obviously been watching, for the bookie’s dark-green Lincoln Zephyr—to enter the parking area! He, almost-visibly, shuddered—when he saw Stackhouse hand the ten-dollar note, to his employee!

He would’ve been unable to overhear the, border-line-upset, visitor say—to his former roomer, “Well, it looks like this miserable thing’ll be all over… come Sunday night. I suppose you still want to go with the stupid-assed ten dollar thing?”

“Look, Mister Stackhouse,” responded Jason, “I feel kinda bad… about this whole thing. I was sure the Leafs would win, at least, one or two, of these games. At least . . . one or two. Hell, I was actually afraid . . . that they’d win ‘The Cup’! In fact, they still might, y’know!”

“C’mon, Jason! Face the reality! Wake up!”

“Might very well do it, Mister Stackhouse. Listen! They could go ahead… and they could win, all four of the games that’re left! Could sweep the Wings!”

“Yeah,” the bookie muttered, glumly. “That’ll be the day!

“Look,” said the younger man—hoping to sound not-too-interested, “what kind of odds . . . would you give me? What kind of odds… if the Maple Leafs should pull it off? Should sweep the next four?”

“C’mon, Kid! That ain’t never been done before!”

“But, suppose it happens? Suppose they do? I’ve always thought… have believed, all year . . . that the Leafs were really the best team, in the league. Of course, I’ve always believed… that Montreal was second best. And we all know how that turned out.”

“I don’t really keep track, Kid. Well… not all that close.”

“Well listen, Mister Stackhouse! Instead of us doing the ten-dollar routine… on Game Four… what kind of odds would you give me? What odds, If I was to bet, say, twenty-five… or even thirty… bucks? Twenty-five or thirty… on the Leafs? On the Leafs… going ahead? Going ahead… and actually winning the cup? Actually taking . . . the next four games? I’m serious! What’d you offer me… to make that bet?”

We have to remember, dear reader: This was still during “The Big Depression”. The cowardly Pearl Harbor Day air raid was barely five months, in the past! The “World War II Economy” had not had a chance to set in! Certainly, not—by April 9th. Therefore, even a ten-dollar wager was not an insignificant amount—to be gambling. It represented a third, of a week’s wages—for many, many thousands, who were fortunate enough to be “gainfully employed”! So, we’re talking some pretty serious money, here!

“Seriously? Are you serious, Rutkowski?” Stackhouse had, obviously, been involved—in a copious amount of mental arithmetic.

“Yeah! I’m serious! I just have… just have this… have this sneaky feeling! This, really-dopey, idea! Weird… but, I really believe that the Leafs are not through! They may not win The Cup! But, they may! I can see ’em, actually giving the Wings a pretty good scare . . . before this thing is done!”

“Well, if you wanna . . . but, I don’t wanna hear any bullshit, if this thing is over, by Monday morning!”

“You won’t! Despite what you may have heard, I am a big boy! Besides, I’m… pretty much… playing, with your money!”

“Yeah, damn it! That’s true! All right, listen! I’ll give you ten-to-one odds!”

“Ten-to-one? That’s it? That’s all? Never mind! Sorry I brought it up.”

Our Hero was genuinely shocked! Surprised—that he was playing the, nerve-wracking, scenario this “casually”! The “Old Jason” would’ve jumped—jumped eagerly—at the very thought, of a, sure-thing, ten-to-one, prospect! The “Old Jason” could never have broached—and carried through—such a counter proposal! Not with nearly the aplomb the