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

Jason had to laugh—at the declaration that his sainted grandfather had been “a bit of a pain in the fanny”. He managed to muffle the chortle—apparently.

“Once they moved out,” continued the young woman, “moved out… from that house, on Whitcomb… I never really saw any of them again. Wish that I could tell you… a little more than that. Tell you… exactly… where they live, y’know. But, I’m sure that… if you were to ask around the stores, and restaurants, and hangouts, around the Great Lakes . . . I think that you’d probably be able to get a line on them.”

“Gee,” responded Jason. He was unused to such effusiveness. Especially from a young woman—who was a perfect stranger, “that’s so nice of you. I mean… to come… come all the way, up here. Come way over here… just to meet me. To tell me… about the Piepczyks. I can’t tell you. I really appreciate it.”

“Well, Junie’s a pretty good friend of mine… although I don’t see her nearly so often, these days. Now that she’s a big-deal college student. Going to Wayne, don’tcha know. She’s never around anymore… or so it seems.”

“Do you go to college?”

“Naw. My family… they can’t afford it. And my grades were nowhere nearly good enough… to allow us, to even think about any kind of scholarships. Or anything like that. I work, y’know. Work… up at ‘Monkey Wards’.”

That was a sort of accepted slang, in those days, for the Montgomery Ward department stores. Everyone referred to their many entities—as “Monkey Ward’s”.

“What’s your name?” Jason was almost shocked—that he’d waited this long to inquire.

“Valerie. Valerie Krenwinkle.”

That last name! It just about knocked Our Boy off his stool. He’d been more than interested, in anything—literally anything—pertaining to the sadistic, brutal, headline-grabbing, 1969, “Sharon Tate murders”! Ever since Grandpa Piepczyk had presented him with a rather ragged-looking copy—of Helter Skelter. This was former Los Angeles County District Attorney Vincent Bugliosi’s spectacular book—detailing (minutely) the spectacular, brutal, sadistic, grizzly, blood-spattered, without-a-shred-of-mercy, killings. The author had tried the, headline-producing, case!

Jason had been absolutely appalled—by the horrible, vicious, hideous, crimes! He’d relished Bugliosi’s incisive look, at Charles Manson—and all his “devotees”. Had read—and reread—the tome! Three times!

One of the “Manson Girls”, he’d always remembered, had been named Patricia Krenwinkle. For some reason or another, Our Hero had been bitterly disappointed to know that she’d been involved. She’d had such a “bright and bubbly and cheery” name. She should’ve been the next thing—to Walt Disney’s “Tinkerbelle”. Maybe “Queen of The May”—or something! “Homecoming” or “Prom Queen”—or something! Yet, in the prosecutor’s opinion, she’d been a “total animal”! A subhuman! A vile, disgusting, individual! (To put it—charitably.)

Jason could not remember whether Bugliosi had stated that Krenwinkle had actually done any of the stabbing—in any of the unbelievably-bloody, murders! He’d thought he’d remembered her having, ruthlessly, stabbed Abigail Folger—the coffee fortune heiress—numerous times! In addition, it had seemed, to him, that Krenwinkle was always defecating—on some landing, in some stairwell, somewhere! Or somebody’s front porch! She had definitely been a “Manson Girl”. Of that fact, Jason was more than positive!

Could this attractive young lady—this sweet-appearing, sedately-dressed, woman, who was seated next to him—could she possibly be an ancestor? Well, maybe not an ancestor! The Tate outrage—was only 25 years, “down the road”. But, possibly, some kind of relation—to that disgusting sub-human? Could she possibly—could this lovely lady—possess any of those same, God-awful-sadistic, genes? Could that—possibly—be?

“What’s the matter?” she asked. She’d not had to have been exceptionally perceptive—to have seen the “shockwave” that her name had sent through her new acquaintance!

“Oh… uh… nothing,” he stammered. “I probably shouldn’t be saying things, like this… not in mixed company, anyway… but, I’d just had a bit of a cramp. Kind of snuck up on me! From out of nowhere.”

“Gas,” Valerie had replied—laughing heartily. “That Vernor’s is great stuff… but, it gives me all kinds of gas. I have watch out… that I’m not with some group, of people. Also something that I shouldn’t be mentioning… in mixed company. You can dilute it, y’know.”

“Dilute it? Why would anyone want to do that?”

“Well, you can cut down on the… ah… social dangers. The risks, y’know… of all the gas. You can lessen the hazards… with vanilla ice cream. Junie’ll mix you up one of those things… in a flash. Costs fifteen-cents, I think. It’s called a Boston Cooler. The vanilla ice cream kind of neutralizes the gas production, don’tcha know. From the ginger ale. The ginger, though… that part… is really good, for your tummy. Well, actually, so is the vanilla ice cream. Our family doctor told me so. In both cases. So, to me, it’s a sure bet. Ya can’t go wrong… not with a Boston Cooler.”

Jason was busily engaged in all kinds—of labored, mental, calisthenics. If the Tate/LoBianco murders had occurred, in the late-sixties, as he was fairly certain—and Patricia Krenwinkle had been twenty-ish at the time—she’d be four or five or six years away from actually being born, in 1942.

And, Our Boy felt certain, that—in any case—she would not have been, from the Detroit area. He didn’t know the names of Patricia’s parents. Or where she had come from. He doubted—that he’d ever really known any of those things. He didn’t think that Bugliosi had ever mentioned any of that sort of data, in his superb book. Like so many, of his grandfathers musings, Our Boy found himself wishing—wishing fervently—that he’d paid much more rapt attention to Bugliosi’s excellent tome!

Obviously, it would be kind of foolish (really stupid, in point of fact) to be inquiring of Valerie—whether she was related, to someone. Some person—yet unborn! Some sub-human—who was really, God-awful, nasty—named Patricia. Still, it was a source of more than a little discomfort, for the young man! At that precise moment, anyway. For that precise moment! And who knew how long the unease would last! Another unanswered question! One—of so many!

Someone had just played Chattanooga Choo-Choo—Glenn Miller’s wonderful recording—on the jukebox,