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The atmosphere of the Manor Inn was an environment in which they both felt comfortable. Y'know, the kind of surroundings where God-given senses take a couple of seconds adjustment when entering from a sunny, hot August day.
Though neither Wess or Wink were of legal drinking age, Mr. Bogdanovich, Bogie to his friends, turned a blind eye to severing local lads who'd just cracked eighteen. "Satan's cat!" he'd frequently protest, "if you're old enough to die for this country, you're sure as hell old enough to drink." Accompanied by Lloyd Price's "Stagger Lee" blaring from the Wurlitzer, Wass and Wink were alone in the back billiard room shootin' a game. Though there wasn't any fear of being overheard, the sensitive nature of the conversation itself demanded utmost caution. Darting his eyes left, then right, Wess moved close to Wink, and said, "Let's rob somethin'." "Rob somethin'!" protested Wink. "What are you nuts or somethin'? We could go to Jail for that. No way!" "Yeah, well, maybe so," shrugged Wess dropping a nickel in the Jukebox and selected Jerry Lee Lewis' "Great Bells Of Fire." "No matter how ye cut it, we're still in a real mess." "Yeah, I know," agreed Wink. "We promised Mr. Lombardo we'd have the rest of the car money by Wednesday." "We've Just gotta get that '50 Marc," Wess groaned. "Chrome mags, chopped top, 4-on-the-floor, ten leather rolled and pleated bucket seats and a 389 powerhouse! Yeah, we've just gotta get the rest of that money," Wink mused. "If we don't," reminded Wess, "old man Lombardo's gonna keep the five hundred we've already gave him and sell the Marc to somebody else." "I'm not saying I'm gonna do it," said Wink as he began nervously circling the pool table. "But just suppose we did rob something. Shucks! Who the hell would we rob? Even if we did know who to rob, what would we rob them with?" Wess leaned on the Brunswick. Eyes shifting left, then right again, he gestured Wink nearer, "Listen, pal, I've got it all figured out. Remember that pool hall we were in last month? The one on Eastern Avenue?" "The Click?" asked Wink. "Yeah, that's it," Wess confirmed. "Well, a friend of mine told me the guy who runs the place keeps a whole weeks' receipts in a safe until Friday night. Then, after he locks the place up, takes it to a night deposit." "Man-oh-man!" responded Wink. "That old dude must be at least ninety years old. An old geezer like that couldn't put up much of a fight!" "That's the idea," said Wess. "It'll be e-a-s-y." "How much ya think we'd get?" asked Wink. "Bout three grand," Wess replied. "Holy smokes!" responded Wink. "Are ya sure?" "Yep, that's what my friend says," Wess confidently confirmed. "Sure beats the hell outta lookin' for another job, don't it?" "Darn right!" said Wink. "And, guess what?" offered Wess. "What?" inquired Wink. Wiggling his index finger in the universal gesture of 'come nearer, Wess informed, "Today's Friday. We could do it tonight.. The old geezer would never know what hit him." Wink leaned heavily against the pool table, lowered his head, stared at the green felt a l-o-n-g time. Then raised his head, and said, "Okay. Let's do it!" "That's the way I like to hear ya talk!" Wess replied. "Man, we're gonna be on easy street after this." "How we gonna do it?" asked Wink. "I've got that all figured out, too," Wess responded assuredly. "I thought so," Wink replied cynically. "Just listen," Wess continued. "The old geezer don't close-up until 3:00 a.m. or thereabouts. We'll be waitin' in the alley next to the Click. When he moseys by, we jump'im! I'll yell, 'This is a stick-up! Hand it over, or you're a dead man!' He'll fork over the dough and we'll, well, just run off. Nice plan, huh? Whatdoya think?" "Yeah, well, sure, I guess it's a good enough plan and all that," agreed Wink. "But ain't we gonna need a weapon of some kind?" Not expecting to be quizzed on the plan Wess was, at first, somewhat stymied, "Oh, yeah, a weapon, right! Okay, no problem. Y'see, we don't wanna hurt the old guy. All we wanna do is scare the britches off him. So, how about this, I'll get a stick and hold it under my shirt? Y'know, like a gun." "Yeah, a stick," agreed Wink. "That's a great idea!" "I thought so, too," Wess replied proudly. A veil of doubt suddenly appeared on Wick's face. "Now what?" questioned Wess. "Well, its just that we don't have a car," Wink pointed out. "How are we gonna get to the Click?" "The same way we got here," responded Wess, "Zook." They'd just received the boot (You're fired!) from the Fit-Right shoe factory and were dragging their sorry, sad, weary butts along a single-lane blacktop toward, well, they weren't sure, they were too depressed to map out a specific destination. The sun was blistering hot!
"Oh, stop whining," said Wess. You ain't been doin' nothin' but bitchin', complainin' and punchin' holes in the air since we left the shoe factory. Just stop it! It's too hot for that nonsense!"
"Nonsense!" responded Wink indignantly. "Listen, pal, I ain't in no mood to be talked to like that. if you're not careful I'll (double jab, hook, straight right) lay one of these babies on your chin."
"I'd like to see ya try, big mouth!" replied Wess.
"Oh, yeah!?" countered Wink dancing, bobbing, weaving around like an escapee from Clown Town.
It was then Wess noticed the car approaching over the next rise, "Look," he said, "it's Zook!"
"Good!" responded Wink. "This heat sucks. Maybe he'll give us a ride."
Zook, at the tender age of thirteen, was involved in a "freak" accident from which he never fully recovered. It was caused by his odd habit of hiding behind trees, bushes, or hedge rows and lying-in-wait (sometimes, for hours) until the Good Humor ice cream truck cruised past. At the right moment, he'd leap from concealment and make a mad dash for the truck. Eventually, he'd catch it, hop onto the back bumper, grab hold of the freezer compartment's chrome handle and ride the truck through the neighborhood. With a little luck, he could catch the Humor at Elm and ride it thru the entire neighborhood: a distance of about two miles.
If the freezer wasn't locked, he'd grab himself a grape popsicle, ice cream sandwich, or a tutti-frutti nut bar: his favorite! Feet planted securely, licking away at his prize, he'd smile and wave at all the kids who came to watch him Ride-de-Humor.
On this particular day Zook, expertly camouflaged with adoring leaves and twigs, lurked calmly behind Ambush Ridge: a lush, green hedge row skirting old Mr. Durham's front yard, made his move as the Good Humor came abreast of Ambush Ridge on Elm. He l-e-a-p-e-d from his hiding place, raced for the truck, caught it, and jumped! With hand/feet coordination that'd make a professional gymnast proud, he landed securely on the bumper and simultaneously grasped the handle. Safe! Safe! He made it! A roaring cheer accolade arose from the many kids who gathered that day to watch.
Yep, everything was going perfect. It would have been just another typical ride with, perhaps, a tutti-frutti nut bar as Zook's reward.. .if it hadn't've been for the pothole. What began as a joyous, fun-filled ride, quickly turned into a disaster, then utter horror for Zook and his many loyal fans and spectators.
The driver, Mr. Kealton, must've been running late that day. No sooner had Zook planted his feet, the truck sped up to twice its normal speed.
Zook, seemingly fearless, in fact, appearing to enjoy the added speed, began smiling and waving. That's when the Good Humor hit the dreaded pothole. Zook's feet bounced off the bumper, he lost his grip on the handle and came crashing down on the asphalt.. .head first!
If his left pant cuff wouldn't have caught on one of the truck's up-right bumper guards, perhaps, it wouldn't've been so bad. But, it did. And, it was.
To the shock and horror of the kids watching, the back of Zook's head hit the asphalt with a SPLAT! loud enough to be heard (if you believed the Cooper twins) six houses away. Mercifully, Zook was immediately rendered unconscious.
Mr. Kealton dragged Zookie eight blocks before finally coming to a halt at the STOP sign on Oak. By that time, the adage, "Better late, then never," didn't seem to contain any worthwhile significance. The asphalt had chewed all Zook's hair off and most of the skin from his face: His ears, gone! Nose kaput! Lips, a mangled, bloody mass of torn, shredded meat. What few visible remaining teeth hehad left...were embedded in his cheeks!
But that, by no means, was the worst: Portions of his skull had been gnawed paper thin. In one place (the back of his head) the asphalt had eaten completley through. If you looked close enough (and some kids did) you could see Zook's soft, spongy brain.
Zook, no worse for the wear, emerged from Johns Hopkins Hospital six years later sportin' a cool new stainless steel wrap-around skull-plate reminiscent of a NHL goalie's mask.
As the car neared, Wess and Wink ran out in the middle of the road and waved to attract Zook's attention.
The 1956 turquoise and white Mercury convertible, with full continental, cruiser-skirts, mock spot lights, polished chrome moon disks, 357 horse powered Corvette engine, HURST 4-on-the-floor and a radio blaring Dion's, "The Wanderer," loud enough to be heard by deaf Monks in a Tibetan monastery came to a screeching halt just inches short of severing Wink at the knees.
"Shot gun!" yelled Wink dashing toward the passenger's side of the Merc. He jerked the door open and motioned for Wess to get in.
"Damn!" responded Wess expressing his disappointment in losing the beest (passenger's) seat in the car. Reluctantly, he got in.
"Where ya goin'?" inquired Zook as Dion on the radio sang about his many conquests.
"Slide over!" yelled Wink cramming in next to Wess and pulling the door shut.
"What?" hollered Wess.
"I said, 'Where ya goin'?'" Zook repeated.
"Slide over!" yelled Wink.
"I am over!" screamed Wess commiting the ultimate sin: he turned the volume down on the radio.
"That's not cool," said Wink.
"I couldn't hear what..." began Wess.
"Ya bummed out my tunes, man," snarled Zook. "You guys got any gas money?"
Wess reached into his pocket, pulled out a sawbuck, and shouted, "To the Manor we go!"
Zook smiled, juiced the radio volume to max (no doubt, pleasing those deaf Tibetan monks), pushed the clutch to the floorboard, shifted into first, then straight-legged the gas pedal. The powerful engine roared, the car shook, Zookie "popped" the clutch. As the Isley Brothers went into their rendition of, "Shout," the Merc's tires screamed ont he hot asphalt and, with its pilot and co-pilots pinnede back tight in their seats, the Merc launched itself toward the Manor.
"Yap," said Wink after giving serious thought to Wess' idea of having Zook drive'em to the Click. "I've gotta give it to ya, pal, you're a genius! An absolute genius!"
"Yeah, I know," Ness readily agreed. "What we'll do is lay low here until the Manor closes, then call Zook."
"Sounds good to me," replied Wink.
That's how they found themselves hugging an alley wall at 2:45am on a hot August morning in '6I.
They had decided to employ a basic military stratagem on this mission: the element or surprise!
"Can ya see him?" asked Wink.
"Yeah, I see'im," replied Wess peeping around a corner of the alley. "He's standin' just inside the door, next to a Coke machine. Not very big, is he?"
"Move over! Let me see," demanded Wink easing his head cautiously around the corner. "Old, too, ain't he?"
"R-e-a-l old," confirmed Ness. "Look at him! I've got shoes that weigh more than him."
"Maybe he's sick, or somethin'?" suggested Wink.
"Yeah, well, if he is," replied Wess, "he's gonna be a lot sicker after this."
"What time is it?" asked Wink.
"2:55," said Ness glancing at his Timex. "He should be closing up soon. Are ye ready?"
"Yeah, I'm ready," responded Wink. "Hope we don't have to hurt the old guy. Have ye got the ball-peen?"
"Yeah, right here," replied Wess lifting his shirt and revealing the hammer nestled in his waistband: the stainless steel head glimmered in the pale moon light.
"Okay," said Wink. "What's the plan again? Y'know, so we don't mess up."
"When he comes by," instructed Wess, "that's your cue to step out and say, 'Pardon me, Mister, have ye got the time?' When he looks at his watch, I'll creep up behind 'im, jam the handle of the hammer in his back, and yell, 'Stick'em up!'"
"Then what?" asked Wink.
"Then what?" repeated Wess. "Are ye retarded, or just plain stupid? We grab the money, and run like hell. That's what!"
"Don't talk to me like that," replied Wink. "You want one of these ("air" double jab, left hook, right cross) on your chin?"
Wess just stood there shaking his head, thinking as he watched Wink's clown boxing routine again, "boy-oh-boy! can I pick'em, or what? I'm the one with the ball-peen hammer, and he's dancin' around like Shirley "Ingemar" Temple tryin' to intimidate me ...! Ought'a pull this hammer out and..."
Suddenly, Wink's expression changed, "somehting" seemed to've caught his attention: a sound. He cocked his head in an atempt at focusing his hearing on the "what" and "from where" the sound was coming.
"What the hell are ya..." began Wess.
"S-h-i-s-h!" said Wink holding hp his hand and moving closer to the mouth of the alley, "Do ya hear that?" he asked.
Wess followed. He strained to hear. Sure enough, he did hear somehting: a stange "sawing" sound floated softly on the night air. "What's that?" he questioned.
"I don't know," commented Wink. "But it's coming from the Click. What time is it?"
"Damn! It's 3:23," observed Wess. What's going on? He should've been here by now. What's going on?"
From their position, they could see the gold geezer was no longer standing by the Coke machine. Stepping from the darkened alley, peering around the corner, they could see he wasn't nowhere to be seen in the pool hall either.
"Maybe you'd better take a look," suggested Wink. "But be careful."
"I'll be right back," replied Wess.
"You got the hammer?" asked Wink.
"Right here," Wess responded giving the hammer a couple of good, solid pats for assurance. He squatted low against the brick wall that'd lead him to the entrance of the Click.
The closer he got, the more prominent the eerie sawing sound became. Reaching the entrance, he cautiously peeped through the screen door. Nothing! Nothing, that is, except that odd sawing sound. The Click appeared vacant.
Rubber-necking the interier of room as he slowly rose from his hunched position, he noticed the shocking source of the mysterious "sawing" sound as his range of vision cleared the second pool table. "Christ on a handcart!" he exclaimed ducking quickly out of sight and dashing back to the alley.
"What? What?" asked Wink impatiently upon seeing the expression on Wess' face. "What the hell's goin'..."
"No, he's not!" replied Wink. "You're joshin'!"
"He's asleep all right," said Wess. "He must've dozed off while waiting to close up. Hell, ya know how old folks are. I once saw my grandpop fall asleep standing up!"
"My gramps did that last summer when.. ." began Wink.
"Never mind that," interrupted Wess. "This calls for a change in plans."
"What are we gonna do now?" asked Wink.
"I've got it all figured out," informed Wess.
"Yeah, somehow I thought you might," responded Wink.
"Just listen," instructed Wess. "He's conked-out in a chair between the first and second pool table. And, to make things even easier for Us, the old geezer fell asleep with his back to the door!"
"No!" expressed Wink.
"Yep," responded Wess. "Now, listen, here's what we're gonna do. I'll sneak up behind him. Ya know, just in case he wakes up. When I give ya the signal, r-e-a-l quiet like, you creep over to the cash register and clean it out. We'll be in and out lickety-split!"
"What if he wakes up?" inquired Wink.
"Good question!" responded Wess.
"Thanks," replied Wink. "But, how about it? What if he wakes up?"
"No problem," Wess assured. "I'll just bean 'im a good one with the hammer."
Wink's eyes squinted tight: a sure sign he was giving "serious" considering to Wess' statement. Momentarily, his eyes un-squinted: an indication he'd concluded the Thought Processing/Deduction mode and had reached a final decision, "You're a genus. An absolute genus!" he said.
"Yeah, I know," agreed Wess proudly. "Ya ready?"
"Let's do it," replied Wink.
Wess silently slithered-up on the old geezer who was, mouth agape, snoring with enough intensity to shatter ice. Squatting, Wess positioned himself directly behind his intended victim, pulled the ball-peen hammer from his waistband, held it above the geezer head and motioned for Wink to advance on the cash register.
Wink, on hands and knees, crept and crawled along the far wall til he reached the counter where the cash register sat. He then scurried behind the counter disappearing from sight.
Shortly, Wink's hair, eyebrows, eyes, then head emerged over the counter, next to the cash register. Eyes wide with fear and excitement, he peered in Wess's direction.
Wess, hammer poised over the old geezer's heed, mouthed the words, "Hurry up! Go ahead! I've got everything under control here."
Wink stood erect, side-shuffled to the cash register, briefly contemplated its mechanics, made a "what the hell?" expression, then hit the OPEN button. Nothing! Nervously, he looked toward Wess for guidance, and mouthed, "Now what?"
Wess, still holding the hammer in strike-mode, mouthed back, "Keep tryin'!"
Frantically, knowing BIG money was in there, Wink began pushing buttons, twisting knobs and pulling levers. All to no avail. Nothing! Zip! Flustered and desperate, he drew his hand back, made a fist and slammed the OPEN button with the heel of his hand, still nothing!
Again, Wink sought guidance. He leaned heavily on the counter, peered at Wess, and mouthed, "I can't get this damn thing open! Now what?!"
Wess, arm cramping from the death-grip he held on the hammer, mouthed, "Why don't you..."
DING! The cash register went off like a shotgun blast in the night. The DING! echoed and reverberated through the small room, bouncing off the walls and eventually was heard (according old Mrs. Garlingtion, who claimed to be asleep at the time) three blocks away!
The old geezer stopped snoring.
Without hesitation, lightening-swift, Wess brought the hammer down (hard!) on top of the old geezer's head... BOINK!
Likewise, without hesitation, lightening-swift, the ol' geezer SPRANG from his chair and began a'jumpin', a'hoppin', a'hootin' and a'hollerin' around the room vigorously rubbing his head in a futile attempt at relieving the obvious pain, "Awl! Ouch! Ooch! Oh, shit! Damn, my head! Ouch! Awl!"
It didn't take the old fella long (third or forth ouch, I believe) to notice Wink peering owl-like from behind the cash register, "What dat..ouch!...ooch!...awl!...are ya..."
Wink was frozen solid. Paralyzed with fear.
Whatever Wess was expecting to happen when he beaned the old geezer "a good one" with the ball-peen, fell w-a-y short of his expectations.
"Ouch!...Damn!...My head!...Awl!" continued the old fella as he danced, spun and rubbed his way across the room. It was when he came out of his fifth (or sixth, can't rightly recall) spin that he spotted Wess crotched down behind his chair, hammer in hand. And brother! instantly, it all came together for the old fella, "You little son-of-a...ouch!...I'm gonna...awl!...ouch...best the snot outta..."
Wess bolted for the doorway. As he cleared it, wihtout glancing back, he yelled, "RUN!" in hopes the panic stricken sound of his voice would startle Wink from his paralysis and inspire flight. It didn't: every joint int he young boy's body,f rom the floor up, was locked tigher than the blessed butt cheeks of a nun tossed over a prison wall.
Mr. Otto Poplopicus, agee 104, proprietor of the Click Pool Hall, 237 Eastern Avenue, was found dead early this morning by his aging father, Thaddaeous Poplopicus, age 119.
Baltimore homicide detectives are conducting an extensive investigation into this senseless crime. Any information leading to the apprehension and/or conviction of the perpetrator(s) will result in a generous REWARD.
One unusual aspect of the crime which, presently, have detectives somewhat baffled is the discovery of a large pool of urine on the floor beneath the cash register.
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