June 2014
The flatbed semi-truck lumbered down Route 23, just south of Mellonville, the WIDE LOAD banner flapping in the evening breeze. Dave, the driver, proceeded cautiously, looking for the correct turnoff. It was getting late, and he hoped to deliver his load and be back home in Shippensburg before dinnertime. He found the turnoff, a narrow two-lane called Dockstock Mountain Road, made the turn and downshifted, then headed up into the hills.
Dave was nervous. He had been told the address he was delivering to had the space to unload the items under the tarpaulin on the back of the truck, but there was no sign of even small industrial facilities out here. The last one he’d seen was the old P-Rite factory about ten miles back, and that place looked like it had been unoccupied for thirty years.
He was also nervous about the vicinity in general—Kerian County had a bad reputation in central Pennsylvania. Weird things happened there frequently. The farther he went, the more nervous he became. The trees encroached closely on the road, which became narrower and more winding the farther he went. He slowed down and took a look at the clipboard on the seat beside him. The address was 20256 Dockstock Mountain Road, with instructions reading: exactly 3 mi. past Rte. 23, on right, look for mailbox. He had pretty much gone that far already, and he certainly didn’t want to overshoot the mark; turning the rig around on this road would be almost impossible. He kicked on the high beams and proceeded at a crawl. Ahead on the right he could see a faded gray mailbox with stick-on numbers 20256 and the name W. Snyder. Above the name was a hand-lettered wooden sign reading Military Antiques. He looked up the driveway—it was narrow and the trees grew together overhead to form what appeared to be a leafy, green tunnel. It seemed unlikely he would be able to get the truck through it. He stopped and put on his four-ways.
Dave pulled out his phone, consulted the clipboard, and dialed the number listed for the recipient.
“What?”
“Uh, hello. I’ve got a shipment here from the Shippensburg DOD logistics depot for a William Snyder. Is that you?”
“’Bout fuckin’ time! Where are you?”
“At the end of your driveway. I was told there would be space to turn my rig around at the facility, but it doesn’t look like the driveway’s big enough to get up, much less turn around.”
“Don’t be such a wuss. The driveway widens out after the first fifty feet and there’s plenty of space to turn around at the shop. Now get it in gear, Rubber Duck. You got a crane on that rig, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Get going. I’ve got shit to do.”
The call ended and Dave stared at the phone. He didn’t like being here, and he definitely didn’t like being called a wuss. All of the bad things he’d heard about Kerian County seemed like an understatement.
A Ford F-150 rolled up behind him, flashing its high beams and honking. Dave waved him around. The guy in the F-150 rolled slowly by, flipping him off. Dave shook his head, put it in gear and turned into the driveway.
Billy Snyder watched the flatbed make its way up the driveway. He was well past sixty now, almost completely bald and with an ever-growing paunch he couldn’t seem to get rid of. His doctor had said it was just what happened as the body aged. Billy thought that was bullshit. The quack also told Billy he should exercise more and cut back on the beer. Billy knew that was bullshit. He still ran five miles a day, rain or shine, and there was no way he was giving up his beer. Maybe Billy had a few (or more than a few) cans every evening, but the last two decades had been hard on him. He needed to be able to unwind.
No time to grouse about it now—there was work to do. He waved the truck over to the front of the workshop, went through the insanely complicated paperwork that came with the military surplus shipment, and instructed the truck driver to unload the cargo onto concrete pad by the workshop.
Dave got busy, removing the canvas tarp from the flatbed. It revealed a strange object that looked like a giant metal spider. In the center was a flat disc with a hatch in the back. On either side of the disc was a stout metal arm that supported three long metal tubes with various flanges, brackets and geegaws arranged along the length.
“What the hell is that thing?” asked Dave. “I’ve been delivering military surplus for damn near a decade, but I never seen anything like that.”
“It’s an FU-69 Mind Your Own Fuckin’ Business.”
Dave pursed his lips to respond, but the grim look on Billy’s face changed his mind. “Fine,” he said quietly and hopped up on the flatbed to work the crane. In short order, he had unloaded the strange object, given Billy’s paperwork a quick once-over, and took off. Fortunately, it was easy enough to turn around and get his rig back on the road. He drove a little fast but managed to make it back to Shippensburg in time for dinner.
Billy checked his watch. His best client would be here soon, but the client was also a little nosey. Billy wanted to have his new acquisition under cover before he showed up. He dragged a huge blue tarp from the workshop and draped it over the object, then weighed it down with cinderblocks. He was just putting the last one into place when he heard a car turn off the road and onto the driveway.
Billy waited at the top of the driveway, standing at parade rest. Even though he had been drummed out of the Constabulary twenty years ago, he still wore a dark blue uniform shirt (without insignia, naturally) and khaki trousers. He watched as a red Maserati Merak approached. A man with sandy hair sat behind the wheel. The passenger seat was occupied by a medium-sized monkey. In the tiny back seat, there were at least two more monkeys. Billy could see their heads popping up and down like critters in a Whac-A-Mole game. They actually seemed pretty well-behaved, but Billy didn’t care. The monkeys stayed in the car whenever this client came to visit. The car stopped; the engine revved and shut off. Billy waited while the driver addressed the monkeys individually, then emerged. He was six foot six and wore a pair of glasses so ugly they must have cost thousands. He was dressed in plain-looking khakis and a blue-and-white button-down shirt, both from Brooks Brothers.
Billy stepped forward and extended his hand. “Mr. Schmidt,” he said. “Very good to see you again.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Billy. I’ve told you a hundred times: call me Ronald.”
“Yes, of course—Ronald. Old habits die hard. I spent my career being deferential to the Top H … er, the top members of our community.”
Ronald Schmidt hated the name “Top Hats,” mainly because most of Fester’s upper crust had turned on the Schmidt family. They no longer had the social status they’d long enjoyed. Ronald was now second in line to the family fortune, after his aunt Ophelia. Ronald’s younger sister Thelma Louise was the family’s sole saving grace. She was active in the local arts scene and gave generously to Fester’s charitable organizations.
These three were the last of the once-great Schmidt dynasty in Fester. Shortly after the events of the Night of the Mill Fire, Ophelia had engineered the buyout of Cecilia Schmidt. Rumor had it that there had been a duffel bag full of cash, and possibly an incriminating sex tape involved. Regardless of the details, Cecilia had taken the money and quickly disappeared into the desert Southwest, which had bothered absolutely no one in town.
What had bothered many people was Ophelia’s eventual decision to sell the entire Schmidt Pretzel Bakery to one of their hated rivals in Hanover. Some of the other Schmidts had put up a determined resistance, and an intra-family war had ensued. In the end, Ophelia prevailed—aided by some convenient hunting accidents, heart attacks, and one flat-out disappearance. The rest of the Schmidts, seeing the writing on the wall, backed Ophelia’s plan. Certainly, they were enticed by the huge payoff promised by the Zut Brands, Inc. buyout. In the end, Zut had bought the company, modernized the bakery—and laid off half the workforce.
The Schmidt name had been dirt after that. The bakery had been the largest employer in town, and many folks now blamed the Schmidts for selling out their livelihoods. As a result, most of the Top Hat Schmidts had taken their checks and headed off to sunnier climes. There were still dozens if not hundreds of shirt-tail Schmidts still around, but nobody cared about them. The last of the Top Hat Schmidts in Fester were Ophelia, Ronald, and Thelma Louise who spent most of their time ensconced in the mansion at the top of Morningwood Promenade.
And they still had plenty of money. Or at least Ronald threw it around like he had an unlimited supply. Billy was hoping to relieve Ronald of some tonight.
“Well, come on in,” said Billy. “I have some prime merchandise I’ve been holding back especially for you.” Billy led Ronald into the front room of his house.
Billy’s house was threadbare but neatly kept. His military and police sense of orderliness had not left him—even though his wife Rose had done so as soon as he had been removed as chief constable. The place was modest, but better than the dump he’d rented in Kugels after the divorce.
“Have a seat,” said Billy. “Can I interest you in some Glenlivet?” He kept a bottle of the top-shelf stuff for special clients—and Ronald was pretty much the most special of all the clients he had.
“No thank you, Billy. Think I’ll pass tonight.”
Billy breathed an inward sigh of relief. He’d seen Ronald Schmidt drunk, and it wasn’t pretty. He was nice enough to deal with when sober, but after even a single drink, the man could turn arrogant and angry. Billy really wanted a beer but decided it could wait. It was time for his show, and he wanted to keep a clear head.
“Okay, Ronald,” said Billy. “Our first item is in amazing shape. Like new, really.” He reached into a large leather case on the coffee table and pulled out an ornate helmet with a wicked-looking spike on the top. “A genuine Prussian pickelhaube, circa 1870. See this insignia right here?” He pointed to an emblem on the visor consisting of four arrows arranged with their points touching so they formed a cross. “These indicate the helmet’s owner was a member of the Johanniterorden, the personal guard of Otto von Bismarck.”
Ronald stared raptly at the helmet. “May I touch it?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Billy, and he carefully handed it over.
Ronald handled it as if it were a baby, stroking the cross emblem with his thumb. “Do you think…” he said. “Do you think this might have belonged to von Bismarck?”
“Unlikely, sir,” said Billy. “I’m sure I would know if it belonged to him. It was, however, worn by a member of his personal guard, so I think it’s safe to say this helmet was in the presence of the great man himself, although not actually on his head.”
“Wonderful, wonderful,” said Ronald. “How much?”
“Well, I could probably go online tonight and sell this for ten thousand dollars. Maybe even fifteen—it’s in such wonderful condition. For you, Mr. Schmidt, I’ll let it go for eight thousand dollars.” Billy knew it was a fake—he’d paid $450 for it and buried it in his backyard for a week to make it look aged.
Ronald scrunched up his face. “Hmmm, no. Four thousand.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Billy skeptically. “I couldn’t see taking less than six for this priceless piece of history.”
“Okay, then—five thousand.”
“Done,” said Billy. Ronald smiled and placed the helmet next to him on the sofa. Billy continued. “Next, I have a collection of Civil War bayonets, both Union and Confederate. Admittedly, some are a little corroded, but they’re all in good shape. And they have a certificate of authenticity from Sotheby’s.”
So the one-man auction went. Billy paraded an array of military antiques—some genuine, some bogus—to his best client. He knew better than to completely rook the man. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that Ronald would have these items appraised. More likely, Ronald might know some other rich, eccentric collector who would be able to spot the fakes. Billy wasn’t too concerned. Ronald, like his aunt and sister, was a recluse. As far as he knew, Billy was the only other person in the area who had personal interaction with the man, excepting perhaps the odd delivery or repair person.
By the end of the evening, Billy had sold the Prussian helmet, the bayonets, a British cavalry sword from the Crimean War, and a rusted metal gauntlet said to have been worn by a French knight at the Battle of Agincourt.
“Well, all together that comes to…” Billy made show of totting up the numbers in his head. “Twelve thousand, three hundred dollars. Let’s just call it an even twelve thousand, shall we?”
“Very good,” said Ronald. He pulled a huge roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and began counting them out. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said. “I want a gun.”
“Certainly,” said Billy. “I have an amazing replica of a Mannlicher-Carcano just like the one used by Lee…”
“No,” said Ronald. “A real gun. No replicas.”
“Ah,” said Billy carefully. “Mr. Schmidt, I do hope you realize the local authorities are aware of my business enterprise. Not two months ago a deputy came by to check up on me. I don’t have any functioning firearms available. Too much liability.”
Ronald’s face darkened. “Oh, bullshit!” he exclaimed. “You must have something. You are hardly the only dealer around here, you know.” He made a show of returning the bills to his roll and moving to put it back in his pocket.
Billy was torn. On one hand, Ronald was by far and away his wealthiest and most gullible client. The money he was preparing to hand over was going to go a long way towards underwriting the special project Billy had going in the workshop. And Billy did have a number of functioning firearms—not all of them legal.
Sensing he was about to alienate a major cash cow, Billy thought fast. He didn’t want to provide Ronald Schmidt with a functioning firearm, but he also didn’t want him to leave with his entire bankroll. “Well, Mr. Schmidt,” said Billy slowly. “I do have an item that might be of interest to you. I had promised it to a Japanese businessman who has a particular interest in its time period. But . . . Wait here, please.”
Billy disappeared into his back room and returned with a wooden box. He laid it on the coffee table and reverently opened it to reveal a tarnished revolver. “This,” he said somberly, “is a British Webley .455 Mark VI. It was used in the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich.” Only the first half of the statement was true.
Ronald’s mouth opened slightly. “Operation Anthropoid?” He gave Billy a sly look. “So, this pistol killed the Butcher of Prague?”
“No, of course not,” said Billy. “It was a grenade that took out Heydrich. The Czech commandos had a Sten gun, but it jammed. The grenade wounded Heydrich and his driver, but at first, they were able to fight back. This revolver was used to kill the driver. It’s a top-break revolver. You open it by pressing this flange and folding the barrel and cylinder down.” He picked up the revolver and opened the frame. “Solid piece of hardware. It kicks like a mule, though.” He closed the revolver and handed it Ronald.
“Wow,” said Ronald softly, his eyes running up and down the gun like he was eyeing a pinup model. He opened the revolver again and held his eye up to the barrel. “Yes. I must have it. How much?”
“Welllll,” said Billy with feigned reluctance. “Mr. Sakimoto is going to be very disappointed that I won’t be able to deliver this as promised. But who would I be to put the interests of some Jap over those of a respected member of my community? The price is steep, however. I couldn’t part with it for less than ten grand. I suppose Sakimoto won’t want to do business with me after this.” He shook his head at the thought of losing the patronage of the imaginary Japanese businessman.
“Tell you what,” said Ronald, gesturing at the pile of quasi-authentic memorabilia with the Webley. “I’ll give you twenty thousand for the whole shootin’ match.”
Billy chuckled politely. “Whew, you drive a hard bargain, Ronald,” he said, figuring the stuff was worth three thousand dollars, tops. “But since you’re such a good customer—and a local—I’ll accept.”
“Great! Great!” Ronald pulled out his dog-choking roll of bills and began counting them out. “Do you have any ammo for this?”
“Afraid not.” This was the only reason Billy deigned to sell Ronald the pistol. He knew .455 ammunition was hard to come by. He hoped Ronald would get distracted before he could get his mitts on the ammo. At this point, Billy didn’t particularly care—twenty grand was going to go a long way towards financing his special project. He just wanted to get the cash in hand and see Ronald Schmidt on his way.
“Shooty’s Gun World down on Fifth might be able to order it for you,” said Billy. “If not, I know a place in Las Vegas that would be able to get it. That place has everything.” This was absolutely true, which is why the BATF had raided the place and shut it down two years ago. He got out his address book and scrawled down the address and phone number.
“Here you go,” said Billy, handing over the contact info as Ronald gave him a thick stack of bills. “Let me get you a duffel to carry your treasures.”
Out in the driveway, Billy watched as Ronald carted his loot back to the Maserati. The monkeys, seeing him coming, went nuts. The big one in the front seat began thwacking the dashboard with its meaty hands, producing loud thumps. One of the little ones in the back seat tried to climb into the front, but the big one shoved him back. A fight ensued, and Ronald yelled, “Knock it off, you guys!”.
And they did.
He stowed the duffel in the tiny trunk, climbed in, and spent some time talking to the monkeys before starting up the sports car and driving away. Billy watched the taillights disappear into the trees, then headed back into the house. He wanted to get online and start spending the cash he had just received. The only major parts he needed now were an engine and a transmission. The engine should be easy to find, the transmission less so. Billy wasn’t particularly worried; he knew people who knew people.