Cape Cod's Figure in Black, Page 4

  Just as he managed to flop onto the mattress, the ‘headquakes’ took full control of his body and began rolling him around like dough on a breadboard. Spasms pitched his body as if it were a live fish on a hot griddle. After a time, the tremors ceased. He slept the clock around twice before regaining his normal state of mind.

  Two days. For 48 hours, he had been prostrated; oblivious to the happenings on Cape Cod and in the wider world. But during this time, the ‘second sight’ visited him and when he awoke he knew what was going to happen in the village of Sandwich; as well as what he must do to help the town and its 1700 citizens.

  After a bath and a breakfast of bread and unsweetened coffee, John Deer made a few private telephone calls followed by a visit to the Sandwich Savings Bank. Then he walked to the factory of the Boston and Sandwich Glass Company. He inquired about Mr. James Davis and was directed to a first floor office.

  “Good morning Mr. Davis. I’m happy to see that you have the job of production manager. I have some things to discuss with you. I’m sure you don’t remember me but we met on the train at Monument Beach on the day you first came to Cape Cod.”

  Looking at the figure before him, dressed entirely in black with a wide brimmed hat framing a youthful, bearded face, Jim Davis quickly recalled their earlier meeting, “I do remember you. Mr. Deer isn’t it? We had a nice talk on the train and I remember you so well because you reminded me then, as now, of my uncle. He helped me finance my schooling in Boston. How are you?”

  “I’m well. I told you that I’d be around for a visit. I didn’t expect that it would be in the autumn, but summer came and went so quickly. Something has come up, Mr. Davis. “

  “Please call me Jim. May I give you a tour of the works?”

  “Perhaps another time Jim. That’s not why I am here today. There’s a very serious matter we need to talk about.”

  “All right then. How may I help you?”

  “Actually I am here to help you. To put it more exactly, I’m here to help the company. Let me explain. I have received certain information about the Sandwich Glassworks that you………….”

  John Deer was cut off in mid sentence when a young man burst through the office door with a look of panic on his face. Breathlessly he shouted, “We’re out of business Mr. Davis. The company has gone bust!”

  Under questioning, the man, who was in charge of the mail room, revealed that the office manager had just gotten the news that Charles Crown, the founder of the company had taken all of the firm’s capital and fled for parts unknown.

  There was panic throughout the firm. All production had ceased. Suppliers were telephoning company offices demanding immediate payment. Orders of raw material and supplies that were in transit were being stopped in mid route and sent back to the shippers.

  Employees who would be thrown out of work were desperate because they lived from paycheck to paycheck and there was no help for an out of work person in the early 1900s. The stock which had been trading in the nine dollar a share range had quickly fallen to fifty cents and was continuing to plummet.

  The entire economy of the village was dependent upon the glass works. The failure of the company would mean the failure of the town of Sandwich and perhaps even the entire island/peninsula of Cape Cod!

  A grief-stricken elderly woman, Davis’s secretary, hobbled into the office and moaned, “What are we to do? My whole life’s savings was invested in the stock of this company.”

  Dozens of workers said they would lose their homes. The situation looked bleak. It was reported that because of the impending failure of his business empire Charles Crown had secretly and systematically raided the operating funds of all his companies including those in Chicago, New York, Boston and Cape Cod. It was said that he was fleeing the country with two suitcases. They were not filled with clothes however, but with one million dollars in denominations of 20, 50 and hundred dollar notes.

  In Hyannis, inside the offices of the Cape Cod Recorder, the editors were speculating that panic on Wall Street could affect the whole nation. The chief of the financial news bureau reported that Crown’s despicable actions would result in more than five thousand people being thrown out of work, including the 500 in Sandwich.

  Forgotten amongst the turmoil was John Deer, the bearded figure in black. He said nothing as the intensity of the situation continued to build towards full blown hysteria.

  When he finally did start to speak, the dozen or so people in the production manager’s office, snapped to attention. There was something about the voice which shouted, though it was barely more than a whisper –

  “Listen to me, I have something important to tell you.”

  As if relating a bedtime story, he calmly continued. “I came here today because I just received the news of your plight. I wish I had learned of the situation sooner because I might have prevented it. Failing that, I am at least prepared to bandage the wounds caused by Charles Crown – who I know by another name. That does not matter to you, but here is what is important.

  “Jim Davis, my purpose in visiting you today is to inform you that I have made you the President of the Sandwich Glass Company!”

  Everyone looked at the mysterious looking figure in black, dressed as a preacher or an undertaker, or maybe a sailor; and immediately thought he was ‘touched’.

  “Thanks Mr. Deer,” Davis responded. “I don’t think you understand. Our employer has absconded with the funds. We’re out of business!”

  “Actually no!” countered John Deer in his patient, story-telling voice. “Before I came here today I called my broker and issued orders to purchase 51 per cent of the stock of the Glassworks as soon as the price dropped to ten cents a share, which it promptly did. I now own the majority interest in the factory and you are going to run it for me.”

  “But we have no funds. Supplies are being diverted from delivery. We can’t meet payroll,” Jim Davis hurled objection after objection.

  In answer, John Deer opened the brief case which he had been carrying and dumped the contents on Davis’ desk. Hundreds of brand new 10, 20, and 50 dollar bills floated down like a swarm of butterflies.

  “There’s fifty thousand cash there Jim. Use it for payroll, and use it to satisfy the suppliers. Get the newspaper down here and show them the money. Tell them that the Sandwich Glass Company, under the direction of the new President, Jim Davis, is healthy and open for business.”

  At suppertime when John Deer got back to the Newcomb Inn, the stock of the glass company had already rebounded from a low of seven cents a share to $5.75. Wall Street was predicting it would hit a high of $20 a share within a week.

  Examples of locally made glassware on display at the Sandwich Glass Museum in 2016

  Walking by the bar on his way to the dining room he noticed his friend Al Peters, the furrier, sitting by himself with several empty ‘highball’ glasses in front of him. John Deer thought of Peters as a good friend, especially since it was he who had introduced him to Emily Rapport.

  “What’s wrong Al? Why all those empty glasses in front of you? I’ve never known you to have more than two or three drinks in a whole evening.”

  “I’m ruined John. Remember that stock tip I gave you on Sandwich Glassworks? It just kept rising and I just kept buying. I’ve got 30,000 shares now. I invested every penny I had in that company and it went bust. At nine this morning, the shares were worth about 50 cents each and my broker said that there was almost no market to sell them. I’m stuck with them and right now they are probably worth about three cents apiece. I’m wiped out.”

  John Deer smiled, causing a desperate grimace that looked like a twisted horse-shoe, on his friend’s face.

  “No worries, Al. Calm yourself. I have good news. You gave me a stock tip when we first met and I said I was sorry I didn’t have one for you. Well I do now. Here’s the tip. Hold on to those glassworks shares because at the closing bell today they were worth almos
t six dollars a share and by this time tomorrow they’ll be worth 12!”

  The now joyous Al Peters sobered instantly at the magnificent news and decided to join John in the dining room where they had deep fried cod, broiled bay scallops, boiled lobsters, oiled and vinegared salad, and steamed hard shell clams – or Quahogs, as they are called in New England.

  Tired from his busy day, John went straight to bed right after dinner. As his eyes closed he wondered if his work in Sandwich was complete and if tomorrow would find him moving on down the line.

  He did not have long to speculate. It started with a tingling feeling, like a worm walking along the scar-line of his forehead. The tingle became a tapping and then morphed into a thumping, as a full blown migraine started brewing up a tempest inside his head.

  His vision dimmed. Suddenly, he had thoughts that reminded him of a song. He kept thinking and then singing to himself…‘E-I-E-I-O’, ‘E-I-E-I-O’ – Like Old McDonald, the nursery rhyme, but different.

  He sang the song, but with strange lyrics that burst into his head ….

  “Old con man meant to harm

  E-I-E-I-O,

  With a lie here, a cheat there,

  and some stealing everywhere.

  Old con artist stole the farm :

  E-I-E-I-O”

  E-I-E-I-O, E-I-E-I-O, E-I-E-I-O? What did it mean?

  His mind started to clear. He saw a listing of names – names that fit the rhyme.

  “Carmine – that’s the E.”

  “Giovanni – that’s the I.”

  “and Bartolomeo is the O!”

  The names ended in E, I, or O.

  Further, he realized that the three most common Italian last names (Gallante, Ricci, and Russo) all end in E, I, or O. He said to himself, ‘That’s the E-I-E-I-O! But what does it signify? Do I know these people? Did I know them before my traumatic brain injury? I have a dim memory of boats crossing oceans and streams of people from the ‘old’ country flooding into Ellis Island in New York City.’

  He speculated that possibly he might be an E-I-E-I-O, wondering, ‘Could I be a Gallante, a Ricci, or a or perhaps a Russo?’

  John struggled through the night with the headquakes and the body shakes. By morning the nocturnal battles had left him exhausted – but empowered with new knowledge.

  He knew the meaning of the E-I-E-I-Os. He even knew how they related to what he must do. Further, he knew the real identity of Charles Crown who had absconded with the funds of the businesses. He also had learned in his nocturnal suffering, where to find Crown and that it was the E-I-E-I-Os, who would capture him.

  Chapter Six”:

  The E-I-E-I-O People

  Bartolomeo Russo estimated that his day’s take was over 100 flounder. For September it was a good catch. Fishermen in Salem and Beverly made most of their money from May through August. September and the months beyond, until the cold weather kept them from working their craft, made the difference between just getting by, and having some of the finer things that the brand new 20th century had to offer – automobiles, ice boxes, moving picture shows, telephones and more.

  “Meo” (pronounced May-o), as he was called by his friends and family, had his eye on a 1910 Tin Lizzie. Tersolo’s Horseless Carriage Sales on Rantoul Steet by Beverly Harbor, had new ones for $800.00. He could never expect to amass that much money but if he had a good season he might be able to come up with $400 and that would get him a good, used one.

  He brought his fish to the dock where he sold them and then went home to clean up and get ready for his date with Colleen O’Brien. The Cabot Theater’s new Vaudeville line-up for the week was being headlined by the singing duet of Mike and Marge, fresh off the Palace Circuit in New York. Meo had purchased two seats in the exclusive ‘reserved’ front row section.

  A quick bath got rid of the scent that identified him as a North Shore Fisherman and a fast shave scraped away the dark facial growth that gave his youthful face a look that was a little too hard for the gentle smile that he usually carried. He tried to comb his thick, curly, dark hair but as customary it defied the attempt and splayed out in all directions like a clump of wildflowers.

  Selecting his best pants and shirt, he dressed quickly. Running down the stairs, he was ready to go out the front door when he was stopped.

  “Hey little brother, where you going?”

  “Oh hello Carmine, I’m going out on a date. What do you want?”

  “No little brother. You are not going out on a date,“ Carmine replied as he was joined by three other older brothers; Giovanni, Antonio, and Lucciano.

  Known in every neighborhood on the North Shore of Boston as the E-I-E-I-O boys, the Russo brothers had locked up the steam fitting and construction business in the area so tight that very little work was done without their involvement. They ran a clean, efficient company. Their prices were scaled to the customer. Beacon Hill swells had to pay dearly for their work, while the poor people paid just north of nothing. The E-I-E-I-O brothers ran the territory, not by force, but through hard work and fair dealing. There was one area however, where they had a blind spot.

  Being fiercely proud of their royal Sicilian heritage, they did not believe that any of their ‘line’ should be marrying or even dating any person whose last name didn’t end in E, I, or O. (and sometimes ‘A’, as in Accetta or Saltalamacchia.)

  Thus it was that when Carmine heard that his little brother ‘Meo’ was going to squire an Irish girl named Colleen O’Brien to the Cabot Theater, he knew that he and his brothers had to intervene.

  Being the oldest living Russo brother, Carmine spoke for the group…

  ”Meo. We forbid you to see this Irish girl. We have told you before that our people do not mix with their people. Go back upstairs. You are not going anywhere tonight.”

  “I’m 22 years old and I’ll do as I please. I like Colleen. I think maybe I even love her. I’m going now and you can’t stop me.”

  Lucciano moved forward to speak. At 30, ‘Lucca’ was the second eldest. He was also the biggest and strongest. Of the five living Russo brothers he was the only one who did not have thick, black curly hair. He was completely bald and looked as smooth and streamlined as a bullet. ‘Lucca’ never sought trouble and never backed off from it.

  He was known as the fiercest fighter between Providence and New York City’s ‘Little Italy’. He once served as a sparring partner for the living giant, Jess Willard. Willard, the heavyweight champ in the early 1900s was over six and a half feet tall and weighed more than 250 pounds! ‘Lucca’ who was 5’9” and just 180, stood toe to toe with the boxing king and never gave an inch.

  Jess Willard was so strong that he could kill a man with a single punch - even with a padded glove on – sadly this was proven in the ring during a championship fight. Willard was charged with murder. He was not convicted, but never had the same zeal for fighting afterwards – later losing his crown to Jack Johnson in a title bout in Havana.

  That 45 round ‘war’ in Cuba was co-promoted by Jess McMahon who was both a boxing and wrestling impresario. In 1915 in Long Island, he formed the original pro-wrestling circuit that became the WWE – one hundred years later it was still in business and being run in the 2000s by his grandson, Vinnie McMahon, Jr.

  Lucciano stepped in front of Carmine and made ready to ensure that the will of the brothers was carried out - “Meo, you said you like this girl and perhaps even love her. Are you willing to take a beating for her? If you can last three minutes with me, I will stop bashing you and let you go out on your date. Is this what you wish?”

  At 5’7” and 145 pounds the slender Meo was the least likely of the E-I-E-I-Os to get involved in fights of any kind, let alone one with a brother he had witnessed in victorious action many times. He was frightened, but determined. He strode right up to his big brother and said – “There’s nothing wrong with Irish people Lucca. If you want to beat me up, start wailing. I’
ll not run and I’ll not hide.”

  Lucca snarled. Whipping his right hand around with the speed of a greyhound, he thrust a head snapping backhand to the face of the little brother who crumpled and was splayed on the floor by the force of the strike.

  “I can’t hit him again,” said the bigger man, stricken with regret. “Carmine, you’re going to have to do it.”

  “Are you getting soft Lucca?” queried Carmine. “He’s defying us. We have to teach him a lesson. I’ll take care of this!”

  He stomped over towards ‘Meo’ who had regained his footing and was squared up to his full height, ready to take the next thump.

  Carmine, sharpening his aim with a few shadow punches, was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. Telephones were still fairly uncommon and their summons generally brought everything else to a halt, as was the case in the house where the five Russo brothers lived with their Mother and Father.

  “Hey Pop, answer the telephone,” yelled Carmine to his father who was in a second floor living room reading the La Vita Italiana (The Italian Life) newspaper.

  “No Carmine. Am-a no spik-a the English too good. You talk-a onna the telephono for me. Okay. Sta bene? – it’s a good, no?”

  “Hello. This is the home of Russo Steamfitters and Construction Company. Carmine speaking, may I help you?”

  Thus began an extraordinary phone conversation. After it was over he told his brothers…

  “It was a guy called John Doe – I mean John Deer. He said he doesn’t know us and it’s very hard to explain, but he’s offering us $50,000 to go to Salem Willows in Meo’s boat and catch a crook who stole a million dollars!”

  “It’s some kind of a joke,” declared Lucca. Giovanni and Antonio quickly agreed.

  “He told me to go to the bank tomorrow morning at eight, and there will be a one thousand dollar down-payment in cash, waiting for us if we take the job. I said “Sure mister. We’ll do it.”

  John Deer had explained during the phone call, the whole story of the robbery by the man calling himself Charles Crown. He revealed that Crown’s real name was Cardenio Collucci. He was chased out of Italy for the same reasons he was now being hunted in the United States.