The Clown

by Gary R. Hoffman

“How you figure this place stays in business anyway?” Ray asked as he looked around the small café.

“Beats me,” I said. “I was here maybe three years ago, and it still looks the same. They sure don't spend much money on renovations.” I looked out the large picture window facing the main street of Kelso. The sun was sun shining, but it looked misty out. “I don't think they spend a lot on window washing, either.”

The Rosa Hotel had a sign over the check-in counter that said, “Serving Kelso and travelers since 1919.” From the amount of sleep I had gotten the night before, I was pretty sure my bed was one of the original 1919 models.

Now on this sunny Saturday morning in May, four of us were gathered around a wobbly table in the hotel café trying to wake up. It wasn't a real difficult job because the coffee was one of those two-handers—it was strong enough it would take two hands to push a donut down into it if you wanted to dunk it! And I wouldn't bet against the donuts being stale enough that you would have to dunk them to eat them. I was leaning towards their Kelso Special for breakfast. Bacon, eggs, hash browns potatoes, and a biscuit with gravy.

The four of us had run into each other before when we had been sent out to cover a story. We all worked in crime reporting for our newspapers, and all our editors loved places like the Rosa Hotel for one reason. They were cheap. As well as most of our editors.

Eddie picked up his cup of coffee and walked over to the main window. “You ought to see this out here,” he said. We all followed him, knowing we'd have to figure out something to report since the reason we were sent here probably wasn't going to happen. “Ya think the FBI is here?” Eddie snickered.

Kelso was a small town in north Missouri . The town limits sign listed the population at 2372. They still had a Main Street that looked like it probably did when the hotel was built. Wal-mart hadn't found them yet. There was a smattering of new vehicles on the street, but they were far outnumbered by dusty pick-up trucks. What Eddie was referring to was about thirty brand new, black stripped-down Chevys with whip antennas on the back fenders. All of the guys getting out of them were wearing brand new coveralls, white t-shirts, and tennis shoes. They stood out like a dandelion on a lush, green mansion lawn. “What'd they think?” Tony asked. “I thought my editor was a little dingy sending me up here to see if Fisher was gonna show up today, but I didn't figure the FBI would think he'd be here.”

The town was having a homecoming celebration. Enid Fisher was the most notorious person ever to grace the city limits of Kelso. He had formed a group that became known as Kelso's Raiders to defend America when the communist invasion hit the shores of this country. The members had gathered a rather large stash of weapons, most of which were illegal for the average person to own. Now we're not just talking machine guns here. We're talking about hand held rocket launchers, anti-tank weapons, and most anything else that was portable.

Fisher's farm had been raided by the feds, and he was arrested and sent to jail. But, Enid didn't take well to being incarcerated, so, somehow, he found a way to walk away. That was ten years ago, and he was still at large. For some reason, known only to the FBI and our editors, someone thought he was going to show up for the homecoming celebration today. Maybe they all had had some sort of underground intelligence that we didn't have, but that was another bet I wouldn't take. So, we were all sent here just in case Mr. Fisher decided to join the parade of farm wagons being pulled by John Deere tracters going down Main Street a little later this morning.

We all returned to our table, shaking our heads. “Dumbest thing I've ever seen,” Ray said.

“What I can't figure is why they think some top ten guy on the FBI's list is gonna show his face at a homecoming celebration,” Tony said. “Criminals aren't sentimental about things like that.”

“Wouldn't make that kind of a blanket statement if I were you,” I told him.

“You think some criminals are sentimental?” Tony asked.

“Absolutely,” I said and signaled for the waitress to bring some more coffee.

Eddie looked interested. “Name one,” he said.

“Simple. Salvatore Ricca.”

He leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Salvatore Ricca?”

Tony leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “Who's Salvatore Ricca?”

“Ah, you young guys,” I said. “Those were the good ole days, or so I'm told,” I said.

“No, really, who was he?” Tony pushed.

“One of the worst sons-of-bitches you'd ever want to run into,” Ray answered. “Actually, I never wanted to run into him. Never did either. Counted myself lucky.”

“So what'd he do?” Tony asked.

“What didn't he do?” Eddie said.

I finished stirring the sugar and cream into my cup of coffee. “Sal Ricca got the nickname of The Icer for one main reason. He never, never, hired anyone to do his dirty work for him. When he had someone he wanted iced, he did it. He seemed to love to kill.”

“And you say he was sentimental?” Tony asked.

“There was one holiday Sal never missed going to see his mother and father.”

Eddie wrinkled his forehead and squinted his eyes. “You sound like you knew him personally.”

“I know him personally! He's still alive. Retired to some island in the Caribbean .” I held up my hand to stop the next question before it was asked. “And I ain't gonna tell you which one.”

“So how'd you get mixed up with Sal?” Ray asked.

I thought for a second trying to figure out how much to tell them. “It was too many years ago to count. I was a cub reporter for the St. Louis Globe-Democrat . Had huge gahoons then, thought I was invincible. Anyway, everyone around St. Louis knew Sal ran all the mob action in the city and the East Side in Illinois , but no one could ever pin anything on him.

“Bet he had some of the best alibis in the world,” Eddie said.

“Yeah, he did play a lot of cards with several of his cronies on nights when crimes were committed. Anyway, I decided to follow him one time. He was leaving a night club in East St. Louis , a place called The Purple something. Can't pull the name right now. So I'm waiting in the parking lot, trying to see what he's going to do when he leaves. Looking back, it was really a stupid idea. One of his men spots me, and he comes walking over to my car. I gotta tell ya, I about crapped my pants. He motions for me to roll the window down. He pulls his cigar out of his mouth and asks me who I am and what I'm doing there.”

“Were you doin' a lot of praying?” Ray asked.

“Bunches. So I tell him I'm Earl Sachs, and I'm a reporter for the Globe. I figured he already knew who I was, so lyin' could only make things worse, although I wasn't sure how much worse things could get than the situation I was in. He laughs and says to the guys with him, ‘He's a reporter.' Then he turns back to me and reaches inside his coat. I thought for sure he was pullin' out a gun. He hands me a cigar and says, ‘Well, look sonny reporter, why don't you go report some real crime? Paddy O'Connell whacked Councilman Hopkins and put his body in a warehouse on Washington Avenue . Schaffer's Moving Warehouse, I think. Everybody's been wondering what happened to Hopkins . There's a scoop for you.' Then he turns around to leave, but he stops.”

“Holy shit!” Tony said.

“He looks me straight in the eye and says, “You don't remember where you heard this information, and now you owe me one.” Then this limo pulls up, and he's gone as quick as he got there.”

“Why would he do that?” Eddie asked.

“Near as I could figure, Paddy O'Connell was starting to make some noise and rattling things like he might try to take over from Sal. It was really Sal establishing another alibi because he knew I would run with the story. It was the break every young reporter dreams about, and Paddy would be put away.”

“So what did you do?” Tony asked.

“I did just what he figured I'd do. I ran with the story. I was getting front page coverage with my own by-line. It jump started my career.”

“Man, I hope I get a break like that,” Tony said as he looked at the floor.

“As I recall, Paddy did get put away for that one,” Ray said. “Am I right?”

“Right on the money,” I said.

“But what's all this got to do with the guy bein' sentimental?” Tony asked.

“That's another part of the story,” I told him. “Just give me time. Two years later, to the day, I hear a knock on the door of my apartment just after dark. I open the door, and Sal's standing there. He hands me something wrapped up in a rag and says, ‘Get rid of this for me. I don't work holidays.' He turns and walks away. That's it. That's all he says.”

“So what the hell was in there?” Eddie asked.

“A gun. A gun I was sure was hotter than a fresh fucked fox in a forest fire. I had no idea what I was going to do with it. I paced the floor most of the night. I kept waiting for the police to show up. During that time, it dawned on me this was a test. He was seeing if I'd keep my end of the bargain. I figured if I didn't, he'd be telling some other reporter where they could find my body.”

Tony was almost jumping out of his chair. “So how'd you get rid of it?”

“I took every piece off of it I could. Completely disassembled it. I cleaned all the parts so no fingerprints would be anywhere on it. The next morning, I went down to one of the places that rented boats and went fishing on the Mississippi . Now, this is December 10 th . It's cold as hell. The guy who rented me the boat is staring at me like I'm some kind of a nut. But, he gets his money, so he doesn't ask any questions. I go out on the river and start fishing, but I'm dumping parts of the gun as I go. A couple hours later, I come back in with no fish and no gun. I stopped at some restaurant on the way back and got a large bowl of chili to warm up my insides. I got back to my apartment expecting to see the police there, or somebody, but that was the last I heard about it.”

“So what about this holiday?” Eddie asked. “I ain't ever heard of no holiday on December 9 th .”

“Well, I started checking into that myself. Went all the way back to when Sal was born. He was born in an area of St. Louis called Dago Hill at the time.”

“Whoa!” Tony said. “Dago Hill?”

“It was an area where most Italians settled when they came to St. Louis . Most people just call it The Hill now. Still got places that serve some of the best food on this planet. Sal was born right down the street from where Garagiola and Berra grew up.”

“Ok, stop again,” Tony said. “You're tellin' me that Joe Garagiola and Yogi Berra grew up close to each other?”

“Right across the street from each other. Played baseball together when they were kids. Sal's parents just lived a few houses down. Anyway, the Riccas ran a bakery. Had pastry you'd kill for. Once a year, on December 9 th , which is National Pastry Day, they'd open up their bakery and give everything away as a gesture of thanks to their patrons. It was a really big deal on The Hill. Sal adopted that as his holiday. Both times he talked to me, it was on December 9 th . That might have saved my life the first time. The second time, he just didn't want to be caught with that gun on him. As far as I could find out, there was never any other family gatherings in the Ricca family except on December 9 th , especially after the feds were trying to find him. The celebration would be moved every year, too, but he still saw his parents on every December 9 th until they both passed away. Right after his parents died, Sal left the country. He knew the feds were closing in and it was just a matter of time.”

“So how'd you find out about this island thing?” Tony asked.

“He still calls me every December 9 th , like clockwork. We talk about things going on in St. Louis ,—he has the Post-Dispatch mailed to him everyday—he wishes me happy holidays, and hangs up. He may be a king-pin in the world, but he still knows where his roots are.”

We all sat silent for a few minutes. “This is gonna make a great story,” Tony said.

“I ever hear any of this repeated anywhere, I'll call Sal and tell him who you are and where his people can find you,” I told him.

Tony had a sheepish grin on his face. “You wouldn't really do that, would you?”

“Want to take the chance?”

We heard music playing outside. The twenty-six piece Kelso High School marching band was leading the parade. We stepped outside the café to get a better view of the parade. There was a clown playing havoc with members of the marching band. He was getting lots of laughs.

“Wouldn't it be funny if Enid Fisher was in that clown suit?” Eddie said with a chuckle.

We all looked at each other and then started walking down the sidewalk to follow the clown.