Wiggy smiled.
“See,” he said, “I got a way with words.”
The three boys picked Johnny up and carried him across the long grass, past Joe Mackenzie’s house toward the well. When they reached the well they dropped him on the ground.
“Why’d you drop him like that?” Frank pushed Wiggy back as he knelt beside the sleeping bag. “He banged his head. What if you killed him?”
“My arms were getting tired,” Wiggy responded, straightening out his trousers. “And we didn’t kill him. And don’t go pushing me like that. I don’t take shit like that.”
“Will you guys shut up!” Terry cried. “Did anyone bring a rope?”
“Tell him to apologize!” Wiggy insisted.
“Fuck your feelings, Wiggy. Did you bring a rope?” Wiggy shook his head. Terry turned to Frank. Frank dropped his eyes.
“Shit! You guys are totally useless. Look around. Maybe there’s something we can use.”
The boys fanned out. Johnny continued to squirm in the sleeping bag.
A few minutes later Frank gave a shout and returned to the well with a long rope. Wiggy bent over Johnny and checked the ropes binding the sleeping bag.
“Shit! He almost got himself loose.”
“I thought you said that it would take him a couple of hours to loosen those ropes,” Terry demanded, pushing Wiggy aside as he knelt over the sleeping bag and tightened the ropes around Johnny.
“It’s been a long time since I was a boy scout,” Wiggy said in his own defense. “And I warned you guys about pushing me.” A few minutes passed before Terry was satisfied that all the ropes were secure. He attached the new rope to the binding.
“Okay,” Terry said. “I tied the rope around college-boy. We’ll slowly lower him down the well so he doesn’t break his neck in the fall and then we’ll drop the rope down. He should be loose by the time old man Mackenzie comes home from work.”
“This has got disaster written all over it,” Frank said, shaking his head.
“Are you sure that rope is long enough?”
“There’s got to be a hundred feet of rope there,” Wiggy cried. “Plenty of rope. Trust me.”
As the three boys lifted Johnny up onto the edge of the wall that surrounded the well, he continued to squirm.
“Quit squirming, asshole,” Wiggy insisted and punched the sleeping bag.
Frank and Terry grabbed the rope as Wiggy nudged the bundle over the side. The body began to slowly descend into the hole, each boy releasing inch after inch.
“Shouldn’t we have reached the bottom by now?” Frank cried.
“Almost there,” Terry responded.
“Man, my arms are getting sore,” Wiggy added. “Johnny’s heavier than he looks.”
“It’s slipping!” Terry cried.
“Hold it!” Frank added.
The boys gripped the rope trying to slow Johnny’s descent. Their hands burned as the rope raced through their fingers. And then it was gone.
Missing Persons
Hank waited patiently for his blueberry pie. Several customers stood at the cash register paying their bills and talking to the waitress. Margaret smiled warmly as she handed back their change. Then she turned to the kitchen and picked up several plates and confidently moved across the room and delivered them to another table of guests. When she returned to Hank, she apologized.
Hank sipped at his coffee. Margaret remembered the pie and moved over to a nearby refrigerator.
“Been looking forward to this all morning,” Hank said. “Do you pick these berries yourself, love?”
Margaret smiled as she slid the pie onto the counter in front of Hank.
“Is it always this busy here?” he asked.
“You should have been here an hour ago. I’ve never seen such a break-fast crowd like that before. A lot of cops. Something’s going on at the Mackenzie farm. And wouldn’t you know that this is the day the boss decides to go golfing.”
“You don’t have any other help?”
“Susan comes in mornings. But one of her kids is sick. She’s useless anyway. Screws up all the orders. But the boss likes her. Thinks he’s going to get a little action on the side. Four kids and the boss thinks Susan’s got time for a little dalliance. Men are such optimists.” Hank began to eat his pie. Shaking his head with delight, he smiled as he washed down the pie with a swallow of coffee.
Margaret took an ashtray out and set it on the counter.
“You don’t mind?”
Hank shook his head and continued to eat his pie. When he finished he pushed the plate aside, wiped his mouth with a napkin and sighed.
“Wonderful,” he said with a smile. “A pie like that deserves some kind of prize.”
Margaret drew deeply on her cigarette and slowly let out several smoke rings. Hank sipped at his coffee and watched as the rings rose toward the ceiling and dissipated.
“You lived in this area all your life?” he asked.
Margaret nodded. “Mostly,” she said.
“Do you know a woman named Mary? I’ve come in here a few times with her.”
“We were school friends,” Margaret replied with a nod. She kept her eyes on the other customers and on the front door. “Still good friends.
She’s told me about you.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Hank said with a laugh. He sipped at his coffee then reached over to the sugar container and poured some more into the cup.
Margaret smirked.
“What do you know about her ex-husband?”
“Nothing,” Margaret replied. “And if I knew anything I don’t think I’d be telling you. Why do you want to know about Mary’s ex?” Hank finished his coffee and asked for a refill. Margaret got the coffee and an extra cup for herself. She filled both.
“Did you ever get an itch,” Hank explained, “and the more you scratched it, the bigger the itch got?”
Margaret raised her cup to her lips. She did not respond.
“I’m a writer. Maybe you’ve seen my articles in The Sun. Crime stuff.
Always looking for material.”
“So you’re a writer,” Margaret said with a shrug. “Mary didn’t tell me that. She thinks you’re some kind of private eye.” Hank laughed and almost choked on his coffee. “Me a dick? In a way, I am an investigator.”
Margaret shrugged as she sucked on her cigarette.
Hank continued. “Maybe you don’t know, but most of this land was owned by Timothy Eaton. He used the produce from the farms, mostly apples, pears, and rhubarb, to stock his downtown stores. In 1950 a man named Shipp bought most of the land and began to clear the farms in this area to build low-cost housing for middle class families, the families of soldiers who had returned from the war and were working the factor-ies and warehouses. The houses were built on the assembly line model.
Similar projects were initiated in other surrounding areas of the city-Scarborough, Don Mills, North York. It was a great housing boom.”
Margaret stared at Hank, tapping the ashes of her cigarette into an ashtray.
“Fascinating,” she said with an air of indifference.
Hank smiled. “I’ll try and get to the point. A lot of statistics were kept in those days. Hydro, tax records, the police, the census. Maybe it was the aftereffects of the war. Everyone wanted to know everything about everyone. While browsing through all of the paperwork, I noticed that the Six Points area had a disproportionate number of missing persons.” Margaret, who had been keeping an eye on her other customers, turned to Hank. She put down her cigarette.
“Got your attention?” Hank smiled.
“Continue,” Margaret said.
“It started shortly after the Shipp homes were finished. Large numbers of people moved into the area. People started to disappear. Husbands, wives, kids, people just passing through. A young fellow who read gas meters disappeared one day on his route. Foul play was suspected but no one was ever arrested. A couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses were reported missing. A little girl went swimming over at Memorial Pool. She was seen going into Central Park. That was the last time she was seen. Other cases were reported to the police, written up as husbands running out on 119 their families, or teenage runaways, or people avoiding their debts. Not every case was reported to the police.”