Every Man for Himself. Mark J. Hannon

looking at them.

      “C’mon, dummy, outside with this,” Herb said, whereupon they hurriedly went through the heavy metal doors, out onto the lot where the morgue wagon was parked.

      Johnny had noticed that the bodies didn’t have money or jewelry on them, and he had heard that the cops sometimes didn’t inventory the personal possessions too carefully. He figured that they split up the stuff with the wagon men, or if the police were either sloppy or honest, the wagon men got all of it. If the body had family, the body usually went to a funeral home, but if it came to the morgue, it was pretty much fair game.

      The only time Johnny got a shot at any of the swag was when a ring or something was stuck and he had enough time to work it off when no one was watching. He had a small box of stuff—a few rings, a bracelet or two, and a necklace—that the wagon men had missed, stashed at Babka’s house in the coal bin, where no one would ever find it. The problem was turning it into cash. The pawn shops could figure out it was stolen and would give you next to nothing for it. Somehow, he had to find a fence that would give him some value for the stuff.

      CHAPTER 14

      BUFFALO, 1931

      Johnny smelled the next body way before he came into the dissecting room and saw it— the unmistakable sweet odor of the dead, this one reeking of urine and alcohol, as well. The wagon men said he’d been found in a rooming house full of old drunks on Carolina Street on the West Side, lying in bed, a church key bottle opener tied to a lanyard switch hanging from a naked light bulb. He’d been there for a few days, the tenants oblivious, but the landlord noticing. He not only stank, but there were maggots crawling under his clothes like a moving bed of rice. The medical examiner came in, took a look around the body, read the report, wrote a few notes, and told Johnny to go ahead. Between the maggots and the smell, Johnny was still a little queasy around this body, and delayed the medical examiner by striking up a conversation so he wouldn’t be alone with the corpse.

      “Say Doc, see these maggots on him,” as he cut away the stained sport coat and shirts that were layered and stuck to the body. “What happens with them?”

      “Well, most of them turn into flies and go on to bigger and better garbage. If they’re not disturbed, the flies’ll come back and plant more eggs there, and they’ll turn into maggots that keep eating the body until there’s not much left. If there’s nothing left, and they get real hungry,” he added, “I guess they start eating each other.” Then he left, and Johnny hurried, dumping the clothes that smelled of booze and old piss, and hosing the bugs and dirt off the old man who, in his last days, looked like Johnny’s father.

      CHAPTER 15

      BUFFALO, 1933

      Johnny sat in the hallway around the corner from the morgue, far enough away so he wouldn’t smell the bodies or the formaldehyde during his break. He reached into his shirt pocket, found his pack of Chesterfields, and ripped off the remainder of the top to get at the last of the smokes. Finding nothing but a few flakes of tobacco, he looked up at the cigarette machine farther down the hallway and thought about buying a pack, even if they were more expensive here than at the store. He sat back and put his hand into his pants pocket where he kept his change. Shaking the coins around in his hand, he came up with two nickels. Shit. Where to get a nickel fast? he thought. The last body. The man had some change in his pocket when they took the clothes off him. He’d tossed it into the big envelope where they put all the rest of the dead man’s effects. The clerk hadn’t inventoried it yet. Perfect. As he jumped up and hurried back into the morgue, he thought, Hell, the wagon guys who pick up the body snatch stuff off these stiffs all the time. You just gotta be smart about it and not grab stuff the family’s going to be looking for later. Kind of an advance on his pay, he chuckled to himself as he picked out a nickel and a dime from the envelope.

      When he came back out, a guy had the machine open and was stuffing packs of cigarettes into the slots. Johnny watched him as he quickly filled the machine, and then pulled out the metal box where the coins accumulated. He poured the coins into a canvas bag and knotted the top.

      “Hey,” Johnny said, as the vendor went to pick up a cardboard box on the floor. “Can I get a pack from you before you lock it up?”

      “Sure, kid, what flavor?”

      “Chesterfields.”

      “This is your lucky day, kid.” He pulled a loose pack out of the cardboard box. “I got one left over that wouldn’t fit in the machine. Just gimme a dime and they’re yours.”

      “Thanks,” Johnny replied, eyeing the canvas bag of change. “You makin’ any money these days at this?” he asked, indicating the cigarette machine with a match before he lit up.

      “Ahh, not like before the crash, but juke boxes and cigarettes are still doin’ all right.”

      “Say, you need any help? I can count, fix stuff, load machines up, if you need a hand.”

      “Ah, I handle all that stuff, pal. Tell you what though. I need someone sometimes to help move the machines around, if you think you can handle it. It’s not real regular, but if you got a phone . . .”

      “Sure, I got a phone.” The old couple that ran the deli downstairs from his room took messages for him on the pay phone as long as he helped unload deliveries.

      The vendor pulled a pencil from behind his ear, and Johnny found a scrap of paper in his pocket. He wrote down John W, and the number on it, then wrote Helper and underlined that.

      “This is me,” he said. “If I don’t answer, just leave a message and I’ll call you right back. You pay in cash?”

      “That’s the way this business operates, kid. Strictly cash. I avoid a lot of paperwork that way; keeps things simple.” Putting the pencil back behind his ear, the vendor looked at Johnny and put out his hand. “I’m Walter, kid. I’ll give you a holler if I need you.”

      “John Walenty. I’m available any time I’m not here, just give me a call,” Johnny said, hoping Walter would. He liked the idea of cash money with no taxes taken out, and wondered how close an eye this Walter guy kept on his inventory.

      CHAPTER 16

      BUFFALO, 1935

      “I know it should be here. He always carried his pocket watch with him.” Shit, Johnny thought, the guy didn’t look like he had any family, as shabby as he dressed, or I wouldn’t have copped the watch. He put his hands in his pockets and tried to slide down the hall to the exit like he was going for a smoke when he spotted Doc Woldman standing in front of him, arms crossed in front of his white coat.

      “Johnny, come over into my office for a moment, please.”

      The bald headed bastard knew. He’d been watching me lately. Shit.

      Once inside the office, Doc quietly said, “Close the door, Johnny.” When Johnny did, the pathologist said, “You know why you’re here, Johnny. Empty your pockets, please. Inside out.” Johnny dumped a couple of dimes, a few pennies, a half pack of cigarettes, a box of matches, keys to his building, and a couple of toothpicks. He tried to palm the watch, but the doctor spotted the chain between his fingers and shook his head.

      “Johnny, it isn’t just that you’re stealing. That watch might be the only thing that woman has to remember her father by when he’s buried. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? You’re not going hungry. You haven’t got a family to support. How could you do such a thing?”

      Johnny shrugged. The hell with this, he thought, just get it over with.

      “Have you got anything to say, son?”

      Johnny stared at his shoes.

      The doctor shook his head again, and said, “You’re fired, Johnny. Give me the watch and get your stuff off my desk. I’m going to have one of the orderlies go with you to your locker and check it for other things you might have there that’ve been stolen. Consider yourself lucky I don’t call the police.”

      He