WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE FRENCH?
~A Novella~
Hector M. Rodriguez
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination and/or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
~Dedication~
My dad was a great practical joker. This one is for him. For teaching me not to take life so seriously. It’s only life after all.
Thanks Dad.
~
To all the Joe French’s out there. I think you know where you are.
“First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.”
Mahatma Gandhi
Acknowledgements
This Novella was two years in the making. I have so many people to acknowledge; David Horning, Dr. Melvin Greenblatt, Marion Whitney, Dr. Simon Johnson, Fred Hickman, Dr. Gerald van Belle, Curt McCann, Gene Stemmann, Jerri Marler, Dr. Johanna van Belle, Kay Novak, Jim McPherson, Dorothy Mclean, Maggie Johnson, Marilyn Singh, Marion McKinsey, Beth Brody, Ed Brody, Simon Rodriguez, Phillip Fishner, Phyllis Pearson, Richard Raymond, Sandy Horning, Roberta Beck,Victor Bracht, N.Lee Prince, Sarah Roome, and so many others. Thank you for your time and critical words of wisdom. You are writers of wonderful stories and friends of Joe French, whether you wanted to be or not! Thank you for your friendship. Keep writing!
Special thanks to my family. Thank you for letting me run crazy ideas and thoughts by you. Thank you for your questions and looks of total confusion when I would ask about something and you would have no idea of what I was talking about or thinking. You all are my rock and my life. You are my oeuvre.
HMR
THE PUZZLE
Hidden throughout the story are 33 clues to the puzzle of “What Happened to Joe French?” If you solve the puzzle successfully, the clues will lead you to an exact location. You will not have to travel to the location, only be able to identify it. It is a physical location and the clues, once deciphered, will reveal a name. This is where you will find Joe French. The first person to send the exact location and succinctly describe how they arrived at the solution will receive the 33 ingots of gold (~2 pounds), referenced in the story. Once you have solved the puzzle, send your result to Seiko141@gmail.com with the exact location in the subject line. You will be contacted if you are correct. Once the puzzle is solved, the solution will be posted on the author website at Seiko141.com. Visit the site for updates, blog posts, reader forums and additional books by the author including:
Stories from the Camino de Santiago
The Legacy of Papasito
Creeks and Streams
What Happened to Sam Snickers?
CHAPTERS
~1~
The Package
~2~
The Counselor
~3~
The Confession
~4~
Young Joe
~5~
The Paperwork
~6~
The Private Captain
~7~
Top Secret
~8~
281’s- Special Requisitions
~9~
P.J. Clarks
~10~
The Money
~11~
“Sitting by the Dock of the Bay”
~12~
“Billy The Kid” Stratton
~13~
Marilyn
~14~
The Cab Driver
~15~
The Gold
CHAPTERS – Continued
~16~
Wives and Lies
~17~
The Fire
~18~
Psychology 101
~19~
The Capture
~20~
Choices
~21~
Sitting in Prison
~22~
I Know You’re Out There Somewhere
~33~
Epilogue
~1~
THE PACKAGE
I was bouncing pool balls off the edges of the table, calculating the direction the balls would travel and for how long. The pool table was in the center of Uncle David’s Cantina. Aged cigarette burns scarred the plastic fake wood edges of the table in several places. It cost 25 cents to play a game. The pool balls were dirty and chipped in a few places. Several small tears and stains of spilled beer marred the green felt table top, but it didn’t seem to bother the patrons. Most of the customers were chipped and scarred in some way. They all seemed stained, and scarred with the accidents of life.
It was July 10, 1966. I watched the Orbiter 1 launch from Cape Canaveral that day. The destination was the moon. I was at the Cantina that day, watching on a black and white T.V. I was almost eight years old. I remember it was hot that day. It was always hot in July. I use to imagine the small lizards that scurried around carried small umbrellas for protection from the brutal sun. The South Texas humidity stifled the air. It felt thick and heavy like wearing a wool winter coat in a sauna. A dust-laden ceiling fan spun sluggishly in the center of the bar, but didn’t help much.
Uncle David’s Cantina was kind of a seedy place with worn wooden floors, swinging wooden bar room doors painted black, and rusted screens on the windows. It was on the lower westside of San Antonio, around the corner from our house on 16th Street. It always smelled like popcorn, sawdust, beer, and sweat. I remember my uncle served ice cold cans of Lone Star Beer, short brown bottles of Falstaff beer, Pearl beer in brown bottles, Budweiser in cans, bottles of Coca-a-Cola and Fanta Orange soda. He opened the place at noon and closed at midnight, every-day of the week, even Sundays. He always had customers. He used to tell me people drank in good times and in bad times. The bar itself was old and part of the family since he was a small kid. His father opened the bar in 1918, while World War II was winding down. A large oval mirror hung in an ornate wooden frame over the bar. It was broken during a fight years ago. A Mexican craftsman carefully sculpted the frame of delicate wooden roses, decades earlier. The faces of customers appeared deeply carved with oldness. Their hands calloused and dry, almost fossilized because of manual labor, burned dark by too much sun.
My uncle’s old Wurlitzer jukebox cost a nickel to play a song of choice. Stashed inside was an array of music including songs by Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Johnny Nash, Fats Domino, Little Richard, Hank Williams, and a few Mexican love ballads. A blues tune played through worn crackling speakers while two dusty construction workers nursed cold beer that day.
Uncle David was my after-school sitter and I hung out at the cantina over the summer. I liked my Uncle David’s place. I was allowed to drink a Coke a day. That was my pay. Both my parents worked long hours. I’d typically spend my afternoons and weekends helping him by sweeping, stacking cases of empty bottles, smashing empty cans, playing pool or reading comic books to stay out of the way. One of my parents, usually my dad, came to get me in the evening or I would run home about dinnertime.
Mom worked at K-Mart in the clothing department. She made sure my older brother and I wore good clothes. What we could not afford, she made on a singer sewing machine. It buzzed and whirled all the time. Dad worked at Sears and Roebucks selling Maytag washers and dryers, Fridgeair refrigerators and Kenmore stoves. “Major appliances every household needs” he said. He worked on commission. I didn’t understand what commission was back then. They were 9 to 5er’s. They worked steady jobs.
Joe French strolled into Uncle David’s Cantina that day. It was the first time I remember seeing him. When Joe came in, he and my uncle embraced with a strong hug. Joe bought everyone a round of drinks including me. It was the first time I remember a stranger buying me a Coke. That was special and I liked Joe right off the bat. My Uncle called him a big spender, and I wanted to be his little amigo. It seemed Joe and my uncle needed to talk about a lot of stuff. I drifted back to the pool table and then outside to catch lizards.
This was the earliest recollection of meeting Joe French. He was a mere thread of a man, wire thin and I never forgot him. He popped up repeatedly during my youth. I would be riding my bike and see Joe on a street corner. He always waved as though he were some long lost friend. Sometimes, he yelled out to get my attention and motion me over.
We talked about all kinds of things. Joe frequently shook his head, laughed and winked at me. I remember him saying, “Kid, you would not believe the shit I did when I was younger and how gullible people are. You keep peddling and try not to get into any trouble. But if you do, you better learn something from it.” Those wise words have always lingered in my memory. Learn from your mistakes.
One time, Joe told me about serious thoughts of suicide. This was a weighty conversation, a grown man talking to a kid about killing himself. I don’t believe he ever got to that point, but if he did, he could have accomplished the task in numerous ways. He always carried a gun for one. It was a .38 Colt revolver; a “Police Positive” six shooter with pearl handgrips he said he bought in a pawnshop. Joe wore a different suit and tie every day of the week, or so it seemed. He kept the pistol strapped to his leg, beneath the knee, above the cuff of his creased slacks. I remember when he showed it to me. It was the first real gun I ever saw. It looked like a toy until he let me hold it. It was heavy.
I don’t think he worked a steady job. While I was riding my bike with my friends, I would see him hanging out on the streets most of the time. He carried a money clip and it was always full of folded bills. He said he didn’t owe anybody anything and he liked it that way. Within a few months, Joe became a fixture in the neighborhood and stayed in a room in a house a few doors down from our home.
I clearly remember hearing Uncle David talking with his customers. They told dirty jokes, caught up on neighborhood gossip, and talk about girlfriends and wives. They cussed a lot. Usually in Spanish. Whenever he spoke with Joe, it was in a hushed voice. They tended to whisper to each other a lot. I never paid much attention to what was being said.
It was apparent he knew Uncle David from somewhere. They must have been good friends at some time in the distant past.
Everyone liked Joe instantly. “Give someone something free and they keep coming back for more, like stray cats.” is what he said. Joe was friendly, always smiling and he wore strong cologne. It smelled like smoke. One time, I watched Joe drink 151 proof rum shots one after the other and it didn’t seem to faze him. He just leaned to the left a little more than usual. He was generous and frequently bought rounds of drinks for new friends
A twitch in his eye was a bit more pronounced when he drank. It was like a Turret’s Syndrome reflex or tic. It was a curious trait. His left eye displayed a severe and noticeable twitch or spasm. The eye would begin to flutter for an instant then an involuntary wink would happen and the left side of his face would contort. It was as if he were telling you a secret and winking to make sure you knew he was telling you the truth. It made you feel you were the only one in on it. At least that is how it looked to me. It was creepy, and I would recognize the spasm anywhere.
One time Joe said he was in prison. Fort Leavenworth, Kansas was his home for a short while many years ago. He said it was the worst time of his life. Living in an 8 x 10 ft. cell was excruciating. It drove him crazy, until he escaped.
When he talked to me, I never knew when to believe him. The odds against such stories being true were astronomical, but even if what he said was made-up, it was one heck of an adventure. Some of the stories seemed too outlandish to be real.
He was an odd man but over the years, I grew to like him. He became part of the neighborhood family. Joe played the alto sax, piano and sang songs on Saturday nights at my uncle’s bar. I remember he played lots of jazz and blues tunes. His voice was deep, smooth and rich voice like Otis Redding when he sang.
Joe was the first adult to talk to me like I wasn’t a kid. He taught me how to swindle a few dollars from unsuspecting shop owners. It was my thirteenth birthday. Joe pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his money clip on which was written the phrase “Happy Birthday from Uncle Joe” with a blue ink pen. He said, “I am going to go into the Woolworth store, purchase some socks and pay with this twenty-dollar bill. You wait here till I get back”. A few minutes after he left the store he came back and said, “Go in and purchase some candy with this five-dollar bill. Before you walk out of the store, turn to the cashier and complain you have been shortchanged. The cashier is going to say no you were not. Then you really start complaining and yelling you paid with a twenty-dollar bill your Uncle Joe gave you for your birthday. Tell the cashier the birthday wish was written on the bill. The cashier will look in the drawer and sure enough, there is the twenty-dollar bill with a birthday wish. You get to keep the cash.” According to Joe, this was my birthday present. I did as he said. I got to keep the cash. The real gift was the swindle, not the cash. Joe gave me the art of the scam.
Joe was smart. He told me, “Never tell anyone about the scam and always remember people are gullible. They will believe just about anything. Give them a reason to think it could be true. If it’s in writing it’s even more believable.” This would be our secret. Joe said it worked almost every time, “Just don’t go to the same store twice.” he warned and only involve someone you totally trust. For some reason Joe trusted me.
Joe French vanished one day. He was gone without a word or trace like a gentle gust of wind. Once I realized he was missing I asked around, but no one knew or heard anything. It was the first time someone I knew disappeared. As a teenager where I grew up, that was a damn strange thing. I asked my uncle if Joe said anything about leaving. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Some things are better left alone.”
About a week after Joe disappeared, someone called the police. They investigated the area, searched his room, asked a few questions but never found a clue as to what happened. He was gone.
I often wondered what happened to Joe French. I wonder if Joe decided to move on to another city and lived a productive normal life. I thought he may have got a job in another town, but I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure.
Joe was smart and he was always making new friends. People seemed to like him and trusted him. I can’t remember any deep relationships like girlfriend or any family. Joe never spoke about any parents, brothers, or sisters. He was a loner. It seemed his closest friend was my uncle David. It was apparent they trusted each other. I was not sure when or how they met, but I think it must have been while my uncle was in the Army back in the 1960’s. With Joe, everyone was an acquaintance. He skipped across the surface of life, like a perfectly flat stone thrown across a still pond.
It was many years later my brother called and said he found a package addressed to me, at the Cantina, in the safe. Uncle David did not trust banks and kept everything of value in a large steel safe in the closet of his office. The office was always cluttered with stacks of invoices, random books, Playboy magazines, and travel brochures. It smelled of stale beer, popcorn and cigarettes. A collection of old beer steins from Germany formed a ring around his office on shelves near the ceiling. The steins were covered with dust and cobwebs and never moved. It was like they were frozen in time. I’m not sure why my uncle collected travel brochures; he never went anywhere I could remember, except for a short stint in the Army in the early 1960’s. I remember he spoke about that time occasionally. I was living in Portland Oregon when my brother called. I asked him to send the package as soon as he could.
My uncle must have forgotten about the package and after he died, the family decided to closed the bar. They were in the process of selling the property and cleaning out his office and found it. It was tucked on a back shelf in a back corner of the safe. The safe was always a mysterious and ominous cavern when I was young. My uncle trusted my brother and me with the combination in case anything ever happened to him. I figured if the package was something truly important, my uncle David would have told me.
It arrived a week later by Federal Express and sat on the dining room table for several days. When I finally decided to open it, I noticed it felt surprisingly heavy. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied tight with several strands of kite string. The handwriting was faded but you could tell it was addressed to me. As I cut the string with scissors the old brown wrapping paper crinkled and started to fall apart in my hands. Peeling back the packaging, I found an envelope intentionally slid in the top fold of the package. It was evident it was not part of the original parcel. It was addressed in simple handwriting to my uncle. The return address, written in pencil, was smeared and faded. It looked like it said California. The postmark was dated January 24, 1972, with an eight-cent stamp with an image of the multi-colored Olympic Game rings. As I opened the letter and read it, I realize it was from Joe French to my uncle.
It was a short letter and in it, French said he was living in Beverly Hills. He went on to say he was well, working as an extra in a movie called “Lady Sings the Blues”. He was staying out of trouble and changed his name. He was thinking about trying to direct a picture in the next year or so. The letter ended with French inviting uncle David to come see him if he could. The last line of the letter read, “You’re my best friend.” It was signed “Joe.”
As I continued to peel back the paper wrapping, memories of stilted and hushed conversations between my Uncle David and Joe came rushing back. An image came to mind of the two speaking quietly and then laughing. A slight ting of cigar smell wafted up once the wrapping of the package was removed. Under the wrapping was an array of old military standard forms in triplicate with carbon copy-paper attached. They were all blank and yellowed with age. Under the small stack of forms was a cigar box, a Cohiba 1966 Edición Limitada wooden cigar box from Cuba. The box was interesting because that particular cigar was considered one of the best of all time. It was the one Fidel Castro preferred. The box itself was rare.
When I opened the box, I found a black and white photograph with two men in military uniforms standing with two attractive young women. A sign above the foursome read “Lebrun, Germany”. I recognized the two men. One was Uncle David and the other looked like Joe French, tall and lanky. Under the photo I found (time to buy my book!).
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