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Sincerely,
(Signed) Shep
Bell was familiar with the powder plant, a sprawling factory he had often seen from the Broadway Limited on the Pennsylvania Railroad’s main line between Altoona and Harrisburg.
“Dear Shep,” he wrote back,
So much for hunches. That Russian neck shot gave me a feeling the powder was from Germany or Russia. Next time you’re on Fifth Avenue, let me buy you a drink of strong tea.
Warm regards,
(Signed) Isaac
• • •
ISAAC BELL hurried from the Sayville train station to a one-story white clapboard building that had Ionic columns supporting a wide triangular pediment in the Greek Revival style. Lettering carved in relief and painted black read:
THE SUFFOLK COUNTY NEWS
Under his arm were several recent editions of the Long Island weekly he had ordered up from Van Dorn Research. He went inside and spotted his quarry, a retired private detective named Scudder Smith. Smith was wearing shirtsleeves, banded at the elbow, and a red bow tie. He was behind his desk, reading a long yellow galley that reeked of wet ink.
Bell said, “The Research boys found me your stories about rumrunners. Spellbinding.”
Smith looked up, dropped the galley, and jumped to his feet. “Isaac! How in the heck are you?”
“Scudder.” Bell shook his hand. “It’s been too long.”
The two men cast keen eyes on each others’ faces.
Bell, Smith thought, looked as youthful and robust as ever despite the years and the war that had marked so many. Smith, Bell thought, looked like he hadn’t had a drink in years and consequently was much less gnarly than when last he had seen him.
“What are you doing out here?” Scudder asked. “On a job? . . . Wait a second. How did you know I was here? Newsies don’t hawk the Suffolk County News on the sidewalks of New York.”
“Mr. Van Dorn’s wife showed me the note you sent to the hospital.”
“How is he doing?”
“He’s hanging on. Left me in charge, and I’ve got my hands full trying to keep the agency afloat. But I do know that he hopes there are no hard feelings.”
“Hell no. Getting fired for over-imbibing was the best thing that ever happened to me. Sobered up. Married the girl of my dreams. Helen promptly inherited the paper. So I’m back in my original business, writing news. Beats mixing it up with thugs half my age. And I don’t have to hang out, drinking burnt coffee, in the criminal court pressroom. I walk home for lunch with my beautiful wife, write what I please. I’m even a pillar of the community. You’ll love this, Isaac. They made me an Odd Fellow, a Moose, and a Mason, and the fellows starting a Lions Club asked me to join them, too.”
“Doesn’t it get a little quiet?” Bell asked. As a reporter turned detective, Scudder Smith had been famous at the Van Dorn Agency for knowing every street in the city, every saloon, and every brothel. And there was no better guide to a Chinatown opium den.
Scudder said, “Quiet? Not since Prohibition.”
Bell nodded. “I got the impression sniffing the air it’s been greeted with open arms. I smelled more booze on the sea breeze than salt.”
“Half the town has fired-up home stills. The only ones who don’t smell booze cooking are the cops.” He picked up the galley. “This is my editorial about cops seen treating chorus girls to supper in expensive roadhouses. I don’t know who’ll read it. The entire South Shore is having a ball.”
“Does your wife work on the paper?”
“She can. Practically ran it for her dad for years.”
“So I heard.”
“You heard? What do you mean?”
“Could she take over for a while?”
