Beginnings: Actor and Wheeler
Terry entered the kitchen and was surprised to find Actor up to his elbows in soapy dishwater. The expression on his face was a mix of disgust and abject sadness. The girl walked up to stand beside him.
"If you don't want to do that, I can do it," she said. "It was nice of you to volunteer, but it looks like it bothers you a lot."
Actor shook his head. "I'm sorry, Teresa. It just has bad connotations for me."
The girl wondered at that odd remark. Washing dishes had 'bad connotations'?
"Well, I would appreciate help with the drying and I'll wash, if you want."
Actor paused and debated. He set the dishcloth on the sink and moved over to dry his hands on the dishtowel before picking up the first glass. Terry moved over to the sink of soapy bubbles and began washing.
"So what's with washing dishes?" she asked curiously.
The man ignored her and concentrated on one glass as though lost in thought. Terry figured it was another time she would not get an answer. After a minute, the voice that spoke to her was low, as though he did not wish to be overheard.
"It was Alcatraz," he said.
If she had been a cat, Terry's ears would have perked up. The con man rarely talked about his time on the Rock and then only with Craig.
"The first year I was there," began the Italian, "I asked for special duty and was assigned to the kitchen. For twelve hours a day, seven days a week, for one year, I washed dishes. It is cold and damp on the Rock. My hands stayed red, chapped and cracked."
Terry could not picture the elegant man with the manicured nails doing this for an entire year. "You said you requested special duty. Couldn't you request a different kind of job?"
Actor shook his head. "The only other job was in the laundry. And those jobs were all filled." He glanced at her and quickly away. "I was a fish. I had to start at the bottom."
"Fish?" asked the girl. "I'm not familiar with that term."
It brought a small smile and another glance. "A fish is a new prisoner to the Rock. If you wanted special duties, you had to start at the bottom, wait a year, and do your job well so you could be recommended for the next higher job. I wanted to work in the library, with the books. The first year, as a fish, I could not access any books."
Terry looked up at him with raised eyebrows. She could not image Actor going for a year without reading books. "Did you get the library job?"
Actor nodded. "Eventually. Yes. And access to the books. I read the entire library collection three times."
They were silent for awhile. Terry tried to remember what she had read of his dossier over a year before. The dates did not jive.
"Craig got you out in the middle of 1942. You were serving 15 years, but you had ten years left on your sentence according to what I read. So when did you go in?
This was something that Actor had only discussed with Garrison. He had come to trust Teresa, so he decided to answer her.
"I was arrested and tried in 1938. I spent the first six months in Attica. I tried to con an escape with one of the guards. It did not happen. Feeling that I was a flight risk, I was transferred to Alcatraz. There was a fight there and one of the screws was stabbed. He was one of the few decent ones, so I attempted to give him first aid until they could get him out. It was enough to keep him alive. For that, they reduced my sentence by two years."
Terry glanced at the closed door and her voice went lower. "So you bought the Hampton house in '35. Then you went to the States and got arrested for the clocks in what '38?"
"I was back and forth between the States and Europe for five years prior to my arrest."
"You were going to prison when I was moving to New York." She said it aloud just to keep things straight in her mind. "So the clocks were in New York?'
"Yes."
Terry glanced at him in askance. "Clocks, Actor? Clocks?"
"They were antique and worth much money," he replied dismissingly.
"I hope she was worth it," muttered the girl, knowing he had been caught in flagrante delicto in bed with his partner's wife.
"She wasn't."
The confidence man withdrew into himself, but continued to dry the dishes. Terry kept quiet, no longer probing, giving him his privacy. When they were done, she dried her hands and laid her right one on his near forearm. He turned his head to look at her questioningly.
"I won't ask you to do this again," she said quietly.
He gave his patent smile. "You didn't ask me this time."
Actor turned and walked out of the kitchen. The girl was not surprised when she saw he was not in the common room with the others. His pipe and book were missing from the side table by his chair.
Upstairs, he changed to his pajamas and settled into his bed with the intent of having a good pipe smoke and reading the book on ethics he had borrowed from the Lieutenant. Actor leaned back against the headboard and took a long pull on the pipe, savoring the taste and smell of the tobacco more than he usually did. The book was open on his lap, but his eyes were closed.
GGGGG
It was still light when the prison truck pulled to a stop. Though his face gave away nothing of the thoughts running through his mind, the tall, European looking man felt relief. If they had indeed reached their final destination, soon he would be released from his metal bondage to the thug on the bench beside him. Twenty-four hours of being cuffed to the lout was more than enough for even his endurance. Twenty-four hours of almost non-stop bragging of the man's exploits, in murder and in bed. Victor Borghese, romantic Italian by birth, wondered how the loud, ugly man could even entice a woman to sleep with him. Any sexual activities engaged in would have to be close to rape. The man was a disgusting creature, not even fit to be called a man. It didn't matter though. At the first opportunity, the aristocratic man would lose himself in the Europe that was his home.
From his point of view, the 'thug' would be just as glad to be rid of the arrogant, holier than thou, pretty boy chained to him. Given a chance, John Wheeler, five inches shorter and stocker than the man cuffed to him, would wipe the smug smile off that face. It had been like talking to a stump the whole trip to England. The man would not rise to the bait or even answer more than one or two words. It didn't matter much though. At the first opportunity the bald man would be outta here.
With a rattle of keys, the back doors opened out, giving them a glimpse of stone wall, concrete, and a backdrop of trees. Wheeler sprang up, ignoring the shout from the guard and made to jump down from the back of the van. Tired of the chaffing to rawness of his wrist from the handcuffs which shackled him to the imbecile, Borghese managed to catch the chain in his hand and as the man leapt out, gave a hard tug, leaning back against the strain. It was enough to jerk the jerk around and make him fall half out of the vehicle.
"Are you all right?" asked Borghese in a feigned concern that was so realistic it explained the man's nickname of 'The Actor.' "I thought you were going to fall."
"You scumbag," sneered Wheeler, regaining his footing and attempting to leap back in to take the smart man's head off. A rifle barrel aimed at his forehead stopped him. "You ain't gonna shoot me," he said with bravado. "The Army poster boy wouldn't like it. He needs me."
"Actually," said a calm, male voice from beside the truck, "I don't."
Actor stepped out of the back and landed on his feet with an agility that belied his six foot four frame. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant Garrison," he said with a smile.
"Mr. Borghese, Mr. Wheeler," greeted the Army first lieutenant, ignoring the sneer on the stocky man's face.
"Say, what the hell is this place?" asked Wheeler looking around.
"A manor house from the looks of it," replied Actor before Garrison could. The Italian had a questioning expression on his face. "Mediterranean? In England?"
"Let's just say it's eclectic," Garrison was trying hard not to grin.
Wheeler was rubbing at his now abraded wrist around the handcuff. "Forget that. When can we get these things off?"
"In a bit," replied Garrison. "Follow me, Gentlemen."
He walked up the steps leading to the front door, deliberately turning his back to the two convicts. He knew they would follow him and two armed house guards would be following them. Until things settled down and he knew how far he could trust these men, and the three more that were coming in the next few days, there would be guards at the entrance to the building, guards covering the extensive grounds, and guards on each level of the house to keep the men under surveillance.
Wheeler was a step ahead of Borghese, trying to jerk the chain to make the arrogant man hurry up. The sooner inside the sooner the cuffs would be removed. Actor was deliberately taking his time and looking at as much of the layout of the place as he could see from the steps. Eventually, they got to the top of the steps and entered the front door, single-file.
The inside was a total contrast to the outside. The large common room was paneled in dark wood with old smoky paintings of people in period clothing. The furniture was a mix of styles. There was a large round wooden table in the center of the room with mismatched wooden chairs around it. Behind that was a sofa that almost covered the view of a fireplace. Two large wing-backed chairs flanked the fireplace with floor lamps and end tables. A small square table with a chess board was along the wall next to the diamond-pane window with a sill that was large enough to sit on. In front of the men was a staircase that went up to the second floor. To the left of that was a room visible through the open door. It was obviously the Lieutenant's office. To the right of the stairs was an L-shaped area that led farther back with a dining room table and china cabinets. A door was at the corner of the front wall and the side wall. The more modern style suggested it had been added on at a later time, as did the lock on it.
"Is this place a house or a museum?" asked Wheeler derisively.
The man's harsh voice brought Actor's attention back to his unwelcome companion. "I wasn't aware you had ever seen the inside of a museum," noted the Italian pleasantly.
Wheeler shot him a venomous look. He turned to Garrison. "Hey, can we get these things off now? I've been tied to this smart ass for almost two days."
Garrison nodded to one of the guards and the handcuffs were removed. Neither man made any effort to conceal his relief at the removal of the metal bracelets. Actor carefully but gratefully rubbed each wrist in turn, The Lieutenant noted the angry raw abrasions on the man's wrists. He would have to give him some ointment for them.
"About time," grumbled Wheeler.
Garrison continued to ignore the burly bald-pated thug. "This way. Your quarters are upstairs. You will have a guard at all times so don't even think about trying to find a way out."
Following the young lieutenant upstairs, Actor sincerely hoped they would be getting their own rooms so he could have some peace from the constant interaction with the other convict. Going to a set of open double doors, he found that his privacy was not to be. They stepped inside another large common room with basically the same set up as the one downstairs, only this one held a full suit of armor on the far long wall, and five metal cots in various locations in the room. Wonderful. They were all going to be housed together. The other thing that almost immediately caught the Italian's eye was the set of handcuffs dangling from the frame of each cot. So much for comfort and a semblance of freedom.
"Choose your bed," instructed Garrison.
Actor held back. He knew which one he wanted. It was the one in the far left corner, in front of a fireplace, next to a window and behind another large wing-back chair. If he showed an interest it in, Wheeler would grab it just out of meanness. So he waited until the man walked over and flopped down on one to the right. Only then did the Italian wander over to the cot and tested it with his hand. Not much different than what he had been sleeping on in stir, and it was too short for his tall frame. Well, at least it wasn't Alcatraz.
Waiting for the men to choose their sleeping accommodations, Garrison stood with crossed arms and studied both of them. They were both from the same prison, yet Wheeler looked as though he had never skipped a meal and had probably consumed someone else's besides. On the other hand, Borghese was six inches taller than Garrison's new wheelman and was lanky with a half starved look. Maybe an extra portion of rations for the one and exercise for both would take care of that.
A soldier brought in two duffel bags and set them on the floor. He left with a salute to the Lieutenant. Wheeler got up and sauntered over to grab his bag. Borghese came just as slowly, but with more an air of not caring about the contents of his bag. The two returned to their cots. A foot locker was at the bottom of each of the beds in the room. Both men opened theirs and found a small kit inside. Wheeler dumped his unceremoniously on his cot. Borghese was a bit more careful with his. The kits held a toothbrush, toothpaste, a pack of cigarettes and a comb.
"Where's the booze?" asked Wheeler demandingly.
"Locked up," replied Garrison reasonably. "When you earn it, you will get a ration."
"Hey, I haven't had a drink in three years," complained the bald man.
"Then you can last a little longer, can't you?" said the Lieutenant. He turned and left the room.
Wheeler dumped his clothes into the locker and shut it with a bang. Despite the single suit which was too short for him, Borghese carefully refolded the clothing before placing it in the chest with the kit beside it. He quietly closed the locker and straightened. He definitely needed a new, tailored, wardrobe.
Casually, the Italian moved around the room. The diamond-pane windows were all barred. That would make escape more difficult. There were small bronze statues on pedestals around the room, mostly of British images. The paintings on the walls were as aged and dark as the ones downstairs. The artists were not well known, but they weren't too bad. Not the high quality he was used to dealing with. His wanderings brought him back to his corner and he settled in the high backed upholstered chair, crossing his ankles atop the ottoman. A smile came to his face. This was comfortable. Now all he needed was a book, a drink, and a pipe.
Ten minutes later, another soldier entered and told Wheeler he was wanted in the Lieutenant's office. As expected, the man grumbled, protested and took his time leaving the room. A bigger smile graced the Italian's face.
GGG
Garrison closed the folder over the dossier on John Wheeler. The man seemed to have no redeeming qualities beyond a supposed excellent ability in driving getaways and hot-wiring cars. If Garrison had been given a choice he would not have even interviewed the man. But Garrison had not had a choice from his viewpoint. Wheeler had been nothing but trouble from the beginning of his teens. Petty theft, grand theft auto, liquor store heists, and bootlegging. In prison he was known for stabbing, raping, and brutalizing other inmates.
The door opened and Wheeler was escorted in by one of the soldiers. Without asking, he took the seat in front of Garrison's desk. He lounged rather than sat and eyed the lieutenant as if assessing what would be the easiest way to kill him. The Lieutenant ignored the attempted intimidation.
"Your duties are to keep your area clean and neat. Fighting is not allowed or tolerated. You will be given three meals a day; Army rations. Meals are taken in the dining room. You are expected to take turns with the cleanup. No shirking your duties by dumping them on one of the others. Tomorrow morning we will begin strength and endurance exercises. As we progress, you will be taught how to parachute and use a variety of weapons. If you are caught attempting to escape from this facility, you will be shot on sight. Any questions?"
"Yeah," sneered Wheeler. "Where are the dames and the liquor?"
"The Army does not run a brothel. And as for the liquor, you have to earn that privilege."
Wheeler snorted in disgust. "And when do I get my parole?"
"That will be discussed after we return from the mission. If you are still alive. You stay alive by working together and covering each other's backs."
"I work better alone," said the man.
Garrison shook his head. "You are now part of a team, and you better learn how to work with the others. If you foul up and somebody gets killed, you'll be sent back to Alcatraz with no time off of your sentence." The last part was a bluff, but he knew the convict didn't know that. "Dinner is at 1900 hours, that's seven o'clock. Enjoy your evening because it's about to get tough."
Wheeler gave another sneer. "Soldier Boy, you don't know the meaning of tough." He grinned maliciously. "This ought to be fun."
"You're dismissed," said Garrison, not rising to the bait. "Corporal, take Mr. Wheeler back to his quarters and bring Mr. Borghese."
Wheeler did not stand up. The corporal prodded him from behind with the end of his rifle. Ignoring that and taking his sweet time, Wheeler stood, gave one last sneer at Garrison and walked out the door.
Lt. Garrison could just have easily given the rather benign instructions to both men together, but he wanted to see how each would react. He put Wheeler's file in his desk drawer and opened Victor Borghese's file. It was mainly a list of incarcerations in Europe and the United States. There were quite a few court trials, but most of them had ended in acquittal; from lack of evidence. He was a silver tongued devil who had talked his way out of several prisons. It was a failed attempt to escape from Attica that had landed the non-violent man in Alcatraz. The man had a list of aliases that would have filled a book. Somehow, Garrison did not think Victor Borghese was the man's real name. No matter what he called himself, as long as he could spin a con on the fly and make the Jerries believe him, he could call himself Gertrude for all Garrison cared. Besides being a confidence man, supposedly the best on two continents, Borghese was a jewel thief and an expert in 'acquiring' and 'relocating' major art works.
The said person quietly entered the office as though to meet an old friend. Garrison closed the folder and looked up at the Italian. The man stood tall, in an aristocratic way, despite the ill-fitting clothing he wore.
"Lt. Garrison," he said in polite greeting. He indicated the chair Wheeler had just vacated in silent request.
"Have a seat," said Garrison.
The Italian sat, not at attention, but not slouching either. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, having found those in the bottom of the kit.
"May I smoke?" he asked.
Garrison nodded.
Borghese looked at the cigarette with seeming frustration. "It seems the Army forgot to issue matches with the cigarettes."
The Lieutenant pushed his lighter to the edge of the desk in front of the con man. Borghese lit his cigarette and pushed the lighter back toward the officer. A smile appeared with the first inhalation.
"Thank you," he said. "Now, what may I do for you?"
This was the second time Garrison found himself having to stifle a grin in response to the con man.
"We're here to discuss you duties and what is expected from you. You are to keep your area clean and neat. Fighting is not allowed or tolerated," Garrison began with the same instructions. "You will be given three meals a day of Army rations."
"Pity," inserted the Italian.
"Meals will be taken in the dining room. You will be expected to take turns with the other men in clean up after meals. No shirking your duty. Tomorrow we begin strengthening and endurance exercises. If you attempt to escape, you will be shot. You will be taught how to parachute from an airplane and use of a variety of weapons." Garrison eyed him. "I understand you are multilingual. How many languages are you fluent in?"
The man frowned as though thinking. "Truthfully, I am not sure."
Garrison gave him a skeptical look. "German, French, Italian?"
"Spanish, Flemish, Dutch, the four Swiss dialects, and a few others," added the con man matter-of-factly.
"That should do for starters," acknowledged the Lieutenant.
"Those are fluent. I speak enough of the other European languages and dialects to easily get by." There was a touch of smugness in the voice.
"So, do you have any questions?" asked Garrison.
The Italian nodded. "First, there were three empty cots in 'our' room. Am I to assume we will have three more guests?
"Yes," replied Garrison. "They will be arriving over the next few days."
The man nodded. "I am known as 'Actor' and that is what I prefer to be called."
"Okay, Actor. I see no problem with that. Anything else?"
Actor sucked in a cheek and nodded again. "As I am sure you can tell, these clothes are ill-fitting. They are also not conducive to working a con with higher class people."
Garrison did not want to tell the man he was too thin at the moment. "For now, you will be issued Army fatigues, boots, and a jacket. When we get closer to the mission, You will be taken to London for more appropriate clothing."
"I don't think the Army can afford the type of clothing I am accustomed to wearing. If at that later time, I could be escorted to my bank in London, I would then be able to purchase my own clothing and some tailor made items."
He had a bank in London? Of course he did. All illegal gains. "We'll discuss that later. Anything else?" asked Garrison.
"There would not by any chance be any books around? I enjoy reading."
Now Garrison smiled. "There's a pretty extensive library in the next room, I'll have the corporal take you there when we are done here. The books belong to the owners of this manor house. A little care would be appreciated or the privilege will be revoked."
Now a genuine grin graced the elegant face. "Books are something to be cherished, Lieutenant. Rather like a beautiful woman. Have no fear."
Garrison nodded. "Wait right there."
He rose and went into the bathroom off his office. A moment later he returned and held out a tube of antiseptic ointment to the confidence man.
"For the wrists," said the Lieutenant. "You won't do me any good with infection in those abrasions."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. This is most considerate of you." The tube was placed in Actor's pocket.
"Corporal Parker?" called Garrison. When the young soldier entered the office the Lieutenant instructed him to take Mr. Borghese to the library next door and allow him to choose some books to take upstairs.
As a way of dismissal, Lt. Garrison picked up a pen and began writing in the file in front of him, ignoring the confidence man until he had left the room. Then, he looked up thoughtfully. He recognized something in the man and had a feeling he could be more dangerous than Wheeler. Now he would have to see how the other three would react.