Where- Indianapolis, Indiana, Warehouse District west-southwest of downtown
When- Monday, May 30th, 1927 at approximately 11:30 a.m. Central Standard Time
Roark "Rocky" Rickaby didn't go out of his way to volunteer to drive a big truck to The Circle City. In fact and in truth it was Mitzi May's powers of persuasion and Southern charms that convinced him to go. That and her ownership of the Lackadaisy, the finest little speakeasy in all of St. Louis.
He remembered on Sunday night, Mitzi came down to the Lackadaisy's bar and approached him after finishing his set with Dorian "Zib" Zibowski band.
"I know a gentleman whose business and ours fit together splendidly. Rocky, do be a dear and drive over to Indianapolis. He's a dear friend of mine that will help us through this dreary time," Mitzi said.
"What's our benefactor's name?" asked Rocky.
"Just call him Gus," said Mitzi.
"What am I supposed to drive?"
"A more local benefactor will provide you with transportation."
"Doesn't Gus know the way to St. Louis?" asked Rocky. "It's on all the maps these days."
"Oh, honey. When a request for extended credit is made to purchase this kind of merchandise, the parties must meet half way. Or in this case, go all the way to Indianapolis and back. Have a safe trip, Rocky."
Rocky did plan on having a safe trip. He persuaded his cousin Calvin "Freckle" McMurray to tag along with the promise that the violin case with its special contents would be with them. Viktor Vasko accompanied the duo, bringing all of the same charm, warmth, and effervescent dialogue that he manifests as Lackadaisy's congenial bartender. He was in an especially fine mood this morning after working all night and then riding for over six hours in a heavy-duty truck. If he had listen to Rocky for the six hours to Indianapolis, load the shipment, listen to Rocky for six hours back to St. Louis, and unload it all, he might commit a multiple homicide. Again.
"Why do we have to drive all the way to Indi-a-no-place?" complained Freckle. "They don't even have a major league baseball team."
"This is a special request from Mitzi," said Rocky. "You really think we'd be going there for fun?" Rocky let out a maniacal laugh, with a couple of exaggerated knee slaps.
"My sides are split," Vikor sneered. Sleep was already impossible with the sunlight coming through the windshield and Rocky's volume increasing.
"Come on! The open road, a set of wheels, a couple of young bucks and an old one, footloose and fancy-free. Adventure lay straight ahead. What else could you need?"
"Sleep," growled Viktor.
"The surliest bar keep in all of the Midwest has spoken! Gather 'round, ladies and gents! Listen as Viktor Vasko performs a dramatic reading from Capt. Billy's Whiz Bang!" announced Rocky with unbridled cheer.
Viktor turned and glared at Rocky with his left eye and snarled loudly. Freckle glanced from Rocky to Viktor and back again, trying to sink back into the seat and hide his copy of Capt. Billy's. Not that it was easy in the small cab and Viktor taking up almost half the space.
Rocky took out the hand-drawn map and examined the directions. US 40 had long since turned into Washington Street and with it more warehouses of all sizes as downtown, or what passed for it, drew closer. Finding the three-leg intersection right before the railroad overpass, Rocky turned the lumbering vehicle south and began bouncing over more railroad crossings. There on the east side of the road were two large warehouses surrounded by six foot chain link fencing topped with barbed wire.
Rocky directed the truck to the right side of the entrance, below the sign reading "Trucks Only". On the far right side, a motorbike zipped through, took a right turn into the parking lot in front of a door marked "Office." A surprising number of motorbikes and bicycles were parked near the office entrance.
A male in a well-pressed shirt and diagonal shoulder strap attached to a gun belt stepped out of the guard shack in the center island separating the exit and entrance. The truck's brakes squealed as it came to a stop. "Good morning, sir," said the guard handing Rocky a clipboard. Thinking quickly, he wrote "Sable and Associates, St. Louis Mo." then handing it back, hoping he had remembered the name written on the truck's signs. The guard looked each of the passengers and then back to Rocky. The security guard started speaking in a lower voice "In eckes-ah-nad-you..."
Rocky just stared blankly.
Frustrated, the guard flipped to the clipboard's last page and read out loud "In eckes-anna dee-you..."
"Oh! You mean 'in Xanadu'. It's pronounced 'ZAN-uh-dew'."
The guard's jaw locked tight and he spoke though clinched teeth. "In Xanadu..."
"...did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree," finished Rocky. With the correct passwords exchanged, the guard relaxed his jaw and continued curtly "Have you been here before? Do ya know where you're goin'?"
"Don't know from nothin'," chirped Rocky, enjoying the exchange more and more.
The guard switched back to his normal mode of address. "Yes sir you need dock thirty-two. Just drive straight through the gate and when you see the intersection between buildings One and Two, turn right, go down a ways, and dock thirty-two's on the right. Can't miss it. Watch out for cross-traffic."
"You're all right for a wet blanket," said Rocky putting the truck in gear and driving under the now vertical gate barrier. He leaned out the driver's window, looked back, and waved "Have a good day!" Another motorbike sped around the front of the truck and out the exit.
The guard wrote down the license plate number next to Rocky's scrawled signature and mumbled something exceedingly impolite under his breath. Stepping into the shack, he picked up the telephone handset, and waited for a click. "They're here," he said.