Beginnings - The Dead Never Squeal

“Are you sure she knows what she’s talking about? I mean, it just seems so cut and dry, you know…so pat. Is she even sure that there are only two of um?” Robert Flannigan twitched nervously on the hard backed wooden stool.

“Look!” Robert leaned inward, placing a forearm on the table and talking with the other.
“I ain’t saying anything about you, Boss! I was just wondering… you know…..wondering.”

“Rest assured, my friend,” Luther Stoffer began, “I have the utmost confidence in Julia’s judgment. She has always been a very alert little girl.”

Luther shifted his position in the tobacco brown leather reclining chair and then sat forward, his face becoming illuminated in the light of the single bulb hanging loosely over the small round table. Looking directly at Robert, Luther spoke quietly,

“And Robert, you must know that I wouldn’t act strictly on one source of information. Her stuff checks out.”

“Ok, you know that wasn’t questioning you, Boss. I wouldn’t be doin that.”

“Yes, Robert, you always look out for me.” Robert nodded anxiously, his head bobbing as if to reassure Luther, that this was correct.

Luther continued, “Now go get things in order. It has to be done tomorrow night!”

Robert stood and nodded again, “Of course, Boss, I’ll make all of the arrangements. With that, Robert backed into the shadows, turned, slunk to the door and was gone.

The room was small, dark and smelled of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. The table sat in the center, a total of three, square, hard backed wooden stools placed loosely around it. Luther’s leather recliner was shoved back into a far corner, obscured in shadow, away from the pool of light over the table. The rest of the room was empty.

On the table, maps and building plans were spread open. A red pencil lay nearby. A ripped piece of notebook paper with handwritten directives was cast carelessly across the pile.

After Robert was gone, Luther Stoffer sat back, put the palms of his hands together, and touched his bottom lip with his index fingers. He could taste victory, the destruction. Let them suffer for what they have done to me, he thought, smiling.

Luther Stoffer felt that he had been born on the streets. His parents were factory workers. His mother sewed the clothes for a dress manufacture and his father butchered pigs. Luther’s mother had gone into labor with him in front of the large sewing machines and was carried to an apartment of a mid-wife, down the street, known to one of the workers.

She gave birth to Luther David Stoffer at 9:12 PM, October 12th, 1939. Three hours later, she was gone. She died, from what had been described to Luther, years later, after an exhaustive inquiry, as excessive bleeding and complications. Luther hadn’t accepted the explanation then and it still festered within him.

His father had arrived after the boy was born but in time to watch his wife pass. In shock, He sat on the bed next his wife’s inert body, held his newborn son and wept.

Luther’s father never recovered from the loss of his wife, his spirit was broken without her. He tried gamely to work and provide for his new son, having wives of coworkers take turns watching Luther. But by the time the boy was four years old, Luther’s father had begun drinking heavily. Luther was dragged from bar to bar, spending his earliest years watching his father vomit in alleyways and beg for money from friends and strangers. Luther was often fed by friendly barmaids and waitresses with sad eyes and sympathetic smiles.

Luther’s father died while stumbling from a bar. His broken heart gave out on the stone steps while Luther knelt beside him, holding and stroking is father’s hand, tears running down Luther’s face.