The Chemist - Based on a True Story Read online

  THE CHEMIST

  Based on a True Story

  Chris Blewitt

  Chapter 1

  He was being followed, that he was sure of. Two men, both wearing dark brown fedoras were standing across from the factory as Charlie started his way home. The steady stream of men exiting the building were all carrying their lunch pails or briefcases and smoking their cigarettes, Charlie the same. He first noticed them as he made his way through the chain-linked fence. They were leaning against the lamppost watching the men exit, not standing out, but certainly not hiding their appearance. As Charlie reached Catherine Street he turned right and started the six block trek to his house. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the men start walking his way.

  Charlie picked up his pace.

  The sun was almost below the horizon to the west and Charlie put one hand in his pants pockets to keep it warm. It was late September and the leaves from the nearby oak trees were turning the color of summer squash. Walking past Johnny’s, once a local tavern, he reminisced on his days stopping after work each and every day. He would have one or two boilermakers and go home. Sometimes he’d stay through the night and stumble home. Those days were long gone. The windows were boarded up and there was a sign on the outside of the bar that warned of trespassers.

  The next bar he passed, Murphy’s, was also closed. Had been since 1920 when the 18th Amendment had gone into effect. Now, seven years later, you could get arrested for having a boilermaker.

  He strolled past Rupert’s Bakery and Joe’s Barbershop, both closed, not due to Prohibition, just the late hour. As he came to the corner, he looked in the reflection of the glass of Franzelli’s Meats and saw the two men only ten paces behind him. He opened the door and went inside.

  Franzelli’s was the type of place you could come to almost every day and some weeks, Charlie did. Immediately in front of you on the left were six foot long sausages, their casings eight inches apart, hanging from the ceiling. Today, there had to be at least a dozen varieties. On his right, there was the cheese, neatly stacked in pyramids. Mozzarella, Asiago, Pecorino and Parmigiano were the only types Charlie ever bought, but there were about ten others he couldn’t even pronounce.

  “Hey, Charlie, how’s a work today?” a man known as Carlo asked from behind a counter.

  “Good, Carlo, thank you.”

  “Whatchu need today?” he asked in his thick Italian accent.

  Charlie walked closer to him, careful not to put his hands on the blood streaked counter where Carlo slices and dices the various meats. He said softly, “Casually look at your door. Are there two guys standing outside right now?” Charlie then raised his voice a little and said, “Give me a pound of hot Italian and half a pound of mozzarella.”

  He watched as Carlo moved from his position and started to weigh out the hot sausage cut into six inch links. Carlo stole a glance at the window as he was wrapping the meat in brown parchment paper and putting it into a bag. “Yeah, they’re still there, who are they?” he asked quietly.

  “Beats me. Been tailin me since work let out.”

  Carlo weighed the cheese and bagged that as well and asked Charlie for a dollar and some change. “Go ‘round the back,” Carlo said to Charlie, “through the kitchen.”

  “Okay, tell me when,” Charlie said, counting up his money and paying Carlo.

  Carlo busied himself with the cash register and scanned the front door with the corner of his right eye. As soon as both men looked away from the inside he said, “Now.”

  Charlie had already shoved the bag of meat and cheese in his briefcase and as soon as he heard “Now”, he ducked down and went through the waist-high swinging door, behind the meat counter and into the kitchen. There were only two people in the back, both carving their respective meats. They looked up when Charlie came through the door but said nothing as he was gone just as quick. He burst through the back door into the alleyway and stumbled as he took in his surroundings.

  To his left was the nearest side street which took him home and to his right was the way back to his place of employment. He tucked the briefcase full of work and tonight’s dinner under his arm and ran back the way he came. Short, stocky and no physical activity in years all added up to a slow Charlie. He pounded down the alley with small compact steps and even shorter breaths. He got to the end of the alley and turned around.

  There. One man stood at the end of the alley staring straight at him.

  Charlie darted left at the cross street and started running again. Soon the street was downhill and he was going faster than his feet would allow his frame. About seventy percent of his body weight was above the waist and this did not bode well for Charlie as he chugged down the hill. He felt like Superman, faster than a speeding bullet. He tried to slow down but couldn’t. His footsteps louder now as all his weight was pounding the street. His arms started to flail about like he was free-falling from a building.

  Then he went down. Hard.

  The first body part to impact was his right-hand as he tried to brace himself. Charlie’s hand slid upon the gravelly road and tore gashes of skin apart from the bone. In the process, his shoulder popped and he screamed in agony. The briefcase skittered away and tonight’s dinner went with it. Next came the left side and the first to hit was the knee, tearing through his pants and sending octaves of pain shooting down his left leg. This sent his body turning and rolling and his head slamming end over end into the ground.

  Silence.

  The dust settled and Charlie opened his eyes and saw two people staring at him. They were doctors, asking if he was all right. Everything was going to be fine.

  Then a slap in the face.

  “Tryin to out run us fat-boy, is that it?” one said.

  “Charlie White?” the other man said.

  Charlie didn’t answer so they slapped him again in the face and it stung worse than the first one.

  “Yeah,” he quivered.

  “Of Dupont Corporation?”

  “Ah, yeah?”

  He snapped back to reality. The two men he saw were not doctors, they were the two men following him. They snatched him up by his arms and dragged him down the street to a waiting car.

  <><><><><>

  As night fell on the loading docks of the Delaware River just outside Philadelphia, Rory and Shaun Dennis crouched low behind three pallets of today’s load. Earlier, they had filed into the line of workers to exit the dock, but instead jumped behind the boxes and stayed there out of sight as the last of the men left the shipping area. They were the ones one who carried the boxes from the ship and stacked them neatly along the edge of the dock, awaiting inspection the next day.

  Rory pulled out a cigarette and was about to strike a match on the concrete when his brother grabbed his arm and whispered harshly, “Put that out! You wanna get us caught?”

  Rory obliged, tossed the match into the nearby river and stuck the unlit cigarette behind his ear. He listened to his older brother that was for sure. He’d get his ass kicked if he didn’t. “We ready?” he asked Shaun.

  “I think so. I haven’t seen or heard anyone in a long time. You ready?”

  Rory just nodded.

  “Ok, remember it’s going to take three trips to get all of the boxes from here down to the waiting car, so we gotta be quick and quiet.”

  “You sure you remember the right crate?” Rory asked.

  Shaun was annoyed and said, “Yes, I know the right crate. Don’t ask me again.” He turned his head left and right and said, “Let’s go.”

  They got out of their crouch, stood up and maneuvered quickly through the maze of pallets and crates that were stacked on the dock. Towards land, they could se
e the fence that was gated and locked, keeping them inside. That wouldn’t be a problem as long as someone on the other side took care of their end of the bargain. After about fifty yards, Shaun slowed his pace and started pawing the crates and reading the numbers on the sides. He found the one he was looking for and stopped. Removing a crowbar from the inside pocket of his jacket, he worked the crate over for a few moments until it popped and they carefully removed the top lid.

  The wooden crate was about six feet high, six feet wide and six feet long, a perfect cube. Being short Irishmen, they couldn’t see inside so they grabbed a small wooden box that was lying on the ground, brought it over and Shaun climbed on top, peering inside.

  “This is it,” he whispered. “I’m going to hand you all six boxes and you stack them on the ground.”

  They worked quickly and had removed all the heavy boxes and Rory stacked them in three’s on the ground. Now, it was time to deliver them to the outside. Each of them picked one box up and started moving towards the front. The moved quickly without fear of discovery since there was no guard on duty. They stopped near the fence, put the boxes down and waited.

  “Where are they?” Rory whispered in between gasps of breath. They both looked out into the darkness and strained to see any sign of their waiting ride.

  Flash, Flash.

  Two white headlights illuminated no more than thirty yards to their right. They grabbed the boxes and moved down along the fence and set them down where they thought the beams of light had come from. Shaun crept gently towards the fence and ran his fingers up and down the thin steel coils. It was dark and he couldn’t see very well but he did not want to risk a flashlight or his brother’s matches to improve his vision. After a minute he found what he was looking for. About four feet up from the ground, the fence was snipped all the way over to the iron post separating the next section of fence, and back down to the ground, creating an opening.

  He pulled on the fence and it opened slowly. Rory noticed what he was doing and came over to help. They had it fully opened and started pushing the boxes into the opening when they heard the soft click of a car door being opened and footsteps approaching.

  “Nice work boys,” the approaching stranger said. “How many more?”

  “Four,” Shaun said without looking up.

  “Well then get going,” the man replied back. The man picked up the boxes and moved them over towards his parked Model-T Ford.

  It took about ten minutes for Shaun and Rory to finish the two trips back to the opening, push all the boxes out, pull themselves through the fence, and help load the boxes into the waiting car.

  The pick-up man was not the first man they had met for the job but it didn’t matter to Shaun and Rory, as long as they got paid. He was much taller and skinnier than the first man and younger too. He stared at the two Irishmen for a brief second before reaching inside his jacket pocket.

  Rory flinched thinking it was a gun.

  “Relax,” the man said. “A deal is a deal.” He pulled out a stack of cash from his pocket, peeled off some bills and handed it to Shaun’s outstretched hand. “One hundred dollars. See you next week boys.” The man tipped his black hat, got in the car and pulled away.

  Shaun watched him go and held the money up to his brother’s face. “More than two weeks pay, Rory-boy. Now it’s time for a smoke.”

  They both lit up and walked away from the shipyard, job well done.

  Chapter 2

  For the rough treatment he absorbed earlier, the accommodations were quite fine. Charlie was sitting in a hospital bed all alone. The two men he met on the street actually brought him here after his horrendous fall. There were some lacerations to his hands, face, elbows and knees but the most severe injury was a dislocated shoulder. His arm was in a sling draped over his chest and his knee was wrapped in ice. He was given some aspirin for the pain and he was slumped awkwardly to the side, awaiting sleep when the two men from earlier walked into his room without knocking.

  Charlie suddenly had a thought and said, “My wife, I have to see her, she’ll be worried sick why I didn’t come home.”

  One of the men, a thick barrel-chested man stuck out his palm and said, “It’s been taken care of, she’s fine. We’ll bring you home later.”

  “Who are you?”

  The two men walked into the room, closed the door and sat down on the only two metallic chairs in the room. The barrel-chested man spoke again, “I’m Mike and this here is Pat.”

  “What do you want?”

  Mike leaned forward on his elbows and the creases of his dark gray suit crinkled and crumpled with the effort. “Charlie we have a job for you. It’s not any different than what you do now of course, but you cannot tell anyone about this.”

  “What kinda job?”

  “In due time Charlie.”

  “I already have a job,” Charlie said.

  “And let’s keep it that way. This job will be on the side, in addition to the job you have now.”

  “It better pay a hell of lot for working overtime!” Charlie exclaimed.

  The men just looked at each other. Mike said, “There’s no money, Charlie.”

  Charlie snickered, “Then why the hell would I work for you?”

  Again the two men exchanged glances. This time Pat spoke first, “How’s your brother doin? Jimmy, right? How’s he been doin lately?”

  This struck a nerve with Charlie and he boldly responded, “How do you know about my brother? Who the hell are you guys anyway?”

  Pat was shorter than Mike, red-cheeked and full of crimson hair. He didn’t miss a beat. “Heard life is tough out at Holmesburg. You ever hear that, Mike?”

  Mike whistled through his teeth and said, “Holmesburg? Hell yeah. That’s a tough place up there.”

  To Charlie, these gentlemen somehow knew that his brother was in Holmesburg Prison in Northeast Philadelphia. Whether or not they knew he was in for bank robbery and still had eight years to go was another story but Charlie could see where this was heading.

  “So,” Charlie began, “I help you and you get my brother out, is that it?”

  Mike held up both hands and said, “You said that, not me pal.” He then winked at Charlie.

  “What do you want me to do?” Charlie asked.

  “Stop running away from us and getting your fat-ass hurt, that’s for starters,” Pat replied.

  The two men got up from their chairs and walked over to Charlie’s bed. Mike spoke softly and said, “First, get yourself better. That sling should be off in a week and your knee will be fine. Get back to work and act like nothing happened. You fell, that’s all, or say you got mugged. I don’t give a damn, but do not tell anyone about this conversation. Is that clear?”

  Charlie nodded his head.

  “Good. We’ll be in touch Charlie. Also,” Mike said, turning his head to the door and back again. “Find out everything you can about methyl alcohol.”

  “Meth - ?” Charlie began but Mike put a finger over his own lips and both men left the room.

  <><><><><>

  The rolling doors of the large warehouse alarmed the man sleeping in the ramshackle office on the second floor. Benny the Bear, as he was known to his friends and enemies for that matter, lazily rolled his mammoth self off of the stained green couch and was down on all fours, coughing and wheezing, trying to get the first breath of the morning, deep into his tar-filled lungs. He got to his feet, twisted his neck back and forth and opened the fragile wooden door to the office. The Bear was still wearing his sport coat, trousers and shoes from the previous day.

  Fifteen feet below him, a Model-T was pulling into the warehouse with its lone driver behind the wheel. Benny closed the door behind him and crept cautiously down the rickety steps, grasping the railing as he descended. He watched the car pull all the way into the warehouse and the engine stopped. As he got to the bottom of the steps, the driver exited the vehicle and went back to the rolling door and closed it with a loud bang.

 
; “Where the hell you been?” asked Benny. “I been up all night waitin for you.”

  “Well I’m here now,” the man replied. Tommy Barone was a mover and a shaker in the Sapriotti Family. Young, aggressive, fearless, he was afraid of no one, not even the Bear.

  “Did you get them?” the Bear asked.

  “Right here in the back,” Tommy said. He opened the back door to the car and showed him the six boxes the Irishmen had stolen for him last night.

  “How much is it?”

  “The weight of each box is at least fifty pounds. We got plenty.”

  “Damn, a bargain” the Bear said in admiration. “Three hundred pounds of this stuff for five- hundred dollars.” The Bear didn’t know that Tommy paid the Irishmen only one hundred dollars of that five-hundred. “All right, let’s move it in and get it goin.”

  Tommy took the first box and carried it to the back of the warehouse. He opened what looked to be a small closet and went inside, pulling on the draw string light bulb. Inside were brooms, mops and general cleaning supplies. In the back corner of the closet was a large industrial trash can that was filled with debris from a construction site. He set his box down and moved the heavy trash can away from the corner. This revealed a two foot by two foot trap door in the floor. He pounded heavily on the floor with his foot and waited.

  Within seconds you could hear the unlatching of a lock and the small door opened inward and an older man showed his face. He was at least sixty years old with a full head of gray hair and an accompanying beard. He shielded his eyes from the light.

  “New delivery,” Tommy said. He brought the box over and handed it to the man, barely squeezing it through the small porthole. Tommy thought it was going to be too heavy for the man below but he was wrong. The man took the box and the subsequent boxes after that until all six had made it into the lower level room. Tommy left the Bear up top; he wouldn’t fit anyway, and climbed down the short ladder to join the old man.

  At the bottom of the steps he turned and saw the old man stacking the boxes on top of each other on a dolly. Tommy stepped around some debris ducked under two pipes in the ceiling and came out into a large open area, at least fifty feet across and twenty feet deep.