Chapter Seven
          
                                       The Black Chevrolet

Loveland, Ohio

Tuesday, June 16, 1937

7:56 AM

                                The Cincinnati Gazette

Back in 1915 when thirty-two year old Morris Pinowskiz did it; when he stole the eight diamonds, his well thought ambition was to get to America. Was to find a crooked jeweler in New York City, who would purchase the diamonds with no questions asked. Was to immediately thereafter disappear somewhere within the belly of America and to start or purchase a business with the proceeds gained by the sale of the eight perfect diamonds.

An intelligent, basically conscienceable, honest man— other than being a European jewel thief— now, twenty-two years later, in year 1937, residing as a respectable, and respected businessman safely, and prosperously, hidden in ‘the belly of America’ Morris Pinowskiz, AKA Solomon Berkowitz AKA Morrie Pink— still paranoid. Still thinking that ‘possibly’… That possibly he might ‘still’ be a hunted man. That possibly, because truly believing that this enviable life he has had all came too easily, that something ‘has’ to happen to expose him for being what he is: a thief.

It all came too easily: Within an hour of being welcomed to America by the customs officer in New York Harbour— in the Jewellery Mart, searching for gentile names names only, finding the name ‘Patton’ in room 220, and the name ‘Cleary’ in 312; neither striking Morris as the names of jewelers that would purchase ‘hot’ diamonds. Then, “Ah-ha!” The one name, one flight of up to room 402; the Italian sounding name of ‘Geneasta’ Fine Diamonds’ was lettered in heavy black scroll on the frosted glass.

Knowing the value, at least the value that Anton Geneasta could market these fine diamonds... These ‘hot’ European cut, diamonds for — After a bit of haggling— Laying a money belt pockets up on the counter, Anton Geneasta began counting hundred dollar bills, and reaching three stacks of ten each, handed three thousand dollars to Morris, who inserted them, a thousand dollars each, into three of the money belts pockets, then tightly securing the money belt about his waist, re-buttoning his topcoat as, turning to the old man, nodding his head, “Thank you!”

A small fortune! Three thousand U.S dollars! More than Morris had ever imagined! However two-thirds less than Anton Geneasta would sell them for.

It all came too easily: ‘Agnes Longstead’. Ages! The eighth cage bank teller at ‘National City Bank’, met when attempting to close his ninety-six dollar account to add to the seventy-six dollars in his wallet, to add to the three thousand dollars held tightly about his waist. However…

Occasionally, in the strangeness of God’s creation, absolute strangers might feel an awareness of internal warmth brought about by possibly nothing more than a meeting of eyes.

Their eyes meeting. Looking at the fairly attractive, well dressed man standing on the other side of her barred window. “Hello…” she said “...I’ll need some identification for an international withdrawal.”

“Oh, yes…” starting at the sound and tone of the woman’s voice “...I’ve my passport here.” Reacting into the jacket pocket, removing the legitimate passport— his hand trembling— Morris passed it through the bars.

It all came too easily: As it was then late afternoon, purposely waiting for Agnes after the banks closing.

 Infatuated with this man, she’d been glad to see he’d waited for her and now to be walking alongside, talking their light, ‘meeting each other’ type conversation—some of which Morris made up as they strolled.

Learning Morris intended to find a hotel, and that he had no place in particular to stay for the night, Agnes suggested— where she lived, at her Aunt ‘Bertha’s Boarding Hotel’, at rates far less than any hotel, that also include dinner and breakfast. Readily agreeing, however learning that ‘Bertha’s’ being blocks from New York Harbour, there was the definite possibility that there could be ‘Lusitania’ passengers spending the night, or for whatever time they planned on remaining in New York City, and Morris Pinowskiz, AKA Solomon Berkowitz most definitely did not want to see ‘anyone’ whom might recognise him as a fellow Lusitania passenger. So rather than Bertha’s dinner with people that might hinder, or even be a threat to his escape, Morris invited Agnes to join him for dinner, and...

It all came too easily! ‘Go figure’! Go figure that Agnes Longstead, besides being a lovely, extremely intelligent, twenty-two year old woman, who also loved, as did Morris, hard gin martinis and oysters on the half shell.

Did Morris love Agnes? Early on he was certainly infatuated with this woman whom was the only woman he’d ever had a restaurant dinner with, or actually ‘any’ woman that would slurp oysters from the half shell and match him martini for martini. As, apparently was Agnes with this good looking obvious British gentleman that seemed to enjoy slurping oysters — something she’d never had the nerve to do while on her infrequent dates with other men.

And then, the next morning, as it was well past Berth’s breakfast time, when there was but one non-familiar man dawdling over coffee, Morris agreed to allow Agnes to prepare breakfast for him, when,“Hi...” standing, extending his arm across the table “... I’m Charlie Tenner.” Shaking hands.

“Nice to meet you, Charlie...” and seeing that Agnes knew him as “...I’m Morris,” he said.

It all came too easily! Turned out Charlie Tenner was a regional salesman for ‘Niagara Hammer & Tool Company and just happened to know of a hardware store that might be going into foreclosure in a place called ‘Loveland, Ohio’.

And then, the proverbial cherry atop the cake — Although rather relishing the idea, he— thinking it would be safer if travelling as husband and wife. Morris, after explaining his intent to possibly purchase the store in Loveland, making her a full partner in that or any business he were to purchase, asked Agnes to marry him.

As for Agnes, wanting to become more than just ‘another’ female working beneath pompous men that were in no way as intelligent as she. Besides, actually thinking that she loved this British gentleman, Agnes Longstead said ‘yes’.

All coming too easily: All happening within a twenty-four hour period.

Now, though, ashamed of being a thief. Too ashamed to tell even his wife because then he would have to admit to Agnes why he’d married her in the first place— as cover to help in his potential escape from the police — which was something Morrie simply could not say to this woman that he’d, after a while, learned to love with all his heart.

Throughout these twenty-two years doing ‘nothing’ to bring attention to himself!

                    The Cincinnati Gazette

[“Loveland National bank robbed”] The Gazette heading read.

 

[“Yesterday afternoon, at approximately 2:15 a gang of three robbers stormed into Loveland National Bank firing their pistols, terrifying The banks manager, Miss Florence Moorehead and causing Mister W.E. Forester, Loveland Bank’s president, to suffer a heart attack causing his death.

Mister Maurice Pink…] ‘Maurice?’ [...proprietor of Pink’s Hardware Store in Loveland, upon hearing the report of three rapidly fired gunshots, taking up his Colt pistol and positioning himself onto the street in order to fire upon the getaway car, a black Chevrolet.

It is not known if any of Mister Pink’s six bullets made contact with the retreating vehicle.

As reported my Miss Moorehead, the theft amounted to one hundred, sixteen dollars.”]


(Vol 1) Chicago, Illinois

Maxwell Street

Sunday, June 14, 1937

10:14 AM 

Occasionally, in the strangeness of God’s creation, absolute strangers might feel the warmth of a possible friendship brought about by nothing more than a meeting of eyes... Or the friendly waving of a pair of old shoes; Or the friendly return waving of a handful of belts...

11:o6 AM

 

A lull in this morning foot traffic, crossing the street with a pair of badly worn work shoes tied together by a shoelace.

Four or five belts hanging from about his neck…
 

“Mornin’to ya!” Cheerfully stated in a thick Irish brogue.

“Morning to you, also.” Cheerfully stated in a thick, Hebraic accent.

“Ya be wantin’ to make a trade do ya?”

Gesturing to the shoes and belt. “Trade?” Shrugging his shoulders. “Yes. Maybe?”

This is what the Irishman had been hoping for. “Yes, you say, ‘yes’!”

“Okay, already, yes! What…” motioning to the belts “... uh, how much cost?”

“Uh, seventy cents.”

“For seventy cents, I’ll do a deal for both shoes..” Hesitating, pointing to a belt. “For buckle, too?”

Laughing. “Yeah. For buckle, too.” Offering his hand. “I’m Malcolm.”

 

“I’m…” heartily shaking the offered hand “...Murray.”

5:45 PM: Walking traffic, thinned to a few wandering people Automobiles now allowed onto the street for the pushcart vendors — if they have a vehicle to repack whatever merchandise remaining after this Busy June Sunday.

Having nothing bulky and very little to carry, along with the carefully rolled banner, Malcolm Murphy’s hand tooled belts and leather suspenders easily fit into two small suitcases.

A ‘31 Hudson sedan before his pushcart, the trunk lid open as the small, heavy duty, hand operated sewing machine is dropped in alongside the box of nixed size sole leather and the box of pre-sized rubber heels. The carton containing tools and a jar of water-proof glue and assorted nails had been placed onto the rear seat.

“Murray!” Waving. “See you next week!”

 

“Yeah, Malcolm!” Thinking a moment. “Wait! Where you live?”

“On Keller, just off Twelfth Street.”

“That’s almost where I go. Come, I’ll give a lift!”

Both fairly new immigrants to this strange country. Both in need of... and sensing a budding friendship… “Yes…” Malcolm Murphy said “... I would like that.”

“That’s good!” Murray Kaminsky said.

Driving north on Halsted Street. “How long you been here?”

Glancing to his right. “In America?”

“Yes.”

“Been here...” thinking a moment “...seven, eight months.”

“You’re talking pretty good English.”

“Wanted to learn, so started ‘English/America school’ — Sarah and me…”

"Sarah? Your wife?”

 

“Yes. My wife, Sarah and me want to be citizens, so we started English/America School soon as we found our place…. You?” Murray asked. “How long you been here.”

“Left Dublin near the end of December; so here about six months now.”

Glancing to his right again. “You speak pretty good English, too.”

 

Laughing. “I’m a ‘Mick’. Most Mick’s speak Gaelic. But me? I speak Irish that sounds like English.”

“ So that makes me a Pollack Jew that speaks Yiddish that, ‘kind of’ sounds like English.”

“That’s where you’re from? ‘Poland’?”

“Yes. With talk of possible war with Germany, and the peoples anti-Semite, uh...” charging for the word “...attitude? Sarah and me been wanting to go to America, so thought, ‘let’s do it’!

“Me...” quiet a moment “...to much bad stuff going on there. You know, with England and the IRA. So me and my ‘Ellen’ thought ‘fook’ it! And here we are!”
“ ‘Fook’?”

“Yeah. Like, uh ‘fooking’. You know!” Making an in and out motion with his left forefinger within his circled right forefinger and thumb.

 

Thinking. “Ah, yes. ‘Fook’? You mean ‘fooking’ is like ‘shtooping’?”

Laughing again… Yeah, guess in Jew talk, ‘shtooping’ might be like ‘Fooking.”

Murray liking how easy it was to make the Irishmen laugh. "This, Ellen...” Murray asked “... your wife?”’

“Yeah, she is, and there’s also my little boy-o, Clyde.”

In need of friendship, both discovering a mutual rapport, the more Murray Kaminsky, the Polish Jew, and the Irish Catholic, Malcolm Murphy spoke to each other, the easier it became to understand each other.

Light converrsation continuing as, driving on, the Hudson passed stores, offices, factories, warehouses, junkyards, hospitals, churches, synagogues, tenements, along with… “Come…” stopping before a narrow, store front business with black, hand printed lettering upon the spotless window reading… ‘Shoemaker’ ‘and below, in smaller letters ‘repaired while you wait’.

“Come, I want you should meet my Sarah. One thing I should tell you; my Sarah is, uh…” not knowing the English word, Murray’s hands circling his stomach “...with baby.”
“Pregnant, you mean?”

“Ah, yes…” opening the car door, stepping onto the street “my Sarah is— in English, ‘pregnant’.”

Unlocking the window screen and steel bared security door, then a wood and plate glass door. “Sarah!” Murray called. “It’s only me, with a friend I want you should meet.”

Within moments coming from behind the curtain. “Hello, Mister…” Sarah Kaminsky — even within her pregnancy induced swollen features, Sarah is a lovely, dark complected, petite thirty year old woman whom was obviously into the latter months of her first pregnancy.

“No ‘Mister’. Name’s ‘Malcolm’, Mrs…?” Last names had never been given.

“ ‘Kaminsky’,” Murray said. “Sarah, then.” She said. “My name is Sarah.”

Sarah Kaminsky— both her and Murray a month from their citizenship swearing in ceremonies — Both hoping the birth of their baby holds off until they become American citizens.

“Almost ready! You care to stay for dinner, Mister… uh, Malcolm?”

“No ma’am. I thanks ya, but my wifel’ll be looking for me ‘bout this time.

My pleasure meeting you, Sarah.”

“You, too…” thinking a moment “...you and your wife…” knowing his wife was about to invite their new friends to dinner. “They have a baby also.” Murray said.

Tuesday, 6/16/37

6:45 PM

The streetcar coming to a halt a half block to the south. The two year old boy held in his arms, taking his wife’s hand, helping her take the long step from the streetcar’s rear platform to the street, the three crossed to the east side of Halsted and walked the half block.

A warm evening, the wood and glass door open, Malcolm knocked on the security door.

“Come in, please!”— In this store front apartment, a canvas curtain separating the shoe repair business from their single room living quarters. Coming from behind the curtain. “Come in, please!” Taking hold of Ellen Murphy’s hand. “And…” lovingly caressing the little boys cheek “... who’’s this?”

Attempting to move the little boy from behind her skirt. “Tell the lady your name, baby.”

His arm still held about his mother’s rear thigh. “Clyde, Robert Murphy.” The little boy stammered.

Standing at 5’7”, shapely, twenty-nine year old Ellen Murphy is light complected with flawless skin, dark red hair and green eyes— moderately resembling the then seventeen year old actress, Maureen O'Hara.

From this time forward: the two Families blending as one. So much so that near five year old Clyde and two year old Sharon had been taking baths together, until...

6/29/39 (Vol 1)

Aware that Sarah and Ellen were in a somewhat private conversation— so Oliva perceived— remained at the far end of the table giving them a little privacy while keeping watch over Clyde whom, considering himself the ‘big brother’, obviously was keeping a close watch over Sharon, as when playing outside, whenever she would toddle a bit astray, he would run to catch her by her hand or suspenders and steer, or drag her old back to wherever they’d been playing.

“You told Sharon his... uh, pee-pee's not a toy.”

“Sarah, I was so... ‘So’ surprised seeing her doing what she, uh, was doing that first I had to keep from laughing, then the words just came out.”

“Your Clyde, he have a, uh....” holding her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart “....you know!”

Strange thing: These two mid-thirties aged women, each a mother, one an achieved artist in her own right. the other knowledgeable enough to organize and control her own now multi faceted business. Sex never a spoken topic between the two couples, or individually. However neither knowing, or at least willing to say words such as ‘penis’ or ‘sexual’ in regard to their children.

“Yeah. I think... Last time I saw that I was changing a diaper and it was straight up...” holding her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart “... and then he peed.”

Both more amused than actually upset by this.

“Clyde was laughing?”

Giggling herself. “Yes..” Ellen said “...like when we'd tickle him.”

Not wanting to say it. “And he did have a...?”

Coming from Belfast, Ireland as opposed to a ghetto in Poland, but giving in, “... ‘Boner’. Yes. Surprised seeing it like ‘that’ on my little boy, but yes! Clyde ‘certainly’ did.”

“Sharon? You think she had any idea?”

“No. Of course not!” Ellen said. “Looked like she thought she was just playing with a light switch, flicking it on and off. Something she'd never played with before."

Catching a non intended double meaning. Giggling. “I'd guess not.”

The mothers attention once again drawn to two year old Sharron, laughing her baby’ laugh.

“Think it's time we stop giving those two baths together?”

“You think!” Sarah replied.

Loveland, Ohio

October 15 1937

7:52 AM

On his way to the store that morning, seeing the black Chevrolet parked at the curb with the motor running, Morrie’s heart quickening as, looking very much like the car a detective might drive and, as always remembering—even after twenty-two years—that he was still, and would always be a jewel thief on the run.
 

 

Picking up that days Gazette, as Morrie unlocked the door; coming from behind the wheel, stepping out of the car, the man —dressed in a dark blue suit, wearing a black fedora, followed him into the store.

Placing the folded newspaper onto the counter, moving behind the counter, terrified that this man might be a police detective, doing his best to remain calm. “Can I help you?” Morrie asked.

In an evenly modulated, low tone,“You Maurice Pink?” the man asked.

Thinking, ‘Maurice?— the newspapers mistake, but going with it. “Yes.”

In a much harsher tone. “Do you know Myron Fischer?”

His stomach quaking, frightened by the man’s demanding tone. “ ‘Myron Fischer’?” Morrie hesitantly questioned. “No, don’t recall the name.”

 

Hoarsely yelling now. “He’s my brother….” the man’s hand reaching into his jacket, to the holster below his left armpit “… you fucking son of a bitch!” The first bullet shattering Morrie’s heart, the second removing part of his skull. Physically blown against the wall, slipping to the floor as, coming around the counter Irving Fischer fired once more into the dead mans chest.

Rushing from the store, quickly glancing in both directions as, dropping into the Chevy, Fischer slammed the gear from natural to first-second and, peeling from the curb — squealing down Main Street, into third.

9:07 AM: When questioned by the Summer Springs/Loveland Sheriff, Darrell Newmeyer, who’d been a half block down, on the other side of the street, could only describe the car as a black or dark blue; he thought: ‘34 or ‘35 Chevy.                     

However, if one were to look closer, to thoroughly inspect the rear of the 1934, four door Chevrolet, barely discernible, expertly patched and easily color matched with’34 Chevrolet black, one might still see two round indentions.

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                                          81

                                  Chapter Eight

                                       Izzy