BOSTON POST HEADLINES 1946  

                                US ATOMIC ENERGY COMMISSION      

                                ESTABLISHED

 

                                US POPULATION REPORTED 

                                AT 141,388,566

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“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’ MAN? I ain’t ever done nuthin’ to you.”

    The victim was tall, lean, handsome and young. The perp was bigger, wider, and wore a black stocking cap over his face. “Shudup asshole,” the man whispered as though someone might overhear.

    It was a dusky midnight at the Charlestown Navy Yard, pretty much deserted since the end of World War 2. The captor had stolen a Boston taxi cab earlier in the evening, followed the intended victim to an upscale Commonwealth Avenue apartment building, patiently waited, and picked up the unsuspecting guy as he was exiting the building close to midnight. 

    “Where to, Mack?” the pseudo cabby had mumbled.

    The victim had answered in a stumbling mutter, almost unintelligible like he had either been drinking, smoking, sniffing, or just half asleep. The perp knew his victim’s addictions. “The K – Kenmore Hotel. I – I’m gonna be famous.”

    The driver chuckled under his breath. “Not for the reason you think, asshole,” he whispered.

    “Wha - what was that you said?” the passenger asked, and then paused, staring through blurred eyes at the cabby’s picture framed on the back of the front seat. “Hey man, this ain’t you in this photo. Where’d you get this cab?”

    “The regular driver is sick. Don’t worry. We’re almost home for you. Close your eyes and take a nap.”

    The victim took the advice and closed his eyes. 

    Twenty minutes later he was awakened and found himself facing a pistol held by the now stocking masked cab driver.

    “Make no noise and get outta the cab,” the soon-to-be executor said. “And head for those wooden dock stairs over there. We’re goin’ to the beach.”

    They were parked in front of a long deserted wharf.

    The victim, scared shitless, obeyed without further encouragement. At the bottom of the stairs he noticed a two-foot cardboard box filled with what looked like soft cement. He had read about gangster killings using what’s called Cement Shoes and then throwing the target into the water to drown. His head started to pound. He didn’t understand who this guy was or why he was being attacked. One of my fuckin’ jealous teammates musta got real pissed off at me, he pondered. I wonder which one.

    “Take your shoes off and step into that box,” the captor ordered.

    The victim hesitated, but quickly realized the futility of stalling when he felt his midsection being squeezed tightly and heard and felt his ribs cracking. 

    The man gruffly said, “I can kill ya now, or give ya a fightin’ chance. And if you’re smart enough to know anything about the ocean, you’re aware of the twelve-hour tides. Six hours in and six hours out.” 

    Thoughts suddenly flooded the captive’s aching head of when his father would take him fishing and point out the best times to catch – incoming tides the best - outgoing the worst. He strained his neck to check which way the few boats were facing.

    “Don’t waist your eyes,” the masked man barked. “The tide’s dead low right now and starting to return. I’m gonna tie ya to this wharf-post right here. The new tide will eventually cover it up to the dock. That’s about two feet above your head. So ya got about five hours to figure out how to get loose. You can yell and scream. But I don’t think no one’s gonna hear ya. Sorry! This place has become a ghost town since the end of the war. Too bad! If I was a real estate developer I’d buy it and build apartments.”

     The captive went silent and obeyed, realizing that his only chance was to as quickly as possible get the death sentence show on the road and the killer as far away as possible. So he forced his feet into the squishy, still soft cement. Then he was pushed up against the post and rope-tied - his hands behind his back and the post. His now cemented feet were buried beneath the sand, making it even more difficult to get free. 

     The captor, his face still covered with the black stocking mask, chuckling said,” Okay Mr. Majors, let’s see you pitch yourself outta this game. And I don’t think your swimming ability will help you here.” 

     Majors managed to get the last words in as he watched the man climb back onto the wharf and disappear from view. “Fuck you,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “I’ll get outta here and fucking find you.”