Reunited

The dawning morning light rocked Jimmy’s already unsteady brain. He squeezed his eyelids as his egg yolk brain slid back and forth uneasily in his skull. The brilliant scent of coffee was Jimmy’s sole reprieve. Keeping his eyes shut, he brought the open thermos to his lips and tipped a tasting sip.

“Nope.” He grunted shoving his free hand into his jacket. “Needs a little bit more this morning.” Jimmy produced a tinny, small flask.

After a two-glug trick, Jimmy was satisfied with the state of his coffee. To prevent further hangover decline, Evan Williams would provide some restorative mental balance. It was almost seven in the morning, and although all the marketplace stalls near Jimmy were empty, it seemed like the distant sounds were crashing about him.

Jimmy had been nursing a pounding headache since leaving Worcester, but due to his status as a thrice DWI awardee, he couldn’t afford some whiskey perks before or while driving.

The Brimfield Antique Flea Market was always a sight to behold. Jimmy smirked as he took another long pull of his brew. Hundreds of square miles of utter crap, he mused. Jimmy had been making the yearly pilgrimage to Brimfield for the past decade to hock his wares. Over the course of six days, Jimmy would unload hundreds of gewgaws, bric-a-brac, and self-identified trash – all uplifted under the provenance of antiquity.

“Yes, ma’am. This wheelbarrow was used by the Green Mountain Boys in Vermont during the Revolutionary War.”

“Sir, that is a one of kind pool cue supposably used at the Kennedy Compound.”

“Yep. A real switchblade. Rumor has it, it was used by none other than Whitey Bulger himself.”

From New York, Connecticut, and some all the way from Florida, Jimmy sold the out of stater lookie-loos whatever story they wanted. Well, and the junk attached. During those six days as thousands streamed through rows of trucks and tents, Jimmy hoped to make enough dough to carry him well through the winter.

With his uncanny ability to set outrageous markups on curbside collectables, Jimmy found antiquing to be a grand blood sport. Taking a 99% margin on a threadbare wingback chair he picked up for $5 was the highlight of Jimmy’s year.

Jimmy’s angle had always been state auctions. Getting dirt cheap items that the state, county, or city no longer wanted and desperately needed to unload. Every month exactly at 10 AM sharp, Jimmy showed up at the Worcester City Hall armed with a crip $100 bill ready to bid on those less desired knickknacks left over from property foreclosure, tax liens, or police activities.

The cheapest, and least interesting, objects were the remnants of the police evidence trove. After painstaking decades of holding onto seizures and crime scene sets, the city rejoiced at releasing the backlog of decaying property. Rusty scales from drug busts. A solid oak table littered with bullet holes. Moldering portraiture sprinkled with blood dried many a year.  The city’s series of warehouses served as an unintended time capsule, languorously churning out lost belongings long held in dark dank chambers yearning for a new owner and a respectable next chapter. Jimmy was always there ready to embrace the city’s abundance of refuse to better repurpose it into his very own treasure.

After eleven months of foraging, as usual, Jimmy had a ponderous U-Haul load from what appeared to be mainly the 1950s varietal – a bizarre menagerie from a hellish Leave It to Beaver.   

Since arriving at 6:00 AM to beat the other vendors to a prime back corner location, Jimmy had carted out the lightest pieces of furniture and had assembled them in a pleasing semicircle in the rear of the truck. He had haphazardly scattered framed pictures, vases and other detritus across surface tops. Still mending his addled brain, Jimmy had held off from moving the larger, heavier pieces still hulking in the truck. 

Taking another swig, Jimmy surveyed his work. “Eh. Good enough.” He peered over his shoulder inspecting the remaining cargo. He glowered. “That heavy bitch.” Tucked in the back shadowed corner of the U-Haul, Jimmy spied a massive butcher block table. Two feet by two feet on four stout legs, the table was crafted out of hearty slabs of walnut. It was a true relic. Not artificially aged in a dingy Worcester warehouse, the table was distinctly grizzled by decades of use. While muddled brown hues gave it a drab aurora, it was accented by tabletop pools of burgundy providing a heightened realism of confirmed purpose. The table’s rounded edges, betrayed by a handful of chips and splintered fragments, resembled the hunched shoulders of a tired veteran. Altogether, this table was nothing more than an eyesore to Jimmy. However, for a mere $2, Jimmy thought he could spin a yarn to convince some out-of-state dummy to make a most unreasonable purchase.

And that’s what had really persuaded Jimmy to buy the piece – a crumbling police post scrap hanging from the table’s underside. Form the shorn section, Jimmy could barely make out the words Investigation: Murder, File: Blackstone River. As a Worcester native, Jimmy knew that was enough to connect this massive block to one thing – the Butcher of the Blackstone. It was lore that had haunted Worcester children for generations. The fabled butcher was some sort of maniac stalking the streets at night in search of naughty boys and girls, planning to chop them up and leave their little pieces along the banks of the Blackstone River. These stories had terrified a prepubescent Jimmy – seemingly true tales of a bona fide boogeyman lurking in plain sight slaughtering children at night. As Jimmy grew older and wizened up, the childhood fear ebbed away, but the Butcher’s lore still captured Worcester every so often.

Like all good myths, there was a bit of truth to the Butcher’s story. Circa 1955 dismembered body parts were found along the polluted banks of Worcester’s Blackstone River. Over the course of a decade, unrelated limbs were found strewn in and around the riverside – never the same exact location, but always connected to the Blackstone. Of the legs, feet, arms, and hands discovered, none were related to the same human or for the matter connected to anything else. And although Jimmy thought children were the target, none of the apparent victims were children. However, the limbs collected encompassed different genders, ages, and races. The only unifying factor was the method of removal – harsh, broad cleaver hacks. The gruesome collection of appendages had left the greater Worcester community in an exceptional panic. Even though the community imagination revolved around a terrifying, cleaver-wielding butcher, the authorities had never put forth such a suspect. The festering waterfront of the Blackstone had been a dumping ground for generations, granted it was mainly a receptacle for toxic chemicals, the larger Boston crime syndicates were also known to leave their trash floating in the Blackstone too. In reality, the main police investigation had focused on funeral parlors as well as the local medical school, but the case never evolved and besides hacked off extremities, there was no common link to establish motive or causation. Perhaps, most troubling, no families, friends, or relatives of any kind came forward to claim custody of the different parts. They were simply cataloged away as spares, not necessarily murders. With the shift into the 1960s, the Butcher of the Blackstone was fully cemented as a cold case, but remained as enthralling folklore.

And that is exactly what Jimmy needed, folklore. Otherwise, ain’t nobody buying this junk, he thought. Jimmy had no idea if this block was really connected to anything, but that assuredly would not stop him. The day Jimmy had found the scrap of paper, he had instantly jammed into his pocket saving it for a laminate folder once he got home. His luck was too good to be true. He wasn’t sure this was really something the department could get rid of, but he wasn’t going to take his chances. All Jimmy knew is when he did eventually sell this hunk of aged wood for a small fortune, it would be the possible thrilling connection to the Butcher of the Blackstone that would grease the payment wheels. Affixed once again to the bottom of the table with duct tape, Jimmy’s ace in the sleeve was a awaiting for some clueless shopper searching for some excitement and perhaps a bit of macabre history.

Jimmy rested into an easy smile at the thought. “Like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” he whispered.

“I am sorry, what was that?”

Jimmy jerked snapping his head around, “Jesus Christ.” As Jimmy’s brain continued to swivel, he found an elderly man was standing at the front of his vendor’s plot. “God, you scared me, man.” Jimmy tentatively reached for his forehead trying to slow the mental revolutions from his turn.

“Oh. I certainly apologize for any fright.” A rich Boston brahmin accent soothed the tension in the air. The gentleman looked right, left, and back at Jimmy offering a bright smile. “I just assumed you were talking to me.”

Jimmy’s pulse recovered. “Heh. Yeah, I didn’t know anyone was here yet.” Jimmy cracked a slight smile. “I mean, I didn’t realize another vendor had set up shop next to me.”

“Ah. Well, I am sorry to disappoint, but I am not selling any wares.” The man’s eyebrows raised over his broadening grin. “I believe I am your first customer of the day.” 

Jimmy nodded, sizing the man up. The man was easily in his 70s or possibly 80s, but definitely of the Boston wealthy. Wrapped in a doubled breasted camelhair coat, he was steadied on a robust black cane and festooned with a gray tweed flat cap. This guy reeked of money. Jimmy settled on the man’s face. Craggy lines intersected across his forehead and cheeks, showing his many years, but noticeably his arched, heavy eyebrows were an inky black, which stood in stark contract to the rest, especially his neatly trimmed white moustache. This’ll be too easy. Jimmy salivated at the possible sales ahead.  

Jimmy cleared his throat. “Whelp, that’s good to hear. Early bird gets the worm, right?” He extended both hands gesturing to his assembled goods. “Here’s most of my stuff. I need to get some more out.” Jimmy titled his head back towards the truck. “But feel free to look at it all.” He paused and smiled. “The name’s Jimmy Devers, so let me know if you’ve got any questions.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Devers.” The man took three surprising agile steps forward without the use of his cane. “Gerald Carmichael,” he said presenting his gloved right hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Jimmy took the gloved hand. Velvet smooth kid leather. “Nice to meet you too.” As Jimmy shook his hand, he quickly took inventory of his surroundings. It was still around seven in the morning and in the distance there were several more vendors setting up shop, but the market was hardly in full swing. It would be at least another hour before the gates opened for the hordes of antique seekers.

“You definitely beat the crowd, Mr. Carmichael.” Jimmy released his grip focusing again on his first customer of the day.

Carmichael’s grin remained set. “Yes. I like privacy when negotiating bargains.”

“Well, good deal. Please enjoy, I am going to continue unpacking my truck.”

Jimmy ambled back to the U-Haul with the intention of giving this Mr. Carmichael at little bit of space before going in for the kill. After having played these games in the past, Jimmy needed to see what the customer gravitated towards before ensnaring them into a well-trodden sales pitch laced with exaggerations and revisionism.

Jimmy set to pantomiming work as shifted boxes from one table to next always keeping Carmichael in his periphery. The old man was making a slow circle of the space. Gingerly touching different tchotchkes and patting the well-worn furnishings. Jimmy froze. Finally, he could sense Carmichael was right behind at the foot of the U-Haul truck ramp.

“So, Mr. Devers, how is it that you have acquired this admirable compendium of antiques?” Carmichael ascended a quarter of the way of the ramp studying the remaining cargo load with every step.

Jimmy looked up and smiled before he turned. Showtime. “Well, I don’t want to give up trade secrets, Mr. Carmichael, but I usually find most of these precious keepsakes through state auctions.”

Carmichael nodded in approval. “All these fine pieces from Boston then?”

“No, no, no. Boston’s too fancy for me. These are from right down the road in Worcester.”

“Ah!” Carmichael’s eyes seemingly blazed. “I was born in Worcester. Truly the heart of Massachusetts.” He paused furrowing his brow. “Well, Mr. Devers, this is kismet, isn’t it? I can’t think of a better antique purchase then something from my own home city.” Carmichael furrow melted into a smile. “Don’t you think so.”

Jimmy was gob smacked. This guy just wants to give me money. “I think that sounds right, Mr. Carmichael.”

“Indeed.” Taking a last uncertain step off the ramp into the truck bed, Carmichael hesitated. “Well, considering your collection, what is indelible to Worcester? What best represents our city.”

“I’ve got a lot of great items that are truly historic artifacts. Here, let me…”

Raising his cane, Carmichael pointed just beyond Jimmy. “What do you have there?”

Jimmy turned and faced the butcher’s block. Bingo! “Well, Carmichael, you absolutely have an eye for treasures.” He could hardly contain his glee. Taking a couple steps towards the table, Jimmy turned back to Carmichael. “This here is a real piece of Worcester history.” Jimmy thumped his hand on the tabletop. Leaning forward towards Carmichael, Jimmy lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “This here is the table used by none other than the Butcher of the Blackstone.” 

Carmichael let out a guffaw. “Oh, come on, Mr. Devers.” Taking a couple steps forward. “I may be older, but I am not senile.”

Jimmy caught a whiff of Carmichael’s oaky cologne. “Gerry, buddy, this the real thing. Blood stains and everything. Take a look.” Jimmy eyes gestured to the table’s top.

A couple more steps forward, Carmichael peered down. “Ah, well that is certainly curious.” His gaze bored down on the block.  His face went slack. “Please tell me,” he intoned with wonderment, “how do you know?”

Hook, line, and sinker. Bending down, Jimmy started reaching under the table grasping for the police posting. His golden ticket. “Well, hold on let me show you something.” Where was it? “Damn thing. Give me a sec.” Dropping down on his knees, Jimmy continued to fumble to get purchase on the laminate folder. “Here we go. An actual police certificate. Real-”

Jimmy’s throat flexed in a strange cramp with his tongue lolling forward. Warm blood filled his mouth while a sharp burning radiated from his neck.

“Thank you, Mr. Devers. I have wanted this back for a long time.”

Jimmy’s brain was spinning as his cheek crushed forward on the truck floor causing blood to around him.

“It’s somewhat of a family heirloom. A keepsake of some of my youthful indiscretions. I do hope you understand.”

The end of Carmichael cane cladder on ground next to Jimmy. As his left arm sagged underneath his bodyweight, Jimmy’s right reached for his neck. As Jimmy’s brain clouded, he felt a sharp blade pinned through him.

As his vision hazed, Jimmy heard Carmichael’s footfalls drift down the ramp. The truck bed went completely dark as the roll door closed.