Crip and Henrietta
by Tim Wohlforth

Tim Wohlforth is the author of short stories, novels and non-fiction. A short story, "The Black Cat," appears in the current issue of Over My Dead Body Magazine. Another story, "The Ranters," will be published in the anthology, Fedora: Private Eyes and Tough Guys. Wohlforth has just completed an historical mystery, based on the 1886 Haymarket Bombing, called Dynamite. He has written two private eye novels. He co-authored a non-fiction book, On the Edge: Political Cults Right and Left, published last year by M.E. Sharpe.

"I thought I’d fired you," I said as I looked up into Henrietta’s green eyes. She hovered over my table in the back patio behind Raleigh’s Ale House on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, California. I must say she looked worse than the last time I saw her. Spiked green hair. An emaciated pale face suggested she had spent years in a Bosnian concentration camp. Enough damned metal piercing her nose, eyelids, lips, ears and tongue that I was afraid she’d clink if she smiled. No problem because Henrietta never smiled.
"You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Crip," she said, sneering at me.
"Come to poke a stick into the spokes of the wheels of my chair?" I asked.
Henrietta was about as politically correct as Rush Limbaugh. Seemed to delight in pressing my buttons. Thought the whole idea of a paraplegic private eye was a contradiction in terms. Sometimes I thought she had a point. That’s why I made the mistake of hiring her as my legs. But most of the time I’m more than happy to hide my wheelchair behind a web site, called "Tom Bateman, Investigations," and make a meager living doing skip traces and selling supposedly confidential information.
"I came to hire you."
"You’ve got to be kidding," I said. "You kept telling me I’m some no account freak."
"Well, you are. Without me around you’re useless."
"So why do you want to hire me?"
"Okay, I admit it. I need you."
I’ll be damned if it didn’t look like she was going to cry. I knew she must be in some really deep shit to make such a confession. It was as close as she had ever gotten to saying something nice to me. I wasn’t sure I could handle a warm and fuzzy Henrietta. I gestured for her to sit down on the bench opposite me, waved at a barmaid, and ordered her a pint of Full Sail. She reached into her jeans pocket with a thin bare goose-pimpled arm covered with bluish cult tattoos and withdrew a crumpled pack of Camels. She lit up.
"Puff the other way. That’s one reason why I fired you. Stunk up my house. Ashes all over the place. Cigarette butts."
"You’re a fuckin’ tight ass."
She blew smoke in my face. So much for warm and fuzzy. In some weird way I missed the lady. At least I knew where I stood with her. No phony patronizing.
The place was filling up with students, some attempting to study as they sipped their ale, others loudly arguing about philosophy and literary criticism. Someone behind me, who smoked Gauloises, launched into an oration on the differences between the "Jamesonians" and the "Bloomians." Ah, Berkeley.
"So what’s the problem?" I asked.
"You got to find somebody for me."
"Easy. Just hit a few keys on my computer and the job’s done."
"This one’s not that simple. The guy’s been kidnapped."
Kidnapped? Heavy duty. Henrietta was definitely in over her depth. Me, too, for that matter. I could handle myself and carried a gun. But I preferred small cases for small change. And little risk.
"Tell me about him."
"Reads books. Thinks big thoughts."
"Definitely not your type."
"Name’s Daniel Freidman. He lives in my apartment building off Telegraph. A weirdo. He’s an ex-Commie."
"Never thought you would be interested in politics."
"Chills me out. But Daniel’s different. He just talks and talks about anything, everything. Kinda like spending time with an encyclopedia that smiles."
"You really care for the guy."
I never could figure out Henrietta’s tastes. Like why she chases after me and then spends her time insulting me. But the lady is loyal. I give her that.
"He got burned, Crip, real bad by this weird political cult, the Workers Socialist Party. They had him working twenty hours a day. The main guy was sleeping with all the young chicks. Runnin’ around in a fancy car. So he quit."
"What’s the problem now?"
"He took off yesterday. Left a note. Said he was returning to the old movement. I just don’t believe it."
"People do, you know. It’s like religion. Deep down they never really lose the faith."
"Not Daniel," Henrietta insisted. "He hates them."
"I think I’d like to buy a book."
"What?"
"Come if you like."
I put on my calfskin driving gloves, wheeled the chair out from behind our table, spun its specially forged titanium wheels, took off towards the door, and then out onto Telegraph Avenue. My eyes burned from the car exhaust coming from the busy street. A whiff of French roast hit my nostrils as we passed patrons sprawled on the sidewalk, backs against the front of Philosophical Grounds coffee house. All along the street, vendors were setting up their stands for the day. Silver jewelry, incense, tie-dyed tee shirts, anarchist bumper stickers.
Henrietta ran after me, panting. "Slow down, Crip. Don’t want a heart attack."
"Then quit smoking."
*
I entered a long walkway just off Telegraph Avenue with Henrietta at my side. She knew better than to try to push me. I was not about to be dependent on her or anyone for locomotion. I came to a halt in front of Red Books. I sat in my chair, taking in the window display.
An immense photo of a man dressed in camouflage khaki, black ski mask over his face, charred pipe sticking out his mouth, dominated the window. He was surrounded by a truckload of similarly attired peasants waving Kalashnikov rifles and red flags. A sign proclaimed, "Viva La Zapatistas!"
"Holy shit," Henrietta said. "This where you hang out and get your jollies?"
"Run by a friend of mine. If anyone knows about this group that kidnapped your friend, it’s Maggie."
I saw Maggie emerging from a backroom, holding a container of coffee. A Mao cap, boasting a bright red star, perched jauntily on top of her head. A quite pleasant sight with straight prematurely gray hair, bobbed and stylishly cut neck length. She wore a black turtleneck jersey that accented her well-shaped body and matching skin-tight ski pants. She swung open the bookstore door and waited for me to get through with my chair.
"Introduce me to your young friend." Maggie placed her emphasis on the word "young."
"Meet my sometime associate, Henrietta."
She turned to Henrietta and began her pitch. "We’ve got the complete works of Stalin, also Lenin. Have you ever read Red Flag? Want a sample copy?"
"All I read is the Enquirer," Henrietta said, "and then only when they feature two-headed babies from outer space."
A pile of Red Flags sat by the door stacked under a table covered with brightly colored leaflets. I could barely get my chair into the place.
"Who’s that fuckhead in the ski mask in your window?" Henrietta asked. I would have kicked her in the shins if I had kickable feet. The last thing I wanted was a lengthy lecture from Maggie about the Revolution in Chiapas.
"I need your help," I said before Maggie could launch her pitch. "Henrietta appears to have lost a friend. Claims he was kidnapped by the Workers Socialist Party. What do you know about them?"
"Revisionists."
This was no revelation since, in Maggie’s book, "revisionist" means someone who disagrees with her.
"No doubt, but do they go around kidnapping people?" I asked.
"Possible." Maggie rested her coffee on a copy of Stalin’s Foundations of Leninism. She turned to Henrietta and asked, "Who’s the guy?"
"Daniel Freidman."
"Ah," Maggie said thoughtfully. "Very, very interesting."
"So you know him," I said.
"Of course. Comes in here all the time. Once a top figure in the WSP. Then he quit. Sure he was kidnapped? He’s speaking at a WSP rally Friday."
"No way," Henrietta said. "Daniel hates those creeps."
Maggie walked over to the leaflet table and handed me a hot red one. Damned if she wasn’t correct. I passed on the leaflet to Henrietta.
"How can they make him front for a group he hates?" Henrietta asked.
"Easy enough," Maggie said. "They get to someone close to you and threaten to harm her. Then you do what they say."
"Think, Henrietta," I said, turning to her. "Is there someone close to Daniel outside of you?"
Henrietta held up her hand to silence us. She was thinking. Not something she does very often, so it didn’t come easy for her.
"There was someone. He was crazy about her. Back in New York. That’s why he can’t relate to other women. Told me she was a dumpy little woman with two children. Sara’s her name."
"Great. I just punch ‘Sara’ in my old computer. Then narrow it a bit by adding ‘New York City’ and end up with only a 100,000 hits. Got to have a last name."
"Used to be married to a top party leader. Party brass forced him to divorce her. First name begins with ‘J.’ John? No, Jack. That’s it."
"Jack Geller," Maggie said.
"You sure?" I asked.
"Got to be," Maggie said. "Only Jack in the top leadership of the WSP. And I do remember some story about him being forced to dump his family."
"We’re off to see a computer," I said as I whirled my chair around. Maggie leaned over me and gave me an affectionate kiss on the lips. If it wasn’t for her damned politics. Henrietta glowered.
*
"That’s all I need," I told Henrietta as we whizzed down Telegraph towards my cottage. I cruised through the bustling crowd of students and professors. A young man wobbled by on a unicycle, dressed as a clown. I almost collided with a large, middle-aged woman in a full-length dress. She was unfolding a table to display her jewelry.
"I have a name and a city," I continued. "Also a former husband’s name. In ten minutes I’ll have her phone number, her bank balance, terms of the divorce settlement, current address."
"They should lock up people like you," Henrietta muttered between puffs on her Camel.
I was not nearly so cocky inside as I pretended to be in front of Henrietta. The problem was I was caught up in her quest. It hit me personally. I took some shrapnel in the spine over in ‘Nam. Stuck in a chair for the rest of my life because of a war I didn’t understand. A war we lost. Maybe a war nobody won. Came back and joined the Vietnam Veterans for Peace. Lasted one demo. Yet it did give me respect for people like Daniel. If they had been more successful earlier on maybe I wouldn’t be in a chair. So I felt I owed those rads something. Finding Daniel would be my way of paying back.
The key was Sara. I had to get her out of their clutches. But how? A scheme shaped in my head. Crazy enough to work. Cost bucks. I needed to call a PI I knew in New York City to dig up some information. Then a quick trip to the Big Apple.
I turned to Henrietta. "Pack your bags. We’re going on a trip."
"I haven’t got a bag."
"How about a toothbrush?"
"Piss off."
*
Sara Geller stood in front of the window of her apartment on West 95th Street in New York City. A misty rain descended upon the rooftops of the apartment houses that stretched out in front of her. She fixated upon a flock of pigeons swirling over one tenement roof. A lone figure, little more than an inch high in her distant view, slowly swung a long pole to keep the birds in flight. He stood near a little shack that was the pigeon loft. She felt a connection with the figure, all alone on that wet roof. He had his birds. All he needed to do was drop his pole and they would flock back to him.
She had her own pole swinging. She had sent her two children off to school. She feared for them. The children and herself, like the pigeon keeper and his flock, were being watched. She knew who was doing the watching. The WSP people. The ones who had broken up her marriage. But why? Why torment her again after all these years?
The phone rang. No one ever called her. Who could it be? The WSP people?
"What do you want of me?" She shouted into the phone without waiting for the person on the other end of the line to speak. "You’ve already done enough to destroy my life."
"I’m not who you think I am," an unknown voice said. "I mean you no harm. Need your cooperation to help Daniel. Daniel Friedman."
"What about Daniel?"
"My name’s Tom Bateman. I’m a private investigator from Berkeley, California. I’ve just arrived in town. I’m working for a friend of Daniel’s. She’s convinced the WSP has gotten to him. Using threats to harm you to control him."
"But why?"
"I don’t know the answer to that one. All I know is he has suddenly become important to them. They’re forcing him to speak at a rally the end of the week. Is someone watching you and your children?"
"Yes. I recognized them from the old days. Goons from the WSP."
"Then I want you to do just as I tell you. You and the children are going on a little trip. Don’t pack a thing. Just take the kids to Hebrew school. This time you go inside. I’ll contact you."
"How will I recognize you?"
"Ever meet a paraplegic rabbi?"
"No."
"You will."
Sara hung up the phone. Anything to get those bastards. Anything for Daniel. But fear returned. Her flock. Their safety.
*
A feeling of peace came over Sara as she walked with her two children into the temple on Broadway. Sara wore her brown suit, with a plain white blouse, and sturdy, comfortable brown shoes. The skirt on the suit felt snug. She must be gaining weight. Daniel had liked her on the heavy side. A musty aroma hit her nostrils, almost causing her to sneeze. She smelled centuries of Jewish culture. The room reflected a tradition brought over from Europe. The ark, with the torah inside, floated at the end of the room, the floor its sea.
She was brought up in a secular Jewish household. Then came Marxism, faith in socialism and the party. The break. Nothing but emptiness left inside her. She had returned to the faith of her ancestors. It was good for her. For her children.
She led the children from the prayer hall into a side room, teaming with children. The boys, all with yarmulkes on, played roughly with each other, while the girls formed little knots, talking and giggling. Rachel, her daughter, dashed off for a group of girls her own age, while her son, David, stood by her. Rabbi Finkel, a round man about forty with little hair on his head, came up to her. He wore a black suit and a wrinkled white shirt with an open collar.
"Wonderful you could help us out today and take the children on a little trip," Finkel said. He winked at her. "Afraid I can’t make the trip myself. A good friend, Rabbi Breitman, has volunteered to take charge."
"Brietman?" Sara asked.
"Not to worry."
Rabbi Finkel took Sara’s hand in his plump one and, oblivious to the youthful chaos around him, ploughed across the room. He steered her towards a tall, thin man sitting in a wheel chair. He wore a yarmulke with a black hat sitting precariously on top of it.
"It’s me, Tom Bateman. All you’ve got to do is herd your kids and the others out of here and into a waiting school bus I’ve parked outside."
*
Sara, with her two children next to her, sat directly behind Tom Bateman. Even though she had just met him, she felt a connection, a trust. She would do as he said. For David. To get back at the WSP swine. Bateman occupied the driver’s seat of an orange school bus that had Hebrew writing, painted in black, on the side panels. He had a broad grin on his face. A dozen or so noisy, restless kids filled the rest of the bus.
"Where did you get a school bus with wheel chair access?"
"Easy. Used for special ed."
He started down the street. Sara looked through the rear view mirror and spotted a maroon Chevrolet. It pulled out into the traffic from a parking spot near the end of the block. She recognized the two men in the front seat. WSP.
"They’re following us!" she said.
"Figures."
"So what are you going to do?"
"Count on a little help from New York City traffic. Then make my move."
The yellow school bus putted down Broadway, with the maroon car right on its tail. How was Bateman going to lose their tail? Had she been right to trust him?
At that moment the light turned yellow in front of them. He jammed on the accelerator and forced the bus into the intersection. Brakes screeched. The shrill sound of a police whistle pierced the air. A taxi almost slammed into them. Shouts. Curses. Sara gripped Rachel tightly. Children cried. Bateman paid no heed. He drove like a madman. She didn’t mind risking her life, but she had no right to endanger her children. He forged ahead. Sara glanced back. The Chevy was caught up in a snarl of traffic.
The bus reached the next corner. Red light. Without slowing down, or giving his left more than a quick glance, Bateman swung a right. More screeching brakes. He barreled down a side street. He drove that damned old school bus like it was a sports car. What had she gotten herself into? She started to speak. Bateman turned right again. She smashed against the side of the bus. The children regained their composure and started shouting encouragement. Young David’s voice boomed, "Go, Rabbi, Go." Those in the back cheered.
Bateman jammed on the brakes and stopped in the middle of the narrow one-way street. What was he up to now?
"Okay," he said. "See that gray van?"
"The one with that weird woman standing next to it?" Sara asked.
"That’s Henrietta, my assistant. She’s going to drive you to the Catskills while I take the rest of this mob to the Jewish Museum. Now."
He pushed a lever and opened the door. She grabbed her two children and ran towards a scowling green-haired woman, who had a cigarette dangling out of the corner of her mouth.
*
I made my way down the middle aisle of the Slovenian Hall on Telegraph. I had buried Sara’s letter under my blanket. Right next to my .45.
Henrietta bounded ahead of me, eyeing everyone she passed as if she was checking out an exotic animal zoo. The hall was filling up. Around three hundred people packed the place. It seemed that every radical who hung out on Telegraph Avenue had made it to the meeting.
A huge banner over the speakers’ podium declared "Forward to Socialism – The Workers Socialist Party." Red flags and portraits of Marx, Lenin, Ché Guevara, Malcolm X, and Fidel Castro draped the side walls.
A hush came over the audience as the speakers filed in to occupy their places in a row of chairs behind the podium.
"Far fuckin’ out," Henrietta said. "That’s Bridget Stanhope, the movie actress."
She pointed to a thin middle-aged woman with dazzling blue eyes, the kind that made you feel she was looking just at you. She had exquisite cheekbones, while a touch of wrinkle enhanced her beauty. Mature, majestic, almost imperial. Shoulder-length, strawberry-blond hair.
A soft smile of recognition crept over her face as a man about her age, wearing an ill-fitting suit, took the seat next to her. Big head, small body, like a prematurely aged child.
"There’s Daniel," Henrietta exclaimed. "Looks like she knows him."
"Fits."
"What do ya mean?"
"That’s why they needed him. He’s the key to her. She’s money, fame, property."
Next came a middle-aged man in a rumpled open collar white shirt. He had a dome-like high forehead, bald on top, long gray hair flowing from the sides to shoulder length. Pot belly. The ruddy complexion of a drinker. Looked like an aged gnome who had imbibed a little too much nectar. He nodded to Bridget and walked unsteadily to the podium.
A broad-shouldered muscular blond man with a mustache sauntered in, paused for a moment behind Daniel, and then found a place to stand in the corner. His cold eyes scanned the audience and came to rest on Henrietta and me. Or so it felt. I noticed a bulge under his suit jacket near his armpit. This was the fellow to watch.
There was something definitely wrong with the scene. Retro 60s. But it was not the 60s. Someone was perpetuating the past for contemporary evil ends. My money was on Cold Eyes as the someone.
The gnome tapped the microphone. He introduced himself as Barry Emerson, the National Secretary. He chronicled the ills of capitalist society, occasionally stumbling over a word or blurring his speech.
The audience rose from their chairs, clapping, and chanted "Two, four, six, eight. Who do we really hate? The capitalist state! The capitalist state!" They didn’t stop. They just kept chanting and chanting. It seemed to go on for hours, but maybe it lasted ten minutes.
I heard screeching next to me. I’ll be damned if Henrietta wasn’t on her feet as well, screaming at the top of her lungs with the best of them, face getting red. Most color I’d ever seen in it.
The audience quieted down and Henrietta found her seat.
"Never knew you were such a radical," I whispered.
"Oh, fuck off," she muttered. "Just trying to blend in."
"You succeeded."
Bridget Stanhope rose from her seat and floated to the podium. She held out long gracile fingers to cut off the applause that erupted in the hall. Then she smiled graciously and began to speak. She told a story about her days in Mississippi in the summer of 1964. Lost one night in redneck country, her car was followed by Klansmen, she narrowly escaped death.
"The driver of our car is here on the platform with me. It was none other than Daniel Freidman. I owe him my life."
The place burst into tumultuous applause. Daniel rose from his seat. Bridget rushed over to him and enveloped him in kisses.
"Fuck all," Henrietta said. "Daniel never said a word. I didn’t know he was a hero, for Christ’s sake."
"Now," I whispered.
I spun the wheels of my chair to turn it and then propelled myself into the aisle. Henrietta followed me. The crowd was standing, clapping and pounding their feet. No one noticed me. If they had, who would stop a paraplegic? Daniel was slowly walking towards the podium with what looked like a prepared speech in his hand. I reached the front of the podium just as Daniel appeared at the back of it. I handed Sara’s letter to Henrietta. She leapt on the stage and pressed the paper into Daniel’s hand, whispering into his ear. Cold eyes came running towards her. She jumped back to the floor of the hall.
Daniel quickly read the letter. A smile came over his face. He looked like a different person, rejuvenated. He raised his hand for silence. The roar continued. Bridget, who stood next to him, flicked her wrist in the direction of the crowd, as if she held an invisible magic wand. Immediate stony silence.
"I want to thank Bridget Stanhope for bringing back a flood of warm memories of our common struggle that summer of ’64," Daniel began. "When I returned to New York that fall I joined the WSP." Cheers went up from the audience. "It was a beautiful party then. Dedicated to world socialism. I gave myself wholly to it. But it changed." He turned towards cold eyes. "It changed when Philip Gaynor joined the leadership."
Gaynor grabbed Daniel. Emerson rose from his seat and headed Daniel’s way. Bridget touched Gaynor’s arm with a fingertip. He dropped Daniel reluctantly, a vicious scowl on his face. Emerson froze in place.
Gasps came from the audience. Shouts of "Traitor. Fink."
"Let him speak," Bridget said, "and then Comrade Gaynor can answer him. He saved my life. I owe him that much and far, far more."
"Gaynor turned Comrade Emerson," Daniel said. "He encouraged his drinking, womanizing. In time he was running the WSP. Emerson became nothing more than a figurehead."
I saw the muscles tighten in Gaynor’s face. He loosened his jacket and reached underneath it.
I found out later," Daniel continued, "and I have the evidence, that Gaynor was sent in by the FBI under their Cointelpro program to disrupt us. When the FBI abandoned that effort, Gaynor stayed to run the WSP for his own gain."
It was too much for cold eyes. Ignoring Bridget, he flung open his jacket, pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Daniel.
"Lower your gun, Mr. Gaynor," I said, yanking out my .45 from under the blanket covering my legs.
I released the safety, pointed the barrel of the gun at Gaynor, and began to squeeze the trigger. He turned towards me and hesitated for less than a second. I shot, hitting him in the arm. His pistol fell to the floor. Emerson bolted out into the audience, heading for the back door.
"Get the CIA assholes," Henrietta screamed.
She leapt into the air and threw her whole body at Emerson bashing into him feet first. He sprawled on the floor. Henrietta jumped up and came down on his belly, knocking the air out of him. She straddled him and gouged his eyes with her long green nails.
Daniel approached Bridget and whispered into her ear. Then he walked her towards the door behind the platform. I wheeled over to Henrietta, who was still sitting on top of Emerson, banging on his head with her fists. I held Gaynor in my gun sights. He fell to the ground and gripped his bloody arm. His eyes were on his gun. It was a good three feet away.
"That’s not a good idea," I said.
"Holy f--"
"Just grab the goddamned cell phone in my pocket and Dial 911."