Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

“Maybe he told you something about that phony monicker. That ‘Joe Coflee’ routine he was giving us in here?”

“Aw, come on! You’re smarter than that! He just doesn’t want it to get noised around that a Hollywood producer is here. I told you what happened in Detroit. Poor guy’s exhausted!”

“But don’t you wonder, Mary Ellen, why a big operator like that would choose a busted down fleabag like this? Why didn’t he grab a cab back to Detroit to wherever he was staying? Further more, first he tells me he’s going to stay a few days. Then he tells you just overnight till his car’s fixed. He don’t add, honey!”

“You don’t want him to add up! He makes darn good sense to me! A big famous man wants to stay overnight in a place where he won’t be picked and pulled to death. If you can’t understand that, then you can’t understand anything. That’s all!”

She was white hot now, poking her finger in my face. I caught her hand and forced it down. “Listen, kid. Listen hard. A guy held up a payroll office in Detroit today and shot the manager. He stole a car to make a getaway and ditched it up near Flat Rock when he ran out of gas. He carried his loot in a leather bag... a tan leather bag!”

All the grown up temper drained out of her face, and she was a scared kid again.

“I think your Mr. Coffee or Henderson or whatever his name is... I think he’s the killer, Mary Ellen. A guy called Klegman.”

“Where’d you hear about all this?” she said hoarsely. “Stan Clark got it from Mack Garrity. Radio’s full of it. And I suppose the afternoon papers, too. They even got the guy identified. Marty Klegman, that’s the name.”

Mary Ellen’s face was tightening into knots and I knew she was going to cry. I pulled her to me, put my arms around her, and let her jam her face into my shoulder. She didn’t speak for whole minutes. Then she said, “Unk... there’s a lot of tan bags around.” I waited. “And plenty of people break down in Flat Rock.” I waited some more. “Maybe... coincidence?” Pathetic!

I weighed it out in my head. Could be. Could be.

“You know, sweetheart, it could be a crazy coincidence at that!” She perked up right away. “Let’s find out, what do you say?”

There wasn’t but a handful of auto repair shops in Flat Rock, and I called them all. One was already shut for the night. The other two were all-night garages. But no tow-ins today, they said. Score: two no’s and one question mark. I told Mary Ellen.

“Think we’d better call the police, Unk?”

That brought it out into the open. “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.” The bag of dough was playing touch-tag with my imagination. And I wanted to be “it”.

“Unk... what if he really is the producer. Henderson. His car just might be in the garage that’s closed, you know. If we reported this to the police... and he was Henderson, like he says, then couldn’t he sue us? For false arrest? Or scandal?”

Good question. Damned good. I just had to make sure before I did anything. I picked up a long, sharp knife and tested it on my thumb. Then I put it back on the sandwich board.

“Maybe you’re right kiddo. Maybe this is the chance of a lifetime for one of us or the other. If we handle things right.”

“I don’t get you, Unk...”

“If we handle things right, we stand to make a lot of money. If the guy back there really is a Hollywood bigshot and likes you... enough to help you in the business, I mean... then you’re really in the chips. But that’s a big, fat ‘maybe’.”

“He really sold me, Unk. Showed me all kinds of identification cards and credit cards, studio passes. Everything!”

“Could have been tricked up, you know. That stuff is easy to duplicate. And a con man worth his salt can be anybody he wants to be. You know that!”

She was firm. “I believed him, Unk. I believed him.” Then, not so firm, with that Judy Garland tremor in her voice — “All I want is a chance. That’s all. A chance to be somebody.”

“That’s what I want for you, too, honey. It’s what your Mom and Dad always wanted too, God rest ’em. If that guy back there is Henderson, sure as shootin’ I won’t louse up your chance! But what if he isn’t Henderson? What if he’s the gunman Klegman?”

“Then, we call the police,” she answered promptly.

“That’s right. We call the police. But not right away!” I saw the hurt in her eyes, and I was sorry I said anything.

“You’re thinking about that bag of money, aren’t you? The money from the holdup?” Her forefinger jabbed my conscience.

“All right. So I am. So what? If that’s Klegman, why turn his loot over to the cops? What’s to stop us from grabbing that bag and hiding it away safe. Then turn the bum over to the cops!” The idea sang in my head. “What’s to stop us?”

“Oh, you’re so damned brainy, Uncle. ‘Who’s to stop us?’. Klegman for one. If he is Klegman, I mean. You think he’s going to hand you that money like a bag of peanuts? Put your hands on his bag and he’ll blow your head off. Like he did to the payroll guy he plugged. He’s got nothing to lose now...