Synopsis

Is the gold real, or is Pat on a fool’s errand?

It’s January 1986, and Pat Kowalski has just turned 18, but there’s no cause for celebration. His father is dying, and the local bank is foreclosing on their house. Pat talks to his senile great-grandmother, who tells him a story about a man dying in front of her in 1894. What she doesn’t tell him is that the man – Mister Good Boots – had been carrying a suitcase worth of gold coins. These coins would be worth a fortune today – if any of them are still left.

But Pat’s not the only person in their small Central Illinois town who needs money. Pat’s classmate Vince is watching his college dream evaporate. Vince has also convinced himself that Pat’s family stole something of great value from his family in the 1920s. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to right an old wrong. Vince has another advantage – Pat doesn’t know Vince is looking.

The two men are both trying to figure out if there’s any gold left and, if so, where it is. While they look, they discover a lot about their own history, from bodies buried under an abandoned restaurant to both family’s relationships with Al Capone. It’s a race where the winner gets the gold, and the loser gets a bullet.

Amazon * Smashwords * Apple * Google * B&N * Kobo

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Patrick Kowalski

I hate the smell of nursing homes. It’s the smell of piss, dust, and death. Friday January 17, 1986, my eighteenth birthday, found me visiting a nursing home. It was a Friday and the start of the most important two months of my life.

The day had started shitty and had not improved. I honestly think my mom forgot it was my birthday. Hard to imagine since she was there, but things were going seriously south in our life. So, no cake, no card, and definitely no gifts. My dad was in the hospital, sick with something we’d just found out was called Goodpasture’s syndrome. They were bringing in a machine from a big hospital in Indy the next day, Saturday, to try and cure him. He’d been in and out of hospitals enough for me to know they only did shit like that on a Saturday. If they thought that otherwise, you might not make it to Monday.

I’d also found out that the bank was foreclosing on our house. Dad had been in and out of hospitals for two years now, first when he lost his leg and now this not-so-goodpasture stuff. The only way we’d had food for Christmas dinner was that the IGA where Mom worked had given us a ham and let her take some dinged and dented cans home. But when you’re eighteen, you still have to go to school – or at least I did, until I graduated in May or dropped out to live under a bridge, whichever came first. So I was at a nursing home, interviewing my great-grandmother for my Senior project – an oral history of Eastville.

At the time, I thought the project, let alone school, was a stupid idea. Later, when, because of the project, I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun, I was sure it was stupid. I was wrong.

Oral History Project

Oral History project by Patrick Kowalski, Eastville High School, May 2, 1986. I started this project by asking my oldest living relative, Barbara Pikus, who we in the family called Great-Barb, what her earliest memory was. This interview was conducted on January 17, 1986. Here’s what she said.

###

My oldest memory is of the day when the man with the good boots showed up. He was the first person I ever saw die.

I must have been four or five, so that meant I was speaking only Lithuanian. It was a cool day and dry. I remember that the trains weren’t running. They usually roared by our house, belching big clouds of black smoke. I later learned this was during the big railroad strike. Anyway, my very first memory of that day was seeing some men walk down the road in front of our house.

House. Big word for a shack with an outhouse in the back and a pump well by the barn. But I was little, and it was all I knew.

Anyway, I saw some men walking by. They were waving black flags, and I waved at them. My mom came out, and I asked her if we could join them. Mom said something I didn’t understand and took me by the hand into the house. She probably called them anarchists because that’s what they were. Besides the flags, they were carrying big wooden beams to block the railroad tracks.

No, now I remember. It was the day before my fourth birthday, so that would have been May 21. May 21, 1894. I remember being excited about my birthday. We made church mice look rich, so I wasn’t expecting anything. But thanks to the man with the good boots, I got a rag doll and a piece of candy.

I don’t know if mom sent me out to pick strawberries or I just did. My brother Luidas, your great-great uncle, was just starting to crawl and always underfoot, so Mom wouldn’t get upset if I wasn’t around. There were wild strawberries in patches along the dusty road which ran parallel to the creek. I went to one of my usual spots, carrying a wicker basket. It’s the little one over the fireplace. [Note: interview held in her room in the nursing home. I have no idea what basket she was talking about.] I remember back then thinking it was so big.

Anyway, I found some strawberries. I picked a few and ate a few, working my way into the patch. I came to a little clearing where a storm had claimed a big tree. From there, I could see the men standing on the tracks behind the pile of wood they were carrying. One of them, Robby Cee, we called him, waved at me.

At the time, I really liked Robby – he was friendly. My mom wasn’t so fond of him. As I got older, I realized he was, well, you’d now say retarded. Back then, we weren’t so nice. Anyway, he waved, and I saw one of the men he was with had an ancient gun he was holding. Even I knew it was old, and I think it was a muzzle-loader, which was obsolete even then. But it was probably all he had.

I waved back at Robby Cee and went back to picking strawberries. When I got my basket and tummy full, I went back to the house. Mom thanked me and said we’d have a pie.

I got to the muddy patch just before the creek when I saw him. The man with the good boots, I mean. He had a funny look on his face, like he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him, and he was walking down the road faster than my little legs could carry me.

I picked my way carefully through the muddy area, which Dad told me was caused by an underground river coming up to meet the creek. I’m still not sure if he was serious or just telling tales.

I didn’t know how, but I beat the man to our house. Well, I eventually figured it out, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I think I had just given Mom the strawberries when we heard footsteps on the bit of gravel in front of our house. I remember running out, followed by Mom carrying Luidas. I saw the man, swaying, pale and sweaty, standing in front of our house.

Dad walked out front from the garden, hoe in hand. The man said something which I didn’t understand. Like I said, I didn’t speak English back then. The man swayed again, then went face-down in the dirt.

Dad walked up to the man and said something I also didn’t understand. For Mom and my benefit, he repeated it in Lithuanian. “Good boots.”

Mom handed me Luidas and ran over to the man in the dirt. With Dad’s help, she rolled him face up. Curious, I walked over, carrying Luidas as best as I could. The man’s face was frozen in pain.

“He’s dead,” Mom said to Dad.

“You sure?” Dad asked. Mom glared at him. “Okay. So what do we do?”

My memory cuts out there. The next thing I remember was Mister Calabro rolling up in a wagon. It was dark, and the only light was a lantern on Calabro’s wagon.

Dad and Mister Calabro talked a bit, and then the two of them got the dead man into the wagon. It wasn’t done particularly gracefully, more like tossing a sack of potatoes. Once they got the body situated on the wagon, Mister Calabro climbed up, took the reins, and rolled out. Dad came walking back in.

“What’s he going to do?” I asked Dad.

“Bury the man, I suppose,” Dad replied, settling heavily into a chair.

“What about his people?” I asked. “He’s got a mommy and a daddy.”

Dad chuckled. “I suppose he does,” he replied. “But we couldn’t find anything on him with his name. Just a train ticket to Chicago.”

Back then, Chicago might as well as been the moon. “He’s from there?”

Dad shrugged. “Don’t know.” Dad looked at Mom. “And?”

Mom smiled and lifted up a blanket. Underneath it was three big gold coins and a gun. The revolver I keep in my bedstand, in fact. [Note: I’m pretty sure they don’t let 96-year-olds keep revolvers in their rooms in the nursing home.] “There were four in his pocket,” Mom said, pointing at the coins, “and some paper money and change.”

“Need to leave the man enough money to get buried,” Dad replied. “Besides, Calabro might look funny at us if a well-dressed man like that had no money at all.” I remember he ruffled my hair. “Looks like you get to pick out something at the store tomorrow. Happy birthday, Barbara.”

About the Author

Chris Gerrib has wanted to be a writer since he was a child riding his bicycle to the library in the small Central Illinois town where he grew up.  Since then he spent a tour in the US Navy, got an MBA, and now has a day job with a multi-national software company as a Project Manager.  For fun, he plays golf, travels, and is a voracious reader.  He lives in the Chicago suburbs and is active in his local Rotary Club.  He’s had four science fiction novels published, and his first mystery novel is coming out soon.

Website * Facebook * BlueSky * Blog