Case of the Glass Heart

 Chapter Four

Friday, July 4th, 1947. Independence Day, Tampa, Florida.

On a clear, sun-drenched summer evening, the citizens of Tampa lined the sidewalks along Grand Central Avenue, eager for the Independence Day Victory Parade. The city had gone all out for this Fourth of July, the first true celebration since before the war.

Against the better judgment of that little voice in his head, Mike Paladin had agreed to meet Harry, Lois, and the Stafford kids to watch the parade. Figured a quick “How ya doin’?” and a fast exit wouldn’t hurt. Never knew when he might need another favor from his cousin.

He muttered as he worked his way through the crowd. “Best to stay on the Lieutenant’s good side.”

The men stood proud, as the olive drab green military Jimmy trucks and the Willie jeeps rolled by, some with the well-known U.S. Army white star, others painted with the new ‘Hap’ Arnold emblem; a crimson circle in the middle of a white star, flanked on both ends by a pair of golden wings, painted on the hoods and door panels. 

Every man held his hat in his hand, against his chest, next to their hearts, paying their respects, as the flyboys of the newly formed U.S. Air Force, stationed at the recently named MacDill Air Force Base at the edge of Old Tampa Bay, marched by.

Children ran and giggled, enjoying the festivities in the hot Florida sunshine. The occasional cracks and pops of fireworks echoed from alleyways as the older boys set off M-80s.

Mothers wrapped their arms around their sons, holding them close. They said it was to keep the unruly boys from running onto the parade route.

If they were honest, the real reason was etched in their hearts...a memory of a brother, an uncle, or a husband lost in the war overseas. 

Grandmothers adorned in bright floral patterns, and cool cotton dresses, tried to hide from the bright, near-tropical Florida sun under wide-brimmed Cartwheel hats, fanning themselves with paper fans, waving little star-spangled flags.

The entire city was decked out in patriotic red, white, and blue. American flags hung from the storefronts and marquees. Ribbons of stars and stripes encircled every street sign and lamppost. The mayor even hired a couple of guys to stand on the rooftops and toss red, white, and blue confetti down onto the crowds and streets below.

The ‘Old Timers’ stood straight, dressed in their old Doughboy uniforms, from the war prior. They rendered a snappy boot click and salute as the U.S. Cavalry honor guard rode past, mounted on Chestnut Morgans. An elderly gent whispered to his grandson, “That’s a fine horse breed right there, my boy. Strong and sturdy.”

The mayor and his wife sat in the back of a sunbeam yellow 1945 Cadillac Coupe Deville convertible, waving to the crowd as they rolled past. 

The Hillsborough High School marching band, dressed smartly in their pressed red and white band uniforms, belted out the “Star-Spangled Banner,” followed by the segregated Middleton High Marching Band, blaring a jazzy rendition of “Yankee Doodle.” Several farm tractors pulled hay trailers along the parade route, decked out in every floral arrangement imaginable. A man on loan from Barnum & Bailey, dressed as a larger-than-life Uncle Sam, perched atop stilts, marched in the parade...trailed by somersaulting clowns.

Nickel beer and ten-cent frankfurters were sold on every street corner as people made their way along Bayshore Drive, searching for the perfect spot to watch the fireworks shoot out over the bay.

Lois Stafford’s eyes brightened with a huge smile when she saw Mike approaching.
“Mikey, it’s so good to see you!” she said, pulling him into a warm, soft, and sincere hug.
He’d always liked this woman. His cousin did real good when he married this one.

Harry offered Mike a beer. “I didn’t think you’d show.”
“Thanks.” Mike took a drink of the cold brew.

“Yeah… hey, cuz. Sorry about the other day. It’s real good seeing you and the family.”

Everyone cheered as a squadron of P-38 Lightning and P-51 Mustang fighters flew overhead, signaling the end of the parade and the beginning of the night festival. 

Mike politely smiled as he skillfully navigated away from difficult conversation topics—such as what he did in the war, his work, or especially his father.

As the sun set into the bay and dusk settled in, minor fireworks burst over the water, soliciting a few "ooohs" and "aaahs" from the crowd as they awaited the "big show" promised by the U.S. Air Force.

Mike was distracted by little Penny Stafford rambling on about her school projects and didn’t notice the older, bulky man who stepped up beside Harry and Lois.

He hadn't seen him arrive, but he instantly recognized the voice—a voice he hadn't heard in almost 13 years. Mike drew in a breath as he turned to face the man. “Hello, dad.”

Jack Stafford arched an eyebrow and curled his lip into a snarl. He looked at his nephew, Harry, nodding his head in Mike’s direction and simply asked. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Lois scolded her husband’s uncle. “Jack, please watch your language in front of the children. And please, let’s not be rude.”

Harry tried to defuse the situation. “Come on, Uncle Jack, he just wanted to say hi to the family.”

“Family, huh? That what we are? I heard he changed his name. I don’t see a Stafford standing there, just a damned quitter.” Jack couldn’t even look at his son.

Lois laid her hand on Mike’s back, trying to comfort him. “I am so sorry, Mike, honey.”

Mike took the last swig of his beer and tossed the glass container in a trash can. “No need to apologize for the old man, Lois.” 

He stepped away from Lois, away from their family. “I should have known this was a mistake.” The gumshoe walked away from the Staffords, blending into the crowd.

Jack’s words didn’t bother Mike, not too much anyway. He had steeled himself long ago against his father’s resentment. The old man wasn’t entirely wrong. Mike had walked away from the Stafford family—in person as well as in name.
But he’d vowed never to tell his father why.

The Independence Day military-themed Victory Parade, celebrating America’s 171st birthday, as well as the war heroes of World War Two, weighed heavily on Mike’s mind. He couldn’t shake the thought of his friend Danny Sullivan. 

The two had gone through basic training together, they shipped out together, they endured the dangerous invasion of Normandy and survived the cold winters of the Black Forest of Austria together. Mike had thought that they would return home and start a private investigations business together. After all this whole P.I. thing was Danny’s idea in the first place.

Mike grabbed a few more beers from vendors and made his way on foot toward Ybor City.

As a personal rule, he never allowed himself to become intoxicated, but tonight he was feeling a little tipsy. Not wanting to be alone with his painful memories, he regretted the thought of returning home.

He mumbled to himself, "Mags isn't around to pull you out of this one, Mikey old boy." Then, he recalled his encounter a few nights ago at Alonzo’s Premium Cigar Factory.

He located a phone booth and fished a scrap of paper from his pants pocket.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

A cold, gloomy, rainy, day in 1944, a little town somewhere in Germany.

As he wrapped his hands around a little tin can of coffee, searching for warmth, a young redheaded freckled faced soldier exclaimed. “Ya know, Mikey, when I get back to the states, I ain’t never leaving sunny Florida, ever again.”

“I hear you, Danny Boy, hell of a place for two Sunshine State boys, here in the middle of winter in Europe in the mud, muck and snow.” Mike lit up a Lucky Strike and looked through the gaping hole of what used to be the doorway to a bakery. “Hell, I don’t even know where we are, do you?”

Danny shrugged. “Damned if I know. Somewhere south of Berlin, far as I can tell.”

Danny and Mike were cut off from their company when a barrage of pre-dawn hellfire mortars rained down into their camp. They cut across a mud-slickened field and found their way to this small village. Their OD Green uniforms were rain-soaked and mud-drenched, weighing them, slowing them, leeching away their body heat.

After a quick sweep of the village, they had determined that they were the only two people in it. The buildings were all destroyed, and like the bakery that they were holed up in, they had all been hit with mortar or tank fire, leaving huge holes blasted in the walls.

Danny chose the bakery as a safe, dry place for the two to hole up and get warm. He was hoping to find a few bagels left behind. “Ya know, Mikey, when this damned war is over, you and me, we should go into business together.”

Mike smiled. “And what business would that be?” He stretched his arms wide. “Maybe a little German bakery?”

Danny laughed. “No, you know I always wanted to be a detective. We’ve talked about this before.”

Danny carried a worn-out paperback pulp copy of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon everywhere he went.

Mike sipped at his coffee. “I know you have, every chance you get as a matter of fact. But I just can’t see me being a private dick.” 

Danny laughed. “Oh yeah? You’ve got police training and everything. Sammy Spade has nothing on you.” He gave up hope of finding any bagels. “Think about it, you and me in the P.I. business. And my wife, ... Maggie could be like our secretary or something.”

Somewhere beyond the rain and fog came the all-too-familiar crack of rifle fire. The sudden eruption of sound sent a cold shudder vibrating through Mike’s body. Danny took notice, he winked and flashed a grin. “Don’t you worry, Mikey, I made a promise to your Pops that I’d get you home safely.”

Mike felt a little embarrassed by his display. “Yeah, I made that same promise about you, to that beautiful wife of yours.”

As Mike looked down sipping his coffee, a German infantryman stepped around a corner, with his rifle leveled. Before Mike could drop his tin cup, Danny was already in motion. He quickly stepped in between the German and Mike with his M-1 Garand at the ready ... the day erupted in gunfire.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

A brilliant flash of lightning, followed by a sudden explosion of thunder, ripped Mike from sleep. He was disoriented; fear and confusion clawed at him as his eyes swept the unfamiliar room for his rifle. He heard another crack of thunder rolling off in the distance, and the rain falling hard against the window. His mind returning to the present, he recalled that he wasn’t in Germany, the war was over. He remembered that he was safe, stateside, back in Florida, however, he realized he didn’t recognize his surroundings; this wasn’t his bedroom. 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~