Pulp! 2

Chapter 4

The cigarettes smoked and stamped out, we all agree to head back into the bar, only not for drinks this time, but a proper breakfast.

Edge’s treat.

Over scrambled eggs, extra crispy bacon, home fries, toast, and coffee, we learn more about what’s turning out to be a very personal connection to the Schultz treasure.

“You see,” Sarah says, “my great grandfather, Willy Winston, worked for Dutch Schultz.”

“He was a gangster?” Edge says. “I like him already.”

“Not at all,” Sarah informs us. “Nothing so glamorous. But Willy was Dutch’s driver whenever the gangster was in the Albany area, which was a lot back in ’35. Willy overheard Schultz on numerous occasions talking to his confidants not only about the plot to assassinate Dewey but where he was planning on stashing his loot when the time came for him to go on the lam.”

“If Willy knew where it was, why didn’t he go after it himself?” I ask.

“Because Schultz only spoke in generalities. That said, Willy did overhear Schultz mention one very important key point.”

“Which is?” I say, spooning a forkful of egg and toast into my mouth.

“Schultz created a map that supposedly details where the treasure is kept, she answers.

“Okay, so there is a map after all,” I say. “But if it’s not a paper map, what kind of map is it?”

“It’s bone,” Sarah says. “Dutch Schultz carved a map into my great grandfather’s skull.”

We finish our food and hit up the cranky bartender/waiter for coffee refills while Edge pops the cap on another beer. How he can put so much alcohol down without falling flat on his face is beyond me. I guess I have to toss it up to tolerance or good genes. Make that miraculous genes.

“So, if the map is carved into your great-grandfather’s head,” Edge says, “why didn’t he go after it himself, and live a great life?”

“Because Dutch carved it onto his head only an hour after he died.”

“That makes sense,” I say, the thought of how painful carving anything into your skull would be for a person still alive. Then, “So, if you don’t mind my asking, how’d your great grandfather die?”

“Behind the wheel of his beloved Ford. A heart attack.”

“And Schultz buried him?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sarah says. “According to the records I’ve obtained, Schultz paid for the funeral services and the burial.”

“But how do you know about the skull in the first place?” I ask. “If it was carved into Willy’s head after he died?”

“Schultz was a talker,” she explains. “Especially when he was drunk. Word got around, and that word became sort of an underground legend.”

“I guess we’re to assume this isn’t legend we’re talking about here,” I add, “but fact.”

“So, let’s go visit the grave,” Edge says, pushing out his chair, his red round face lit up like a bulb.

“Not so fast,” Sarah says. “Schultz might have been quick to anger — what you and I might refer to as a man with a hair-trigger temper — but he wasn’t beyond deliberation when the situation required it. And when he buried my great-grandfather Winston, he did so in an unmarked grave in a place where other known, nameless slaves were buried.”

“Potter’s Field,” Edge says.

“A Potter’s Field for slaves, you mean,” I add.

“Exactly,” Sarah says, pushing her thick hair behind her ear. A simple act that requires little thought on her part but makes my pulse pound on my part. “However, two months ago, a construction crew working on a new parking lot uncovered a dozen graves that, it turns out, date back to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. After some quick but intensive study, researchers have concluded that the grave was indeed a Potter’s Field for former slaves who either made it up here via Miss Tubman’s Underground Railroad or made their way here with a migrated slave owner who’d granted the slave his or her freedom, as was my great-grandfather Winston’s case.”

“So, Winston has been found after all,” Edge presses.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Sarah says. “The bodies have all been reburied at the St. Agnes Cemetery in North Albany. Again, in unmarked, unidentified graves. But . . .”

Her but dangles. Even though I have an idea of what she’s about to say, and she senses I have an idea, she still seems somewhat apprehensive about saying it.

but “But,” I say like a question.

“But if perhaps we can locate the grave that houses a skull with a map carved into it, then we know for certain we have finally located my great-grandfather.”

“No,” I say. “What we’ll have located, instead, is the exact site of Dutch Schultz’s treasure.”

Sarah smiles. “Oh, and that too,” she says.

“Let’s go!” Edge barks. He gets up from his chair, begins to walk away. But then, realizing that he’s empty handed, he turns back to the table, grabs his half-full whiskey bottle, and makes for the front door. Double time.