Deadly Deed

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

JUNE 1, 1953, 4 PM

CUSTOM TAILOR SHOP

PHOENIX, ARIZONA

Walter Brennan remembers checking his wristwatch on June 1st at 4:05 pm. The Phoenix valley sun shined with a vengeance; minimal traffic occupied the streets, and an outside thermometer boasted a stifling 109 degrees. Walter would join his family for a 6 pm train headed to his home in San Francisco, a beautiful city cooled by the morning fog. In the meantime, Walter escaped to Val Tchaikovsky’s air-conditioned tailor salon, where the lyrical stream of a Mozart sonata filled the air. There was a side joke that Val Tchaikovsky, born in Moscow, disliked most Russian composers but insisted on playing Mozart over and over and over. In fact, Brennan recognized Mozart’s Sonata in “C” playing as he walked into Val’s salon.

Two snowbirds remained in Phoenix—Jerry Goldman, a sixty-year-old retired banker from Denver, Colorado, and Fred McIntosh, a sixty-five-year-old stockbroker from New York. Jerry and Fred were having the final alterations to summer suits they had ordered from Tchaikovsky. In his mid-thirties and known as Rick, a third man was in the fitting room and had removed his pants, preparing to dress in his newly-purchased suit.

The fourth, whose identity was unknown, paced up and down a long rack of lightweight sports jackets suitable for the summer months. This man and Mr. Tchaikovsky were in the middle of a verbal confrontation. As the music moved into the recapitulation movement of Mozart’s Piano Sonata, the sound of a .45 automatic ripped through the air.

The first bullet hit Tchaikovsky in the stomach just above his shiny belt buckle. Tchaikovsky threw his hands into the air, attempting to ward off any more incoming bullets. The second shot entered high in the center of his chest, turning his shirt into a bloody rag, and the final bullet entered the left side of the chest. All three shots left gaping exit wounds in Tchaikovsky’s back.

“That fixes you, you son-of-a-b***h,” yelled the gunman. Tchaikovsky fell backward, blood quickly pooling around his head. “If any of you move, you’re dead,” the gunman added as he backed toward the velvet drape separating the front and the back of the shop.

He pushed the door open where he ran into the Perkins sisters, both taking souvenir photos at the time. The gunman disappeared down the alley while the third man known as Rick quickly dressed and exited through the front of the shop.