Yesteryear

Copyright © Stephen G. Eoannou 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical including photocopying

recording or any information storage and retrieval system without permission

in writing from the Publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Eoannou, Stephen G., author.

Title: Yesteryear / by Stephen G. Eoannou.

Description: Santa Fe, NM : SFWP, [2023] | Summary: "It’s 1930s Buffalo,

and the Great Depression rages. Playwright Fran Striker needs to write

the pilot for a new radio show but, to do so, he must overcome writer’s

block, defeat a Gypsy curse, foil a plot to assassinate FDR, and recover

stolen diamond rings belonging to an alcoholic boxing champion. Who was

that masked man? Based on the controversial true-life story of Lone

Ranger creator Fran Striker, Yesteryear takes us on a magical journey

leading to an icon’s debut, a show that provided hope to Americans

during the country’s darkest days"—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022042014 (print) | LCCN 2022042015 (ebook) | ISBN

9781951631192 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781951631208 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Striker, Fran, 1903-1962--Fiction. | LCGFT: Biographical

fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PS3605.O16 Y47 2023 (print) | LCC PS3605.O16 (ebook) |

DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20221121

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022042014

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022042015

Published by SFWP

369 Montezuma Ave. #350

Santa Fe, NM 87501

www.sfwp.com

For Fran

The universe is full of magic things,

patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.

—Eden Phillpotts

Men should live by the rule of what is

best for the greatest number.

—Fran Striker, The Lone Ranger Creed

Contents

(MUSIC UP)

Episode 1 Slattery’s Rings

Episode 2 Mystery of The Phantom Voices

Episode 3 The Gypsy’s Curse

Episode 4 A Mysterious Letter Arrives

Episode 5 The Man with the Very Small Chin

Episode 6 A Masked Man Appears

Episode 7 Trouble At The Colored Musicians Club

Episode 8 Danger At Swan Lake

(MUSICAL INTERLUDE...AGITATO)

Episode 9 Trendle’s Path Revealed

Episode 10 Betrayal!

Episode 11 The Miser of Motown

Episode 12 Gathering Firewood

Episode 13 Boogaloo Bailey’s Strange Tale

Episode 14 The Bleeding Sky

Episode 15 Shootout!

Episode 16 Fortune Calls…Collect

Episode 17 The Lone Ranger

Episode 18 Slattery Returns

(MUSIC FINALE)

Author’s Note

Bibliography

About the Author

(MUSIC UP)

Announcer:

Striker is dead.

Barrett read the article on page fifty-three of The Buffalo Evening News, not on the front page where it belonged. The newspaper shook in his hands, the headline blurred by tears. He’d been killed in a late-afternoon car crash, a head-on collision that sent the other driver and his granddaughter to the hospital. Barrett was certain the accident had been Striker’s fault.

He could picture the crash as if he were reading one of his radio scripts: Striker behind the wheel, a Lucky dangling between his lips, the window cracked to let smoke coil into the autumn air. As his mind drifted from the highway to storylines, from storylines to characters, and finally from characters to scenes—the things that always cluttered Striker’s mind—his car had drifted across the double-yellow lines and into the path of the oncoming station wagon. He didn’t die on impact. He had time to be surprised by this final plot twist. Barrett was sure that as Striker sat pinned behind the steering wheel, his vision tunneling, he must have been thinking of the many ways he could describe the details surrounding the accident—the blood streaming from his scalp, laboring lungs about to quit, the cold spreading to his limbs—so his readers or listening audience would feel as if they were beside him, watching and hearing him die.

The article listed all that Striker had accomplished in chronological order, but Barrett had known him before all that, before the radio and T.V. shows, before the books and comics, before his characters had become cultural phenomena. Barrett knew him when they were both young and Buffalo, New York was brimming with gangsters and bootleggers, dames and dolls, and there were not many heroes to be found, except for the two of them. They were best friends back when bathtub gin blinded, when magic shimmered on Buffalo sidewalks like lost silver waiting to be found, back when Barrett was the original Lone Ranger.

Striker is dead, that much was certain, and Barrett hadn’t spoken to him in thirty years.

Return with us now to those thrilling days…

Episode 1

Slattery’s Rings

The magic didn’t always occur at the typewriter. Sometimes it appeared after midnight, swirling over Buffalo’s cobblestone streets like Christmas snow, accumulating on shoulders and hat brims, the pregnant flakes never melting. Tonight was such a night.

When the clock struck twelve, the bell in St. John’s steeple rang across Colonial Circle, echoed off General Bidwell’s bronze statue, and reached Fran Striker’s house at 26 Granger Place. He looked up from his Remington Sixteen typewriter, his slender fingers poised above the keyboard, and cocked his head. The clapper striking the hour returned him from his world of heroes and villains to his attic writing studio where his desk was tucked under a sloping eave. He checked his watch, certain a mistake had occurred, that time had accelerated, that he had somehow been transported into the future. It couldn’t be midnight already.

This was his witching hour, the moment his neighbors and extended family insisted that he stop his relentless typing, complaining that the hammer’s continuous striking, the single bell announcing each margin end, the sliding carriage being returned and returned and returned were keeping them awake, preventing them from rising early to search for jobs that didn’t exist.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms toward heaven. A forgotten Lucky Strike smoldered in a littered ashtray. He reached for it, his fingertips nicotine golden, and took a final drag before stubbing it out.

The house settled around him. The joists and load-bearing walls creaked and sighed as if relieved that the typing had finally ceased. On the floor below, his grandparents extinguished their nightstand lamps, thankful the clattering in the attic had ended. Across the hall from them, his brother-in-law, Jerry, lay smoking in bed, an ashtray balanced on his chest, praying for work. In the smallest bedroom, the boys, Bobby and Donny, ages four and two, slept curled in the same bed, unaware of their father’s radio scripts or the late hour. In Striker’s bed, his wife Janet waited for him.

He rose from his desk and rolled his neck, popping vertebrae. Moonbeams streamed through the attic window and gleamed off his Conn silver-plated saxophone propped in the corner. His eyes, reddened by too many cigarettes and too little sleep, took in his office—his desk stacked with scripts, paper scraps scrawled with story ideas, and his Kodak Brownie holding the pile of overdue bills in place. The wooden file cabinets were crammed with radio scripts he’d written; the drawers would not close. A chemistry lab was set up in the corner, but the beakers and test tubes were dusty, both untouched since he’d dropped out of the University of Buffalo. His neglected sax had once carried him to a different world where growing bills and dwindling cash did not exist, but he no longer had time to play. He fought the urge to pick up the horn and to try to blow like Joey Hodges or King Carter. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the reed between his lips, his fingers on the keys, hear the notes bouncing through the attic walls to be heard by those who wandered the streets in threadbare coats. The silver sax would have to wait.

He remembered the last time he’d succumbed to the urge to play at midnight when his writing day had ended: how the boys awoke screaming, startled from their dreams, how Jerry had grabbed a broom and pounded on the ceiling yelling for him to knock it off, and how Janet had raced up the attic steps in her nightgown wanting to know what was wrong with him and didn’t he know people were trying to sleep?

Striker switched off the gooseneck lamp and plodded downstairs, his legs heavy and stiff from sitting. Each riser creaked under him as if complaining. Before heading to his room, he checked the children. He stood by their bed watching them sleep. What do little boys dream of? The last story he’d read to them? Playing in the snow earlier in the day? Juice? He pulled the quilt to their chins, smoothed their hair into place, then shut the door behind him.

Janet was awake, propped on pillows, reading. Her hair, the color of chestnuts, was cut to the bottom of her ears and parted on the side. She lowered the book when he entered. How’d it go?

He patted his shirt for cigarettes. "Good. I worked on a couple Dr. Dragonette scripts and finished adapting Tom Sawyer. Have you seen my smokes?"

On the dresser. She slid a bookmark between the pages and set the novel on her lap. "You finished Tom? I’ll have time to edit tomorrow."

Striker crossed the room, moving like a much older man. He shook a Lucky from the pack. Old Sam Clemens had Olivia as his editor, and I have you.

That’s right. And don’t you forget it. Now come to bed. You look exhausted.

I’ll toss and turn and keep you awake like last night. I can’t stop thinking about Dragonette.

Is the evil doctor up to no good again?

He’s not evil enough, I’m afraid. I need to come up with something better, dastardlier. He lit the wooden match with his thumbnail then lit his cigarette.

You will. You always do. Come to bed.

Striker held the smoke in the back of his throat. His mouth formed an ‘O’ as he puffed one ring after another toward the ceiling. They swirled higher, breaking into bluish haze. The winter wind rattled the windowpanes as if vying for his attention.

I think I might take a walk, he said, squinting through the fogged window at what might await him in the night. Get some fresh air and try to unwind. Maybe work out the Dragonette problem.

Janet pressed her lips into a thin line before speaking. It’s late, Fran, and cold. You’ll freeze. Listen to that wind.

He tilted his ear toward the window. The wind whispered through bare branches. He wondered what stories those voices were telling, if his hearing would be keen enough to translate.

I won’t be long, he said, when the whispers faded. A few blocks up and back and I’ll be home.

With a stopover at a speakeasy.

Just for a drink or two.

We need to watch our money, Fran. The mortgage is due on the fifteenth. We need every dime.

I need to walk. To think.

Janet opened her novel to the bookmarked page without looking at him, not wanting to argue again. Go then. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back. But even you need sleep, Fran.

He stopped to kiss her before he left. She turned, offering her cheek.

The wind had faded as quickly as it’d started. The moon ducked in and out of clouds, bringing and taking light as Striker walked down Elmwood Avenue. The fresh-fallen snow robbed the world of sound, muffling his footsteps and the narrow tires of passing cars as if both he and the Model A’s were floating inches above the earth. He passed Bidwell Flowers, Kaplan’s Delicatessen, Flickenger’s Grocery and other shop windows covered by yellowed newspaper or soaped swirls. Some windows were left uncovered, revealing emptied stores, casualties of the crash. Shadows shifted in these doorways. Cigarette tips glowed in the gloom. He inched closer to the curb, away from the men on the bum who waited for the train whistle, the signal that it was slowing and for them to dash to boxcars heading west towards hope, towards jobs, towards California.

He’d told Janet that it was Dr. Dragonette keeping him up at night, but it was the fear of failing everyone that made him toss and turn until it was time to get up and write again. He heard the lonesome train whistle and for a flashing moment envied the men who ran from the entranceways in patched overcoats and sprinted for the tracks, leaving their responsibilities behind.

Along a near building’s roofline, neon spelled B-O-W-L-I-N-G a letter at a time. He headed toward it and heard commotion from the tracks—the bull’s shrill whistle, men shouting, cries of pain. He imagined the scene: railroad guards swinging billy clubs like Gehrig swinging for the fences; hungry men slipping on ice trying to get away; blood dappling the snow like fallen berries.

A Silver Arrow was parked in front of Voelker’s All-Night Bowling Emporium. Striker stopped to admire the car, the blood-red pin striping that matched the rims, to peer through the driver-side window at the oaken dash. Snow had accumulated on the fenders and hood ornament, covering the archer’s drawn bow. He fought the urge to brush off the car to see the uninterrupted lines. He wanted to touch the steel with an ungloved hand. Striker had sold his car—a Nash Roadster he and Janet had called Black Beauty after his favorite childhood story—to his friend John Barrett to help with the mortgage. As he circled the silver car, admiring it from every side, electricity hummed through the green neon above him like buzzing hornets.

Striker left the car weighed down by all the things he could never afford, a feeling as heavy as a lingering dream. He made his way down the side of the brick building to a gray door. A smaller neon sign hung above the side entrance showing an orange ball moving towards white pins until it struck them. Janet had been right. He couldn’t afford the luxury of a speakeasy. A car crept forward, snow crunching under tires, the entire building suddenly illuminating in blazing light. Striker raised an arm to shield his eyes.

Keep your hands where I can see them, a voice commanded over the megaphone. Approach the squad car slowly.

Jesus, Pops. Turn the spotlight off already. You’re blinding me.

The light was doused, leaving only neon brightening the alleyway. Striker walked to the idling cruiser and leaned into the open window. His father, known to everyone as The Lieutenant, sat behind the wheel grinning. I never get tired of that.

You’re going to give me a heart attack.

That’s because you smoke too much. What are you doing out so late? Nothing good happens after midnight.

I finished writing and needed some air.

Speakeasy air it looks like.

How’s Ma?

The Lieutenant’s smile dissolved. Skin around his eyes loosened, leaving the tired face of a man who’d seen too much. Bags under his eyes attested to sleepless nights spent applying cool compresses, administering medicine, holding his wife when her pain grew unbearable. No better, no worse. I’m heading home now.

I’ll stop by tomorrow and sit with her.

I moved the radio into the bedroom, so she can hear your shows.

I’ll tell her all about Dr. Dragonette.

She’d like that. She talks about your characters like they’re real, like they’re friends of hers.

They are real, Pops.

Say, Janet came over today with the boys. She tells me her parents are moving in.

The bank foreclosed. I’m setting up a bed in the library for them.

That’s tough. First, Grandma and Papi move in with you, then Jerry. Now your in-laws.

It’s okay. I’ve got room.

You have a lot of mouths to feed now, Francis. A lot of responsibilities. Wish I could help, but I got my hands full with your mother. Hell, we may be moving in with you soon.

My job’s safe for now, Pops. We’ll get through this.

You’re staying at WEBR?

Why would I quit? I love the radio station.

You’ve never stuck with anything long. I figure you’re about due to make a move. First it was photography, then chemistry, then that silly band.

The Domino Six wasn’t silly. We played a regular gig on WGR. We got paid.

How long were you at Woolworth’s? A month?

Three weeks.

You should’ve stuck with it. You’d be in management by now. Think of the security you’d have.

Why you bringing this up tonight, Pops? It’s old news.

I’ve been worrying ever since Janet told me about her parents. So many people depend on you now, Fran. Can you afford more mouths to feed?

I’ll be fine, Pops. Stop worrying. And I’m not quitting anything either. Writing’s what I’m supposed to be doing.

That’s what you said about the saxophone. And photography. If you do quit, make sure you have something lined up first. Something that pays better. You have to do what’s best for everybody. You have to do what’s best for the greatest number. It’s hard, sacrificing all the time. I don’t know what’s going to happen to this family if you’re out of work. I’d give you money, but the damn doctor bills are bleeding me.

It’s going to be okay. I’m going to take care of everyone.

I hope so.

You’re tired, Pops. Go home. Stop worrying.

The Lieutenant looked at his watch. You should go home, too. Janet’s probably worried.

I’m just going to have one drink.

That’s what they all say. He put the police car in gear. I’ll let you know if I hear about any better-paying jobs.

Okay, Pops, but there’s no better job.

After his father drove off, Striker needed a drink more than ever. For months he’d watched his mother wither. Each new treatment failed. Hope was dwindling as her illness remained a mystery. Maybe his parents should move in with him. A bed could be set up in the living room. They could all take turns caring for his mother. Tomorrow he’d bring up the subject again with his father. This time, he was certain, he could convince him.

He walked to the gray door and rapped three times, paused, then rapped again. A peephole the size of a mail slot flipped and two eyes dull as stones peered at him.

What do you want?

To bowl a few frames, he answered.

The peephole snapped shut and deadbolts slid free. The door opened enough for him to turn sideways and enter the speakeasy before slamming shut behind him. Striker unbuttoned his overcoat and stretched out his arms to be patted down. He felt small next to the bouncer, Little John Liddle, whose shoulders were as broad as the door he guarded. His thick neck strained at his shirt collar, threatening to shoot the top button across the room like a bullet. A deep scar cleaved his sloping forehead, a visible reminder of the Great Railroad Strike of ’22 when a New York Central detective had struck him with a railroad spike, splitting his skull and leaving him bleeding in the July heat. Little John Liddle still suffered from blinding headaches, fits of rage, and hearing a purring woman’s voice that often led him astray. He never worked the trains again.

How you doing tonight, Little John? Striker asked, as the bouncer’s hands roamed over his arms, back, and down his sides, searching for a gat.

Aces. Always aces, Little John Liddle said, straightening. He stood a foot taller than Striker.

Striker pulled a pack of Luckies from his coat pocket and shook one free. Say, whose Pierce Arrow is that out front? Can’t be Roosevelt’s. He isn’t supposed to be here for a couple more days. It’s gotta be Rockefeller’s.

Little John Liddle rubbed his scar as if massaging the answer from his damaged brain. No, I never seen no Rockefeller come in here. That’s Mr. Magaddino’s new car.

Striker lit a match, pausing before touching the flame to tobacco. The Undertaker’s here?

Little John Liddle shook his massive head from side-to-side, the scar moving like a thunderbolt. You shouldn’t call him that. He don’t like being called undertaker. And don’t make no coffin jokes. It’s bad luck. You might end up in one.

Striker flicked his wrist until the match quit. Don’t worry, he said, the Lucky bobbing between his lips. Not even The Undertaker can hear us out here.

Stop calling him that, Little John Liddle said, lumbering past him to unlock another door. He yanked it open to the sound of laughter and music. Life grabbed Striker by the lapels, lifted him off the ground, and pulled him deep into the heart of it.

The speakeasy was hazy with smoke from hand-rolled cigarettes and Lucky Strikes; from Stefano Magaddino’s Havana cigars; from ladies’ cigarette holders held by painted lips. A jazz band played Stardust. The clarinetist stepped into the spotlight. He wailed, twisting and bending notes, telling the story of loss and heartbreak, making the audience forget about Artie Shaw’s rendition. When he’d finished his solo, he stepped back in the shadows and let the piano and bass bring the audience home, reeling them back as the drummer kept time.

Striker made his way toward the bar nodding at regulars, shaking hands with those he knew well, smiling hello to a table of girls who worked at the radio station. The speakeasy was already working its magic. His worries were fading. He climbed on the stool next to Pando the Pinsetter, the alcoholic midget who they said once killed a man. Striker sat shoulder-level with him. Old Man Voelker, whose passion was woodworking and not running a bowling alley or a saloon, had built a barstool for his long-time pinsetter that stood higher than the rest. Only he and the prettiest short girls were allowed to sit on the stool.

What do you know, Pando? Striker asked, without looking and signaled Hans, Voelker’s son, for a beer. He could afford one beer.

Pando didn’t answer.

What do you know, Pando? he repeated, louder, and faced him. Pando was dead asleep balanced on his stool, still holding an empty glass of Don Stefano’s Canadian whisky. Hans placed a beer in front of Striker, the white foam running down the mug.

He’s going to fall again, Striker said, taking the glass from Pando and passing it to Hans. He pressed the pinsetter’s back to steady him.

Some of The Undertaker’s men have a pool going on how long he stays upright. You want in?

Striker shook his head, taking his hand away. What’s The Don doing here anyway? I saw his Arrow out front.

Talking business with my old man.

Striker studied the bartender—the ginger hair, freckles that dappled cheeks and arms, the stipples disappearing under gartered sleeves. Your old man building something for him?

Hans moved down the bar to wait on another customer. I don’t ask questions, and neither should you.

Striker had always liked Voelker, going back to when he was a child and Voelker, an old man even then, would let him bowl for free if he didn’t have money. It seemed as if he’d been poor his entire life, struggling day-to-day, meal-to-meal. Now the entire nation was in the same sinking economic boat unless Mr. Roosevelt could ride in on his wheelchair and somehow save them. He didn’t like the old man building things for The Undertaker.

Striker reached for his beer but a man wearing a double-breasted suit the same shade as his slicked black hair, grabbed his arm, squeezed hard, and stopped him.

You touched him, the man said.

Striker recognized Maranto, Don Stefano’s driver. He pulled his arm away. What are you talking about, friend?

You touched the midget. You steadied him.

I what?

Maranto leaned closer, his face freshly shaved and smelling of Bay Rum. You steadied him. I was standing over there watching with my friend and you steadied him.

Striker glanced at Pando then back to the gunsel. So?

"So, I had money on him falling before the quarter hour and you propped him up. You owe me a sawbuck, friend. He would’ve fallen for sure if you hadn’t touched him."

I don’t owe you anything, Striker said, meeting his gaze. Not a damn thing.

Striker didn’t have a sawbuck.

Oh, you’re wrong there, Maranto said, grabbing his sleeve again. Dead wrong.

Striker jerked his arm away. Before he could rise from his barstool, he felt a heavy arm thrown over his shoulder keeping him seated. Maranto took a step back.

Shakespeare! I’ve been looking for you!

Hello, Slats, Striker said, to Jimmy Slattery, the pride of Irish South Buffalo, the former light heavyweight champion of the world, the guy who was supposed to take Jack Dempsey’s crown until Scotch and all-night parties caught up with him.

I know you, Slattery said, squinting bloodshot eyes at Maranto. Little Joey Maranto, fought out of the west side, am I right?

That’s right, Maranto said, hitching his shoulders. I trained with Lou Scozza.

Pando listed and Slattery straightened him. Maranto frowned.

You remember this guy, Shakespeare? Fought under a funny name. Joey Maranto, The Buffalo Mosquito.

Torpedo. It was Joey Maranto, The Buffalo Torpedo.

He was a flyweight but fought like a mosquito. An annoying little fuck buzzing around on hairy little legs. You ever smack a mosquito when it’s biting you and it bleeds, Shakespeare? That’s Maranto here. Soon as he got smacked, he’d bleed. Never seen nothing like it. It’s like if you looked at him hard enough, he’d start hemorrhaging.

Slattery stared at Maranto, his gaze trying to break the flyweight’s skin, and Striker thought of Dr. Dragonette inventing a death ray.

Slattery’s best days in the ring might have passed, but he was still dangerous. Striker and Maranto had both seen Slats in too many drunken brawls, beating men bloody with bare fists, the frustration of losing the light heavyweight crown to Maxie Rosenbloom after one hundred thirty-five days as champ evident in each blow. When he was sober, he was the same old Slats from the First Ward, who liked to dance with pretty girls and sing Irish songs with his arm draped over a friend’s shoulder, the way it was thrown over Striker’s. But when he was drunk, and his mood swung, the man who may or may not have insulted him—or his mother, or Ireland—would transform before his drunken eyes. The man’s visage would rearrange, his features expanding and contracting, twisting here, elongating there until Slattery saw Maxie Rosenbloom’s grinning face. Punches would then come in flurries, without mercy, and without a referee to step in and end it.

Some guys, Slats continued, blinking once more, "their eyebrows always open, or blood gushes from their nose like firehoses. Some are