Mr. Harris' Tiffany and Grand Piano

Mr. Harris Tiffany and Gran Piano

"You can kiss my balls, my hairy balls," Mr. Harris said to the correctional fixing his eyes with the coldness of an Umpire thrown out a player off the field.
The black correctional officer, about ten times the weight of the eighty-six years Mr. Harris turned to him, glares at me, and take a step towards the skeletal and lanky Carl Emerson Harris, the ex-Marine as he dubs himself. I move between them with my hands on my back and the correctional cocks his head, fixes his eyes on me and pulls his wooden baton and threatens me.
"Move! You don’t want your ass kicked and end up in solitary for thirty days, do you Lopez?
"No brother, of course I don't, but consider Mr. Harris. He's very old, close to ninety you just don't know ‘cause you’re new here man. Cut him some slack man, he could be our grandfather. He doesn't mean that. He's just getting a bit senile, a bit crazy up here. I'll take care of his mess. He'll die here any day," I say almost begging the big ape to cool off.
When the new correctional walks out of the cell fuming ad threatening to come, I hear Mr. Harris, mumbling and swearing what he would have done to the gargantuan correctional if had just touched him.
"That ape doesn’t know I'm an ex-Marine and can kill him with one blow, one hand; don’t let him mess with me, don’t let him ‘cause I can kill him with one hand. You’re my witness, I’ll mess his badass, " he says and cuts the air in a Karate chop like a Samurai, wrathfully.
"Of course, you can, I know that, but he's so foolish, he doesn't know that," I reply patiently to Mr. Harris my cell mate.
The eighty-six years old inmate is as mad as bear with a bee up his ass; he’s all worked out by the threat and then turns out to tell me all about his fighting skills and his killing weapon hands in his glorious days with his platoon in the war in Korea. Sometimes the war is not exactly Korea, but somewhere in the Pacific and sometimes is ten year later or much earlier, depending how his mind is recollecting long time memories.
“Tell me about that Tiffany when you in Las Vegas, Mr. Harris. You told me bit and pieces, but not the who story,” I go saying to distract him and pulling him away from his rage.
He huffs and puffs like a bull letting the steam go off, but sit and his bed, eyes wanders around the cell like hunting for the images careening in his mind.
“Oh, man, fucking Las Vegas. I had fun in Las Vegas with that Tiffany, man, a lot of fun more than you can imagine. Listen up, listen to this, one night I’ve won big at the casino; the freaking one-arm-bandits were ran the whole day;a bunch of Chinese rich tourist came about midafternoon. I kept my eyes peeled. I watched them as they put their freaking money in the machines time and time again for several hours. It was like the freaking slanted-eyes had so much they didn’t care to lose it and they were giving it away. They played and played and played the entire freaking afternoon, then early in the evening, a man, another slanted-eyed, their tour leader I guess, took them and they all left, but have they filled up those machines with thousands of coins, and that was the trick, you see, it’s a trick, man,” Mr Harris says without stopping as if wanting to tell me what’s in is head in few words. When pauses, a smidge of a mischievous smile shows up crossing his mouth and he’s swinging his head sideways.
“What? What happened? I ask him intrigued by the smirk on his face and he squints his eyes as if wanting to focus on something only he see and speaks again.
“I’ve been around and have gotten to know the fucking machines and I’m nervous; the goddamned slot machines are about to puke their gold, I know, and I’m very anxious and hover around them, I sit behind one. I’ve gotten already about fifty dollars of coins and have a plan boiling in my head already. I’ve been watching them man; I’ve watched the freaking slanted-eyes. I’m like a Mongoose, watching their moves. When they leave, I move quickly and put my coins fast in as many slot machine as I can; fast, man, before others come and play them. On my third try, oh, man, one of the six or seven fucking machines starts puking coins like fire, an eruption from the core of a volcano, it’s a God damned Jackpot! A Jackpot man! Hundreds of one dollar coins, by the hundred are clinking, falling to the floor and rolling everywhere! There was no carpet, but sort of shitty linoleum making the floor and I’m running like crazy and yelling at the people not touch them!
Two Hookers, those bitches that hover inside the casinos scanning for clients for a quickie, they want to help me picking up the coins, but I tell them to not touch the fucking coins, and instead I ask them to keep others from picking my coins from the floor and offer them a fifty dollars each; they agree and keep others at bay, away, while I put as many coins in my shirt as I can, man. I’m going bananas with so much money and then I tell the Hookers to pick up some coins and put them in the slots for me and they do! Guess what man? A fucking second slot machine begins spitting out money too, like crazy, just like that,” he says and snaps his fingers.

“And then what Mr. Harris?
“Man, by the time I left the casino with two whores, I had a lot of moolah, a lot moolah, man and know I have to get my ass out of the casino or else. I the casino’s bulldogs keeping an eye on me. Iby a drink for me and for the Hookers too and keep them close me. They’re my shield for now. The thugs following me around won’t do anything to me for now, I tell myself. I paid for a few drinks for a Balckjack table, but bulldogs are keeping close to them and then, man, this is the best part; it occurs to me to throw some coins in the air for everybody and when I do the whole place goes crazy and then while people are pushing and shoving and killing themselves for the coins we ran out of the casino. I have the Hooker at my tail, man. They take their high-heels Hookers’ shoes and running with me. We ran to the parking lot across, we get into the Tiffany and I peel rubber on the strip.
We almost out of trouble when fucking Las Vegas PD motorman sounds his horns right behind me. I don’t’ I stop or go, man. Cops were on payroll for the maffiosi in those days, but I stop and this big bully tells e I’m doing about sixty-five on the strip. He makes conversation first; that tells me he wants a hefty bribe.
“You and girls are in a big hurry to somewhere doing over sixty on the strip, burning rubber,” he goes looking at the Hookers legs.
“Yeah, man, we’re late for the party. Do you want to join us now or later,” I say smiling.
He looks at some of the coins on the front seat on the passenger seat. The Hookers jumped together in back seat and are keeping some of the coins for me.
“What’s with coins? You hit the Jackpot or something?
“Yeah, twice, man,’ I tell him and short cut the story of the slanted-eye and my good luck at the casino and his wide-eyed as a dead fish in the market.
He can’t believe and tells me the bigboys running Las Vegas will be mad with and possibly will look for their money. Even though gambling had been legalized, no one paid much attention except the local cowboys and some men from nearby military bases.
It wasn’t what it’s today, right?
“No, man, Las Vegas was growing then, but was still not what we see today, now way. Ten years before, Las Vegas was a dirty town in the middle of the desert with a few gas stations, greasy junk food diners and a few slot machines; it wasn’t an attractive place to do business or live, the damned Mafia Bosses didn’t catch onto the huge money making potential until after World War II ended.
It was Alcapone territory, then I supposed too, right?
“Wrong, wrong, kid, you know you fucking history, this is American history we just don’t teach in school,” he protests.
“Who were the bosses there then? I ask pushing the old man’s patience.
“Al Capone had eyed on the town, but never got onto his plans to a hotels and casinos into haven for tourists and the military,” Mr. Harris goes into the history of Las Vegas which he seems to know well and remember too.
“Who was the big Mafia boss then? How the dirt poor town became what it’s now?
“Long story man, long story,’ he goes.
He has gotten me interested in knowing about Las Vegas and goes on to explains that Las Vegas remained Mafia free until the Mafioso Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Siegel realized the potential for Las Vegas.
“The timing could not have been better. Before Las Vegas, American tourists looking for a great time had to went to Cuba. As great fucking place to have fun; the whore were cheap beautiful young women, some very young they would your as in jail here, but in Batista’s time in Cuba nobody care for that as long as the Mafiosi paid the President Batista. Our Italians gangsters were cahoots with the corrupt Batista’s government and they had more casinos than churches and whores, and drugs and liquor; that brought plenty of American patrons to Cuba, man. I went three times,” Mr. Harris stops for air.
“Did you flight to Cuba?
“Man, you guys are fucking ignorant, don’t know anything, anything, man,” he complaints bitterly.
“Well, I say protesting, “I’ve heard that Panamerican flew to Cuba in those days.”
“Yeah, man, that was for the very rich then, ans was booked six months ahead. We left from Key West on a boat directly to Cuba on a weekend and came back a day or two later. It was Castro that fucked up all the fun for America, but Las Vegas prospered because of Castor; a decade after the opening of the first casino in Las Vegas, Fidel Castro’s Revolution closed the casinos Cuba and the Mafiosi there moved to Las Vegas. So, the people were left with no other alternative for legal gambling than going to Las Vegas,” he stops telling me about Las Vegas and returns to his traffic stop and the cop.
“Then, I say, hey girls, give the Captain here fifty coins and tell him where we going so he can join our party later,” I say and the officer smiles back at like I’m his fucking father with a Christmas present for him. He takes the money and warns me to keep the speed down for other cops will stop me too and he leaves promising to join us later. But by that time I realize that he could on the payroll of the bosses, like most cops, I those days, and I switched plans. Ans instead of going the big hotel, the Sahara, and we hid right in the Club Bingo which old now and half an hour later, later, I’ve gotten myself a treasure of about twenty dollars on top of my bed in my room.
I’ve given some money to the Hookers and booked them in separate room for the party later. I’m not stupid, man, between the can knock me off or kill me and run with the money, I thought then,” he goes reciting his casino adventure with a grin on his wrinkled face. “Twenty thousand God damned ‘G’s’ man. A lot of money and 1952, a lot of moolah, man. You can buy a house with ten grand then, a beautiful house, man! Mr Harris says excited reliving his good luck day at the Golden Nugget casino on Trendmont where Baby-Blue-Eyes will sing every night years lager, he adds still excited remembering his good luck
“But what happened with your Tiffany? You wanted to tell me about your car, the Tiffany,” I insist wanting to know the damned story about the Tiffany.
I know the old man must be filthy rich I told myself the first time he spoke if the car, but I never asked him again. To speak to told man you have to be lucky because either let you know right his life is not your business or he’s sleeping or simply sends you hell. It’s been only a few days since he’s talking to me because I got him some cream for his coffee from a guy in the kitchen; that seemed to have a window for our short chats now, but still he’s sort of cranky, a bit crazy and a bit racist. He doesn’t like nigger, spicks or dagoes, he says I’m the only Spick not from Mexico or the Puertorican ghettos in New York.
When I told him my that father retired from the Police he asked why I was a crook then. I had to explain I wasn’t jailed for being a crook but for my traffic violations and the led to his Tiffany and that led to our story. I had a hell of a hard time trying to convince him I was in for traffic. When I pushed him to tell me what he’s in for before, he had told me something about his wife and his lover, but left the story unfinished, but I think eventually I’ll crack him open and he’ll tell me. The story here goes that he killed his cheating wife, but I don’t give a damn thing about that. I want him to tell me about the car. Like other times, now he wants to tell me about the Jackpot and hookers he picked from the casino after winning the ten grand; twenty Gs’ which nowadays possibly it would about sixty thousand, three times as much.
“Well,’ he goes again, “the Tiffany is another story, that’s from WWII. I was in Austria with our 4th Marines Regiment and that’s where the story begins. Hitler’s was still killing many Jews; sending them to the gas-ovens when our allied troops go to a German’s labor camp for Jews and we came across hundreds of dead bodies piled in the woods; some in trenches, some just lying nearly dying. We tried to help some of the survivors, but most of them died when came under attack by a German platoon. I hid three of them; a couple with a daughter and left then in a small cave with whatever provisions and water I had and left to the front not too far from their hiding place,” Mr. Harris recounts with very vivid memories.
“Did you go back to them?
“Yeah, I did, when the allied forces finally defeated the German’s defending the labor camps and then all Jews were freed. Most of them died within days; they were too weak to move around and even eat. They look like living skeletons and by then Patton and Eisenhower had given orders to repatriate all Jews, but many didn’t make it out of the labor camps.
“What happened to the ones you hide in the cave?
“I went back to them, unware, of course, they don’t know about the Allied Forces had took over the labor camps ans I moved them the camp. The young spouses and their six years old daughter recovered well within weeks and visit them almost every day in the camp. I got them civilian clothing, some basic food staples we got for ourselves, but they needed food more than me. Hell, they all look like specters, dead zombies, really, I’m telling you. Rumors went in the camp that Eisenhower had puked when he went to see the trenches and the piles of bodies. Those alive were walking skeletons, man, I saw them with my eyes, skeletons walking,” Mr. Harris repeat to himself and his forehead shows deeps lines.
What did happen to them?
“They got repatriated. Many were Russians, Poles, Hungarian Jews; others French, Czechs, Italians, Belgians, Greeks, Yugoslavians and Germans. Ohrdruf was liberated in April of 1945 by our division, the 4th division. It was the first camp liberated. When we entered came across piles of bodies covered with lime and others partially incinerated in human pyres. Patton and Bradley our commanding generals came and went out sick, puking from they’ve seen just like IKE, man,” Harris tells me and it’s the first time I see sadness on his face.
What about the ones you saved?
“Repatriated to Germany, but that where the Tiffany story begins, let tell you, listen to this,” Mr. Harris says and stops to think.
His eyes wander again as if collecting the images needed to put his words in order and tells the story behind the Tiffany and his piano.
Piano? What piano you’re talking about?
“Hold on your horses, have to tell you about the piano too, but wait You want me to tellyour about the Tiffany?
“Yeah, of course.”
“Then shut your mouth and listen then. A few months after our 4th division liberates Orhdruf, some of us were reassigned to Berlin. Hitler is gone, and that, the Russian are going back, etc, but while I’m stationed in Berlin I come across the Jewish couple I helped. They almost kissed the ground when recognized and came to me. I’m military patrolmen, like an MP on the street and II guess they see me and come to me. I would have not think of them even if they went by me not saying anything. They were different now; it’s almost a year later. They are well dressed and fed.
“This is the American soldier we’ve told about Amanda,” the father of the girl tells his daughter and thank me a million times and they’re glad to see me and invited to visit them and have dinner with them and after their begging I promise them I will and tell them I could come a week from that day and a week later I go.”
Mr. Harris tells me everything about up to house of Jew he helped and describes the neighborhood and most houses were down to shreds, but tells me one can tell their occupants were upper classes; many doctors, scientists, professors, bankers, etc.
“okay, okay, tell me about the car Mr. Harris, how did you get the damned car? That’s a very expensive hobby, right?
“So, two weeks later, there I am when the military Jeep drop me he whistles; it’s not a house, it’s mansion like out from the Gone with Wind movie. Nice manicured lawn with ornament iron fence and a short wall around and nice, nice gardens; it’s a residence for the rich, indeed, I tell myself and before I pulled the cord at the front door, a maid comes out, opens the double doo. She asks me to step in. When I do walk into a large foyer, guess what?
“What? Mr. Harris?
“A bunch of people gathering in center living room wait for me. A bunch. The young man and his wife come forward, then an older man, and a woman and he introduces me to his parents who blessed with accolades for helping them and they tell aloud to other guests who I am and what I did for his son and wife and granddaughter. Damn, it got very emotional, they cried. They hugged me a dozen times and treated like a king, a god, I would say,” Mr. Harris recounts that first encounter with the family.
“Wow, Mr. Harris, how did you feel, what was your reaction at that moment?
“I’m overwhelmed with all the attention and during dinner time I learned the old is a banker, his son was a diamond trader and who knows what they are, but I not paying much attention to them, but to the beautiful things around the living room and the dining room. Everywhere you see there is the signature of the rich; paints, sculptures, glass and ceramic ornaments, small and large that seem to cost a fortune, etc. I’m flabbergasted. Remember I’m a poor boy from Iowa, a farmer boy and never seen so much richness in one house except in the movies,” Mr. Harris goes on remembering. His eyes are wandering to the past, to those moments inside the home of the Jewish family.
In 1951, Mr. Harris married Rose Ann Wilson, his girlfriend when he returns from Germany and then in 1952, he enlists to the Korea war and he leaves behind his wife in the South side Chicago. When he returns from Korea after 1953, things between the couple aren’t the same, he tells me. The war has left many scars in his mind; many of the memories of horror, but he’s coping well and working in steel foundry and making a decent living when his life was changed forever when the American Eagle Movers of America knocked on his door.
“It’s Saturday morning and had not worked overtime that weekend. The mover had dropped down a piano and a Tiffany, when they knocked on my door.”
“And what did they tell you?
“Nothing. The just wanted me to sign damned bill and I was refusing. I was sure they had made a mistake and sure they got the wrong address and guy. The movers had my name when I look at the bill,” Mr. Harris says and he pauses again as in need of air.


“Are you Carl Emerson Harris, Seargent Harris; don’t you? Are you the one who owns this house the mover asks me. Listen mister, I don’t give a hoot if you don’t want this car and this piano now. You can call me later, after you sign the bill and I’ll take them with my men. I’ll make some good money selling them, the mover tells me.” When I finally sign the bill, they leave looking at me like I’ve been to a nuthouse.”
“What about your wife? She must be as confused as you are, right?
“Yeah, yeah. I step outside and walked and walked around the car not daring to get into the car; not wanting to sit inside that car. I don’t consider it mine, but the bill from the movers said otherwise. Then I remembered the car and the piano. My mind traveled to Germany of 1945 and found myself in the house of the Jewish family, the Mayersen. I see the letter and open it. I see Mark Mayersen name on it and I read it. Hi signature inked at the bottom. I went on to read it. When I was done reading, I understood.”
“Remember, I tell my wife, the story I told you about the Jewish couple and their daughter and their invitation to his parents’ home, this is from them. This is the car I did admire, the car just outside by the garage, and that’s their piano and the old man said they yours, you can have them. Of course, I declined. They traced me back to here. The old man was a rich banker, I think he owned a bank in Berlin or precious stones trading firm.”
“What does the letter is telling you? I ask him.
“That the old man died and he wanted me to have the Tiffany I liked that day,” Carl replies.
“What about the piano?
“ It was sent by Mark’s mother, the letter says, but hold on, I’m not through yet. The movers also dropped a valise, small, you need to open it, I guess, here, my wife said turning and picking up the valise for me. When I opened the small women luggage, a woman valise, my jaw dropped and my eyes went to Rose Ann in silence who swallowed her tongue.”
“What?
“Come here and look, hon, take a look of this I said surprised. Wow, all that must be worth a fortune, Carl, a fortune. Another letter, there, open it, my wife said and read. The letter is from Mark and his wife. - Dear Carl, we hope you’re in good health along with your family. We’re fine, but dad passed away at the beginning of the year and we’re doing his will sending you the piano and the Tiffany; the piano was my mother who played it since she was child. She also wanted your family to have the piano or my daughter, but we thought it should be with you as a token of our gratitude for life. We wouldn’t be here today if not for your kindness and God. The jewels and marks in the valise, my wife valise, has the jewels of my mother and her own jewels which we carried with us when we escape Berlin. We expected to bribe high ranking officials as needed and not ending in the death camps, but never had the chance and instead we were saved by your kindness and we agree the valuable in the valise are yours to keep. Please accept them both as a token of a small compensation for your endless kindness. Your Mark Mayersen and family. P.D. All import taxes and duties, etc., are paid for you.”
With that, Mr Harris, tells me about the Tiffany and the piano, but there is more to that and he wants to tell me. The Tiffany, he says is to blame for the breakdown of his marriage and the death of his wife and how he ended in the can for ‘involuntary man slaughter’ of his wife and his attempt to kill the guy doing her, he tells me.
“I’m a bit crazy in those days and quitted my job at the foundry and left to Las Vegas, but not before selling the diamonds, the jewelry and giving my wife half the money in the valise which translated to about five thousand American dollars. I put my money in the bank and split in the Tiffany. My wife cries and wails, but I think all was put up. You ask me I think she was doing this guy when I was in Korea. The damned whore was doing him while I was in the war, for sure. There you go, you got the story of the damned Tiffany now,” Mr. Harris tells me with bitterness.

“Let’s take a walk to the yard. My bones are cold and it’s sunny,” Mr. Harris suggests and we walk out of our cell.
I was placed in his cell temporarily. Most of the time, young inmates and put together and older with the older inmates, but there wasn’t space for me and my offense is about traffic and I ended up with Mr. Harris in his cell. He was a bit cranky and complained because he’s gotten used to be alone and now I’m there invading his space. Once outside, it looks like he has forgotten our conversation and prompt him again to tell me about charges.
“I didn’t kill her, I want you to know that; I’m not a killer, but it was her fault anyway. She was humping this guy, but maybe a got a bit jealous that I left to Las Vegas alone. Maybe who knows.”
“If you didn’t kill her how did she die; the rumors here are that kill her, Mr. Harris, but you don’t look like a killer, you’re not a killer, I know that,” I reply honestly.
“Ahh, it’s a long story, but I’ll make it short for you. I wanted to kill the guy, not her, that I wanted to do. I knew the damned S.O.B. He came to shake my hand every time I was around, we had few beers and cook outs. Of course, the son-of-a-bitch was sucking my wife’s tits too,” Mr. Harris says.
I laugh; can’t help it. He looks at me with his grayish, cold eyes and I say sorry to him. The side slaps the air like saying all the same, no matter and talks again, but he’s hilarious many times.
“I told you about Las Vegas already so I’m not repeating that again, but when I came from Nevada after several months there, of course spending my money in every brothel I can find and get home, I come wanting to know if she’s really cheating on me, you got that? Mr. Harris says.
“A got it, you want to make sure before you do something to her, right?
“Sort of, but what do I do, smart ass, what would you have done?
“Well, keep an eye on her and the guy, give them the opportunity to cheat on yu, I guess,” I say.
“Wrong, wrong, wrong! I hire a PI and the private eye reports to me my suspicions with pictures and all. The damned whore is cheating on me right in my home! That really pisses me off. I want to kill her, but I kept my calm, but as the cuckolded spouse I felt like killing her sometimes, especially when I got drunk.
“What’s cuckolded?
“Cheated! Mr. Harris says with eyes like metal on me, “but guess what the offense in Chicago is only a damned misdemeanor and the criminal sentencing a year in jail and a fine up to twenty-five hundred dollars! So, I let her get away with that, but my head began spinning ideas, you know I mean and I did get my revenge!
“what did you do to her?
“Nothing to her, not directly, at least, but to the damned bastard! I pretend to be working on the Tiffany; its hood was up.”
“What did you to him then?
“Nothing yet. My wife wasn’t at the door anymore. She’ seating on by the dining table when I come from the garage with large plumbing rope and plumbing tape and wrap her with tape around the chair. When I’m done, I bring her to the door. You’re going to watch something funny, I say to her and get one my golf balls and I stuff is in her mouth to keep her from shouting. Shut up listen, man! Mr. Harris goes on to tell me more.
“What about the guy?
“I’ve parked my Tiffany outside the garage as a bait and it did work. It was midafternoon and I set to work on it engine here and there. I checked its oil and other fluids. I kept an eye on the sucker inside his house across from me. Bam! Dear Ronnie walks over the mine! He swallowed the hook of my line and I reeled him in. He came to see the engine of the Tiffany! I saw him lifting a hand and winking an eye to my wife now by the door. I let him step onto the driveway and I accelerated and rammed him with the car hard. He flew backwards, fell and I ran the Tiffany on top of him!
“I can imagine the old man doing that and break out in guffaws. I’m laughing so hard that I almost pee in pants and he’s serious as stonewall.
“What about your wife?
“She’s taped to chair watching her man under the Tiffany! She begins hyperventilating when I get my golf club and tell her that I’m about to play golf with her man’s balls. She hyperventilates even more when I hit the guy in his ball, bit can’t scream; his mouth is filled with a golf ball too,” Mr. Harris says laughing too.
“What about her? I’m laughing hard again.
I can’t believe what he’s telling me; can’t fathom the little old man doing that to his wife and to the guy now under his car. The Tiffany is on the cars legs. He’s shouting and Mr. Harris has given his golf ball treatment to quiet him too while his wife is watching.
“Then what? I say wiping tears of my eyes, left and right.
“She’s short of air, but I simply ignore her and go to the kitchen phone and called the police and tell them what I’ve done and tell them to send a police car quickly before the men under the car loses his balls,” Mr. Harris repeats his call to the police.
We’re rounded up to our cells and then to the mess hall. We finished our lunch and go back to our cells and Mr. Harris takes his afternoon nap. It’s siesta time for him and he lays down and I busy myself picking up all his mess to avoid a confrontation with big black correctional Ape. That evening, he tells me how his wife died. He’s filled with remorse and cries. His eyes get wet. He speaks about the incident and he didn’t want to go into the mess hall for dinner.
“Poor bitch, she was on medication for a heart condition and when she didn’t take her medication went into cardiac arrest. When I was done playing golf with her Dear Ronnie’s balls, and went inside to cut the tape for her she was dead. When the police got there, I said, “I killed her” several times meaning it was my fault and was arrested,” he tells me.
He lays down again and sleeps until the next morning. I left to court the next morning and on my return, he tells me his lawyer came to see him to arrange a few things for him; his ‘Living Will’, he tells me in case something happen if still in jail. His involuntary man slaughter has lasted over ten years. His lawyer had failed to show that he couldn’t be charged of depraved-heart murder for his actions had not been high risk action causing the death of his wife, and he was found guilty and sentenced, though commuted because of his age, his sentence would be more than fourteen years.
“Don’t do like I did,” he says and lays down in his bunker.
The next day, he’s not feeling well and he’s taking to the infirmary and from there to the hospital. He wishes me good luck and tells me to drive carefully and enjoy driving a nice car with young, pretty girl. Two weeks later my case sentence is over and I get out of my cell and go home. I look at his bunker ans wonder if he’s ever coming back. Outside, the midday sun is bright against the blue dome of the Florida sky when I step into freedom. I squint my eyes against the light thinking which way to go when I heard, the soft humming of an engine coming from behind. I turn around and look at the car.
“Hey, are you Lopez, Mr. Harris cell mate?
“I was until now. Why?
“Your driving record is cleaned, your fines are paid courtesy of Mr. Harris,” the young lawyer says looking at me.
“Your car looks like –
He cuts me off.
“Like Mr. Harris Tiffany? It was until now,” he says and kills the engine. He throws the keys at me.
“It’s all yours now! All courtesy of Carl Emerson Harris! He passed away two days ago. Take care of his car. Good luck! He says walking back to his own car. I jumped behind the wheel and drive away thinking about the one-arm- bandits of Las Vegas, but don’t a wooden penny in my pocket. At the stop sign still undecided, I hear the lawyer on my side yelling something again and without much notice, he throws an envelope to my car.
“sorry, almost forgot. This is from him too. Mr. Harris said to have fun with slot machine, but he say something about keep an eye on other players like a Mongoose, whatever he meant by that. Enjoy,’ the lawyer says and peels off rubber while I count the money. There are five one hundred bills, brand new bills and a note. Take care this for me.
As I keep reading I understand. Her number is there and her address; all I have to do is call her and that evening once in my place, I dialed the number on the note. A nice educated female voice answers the phone and I tell her who I am and tells her about Mr. Harris. She goes mute for a few seconds and then I hear her sobbing and finally when she speaks again excuses herself.
“Sorry, please I beg your pardon. This is a very emotional moment for me. That piano has been in our family for generations and I wasn’t in Germany when my mom sent it here, to the American soldier. Are you related to him?
“No, no madam, I meet him under very special circumstances and we became friends and our friendship came to its end this week when he passed away,” I say keeping details of our friendship to myself.
“Sorry to hear that. He was a great human being, a great man and he lives in our hearts every day and in our prayers too,” she says with heaviness in her voice.
“Are you Amanda?
“Yes, I’m Amanda Meyersen. Did he tell you about our family, about my dad and my mother?
“Yes, he did, some,” I reply and she sobs softly.
“Oh, my God, I’ll have to call my mom and let her know. My father passed away, but I’ll tell my mother, Mr. Lopez, thanks.”
“After the death of his wife, Mr. Harris arranged through his lawyer to store the piano away hoping he could return it to your parents, but when he traced you to them, he made sure you would have your grandmother’s piano. You’ll have to contact the lawyer at this telephone and I’ll arrange for the delivery of the piano to you in New York. I’ll need you to take care of the expense of moving it up there,” I say and Amanda Meyersen says yes to all.
After a two-thousand trip in my Tiffany and several days later I’m in the Flamingo in Las Vegas’ I’m ready to play the slot machines when I read the Newspaper on a stand: “Piano Virtuoso Get Mendelson’s Piano from American Jewish Savior.”
When I keep reading, the journalist is reporting her interview with Amanda Meyersen a piano virtuoso who before playing on the Mendelson piano at the Carnegie Hall in New York, opens the evening by telling her audience about an American soldier whose kindness and bravery kept her parents and herself alive until Allied Forces defeated Hitler’s Germans in Orhdruf. That American soldier was none other than a soul in heaven now and known amongst us here on this earth as Sgt. Carl Emerson Harris from the 4th Regiment of the Unites States Marines Division in Europe. Her words brought tears of her audience and herself as played the most beautiful elegy for Carl Emerson Harris to the delight of the audience at the Carnegie Hall, the journalist close her article with that note.
One side of the front page a picture shows the young Carl Emerson Harris, a Marines’ Sgt. and his 4th Division in Europe. I’ve already gotten about twenty-one dollar coins and ready to play the slot machines. Keep your eyes on the players like a Mongoose, I tell myself. When finally, I make my move, I say this is for you Mr. Harris and drop a few coins into the bandit and pull its one arm. The machine rolls cherries, bananas and multiple other fruits and icons for some time; when the Red-Cherries align a cascade of one dollar coins start clinking and falling like that day when Mr. Harris had won the Jackpot, not once, but twice. Lights at the ceiling spin throwing flashes of red, blue and yellows and sirens announce the lucky winner while people surrounds me and then, just like my cellmate years ago, I throw a bunch of coins in the air thinking about Mr. Harris, his Tiffany and his piano.