1946 to 1966 - DEATH of a CAR THIEF -- DEATH 2

DEATH OF A CAR THIEF 

It began on the evening of Friday November 27th, 1953. The next day we would all show up at a neighborhood movie theater for one the Merry Mailman Saturday afternoon live shows . Shows we promoted during the TV program. The admission proceeds, split with the theaters, were additional revenue for the production company. And the shows were good ads for the TV program. Ray Heatherton and company ad-libbed their way through an hour of fun for screaming kids. Ray sang and waltzed around in sync with recorded music. Chic Darrow blew balloons into little animals. Then streamed seltzer at Milt Moss, the show’s second banana decked out in a clown costume. It didn’t take much to make the boys and girls roar with delight.

I did not participate in these Vaudevillian frolics. But despite my elevated title this part of the job came uncomfortably close to my neophyte beginning with Sandy Howard Productions. I was a gopher again at the live performances. My role: Pack costumes and props in the car. Drive them to the theater. Watch from the wings. Pack up to leave. 

Friday afternoon I loaded the car for the next day’s performance. That evening Fran and I had been invited to dine at the 59th street Plaza Hotel/Residence apartment of the father of one of Fran's devotees, "Muffy" Gross. Muffy, an aspiring teen actress, still with braces laced across her front teeth, worshipped Fran. They had met when Muffy was in the apprentice training program Fran ran at the Chase Barn summer theater in Whitefield, New Hampshire. 

Muffy wanted to show Fran off to her wealthy divorced father, and the good dad had invited her heroine and husband to dinner. I fortunately found a parking spot on 58th Street just a block south of the hotel. The car was loaded with bulging cardboard boxes containing paraphernalia for the next day’s theater show. I Remember the dinner with Muffy and her father, not for the food, but for wishing to become someday wealthy enough to live in Mr. Gross's style. 

Arriving back at the car, dinner party at an end, we discovered a police officer propped on the fender. When we reached him he stood up and asked "Is this your vehicle sir?" what I had done wrong,I wondered. Guilty heart beating, I acknowledged that it was our car and asked what was up. 

The policeman didn’t answer with the brusque certainty of a typical cop. He seemed uneasy, Hesitatingly, seeming almost apologetic – it was, it turned out, remorse - he told me we were to drive him to the nearby station house. He would explain on the way.

The young officer, very new to the force we learned, told his unhappy story: Earlier, walking his routine neighborhood patrol, he had noticed a man leaning over our car. "I was a bit suspicious but not enough. Somehow, you know, he looked like he needed help so I asks him what the trouble was. So he turns and says this is his brother-in-law's car and he's left the keys inside when parking." The rookie went on to explain that he had then taken out his flashlight and bent to look inside the car window. Then, finding no keys, straightened up. As he did so the man swung at him with, "Can you beat it, a beer opener. My god, a lousy can opener." The officer talking into the air faster, clearly upset, continued "He ran down the street. I'm after him yelling stop, stop. But he doesn't. He runs into the subway entrance and down the stairs with me after him. I get out my gun and try to shoot him in the leg.” And then with a pitiful tremor " I hit him in the back. And the damned shot went out his chest."

As his story ended we arrived at the police station. The men in charge there were waiting to question us. They wanted to know what was in our vehicle. They were clearly unhappy with my response that the boxes contained nothing of value. The inquisition became an auction. With each succeeding valuation challenged as incredulous, I was impatiently urged toward higher and higher estimates. The atmosphere grew tense. Fran sat and stared. She was tired and pregnant, and wanted to go home.

From time to time someone came into the room to report on the latest report from the hospital about the criminal's condition. During the long wait a short man in a wrinkled shirt told me he was a reporter and asked for details. Later I remembered this as the evening’s one touch of humor. When asked what paper he represented the reporter said it was the New York Times “I’ll bet” I thought as I filled him in on the events.

At 2 AM word came that the hospitalized petty criminal had died. There it was, another death in our short lives, a police homicide. 

The reason for the police’s auction-like proceedings to drive up the value of the car’s contents was now apparent. They needed as much justification as they could harvest for the upcoming homicide investigation of one of their own.

When news of the death came we were allowed to return to our apartment. A few hours after we arrived Fran had a miscarriage.

Duty calling, I phoned and woke Sandy Howard, the Merry Mailman Producer, to warn him that the props wouldn't reach the theater that afternoon, and to tell him about Fran's miscarriage. Expecting sympathy for her, and remorse about the needless death, I heard instead outright jubilation. "That's great, fabulous. I'll get a press release out right away." I sat, phone to ear, perplexed. Then angrily understood. "What publicity this will make!" Howard pumped out, "Winchell will definitely eat it up, thief to The Merry MailMan killed. We’ll get it in all the papers." I slammed down the phone.

But there’s an ironic coda attached to this story. The Second reason I've never forgotten the date this all happened, Friday, November 27th, 1953. A marvelous irony. A huckster’s punishment. Beginning Saturday, November 28, 1953, six of New York’s seven daily newspapers went on strike. No one was going to write about the tragedy. To this day I delight in the frustration Howard must have felt at this stroke against his cold response to the evening’s events.