The Bag Lady
Billionaire land developer Foster Eubanks was a self-made man. Born into poverty in South Boston, the illegitimate son of a sixteen-year-old high school girl, young Foster went to work at an early age to help his mother meet their living expenses. When he was only ten, he had a newspaper route. At thirteen, he got an "unofficial" job running errands for a local builder. By the time he was thirty, he owned his own construction company.
An ambitious and hard-working man as well as a staunchly conservative Republican, Foster hated those who tried to get through life on a free pass. Even though his own mother had received government assistance when he was a young child, welfare, unemployment compensation, Medicaid and food stamps were anathema to him. Furthermore, he was not a man to give money to charity. In fact, he considered philanthropy a sign of either weakness or a guilty conscience.
"I certainly have no need to pay society back," he would often boast to his business associates. "I made my money with my own two hands and by the sweat of my brow. It wasn't handed down to me by a robber baron ancestor who made his fortune by exploiting immigrant laborers."
Dora Eubanks, Foster's attractive young wife, had expected more out of marriage to such a wealthy businessman than the meager allowance that he grudgingly gave her each month. However, her husband believed in striking a hard bargain in all his dealings—even those with his wife—and was not about to spend a penny more than what he considered a reasonable price. True, he regularly increased her allowance in accordance with the rate of inflation, but he never yielded to her infrequent requests for additional funds.
"If you need more money, then go out and get a job," he told her on more than one occasion.
Naturally, the women in the couple's social circle were on Dora's side.
"I don't know how you can stand being married to that cheapskate," her friends would often remark.
Despite Foster's miserliness, Dora would never publicly criticize her husband.
"I look at it this way: I had nothing going into this marriage," she would magnanimously reply. "Before I met Foster, I was a waitress at a diner, barely able to pay the rent on my shabby, one-room apartment. At least now I'm being well provided for."
"Honestly! You're the only woman I know who has to buy her clothes at outlet stores," the wife of the former governor said with unconcealed pity.
Dora never confessed to her friends that she had often been reduced to clipping coupons and using the savings on her grocery bills to pay for her weekly trips to the beauty parlor—the only extravagance in her otherwise Spartan lifestyle. Rather, she bore her cross stoically, without a word of complaint to anyone. Don't get the wrong idea. Dora was not a saint; she was simply biding her time. The odds were in her favor that Foster, who was thirty years her senior, would die before she did, leaving her a very wealthy widow.
* * *
Every day, Monday through Saturday, Foster drove from his modest home in Arlington to his office in Boston. While driving in the city, he often passed homeless vagrants who offered to wash his windshield for a dollar.
"Get out of the way," he'd yell. "Don't expect me to pay you a buck for something I can get at a gas station for free."
What he would most like to have done when he encountered such people was press his foot down on the accelerator and run the beggars over with his Mercedes. He hated people who didn't have the pride or the ambition to get an honest job. He himself would starve before he would approach a stranger and ask for a handout.
Yet the city was full of drifters, drunks and drug addicts: vagrants who lived out of shopping carts, slept on park benches and rummaged rat-infested dumpsters for something to eat. The sight of such people made Foster's blood pressure rise considerably. Heaven help the man or woman who approached him on the street with a "Hey, buddy, can you spare a dime?"
Then one fateful day when Foster was returning to his office after a luncheon appointment with one of the city's planning board members, he spied a bagwoman loitering in front of the Eubanks Building.
"You there," he ordered, "move along."
The woman picked her head up and squinted her eyes in the bright sunlight.
"Eh?" she asked, "whuz that you say?"
"Get away from my building," Foster ordered harshly.
"Iz a free country," the old woman replied, punctuating her slurred sentence with a resounding belch.
"The hell it is," Foster contradicted her belligerently. "I pay a great deal of money in taxes on this building, and I don't want a drunken old hag like you sitting in front of it, creating an eyesore. Now get out of here before I call the police."
The old woman rose, picked up her shopping bag full of rags and walked away. As she passed by him, Foster got a good whiff of body odor, urine and alcohol, and the overpowering stench nearly made him lose his overpriced lunch.
A week later Foster encountered the same creature in the underground lot where he parked his Mercedes. The thing—he couldn't quite bring himself to think of her as a woman—was sleeping on the concrete floor, two car lengths away from Foster's reserved parking space.
"You, again?" he asked angrily. "I thought I told you to get out of here."
The woman was either in a deep sleep or an alcoholic stupor, for she didn't respond to his words. Foster, loathe to touch her with his hand, nudged her none-too-gently with his foot.
"Wake up, you old lush."
Finally, the woman stirred.
"Well, if it ain't his lordship!" she drunkenly mocked him. "Don't tell me you own this building, too."
"Yes, I do. And I'd like to know what you're doing here. How did you get past the guard at the entrance?" he demanded to know.
"I can do magic. I can appear and disappear, just like that."
She tried to snap her fingers but was unable to do so. Instead, she burst out in a cackling laugh. It occurred to Foster that had it been the seventeenth century, the contemptible harridan would most likely be hanged as a witch. She certainly looked and sounded like one.
"Will you get out of your own accord or shall I have you thrown out?"
The old woman bent over to pick up her shopping bag, which she had been using as a pillow.
"Fine example of Christian charity you are. Throw an old lady out in the rain. It ain't very humane-like if you ask me."
"Maybe the rain will wash some of the filth off you," he replied nastily.
In response, the woman broke wind. The smell of human gas mixed with the other noxious fumes that radiated from her person made the irate businessman gag.
Foster arrived home later that evening to an empty house. It was Wednesday, Dora's day out. Every Wednesday afternoon she went to the beauty parlor to have her hair done. Afterward, she went grocery shopping and then made her rounds of the outlet stores, searching for bargains. In the eight years she and Foster had been married, she never missed a Wednesday, unless it was Christmas or New Year's Day, in which case the beauty parlor and the stores would be closed.
Dora returned just after nine—her usual time, give or take ten or fifteen minutes. That night when she got back home, she found her husband in an exceptionally foul mood.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I swear I don't know what the world is coming to. These homeless people that live on our streets are no better than animals."
"I think you're being unfair," Dora said. "Some of those people just need a little help to get back on their feet."
"Don't be stupid! They're lazy, good-for-nothing bums whose only concern is where the next bottle or fix will come from. I didn't make my fortune asking people for spare change. Let me tell you something, Dora. The only way you get anything in life is to roll up your sleeves and work for it. Don't expect anyone to give it to you."
It was the same old story Dora had heard many times before in the past eight years.
* * *
Two weeks passed without a sign of the bag lady. Then, one afternoon, Foster met with Dr. Julio Castillo, a wealthy heart specialist and potential client, at the doctor's health club where the men talked business over a few non-alcoholic drinks. Dr. Castillo seemed very impressed with Foster's ideas for his new emergency clinic.
"Why don't we go over to my office and I'll show you the plans for the medical park we're building in Gloucester?"
Once the men were out on the street, Foster attempted to hail a cab.
"No need for a taxi," the doctor objected. "It's only seven blocks, and it's a beautiful day. I'm sure we could both use the fresh air and exercise."
Foster, who hated walking anywhere in the city, put on a false smile and agreed. For the first six blocks, he kept his eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at the riffraff of humanity lurking in the alleys, stairwells and doorways. Then, only a block from the Eubanks Building, a familiar form crossed his path.
"Have you got any change to spare?" the bag lady asked, thrusting an old tin can in Foster's face. "I haven't had anything to eat in three days."
"You again!" he spat. "Why don't you return to the gutter you crawled out of?"
Dr. Castillo reached into his pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill.
"Here you are. Go get yourself a sandwich and a cup of coffee," he said.
"Thank you, sir. You're a real gentleman, you are."
"Don't encourage that old drunk by giving her money," Foster cried. "She's not going to spend it on food. She'll go straight to the nearest liquor store and buy a bottle of cheap whiskey."
"Calm down, Eubanks," the doctor said uneasily. "It was only a ten. Hell, I tip the doorman at my apartment building more than that."
"It's because of people like you that this city is overrun with beggars," Foster said, forgetting that he was talking to a potential client. "Giving them money is like feeding a stray cat; you'll never get rid of them if you do."
Embarrassed by the other man's outburst, Julio looked at his watch and announced, "I've got to go. I just remembered I have another appointment over in Cambridge."
"Aren't you going to look at the plans for the medical park?"
"Maybe some other time," the doctor said with obvious insincerity.
Foster knew he had gone too far. He had offended the man, and consequently, he lost a lucrative account. Yet rather than blame himself for speaking so tactlessly, Foster blamed the drunken old bagwoman. It was all her fault that the business deal had fallen through.
* * *
In late December most of the city's vagrants, like migrating birds, sought warmer habitats. Some congregated in the restrooms of train stations and bus depots. Others flocked to the Salvation Army shelters. A few forced their way into abandoned buildings where they'd light campfires to stave off winter's cold. It's no wonder then that it was the time of year Foster liked best.
A week before Christmas a light snow fell on the city. Foster looked out of his office window at the blanket of whiteness, as yet unspoiled by man or vehicle. Soon its soft purity would be trampled by pedestrians, and the exhaust pipes of cars, trucks, buses and taxis would turn the unblemished whiteness to various shades of black and gray.
"I'm going to take a walk down to the coffee shop on the corner and get something to eat," he informed his secretary, as he passed her on his way to the express elevator.
When Foster stepped outside, an icy blast of air struck his face. He pulled his collar up and tugged the brim of his hat forward to ward off the falling snow. He walked forward, head down, with his eyes on the sidewalk, carefully watching for potentially dangerous patches of ice.
It was the smell that caught his attention and announced the creature's presence: a revolting combination of alcohol, body odor and urine.
"Have you got any spare change for a poor, hungry old woman?"
Foster recognized that voice.
"Why aren't you over at the Salvation Army with the rest of the bums?" he asked.
"I don't want their charity," she said, mustering a modicum of dignity. "I got my pride, after all."
Foster laughed heartily.
"Pride? You? You're a slovenly, foul-smelling, repulsive-looking old drunk. What do you know about pride?"
"I'm not living off the hardworking people of the commonwealth, am I? No! I earn my money. Begging is a noble profession that dates all the way back to the time before Christ."
"So does bathing," Foster replied sarcastically. "You should try it sometime."
Foster continued on to the coffee shop, not wanting to let the old bagwoman dispel the serenity of the falling snow. After a pleasant lunch, he braved the worsening storm and headed back toward the Eubanks Building.
"I don't believe it," he said when he saw that once again the loathsome crone was camped directly outside his office. "That's the final straw!"
He marched into the lobby of his building and demanded the receptionist call the police.
"What seems to be the problem here?" the responding officer inquired.
"I want this monstrosity removed from my property," Foster said, pointing to the old woman.
To Foster's consternation, the officer treated her with respect.
"Why don't you get in the car, ma'am? I'll take you over to the shelter where you can get a hot meal and a warm bed."
"If you do that, she'll only come back here again tomorrow or the next day. I want you to take her away and lock her up for vagrancy."
"That's rather drastic and, I think, completely unnecessary."
"This woman has been harassing me for months. I intend to press charges."
"Has she threatened you in any way?"
"No, but her very appearance is quite offensive to me. Now either you take her in, or I'll speak to your superior officer about the matter."
The old woman reluctantly got into the back seat of the police car. The patrolman drove off in the direction of the police station, but when he was sure the car was out of Foster's view, he turned right and headed toward the shelter.
* * *
The day before Christmas Eve Foster held a catered party at the Eubanks Building for all his employees. Most people stopped working around noon and went into the large conference room where a hot and cold buffet was laid out. The party lasted only three hours since most people were anxious to get home to their families and begin their extended holiday weekend. Those employees that didn't go directly home, moved the party to the bar on the next block whereas Foster and his inner circle left to attend a banquet at the Ritz-Carlton.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Eubanks," a chorus of departing secretaries called, as Foster was leaving the building with his attorney, his accountant and a handful of valued clients.
"Are you headed up to Vermont to spend the holidays with your in-laws?" the accountant asked the lawyer, as the group of men entered the underground parking garage.
"No, my wife and I are going to Florida to visit our son who's a student at ...."
The man was silenced by the look on Foster's face. At first, he feared the older man was having a heart attack.
"Foster, are you all right?"
"If the police won't do anything about her, then, by God, I will!"
The usually dignified Foster Eubanks ran up to the old bagwoman who was sitting on the ground with her back resting against his Mercedes, grabbed her by the arm and roughly yanked her to her feet.
"Get out of here and stay out of here!" he shouted angrily. "So help me God, if I see you anywhere near my car or my building again, I'll bash your damned brains in!"
The other men stood aghast, staring open-mouthed at their business associate.
"Have you lost your senses? Take your hands off that woman!" the attorney exclaimed. Then he leaned toward Foster and whispered, "If you hurt her, she can sue you."
As usual, the mention of money did the trick. Foster's rage cooled somewhat, and he let go of the woman's arm.
"You're my lawyer. I pay you a fortune in legal fees every year. Can't you do something to rid me of this pariah?"
One of the clients, a deeply religious man, stepped forward.
"It's Christmas time, Foster. Where's your compassion? Your spirit of brotherly love? Your sense of charity?"
The man reached into his wallet and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills, which he folded in half and placed in the tin can the old woman was holding.
"Merry Christmas, sister, and may God shed his blessings on you in the new year."
How will I ever get her to leave, Foster wondered with frustration, when these damn fools keep giving her money?
* * *
At the stroke of midnight, Foster raised his glass in a New Year's toast. As he downed the high-priced Krug Clos d'Ambonnay, he made a silent resolution. He was determined to rid himself of the infuriating bagwoman. He had been in the construction business most of his adult life, and numbered among his acquaintances were men with connections to organized crime. A few thousand dollars and his problem would disappear forever. Even to a man like Eubanks, who was known for driving a hard bargain, it was a small price to pay for peace of mind.
Two days later Foster returned to his office. The yuletide season was over. The eighteen-foot-high tree in the lobby of the Eubanks Building had already been taken down, along with several large, lighted wreaths that had been placed around the building. Only a scattering of Christmas cards and decorations on the employees' desks remained to remind him of the recent holiday.
"Now things can get back to normal around here," he grumbled.
Foster didn't like the way most people's level of efficiency dropped just before the holidays. There was too much partying, too many long lunch hours when employees ran out to buy gifts and too many people using up the last of their vacation and sick time before the end of the year. Once the holidays passed, however, he expected his employees to roll up their sleeves and get to work.
Late one night in early January, Eubanks sat at his desk working on a proposal for a new shopping center. The building was empty except for a handful of security guards. The cleaning crew had come in at six and left at nine. Even his most loyal, hardworking employees had gone home by ten. It was now close to midnight.
Having reviewed and approved the cost summary, Foster decided to call it a night. He put on his coat and hat, collected his briefcase and headed for the parking garage. It was darker than usual in the subterranean lot since one of the overhead lights had burned out. He made a mental note to inform the maintenance department the following morning.
As he neared his Mercedes, Foster reached into his coat pocket and took out his set of keys. In the dim light, he almost walked past the pile of rags huddled near the concrete support, but while her form could blend into the darkness of the garage, her odor was hard to miss.
When Foster saw the old bagwoman lying there on the ground, his heart lurched. Why had those fools left the body on his property? Why hadn't they dumped it someplace where it would never be found? When he saw her stir, however, he knew that Vinnie's "boys" hadn't fulfilled the contract yet.
"You again?" he cried.
"Hello there, Mr. Eubanks. You didn't think I'd forgotten about you, did you?"
"My God, you're harder to get rid of than a cockroach!"
The old woman laughed, looking up at him with an insolence she'd never shown before. Foster walked over to the Mercedes, opened the trunk and took out his lug wrench.
"I guess there's no other alternative," he said threateningly. "If I want something done right, I'll have to do it myself!"
"Now, now, there's no need to lose your temper, Mr. Eubanks," she said pitifully. "I only came in here to get out of the cold. I don't mean you any harm. I'm just trying to stay warm."
Foster, intent on finally ridding himself of his nemesis, continued his advance. The old woman got up and tried to scramble away.
"I'll just get my bag and leave now," she cried fearfully. "I won't come back again. I promise."
"I don't want to hear it. I gave you your chance, but you wouldn't listen."
Foster raised his arm, and the lug wrench hung menacingly in the air, ready to descend on the bagwoman's skull. The old woman clutched the shopping bag to her chest, and then she calmly reached inside where, hidden amongst the dirty rags, was a handgun.
Several people heard the shot and some were actually curious enough to look out their windows and perform a perfunctory investigation. Those that did, saw an old bagwoman run from the lower level of the Eubanks Building and disappear into the night.
* * *
Dora Eubanks attended her husband's funeral wearing a black Versace suit and Prada heels. As her husband's sole heir and beneficiary, her days of clipping coupons and buying at outlet stores were finally over. Many of her husband's business associates—Foster didn't have any friends—offered their condolences.
"Have the police found the woman who killed him yet?" one of the mourners asked.
"No. They don't seem very optimistic either. They say the city is full of vagrants. Locating the right one would be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack."
The truth was that the police were more likely to find the needle. At least they knew what a needle looked like, whereas they had no reliable description of the woman seen running from the parking garage of the Eubanks Building. For that matter, they were not even sure if the old woman had been involved in the killing. She might not even have been a witness.
"Your husband knew a lot of unsavory characters," the detective told Dora. "According to reliable sources, he was seen having lunch with Vincenzo DeMarco, the mob boss, less than a week before he was murdered."
"I told him not to associate with those people," Dora cried, using a monogrammed lace handkerchief to wipe away her tears. "But I suppose in his line of work it was inevitable."
"We'll continue to follow that line of investigation," the detective said, raising his hands in a gesture of hopelessness, "but you must know how difficult it is to get any information about a mob hit."
"Thank you, Detective. I appreciate all that you've done. But even if we were to find the guilty party and he was brought to justice, it wouldn't bring Foster back."
The detective nodded. He was glad the widow was being sensible about the situation.
"I'll keep you posted on any progress we make."
Dora closed the door behind the detective. She honestly didn't expect to hear from him again.
"One last thing to take care of," she said with a sigh.
The not-so-grieving widow went to the master bedroom and sorted Foster's clothes in one pile and her old clothes in another. She would later put them in boxes and send them to Good Will. As she emptied out her closet, she retrieved the shopping bag from where she'd hidden it behind a carton of summer clothes. She held it at arm's length because the smell was still overpowering.
As she passed her vanity, she reached for a bottle of perfume and sprayed it in the air to mask the smell of body odor, urine and alcohol that still clung to the pile of rags. In the living room, she put the bag in the fireplace, put some kindling and crumpled newspaper on top of it and threw in a lighted match.
As she watched the fire consume the evidence of her crime, Dora Eubanks thought how proud and pleased her husband would have been with her venture. With only a minimal investment of time and money, she had made quite a substantial profit.
"A real killing, in fact!" she laughed.
Salem likes to pretend he's a "bagcat" (usually on the days I go grocery shopping).
