Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, March 2002 by Dell Magazines

Author:Dell Magazines
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science Fiction/Fantasy
Publisher: www.Fictionwise.com
Published: 2001-04-14T22:00:00+00:00

Mayhem on Market Streetby Dick Stodghill

The pathetic whining of the old dog Casey jarred me from a dreamless sleep. I had not closed my bedroom door tightly, so the Bauer family's shaggy, streetwise mutt had nosed it open and now rested his chin on the edge of my bed. Tears streamed from his eyes—and from mine. Had it not been for the bewildered, unhappy dog, I might have believed I had been struck down in my prime by some mysterious affliction that had set my eyes afire and had me crying like a baby.

Then I became aware of the noise outside: men shouting, guns firing. Tear gas, that was the cause of my crying. And Casey's, too, of course. What was happening? This was friendly, familiar East Akron in the spring of 1938, not the Somme in 1916.

My reporter's instincts clicked into gear, and I hurried into yesterday's clothes, descended the stairs two at a time, ran down the hallway and out onto Dudley Street. Not the most prudent move, all things considered, but one that would have met with the approval of my boss,Times-Press city editor Ben Goldsmith.

A few men went running past, but beyond the chainlink fence where Dudley ended thirty yards away at Willard Street, a real mob was on the loose in East Akron Cemetery. Several tombstones toppled in the time it took me to run to the corner, where a fresh wave of gas assaulted my eyes and nostrils.

I yelled, “What's happening?” at a man who came over the fence, ripping his pants and gashing his arm in the process.

He ran on, looking back over his shoulder to call: “The coppers come out of the plant and went for us. Better run for it!”

I did, but down Willard toward East Market Street a block away. It was a reporter's job to head for the action, not away from it. That's what I was paid to do.

When I stopped at the intersection across from Goodyear's Willard Street Gatehouse, it was like nothing I had seen before. The plate-glass window of the Lenox Cafe on the corner was shattered, blood ran in the gutters, company guards and city policemen wearing gas masks wielded their billy clubs, and more than a few had guns in hand. Some of the civilians, Goodyear men, fought back with ball bats and tire chains.

We should have seen it coming. Goodrich had just signed an agreement with the union, leaving Goodyear as the lone holdout among the Big Three rubber companies in refusing to recognize or deal with the United Rubber Workers. Along with that, employees were disgruntled because the firm was laying off workers without regard to seniority. The previous day an unexpected sitdown strike had begun across the street at Plant One.

Now a full-blown riot was raging on the streets and among the graves in the cemetery. I watched open-mouthed, but not for long. From the corner of my eye I saw an Akron policeman sprinting toward me, nightstick swinging above his head.

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