Date: Mon, 22 May 2023 05:30:44 -0700
From: Juxepe Albi <juxepealbi@gmail.com>
Subject: An Affair to Remember - Chapter 4 - Back in New Orleans

Chapter 4 - Back in New Orleans

My Audubon Park district mansion had stables, lots of stables, albeit
without horses, with apartment housing on the second and third floors,
apparently former quarters for the jockeys. There had been once, many,
many years ago, a race track on the property, but my granduncle, Maxim,
had been in the process of building townhouses and condos on the former
racetrack site; and the exteriors had been completely finished, including
an olympic-sized swimming pool and two kiddy pools. It seemed he had
become ill, and work had stopped before the interiors had been completed;
and I saw now that that had been advantageous for my plans. I was going
to need lots of bedrooms and dining facilities. The property was only a
stone's throw from Audubon Park and Zoo. All in all it was just a bit
less than half the area of the Park itself. Tulane University was just
across the cable-car track on St. Charles. Children's Hospital, where I
had done most of my internship, was not far away. Mr. Thibodeau was
emailing me the plans and maps of the property.


Our first stop would be at an orphanage in Newburgh, a small town only a
few miles north of New York City----St. Freyta's Home for Boys. According
to the papers I had been sent by my grandfather's attorney, this property
was owned outright, including all fixtures and furnishings.

The building itself sat in the center of a large plot of about forty
acres----a three-story structure with several outbuildings, a
grubby-looking tennis court, and a dry swimming pool. The whole place had
a neglected look, and the sidewalks had grass growing between the stones.
The lawn was in dire need of mowing and there were brown patches
throughout. A Mr. Maurice Smyth was listed as the director.

Mr. Finley and I climbed the twenty steps and entered the front door,
which we found to be standing wide open. A bell was ringing, presumably
indicating a class change; and soon the hall was filled with boys. We
were shocked at the condition of their clothing, all of which was badly
in need of washing. We entered the office.

"I would like to speak with the director, please," I asked politely.

"Ya got an aperntment?" a late teenaged boy asked me crudely.

"No, I'm sorry," I replied.

"He ain' `ere," the boy replied.

Mr. Finley stepped forward.

"Look here, young man, Dr. Falkessen, here, is the new owner of this
establishment; and we wish to speak with Mr. Smyth," he stated
authoritatively.

"He don't come in on Mondays," the boy answered, clearly unimpressed.

"So, who is in charge?" I countered.

"I am," the boy replied.

"Fine, we would like to look around, then," I told him.

"Ya cain' jes poke yer nose in `ere. This `ere's private property,"
the boy challenged.

"You're right!" I replied, "And it is my property," I answered,
turning away from the desk.

We started down the hall.

"I'll call the cops," the boy threatened.

"Please do," Mr. Finley replied.

We continued down the hall, looking into the first room on our left.
There was an old man sitting at a desk, perusing a magazine, and about
twenty or so boys running around aimlessly, in the midst of some game
that should have been played outside. There were empty snack packages
scattered all over the floor and soda cans everywhere. It was evident
that the place had not been cleaned for weeks.

The odor of marijuana smoke wafted through the room. Walking over to the
open window, we saw four or five older boys gathered under a tree passing
a joint around.

The bell rang again, presumably for lunch. A group of boys was gathering
around us curiously.

"Have you come to inquire about adoption? I don't think we have a child
available," the old man at the desk said, finally acknowledging our
presence.

"No, we are here to inspect the place. I am the new owner," I replied.

He jumped up from his seat and came over to shake my hand.

"I'm Winters," he said, "I'm the janitor."

Mr. Finley and I looked at each other in puzzlement.

We continued to the lunchroom, followed by Winters.

"Can you tell us how to contact Mr. Smyth?" I asked.

"He'll be here Friday with our checks," Winters replied.

"Where is he now?" Mr. Finley asked.

"Don't know, just see him on Fridays," Winters answered.

The cafeteria was serving what I guessed was supposed to be a meatloaf
that looked like it was 80% breadcrumbs, with overcooked carrots and
small cartons of milk. There was some kind of gruel available; and
everyone had a bowl of it, too. I was reminded of a similar gruel
regularly served by Clifton's Cafeteria in LA, a hold-over from the
Depression of the 1930s. It was purported to have all the vitamins and
minerals a person needed for entire day in one bowl. I was sure this
gruel could claim no such properties. I had a friend who owned a male
modeling studio in L.A.; and Clifton's was the eating place of choice
for him and his "crew", so they could eat the stuff and grow big
muscles.

Some older boys were running the orphanage cafeteria. So far, Winters was
the only adult we had encountered.

"What's going on here," a voice asked loudly.

A uniformed officer was standing behind me with an evil look on his face.

"I am inspecting my property," I replied. "I am the new owner of the
premises."

"This property is owned by an old man in Louisiana," the officer
replied authoritatively.

"Yes, he was my grandfather, and he passed away. I am the new owner," I
repeated.

"That so?" he said, as though he didn't believe me.

Mr. Finley showed him the paperwork.

"You bring money with you?" the officer asked abruptly.

"No," I replied.

"How do you expect this place to keep running, then," he asked.

"Frankly, from what I see here, I doubt very seriously that it will
continue to run," I replied. "It doesn't look like much," I said.

"It costs several thou' a week to keep this place open," the officer
challenged.

"What is the money used for?" Mr. Finley asked.

"Our salaries," the officer replied. "I get a salary for patrolling
this place."

"Is that a fact?" Mr. Finley replied.

"How many people are working here," I inquired.

"About thirty," the officer replied.

"Really," Mr. Finley snorted. "Where are they?" he asked.

There was a blood-curdling scream from down the hall. We rushed down the
hall, trying to find the source of the scream. Six older boys were
holding down a younger boy.

"Break it up," the officer shouted. The gang turned and ran, leaving
the smaller boy on the floor.

"Why were they ganging up on you like that?" I asked.

"I'm new here," the boy answered. "They said I got to pay to stay
here."

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Jimmy Otis, Sir."

"Well, Jimmy, show me your room," I said to him.

He led me upstairs to the first dormitory. It was a disgrace. There were
no bed frames, just old dirty mattresses on the floor up against the
walls.

"Who inspects this place," Mr. Finley asked accusatively, directing the
question to the officer..

"Don't know," the officer replied.

"I think we need to get Social Services out here," I said.

"Won't do no good," an older boy said. "They'll just take a payoff."

About that time, a boy came in the door carrying what looked like a small
bag of groceries. He was a good looking boy, and cleaner than most of the
boys we'd seen.

"What's your name," I asked.

"Mike Rollins," the boy replied.

"How old are you?" Mr. Finley asked.

"Fourteen," Mike answered.

"Where is everybody?" I asked.

"Out working," he said. "I just got back, myself."

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Stuff," he said staring at the floor.

While we were standing around and I was thinking 'what the hell is going
on around here,' another boy came in the front door, holding his hand
over his right eye. His clothes were covered with dust and dirt.

"Randy!" Mike called. "What happened?"

"I got mugged by a client," the boy answered quietly. "He took all my
money and shoved me out of the car. That was last night. It took me since
midnight to walk home."

The new boy looked at me with teary eyes.

"Who are you, Sir?"

"I'm Dr. Lexford Falkessen, the new owner of this property," I
answered. Randy and Mike, both, were very handsome lads; and I was
beginning to think I knew what was going on here.

"Do you boys have to pay to live here?" I asked, thinking about what
Jimmy had said.

They looked at each other, wondering if they should tell me. Finally,
Mike turned to face me.

"Look, Sir, I don't know you; but I know that there must be a better way
to live than this. We have been out hustling. We have to pay Smyth every
week at least $100, or we're out. I barely escaped a dangerous situation
last night; and Randy, here, didn't escape."

I looked at Randy's eye, and decided he needed to see a local doctor; and
although I could tell there wasn't anything more than a fist involved, I
wanted to take him anyway, just to have documentation.

By this time, the scruffy boy "in charge" had made an exit when he saw
the officer wasn't going to do anything to me. I walked to the office.

"What are you going to do?" the officer asked.

"Try to find the records of this place. There must be some somewhere."

"Probably in Smyth's office," Mike offered. "It's down here," he
offered, indicating a door just down the hall from the entrance.

The door was not locked, surprisingly; and we walked right in. There were
two filing cabinets against the wall; and I went to the closest one,
opening the top drawer.  The drawer was filled with manila file folders;
and on the outside of each folder was scribbled a column of figures
showing a date and an amount of money. Mr. Smyth must be pretty sure of
himself leaving all these records out in the open.

Looking at several folders, I found that the last date recorded was
Friday, three days ago. There were twelve folders bearing that date; and
the amount of money totaled twelve hundred dollars. These twelve boys
were making Smyth $1,200 a week!

In the first drawer alone, I discovered that, during the previously
recorded week, he had collected $2,800!

"Find a box for these folders," I told the boys. "You boys are moving
to free lodgings today; and I want these records."

They looked at each other excitedly.

"I need a shower," Randy said suddenly.

"We all do," Mike echoed.

Four more boys had come in from their weekend adventures, and news was
spreading like wildfire among them. They began to disperse, presumably to
attend to their packing to leave.

The officer returned with a large box. It was just about large enough for
all the folders. Most of the drawers in the cabinet were empty; although
there were two bottles of liquor in one drawer of each cabinet: Smirnoff
and Beefeater in one and Jack Daniels and Ronrico in the other. I thought
it amazing that the boys hadn't discovered the bottles; but I guess they
were afraid to go into Smyth's office.

In the bottom drawer of the second cabinet, I found several dog collars,
a mean-looking paddle and two heavy leather straps. It didn't take a
genius to figure out what use these things had seen. I took out my phone
and took photos of the whole mess.

"You boys get your things together. I'm taking as many of you as will
fit in our two cars. I'll come back tomorrow, making sure that I am
better prepared.

By the time we were ready to leave, eleven "working" boys had returned;
with Jimmy, that made twelve. We would take them first. I wanted to make
certain to deplete Mr. Smyth's workforce right away.

Hiram had gone out to a local hospital supply and purchased twenty
folding beds, and had put them up barracks style in the huge living room
of my newly acquired townhouse. This would be strictly temporary
quarters. Anything would be better than the conditions I had discovered
at St. Freyta's. Another sixteen boys could be accommodated in the four
very large bedrooms, all with en suite baths.



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