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it had (always) been the 1948 election, wherein President Truman would spectacularly ā€œupset the dopeā€ā€”and come away, with a, totally-unexpected, earthshaking, upset, win—that had, forever, intrigued him! The stupendous result—of the ’48 campaign—had signaled the second presidential defeat for that same Thomas Dewey!

The two-years-plus that the, by-now-familiar, ā€œJimmy Rootā€ had spent, at WXXD, had turned out to be quite productive! Slowly, he’d managed to become ā€œNumber One Talentā€, at the station! This was due—in no small part—to his, by-now-legendary, his extensive, knowledge, of the ā€œmusic businessā€.

When Jo Stafford’s recording of It Could Happen To You made its way into the top ten—as seen by the, ever-influential, Your Hit Parade powers that be—Jason did not hesitate, to remind his ā€œadoring fansā€ that he’d predicted big things for the singer (as well as for her ā€œgeniusā€ husband, Paul Weston, who’d arranged and conducted the recording).

The couple would, a few months later, top the charts—with Jerome Kern’s beautiful ballad, Long Ago (And Far Away). Well, the Number-One rating, for the tune, had wound up being a real dogfight. The recording had been in direct competition—with Bing Crosby’s also very popular rendition, of the always-stirring, sentimental, ballad! Both recordings had turned out to be ā€œchartbustersā€. The Stafford/Weston duo had—obviously—been in good company.

So, ā€œJimmy Root’sā€ career was—definitely—in the ā€œAscensionā€ mode. And appeared set to remain so! One could always hope, anyway!

Sunday, June 25, 1944: As had been the custom—during the two-years-or-so, that Jason and Valerie had been married—the couple would attend Mass, with Susan and Eric (by now, to also be known as ā€œAunt Susieā€ and ā€œUncle Ericā€ā€”once Mary Rose had ā€œburst forthā€, as her father had always described her birth). ā€œUncle Ericā€ would—forever—proclaim, that his new ā€œnieceā€ would/had/did (in his words) ā€œalways mop up the floor with meā€.

The older couple would ā€œoften as hellā€ (quoth Jason) offer to babysit their ā€œnieceā€. The ā€œblanket invitationā€ was extended—as soon as Cynthia had put in her ā€œgrandā€ appearance. Expanded—to include the cherished newcomer.

From time to time, ā€œUncle Ericā€ would call—and offer to finance a night out, for the young couple. Our Hero’s former landlord and landlady loved their newly-acquired ā€œniecesā€. Had always loved them! The affection was self-evident in, practically, every word and deed.

It was patently evident—blatantly, in Susan’s case—that they were still grieving the loss of their own son. Jason also came to feel, that Eric had—forever—regretted the fact, that he’d never sired a daughter! Truly, Mary Rose did, forever, ā€œmop up the floorā€ with him! And Cynthia was ā€œcatching on quickā€!

Both Our Boy, and his wife, were plainly touched by the out and out love that the older couple, unfailingly, showed—toward both, of their offspring. But, there was always—always, always—a copious amount of sadness, enveloping the situation. Always! On the other hand, there was (also always) a considerable amount of gratification involved, in the constantly-touching situation. Always!

After Mass—on these richly-satisfying Sundays—the ever-expanding ā€œposseā€ (Eric’s term) would repair, to the Atkinsons’ home, where they would never fail to enjoy ā€œsome little banquet, I’ve whomped upā€, courtesy of the hostess. (The hostess, who would—immediately—take over ā€œcare and feeding… and general maintenanceā€ of two little girls.

This particular Sunday—June 25th—was, of course, one of ā€œthoseā€ Sundays. Except that—upon their arrival, at the little white house, on Sussex—Susan advised her guests, that there’d be an ā€œadded starterā€, on that day. A ā€œsurprise guestā€ā€”who would not be arriving, till about one-thirty, that afternoon. So saying, she—immediately—dove into her normal routine, of ā€œdevoting her lifeā€ to her nieces. Neither she—nor her husband—would disclose the identity, of the ā€œmystery guestā€!

Jason happened to be looking out the front window—when the newcomer pulled into the driveway (at a surprisingly-fast rate of speed). He didn’t recognize the fairly-new, blue-and-white, 1941 Buick club coupe. But, he did recognize Nicholas Stainback—when the man stepped out. Obviously, the late-comer had traded in, the green ’38 Buick four door. Traded it in—or something.

Our Hero had met Stainback—only the one time. At that hamburger joint, on Joy Road—near the Herman Gardens worksite. He’d issued that, still-chilling, warning, vis-a-vis the eminent Hurley Stackhouse—a man, who had, long ago, ā€œdisappearedā€! What could Mr. Stainback be doing here?

The newcomer had hurried across the lawn—then, had bolted through the front door! Before the portal had even been opened, for his entry. An act—which was virtually never done, in the early-forties. He’d reached the small vestibule well before Eric had. He grunted hellos, to (more or less) everyone. Then, he. immediately, seated himself—in the dinette. He was saying nothing to the ā€œassembled multitudeā€.

Immediately, Susan had, carefully, placed Mary Rose, into the playpen—and ā€œhanded offā€ Cynthia, to her mother. Then, she swept into the kitchen. Within six or eight minutes, she’d finished off her ā€œusual miracleā€ā€”and dinner was, at last, served!

For the first 15 or 20 minutes, Eric did his best to engage Stainback, in some manner of conversation. But, the only ā€œfeedbackā€ he’d gotten, from the latest diner, was an assortment of grunts—and the occasional, far-from-silent, belch.

The whole scenario was—highly—disconcerting! Especially to Jason! And most especially troubling to Valerie! Eric seemed to be unconcerned! Was Susan? In this instance? Who could tell? She’d not been her usual sunny self—since they’d arrived home, from Church. Well, except for the ā€œendlessā€ time, spent—with the little girls, of course.

Finally the late-arrival cleared his throat—and muttered, ā€œJason… I’ve got something for you!ā€

ā€œFor… for me?ā€

Stainback nodded. Then, he reached into the inner pocket, of his rather-gamey suit-coat. The added guest produced seven dog-eared, somewhat-ruffled, legal-sized, papers—and shoved them across the table, to Our Dear Radio Personality!

ā€œThese,ā€ he explained—his voice showing a slight bit of, highly-unusual, excitement, ā€œare papers… ones that’re from, an accounting executive, of my acquaintance.ā€

ā€œYes?ā€ responded the recipient—picking up the sheaf, from the table top.

ā€œThey show,ā€ noted Stainback, ā€œa long record… of payments! Good-sized payments! And it’s all graft! They’re all graft! Pure, out and out, corruption! The guy that got this money… all twenty-seven thousand of it, well, it’s a little over twenty-seven thousand… is a man named Anthony Keen. He’s head of an

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