A Fitting Tribute

For the robber, it felt fitting to steal from the Hoboken True Crime Podcast Club on the evening of Bob Horowitz’s wake. A touching tribute. A murder could have been even more appropriate, but one member was already dead, and the club’s numbers had shrunk to the point it was teetering on extinction.

They were meeting on a Tuesday night as usual. “HTCPC” meetings were held on Tuesdays so they “wouldn’t interfere with anyone’s plans,” but, in truth, no one, had any other plans.

Eight HTCPC members huddled around a table of in the back of Pete’s Tavern on Washington Street, eyeing each other nervously and pondering on how they had all become wrapped up in this club mourning the passing of someone they barely knew. In fact, they all attended the weekly meetings for completely different reasons.

Jake went because his wife had insisted he “make friends”. She would compare her bevy of girlfriends to Jake’s small number of friends, which she would count somewhere between three and zero on her fingers, depending on what sort of mood she was in.

At the start of that night’s wake, which wasn’t all that different from a usual meeting, Jake stepped up to the small stage, the one where cover bands played on Friday nights, and cleared his throat. He was the chairman of the club and someone needed to make a speech.

Not knowing what to say, he had fed the details into ChatGPT that morning.

“Dear friends and family,” he began, reading from his phone, “we are here today to say farewell to Bob Horowitz…”

He read through the rest with as much dignity as a man reciting an AI-generated condolence could muster.

“And now, I am now passing around an envelope to collect donations…”

Here is where ChatGPT wrote, 'for Bob’s family', but Bob didn’t have family so he said, “Bob’s favorite charity.”

Someone in the back mumbled disbelief at Bob having a favorite charity. Ignoring him, Jake passed the envelope around and everyone put in a few bills.

After he stepped down from the podium, Mia and Mark were waiting.

“Such a touching tribute,” Mia said, squeezing her husband’s arm. Mark nodded. “Really beautiful, Jake. Bob would’ve… well, he might have listened without interrupting.”

Their reason to join the club was to save their marriage. Unexpectedly, it worked. Listening to stories of couples who murdered each other over affairs or money problems made their biggest argument, a heated debate over whether to soak oats overnight or not, feel like marital bliss.

“Too bad about Bob,” Mark added. “He will be missed.”

Bob, who passed away last week from emphysema after a lifetime on chain smoking, was a cantankerous narcissist whom no one liked.

Mia joined in the performative grief, “Yes, he will be missed.”

Mia felt someone move behind hrr, turned, and spotted Elena Vargas, a bubbly young Latina with arm tattoos of gothic ravens. “Elena!”

“Too bad about Bob.” Elena held a solemn frown for two seconds. “But at least no one will be interrupting our reviews on the podcasts.”

Like a frog croaking endlessly in a swamp, Bob would disagree with each and every opinion the others offered about unsolved murders, not because he had anything better to say , but simply because he was nearing seventy and his own children no longer spoke to him.

Mia looked at Elena’s empty arms, which were usually filled with food to share. “No empanadas today?”

Elena forced a bright smile. “Not today, sorry. Still recovering from...everything.”

At their Tuesday discussions, Elena took detailed notes, even of what Bob had to say. Behind her bubbly exterior, she was deadly serious about researching her older sister's unsolved disappearance in Union City in 2013, and wanted to learn about crime, criminals, and especially male killers.

“Your empanadas really kill me,” Jake said with a grin.

Elena’s smile flickered for half a second. Only Robert noticed.

Robert was a talkative Nigerian Uber Eats driver who had seen more trauma in Lagos than most Hoboken residents could imagine in a lifetime. He leaned in gently. “You okay, Elena? You looked troubled.”

She blinked, surprised anyone had caught it. “I’m fine,” she said softly. “Just… thinking about Bob.”

Marcus Hale, an engineering professor with graying hair, barged into the conversation with his usual awkwardness. “I’m not good at funerals. Although technically this is a wake.”

Jake sighed, “None of us are”. Mia, Mark, Elena, and Robert all nodded in agreement. This was their first wake, particularly one held in the back of an Irish bar in Hoboken.

“Fascinating!” Professor Hale adjusted his glasses.

Over the course of the year, when people asked why he attends a true crime club, he would answer, “Out of intellectual curiosity!” Then, after his second beer, he would corner members and tell them he was “working on a book about unsolved crimes, it’s going to be groundbreaking!”

No one in the club had ever seen a chapter, or even a full page.

“Fascinating!” Robert parodied the professor, chuckled, and waved over Vic, the uptight Wall Street guy.

Vic dressed the part, always wearing a sports jacket and whatever designer sneakers were trending that season. At every opportunity, he would drop that he lived in a high-rise on the waterfront in Hoboken because “the view is better than Manhattan”. He carried the facial expression of someone who had just drunk three espressos.

“You good, Vic?” Robert asked.

“Fine. Just the market’s volatile today. You know how it is,” Vic said, his knee bouncing up and down under the table.

When he wasn’t there, everyone would agree that if someone in the club was actually going to commit a crime, it would be Vic. He just had the vibe.

Next to Vic sat Luna, who was as chill as a glass of ice water. He was a young artist who lived in his studio, and also cut hair as “a hobby”. He blended into any New York hipster scene like furniture. In fact, he had been a non-speaking extra in nightclub scenes in countless TV shows. He fit in everyplace, except at their club, and no one really knew why he was there. Some thought he attended to stay connected to the middle-aged crowd for potential art sales. In fact, he was scouting the group for age-diverse participants for his upcoming viral prank videos

Darius, a young black man who taught at Frank R. Conwell in Jersey City, couldn’t stay quiet. “Okay, but can we talk about how Bob always took over every discussion? The man had opinions on everything. What do you think about that?”

After some meetings, Darius would pull members aside and tell them he was making a podcast about true crime podcast fans. Very “meta” and did they want to be interviewed? Everyone he asked told him they didn’t think they had anything interesting to say.

What Darius kept quiet was that his interest in true crime arose from the fact his father was arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.

Which didn’t make him fond of Big Reggie, who had been "part of the system".

Reggie was a retired Port Authority cop who usually nursed a whiskey all night at their meetings, and didn’t talk unless spoken to.

“If anyone has questions about proper police procedure, I’m right here,” he would announce at the beginning of every meeting, except for this one.

The last member to turn up for the wake was Damon Reed, who strode in, adjusted his scarf, and declared, “Condolences, everyone, sorry I’m late.”

He didn’t have any reason to be late except for maintaining the appearance of being busy. When people asked what work he was in, he would say, “journalist at the New York Times”. In fact, he had worked there for twelve months, years ago. When he was let go, it just made his social life easier to just keep saying that. He attended because his therapist had suggested the club to get him off Twitter and Reddit. It was working, sort of.

Damon looked up at the banner above the podium. "Farewell to The Godfather, Bob," it said. It was Bob’s favorite movie.

“Bob would’ve hated a wake,” Damon said. “Which makes it perfect.”

They dimmed the lights and played clips from The Godfather. A full screening was scrapped when they realized it was three hours long.

As the clips played, the regular drinkers at the bar barely glanced over as Marlon Brando's famous lines echoed through the tavern.

After the final montage faded, Jake took center stage again. “Thank you all for coming and the donations. Let’s honor Bob by—”

He reached for the collection envelope on the table. His fingers closed on nothing.

“The money’s gone,” Jake whispered, then, panicking, louder, “The money is gone!”

If it had been an Agatha Christie novel, everyone would probably utter something in unison, but in diverse Hoboken, everyone had their own way of expressing surprise.

“How damn!” Darius blurted.

“Nasty,” Luna muttered, pulling out his mobile to film.

“The money is gone? What the fuck, bro?” Vic said, eyes wide, already scanning the room for anyone accusing him.

“That’s not nice,” Mia said in a Midwestern accent, clutching Mark’s arm.

Big Reggie straightened up, suddenly authoritative. “Alright, everyone, stay calm. We should treat this room like a crime scene. Who was watching the envelope?”

Everyone shook their heads.

Mia said, “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“In Hoboken? About money in a bar?” Darius asked.

Everyone's frown signalled an agreement that the police in Hoboken would be of no help in the case of missing money in an Irish bar.

Jake ran his hand through his hair. “We will need to investigate this ourselves.”

The group exchanged glances filled with suspicion mixed with something dangerously close to excitement. A real crime. In their own club.

Later that week, the robber distributed $27.85 to homeless people in Hoboken, making sure each one had something to eat.

That week, the club group chat lit up with messages.

Jake finally had a good story to tell his wife.

Mia and Mark had something more interesting than oatmeal to bond over.

Elena found the distraction from her sister’s case strangely comforting.

Robert, who always felt like an outsider, suddenly felt part of something.

Vic’s nervous energy had a new target to hyper-focus on.

Luna started sketching ideas for a new series.

Darius started recording actual episodes of his meta podcast.

Reggie felt useful again, like his old days on the job.

And Damon, who hadn’t written a word in months, fired up a fresh Substack column: “True Crime Club Robbed at Member’s Wake—You Can’t Make This Shit Up.”

It had all turned out even better than expected. In the end, Bob Horowitz’s wake gave the club its best discussion yet.

There was nothing better than a true crime at a true crime podcast club.