Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Rosen asked, “How do you know?”

  “Huh?”

  “As far as I know, you haven’t seen or spoken to Basehart since his arrest. How do you know he didn’t send for me?”

  Pelham scratched the stubble of his beard.

  “How do you know that Basehart didn’t suddenly undergo a religious experience in prison, in which he threw off all his hatred and bigotry, as one would a set of dirty clothes, and now stands naked and joyful in the sunlight of pure innocence?”

  Looking at Canary, Pelham asked, “What the hell’s he talkin’ about?”

  Rosen persisted, “What I’m talking about is that I’ve been seeing a lot more of Basehart than you, supposedly his best friend. You fish together, beat up defenseless black people together. How come you haven’t visited him? It’s been nearly a week.”

  “I been busy, not that it’s any a’ your business.”

  “Sure. So busy fixing an oil leak that you can’t see your best friend. That is, of course, unless he’s not your best friend, unless there’s a reason why you want him in jail, something you’re hiding that might implicate you and the other members of your gestapo boy scouts in the murder of Nguyen Thi Nhi.”

  “Sh . . . Sh . . . Shit!” Pelham’s lips exploded. “You got no call to say any a’ that!”

  “No proof, you mean.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, no proof.”

  Wilkes stepped forward and demanded, “Where did you get the money to pay off the mortgage on this place?”

  “It was a gift from someone who don’t wanna be recognized for his generosity. Let’s just say, one a’ the last true-blue Americans left. You know, there’s still some a’ them around.”

  “Did he also pay for your new pickup?”

  Pelham shifted uneasily in the hammock. “The truck’s part a’ our organization. Sure we get donations. Just like the Red Cross. Yeah, that’s right . . . why don’tcha go bother the Red Cross instead a’ messin’ ’round here?”

  Canary leaned against the railing. As was his custom he first finished his smoke, crushed the butt with his foot, then spoke. “That’s why we came out this afternoon, Billy Lee, to look around. You wouldn’t mind if the three of us stepped inside for a couple a’ minutes and took a . . .”

  “The hell I wouldn’t! This here’s still a free country, and a man’s home’s his castle. I know my rights. Now, Rupert ’n Burl, you just get inside ’n tend to your chores . . . know what I mean? As for you three, get off this here property, or I will get me a lawyer and sue the . . . what the hell’s that?”

  Pelham’s friends moved slowly toward the front door, while the detective took a document from his inside coat pocket.

  “This is a search warrant,” Canary said. “Gives us the right to enter your castle even without your permission.”

  Pelham pushed himself from the hammock and moved between the door and Canary. “Not till I see it’s what it says it is. Boys, get goin’!”

  Rupert and Burl dashed through the doorway; Rosen ran after them, pushing Pelham aside with a groan. Wilkes followed, as Canary stuffed the search warrant down the bib of Pelham’s overalls. Wilkes entered what served as the shop, its walls neatly lined with rows of fishing rods and a counter filled with shelves of lures. Sprawled on the floor against the counter, Burl moaned while holding his head. Past him, through the door behind the counter, Wilkes heard a loud gurgling. Running into the next room, he stopped suddenly and blinked hard.

  The room was small and windowless, illuminated by a naked bulb dangling from the center of the ceiling over a small table, while along the walls were shelves filled with stock, assorted rod and tackle. Papers were scattered on the table, several having fallen on the floor, and several more stuck in the mouth of Rupert who was bending over the table and retching. Rosen stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder.

  Gasping for breath Rupert sucked in deeply, the air whistling through his stuffed mouth, then began to swallow the papers, only to have Rosen punch him hard in the stomach. The lawyer prepared to strike again, when Rupert held up his hands and reluctantly spit out the papers. The last few documents were spotted with crimson; Rupert’s cut had reopened. Ignoring the injured man, who slunk into a far corner, Rosen flattened the papers and read them carefully.

  “Look at this,” he said to Wilkes.

  Canary entered the room followed by Pelham, who cried out and ran to the table, trying to gather the papers and shove Rosen aside. He tripped, however, while Rosen grabbed his arm and threw him to the floor. Sputtering in anger Pelham crawled back to the table and lunged for the papers, the lawyer once again pushing him aside. They continued grappling, until the detective lumbered forward and put his hand over both of theirs.

  “That’s enough, boys. You all can play some more later, if you’ve a mind to. Now let’s see what we got here.” He took a few of the sheets, sharing them with Wilkes. “What do you make of them?”

  Wilkes studied the papers. “They’re part of a ledger. Looks like a crude sort of accounting. Columns listing businesses and money collected on a monthly basis.”

  “And the businesses?”

  He read them more carefully. “Vietnamese. They’re all Vietnamese businesses down in the Paddy. What are you doing with this list, Pelham?”

  “None a’ yer damn business.” His eyes darted around the room.

  “It’s a shakedown list, isn’t it,” Rosen said.

  “It ain’t nothin’!”

  Wilkes said, “We’ve checked with your bank. You have almost ten thousand dollars in an account. That’s a lot of money for someone without a steady job.”

  “Earned every penny of it fair ’n square.”

  “How,” Canary asked, “digging worms?”

  “Runnin’ this store. Doin’ odd jobs here ’n there. Now I ain’t sayin’ no more ’cept to leave me be. Ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “What about this list of names and businesses?”

  Pelham folded his arms tightly and remained silent.

  “That’s good, Pelham,” Rosen said. “You’d better practice keeping silent. And you’d better look for a lawyer. I think you’re going to need one real soon.”

  “The hell I am. Now gimme that.” He reached for the papers on the table, but again his hand was pinned down by Canary. “C’mon, lemme go!” he cried out, squirming like a mouse in the mouth of a snake.

  “Mr. Rosen, take a look at his hand,” the detective said. “That interest you any?”

  Pelham’s knuckles were badly skinned.

  Canary asked, “Where’d that happen, working on your truck?”

  “Yeah,” he replied quickly. “I mean . . . I don’t remember.”

  “Pretty bad scrape. Looks like you mighta been in a fight . . .”

  “Or maybe beating on somebody,” Rosen cut in. “Like me.”

  “Don’t I wish,” Pelham snarled.

  “Why, Billy Lee,” the detective said, “I do believe you did beat up Mr. Rosen. Not by yourself, of course. That’s not your style, a fair fight. But maybe with the help of Rupert n’ Burl. What do you think, Mr. Rosen?”

  Rosen took a step toward Pelham and smiled. “I think we should lock him up in the same cell as Edison Basehart. Maybe he could get Pelham to give us some honest answers.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea. Sorry I didn’t think of it first.”

  Pelham blanched and slunk into a chair. “I . . . I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ more, ’ceptin’ I wanna see a lawyer.”

  “C’mon, let’s all of us go downtown.”

  Pelham cringed. “Why can’t you just . . . why don’t you all . . .!”

  Rosen put his hand on Pelham’s shoulder. “I think we’ve kidded him long enough, Lieutenant.”

  “Huh?” Canary said.

  “Sure. We all know there isn’t enough evidence for me to file charges for assault. He’ll probably have a dozen witnesses claiming he was somewhere else at the time. And the papers we’ve found prove nothing
—at least not yet. They don’t directly involve him with Nguyen Thi Nhi’s murder, which is why you obtained your search warrant in the first place. Not that we can’t search the rest of the premises.”

  Wilkes and his two companions searched the rest of the house carefully—through the two bedrooms, kitchen, and bathroom—but found nothing other than piles of dirty dishes and even larger piles of dirty laundry. Only inside the garage, which must also have served as a meeting room for G.U.N., was there anything that could have been considered incriminating, and that applied equally to Basehart as it did to Pelham. The walls were covered with posters of a colonial soldier brandishing a musket with various slogans, such as “Keep Our People Pure” and “America—One God, One Color.” Stacks of pamphlets, some of which had turned yellow, littered the garage floor, acting as blotters for paint and oil cans. Among several mechanics’ jumpsuits hanging in an open closet were a few colonial costumes, similar to those in the poster, only streaked with grease.

  Wilkes bent and, picking up one of the pamphlets, read the first page.

  “What will it be like, a few years from now, when the last white Christian takes his last few breaths of his native land? Seeing his government run by niggers, his stores by kikes, and his farmland, the good earth God and his ancestors bequeathed him, turned into rice paddies by a bunch of Slants whose morals are as crooked as their eyes. Will he close his eyes and die quietly or, taking a deep breath, will he reach for his rifle and take a few of them with him? Thank God, it’s not too late. The Guardians of an Undefiled Nation . . .”

  He glanced at the next few pages, his stomach recoiling at the words of hate, at the utter ignorance which could lead to anything, even murder. That poor woman. He wondered why there hadn’t been others. Dropping the pamphlet Wilkes looked for a place to wash his hands and saw Canary puffing impatiently on a cigarette.

  “Nothing else worth bothering about,” the policeman said.

  Rosen asked, “You didn’t see anything that might be used for rigging an explosive?”

  “No, why should I? We don’t blow the fish out of the water in these parts. Why you want to know that?”

  “No reason.”

  “Well, Jimmy,” Canary asked, “do I haul in Pelham or not?”

  Wilkes glanced at Rosen, who shook his head.

  “No, Lieutenant. As Mr. Rosen said, there’s nothing we can hold him on.”

  “O.K., but I’m taking these ledger sheets with me. I think they’ll come in handy.” He left the garage and walked down the driveway, a series of smoke rings trailing in his wake.

  Rosen moved beside Wilkes. “Better leave Pelham free for now. I’ve got an idea.”

  “You’ll tell me about it eventually, Mr. Rosen?”

  “All in good time, Mr. Wilkes. All in good time.”

  THE SECOND WEEK

  Chapter Eleven – WEDNESDAY MORNING

  Judge Spencer asked the bailiff to refill his pitcher of ice water. It was the second time that morning the judge had kept the courtroom waiting, and while doing so he ran a comb through his thinning hair. He was a man known to be as committed to the law as he was to his own appearance, and these proceedings gave him special concern. It was the first time anyone, even old Francis the bailiff, could remember a packed room for a preliminary hearing.

  Wilkes looked back from his seat at the prosecution’s table and was surprised by all the unfamiliar faces. There were at least a dozen reporters; three in the front row, just behind him, were sketching courtroom scenes. Wilkes saw his likeness in several of the drawings and wondered how his wife and daughters would react seeing it on TV. He almost smiled, until noticing Nguyen Thi Trac sitting in the back, the only Vietnamese in the room. Their eyes met momentarily, and his face grew warm. Looking away he saw his boss, Edgar Simpson, back from vacation, who grinned and made a jab with his fist the same way a manager encourages his boxer before the final k.o. Wilkes remembered his father and Simpson talking about Joe Louis. “That nigger knew what to do—a man can’t hurt you if he’s on his ass.”

  That’s where Basehart was, on his ass, and there wasn’t much Rosen or Collinsby could do for their client. Wilkes had seen to that, but then a five year old could have done as well. He had merely placed the evidence before the jury, beginning with the murder weapon found near the victim’s apartment—Basehart’s gun with his fingerprint on it. That in itself was enough to bind over the accused for trial. The rest was frosting, including witnesses who heard Basehart on various occasions threatening Vietnamese store owners and Exhibits D through G, an assortment of hate pamphlets written by Basehart against the “Slants,” each one more virulent than the other. Finally, there sat Billy Lee Pelham in the witness box waiting patiently, like everyone else, for Judge Spencer to get his second pitcher of ice water so that the hearing could proceed.

  After taking a long drink and patting his lips with a handkerchief, the judge tapped his gavel and drawled soft as a melon, “Gentlemen, let’s proceed. Since Mr. Pelham has already been sworn in, you may begin your questioning, Mr. Wilkes.”

  Hearing the scratching of the sketch artists grow more frenetic, Wilkes approached the witness.

  Pelham had groomed himself for the occasion, greasing back his hair so that it curled behind his ears. He wore an old brown suit short at the sleeves and ankles, a string tie neatly poking out his adam’s apple, and a grin he must have saved only for his biggest fishing stories.

  “Mr. Pelham,” Wilkes began, “you’re presently living at the bait and tackle shop operated by the defendant, is that not so?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you are a member of the organization Mr. Basehart heads, the Guardians of an Undefiled Nation?”

  “A colonel . . . a full colonel.”

  “I take it that you and Mr. Basehart are friends, as a matter of fact, the best of friends.”

  Pelham shrugged. “We fished outta the same hole, chased women . . .”

  “And are politically active together.”

  “Huh?”

  “You believe in and work for the same cause.”

  The grin slowly faded, pausing on Pelham’s lips in the thinnest smile. “Whatcha gettin’ at?”

  “I merely want to establish that you and Mr. Basehart, besides being friends, share the same political views, so you would have no desire to incriminate him.”

  “Oh. Just wondered where you was headin’.” The grin crept back onto his face.

  “Now, Mr. Pelham, on the night in question, you and the defendant . . .”

  “Objection, your honor,” Rosen said.

  “Hmm?” Judge Spencer inquired.

  “Mr. Wilkes has asked the witness a question and not allowed him to answer. I’d like it established for the record that Mr. Pelham is every bit the insensitive racist bigot my client is.”

  The judge scratched his head, while motioning with his gavel to the witness. “Oh, all right. Better answer the question.”

  “Huh?”

  Rosen said, “That you and Mr. Basehart felt the same way toward the Vietnamese immigrants.”

  “Hell, yeah. I mean . . . yes.”

  Judge Spencer sighed. “Proceed, Mr. Wilkes.”

  Wilkes looked back at Rosen, who was studying a packet of papers on the table, then returned to the witness. “On the night Nguyen Thi Nhi was murdered, you and Mr. Basehart began the evening together, is that right?”

  “Uh huh.” Pelham shifted back in his chair and crossed his legs. “We went out fishin’ most of the day. That’s what we usually did on Sunday, the store bein’ closed. Cooked our catch for supper, that with some beer was real nice. Afterwards we talked ’n played cards till ’bout eleven. Then we turned in.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Y’know, different things.”

  “Fishing?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Women?”

  His grin broadened. “Yeah. There’s this one waitress down at . . .”

  “Did y
ou talk about politics? More specifically, about the Vietnamese in Musket Shoals?”

  “Yeah, that too. Edison got pretty hot under the collar ’bout the Slants. Said he wouldn’t mind puttin’ a hole in one or two of ’em. He was pretty drunk, to tell the truth.”

  “No worse ’n you!” Basehart shouted from the defense table. “And I never said no such thing!” Collinsby put his hand on the defendant’s arm.

  Judge Spencer tapped his gavel.

  Wilkes continued, an eye on the grand jury, “The crucial time to account for is the hours after midnight, the time during which Nguyen Thi Nhi was murdered. Would you tell us please what happened during that time?”

  Pelham shrugged. “Like I said, we played cards till about eleven, then went to bed.”

  “You two slept in the same room?”

  He nodded and suddenly held up a hand. “Don’t get that wrong. We ain’t . . . you know, we ain’t . . . Got our own beds on different sides a’ the room. It’s just that there’s only two bedrooms ’n one’s filled up with stock ’n all.”

  “I’m not implying anything. What you’re saying is that, because you were asleep, you can’t state for certain that Mr. Basehart was in the bedroom all night.”

  Pursing his lips Pelham drummed his fingers on the railing. “Yes, sir, guess that’s right.”

  Wilkes paused, waiting for Collinsby or Rosen to object. Not that there was any real justification for an objection, but Pelham’s testimony was so damaging, a defense lawyer had to say something, even as a baseball manager might criticize an umpire’s call if only to “protect his player.” Finally someone did speak, but not who Wilkes expected.

  “No. No, sir, that ain’t quite right,” Pelham muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said, that ain’t quite the truth, not the whole truth ’n nothin’ but the truth. I already swore on the Bible. It just wouldn’t be right to lie, even if Edison is my friend.”

  Wilkes stared at the witness and saw from the corner of his eye Judge Spencer lean forward expectantly. He began to speak but paused, trying to understand what Pelham was doing.