The Halfway to Hell Club

by MARK J. McCRACKEN

  “Who was the twist?” The Chief said.

  “I don’t know, some blonde looker. She was all excited about the prospect of watching us drill the gee. She was all hot and bothered. She kept asking us how many times we were going to shoot him. The sick twist was enjoying it.” He shook his head.

  “Could you identify her?” the Chief pressed.

  “No, she had on sunglasses. I never got a good look at her.” The tough guy’s eyes darted back and forth in terror.

  I opened the door to the interrogation room and walked in.

  “I know who she is,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I walked over to the Chief.

  “I have a list of people that you want to put an APB out for. You are looking for four other thugs from Chicago. First one is Anthony Giovanni, goes by the name Jonathan Wheeler. He has three thugs that work for him. Names are, Brian Child alias Paul Petri; next is David Michaels, whose real name is Walter Rossi; the last guy is Michael Linderman, and his real name is James Rizzo. All four of these mutts are from Chicago; specifically, parts of Capone’s organization. Frank Nitti sent them here.

  “Next, bring in a Randall Morehouse, he’s an architect, for protective custody and questioning. He is the linchpin to this business. Finally bring in his wife, Dr. Constance Morehouse, for suspicion of attempted murder; she’s hip deep in this crap.”

  “How do you know all that, O’Farrell?” Gallatin demanded.

  “She was my client. I don’t know if she is involved or not, but it looks that way. She may be a willing participant or a sap who was taken for a ride by Wheeler. Bottom line, she needs to come in for questioning. The most important move is protecting Randall Morehouse.”

  “All right, lad,” Gallatin said. “We will round up the bunch. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? It’s almost ten and you have been at this for a while.”

  “Thanks, Chief. Call me if anything breaks,” I said.

  I got into the Ford and drove home. Kaitlin was sitting on the bench swing on my front porch. She looked cold and worried. I got out and wrapped my arms around her; she was all that mattered to me. After a long embrace in which we said nothing, I opened the front door and asked her to come in.

  She was upbeat. “I’m glad I came over after work. Someone had to convince this neighborhood that you were not killed. You have a lot of friends around here.” She smiled.

  “The only one that matters is the one in this room with me,” I said.

  I went over and gave her a good kiss. She was cold, but she felt great. I asked what she would like to drink. She didn’t hesitate.

  “Whiskey, please.”

  I poured two good glasses. I handed one to her and the phone rang. “Hello.” I said.

  “Sean, its Shamus. I know you have had a hell of day. Are you all right, laddie?”

  “Yes sir, I was lucky,” I said.

  “I don’t like to be nosy, son, but is Katie there with you?”

  Kaitlin rolled her eyes and held up her empty glass. She knew what was up.

  “Yes sir, she is here. She was waiting for me, I’m going to fix something to eat, and then I will bring her home. She’s okay.”

  “Thank you, Sean, We’ll see you later.” He hung up.

  “My mother and father worry like there is no tomorrow.”

  “Kaitlin, I’d worry if I were them. I am about to wrap up these two cases. I am thinking it’s time for me to think about practicing law again. It’s not exciting, but you would sleep a whole lot better.”

  She smiled. “You worry about my parents, fella? My mom and pop are wearing out the Persian carpet in the main hallway pacing back and forth.”

  I filled our glasses and handed Kaitlin hers.

  “Drink up, young lady, I think I need to take you home.”

  I paused for a moment and started to choke.

  “I killed a man today, Kaitlin, I had no choice. They came to kill me. Still, I took a life and I have to say I feel sick about it.”

  Kaitlin came over and gave me a hug. It seemed like it lasted minutes, but it was a few great seconds.

  The phone rang again. It was Vinnie Castellano.

  “The Chief called me and asked to give you an update. No sign of the Morehouse’s or those Chicago thugs. Those four may have bailed out.”

  “Any cars at the Morehouse place?”

  “No. I looked up the registrations. He drives a 1928 green Ford Model A Roadster, same year as your old man’s rig. You still have that thing, Sean?”

  “Yeah, I keep it in the garage with a cover on it. I can’t let it go, it was Dad’s. Besides, it runs great. One of these days I’m going to take Kaitlin for a ride with the top down.”

  Vinnie continued.

  “Her car is a 1938 Cadillac LaSalle, a real boat. Neither car was home. Interesting side note, Morehouse lost his driver’s license last year. He drank a little too much tiger milk and wrapped a brand-new Ford coupe around a tree.”

  “That’s our boy. How is Gina doing, and Mimi?”

  “I’m calling from the hospital, Sean. They both are sleeping. I’m going to sleep in the waiting room and take them home in the morning. Thanks, buddy. I owe you a million.”

  “You know, Vinnie, we might be looking for a new fish fry chairman, and…”

  “That will be enough of that, Sean O’Farrell, My wife would kill me, and where would you be then?”

  “God bless you and your family, Vinnie. Get some sleep.”

  I hung up and looked at Kaitlin. “God, I wish you could stay.”

  “I want nothing more than that. But every member of your family has been watching this place like a prison. I stay and the tongues will wag. Plus, you know my parents…”

  I finished my whiskey, smiled, and put on my hat and coat. I opened the drawer in the dining room and took out a fresh .45.

  “I know what you are thinking, Kaitlin. No, I don’t expect trouble, but after today….”

  I drove back to her place.

  “What this I was hearing about your dad’s car?”

  “My dad saved for years to buy a new car. He kept an old Ford Model T going for years; that old car was held together by rust and bailing wire. All along he saved for his dream car. When I was in law school, he got it, a 1928 Ford Model A Roadster. Bright red with tan interior and matching top. Even the rumble seat matches. My mother complained about that car being impractical. Then they took the ferry one Sunday to Sausalito, and drove through the countryside and had a picnic, and she stopped complaining. My old man loved that car. When I bought this car, the dealer was trying to talk me into trading it. It just didn’t seem right, so I keep it in the garage and bring it out on nice days. We’ll do that soon; take it for a Sunday drive after church.”

  “You have got a date, Sean. Anytime, anywhere.”

  I pulled into the driveway and gave Kaitlin a good-night kiss. I walked her to the side door of her apartment and kissed her again. I could do this all night. She looked at me with those green eyes and smiled. She closed the door.

  I walked back to the car and got in. Shamus O’Doherty was sitting in the passenger seat, with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. I like the way the man thinks. He poured a generous glass for us both.

  “Are you all right, Sean?” he said.

  “Physically, I am okay, Shamus. But I killed a man today and I can’t get that picture out of my head. It was the right thing to do, but it is going to haunt me.”

  “The Bible is pretty clear: thou shall not kill. Explain that to policemen, soldiers, U.S. marshals, and even private investigators. I fancy you wouldn’t be feeling anything if those bastards got to you. Take yourself out of the equation. What about that little girl and her mother? Where would they be if you hadn’t acted? You would all be dead, lad.” Shamus winked knowingly and pou
red himself another. “I quite admire Winston Churchill. Plus, like you, he is a wee bit of smartass, I like that in a man. He said, ‘Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.’ Take your rest, lad. You deserve it.”

  Shamus put his hand on my shoulder and got out of the car. He came around to the driver’s window. I finished my whiskey and handed him the glass.

  “We are masters of our fate. We are captains of our soul.” I said.

  Shamus laughed. “Very good, Sean, quoting Winston Churchill. Nicely done.”

  I smiled at Shamus. “This is really a bad habit. You drink excellent whiskey, a lot better stuff than I can afford. I’ll have to get you started on the cheaper stuff.”

  Shamus laughed.

  “You best get used to the good stuff, laddie, Katie is like her mom; she won’t drink anything younger than twenty-year-old Scotch. It’s a matter of quality versus quantity.” Shamus smiled and held out his paw for the crystal tumbler. Its sheer weight made a small slapping sound as it hit his hand.

  “I don’t need you starting a collection of my whiskey glasses at your house, boyo.”

  I had a good laugh as I waved and went home. I listened to the Glenn Miller Orchestra on the radio until I pulled into the driveway. I was a little paranoid and checked around the house before I went in. I opened the living room door slowly, and drew a .45 before flipping on the light. The place was clear.

  I sat down on the sofa and poured another drink. It wasn’t as good as Shamus’s, but it was pretty good. I lit a butt and enjoyed my drink. What if Kaitlin had been there during the shooting? I closed my eyes. This day had been a nightmare, but Shamus was right. Gina and Mimi Castellano were alive, that would have to be enough for this night, and it was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I got maybe three or four hours of sleep. At five I got up; at six I drove over to the church. I knocked on the rectory door and Father Michael Eruziono answered the door. Father Mickey was my age, and was technically the assistant pastor, but the church’s three ancient Italian priests were largely retired. Mickey did all the work.

  He answered the door in his bathrobe with shaving cream on his face.

  “Sean, is everything okay, pal?”

  “I need you in the box, Mickey.”

  He didn’t hesitate. He wiped away the cream, grabbed a key, and we hustled over to the sacristy. The door was already open. Some older ladies were saying a rosary and there were women from the altar society changing the linen.

  Michael went right into the center door of the confessional and I went to the right. The little window slid open.

  I went right to it.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. I have broken the Fifth Commandment, Father.” I said the last with a heavy voice.

  A whole lot of silence from Father Mickey. This just wasn’t your garden-variety I-yelled-at-my-brother stuff; this was a heavy-duty commandment. Priests have this sort of script that they follow in the confessional. It usually ends with three Our Fathers and Three Hail Mary’s and an Act of Contrition. Not this time.

  “Sean, you killed that man to save multiple lives, including your own. Those men lived a life of sin and darkness. You are a good man. You are a Knight of Columbus: Your duty is to protect the Holy Mother Church, and protect women and children of the church from harm. You did what was required. While you may feel guilt, God knows and understands. Quite a few cops have ended up in this confessional with the same problem as you, Sean. The fact that you are here proves that you are righteous and pure. Say three Our Fathers, three Hail Mary’s and make an Act of Contrition.

  “And one last final act: You get this fish-fry chairman thing off my back. I’m tired of the Monsignor Dominic and Father Guido riding my ass about it. You and Danny O’Day solve this thing, will ya? Now go in peace, and get out here, you bum.”

  Father Mickey slid the little window confessional closed. I said my prayers and exited shortly after. Father Mickey was there and gave me a big hug.

  “Thanks, Mickey. Do me a favor. Get a shave and comb your hair, will you? You look like crap.”

  “Sean O’Farrell, God love you. There are some things even I can’t forgive you for you, smart aleck.”

  I hopped in the Ford and drove over to the bakery. Petey was there doing his magic.

  “You okay, unc?” he asked.

  “I’m good, Petey. You eat yet?”

  “No, I got one rack of bread to put in then I was going to make some eggs. I’ll tell you what: You make the espresso and I’ll fry up the eggs. The morning paper is on the table.” He returned to work with the bread racks.

  I whipped up a couple of cappuccinos. Petey was slow so I started the eggs, too. I didn’t really want to look at the paper; it would simply be a rehash of yesterday. I lived it; I didn’t need to read about it. But I was curious to know how the Seals were doing. They were on a road trip up to Portland to play the Beavers. It was a tight season and we were in first by two games. Portland, however, was on the move; they had won six straight.

  “You know, Uncle Sean, there were about twenty people waiting with Kaitlin on your front porch last night,” Petey said. “Everybody bugged out as soon as we saw your lights turn the corner up the street. Everybody was worried.”

  I brushed the comment aside. “How are your folks, Petey?”

  “I don’t know who was taking care of who. Momma sat next to Kaitlin all night; she was a basket case. You know Pops. He went into your garage and straightened and cleaned for two hours. I thought he was going to give your Model A a wax job.”

  The eggs were good; the bread fresh. It was good to see Petey. I was coming to grips with yesterday. I did what was needed, and life goes on.

  Petey made fun of my new tie, laughing and telling me that ties with purple in them are for sissies.

  I was ready to return volley when I heard the sirens. At first they were far off. Then they got closer, and then there were a lot of them, getting louder and louder. Suddenly ten police cars drove up the street past the bakery. I heard the squealing of tires; the last car in the line stopped at the front door and Vinnie Castellano got out.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you, Sean,” he said. “Let’s go. They just found Randall Morehouse’s body.”

  We got in the police car and flew off. Vinnie filled me in.

  “This whole business is taking on a life of its own, Sean. The FBI is coming in on it. They are claiming organized crime is involved and they are joining us. They are not taking over as of yet; they are helping out. The Chief and Chief Inspector are on the way to the Coast Guard Station below the Golden Gate Bridge. His body was souped out there. A prowler car found a 1928 Ford Model A on the Golden Gate Bridge. I ordered them to leave it there. We want to have a look first before they tow.”

  He flipped his notebook closed.

  “Vinnie, was there a note in the car?” I said.

  “The beat cops gave it a quick look. They didn’t see anything. The top was down when they got there, I told them to put the top up and roll up the windows. I don’t want anything flying out in the wind up there.”

  “Any sign of Wheeler and company?” I inquired.

  “Not a whiff, it’s like they were a fart in the wind. We also went by the Morehouse place. No yellow Caddie LaSalle.”

  I thought for a second and absorbed what I just heard.

  “Call the Sacramento PD and have them raid Little Joey Patrone’s bar and flophouse. They will know who you are talking about. He is in cahoots with Wheeler; they may be on the lam there.”

  “The Chief ordered a raid of the Morehouse’s office and home. He got a friendly judge to sign a search warrant. It pays to play poker with a couple of judges.” Vinnie smiled.

  “Knowing Gallatin, h
e probably loses a lot to those judges, on purpose.”

  We pulled into through the gate of the Coast Guard station. It looked like a police parking lot. There was a mob of fifteen guys in a circle and there was an argument. We inched in and took a look. William Broadcreek was in the middle with Chief of Police Gallatin, going at it. Apparently the air of cooperation was over and the Feds were trying to take over. They were pointing fingers at each other and hollering. Ashwythe and Dunderbeck were there, looking worried. Then Broadcreek and Gallatin bumped chests, and it was off to the races. All the cops pulled back Gallatin, and all the FBI guys and me pulled back Broadcreek.

  The problem was solved by a Coast Guard chief petty officer who walked into the middle of the pile.

  “Thanks for stopping by, boys, but I need all of you to get in your cars and leave this Coast Guard property. When we complete our investigation is a few weeks, we’ll let you know.” He jammed a stubby cigar into his mush and started walking away.

  Gallatin exploded. “What the hell are you talking about? This is our jurisdiction.”

  “Sorry, buddy, this is U.S. Coast Guard property, a U.S. government facility. The body was found on our property. It’s a Coast Guard case now.”

  Broadcreek was all smiles.

  “You got that, Gallatin? It’s a federal case now. The FBI will take it from here, right, Chief?”

  “Sorry, pal. I just got off the phone with my admiral. He doesn’t want the Federal Bureau of Ignoramuses anywhere near this case. We will wait for Coast Guard investigations people to come and handle this mess. All right, men. Everybody has to leave the facility right now.”

  The Chief and Broadcreek were stymied. Their eyes were darting back and forth, looking around for somebody to do something. This could not happen on their watch.

  I called out to the CPO. “Chief, I’m Lieutenant O’Farrell, U.S. Naval Reserve. I’m a private investigator on this case. This case is pretty huge for everyone involved. If these guys get shut out, there could be huge repercussions for them. This man did not commit suicide, Chief. This was a murder. We have to get access to the body before the trail goes cold. I promise the infighting will stop right here and everyone will behave on your base.”