The Chief milked the moment.
“All right, Lieutenant. We’ll play it your way. You all play nice together. Go ahead, he’s over there on the shore.”
The mob ran over to the shore. I stayed. “Thanks Chief. These guys are all wound up tight over this. There is a lot of posturing going on here.”
“Posturing, shit. You hang out in a ward room, for crying out loud. You know all about posturing. This is standard stuff around here. Just another poor bastard joining the Halfway to Hell Club.”
“The what?” I asked.
“When they were building this bridge, they put up nets everywhere just in case one of those steel workers fell off. If he did, he was caught by the nets. Those guys were lucky to be alive. A bunch of the survivors created a club called the Halfway to Hell Club. The only way you could join was falling into the nets. If you missed the nets, you went all the way down to the water. From that height, it’s like landing on a concrete sidewalk. That’s going all the way to hell.”
“What a way to die,” I said.
The Chief looked at the bridge. “The impact breaks your legs, breaks your ribs, and pushes the jagged bones into your heart. You bleed to death internally. If you survive the fall, the current is so strong it will drown you and drag you to the ocean. It’s more like the All the Way to Hell Club, if you ask me.” The Chief chomped on his unlit cigar, then continued.
“This bridge opened in ’37 and the dumb bastards that jump off to end it all have been in line since then. It averages one or two a week. I finally convinced the District Commander to rotate sailors every three months, because it’s too much for them to handle. That’s a lot of death. You think your boy out there was murdered, do you?” He lit his cigar with a wood match he struck on the heel of his boot.
“Sure as hell, Chief. Sure as hell,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The old Coast Guard stations have a brick path that leads from the boathouse to a ramp that steadily grades into the water. The old rowing rescue boats had carts with wheels. Some stations actually had a set of rails, as if for a train, for boats to be launched and retrieved. Two of the Coast Guard station sailors were taking a flat cart down to the water to retrieve the body of Randall Morehouse. I am sure that when these kids enlisted, they had no idea they might pull this kind of duty.
Randall Morehouse was face down in the water. The police photographer was taking loads of pictures as the Coast Guard chief shooed away some seagulls.
“Feathered rats!” he said.
A first-class petty officer rolled Morehouse over. His face was ghost white. More pictures were taken. What struck me was that Morehouse was wearing the same suit that he had on at Bay Meadows. They carefully placed the body on the flat cart and began to push the cart up the hill to the boathouse. No one said a word. Without being asked, five uniformed cops helped the men. It was a slow sad processional to the boathouse. Gallatin and Broadcreek were apparently done fighting for jurisdiction.
The Chief opened the tall wooden doors to the boathouse and the cart moved indoors. The sailors and uniformed cops went outside, their work done. Without anything being said, Vinnie and I nodded to Ashwythe and Dunderbeck. They nodded in the affirmative, and all four of us began searching the body.
We came up with a wallet, with one hundred dollars in fives and tens. There was no ID in the wallet; he had no driver’s license. There was a picture of him and Connie. I held the photo in my hand and a bolt of lightning seared through my body. She was wearing a full-length white fur coat. They looked happy together. There was a handkerchief, eyeglass case, a package of gum, and a set of car keys. I looked over the car keys very carefully. When everyone was through, I went through the all the pockets a second time. Specifically, I went through the right hip pocket of his suit coat, looking for something that I saw Morehouse put there. The betting slip from the final race was gone. Why would he throw it away? It was worth two dollars. More than that, it was a winning slip. And he didn’t win often.
I asked Vinnie to help me roll the body over. I started looking over Morehouse’s skull. I parted his hair, and there it was: a large bump on the back of his head. He had been hit from behind. I was sure the autopsy would show he had a massive blow to the skull and concussion prior to death. Broadcreek and Gallatin looked at the skull as well. Vinnie started first.
“O’Farrell may be right. It looks like murder. He was cracked on the noggin, all right.”
“Could he have hit his head on the way down?” Broadcreek asked.
Vinnie shook his head.
“Don’t think so, the rails are set in. If he hit his head on the rail, he couldn’t fall out far enough away; he would have landed on the catwalk. Somebody threw the poor bastard to his death. He was probably unconscious, since there is no sign of a struggle.”
Everyone considered the options when the wagon from the coroner arrived. The Chief of the Coast Guard station directed them to the boathouse. They asked the Gallatin if we were done. He nodded to let them know that it was okay to take him away. The Coast Guard chief nodded as well.
I told Vinnie that I wanted to see the Model A on the bridge before it was towed. Three cars went to the Golden Gate Bridge. Vinnie and I were in one, the FBI guys in another, and Gallatin and his boys in yet another. Three prowler cars directed traffic away from the car.
We all stopped and got out. The others were out of the car and looking into the Model A when we walked up. Madison Cooper, a newshawk from the Chronicle, was there. He was a real self-important little shit who turned everything into a conspiracy. To him, every comment was a lie and every thought was fair game for public consumption. William Randolph Hearst must have been proud of this little muckraker, who was a critic of everyone and everything except himself. Not only is he obnoxious, he’s about five foot one and pushy, in his blue suit and a gray fedora with a PRESS card in the hatband. I never liked this gee; I always thought he was cruel and sort of creepy.
As we were walking up, Vinnie whispered to me.
“How long we been friends?”
“Vinnie, you know that. Since grade school at St. Ann’s.”
“For all that is holy, Sean, please walk up to that guy and punch him as hard as you can in the gut. If I do it, I’ll lose my job.”
“What are friends for?” The Chief and Broadcreek were telling the little creep to shove off. He was whining about freedom of the press and public’s right to know everything.
“Well look who it isn’t, Inspector Vinnie Castellano, another lowlife cop with his hand out for another in a series of payoffs.” Cooper smiled a smile that said, Go ahead I dare you to hit me.
I walked up and hit him in the gut as hard as I could; I held nothing back. The truculent, vitriolic little turd went to his knees. I am not a cruel person by nature, and I didn’t know why Vinnie had me do it, but I figured it out real fast. But I had to admit, I enjoyed doing it.
He was stammering and squeaking, the little simp.
“I’ll have your badge for this, your coldhearted bastard.” He winced.
“No such luck, Maddie boy. I’m not a cop or an FBI guy. I’m private. They have no control over me.”
Broadcreek and Gallatin looked a little shocked. Cooper climbed to his feet in total outrage. That’s when Vinnie spoke up. He grabbed Cooper by the lapel and pulled him up on his toes.
“You listen to me, you sawed-off little shit. You came into my eight-year-old daughter’s hospital room, woke her up and asked her how it felt to come so close to dying. Do you even have a conscience?”
“The public has the right to know all pertinent news of the day. We at the Chronicle…” Cooper said defiantly.
I hit him a second time, a little harder than the last. I told him to fade before I threw him off the bridge, because that would be in the public interest. Cooper apparently decided that public’s right to know wasn’t
all that important at this particular time and place, because he staggered to his car and got in the passenger side. He looked pretty green to me. He waved to the driver to take off. A uniform cop closed the car door for him, and couldn’t help himself.
“Hope you piss blood later, you little asshole,” he said.
The car breezed away. The Chief called the cop over.
“Just what the hell was that comment for? It was unprofessional. We have to maintain a positive relationships with the legitimate press. What is your name, son?”
“Boone, sir.” The kid was a little stunned.
“Your lesson for today, son, is that you now can identify members of the legitimate press. That whining little turd is anything but. Don’t say anything like that again to the press, even him.”
“Yes sir.” The kid quickly responded.
“Boone, when we shut this operation down have the Ford towed to headquarters” He shook the kid’s hands. “Nice going, son. You said what I couldn’t say to the little bastard.” The Chief winked. “But now, you and your partner get this car towed out of here and get this traffic moving as quick as possible.”
Broadcreek gave me a slap on the back. “You’re a regular palooka, O’Farrell. Thanks for doing that. Every man here wanted to do it in the worst way.”
We looked over the Model A, which was clean as a whistle. Then it hit me: There was no key on the slot on the dashboard. I pointed it out to Vinnie. He pulled out the envelope of items taken from Morehouse’s body. I poured the items out on the seat and lifted up Morehouse’s key ring.
“See, Vinnie, this is the key for his wife’s Cadillac LaSalle, and that key is a Ford key just like mine.” I took my keys out and compared. “Look, my Model A key is jagged on one side only. My ’38 Ford is jagged on both sides. If Morehouse drove his car to the bridge and jumped, there would be a key in the dashboard or a key on his ring. There aren’t in either location. Whoever drove the Ford Model A kept the key, out of habit. Morehouse didn’t drive this car.”
Vinnie nodded. “So he knocked the guy on the noodle, drove him to the Golden Gate, tossed him over the side, and a second car picked him up?”
“Think about it, Vinnie. You knock a guy on the head, he comes to, then what? You fight the guy in a moving car? I don’t think so. I’d knock him out and throw him in the trunk.” I said.
Vinnie looked the Model A over.
“But, Sean, this car doesn’t have a trunk. It’s got a rumble seat.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, “but a Cadillac LaSalle has got a trunk big enough for two guys.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Saturday morning, Vinnie called. There was no sign of Connie Morehouse, no sign of Wheeler, no sign of any of the henchmen. All quiet on the western front. Kaitlin was working today and would get off at four. I would pick her up and run her home to get ready for the Knights of Columbus dance at the Fairmont. Since I was the treasurer of our KOC council, I was not in charge of the tickets and cash box for this event. That was Ralph Cleary’s responsibility. Ralph was a milkman with Brennan’s Dairy, and because of his early hours, it’s hard for him to chair a lot of events. I can’t really make him fish-fry chairman when he gets up at two a.m. to go to work. Ralph does as much as he can.
I drove over to the Cleary home on Greene Street. Ralph would still be at work, but I thought I could drop off the cash box and money. I parked and knocked on the front door. The curtains were drawn, but I could see movement in the living room. It took a few minutes, but Stella, Ralph’s wife, answered the door. She had the chain on the door, and would only show me a portion of her face. She had been crying.
I explained why I was there, and held up the cash box. “Are you excited about going?” I asked.
She looked horrified by the question. She said she didn’t know if she was going; she was under the weather. She asked me to leave the box on the doormat and closed the door softly.
I went back out to the Ford and sat for a minute. Then I got back out and walked up the driveway. Stella was standing at the kitchen sink. Her left eye was black and her lip was split. She was sobbing uncontrollably. It made me sick to look at it.
I returned in the Ford and drove as fast as I could to Vinnie Castellano’s house. Vinnie was taking trash out to the can when I honked. He came over to the car.
“What’s up, slick? You ready for tonight?” he said.
“I need you to come with me. We need to straighten somebody out,” I said with determination.
Vinnie didn’t smile, laugh or ask questions. He went into the house and came back out with his service revolver, jacket and coat. He hopped in and away we went.
“What did you tell Gina?” I asked.
“I told her you needed help and that I would be back in a while. It’s the truth. Who is it, Sean?”
“Ralph Cleary. He beat the shit out of Stella. She’s got a black eye and split lip. She’s a mess, Vinnie.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that. They have been having money troubles. I got word that a prowler has been to their house a couple of times. I kept him out of the hoosegow once, Sean. He swore to me he would buck up and do the right thing.”
We arrived at Brennan’s Dairy. All the drivers had returned from their runs; all twenty milk trucks were backed up and parked at the loading docks. They were all sitting around and enjoying a cup of coffee, sitting on milk crates. Ralph Cleary was in the middle of them.
Vinnie walked right up and delivered four strong punches to the gut. Ralph flew back against a file of milk crates, dazed.
“Jesus, Vinnie, what was that for?” he screamed.
The other milkmen got up and moved toward Vinnie.
“Hold it right there, boys.” I flashed my .45 and gestured for them to move back.
“This is a fair fight; it’s a cop against a wife beater.” I said.
The others looked hard at Ralph as Vinnie helped him up.
“This is it, Ralph. This is your last chance. You go see Father Mickey, go see a bartender, come see me or Sean or any of the other brother Knights. We can help you; we got all kinds of business guys and bankers in the Knights. We can help you and Stella. All you have to do is ask.”
Vinnie got close to Ralph’s face.
“You ever hit her again, and you’ll answer for it. Do I make myself clear?” He voice was cold and low.
Ralph nodded, and Vinnie and I left the loading dock. Ralph fell to his knees and was bawling away. The other milkmen turned their backs and walked away in disgust.
We drove away. I asked Vinnie, “You need to go to confession?”
“What the hell for? I didn’t do anything that I need to confess for. Poor Stella, she doesn’t deserve that.”
“How’s Mimi and Gina?” I asked.
“Mimi is already milking it. Gina told her she goes back to school Monday, period.” Vinnie chuckled.
His mood became serious again.
“This Morehouse case is strange, Sean. We have to find these people. It’s a bad deal.”
“The wife will surface, and so will Wheeler. Once you get them in a room, it’s just a matter of time. Next Monday, I’m going to do some snooping around. I’ll figure out what the angle is.”
I pulled into Ralph Cleary’s driveway. Vinnie and I got out and knocked on the door. Stella answered the door. She had put on makeup and had calmed down.
“Hi, Stella.” I said. “I came by to pick up the cash box. I saw Ralph this morning and he isn’t feeling too well, some kind of stomach thing.” Vinnie said.
Stella smiled. “Oh, Ralph’s got a tummy ache? That’s too bad. Don’t worry, Sean. He’s going tonight and he will be manning the ticket table. There is no reason for anybody else to pick up his slack.” She spoke with a smile.
Vinnie jumped in. “Are you going, Stella?”
“I wouldn’t mi
ss it, boys. Isn’t that funny how a stomachache comes out of the blue like that?”
“Well, hopefully this bug that attacked his gut won’t happen again,” I said. “But if it does come back it could get a whole lot worse. Ralph needs to be careful; your stomach can only take so much abuse, if you know what I mean?”
Stella was smiling ear to ear. “Thanks for stopping by, boys. I really appreciate it.”
As we got in the car, you could hear Stella laughing hysterically in the house. I pulled the Ford out into the street and headed for Vinnie’s house.
We were driving along, not saying very much. After a while, Vinnie had some questions he had been holding back.
“How serious is this getting with Kaitlin?”
“We have been going out for five or six weeks. I feel sick when I am not with her or if I don’t talk to her on the phone. Is that serious enough?”
“Sean, I’m your buddy. When Barbara and Susan died, you hit the bottom of a pit I thought you might never come out of. I don’t know what it’s like to lose both a wife and a child, but you can only carry that load around with you for so long. Kaitlin is making you the old Sean. It’s great to see you be your old self. Is there a problem?”
“You know how much I loved Barbara,” I said. “She was the world to me. I’m having a tough time because I think I love Kaitlin more. I feel guilty about how I feel.”
“You got nothing to feel guilty about, buddy. Barbara would want you to be happy. What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“Well, pal, it’s almost time for a hardware store run.”
“No shit, you shopping in the jewelry store? Oh, I could sell tickets to that event with the brother Knights.” Vinnie laughed.
“Sean O’Farrell, private investigator, reserve naval officer, jewelry connoisseur.” Vinnie starting doing a really bad French accent. “How many baguettes does this crappy piece of glass, have my good man? Is a case included in the price, monsieur? Does this candy dispenser for a penny offer better engagement rings?” He was enjoying himself.
The Halfway to Hell Club Page 20
