Detour to Murder jo-3

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Jimmy, I’m at Rocco’s. Come on over. I have news about your case.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” The guy had a certain way about him. I couldn’t turn him down.

  Everyone who walked into Rocco’s was hit immediately with music coming from the bar, located two steps down and to the right of the maitre d’ station. And tonight was no exception.

  The piano player, a short, spunky black guy, pounded the ivory and sang Gershwin classics, murdering them. When he sang “I’ve Got a Crush on You” it sounded like a steamroller crushing rocks.

  I sat at Sol’s table and pulled my chair in close, leaning into him, so I could hear his voice above the racket.

  “Isn’t the guy terrific?” he said, indicating the piano player. “When it comes to Gershwin the guy’s magic.”

  The entertainer’s fingers were okay, playing George Gershwin’s music, but again, his voice pulverized brother Ira’s timeless lyrics. I wanted to say, “It ain’t necessarily so,” but in lieu of that I said, “S’wonderful. How long has this been going on?”

  “Since a foggy day.”

  “Fascinatin’ rhythm.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “But not for me,” I said.

  “Well, Porgy, there’s a boat dat’s leavin’ soon.”

  “Okay, Sol, I give.” We both laughed and the laughter chased my migraine away.

  After a few more Gershwin numbers the piano player took a break and we moved into the dining room. We slipped into Sol’s private booth. Jeanine appeared, bearing two tall glasses of ice water. She whisked away the reserved sign and handed us menus. Sol ordered the rack of lamb. I ordered a hamburger.

  “Chazerai,” Sol said. “Do you live on hamburgers? Maybe I should call you Wimpy.”

  “Nah, I eat pizza, too.”

  “And donuts?”

  “A few.”

  After Sol finished his lamb and I’d eaten my hamburger, I sipped coffee while Sol worked on his dessert. Between bites of creme brulee Sol told me his news about the Roberts case. “I’ve located Frank Byron, the DA who put your guy behind bars in ’45. He’s agreed to see us.”

  “Hey, that’s great. When?”

  “He’s retired, has a small ranch in Santa Barbara. We’ll drive out together tomorrow morning. One thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t know what this is all about. I didn’t think he’d talk to us if I mentioned the Roberts thing. So I had to make up something, told him you were a journalist. Doing a story.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “Told him you’re doing a piece on L.A. in the forties and wanted to interview him about his historic role in eliminating corruption in the DA’s office back then. I’m your assistant.”

  The thought of Sol Silverman as an assistant journalist almost made me choke on my coffee.

  “Christ, Sol. I don’t know a damn thing about corruption in the forties. How are we going to pull off a charade like that?”

  “Just wing it and you’ll do fine, my boy,” Sol said. “We’re meeting Byron at eleven. Hey, there’s something else about Byron you might want to write about.”

  “Sol, I’m not gonna write anything. I’m not really a journalist.”

  “You can ask him what he did after he left office.”

  “Didn’t he run for governor and lose?”

  “After that.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Why don’t you ask Byron? Maybe he’ll tell you about the work he did for the Haskell Foundation.”

  CHAPTER 8

  We drove up the coast along Highway 101, and just beyond the moneyed town of Santa Barbara we, turned onto Refugio Road. Heading northwest, we climbed the Santa Ynez Mountains, at the ocean’s edge, and wound around on the one-lane paved road for a number of miles until we descended into a valley of grasslands, large estates and small farms. I’d read in the Times that Governor Reagan had just bought a 600-acre ranch around here somewhere.

  We hadn’t taken Sol’s limo. What kind of journalist rode around in a long black limo with a driver who looked like a sumo wrestler? So we made the two-hour trip in my Corvette with Sol in the passenger seat, hollering out directions from a map.

  “Slow down, Jimmy! Ah, too late. You just passed the road where we were supposed to turn.”

  “Shoulda told me earlier.”

  “You weren’t paying attention. Gotta keep your eye on the ball.”

  “What ball? There’s no ball out here, just miles of grass, weeds, and a few fenced-in mansions.”

  “Those are farmhouses, my boy.” A grin surfaced on Sol’s face. “Ah, the small farmer, back to the soil, and all that. Makes my heart warm just to think of the tax benefits.”

  I hung a U, drove back, and turned onto the gravel road. After driving about a mile farther the road ended at Frank Byron’s ranch. A sign, “Rancho de la Estrellas,” hung over the entrance of a long driveway. We pulled up in a front of an adobe-style mansion, a two-story house with rough plaster walls made to look like sun-dried brick. Red clay barrel tiles covered the roof.

  A man who said he was Byron’s valet answered the door and we stepped into the entry, an open space with a rough-hewed wood-beam ceiling, Saltillo tile floor, and windows that looked out onto a rocky cactus garden. We followed along behind the slow-walking stiff as he escorted us to the library. He wore a white dinner jacket with a black tie. His outfit didn’t seem to fit with the Santa Fe decor. A sombrero would’ve helped.

  “Mr. Byron had an unexpected long distance phone call. He will join you momentarily,” he said and quietly slipped away, closing the door behind him.

  Built-in bookcases lined the walls next to a huge sandstone fireplace. A mahogany desk with a surface the size of Rhode Island stood at the far end of the room, and a set of enormous steer horns, mounted high on the wall opposite the fireplace, added a touch of whimsy, I thought. Were the horns a trophy? Did Byron go out and shoot a cow? At least he didn’t stick the whole damn head up there. That would’ve been a bit much.

  Threadbare, probably ancient Navajo rugs covered the floor, and a bronze sculpture of a bucking bronco, about two feet tall, rested in a lighted cubicle cut into the wall. The room reminded me of a cowboy museum. I wondered if Byron had Gabby Hayes stuffed and mounted somewhere in the house.

  A portrait of a beautiful woman with waves of scarlet hair, wearing skintight riding pants tucked into her high-top boots, hung above the fireplace. The jewels she wore must’ve cost more than a battleship. Her head was tilted back, her lips were slightly parted in an alluring manner and she held a riding crop in her hand. Like Rita Hayworth in Gilda, she had a look about her that suggested she’d just been crowned queen of the Bar-None. She had it all, face, figure, and money. She was the kind of cowgirl that’d cause Roy to kick Trigger out of the hayloft.

  A dozen leather club chairs were scattered about and a sofa covered with horsehide rested against one wall.

  “This layout looks expensive, Sol,” I said. “The retired politician business must be lucrative.”

  “Why would anyone spend a million bucks or more to be elected to public office if there wasn’t a few dollars to be made?” Sol said as he sank into one of the leather club chairs. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and fired up, chucking the wrapper in the Pullman ashtray standing next to the chair. “Yep, all this crap cost money, all right.”

  A second later the door banged open and a man I assumed to be Frank Byron marched in, the valet trailing in his wake. “Oliver, didn’t you offer our guests any refreshments?” Without waiting for Oliver to answer he announced, “Remain seated, gentlemen. I’m Frank Byron.” Sol stood. I was already standing. Byron came over and gave each of us a hearty pat on the back and a solid handshake. We told him our names and he said, “First names only. Call me Frank.” He then told the butler, “Oliver, get Sol and Jimmy a drink.”

  “Of course, Mr. Byron,” he said in a tired voice “Wh
at can I get for you, gentlemen?”

  Sol glanced at his Rolex. “It’s still morning, so I’ll only have gin and tonic. Beefeaters, if you have it.”

  “Just black coffee,” I said.

  “Well, if Sol is going to imbibe, I’ll have a small toddy as well,” Byron said. “Make it my usual, Oliver.”

  Byron was slim, tall, and middle-aged with a full head of ash gray hair, trimmed and blow-dried. He had a rugged, long face, tanned by the sun and creased by the years, pale blue eyes, and a wide mouth with thin lips that barely moved when he spoke. He wore western garb-checkered shirt, bolero tie, and a wide leather belt with the requisite gold and silver buckle that had to weigh ten pounds. He could have been a cattle baron out of the past, but he didn’t have any cow shit sticking to his hand-tooled snakeskin boots.

  “Please, be seated gentleman and we’ll get down to business.” Byron turned and stood motionless for a moment, gazing up at the woman’s portrait. He shook his head once and continued toward his desk, where he sat. “I understand, Jimmy, that you’re doing a piece about my career as the District Attorney of Los Angeles.”

  Sol took a puff of his cigar, looked at the glowing tip, and settled into the same club chair as before.

  “That’s right,” I answered, sitting next to Sol.

  “Who-may I ask-are you writing this for, the Los Angeles Times?”

  “Frank,” Sol said. “Jimmy’s writing it for the New York Times, syndicated worldwide.”

  Christ, Sol! What are you doing? I thought. You’re laying it on pretty thick. “That’s right,” I said, “New York Times. Now, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Really, the New YorkTimes, that’s impressive. But I’m afraid I haven’t seen any of your work. Where have you been published before?”

  “Everywhere,” Sol said and took another drag on the cigar. “Jimmy’s chronicling the history of L.A. in the forties. Big project.”

  “Los Angeles history is kind of a hobby of mine,” Byron said. “I’m well versed with journalists writing about our exciting past. But, I’m afraid I haven’t seen anything you’ve written.”

  “Well… ah, my articles have been-”

  We all turned toward the sound of the door opening; the butler entered with the drinks. Thank God.

  The discussion stopped for a minute while we sipped our drinks. Then I set my coffee cup down. “Let’s not talk about me,” I said. “I’m here to ask you, Mr. Byron, a few questions for the article. I understand you were a young man when elected to the office of District Attorney. Can you tell me a little about your background, and so on?”

  “Be delighted to, Jimmy. It all started when I was just a child, before that really. You see, my grandfather…”

  Whenever anyone starts telling his life’s story and starts it with when I was a child you know he’s going to bore the hell out of you. But I scribbled on my pad, trying to look like a journalist who cared about what he was saying.

  Byron continued to ramble on. He told us about his family, his childhood, and then took us through his school years. He explained that although he came from a privileged background, his family’s wealth and connections had no bearing on his success. The very fact that two generations of Byrons had graduated from Harvard, and through the years had contributed generously to the university, had nothing to do with him being accepted there, of course.

  After graduating from law school he worked in the family business, commercial banking, and through pluck and determination he soon found himself in the position of vice president. He was twenty-six at the time. But he became restless and wanted to move on to bigger things. He decided on a life of public service. A noble gesture, he said. What better example to the lazy and shiftless, the average man who chose not to sacrifice, then his own willingness to take a tremendous pay cut and run for the office of Los Angeles County District Attorney?

  My coffee had gotten cold. Sol had finished his drink, stifled a yawn, and started another cigar when Byron finally got to the part where he had single-handedly cleaned up the corruption that had taken hold of city government in the late 1930s during the scandal-plagued years of Mayor Shaw. “I’d been elected on a reform platform, and by God, that’s exactly what I did,” he said.

  “You don’t say. That’s admirable, but during your term as District Attorney, did you get involved in any homicide cases?” I asked. “The publisher wants me to throw in a murder or two. Readers eat that stuff up.”

  “My job was the big picture, setting the agenda, and commanding the war on organized crime. I made it tough on racketeers who were spreading their filth throughout the city.”

  He went on about his heroic stand against gangs and bookmakers, but I had to steer the discussion toward murder cases, then narrow it down to just one: Roberts. “I understand, Mr. Byron, but maybe we could talk about a few capital offenses that came across your desk.”

  “Let me tell you about the time I stared down the biggest gangster of them all, Mickey Cohen. Your readers will love this,” he said. “It happened one night at Ciro’s Nightclub. He was with Johnny Stompanato-Mick’s bodyguard, you know. Johnny was also Lana Turner’s boyfriend. Lana’s daughter had stabbed him to death: self-defense. But that was later; he was still alive when I met him. Anyway, Mick and Stompanato were having a drink, probably planning something big, when I walked in-”

  Sol glanced at his watch. “That’s all very interesting, Frank, but what I think Jimmy’s readers would like to know is did you personally try any murder cases? Maybe something the tabloids ran with. Something just to keep your hand in, grab a few headlines, so to speak.”

  “You remember when Bugsy Siegel got whacked, don’t you, Sol?”

  “Sure. But that happened in 1947. You were outta office by then.”

  “That’s right. In 1947 I was being groomed to take over the governor’s spot. Earl Warren had already been slated to run for vice president on the Dewey ticket in’48. If the Republicans had won, like they were supposed to, well then, I would’ve… but they didn’t win, damn it. That haberdasher from Missouri, Truman remained president and Warren stayed in the governor’s chair.”

  “Yeah, but you were talking about Bugsy Siegel,” Sol said. “What about him?”

  It was getting late and I worried that Byron would call off the interview any minute. Maybe he’d go to lunch, or take his afternoon siesta, or maybe he’d just want to get rid of us. He probably had better things to do, like hanging around the campfire with the buckaroos. And, Christ, Sol kept talking about Siegel. Who cares about Siegel? My mind was spinning. I had to slip Roberts into the conversation somehow without raising Byron’s suspicion that we weren’t there just to immortalize an old man’s war stories. I had to get Byron on track, discussing the plea bargain and I had to do it fast.

  “Ah, Mr. Byron, I’d like to know about a homicide, one that you handled during the time you held office-” I began.

  “Hey, Frank, did you know Joe Sica?” Sol asked. “Big Mafia honcho back in the forties, still is.”

  Sol, what are you doing? What’s all this talk about old Mafia guys? I was starting to get unsettled. I had the feeling we were blowing our only chance here.

  “Yeah, I know Sica. A bad actor,” Byron said. “But it’s his brother Freddie that scares the hell out of everyone. The guy is crazy, a homicidal maniac. But I think both Joe and Freddie are locked up now.”

  “Nah, they got out. Did a dime at Q, then the State cut ’em loose. I know those boys. They haven’t changed, just older,” Sol said. “Hey, by the way, did you know a guy named Alexander Roberts? A lifer, taking the long ride at Chino.”

  I sighed. Way to go, Sol. What a smooth way to sneak Roberts into the conversation. I should take lessons.

  Byron scratched his chin. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Are you sure?” I said. “I think I read about it somewhere in the archives. Yeah, that’s it; Paul Coates of the Mirror wrote an article, said you personally handled the Alexa
nder Roberts plea bargain. Said you did a hell of a job.”

  “I told you I don’t recall anyone named Roberts.” There was a noticeable edge in Byron’s voice. We’d hit a nerve. Now I’d dig a little deeper.

  “Back in ’45, didn’t you cut a deal with Roberts: life instead of extradition to Arizona on a murder-one rap?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just want to give the readers the truth.”

  “Gentleman, I’m afraid my time is up. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  “Another minute, please, Mr. Byron,” I said.

  I pulled a paper from my pocket, a Xerox copy of the signature page from the parole board report he’d signed regarding the Roberts plea agreement. “Maybe you’ll want to see this.” I stood and dropped the paper on his desk.

  He whipped out a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the document for a few seconds. Was it my imagination, or did his hand tremble slightly when he handed it back to me?

  “What is this?” he said, scowling.

  Sol jumped in. “It’s the deal you made with Roberts when you conned him into confessing to the woman’s murder. Told him he would die in the gas chamber in Arizona for killing Charles Haskell, Jr. if he didn’t cop a plea. There was no murder charge against Roberts in Arizona. Haskell had died of a heart attack. But you knew that, Frank. Didn’t you?”

  Byron sat there in silence, his anger building. He knew he’d been ambushed, but he’d spent his life as a lawyer and he knew how to control himself. He didn’t want to explode and tip his hand.