by Tom Turner
“Preposterous,” Said Al-Jabbah. “I said this before. Who would want to kill a twenty-two-year-old college kid? Or me? I do not have any enemies.”
“My partner and I have looked into Amir,” Crawford said. “And here’s what we’ve found out. Probably a few things you’ll find hard to believe. Like the fact that Amir was what I’d call an extreme nationalist. In fact, it seems, more American than most kids born in America. He had no tolerance for anyone who challenged the system. Like there was a Black Lives Matter protest on the Palm Beach Atlantic campus that he and some friends protested against. And speaking of his friends, do you know what skinheads are, Mr. Jabbah?”
Jabbah looked as though he just caught a whiff of some noxious odor that had just blown in from a sulfur factory.
“Those people with the swastikas and tattoos?”
“Exactly,” said Crawford. “Your nephew was involved with them.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jabbah said. “My nephew was a Muslim.”
“Seems like he might have strayed off course a little.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that Amir briefly belonged to a group called Hitler Youth,” Crawford said, “Then after that, another group called Rockwell Forever, named after a man named George Lincoln Rockwell, who started the American Nazi party a long time ago.”
Jabbah’s jaw had gone slack.
“The group Amir was in had eight members,” Crawford went on, “but one of them told my partner and me that a core belief of theirs was the Holocaust never happened.”
Al-Jabbah emitted a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Amir and I weren’t that close. I—I didn’t know any of this,” he said faintly.
“That’s what we figured. And I’m sure Amir didn’t want you to know about it,” Crawford said. “But our thinking is, someone—maybe a target of Amir and his group—might have had a reason to kill him, as unlikely as it may sound. Another possibility, though I’d say it’s a long shot, is someone in his group killed him. That’s what happened to George Lincoln Rockwell; he got shot by a man who used to be a member of the American Nazi Party.”
Al-Jabbah sighed and shook his head slowly.
“I know it’s a lot to absorb,” Crawford said.
Jabbah glanced slowly around the room, then back to him. “Try to find the people who did this.”
Five minutes later, Crawford was walking down the long hallway out of the Royal & Alien Club. Coming in the front entrance of the club were three men. One was a huge black man with white hair in tight ringlets—Crawford figured he was close to seven-feet tall—who looked vaguely familiar. Crawford was guessing an NBA player from twenty years ago. The second was a short Hispanic-looking man, and the third—wearing Raybans—was…holy shit! His boyhood idol, Juke Jackson!
Crawford head-to-toed Jackson as he approached him and was silently questioning the sartorial match of Juke’s black lizard boots and resplendent crimson pants. It reminded him of the kind of outfit Bill Murray would throw together at the Pebble Beach golf tournament.
Crawford caught Jackson’s eye when they were ten feet away from each other. Jackson gave him an easy smile and a nod, like somehow he knew that Crawford had every single one of his albums and had been to twelve of his concerts. “How ya doin’, brother,” Juke said, as they passed.
Juke Jackson had just made Crawford’s day. Even with all he’d been through: sniffing horseshit, hearing about men dressed up as women and skinheads protesting Black Wives Matter rallies.
Twenty-One
“My idol, Juke Jackson,” Crawford was saying in Ott’s cubicle, “I mean, right up there with the Springs!”
“The Springs?” Ott said. “Who the hell are you talking about?”
“Come on, man, who ya think? Bruce Springsteen and Rick Springfield.”
Ott’s frown was instantaneous. “Rick Springfield, are you fucking kidding me? One-hit-wonder Rick Springfield…you’re not tryin’ to put him in the same category as Bruce?”
“No, but he’s sure as hell’s no one-hit-wonder.” Rock n’ roll was one of the few things that got Crawford this animated.
“‘Jessie’s Girl…’ What else?” Ott asked.
“Right off the top of my head, ‘Affair of the Heart,’ ‘Don’t Talk to Strangers,” Crawford said, “and if you give me time to think, I’ll come up with five more.”
A voice came over the transom from the cubicle next to Ott’s. “Don’t forget that album, ‘Working Class Dog.’ Thing was killer.”
Crawford looked over the top of Ott’s cubicle and saw the bald-head and mustached face of Arnie Wolfe, a burglary detective.
“Now there’s a man with taste,” Crawford said, giving Wolfe a five. “You believe numbnuts here calling Springfield a one-hit-wonder.”
“The hell do you expect,” Wolfe said. “He’s from Cleveland. Home of Marilyn Manson and Weird Al Yankovic.”
Ott jumped out of his chair and craned up over the cubicle at Wolfe. “Wrong on both counts, dipshit. Marilyn Manson is from Canton and Weird Al is from somewhere in California. Never set foot in Cleveland, far as I know. You’re thinking of Frankie Yankovic, the king of polka.”
Then from another cubicle. “What about the O’Jays and those lame-ass Nine Inch Nails?” It was Frank Devon, white-collar crime.
Ott swung around to Devon. “Got a problem with Nine Inch Nails, asswipe?” He said, heatedly. “What about the James Gang and Joe Walsh? Rock ‘n roll gods! And, by the way, the O’Jays—again Canton, not Cleveland, for fuck’s sake.”
Suddenly Norm Rutledge, chief of police, appeared, shaking his head.
“What the hell’s all this racket back here?” Rutledge said. “They can hear you in the next county.”
Crawford smiled at Rutledge, something he rarely did. “Just a little music debate, Norm.”
Rutledge shook his head and looked like a parent ready to put the cane to a misbehaving child. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Crawford, but don’t you have two unsolved homicides?”
Crawford glanced over at Ott, who was rolling his eyes.
“As usual, Norm, you are absolutely right, we do have two unsolved homicides,” Crawford said, looking around at the cubicle dwellers. “Music debate’s over, boys. As usual, Ott’s got his head up his ass.”
Crawford’s cell rang. He looked down at the number and clicked on.
“Hey, Rose,” he said. “I’m in a meeting. Can I get back to you in a little while?”
“Okay,” she said.
He clicked off.
“That’s part of your problem, Crawford,” Rutledge said, gesturing at Crawford’s phone. “Spend too much time talking to women.”
That was a new one.
“Really? Are you kidding me, Norm?” Crawford said, truly outraged. “That woman—just so happens—is way more valuable than any C.I. we’ve ever had. I mean, gimme a fuckin’ break.”
Crawford quietly seethed as he waited for Rutledge to go back to his office. Finally, Crawford heard his door close.
He looked down at Ott, who was back on his computer.
“Come on, Mort,” he said, “let’s get the hell outta here.”
“Mookies?”
“Yeah,” said Crawford, “best place I know to solve crimes and quench your thirst at the same time.”
Twenty-Two
Mookie’s was rowdier than usual. A retirement party for a West Palm motorcycle cop. They had two beers apiece and went back to the station.
Crawford didn’t expect to find Harold and Nancy Miller’s phone listed. But it was.
He dialed and a woman with a French accent answered. “Miller residence.”
“Yes, hi,” said Crawford, “I’m trying to reach Algernon Poole, please.”
“Algernon does not work here anymore, sir,” the woman said. “He works for Mrs. Mulcahy. The widow of Knight Mulcahy.”
Crawford did not see that one coming. “Okay, well, thank you very much.”
Crawford hung up and walked out of his office to Ott’s cubicle.
“So the butler I told you about—”
“Algernon Poole?”
“Yeah,” Crawford said. “Guess who he’s working for now?”
Ott stroked his chin. “Hmm, I’m gonna guess…the widow Mulcahy?”
“Bingo,” Crawford said. “Despite your musical deficiencies, you’re not so dumb after all.”
Ott stood up and shook his head.
“Where ya goin’?” Crawford asked.
“With you. To Q & A this Algernon guy.”
Crawford shook his head. “I gotta bigger job for you,” he said. “There’s something about Jabbah Al-Jabbah that’s begging for an exhaustive Mort Ott research job.”
“You flatter me ‘cause you don’t want to do it,” Ott said.
“Just tellin’ it like it is,” Crawford said, “Somehow you’re able to find out shit nobody else can.”
Ott smiled. “It’s all right there in the public record.”
“All of it?”
“Well, almost all.” Ott asked. “So what’s your hunch about Al-Jabbah?”
“I don’t know, can’t say I really have one. Just something about the guy,” Crawford said. “I mean, he doesn’t strike me as one of those Middle Eastern guys you read about who has five wives, drops a million bucks shopping in London. Like that guy Dodo whatever—guy who bought it with Princess Di.”
“Dodi.”
“Yeah, him,” Crawford said. “I just got a feeling you’re gonna dig up something good.”
“Are you coming back here after you see Poole?”
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, but I got one more stop after him. One of Amir’s skinhead buddies.”
A tall man opened the door at 1250 North Ocean Way and his expression didn’t change as he looked out at Crawford. He reminded Crawford of the actor in an ancient movie called “The Night Porter.” Crawford wasn’t sure whether it was Laurence Harvey or Dirk Bogarde. He always got those two mixed up. He just remembered seeing Charlotte Rampling for the first time in the movie and having the hots for her. Still kind of did, even though she was probably in her sixties now.
“Mr. Poole?” he asked.
“Yes,” Poole said, taken aback that this stranger knew his name.
“I’m Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police Department, I’d like to talk to you,” he said.
Crawford couldn’t tell whether Poole looked scared, confused, or put upon.
“Talk about what, Detective?”
Crawford was on a step, one foot lower down than Poole. He didn’t like Poole being able to look down at him.
“It’s gonna take a few minutes; is now a good time?” Crawford asked stepping up to the landing.
“Yes, now is fine,” Poole said, “the lady of the house is out. Come in.”
They stepped into the large foyer and Poole stopped, turned and faced Crawford.
“So what would you like to know, Detective?”
Crawford stood as straight as he could but Poole still had two inches on him.
Crawford decided, screw it, he might as well dive right in. “Mr. Poole, are you, or were you, having an affair with Jacqui Mulcahy?”
Poole scowled and went into mock-shock. “Hah,” he said. “You have got to be kidding me.”
For the first time, Crawford noticed he had one of those protruding Adam’s apples.
“It’s a simple yes or no question.”
“My answer is, of course not, I work for the lady,” Poole said. “And the question is totally outrageous and offensive. Since when does the Palm Beach Police Department go around demanding to know about peoples’ love lives?”
“Actually, I was asking about your sex life. But let’s move on,” Crawford said. “My understanding is that you were at this house the night Mulcahy was killed.”
Poole shook his head and sighed, offended again. “I was here because I was acting as chauffeur for the people I worked for at the time. They were guests at the Mulcahy party.” Poole gave him a look like he wanted to add, ‘you stupid fuck,’ but was too refined for that.
Crawford nodded. “And you stayed in the Miller’s car the entire time that they were at the party?”
“The entire time,” Poole said. “Well, except for getting out a few times to smoke a cigarette”—then, an afterthought—“and going to see if that poor man was okay.”
“What poor man?” Crawford asked.
“You didn’t hear about that,” Poole said, shaking his head, “a man Knight Mulcahy threw down the steps?”
Crawford realized who he was talking about. “A man wearing a double-breasted blue blazer?”
Poole nodded. “Which was probably missing a few buttons after Mulcahy got done with him,”
“And was he all right?”
Poole sighed. “He was, but I’ve never seen anybody madder.”
“What did he do?”
“He got up and went to his car,” Poole said. “I heard him yell something right before he slammed the door.”
“What was that?”
Poole looked around like he didn’t want Jacqui Mulcahy suddenly walking in. “Eff-ing asshole.” He said it in such a way that it almost sounded like a compliment.
“So then he drove off?”
“No,” Poole said, “he didn’t go anywhere for a few minutes. Then he got out of his car and walked round the house.”
“To where?” Crawford asked.
Poole shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t follow him.”
“Did he come back when you were still there?”
“Yes, about fifteen minutes later.”
This was big news.
“What kind of cigarette do you smoke, Mr. Poole?” Crawford asked, remembering what Poole had said earlier.
“English Ovals, why do you ask?”
“Because there was a cigarette butt found close to where Mr. Mulcahy’s body was found.” Crawford made it up to see how Poole would react.
“Well, I can assure you, it wasn’t mine.”
Crawford went into auto-nod and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. His way of implying he had his doubts about what he was being told. He looked at his watch. He had to meet the skinhead in fifteen minutes.
“Okay, Mr. Poole, I appreciate your time,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind, would you give me your cell-phone number, please?”
Poole gave him a look like indeed he did mind.
“In case I have further questions,” Crawford said.
Poole gave it to him.
“Thank you,” Crawford said. “English Ovals, you said.”
Poole nodded.
“And your shoe size?”
“You must be joking.”
Crawford shook his head.
“Nine and a half,” Poole said.
Crawford turned, walked out the front door and down the steps.
Dirk Bogarde. Definitely.
Businessmen have expense accounts to take clients and associates out to five-star restaurants for Kobe steaks and fancy bottles of wine. Crawford had an expense account to take skinheads out to chow down on SuperSonic cheeseburgers and Barq’s root beer.
Mengele Johnson talked with his mouth full. He talked a lot, too.
Mostly about Jews, “spics” and “schvartzes” until Crawford cut him off and said he didn’t want to hear the guy’s racist rants any more. Didn’t want a guy with a swastika on his neck to think he could say any damn thing he pleased. Even in the land of the free, home of the brave.
But he was curious about one thing. “I’m guessing that Mengele is not the name you were born with?” Or else your parents were every bit as fucked up as you appear to be.
Johnson laughed. “Dwight was the name I was born with. After that old chrome-dome president Ike,” he said. “I couldn’t lose that fast enough. Wanted a name that had a lot of history behind it.”
Crawford bit his lip and didn’t say that though president Dwight D
. Eisenhower didn’t do much, what he did do was a damn sight better than what Nazi Joseph Mengele did.
He watched Johnson noisily finish off his cheeseburger. The man was like a horse at a trough.
“So, Mr. Johnson, you have any kind of theory who might have killed Amir Al-Jabbah?”
“Don’t be so formal. Call me Mengele,” Johnson said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “See, what happened was, a former colleague of mine broke away from HY and started his own organization.”
Crawford took out his notebook, started writing, then looked up. “HY as in Hitler Youth?” He was going to play it like he didn’t already know about a lot of this just to see if Mengele’s story was consistent.
“Yeah, exactly,” Johnson said. “So Amir—misguided little fuck he was—decided he wanted to join up with this other group-”
“What’s the name of that one?” Crawford asked.
“Rockwell Forever,” said Johnson. “Named after the guy who started the American Nazi—”
“Yeah, okay, and what’s the name of the guy who started it?”
“Lonnie Bates,” Johnson said. “Lonnie likes cars. In fact, word is he used to run a chop shop before he went legit and started managing a body shop in Lake Worth.”
Crawford sensed the conversation might bend around to Jabbah Al-Jabbah’s collection of million-dollar cars.
“Why are you volunteering all this, Mr. Johnson?”
“‘Cause I’m not a big fan of Lonnie’s,” Johnson said. “Guy’s a dirtbag.”
Crawford nodded.
“So anyway, Lonnie came up with an initiation for Amir,” Johnson said. “To steal one of his uncle’s cars and donate it to him.”
Crawford stopped writing and looked up at Johnson who had just shoveled a ketchup-splattered fistful of French fries into his mouth.
“But it wasn’t like Lonnie could drive it around,” Crawford said. “Every cop in south Florida would be looking for it”—then something clicked—“you’re not saying he was going to chop it for parts?”
“Nah,” Johnson said, ketchup smeared all over his upper lip, “that would have been a total waste. Can you imagine chopping a Ferrari Testarossa for its parts? No, Lonnie occasionally peddles coke and has a buncha connections in Colombia—”
