by J. L. Abramo
I was tempted to run straight down.
Darlene didn’t miss a beat.
“You had several phone calls,” she said. “Interested?”
She finally let me get my first word in.
“Sure.”
I thought it would be a good idea to wait awhile before I tried sweet-talking her into joining Joe and Angela for dinner.
“Travis Duncan called. He left a phone number.”
“Did he say where he was?”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking,” Darlene answered. “There was a call from Ray Boyle.”
Oh, boy.
“Did he say what it was about?”
“He said it was about wanting you to call him.”
“I see.”
Darlene was having way too much fun.
“Your mother called to wish you a happy St. Joseph’s Day. She said she was sorry she couldn’t have you over for dinner since, as you may or may not recall, your mother is down in Atlanta visiting your brother and her grandchildren, and she will be very disappointed if you fail to return her call.”
I had entirely forgotten.
“Of course I know where my mother is. And I will call her. Did Sergeant Johnson call?”
“No. Why would Johnson be calling you?”
“To wish me a cheery St. Joseph’s Day,” I said, finally getting a jab in, but Darlene had me beat by points. “Thanks for the coffee.”
End of Round One.
I picked up the paper cup from her desk and moved to my own desk in the back room.
I had three phone calls to consider, with no three-sided coin handy. On top of that, the thought of Mrs. Verdi’s tasty insalada di polpo was distracting me.
I finally decided to call my mom first, and save the coin-toss to determine whether I would reluctantly call Ray Boyle or reluctantly call Travis Duncan next.
My brother Abraham was two years my senior. Other than both being born when Ike was President we had very little in common.
While I was failing biology in high school, Abe was eating it up. I aspired to be an actor, to gain fame and fortune and meet pretty girls; Abe wanted only to be a scientist and marry the girl he had dated since they were fifteen. They had two perfect children, and Abraham was devoted to his wife and offspring and to saving the world from contagious diseases at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.
My father, Bernard, came to Brooklyn in 1955.
His Jewish, Russian born parents had immigrated to Israel in 1948. Bernie decided to try New York. He changed his name to Diamond for two good reasons. His father’s surname, though starting with D, was followed by ten more letters only two of which were vowels. Not only was it impossible to pronounce or to spell, it made one dizzy just seeing it on paper. On top of that, Russian names were not very popular in 1950’s America.
Bernie met, and quickly married, the daughter of Italian immigrants. Roman Catholics. Mary Falco was a public school teacher. The newlyweds took the ground floor apartment in the three-family house where Mary had grown up. Mary’s sister and her husband lived in the apartment above. Mary’s parents lived in the basement below.
The neighborhood was populated exclusively by Italians and Italian-Americans, with the exception of Bernie Diamond.
Abraham chose Judaism.
I chose baseball and the Catholic Church.
If I couldn’t meet girls on the ball field, I could at least hope to charm one or two at Mass.
In that, and many other ways, Abraham was more my father’s son and I was more my mother’s son. My father seemed to understand Abe and to never quite figure out what I was about. I’m sure it had a lot to do with the fact that Jacob Diamond wasn’t particularly self-aware while my brother was always sure about who he was. And who he would become.
My brother became Abraham Dykhovichny, and even learned how to spell and pronounce it.
The irony is I had adopted many more of my father’s passions and preferences than Abe ever had. A love of classic literature, an undying devotion to the New York Mets, a true appreciation of fine Tennessee whiskey and the pleasure of an after-dinner smoke.
The finest moments my father and I shared were out on the back porch in Brooklyn, while Abe helped Mary with the dishes, talking enthusiastically about Dickens or the 1986 World Series, sipping sour mash and firing up a Camel non-filter or two.
The phone call was short and sweet. I spoke with Abe for a few minutes, gaining a good deal of knowledge regarding the climate in central Georgia. I then wished my mom a wonderful visit and a safe trip home and promised I would cross the Bay to see her in Pleasant Hill as soon as I possibly could.
With that taken care of, I dug into my pants pocket for a loose coin.
Heads Duncan. Tails Boyle.
George Washington’s stoic profile sealed the deal.
The best way to describe the phone conversation with Duncan would be to transcribe the dialogue in its entirety.
“Good morning, Jake.”
“Good morning, Travis.”
“I was hoping to pick you up at your office around eleven tonight if that works for you.”
“I can make it work.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“See you then.”
Over and Out.
I called Boyle.
Ray Boyle and I shared affection for each other that had evolved from frigid to ice cold to lukewarm.
Our earliest encounters could accurately be described as the interaction between a man trying to do his job and the oaf always getting in his way. I played the oaf to perfection. Boyle was a Los Angeles homicide detective who I first locked horns with when working with Jimmy Pigeon. Most recently, Ray had helped to put away a very nasty Chicago lawyer who had made my life a living nightmare. I was indebted to Lieutenant Boyle, and had even learned to like the guy, but news of his call had left me more apprehensive than curious.
Boyle wasn’t in the habit of calling just to chew the fat.
“I need your help, Jake,” Lieutenant Boyle said, after the very brief formalities.
I have never been big on conspiracy theory. The questions of who killed Kennedy and where Jimmy Hoffa disappeared to were moot to me. These were questions without definitive answers.
But being asked for assistance by police detectives in both San Francisco and Los Angeles in the span of two short days was a coincidence that had me worrying I may have somehow angered the gods.
“I would be happy to help if I can, Ray,” I said, though the word happy was a blatant exaggeration.
“Does the name Bobo Bigelow ring a bell?” he asked.
As well as Quasimodo does.
“Unfortunately.”
“Bigelow is holed up somewhere in the Bay area and I need you to find him.”
Bobo was a small time con artist who would stab you in the back if he had to circumnavigate the globe in order to approach you from behind. Bigelow was someone you worked diligently at losing…not finding.
“What’s it about?”
“Bigelow was witness to an incident down here I’m trying to sort out,” Ray said, giving new meaning to the term sketchy information.
“Can you tell me more?”
“I could, but I won’t. For now, I just need you to locate him and sit on him until I can ask the man a few questions he has been trying very hard to dodge.”
Okay.
“Why not reach out to the troops up here?” I inquired, quickly regretting I had.
“If I wanted to involve the SFPD, Diamond, I wouldn’t have called you.”
Fair enough.
“Any hints as to where I might begin the search?”
“The Kit Kat Club in Oakland. Off Lakeshore, north of the MacArthur Freeway. Ask for Gloria. Try to charm her.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“And, Jake, unless you have other pressing engagements today, please get on this right away.”
I decided not to mention I could hardly have had a greater number of
pressing engagements if I were campaigning for the Presidency.
“I’m on it, Ray,” I said.
“Thank you, give my best to Darlene.”
Over and Out.
My appointment calendar was filling in nicely. I might even be able to squeeze in a little time for Sergeant Johnson if he decided to call on me. The only thing missing was some gainful employment, but then I wouldn’t have been able to fit it into my schedule anyway.
I threw on my jacket, armed with the Hugo paperback, and walked up front into the reception area.
“Would you care to join me for dinner at Joe and Angela’s this evening, Darlene?” I asked, not missing a step.
“Sure,” she said.
How about that.
“I can pick you up around five-thirty.”
“Sure. Where are you headed?”
“Across the Bay.”
“But your mother is still in Atlanta,” Darlene said, trying to bait me.
“It’s something else,” I said, not biting. “If Sergeant Johnson calls, tell him I’ll get back to him as soon as I can.”
“Roger that. See you later.”
“Five-thirty.”
“Got it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Later.”
Call me a master of repartee.
I left the office considering the unappealing prospect of successfully tracking down Bobo Bigelow.
TWENTY ONE
Darlene Roman answered the phone call.
“Diamond Investigations, please hold. I have someone on the other line.”
“This is Sergeant Johnson.”
“Oh. Sorry, Sergeant. Go ahead. I use that greeting to fool prospective clients into thinking business is booming.”
“Can I speak to Diamond?”
“You missed him by ten minutes. Jake mentioned you might be calling. If you could tell me what it’s about, maybe I can help.”
“No offense, Ms. Roman, but I can’t and you couldn’t.”
“No offense taken, Sergeant, would you like me to let Jake know you called?”
“I would like that very much.”
“In that case I certainly will, Sergeant. Have a nice day.”
“Thank you, Ms. Roman. I will certainly try.”
Johnson placed the receiver down and the phone rang almost immediately. It was his wife Amy calling from Philadelphia.
“Is everything alright, Rocky?”
“Not exactly.”
“Tell me what is troubling you.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you. Now, tell me what is troubling you.”
And he did.
Travis Duncan had put the word out on the street that he was looking for Manny Sandoval, and he didn’t want Manny to know he was being looked for. Duncan stipulated he wanted to find Sandoval in a setting unencumbered by bystanders. He offered a handsome reward for useful information.
In no time he received a lot of useless information, but he did manage to get what he needed.
Sandoval ran a popular Mexican restaurant in the Mission. The eatery stopped serving at ten on Friday evenings. All of the diners, wait and kitchen staff, and the cleaning crew were gone by eleven or so. Manny religiously remained at the bar, washing down homemade salsa and tortilla chips with several bottles of Negra Modelo. Only his two bodyguards stayed on board with him.
Travis had scouted the restaurant, imaginatively called Manny’s, during lunch hour. The bar was on the left side as you walked in. It ran nearly sixty feet and was lined with stools. Along the right wall were four small tables with two chairs at each. Further back was the dining room, and beyond the dining room were the restrooms and a locked door leading out to the alley behind the restaurant. After taking note of the layout of the establishment, Duncan had phoned Diamond to schedule a rendezvous at Jake’s office at eleven.
Duncan would have Diamond call Manny at the restaurant and ask if it would be alright to drop over with some cash. He had learned Vinnie Strings was into Sandoval for four thousand dollars. Manny would gladly invite Jake to stop in. Travis had the cash handy, and he could be reimbursed at Jake’s convenience.
Duncan thought catching a movie would be a perfect way to kill a little time. He chose one entitled Taking Lives, which had opened that afternoon. He thoroughly enjoyed serial killer films and was a serious Angelina Jolie fan.
Travis Duncan couldn’t help feeling that, so far, he was having a good day.
Laura Lopez was feeling a lot better, at least physically. She had taken a short walk through North Beach and settled onto a bench in Washington Square Park with a dry toasted bagel and a cup of green tea.
Back at her desk at Vallejo Street Station, she glanced at the wall clock as she played with the Zippo lighter, turning it in her hand like Captain Queeg fiddling with his ball bearings on the Caine. The lieutenant stopped herself, and dropped the lighter into a desk drawer.
A stack of files had arrived from the D. A.’s office, in time for the noon meeting, which had ultimately been postponed until three. Files relating to cases Roberto Sandoval had been working on at the time of his death and jackets on all of the recently released convicts who he had helped put away.
Along with a copy of Sandoval’s appointment planner.
It was ten minutes after two in the afternoon. In less than an hour, Lopez would have to contend with Liam Duffey’s investigator, and then at seven she would need to deal with Roberto Sandoval’s widow.
Thinking about it would only bring back the headache, so Lopez returned to the files.
Oakland police officer Bruce Perry stood beside a nurse looking down at the seemingly lifeless body of Blake Sanchez.
“Who is the other boy?” Perry asked.
“The younger brother, he’s been sitting by the bedside for hours.”
“What are the older boy’s chances?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
Lieutenant Folgueras had sent Perry to the hospital with the hope Sanchez might speak.
“We’re hoping he can tell us where he came by the weapon he carried into the liquor store,” Perry said.
“He hasn’t said a word,” the nurse repeated.
“You’ll call us if he does.”
“I will.”
Perry followed the nurse out of the hospital room.
Raul Sanchez looked at his brother, attached to tubes and wires, missing the animated facial expressions that made Blake so special to the younger boy. Raul had listened to the nurse and the police officer talking. His brother might be unable to say where he had found the gun but, if someone made the information profitable enough, Raul could.
Weido drove to his appointment across the Bay Bridge.
Marco had been told that delaying the meeting again would be totally unacceptable. He had been admonished as if he was a child and talked down to like an idiot. It made him angry and, for the moment, took his mind off concerns about the missing gun and lighter.
As much as Marco prized the generous monetary rewards for his services, there was a thin line between being valuable to an employer and being made to feel like a lackey.
On top of that, he had been asked to pick up a woman at the San Francisco airport and drive her into the city.
Now he was a fucking chauffeur.
Don Folgueras had some new leads and some new dead ends.
Office Perry updated Lieutenant Folgueras on the medical condition of Blake Sanchez. The prognosis had improved from heavy odds against surviving to an even chance, but the would-be liquor store bandit remained unable to speak.
The Oakland Police Forensics Department was not yet ready to release the handgun Blake Sanchez had used in the attempted robbery.
However, Folgueras had new information that could possibly be helpful to Sergeant Johnson in San Francisco.
He called Johnson, thankful he had a little more to offer than just disappointing news.
The logoed Zippo lighters issued to members
of the Oakland police department had been produced in seven separate pressings between 1995 and 2001. Each of the lighters had been stamped with a particular serial number. The last two digits of the number indicated the year it was issued—a fact that would narrow down the search for the initial owner. The entire serial number could positively identify the original recipient, but only if it had be voluntarily registered within thirty days of the issue date. Some who received a lighter had registered their Zippo while others had not.
Johnson thanked Folgueras once again for his diligence.
Bruce Perry was big-hearted, which at times inspired him to have a big mouth. Whenever Perry ran into Ralph Morrison, Perry could not help but feel pity for The Grinch. He saw Ralph as a lonesome, unfulfilled man, the butt of cruel jokes from Perry’s fellow police officers. When he returned to the police station from the hospital, Perry saw Ralph standing at his usual position out front, eagerly looking for interaction with members of the club he had never been invited to join.
Perry perceived Morrison as innocent and harmless. When Ralph greeted Perry warmly and asked what Perry had been doing lately to help make Oakland safer for its citizens, Perry was willing to talk, willing to satisfy Morrison’s sad yearning to feel involved. He told Ralph about the attempted liquor store robbery, the weapon that might be related to a homicide in San Francisco, and the boy in the hospital who could possibly tell the police where he got the gun. Perry excused himself, saying he had pressing business inside. He entered the station feeling as if he had done a good deed. Shining a little light into one of Ralph Morrison’s many dark days.
Morrison watched Perry walk away. The talk of a homicide in San Francisco, one the Oakland police department was helping to investigate, brought his earlier encounter with Marco Weido to mind. He had no way of knowing if Weido would be interested, but the opportunity to make points with a decorated police detective was worth exploring. And Weido had asked The Grinch to keep his ears open.
Ralph Morrison decided it wouldn’t hurt to share what he had learned.
