Kill Me Tomorrow

by Richard S. Prather

  That’s what he said. And it sounded as if he were reciting a newly discovered poem, written in collaboration, by Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

  “Who’s he?” I asked Lucrezia.

  “Reverend Archie.”

  “Archie?”

  “Well, it’s really the Reverend Stanley Archibald, but most people call him Reverend Archie.” She paused. “Are you going to say something funny about him?”

  “Well … not now.”

  Reverend Archie, unlike the three or four others who’d spoken before him, had risen to his feet to deliver his remarks and was just sitting down again. He was a tall man, heavy but not quite fleshy enough to be called fat, with a wide almost cherubic face and a pink scalp partially hidden by strands of light brown hair. I guessed his age at between fifty and sixty, probably nearer the latter figure. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie with a very small tight knot.

  In less than five minutes a committee of three men had been selected to investigate the problem and report back next Friday, with special attention paid to those who’d complained to the Reverend, particularly to Mrs. Ginsburg and Mrs. Okiyame.

  Then Mr. Brizante stood for the first time and began to speak of the Commission on AGING and that the council members were “honored and gratified” that so eminent an individual as its chairman, Congressman Kerwin Stephens, was present.

  I’d forgotten all about the guy, despite Lucrezia’s remarks to me. But he was indeed present, for Brizante concluded his remarks by saying he hoped the afternoon’s meeting had indicated the need for federal assistance in combatting the many serious problems which had in the past two years begun to plague Sunrise Villas, and that Congressman Stephens had graciously consented to speak “a few words” to the assembled council members.

  Brizante moved his chair aside, and from one of the seats behind me a man arose and walked to the end of the oval table. Standing there, between Brizante and creepy Mr. DiGiorno, he began to speak. And, grudgingly, I had to give him a silent hand. He actually did keep it down to a few words.

  Congressman Kerwin Stephens was a rather odd-looking bird. I choose the noun with care. He looked like a bird. Not any particular kind of bird. Just a whole bunch of birds mashed together. He wasn’t a small, wispy man—I’d say he was five feet, ten or eleven inches tall and weighed about one-seventy—but his features, individually and collectively, were very, well, very birdy.

  His hair was gray and smooth and full, and combed straight back from forehead to nape of neck; his eyes were small, almost beady, black as ripe little berries; and his nose was so thin and arched and hooked, and looked so much like a beak, I expected it to open and clack when he began to speak. He did have a fine, rich voice, vibrant and full yet soft, mellow but husky, like the cooing of a dozen doves with flu. But, after all, he was a Congressman, and men in politics rarely sound like chalk screeching on a blackboard.

  Stephens came across quite well. After merely stating that he was not in Arizona seeking votes—he was from out of state—but that if his constituents ever failed to return him to “the Hill,” God forbid, he would himself like to live in a community such as Sunrise Villas. He even made a little joke to the effect that he meant a Sunrise Villas in which the plumbing worked without fail. He appreciated the problems, the great need, and concluded by saying, “And I am one of those who sincerely believe in the oft-quoted phrase, ‘Find a Hole … er, Find a Need—and Fill It.’ I have already visited similar communities in California and Oregon, gentlemen, and I can honestly say your need here is greater than anything I have previously encountered. Of course, I cannot promise that the entire Commission will share my views, but I can assure you that my personal recommendation will be that one of the first AGING grants be made to Sunrise Villas.”

  Everybody applauded. Well, almost everybody. Then Stephens spoke briefly to Brizante, smiled, nodded, and left.

  I discovered, almost to my dismay, that I had been quite impressed by the man. Brizante gaveled the meeting to an end, and Lucrezia and I stood up. Mr. Brizante nodded to his daughter and smiled, spoke for a moment longer to the Reverend Archie who was standing next to him, then both of them walked over to us.

  Lucrezia performed the introductions and I shook hands, first with her father. His grip was strong, the skin of his hand not calloused but rough, and he smiled at me, showing strong, crooked, clean and very white teeth. The Reverend Archie’s skin was soft and smooth, and his palm felt almost squishy, like warm dry fat. Maybe part of it was that he merely extended his hand and let me pump it, his fingers returning no pressure, just sort of going along for the ride. And when he smiled he showed no teeth. His lips stretched out and curved up at the corners, almost sweetly; but no teeth peeked through.

  We mumbled a few inanities, and I said this was the first council meeting I’d attended, but I’d found it a lot more interesting than having a tooth drilled.

  The Reverend assumed what I took to be a grieved expression, but Brizante laughed and said, “We do our best to discourage sightseers, Mr. Scott. You got only yourself to blame. Or did Lu make you come here?”

  I told him Miss Brizante had suggested it, but I’d come of my own free will. At that the Reverend managed another of those sweetish smiles and commented, “I daresay, to those not intimately involved with the issues under discussion, these meetings must often seem dry as—as sermons,” he finished, seeming pleased. “But the work is necessary.” His eyes—which I noted were light brown—took on a sort of glazed and distant look. “‘Man goeth forth unto his work and to his labour until the evening.’ Psalms: One-oh-four, Twenty-three. Indeed, the work must be done. ‘And thou shalt teach them ordinances and laws, and shalt shew them the way wherein they must walk, and the work that they must do.’ Exodus: Eighteen, Twenty.”

  Keerist, I thought, this guy must think I’m his congregation.

  “For,” the Reverend continued, all Revved up, “‘by works a man is justified’—James: Two, Twenty-four—and ‘Also unto thee, O Lord, belongeth mercy: for thou renderest to every man according to his work.’ Psalms: Sixty, Two-twelve.”

  Pretty quick the Reverend would start trying to save me, I feared. And I didn’t want to be saved. At least, not this minute. So, as he launched into “‘Be ye strong therefore, and let not your hands be weak,’” I smiled and said, “‘What I must do is all that concerns me, no matter if the kitchen sinks.’ Emerson, Self-Reliance, slightly edited.”

  Brizante laughed again. The Reverend didn’t. Brizante said, “You were lucky enough to hear about one of our most interesting problems here at Sunrise Villas, Mr. Scott. Maybe Reverend Archie should tell Mrs. Okiyame, ‘Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand is doing.’ Or doeth? Or is that in the Bible—”

  “Matthew: Six, Four,” said the Reverend, without enthusiasm. Then he looked upon me. “It’s Mr. Sheldon Scott?” I nodded. “Well, I would guess you aren’t a resident of the Villas. Are you visiting here, Mr. Scott?”

  “Just passing through,” I said. “Though I might stick around for a few days. Hard to say, Reverend.”

  “I do hope you can remain over the weekend. Perhaps you could attend services at my church Sunday morning. It’s open to all, the Universalist Communion Church on—”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “I usually sleep late on Sunday mornings.”

  That didn’t go over real big with him. After a couple more bland comments he excused himself and walked out.

  Lucrezia said, “You want to wait for us in the car, Shell?”

  “Sure.” I figured she wanted to give Brizante a hint about what I was doing here. I noticed that ancient Mr. DiGiorno was leaving the table, so I waited till he went by us and out the door. As he passed I saw that the little finger on his left hand was missing, and there was a fine white scar on the right side of his wrinkled neck. All in all, not exactly a man to inspire confidence in the innocent and pure.

  By the time I got outside, DiGiorno was standing on the s
idewalk talking to a short, very wide man, wearing tan whipcord trousers and short-sleeved shirt. On his head was a white Stetson, and the hair visible below the hat was trimmed so short in back it almost looked shaved. As I walked toward them DiGiorno turned and moved along the sidewalk, reasonably agile for a guy with both feet in the grave, and the broad-shouldered man went across the street, with long strides and an exaggerated swinging of his shoulders, to a tan-colored car with an official-looking seal painted on the door. In a half-circle over the seal I could just make out the words, “Sunrise Villas Security Guards.”

  The tan car pulled away as I got into my Cad and lit a cigarette, smoked half of it before Brizante and Lucrezia came out of the building and walked to the car. Following Lucrezia’s directions I drove down Palos Verde to a street called Willow Lane. Brizante, sitting in back, didn’t say anything until I turned left off Willow into Mimosa Lane, where he and his wife lived.

  Then he said, “So. You’re a detective, Mr. Scott. And my crazy daughter thinks you can help me, that’s it?”

  “I’m a detective, all right,” I said. “But I can’t help you if you don’t want help, Mr. Brizante. For all I know, maybe you don’t need any help.”

  “Well …” he said. And that was all.

  Mimosa Lane was appropriately named. All up and down the street feathery-leaved mimosa trees were planted, alive with delicate lavender-pink blooms. Three of them brightened the lawn before an attractive white house trimmed in green, where Lucrezia told me to park.

  At the door we were met by a short, plump woman with a kindly face and bright brown eyes. Lucrezia introduced the lady as her mother, and Mrs. Brizante rubbed her hands vigorously on an apron around her waist before shaking hands with me.

  “Excuse the flour, all over,” she said, smiling up at me. “I make ravioli. Come in, come in. Come in the kitchen while I finish.”

  She kissed her husband on the cheek, bending his moustache, then bustled off. Lucrezia smiled at me, took my hand and led me into the house, through the living room cluttered with heavy, dark wooden furniture, a couple of cloth-covered hassocks, some kind of sewing or knitting basket. Three bright paintings and half a dozen framed photographs were on the walls and the mantel above a gas-log fireplace.

  We went down a short hallway and into the bright, airy kitchen where Mrs. Brizante was pounding gobs of dough with great energy.

  After a minute or two, Brizante appeared in the doorway and wiggled a finger at me. I walked over to him and he said, “I think Lu did right. I’ll tell you, anyway, see what you think. Come with me into the den, Mr. Scott?”

  I nodded, followed him back down the hallway to a room at its end, and inside.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The den was clearly a man’s room, small, without frills. There was a green carpet, green couch on my left, a low rough-wood table before it. In one corner was a small bar and two stools, in the opposite corner a battered pine desk with a phone on it and a swivel chair behind it.

  Soon after we entered the den it was “Tony”—from Antonio—and “Shell.” Tony struck me as a solid, down-to-earth type of man, strong and maybe more than a little stubborn, level-headed enough. Hardly the kind of “Papa Brizante” I’d been picturing when talking with Lucrezia.

  So by the time he said, “OK, I’ll tell you what the trouble is, Shell,” I was paying attention. He went on, “A friend of mine, Gilberto Reyes, is missing. Been missing three days. I think Gil is dead. Maybe killed—murdered.” He stopped and stared at me from the stern eyes.

  “Just because a man’s missing for a few days doesn’t mean he’s dead, Tony. Have you checked the hospitals, police—”

  “Anna, that’s Gil’s wife, has. Checked all over, hospitals, morgue, police, even the amateur police we got here at the Villas—Security Guards they call themselves. And I’ve stayed in touch with Anna. Called her just a few minutes ago.”

  “If you think this Gil Reyes is dead, maybe murdered, you must have a pretty good reason.”

  “Well, seems to me I do. But … maybe it’ll look different to you. See, if anything has happened to Gil, I’d feel part responsible. Mama and I knew him when we lived in Tucson. I’m the one talked him into moving here to the Villas nine, ten months back.” He brought up his right hand and grabbed his moustache from behind, tugged on it gently a few times. His lip stretched out and back into place, out and in.

  Then he dropped his hand and said, “I guess it starts last Sunday. Gil was down in Tucson on business over that weekend, and Sunday morning he was walking to church—he’s very religious, wouldn’t miss the services if he could help it. When he was three, four blocks from the church he saw a man killed. Murdered right there on the street. Gil and maybe a dozen other people saw it.”

  My skin was feeling prickly again. Maybe there was something wrong with my glands today. More likely it was because I knew of a murder which had occurred in Tucson, Arizona, on the previous Sunday, and it had been the very violent murder of a very violent hoodlum called “Crazy Joe”—born Giuseppe—Civano. Joe Civano was known on the turf, or among his hoodlum associates, as a kind of wild man, unpredictable and dangerous, subject to violent rages—hence the monicker, or tag, “Crazy.” Crazy Joe had been an enforcer or hit-man, a soldier in the private army of one of the two dozen or more capos, or bosses of the Cosa Nostra, U.S.A. Commonly called the Mafia. Joe had been blown messily up—also down and sideways—when he’d switched on the ignition of his brand-new Lincoln Continental, thereby causing the explosion of what must have been an unnecessarily large number of sticks of dynamite.

  “Something the matter?” Tony asked me.

  “I hope not. But I was just wondering about the guy Reyes saw killed. Did he happen to mention the victim’s name?”

  Brizante nodded. “He told me it was a man named Joe Civano.”

  I sighed. “Dynamite job. Blew him to hell in his car.”

  “You know about it, huh?”

  “I read the newspaper stories. And I already knew a little about the guy who was killed.”

  “Impression I got from Gil, he was some kind of crook.”

  “You sure got the right impression. Go on.”

  “Well, the police questioned Gil and some others, took his name and all, and let him go. Funny thing was, Gil told me he used to know this Civano real well, they lived for a while in the same block in a town called Gardena in California. Gil hadn’t seen him since he left there sixteen years ago—knew he was a crook even then—but I didn’t know about that till the crazy thing happened Tuesday morning.”

  “Crazy?”

  “Seemed crazy as hell to me. About sunup I was driving Gil to his shop—his car was in the garage for a couple days. He’s got a carpet store, all kinds of floor coverings, and had a lot of work to do before he opened up that morning. I was slowing down for the stop sign where Roadrunner Drive crosses Claridge Street when all of a sudden, Gil said, ‘Jesus Christ. Mary, Mother of God!—only all in Spanish, you know, ‘Madre de Dios!’ he said.”

  Brizante smiled slightly. “He didn’t mean any disrespect, he only swore like that, in Spanish, when he was excited. Gil’s Mexican-American, not Catholic, but religious, very religious, didn’t mean anything the way he said that.”

  “Suits me. What brought on the attack?”

  “He was staring out the car window on his side. ‘Stop, stop the car,’ he said. I pulled over. Didn’t know what the hell had got into him, but it looked like he was staring at a guy, a big fellow, standing in front of a house. So I asked him what was the matter and he said, ‘That looks like Civano.’”

  I blinked. “He say anything else?”

  “No, that was all. But it didn’t make sense to me—he’d already told me about this Civano getting blown up in Tucson. Been talking quite a lot about it. Natural enough.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyhow, Gil just looked a little more, then got out of the car and walked over and spoke to them for a few minutes.”
r />   “Them?”

  “This big heavy fellow was talking to a woman in front of the house. Turns out it was her house, but I didn’t know that then. Well, Gil spoke to the two of them for a minute, then he and this big guy walked a few feet off and stood there talking for another couple minutes. When Gil came back to the car he looked funny—like he was puzzled—and he said something about he guessed maybe he’d made a mistake. It’d been sixteen years since he left Gardena, and people change, something like that.”

  “Did he actually tell you he thought the guy was Joe Civano? The man he’d seen killed in Tucson?”

  “He didn’t say any more to me about the killing in Tucson. But he’d already told me about that. And you’d think if he saw the man killed, he’d know he couldn’t be walking around here at Sunrise Villas, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah. My understanding is the guy was turned into hamburger. Blast threw the engine nearly a block away, sent half the car’s hood up on the roof of the house across the street. And, of course, scattered bits of the other hood, Joe Civano, untidily all over.”

  Brizante stroked his moustache. “Seems funny as hell to me, but I found out later Gil really did think the man was Joe Civano. He did, sure enough. Only thing that makes sense to me—because Gil was plenty smart, nothing wrong with his brain, or his eyes for that matter—is he must’ve figured it was somebody else got killed in Tucson.”

  I shook my head. “No matter how badly the body was chewed up, I can’t see the Tucson police making a mistake in identification like that. Not with a known mafioso. If they say it was Joe Civano, a hundred to one that’s who it was.”

  “Sure. I’m just saying what I figure Gil must have thought. Hell of it is, I know Gil would have talked more to me about it, but it was only a minute or so later I dropped him off at his store—and that was the last time I saw him.”