by J. L. Abramo
Ten minutes later, Jimmy stood at his kitchen counter. He poured bourbon over the ice cubes in a large tumbler and carried the glass to his bedroom, gulping half its contents on the way. Jimmy placed the glass on top of a dresser and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled a 9x19mm Smith and Wesson 669 from under a stack of folded dress shirts and placed it beside the bourbon. Jimmy grabbed the shoulder holster off a hook on the closet door, slipped the weapon into the rig, retrieved the glass and moved back to the kitchen. He set the holstered handgun on the kitchen table and drained his drink. He found two magazines in a cabinet above the sink, each one holding fourteen rounds of ammunition, and he placed both on the table beside the weapon. He refreshed his drink and carried it, with the bottle, into the living room.
Jimmy settled into his armchair, placed the bourbon on the side table and lit a cigarette. A well-worn paperback copy of Les Misérables sat on the table beside the ashtray. He lifted the book and opened it to the place where he had left off reading, the spot marked by a business card which read Archer and Pigeon, Private Investigation.
Jimmy lost the impulse to escape into literature.
He chose instead to lose himself in Beethoven’s Ninth and the fifth of Jim Beam.
PETER QUINCE
Pigeon had a very rough time dragging himself out of bed the next morning. Thursday. He eventually found his way to the bathroom, plugged the drain in the tub and ran the hot water.
Jimmy walked to the kitchen, started a pot of coffee brewing, grabbed a full quart bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator, carried it back to the bath, chewed two aspirin, washed them down with juice and placed the bottle on the floor within reach of the bathtub.
Pigeon eased himself into the steaming bathwater. He could feel the alcohol seeping from his pores. He soaked for thirty minutes and emptied the juice bottle.
Back in the kitchen he fried a few eggs, slapped them between two pieces of wheat toast, poured coffee and took his breakfast at the kitchen table. The Smith and Wesson, the shoulder holster and the two ammo magazines sat where he had placed them the night before.
Today, Jimmy would be carrying.
Over his second cup of coffee, Pigeon scribbled a list of the things he needed to achieve. The itinerary was daunting. His initial challenges would be managing to look presentable and making his way to the office.
A shave, two more aspirin, a cold shower just for good measure and Jimmy was ready to tackle getting dressed. He slipped on a pair of dark slacks, a dress shirt and a blue necktie. Deciding to make a few phone calls before leaving the apartment, he draped his suit jacket across the back of the living room sofa and returned to the kitchen.
The telephone in Vinnie’s hospital room was picked up by Vinnie’s mother. Frances told Jimmy her son was asleep. No surprise. Strings had been complaining about the pain. Complaining loudly. His doctor had recommended medication to keep the patient silent. Pigeon reminded Fran she should call him if they needed anything.
Jimmy phoned the Santa Monica Police Department to see about obtaining a death certificate and was curtly informed he would need to come down to fill out a form.
Finally, Pigeon rang the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department to inquire if ballistics tests had come up with a match on the bullets that had killed Archer and Richards. He was told he would have to speak with Detective Raft for the results. Raft was unavailable, Jimmy left a message.
Pigeon marveled at his lack of progress.
Jimmy strapped on the shoulder holster, scooped up the ammunition and dropped it into his pocket, slipped into his suit jacket and headed for the office.
Armed and irritable.
There was no hiding the fact that someone had broken in. The office door was wide open. The Oriental rug had been carefully rolled up and moved aside, the faded blood stains revealed. Both desks had also been moved and all the drawers of Lenny Archer’s desk pulled out. The metal grill that concealed the hidden audio recorder sat on the floor against the wall, the recorder beside it. The tape recording of Lenny’s final minutes gone. All Jimmy could think to do was rearrange the furniture.
His desk back in place, Jimmy reluctantly checked the phone answering machine for messages.
If the machine’s built-in date and time stamp could be trusted, the first message was recorded the previous afternoon just after Pigeon left the office following the visit from Detective Barnum. A call to remind Lenny he was scheduled for a dental check-up on Friday morning. It was followed by a call from a woman, phoning Lenny to check if dinner was still on for Friday night. These were the sort of calls Jimmy had expected and dreaded having to deal with. Appointments Archer would never meet; notifications and cancellations Jimmy would have to see to.
Next, around the time Jimmy had been talking with Raft at Lenny’s apartment, a message from Ray Boyle with news of Vinnie’s accident. It was followed by a call from Vinnie’s mother, reporting the same.
Around the time Jimmy was driving back from LA, a call from Meg to ask if he was planning to come over to the café for dinner. When he’d been at Meg’s, there had been a call from the Los Angeles Public Library. A book checked out of the Santa Monica Public Library by James Pigeon, and picked up off the street near Parker Center, was returned to LAPL. The library was calling to notify Pigeon the book was being sent overnight to SMPL. Next, there was a phone call from a man wanting to employ a private investigator to find out if his wife was having an affair.
While Pigeon had been at the newspaper office, there had been two hang-ups. Calls made; no messages left.
The final message, recorded just before he had arrived that morning, was Meg again. She was leaving for Richards’ funeral and would report back later.
The entire ordeal only served to remind Jimmy that he disliked telephone answering machines nearly as much as he disliked telephones. He had learned next to nothing. The rescued library book, a suspicious husband and a couple of disconnected calls, most likely from last night’s intruder, was how it added up.
That, and the phone calls Jimmy would have to make.
Return calls to let it be known that Lenny had no more need for dental x-rays, no more time for wining and dining.
Jimmy Pigeon, bearer of bad tidings, a leather holster pressing uncomfortably against his rib cage.
He made the calls, erased the telephone messages, and headed out of the office to fill out a form.
Peter Quince sat at his worktable in the far corner of the high school Computer Sciences Lab, installing a compact disc drive into a desktop CPU.
“Mr. Quince.”
The teacher looked up from his project to find Kevin Tully holding a laptop.
“Shouldn’t you be in class, Kevin?”
“It’s my free period. I was hoping you could help me.”
“What can I do for you?”
“It’s this computer,” Kevin said
“What seems to be the problem?”
“I’ve been trying to install game programs and I get an error message saying there’s not enough memory.”
“There should be. Let me have a look.”
Quince booted the laptop and checked the hard drive for available space.
“Is this your notebook?” he asked.
“My dad gave it to me.”
“Do you know where he got it? It’s not new.”
“At one of the police auctions, I think.”
“Well, there are a lot of programs and files here that were left by whoever used it before. I could delete nearly all of it and leave you with an operating system and a word processing program. That would afford you more than enough space for loading games,” suggested Quince.
“Could you?”
“The question is, would we be losing information that someone still needs? It would be best to find out exactly where the computer came from just to be certain.”
“I guess we could wait until I ask my father,” Kevin said, clearly disappointed.
“Tell you what I can
do. I can copy the files onto a disc before I delete them from the hard drive. That way we’ll have them saved in case they are important. I’ll have some time this afternoon. You can pick up the notebook before you leave school today.”
“Great. Thanks, Mr. Quince.”
“No problem, Kevin, I’ll see you around three.”
The boy left happy. Quince went back to his work.
Jimmy stood in a line to pick up a Request for Death Certificate form, filled in the blanks, waited in another line to turn in the completed form, stood in a third line to pay the six dollar processing fee and sat to wait for his name to be called. He could have had a roll of film developed in less time.
The document finally in hand, Jimmy found his way to the Medical Examiner’s office to see about the release of Lenny’s body. At the office door he bumped into Solomon Meyers walking out.
“Jimmy.”
“Doc.”
“I saw you talking with the detectives Monday morning and I thought you would be coming back up to your office,” said Meyers. “I wanted to say I was sorry about what happened to Archer. It was terrible.”
“Yes, it was. Did Lenny’s body arrive here?”
“Late yesterday afternoon, along with the LASD Coroner’s report.”
“Official cause of death?”
“The shot to the head. Their findings suggest Lenny was still alive, but barely. He suffered considerable blood loss. The stomach wound alone would have been fatal if left untreated.”
“Is there any solid evidence connecting the deaths of Lenny Archer and Edward Richards?”
“We’re still waiting for the ballistics report. All we know at this point is that the executions were similar, both victims shot in the head while lying in the prone position, both shot with a .38 caliber weapon.”
“Why are the victims here and the bullets with the LA Sheriff’s Department?”
“The homicides are tangled up; we’re trying to sort it out. Since both were killed in Santa Monica, we took on the bodies. LASD has a better equipped ballistics lab.”
“Tangled homicides, a Southern California tradition. I need to find out when the Navy can pick up Lenny’s body. Lenny has a military funeral coming to him; they’re waiting for the body to be released.”
“It has been released. His brother was here, picked up a copy of the Coroner’s report and moved the body.”
“Lenny’s brother. Moved it where?”
“I really couldn’t tell you.”
Pigeon calmly slipped the hard-earned six-dollar death certificate into his suit jacket pocket. Terrific.
Jimmy thanked Solomon Meyers, left the building and decided to revisit the Santa Monica Public Library.
It was no secret that most visitors to Tony’s Barber Shop in Malibu were not looking for a haircut. More often than not, Anthony Gravano would be sitting alone in one of the two barber chairs studying the Daily Racing Form. The bell above the shop door jingled, interrupting his careful consideration of the Daily Double at Santa Anita.
“Tony.”
“Frank. Need a trim?”
“I need a laptop computer,” said Raft.
“I think you’re in luck.”
Tony locked the front door and hung a sign in the window. Back in 15 Minutes.
“Andiamo, let’s see what we’ve got,” Gravano said, leading Raft to the basement stairs.
The large room below the shop was filled wall to wall with boxed electronics. Televisions, VCRs, video cameras, stereo equipment, car radios, computer monitors. Gravano pulled a flat box down from a metal shelf unit and handed it to Raft.
“Brand new, top of the line. Retails for three grand.”
“And?” said Raft, setting the box down and reaching into his jacket pocket.
“Six hundred.”
Raft peeled off four one hundred dollar bills and he slapped them into Gravano’s open hand.
“That’ll work.”
“It’s always good doing business with you, Anthony,” Raft said as Tony removed the sign and unlocked the door.
“Likewise, Frank.”
Jimmy found the kid shelving books.
“Whitman.”
“Yes?” said Donaldson, looking up from the cart.
“Remember me?”
“I do.”
“I need another favor, or two.”
“Oh?”
“The book I checked out the other day. It was misplaced and I understand it was sent back here. I’d like to retrieve it.”
“I put it back on the shelf,” said Donaldson. “You’re lucky it was returned, it’s an expensive book.”
“Yeah, I’m a lucky guy.”
“Follow me.”
Whitman pulled the book off the shelf and handed it to Jimmy.
“You should be more careful,” he suggested.
“I will,” said Jimmy. “I could use something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you aware that the author of this book recently passed away?”
Donaldson glanced down at the book cover.
“Wow, yes, I read about it. That’s the guy who was killed, a robbery they said.”
“Yes, well I’m looking into it.”
“Assisting the police?”
“Exactly. And you can help.”
“Oh?”
“I was curious about any books Ed Richards may have checked out lately; let’s say the last few weeks.”
“You know I’m not allowed to do that. It would take a court order.”
“I was hoping you and I could get around that roadblock, Whitman,” said Jimmy. “For old time’s sake.”
“I could get into a lot of trouble.”
“How much trouble?” asked Jimmy, reaching for his wallet.
“Forty bucks worth?”
“How about fifty?” Pigeon said, pulling out a bill, “and you throw in a printout.”
Peter Quince began exploring Kevin Tully’s computer. From the start menu, he opened the control panel and went to Programs. He discovered a number of professional writing and graphics programs loaded onto the hard drive, software he felt Kevin could live without. Quince uninstalled them.
Next, Quince explored the saved files. He found word documents and photographs.
Quince connected the CD-writer to the parallel port on the laptop. He had purchased the external CD burner on the trip to Japan during his spring break, they were difficult to come by in the States and very expensive. He copied all of the files to a CD and deleted them from the hard drive.
In the process, a word document title caught his eye. Interview with Tom Hanks. Hanks had recently won the Best Actor Oscar for Philadelphia. Quince opened the document and went to Properties from the file menu. The file had been created in late March, soon after the Academy Awards’ ceremony. The author of the document was Edward Richards. Quince thought he had heard the name before, but couldn’t recall the occasion.
Quince finished deleting the files. He picked up a marking pen and wrote the names Tully and Richards on the face of the CD. He slipped the disc into a plastic jewel case and threw it into his desk drawer.
NATE ARCHER
Pigeon tried calling Raft from a phone booth outside the library. He was told the detective was expected at three. Jimmy walked over to Meg’s Café.
He took a seat at the counter and was greeted by Meg’s assistant manager, Pam Walker.
“Jimmy,” she said. “I’m really sorry about Lenny.”
Though he had heard it a number of times now, Pigeon still didn’t know how to respond to condolences. What do you say to sincere expressions of regret? Thank you?
“So am I, Pam,” he said. “Did Meg get in yet?”
“A few minutes ago, she’s getting changed. Coffee?”
“Okay.”
“Having lunch?” Pam asked as she poured.
“Sure.”
“The special?”
“Why not,” said Jimmy.
Pam went
to the kitchen. Jimmy set the book on the counter. He took the computer printout from his pocket and looked again at the titles Ed Richards had borrowed from the library a week before he died.
The Birth of Las Vegas and Hollywood Meets the Mob.
So what?
“Food is on the way. What have you got there?”
Jimmy looked up to find Meg tying her apron.
“Ed Richards’ reading list.”
“Catchy titles,” said Meg, glancing at the printout. “What does it tell you?”
“Absolutely nothing. Did you come across anything worth mentioning at the funeral?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly, but it will have to wait. I need to take care of the dinner prep work and I have a few errands to run in LA. I thought I’d drop by the hospital to see how Vinnie is doing. I should be back here by five and then I’ll be around until closing.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure,” said Meg, warming his coffee.
“Take this book to Vinnie; it’ll give him something to keep from going stir crazy. He already knows what I’d like him to do. Tell Strings it would be a great help, he loves hearing that.”
“Will do,” said Meg, taking the book. “I’ve got to get going. Stop back this evening.”
Meg hustled back to the kitchen as Pam came out with Jimmy’s lunch.
Pigeon reached for the knife and fork.
Salvatore Bando and Nathan Archer stood together at the long stainless steel table looking down at the body.
