by Bill Bernico
“It’s a little strange,” Dean said, smirking.
“Strange is good,” I said. “I like strange.”
“Well,” Dean started, “You know Frank’s too smart for traditional surveillance methods so we’ll have to stay one jump ahead of him.” He paused for effect.
“Come on,” I said impatiently, “Give.”
Dean laid out his plan for me in great detail, describing his procedures and ideas, leaving out a few key details.
I listened intently and jotted a few notes on my pad before returning it to my lapel pocket. “What about the legalities?” I said.
“That’s why you’ll have to do this with me,” Dean said. “It just wouldn’t do for one of L.A. finest to get caught breaking the law, now would it? That’s why you’re coming along to stand watch for me.”
“But it’s okay for me to break the law?” I said. “What happens if I get caught?”
“Don’t worry,” Dean said. “I’ve got your back. This’ll work. Besides, we’ve got nothing to lose. We’ve tried everything else.”
“You mean you’ve got nothing to lose,” I said. “You just make sure to tell your men not to put the pinch on me if it comes to that.”
“I said I’d be there with you,” Dean reminded me.
The next afternoon at precisely four-fifteen, Frank Ross and his dog appeared in the park. He sat at the same bench with his dog’s leash tied to the leg of the bench. I watched with the binoculars for a few minutes while Dean twisted the dial on a small portable radio on his lap. Next to the radio Dean had a tape recorder rolling. Soon we could hear a voice coming through the speaker.
“Ya know, Steve,” the voice said, “I’m gonna have to get out of this business one of these days soon.”
The dog sat at Frank’s feet. I could see its tail wag as Frank talked. He petted the dog’s head and continued.
“Last night’s hit wasn’t as easy as the rest,” Frank said to his dog. “Old Lester put up a pretty good struggle and I’m not getting any younger, either.” He continued stroking the dog’s head. “If it wasn’t for the money and the short hours and the chance to be my own boss, hell, I’d get out of the killing business and raise horses on a farm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The dog stood up and wiggled his whole body as if you say, “Yeah, yeah, take me along.”
Frank raised a flat hand overhead and the dog resumed his sitting position. We listened to Frank’s voice coming through the speaker again.
“Steve,” he said, “You’ve been a real help to me all these years. I can’t talk to anyone else about my work. Not even a shrink or a minister. They’d never understand. You’re a good listener and you never talk back. Best of all you’ll never tell anyone what we talk about. Boy, if you could talk…I wonder. Would you tell anyone what you know—where the bodies are buried? Of course you wouldn’t.”
Frank rested his elbows on his knees and sighed. “Well, boy, tonight’s my last hit. After this one we can leave this city and settle on that farm I showed you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The dog’s tail slapped the grass.
“Just one last hit, boy, and we’re home free,” Frank told his dog. “Too bad it has to be the old man. He’s given me lots of work over the years, but if we’re going to make a break, I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for a guy like Aldo Renatti to be coming after me. You understand, don’t you, Steve?”
The dog stood and edged closer to Frank.
“I knew you would,” Frank said, petting the dog’s head.
Frank leaned back, slipped a tape out of his pocket and inserted it into the player. Through our speaker came the distinct sounds of Mozart, although Mozart had never intended his music to be listed to through a two-inch speaker.
Frank petted the animal’s head again and sat back, letting out an audible sigh that even the little microphone under the dog’s collar picked up.
I turned to Dean. “That was a stroke of genius,” I said. “We’ve tried bugs in his car and apartment but he’s always found them. This is perfect. What made you think of it?”
Dean beamed with pride. “Bob,” he said.
“Bob?” I said.
“My dog,” Dean said. “I tell Bob everything when I get home. Since Helen die, Bob’s been my best friend.” He looked over at me and smiled suddenly. “That is, next to you.”
I nodded acknowledgment. “But Steve?” I said. “Whatever happened to Rover, Duke, and Shep?”
“Get with the times, man,” Dean said. “Dogs are more like a part of the family these days and it’s the latest thing to give your dog a human’s name. Bob was my grandfather’s name although no one ever took him for a walk on a leash.”
“Great,” I said. “That ought to make for a lot of confusion when mothers in the park start yelling for their rug rats and a pack of dogs show up. But what made you think Frank would open up to Steve?”
“I figured that since I tell Bob everything, why wouldn’t Frank do the same with Steve?” Dean said, smiling at the thought of his own dog.
I talked as I watched Frank through the field glasses. “And how’d you get the bug under the dog’s collar without Frank finding out?”
“Easy,” Dean said. “Last night while he was out bumping off some other schmuck, or whatever it was he was doing, I slipped into his apartment. I’d been there so many times before with our other attempts to bug him that I knew the way. Hell, the dog even knows me by now and he sat there like a good puppy while I planted the bug. I was in and out in five minutes. And by the way, thanks for standing guard for me.”
“That’s where you were while I was standing out on the street corner?” I said.
“I didn’t want to tell you that that was Frank’s building,” Dean said. “That way, if you would have been picked up, you couldn’t tell the authorities what you didn’t know. See?”
After fifteen minutes of cleansing his soul with the dog and the canned music, Frank rose and led the dog from the park back to his apartment again. Dean and I headed back to Dean’s house with the tapes. He led me to his spare bedroom, which had been set up like some sort of high-tech laboratory. He threaded the tape into the large machine and turned it on. I watch as he worked his magic. The tape started and Frank’s voice boomed.
“Ya know, Steve,” the voice said, “I’m gonna have to get out of this business one of these days soon.”
Dean rewound the tape and cued it up before grabbing a microphone from his desk. An hour and a half later we left his guestroom with tapes in hand. I slapped Dean on the back and laughed. “This ought to do it,” I said. “If not, well, hell, it was still a lot of fun.”
“Shall we find out?” Dean said.
I extended my arm and bent at the waste. “After you, sir.” I said. Dean and I left his house and returned to the car. One of the newly edited tapes was wrapped in plain brown wrapping paper and addressed, stamped and dropped into the corner mailbox. The other was unwrapped but had only a white label that said, “Frank Ross” on it. That one stayed in Dean’s pocket.
Three days later at exactly three fifty-five I was parked in the same spot where we first started observing Frank Ross’s routine. Through the glasses I could see Dean approaching the bench. He laid the tape on the bench and casually strolled away. He was back in the car within five minutes.
“Has our boy showed up yet?” he asked.
I rolled the focus dial on the binoculars again and panned left and right, finally stopping on the bench. “There he is” I said. “Just like clockwork.”
Dean pressed the start button on our recorder and picked up his own pair of glasses. “He’s sitting down,” Dean said. “He’s got the dog tied to the bench. He’s setting the boom box…”
“I can see what he’s doing,” I said. “I don’t need a play-by-play account.”
Dean lowered his glasses and gave me a stare.
“Sorry,” I said. “Take a look at that.” We both aimed our glasses at the bench. Frank
set his boom box down on the bench and noticed the tape with the plain white label with Franks’ name on it that Dean had left there. Frank cautiously picked up the tape and immediately looked both ways down the paths that led to the bench. He turned around on the bench and looked behind him and then back at the tape.
I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.
Frank looked around once more to be sure he was alone before slipping the tape into his player. In a few seconds we could hear what Frank was hearing. The voices sounded as though they were coming through a telephone.
“Frank, it’s Steve,” the first voice said. It was Dean, pretending to be someone named Steve. “I just called to see how things went last night.”
“Last night’s hit wasn’t as easy as the rest,” Frank’s voice answered. Old Lester put up a pretty good struggle and I’m not getting any younger, either. If it wasn’t for the money and the short hours and the chance to be my own boss, hell, I’d get out of the killing business and raise horses on a farm.”
“Listen, Frank, I have another job for you,” Dean’s voice said. “A special job, you might say. This one’ll put you in the big leagues.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Frank’s voice said.
“Frank, you owe me on this one, after all I’ve done for you,” Dean’s voice said.
“Steve,” Frank’s taped voice said, “You’ve been a real help to me all these years. I can’t talk to anyone else about my work. Not even a shrink or a minister. They’d never understand. You’re a good listener and you never talk back. Best of all you’ll never tell anyone what we talk about.”
“You know I wouldn’t, Frank,” Dean’s voice said.
“I wonder,” Frank’s voice said. “Would you tell anyone what you know—where the bodies are buried? Of course you wouldn’t. Well, tonight’s my last hit. Too bad it has to be the old man. He’s given me lots of work over the years, but if we’re going to make a break, I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for a guy like Aldo Renatti to be coming after me. You understand, don’t you, Steve?”
Dean and I snickered at the imaginary conversation Frank was having with Steve, whoever Steve was supposed to be. I could almost see the expression in Frank’s eyes as he realized when and where his half of the phony conversation had taken place. He quickly stood up and grabbed the boom box. He lifted it overhead and brought it crashing down on the blacktop path that led to the bench. Frank grabbed his dog by the collar and ran his fingers around the inside rim until he found the bug.
Frank held the bug up to his lips and whispered, “Whoever you are, you bastard, you’re dead. You and your whole damn family.” He threw the bug down hard on the path, causing the speaker on our recorder to crackle and go dead.
Frank reached down into the smashed rubble that had once been a boom box and pulled the tape out of the player and slipped it into his coat pocket. He grabbed Steve’s leash and hurried away from the park bench, forgetting all about his tape player. Dean and I watched as Frank headed north along the path. Several yards away a figure stepped out of the brush and into Frank’s path. I could see the stranger extending his hand. Frank reached into his coat pocket and produced the tape and handed to the stranger. The stranger held up a tape of his own and held it side by side in a comparison gesture.
“Here it comes,” Dean said.
He was right. The stranger slipped the two tapes into his own pocket and when he pulled his hand back out, it was holding a small revolver. I heard two weak reports and saw a wisp of smoke. Frank dropped to his knees and the stranger stuck his gun in the back of Frank’s neck. Another small pop and Frank lay flat on his face, a pool of blood forming beneath him. Steve reacted with a start and with his leash dragging behind him, began running full speed away from the noise and commotion.
The stranger threw the revolver on top of Frank’s body and calmly walked away, peeling off a thin pair of gloves. A professional hit if ever I saw one. I focused my glasses on the far side of the park. Three black and whites and a detective’s car merged at the north gate to the park. Another pair of uniformed officers converged from the south and covered the assailant from the rear.
I reached for the car radio to report the situation to the precinct desk when several, louder reports came from the area of the assailant. I lifted my glasses and looked. Aldo Renatti wasn’t about to be taken alive. At least four of the officers’ bullets hit the man. The back of his head exploded in a spray of gray and red as his body fell there in the park, not ten yards from where Frank lay.
I looked at Dean. Neither of us could seem to muster up any sympathy for the stone killers who lay in the park. “Better get back to the precinct,” I said. “I have a feeling this stakeout job is finished. If you would be so kind as to drop me at my office, I’d appreciate it.”
Dean smiled. “Boy, the things I have to tell Bob when I get home,” he said, smiling.
56 - Trapped Like A Rat
I grabbed the remote from the table next to my recliner and flipped through the stations looking for something suitable for a relaxing Sunday evening at home. The channel guide informed me that a special presentation of Ragtime was coming up at seven. Cagney was one of my favorite actors and I didn’t want to miss this, his last movie. It was quarter to seven and I began to set up my snack table in anticipation of a two and a half hour classic movie. I had my twenty-ounce tumbler of ice, three cans of soda, my family-size bag of chips and my can of chip dip. If I played my cards right, I wouldn’t have to leave this chair again until nine thirty.
I pulled the chip bag open as I settled back into the comfortable folds of the leather recliner. I pried the lid off of my chip dip can and looked inside. It was almost empty. I hurried upstairs and pulled the refrigerator door open. I was out. Damn. If I could make it to the corner and back before seven, I’d be all right.
I pulled my jacket off the coat hook and headed for the garage door. The mini mart down the street was not open past six on Sunday and getting to the next closest place that sold chip dip meant a two-mile drive on the road that led to the county highway. It only took four or five minutes to get there, maybe another two or three minutes to get what I needed, check it out and another four or five minutes back home again. If all went smoothly, I could make it back for the opening credits of the movie. This ought to teach me to keep an extra can of dip in the Cooper household.
There were three other cars in the mini mart parking lot besides mine. I recognized the blue Chevy pickup as Betty Carter’s. It served as the delivery truck for Carter’s mini mart when the occasion called for it. The brown Oldsmobile Cutlass belonged to Carl Kline. Carl ran a hobby farm just on the outskirts of town. His family had been farming the area since the 1860s. I didn’t recognize the third car. It was a 1968 Impala with some sort of chrome scoop sticking out of the hood. I only knew it was a ‘68 because of the three round taillights imbedded in the bumper.
Once inside I quickly found the chip and dip aisle. I glanced at the wall clock above the register. I could still make it with a minute to spare. I laid the can of dip on the counter and reached for my wallet. Now if I could just get a clerk to check me out I’d be all set but there was no one around.
“Hello,” I said, drawing out the word. No one answered. “Is there anyone here?”
The office door opened and Betty stepped out and cautiously made her way to the counter. She automatically scanned the can of dip and announced, “That’s a dollar fifty-six, sir.”
I pulled two dollars out of my wallet, held it out but drew it back as she reached for it. “Sir?” I said. “It’s me, your old pal, Clay. Since when am I ‘sir’ around here?”
Betty’s eyes met mine and the twinkle that was usually there had been replaced with something else—something I didn’t recognize. Her eyes quickly shifted to the right and then back at me. She repeated this strange action several times. Then she tore the cash register receipt off and laid it down on the counter and wrote something on it an
d then laid it in front of me. She picked up a pen and handed it to me.
“If you will just sign here,” she said.
“Sign here?” I said. “Betty, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
She thrust the pen at me again. “Sign here, please,” she said, more adamantly this time.
I reluctantly took the pen from her and poised my hand above the receipt, ready to sign if for no other reason than to get on with this whole transaction and get back home for my movie. I looked at the receipt. She’d hastily scribbled, HELP on it. I looked back up at her as her eyes went into that shifting routine again.
I looked to my left, where here eyes seemed to be directing me. I was looking into the barrel of an automatic pistol.
“I think what the lady is trying to tell you is that there’s someone here holding up the place.” He turned to Betty. “Isn’t that what you were trying to say?”
Before Betty could deny anything he swung the automatic up in a short arc and caught her across the face, knocking her to the floor. He quickly pointed the gun in my face again before I had a chance to react. I wasn’t wearing my .38 tonight. I didn’t think I needed it to buy chip dip.
“Pick her up, pops,” he said, pointing toward the woman on the floor. “Bring her back here.”
I helped Betty to her feet and helped her back into her office. The gunman closed the door behind us. Lying on the floor next to Betty’s desk was Carl Kline, bound at the hands and feet and gagged with a towel. Betty began to sob.
The gunman looked me in the eye and said, “Sit down and shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
I sat on the chair at Betty’s desk, keeping an eye on my captor.
He turned his attention to Betty again. “Now open it.” He pointed to the wall safe that was exposed now.
Betty hadn’t reacted fast enough to suit the man and he grabbed her by one arm, pulling her toward the safe. He repeated his orders. “Open it.”
Betty’s hand shook as she turned the dial this way and that. The handle wouldn’t budge. She looked at the gunman and winced. He pushed her out of the way. “I’ll do it,” he said gruffly. “You just feed me the numbers.”
