by J. L. Abramo
“How so?”
“They got an offer for their business,” Vinnie said, “a million bucks.”
“How come nobody told me about the business, Vinnie?”
“I thought you knew about the Internet gig, Jake. I just figured you weren’t talking about it because you were sore that Jimmy hadn’t cut you in.”
“And why did I have to hear about Jimmy’s death from Evelyn Harding?”
“Honest, Jake. I only heard about it two nights ago, myself. I’d been trying to reach Jimmy for days. Two homicide dicks barged into my place. They broke the news to me like it was somebody’s cat died. I thought I was going to pass out. On top of that they start asking questions like I was a suspect or something. I was a wreck. I am a wreck.”
“Calm down Vinnie,” I said.
It was beginning to dawn on Strings that Jimmy’s condition was final.
I thought it would be better to keep Vinnie talking. Then I realized that he needed no help in that department, he was running on as if the coin were about to drop.
“And when the cops left, they gave me a message from Ray Boyle. Don’t say anything to anyone, especially Jake Diamond, like it’s a warning. Boyle will break the news to Diamond himself, they tell me.”
Ray Boyle was a Homicide Detective down in LA.
Ray Boyle and I went back some.
I could understand why Ray may have preferred to hold off notifying me, at least until he had a suspect in custody. Boyle would want to keep me out of his hair.
But it wasn’t like Vinnie to consider Boyle’s preferences.
“Since when are you dancing to Boyle’s tune, Vinnie?”
“Boyle kept me out of some trouble the last time I was down that way, and he’s holding it over my head. Believe me Jake, I wanted to tell you right away. I’ve been going nuts trying to stay away from the telephone, and trying to convince myself that Boyle would call you or that it was just a bad dream.”
I bought it. It was the only item on the shelf.
“Who was offering the million?” I asked.
“Fatcat down in LA. Walter Richman.”
Disaster flicks came to mind.
“The movie producer?”
“Movies, TV, telecommunications. Big on acquisition,” Vinnie said.
“So, Jimmy checked out just when his ship came in.”
“Yeah, but the thing is Jimmy didn’t want to sell. Harding was game; to him I guess it was a quick score. Invest a hundred grand, take a five hundred per cent profit in six months and get out.”
“But Jimmy?”
“For Jimmy it was different. The thing was his baby, his brainchild, and he wasn’t ready to give it up. He liked watching it crawl. He had more invested in it than money.”
“So what now? Who’s minding the store?”
“It just sort of runs itself. There’s an office down on Wilshire, a manager, a bunch of college kids at computers, services billed on credit cards. With Harding missing in action, I suppose that his old lady is in charge.”
If Vinnie didn’t come up for air soon, he was going to need a decompression chamber.
“How about Jimmy’s end?”
“I don’t know. I mean, who did he have?” said Vinnie, “maybe he left a will or something.”
“When was the last time you saw Jimmy?”
“I was down there last week,” Vinnie said, “I saw Jimmy just four days before he was killed. Jimmy and Harry Harding were going at it over the buyout offer. I thought Jimmy was going to tear Harding’s lungs out.”
“If Jimmy had made some arrangements, who would know about it?”
“There’s a lawyer down there he traded services with. What was his name? You know the guy I think. Bald dude with a ponytail. Looks fucking ridiculous.”
“Spencer?” I asked, afraid of the answer.
“Yeah, that’s the guy. Dick Spencer. You know him?”
“Yeah, I know him.”
I neglected to mention that Dick Spencer did a little trading of services with my ex-wife as well.
“Maybe he knows something about Jimmy’s estate. It’s the only lead I can think of. You heading down there?”
“Guess I will.”
“Want company?”
“No thanks.”
“I’m sick about what happened to Jimmy. I’ll do anything to help.”
I wasn’t quite ready for Vinnie’s kind of help.
“Any idea where Harding might have skipped off to?” I asked, trying to sidestep the issue.
“None. His wife want to find him?”
“So she says. And before the cops do.”
“I’ll keep my ears open. But if the LAPD is gunning for him he most likely headed south. Way south.”
“Think Harding could go ahead and sell the business to Richman?”
“Good question. You might ask Spencer when you see him.”
“Okay. Check in with Darlene while I’m gone if you can,” I said, hoping to put the idea of following me down to LA further from Vinnie’s mind, “if something comes up that you think you can handle, cover for me.”
I was biting my tongue as I said it.
And I was going to catch hell from Darlene for passing Vinnie off on her.
“Sure thing, compadre.”
“If Jimmy did leave a will, what do you think the chances are he named you in it Strings?”
“About the same as the chances that he named you. Jake.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem.”
“How’d you do on the NBA Championship?”
“Massacred. Planning to drop in on your client while you’re down there, Jake?”
“I might. Why do you ask?”
“Just thought you’d want to know that Grace Shipley might be staying with her.”
“You’re right. I would want to know that. What’s their connection?”
“Old school chums I guess. When Pigeon was looking for start-up capital, Grace put him together with Harding. The Harding’s have a daughter who just got out of high school, Jimmy mentioned that Grace was in for the graduation and she was staying with the Hardings in Beverly Hills.”
“I didn’t realize that Jimmy and Grace kept in touch.”
Something else that Jimmy had never told me about.
Jimmy may have guessed that I’d be better off not knowing.
Maybe that was why Jimmy had neglected to mention his new business venture as well.
“You know Grace,” said Vinnie, “she always seemed to need a helping hand. And you know how much Jimmy liked to lend a helping hand.”
One of Jimmy’s helping hands had been reserved almost entirely for Vinnie Strings. I had to resist the strong temptation to feel sorry for the kid.
And wondering when the next big jolt over Jimmy’s death was going to hit me.
If I got all wrapped up in that now, we’d both be falling without parachutes.
“When are you heading down to LA?” Vinnie asked.
“As soon as possible. Probably tonight.”
“I know where you can get cheap plane tickets.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll take the Impala. I can use the drive to prepare myself.”
“For Grace?”
“For Dick Spencer. For talking my way out of two grand or so in back alimony. Who do you have in the next race?” I asked as I headed out.
“The way my luck is going, Worthless Nag.”
Four
My most cherished possession, aside from my hoe-sharp wit and my two-dollar smile, is unarguably the 1963 Chevrolet Impala convertible in Joey Russo’s garage.
Red exterior, black leather interior, straight six, three on the column.
I’d known Joey for almost five years; he was my second client after Sally French. I’m guessing that Jimmy sent him my way also, but Joey never said. Joey was looking for a guy who owed him money. A lot of money. I took Russo’s word that there would be no breaking of limbs and accepted the case. When I found the
guy, he was so terrified of Joey that he forked over what he owed Russo plus a C-note to help me forget where I’d found him. Joey seemed satisfied; I made the extra hundred and earned a safe haven for the Chevy in the bargain. Joey told me that he didn’t want financial compensation, while I insisted that I pay rent for the prime garage space. After a round of quibbling he accepted fifty a month, which was quite a bargain.
The garage was behind the Russo house on Sixth Avenue, between Clement and the park, up the street from the Green Apple Bookstore. When I wanted to use the Impala I drove over in my everyday vehicle, a 1978 Toyota Corona four-door sedan with 210,000 miles on the odometer and a hole in the floorboard, and left it parked on the street outside of Joey’s place. Parking spaces are literally impossible to find in the city. It’s said that the only way to get a parking space in San Francisco is to buy a parked car. Joey always managed to have a spot waiting in front of his house when I came to get the Chevy. I don’t know how. I never asked.
I parked the Toyota and walked down to the bookstore, thinking that I could use something to read for the trip. The college kid who swooped down on me when I walked through the door tried very hard to be helpful. She suggested the new private eye novel by Sue Gideon. I passed.
The last time I had read a book by a woman author I hated all men for a month, including myself.
I opted for a dog-eared copy of A Tale of Two Cities instead.
Dickens in hand, I walked back to the garage, pulled the Chevy out of the driveway, and started toward LA. I figured I’d make it down to San Luis Obispo in time for a late dinner and then grab a motel room for the night. Read a bit about the best of times and the worst of times and hit the sack. The plan was to rise early and pay a visit to Sam Chambers at the Men’s Colony before continuing to Los Angeles.
I headed out Geary to Van Ness and 101 South.
As I drove I realized that I was looking forward to seeing Sam.
It had been some time since I’d dropped in to visit him at the prison. At the same time, I wasn’t too excited about having to drop in on Dick Spencer. And boy, would old Dick be surprised by a visit from the guy who’d been avoiding his phone calls two or three times a month for the past four months or so.
Ok, I know what you’re thinking. Diamond the deadbeat. Denying his ex-wife the alimony she has coming to her. Give me a break.
When Sally French walked into my office five years ago and became my first client she was working in the Lingerie Department at May’s. Her employee discounts were a big part of her appeal. When I located her birth mother, Sally suddenly became heir to a substantial fortune. She was so grateful she agreed to marry me. The bottom line is that Sally needs five hundred a month from me the way she needs another pair of babydolls.
I made good time down to Obispo, getting in just before nine in the evening.
I sat down to a plate of cheese enchiladas and a couple of Coronas at a Tex-Mex joint off the highway and then checked into the Quality Inn.
What a misnomer.
The Desk Clerk asked if I wanted non-smoking or smoking. I told her smoking would be just the thing.
I took a cold shower, not really by choice, and settled in with the novel. At page fifty-two the description of Lucie Manette was conjuring up images of Grace Shipley and I had to put the book down. I couldn’t blame Dickens. Checking the baseball standings might have had the same effect.
I called down to the Desk Clerk to request a seven AM wake-up call and hung up when I was fairly certain that she knew what I was driving at. I smoked one more Camel straight to take full advantage of the special accommodations, which mysteriously lacked a single ashtray, turned off the light and tried to get some rest.
I dreamed that Lucie Manette was telling me to take a hike.
Five
The telephone beside the bed woke me at precisely seven AM. Life is full of little surprises. I picked up the receiver, said thank you, and quickly hung up. It was too early for light repartee. I was really in no mood to hear someone tell me to have a nice day. I had other plans.
I jumped into the shower hoping for an improvement over the night before. Lucky me. The water temperature had skyrocketed to lukewarm.
I wished I had something to bring to Sam. Then again, anything he could really use wasn’t allowed in.
I checked my pockets to be sure I didn’t walk away with the room key and then remembered that the thing that opened the door was the little plastic card that I had used in lieu of an ashtray.
Sam Chambers was called Sam the Sham by his very closest friends, or by reckless imbeciles. I counted myself among the chosen few who could address him as the Sham without getting my teeth knocked out. The chosen few had become fewer with the death of Jimmy Pigeon.
I’d met Sam while working on the set of a movie. My last movie. The same B movie set where I had met Jimmy Pigeon, who was there to teach a has-been bargain matinee idol how to act hard-boiled. Sam Chambers was cast as one of my co-thugs.
As often as I had played the thug, the role was less a stretch for Sam. Casting Sam as a petty criminal was like casting Walter Brennan as a crusty old-timer. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Sam. And Sam never hurt a soul who didn’t need hurting.
There was a scene in the movie where the thugs are debating what to do with the Senator’s daughter once the ransom had been paid. The young girl playing the kidnap victim wasn’t a very accomplished actress, but after all, this wasn’t Shindler’s List.
The Director commented on the kid’s acting ability by suggesting we cut her up into little pieces and put us all out of our misery.
Sweet guy.
The girl began crying and Sam was attempting to calm her down while at the same time shouting at the Director to apologize to the poor kid.
The Director said he didn’t need advice from some low-life named Sam the Sham and Sam walked over and floored him. To say that Sam was short-tempered would be like saying that Judy Garland could sing.
In the end the Director apologized to the kid after spitting out a few teeth and the cameras began rolling again. For the rest of the shoot he chose to direct Sam by hardly looking in Sam’s direction.
That was Sam’s last movie role also, and Jimmy Pigeon took us both under his wing. I went to work for Jimmy but Sam returned to his day job. Now he was serving three to five for armed robbery.
Jimmy and I went to bat for Sam when he came up on trial for the rap. We dug up evidence that we were confident would prove that Sam was just trying to get back what he had coming. Unfortunately the disagreement was over his split from an earlier robbery, so our argument that the guy he tried to take off actually owed him the bread didn’t carry a lot of weight.
To make things worse, the presiding judge had a previous run-in with Sam. The last time Sam had stood before him, Sam called the judge a pachydermatous fascist.
Tough luck for Sam since elephants and fascists never forget.
I decided to grab a quick breakfast before heading over to the prison. I hadn’t been out there for a while, but doubted they had put in an espresso bar yet. Though it wasn’t out of the question. I thought I could maybe sneak a jelly donut in to Sam, if I could find one that was too small to conceal a file.
The eggs were cold, the potatoes were raw, the toast was burned and the waitress was rude. I left her a buck, reminding her that it was good for twenty minutes long distance. The joint was fresh out of tiny jelly donuts.
I put down the top of the Chevy and headed out to the Men’s Colony. As I drove, I wondered if Sam Chambers had heard the news about Jimmy before I had. It wouldn’t surprise me; Sam and Jimmy had more mutual acquaintances. I had distanced myself from the old LA circle.
I may have suggested earlier that I was the only person who really cared about Jimmy’s fate. That’s not entirely true. Sam would care. And come to think of it, I’m sure that Vinnie Strings cared also. Not an all-star cast of mourners I’ll admit, but better than being missed by no one I suppose.
In
any case I hated to be the one to break it to Sam if he didn’t know of Jimmy’s demise. An hour later I learned that Sam thought he knew a great deal about it.
The guard who patted me down at the prison check-in might have had a future as a French masseuse. Finding nothing more dangerous on my person than my American Express Gold Card, dangerous to no one but myself, he escorted me into an ugly gray room. There I would wait twenty-five minutes for Sam Chambers to appear on the other side of a glass partition so I could talk with him through an ancient hand set.
If I had thought to smuggle in a spray bottle of Windex, I could have passed the time a lot more constructively.
When Sam took the seat opposite mine, a half inch of glass and three years minus possible time off for good behavior between us, he didn’t look too good.
We picked up our respective heavy black phone receivers. It wasn’t difficult to determine which one of them had been smashed against the window most often.
“Good to see you, Sam,” I said.
“Thanks for coming, Jake,” he said.
Because I was feeling derelict about not visiting more often I listened carefully for any hint of accusation in his voice. As paranoid as I tend to be at times, especially when inside prison walls, I concluded that Sam’s greeting was sincere.
“You don’t look well, Sam,” I said.
Never accuse me of being tactful.
“I could say it was just the food but I would be understating the problem.”
Sometimes it’s smart to simply not ask so I didn’t.
“I’ve got some bad news,” I said. Might as well throw in a pinch of salt.
“Before you go on, I have a headline that may interest you.”
“What’s that?”
“I think I know who killed Jimmy Pigeon,” he said.
“Oh?” I said.
“Does the name Bobo Bigelow ring a bell?”
It sounded vaguely familiar. Visiting time at the prison was too short for guessing games so I threw in the towel.
“Refresh my memory.”
“The cat who was supplying Benzes and Beemers to the Saudi Consulate in LA. Same cars that were disappearing from driveways in Beverly Hills and Marina Del Ray.”
