Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  “Oh, that Bobo Bigelow. The guy with a noggin like Mr. Potatohead.”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well,” said Sam, “after he did four years at Chino for Grand Theft Auto he came out and changed his name, didn’t want anyone whose car he had reallocated looking him up to give him grief.”

  How did Sam know all this stuff?

  “What’s he calling himself?” I asked.

  “Spuds Lonegan. So Bigelow gets this new gig going. Something with airline vouchers. I couldn’t really understand how it works, but he was making very big bucks. Suddenly Bigelow’s up on charges again for fraud, Interstate transportation, something, a Federal rap. Some plastic surgeon from the Valley dropped a dime on him.”

  “Sam, how do you hear all this stuff?” I had to ask.

  “A kid named Lefty Wright just got sent up here from LA, cops caught him with a pocket full of jewelry inside the house of some movie actress, can’t remember her name. Lefty filled us in at dinner last night.”

  “What’s all this got to do with Jimmy?”

  “Jimmy tracked Bobo down for the sawbones, through his Web Company.”

  “So you think that Bobo, or Spuds whatever, snuffed Jimmy for blowing his alias? Is that a hunch, Sam? I mean, do you have anything a little more bankable to go on?”

  “Bigelow got busted and Jimmy got iced the very next day.”

  Not exactly as persuasive as a DNA match.

  “You may have something there, Sam, I’ll check it out.”

  Sam had been right about understating the problem. It was definitely more than just the food.

  I spent the remainder of our visit listening to Sam talk about what prison inmates talk about. Getting out. I told him, as I had times before, that he was welcome up in San Francisco as soon as he was released and that I would have work for him. I was sure that Jimmy Pigeon had offered him the same down in LA. I was also sure that Sam would most likely go back to burglary. It was what he knew and loved best.

  I left Sam Chambers with a less than convincing promise that I’d get back to see him soon.

  As I continued south I tried the obligatory benefit of the doubt on for size, but Sam’s theory involving Bobo Bigelow didn’t wash.

  Bigelow would more likely go after the sore loser who fingered him.

  Jimmy held no malice for Bobo, and Bigelow knew that. For Jimmy it was just business, and Bobo could appreciate that too. It appeared as if Sam was trying to utilize a human attribute that he was sadly a little shy of these days. Imagination. It made me somewhat melancholy.

  But, hey, who I am, Copernicus? If I had all the angles figured out I wouldn’t be going to speak with a toad like Dick Spencer. If nothing else panned out I’d keep Bobo Bigelow in mind.

  I’d made a phone call to Willie Dogtail at my last gas-up. Willie was an old crony from those bygone days in Santa Monica when I was enrolled at the Jimmy Pigeon institute of investigation and surveillance. Dogtail, a full-blooded Sioux with family ties going back to Crazy Horse, had a small house on the beach with a spare room for a visiting paleface from the North. And Willie always kept an ear to the sand.

  I thought he might know something about Jimmy’s final days.

  I stopped for a bite outside of Ventura, since I hadn’t touched my breakfast.

  I thought about calling Evelyn Harding to tell her I was on my way. I let the impulse pass, deciding that it could wait until I was settled in at Willie’s place.

  As I continued south on Route 101 and down through Thousand Oaks I was reminded how lucky I was to have escaped Southern California. When I took the turn-off onto Route 27 at Woodland Hills toward the Pacific Coast Highway I could begin to make out the dark cloud that permanently hovered over Los Angeles and could swear I felt the city already doing a number on my respiratory system.

  When I reached the beach, the house was empty. I knew where Willie hid the key so I let myself in. There was a note from Dogtail on the kitchen table, under an unopened fifth of George Dickel Sour Mash, saying that if I didn’t make myself at home he’d break my thumbs when he got back.

  A welcome to warm the heart of any weary traveler.

  I thought again about calling Evelyn Harding but was still afraid that Grace might answer the telephone.

  So I had a happy reunion with Mr. Dickel instead.

  The bourbon must have lulled me to sleep. I guess the trip had worn me out more than I knew.

  The next thing I remember was being woken by a faint rat-a-tat and opening my eyes to find Willie Dogtail drumming on my shoulder with a pair of sesame seeded breadsticks.

  “I brought lasagna back for you and George D, Kemosabe; you can sleep when you’re dead.”

  I thought I was looking up into the face of a giant insect. Willie was wearing a pair of sunglasses with bubble lenses that made him look a lot like David Hedison after swapping body parts with the fly.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Time to stash the bed roll, pardner; we got some catching up to do on this here cattle drive.”

  Willie Dogtail had rustic-speak down pat.

  “Have any coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure do, Wyatt. Chicory?”

  I should have known better.

  “No thanks.”

  He walked over to the stove, put nearly a quarter can of Folgers into a medium saucepan, filled whatever space was left with water, and placed it on the front burner. Then he lit the burner and cranked the gas flame to ten.

  “We’ll give it about five minutes, how the hell are you?”

  I could feel the hair on my chest rearranging itself to make room for the new arrivals.

  “I’m good, Willie. That lasagna have any meat in it?”

  “No way. No dairy either. Want me to heat it up for you?”

  “No thanks, just a fork, a straw, whatever.” No dairy?

  “Guess you heard what happened to Jimmy Pigeon,” he said, handing me a ceramic soupspoon with STOLEN FROM TOMMY WONG’S MANDARIN CAFE inscribed on the bottom.

  “Yeah, that’s the reason I came down. Know much about it?”

  “Well, nothing definite, but I have some ideas.”

  Who didn’t? Ah, what the hell.

  “Run it by me.”

  “Hold on, that coffee’s starting to boil. You’re gonna love the mud Tex.”

  I must have also been hungrier than I knew because I inhaled the tofu lasagna. But it was Dogtail’s camp coffee, not the pasta, that was sticking to my ribs. If this was his way of keeping me awake and chatty he had it covered for a good week and a half.

  Thing was, he did most of the talking. Willie’s theories about who pulled the plug on Jimmy Pigeon were as grounded in fact as Sam the Sham’s, only more elaborate.

  I tried listening to the best of my ability, but most of the time I could hardly hear his voice over the buzzing in my ears from the caffeine.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Dogtail’s first hypothesis about what may have done Jimmy in revolved around the single most dangerous animal in the world. A jealous husband with a Latin rooted surname.

  According to Willie, Jimmy was making time with a saucy number named Tina Bella. At least that’s what she called herself when Jimmy and I first met her in a Malibu nightclub six years before. Tina was singing in the club, wasn’t bad at it either, and she and Jimmy hit it off immediately. Jimmy and Tina’s thing had always been an on-again off-again arrangement, and for the most part they managed to stay out of trouble. Then about a year ago Tina Bella became Mrs. Alfonzo Pazzo. When Jimmy and I talked about that little development we both wisely agreed that on again off again had best be off for good.

  “Do you know what pazzo means in Italian?” Dogtail asked.

  “I give up.”

  “Insane.”

  “Is that why they call him Crazy Al?”

  “Not really. He’d be Crazy Al if his name were Jones. Al Pazzo is one maladjusted w
hite man.”

  “And Jimmy was seeing Tina again after she married Pazzo?”

  “That’s the tale.”

  “Crazy Al finds out and kills Jimmy?”

  “It’s a thought,” said Willie, “but I have an alternative scenario.”

  So much for trying to narrow down the list of suspects.

  “Let’s hear it,” I sighed.

  Willie’s second supposition made the first resemble the Gospel truth.

  “There’s word going around that Vinnie Strings might be involved.”

  “Around from where?” I growled, surprised by my anger.

  “The name Spuds Lonegan mean anything to you?”

  “Bobo Bigelow?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And this habitual con artist is putting the word out that Vinnie had something to do with Jimmy’s murder?”

  “Talking up a storm.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I yelled, throwing Tommy Wong’s spoon against the wall.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, Ringo. I’m just relating what I heard.”

  It was impossible. Jimmy Pigeon had been a little like a father to Vinnie Strings and a lot like a guardian angel. How could Vinnie possibly profit from Jimmy’s death? And why was a low-life like Bobo Bigelow pointing fingers?

  “Got any Mylanta?”

  “There’s a roll of Tums in the medicine cabinet. Sit tight.”

  “That’s okay, Willie. I’ll get it,” I said and headed for the john.

  I chewed four or five tablets and sat on the toilet seat wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into. There was a guy I grew up with who went to pick up his automobile from the service garage one day. He couldn’t find anyone to go with him so he borrowed a car and drove over himself. When he got there he realized that he had two vehicles on his hands. So what he did was drive the first car about a quarter-mile, get out, run back to the garage and pick up the second car, drive that one about a quarter mile past the first, run back to the first car, drive it about a quarter mile past the second, and so on until he finally got both cars where they needed to be. I had thought that was the most idiotic and counterproductive activity I could ever imagine until now, when I took a close look at how I was handling the investigation into the murder of Jimmy Pigeon.

  “You okay in there, Sundance?” Willie called from outside the bathroom door.

  Sure.

  Just great.

  Six

  I woke the next morning with a pounding headache compliments of George Dickel, one of the few names not implicated in the shooting of Jimmy Pigeon. I thought briefly about the “have another drink” remedy but wisely decided to go the food route instead.

  I thanked Willie for his hospitality, if not for his insights, and headed out the Santa Monica Freeway toward Los Angeles. I hopped off at Culver City for a bite to eat and a half-gallon of orange juice to wash it down.

  I sat at a booth in a Denny’s Restaurant staring at a plate of blueberry pancakes as I chewed four Excedrin. After Dogtail’s recipe the night before, Denny’s brew tasted like what it was. Coffee flavored water.

  I decided that I had better get straight to Dick Spencer and try to avoid any more monumental revelations that put me off the track. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in the cards.

  When I saw the shadow sliding into the bench seat opposite mine I absolutely did not want to look up to see who had joined me. Since the blueberries were winning the stare-down contest I had no choice.

  Aside from the ears, which were slightly larger, and the nose, which was more like a radish than a carrot tip, the resemblance to Mr. Potatohead was uncanny.

  “You don’t look too good, Diamond.”

  Everyone’s a critic.

  “Good morning, Bobo. Or should I call you Spuds?”

  “I heard you’re looking to find out who killed your buddy Jimmy Pigeon.”

  “As a matter of fact your name came up.”

  “You know better.”

  I thought I did.

  “So why are you turning the spotlight on Vinnie Stradivarius?”

  “I heard some things through the grapevine.”

  Knowing something about the crowd that Bigelow ran in, I figured it for a sour grapevine.

  “How’d you find me?”

  “I was coming to see you at Dogtail’s place and arrived just as you were pulling away. I thought you had better taste in coffee.”

  “I did until last night. I’m not too keen on hearing Vinnie’s name thrown around haphazardly. Would you mind telling me what juicehead on your so-called grapevine sold you on such a flaky idea?”

  “Do you know an ambulance chaser name of Dick Spencer?” Bobo asked.

  Oh boy.

  “Is he your lawyer too?”

  “Yeah. I’m up on a rap for hawking airline ticket vouchers. It’s a really beautiful scam. I could tell you how it works.”

  “No, thanks. Who referred you to Spencer?”

  “After I got busted I went to talk with Pigeon about how he might want to consider being a little more selective in his choice of web clients. That was the day before Pigeon bought it, but we parted with an understanding and Jimmy suggested I look up Spencer. Whoever thinks I had anything to do with throwing Jimmy’s switch belongs in a cell up in the Men’s Colony.”

  I could have told Bobo that it was already done but I resisted.

  “So, in summation, what you’re telling me is that Dick Spencer told you that Vinnie was somehow tied in to Jimmy’s death?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “C’mon, Bigelow. My pancakes are getting ice cold.”

  “Spencer just sort of mentioned in passing that Strings is about to come into an inheritance and I made the leap.”

  “Nice leap, Knievel. While you’re at it maybe you can tell me where Jimmy Hoffa strayed off to.” I forgot to ask about Cock Robin.

  “Alright, I admit I was out of line. My name was making the rounds and I felt like kicking back. So I headed over this morning when I heard you were at Willie Dogtail’s place, to try to square it with you. I really have no idea who took Jimmy out. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t think it was me.”

  Bigelow was taking circular reasoning to new levels of perfection.

  “How did you know I was at Dogtail’s to begin with?”

  “Willie called me, said he got a little drunk last night and may have mentioned my name to you in vain,” said Bigelow, “I’d been getting Dogtail cheap flights down to Acapulco, he must have been afraid I’d cut him off if I heard it from someone else.”

  “Do everyone a favor, Bigelow, and put a sock in it. Stick to talking about what you know, regardless of how much it limits your conversation.”

  “Fair enough, Diamond. And just to show you that I’m serious about taking your advice to heart, the next time I tell you something that I’m sure you’ll be eager to hear, it will be one hundred per cent verifiable.”

  “And when will that be?” I asked, even though his radish nose was flashing at me like a red traffic light.

  “I know where you can find Harry Harding,” he said.

  Bobo Bigelow pushed over a paper napkin on which he had written the Alvarado Street address where he claimed I could find Harry Harding.

  It’s my nature to lean toward skepticism, so I didn’t exactly snatch it up off the table and jump for joy.

  “How is it you happen to have this breaking news?” I asked.

  “Harry called me for a plane ticket, he’s looking for a flight to anywhere that’s at least as far south as Brazil. I told him to give me a day and I’d drop by with something.”

  “Anyone else know about this?”

  “Just you and me.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  “Want some company?” he asked.

  “No, but thanks for asking,” I said, making every effort in the inflection of each word to unmask my sarcasm.

  “Don’t you think you owe me a little something for the tip?
” Bobo asked.

  I pushed the plate of cold pancakes over to his side of the table and got up to leave.

  If I didn’t get to eat something soon I was going to be in bad trouble.

  “Diamond,” he called as I headed for the door.

  “What is it Spuds?” I said, not turning to look back.

  “Let me know if you ever need a great deal on air fare.”

  I paid the cashier at the door, climbed into the Chevy and started back on the freeway to Los Angeles.

  I tried unsuccessfully to con myself into thinking that I was making progress.

  I glanced down at the paper napkin on the seat beside me. If it sounds too good to be true it probably is.

  Or as Jimmy Pigeon might have put it: when you follow up a lead from a guy like Bobo Bigelow wear tall rubber boots.

  If nothing else, it did give me a marginal excuse to put off dealing with Dick Spencer.

  My intention was to use my cousin’s apartment in Westwood as home base while I was down in Los Angeles.

  My mother’s sister’s oldest son; Bobby Senderowitz, was a more successful movie actor than I had ever been. He worked under the name Rob Sanders; you might have seen him in Saving Private Ryan unless you missed the first ten minutes.

  Bobby was shooting a film somewhere in Mexico, another Hemingway adaptation if I’m not mistaken, and said I could use his place anytime I was in LA.

  I thought about driving straight over to Alvarado Street but decided to stop at Bobby’s to drop off my gear before heading over to look for the wild goose I would likely find at the address that Bobo had given me.

  Maybe I would give Evelyn a call when I got to Bobby’s place, tell her that I might have a lead on Harry’s whereabouts.

  Or maybe not.

  I lit up a cigarette and pushed the Chevy to seventy-five, in a big hurry to get nowhere.

  What greeted me when I walked into Bobby’s apartment in Westwood was very different from what had waited for me at Dogtail’s. Instead of a bottle of bourbon it was carrot juice and soy milk, instead of a two-quart aluminum saucepan it was an imported cappuccino machine, and then there were the photographs.

  Bobby’s apartment was plastered with family photos.