Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  “I’ve got the word out on the pipeline that I’m looking for Pigeon’s ex. We’ll just have to sit back and wait to see what comes back,” Joey said.

  “You might want to see if the name Hannah Sims from Colorado narrows down the search any. Though I doubt it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then again, I may have new priorities.”

  “What might they be?” Joey asked.

  “How about coming over to my place, I can run it by you over French Roast and raisin toast. That’s if you have the time,” I quickly added, realizing that I was talking to Joey Russo as if he was working for me.

  “That’s all I have is time, Jake. I’ll pass on the raisins; Angela has a potato and green onion frittata going. Give me an hour or so.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Want an omelet sandwich?”

  “No thanks Joey, really, you’re doing enough.”

  “I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear that since I asked you to cut it out. You’ll love the sandwich, so save some room. See you by nine-thirty.”

  He hung up before I could thank him again.

  I called Darlene and told her that I wouldn’t be down to the office until later on.

  “Just don’t make it later than one,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “That’s when Vinnie Strings starts waking up. And I swear he calls here before he even gets around to brushing his teeth.”

  I spared her the suggestion that Vinnie might seldom, if ever, brush his teeth.

  I was thinking of going back to Los Angeles. I’m a glutton for punishment. I still wanted to check out Jimmy’s office.

  And I wanted to chat with Walter Richman. There was something about his man Alster that felt wrong, even before I had talked with Lincoln French. When Lincoln said he couldn’t imagine anyone offering a million for Jimmy’s company it sent up another flag, I’d heard it once too often.

  Finding Hannah Sims from Colorado seemed less urgent, but I saw no harm in letting Joey’s pipeline run its course.

  What I was still not sure about was why Grace Shipley kept popping into my mind. I kept trying to convince myself that it was intuition, some sense that Grace could tell me something about Jimmy Pigeon’s last days.

  What I feared was that I was selling myself a bill of goods, that intuition was nonsense, that what I really wanted was to hear from Grace why she never said good-bye. So that I could end almost three years of guessing.

  A knock on the door snapped me out of it, not a moment too soon.

  I was expecting Joey Russo so I had left it unlocked.

  “It’s open,” I called. “Come on in.”

  The gorilla I had met in front of my cousin’s place in LA walked into the kitchen, with Crazy Al Pazzo right behind him.

  “Find my wife yet, Diamond?” Al asked.

  “Hasn’t been four days yet, Mr. Pazzo.”

  “I took a chance on checking early, thought maybe you got lucky.”

  Not lately.

  “Is that why you sent someone to make toothpicks out of my front door?”

  “I noticed the door. Nice paint job, you ought to think of finishing the job in here,” he said, looking at the kitchen walls, “I had nothing to do with it.”

  Okay.

  “What about sending your boys over to torment my assistant?”

  “I’m not in the habit of tormenting women,” Crazy Al insisted.

  Tina might disagree.

  “From what I heard, your guys tried to put a scare into her.”

  “From what I understand, she handles herself well.”

  “She’s good at that. She has to be to work with me. Don’t bother her again.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Take it any way you like. I wouldn’t insult you by suggesting that you needed clarification. If you’re going to rough me up, let’s get it over with. Otherwise, why don’t you and your pal sit and take a load off. I could toast up some raisin bread, there’s some coffee on the stove.”

  “There’s no need for that, Diamond. I’m only concerned about Tina.”

  “Sorry. Like I told you. If I find her you’ll be the first to know.”

  “And I got a little worried when I heard that she was shot and that you went in to identify the body.”

  Great.

  How is it that these underworld types always seem to know everything that’s going on everywhere.

  I had no idea what to say.

  And then Joey Russo walked in with Sonny the Chin.

  “How are you doing, Al,” Joey said, “what brings you around these parts?”

  Sonny’s attention zeroed in on Pazzo’s henchman.

  “Just visiting a friend, Joey. How about you?”

  “If you’re here to give Diamond some grief you’ll have to wait your turn Al,” Joey said. “The man owes me big on a basketball game and I need to talk with him a little, help him get his mind straight. You have any problem with that?”

  “Not at all, Joey,” he said.

  Pazzo looked like he actually relished the idea.

  “Okay. I appreciate it, Al. Now if you’ll excuse us.”

  Joey Russo had nerves of steel. I had been shaking in my shoes with every tough expression I had thrown at Crazy Al. Joey was cool as ice. Sonny and Pazzo’s primate watched each other like two cats in an alley. Pazzo looked like he wasn’t sure what to do. He certainly didn’t look as if he wanted to leave. He wasn’t done with me and he would have loved to stay and enjoy the mind straightening.

  Joey looked at Al, eyeball to eyeball, and didn’t move a muscle.

  Pazzo backed down.

  “I’ll be in touch, Diamond,” Al said. “Good to see you, Joey.”

  He motioned to his ape and they walked out.

  “He didn’t look too happy,” I said.

  “Let me worry about Al’s state of well-being,” said Joey Russo.

  “Joey.”

  “What is it Sonny?”

  “The sandwich.”

  “Oh yeah,” Joey said.

  He handed me the foil rapped hero, which he had been gripping like a club throughout the entire exchange with Crazy Al Pazzo.

  “Eat,” he said, “and tell me about your new priorities.”

  I took my time unwrapping the aluminum foil. I was about to ask Joey Russo to jump from the frying pan into the fire and I wasn’t in a great hurry.

  “Tina left me a little farewell message,” I said, handing him the envelope.

  I’d had it sitting on the table waiting for Joey to arrive.

  Fortunately Al Pazzo had overlooked it, or couldn’t read.

  “This stamp is still good,” Joey said as he removed the note.

  Russo read it and then held it out for Sonny to see.

  “What do you think,” I asked.

  Joey and Sonny were busy doing a non-verbal communication thing.

  “I have to be honest, Jake, it doesn’t exactly make my day,” said Joey. “Dealing with Tony Carlucci will make Al Pazzo’s visit seem like a walk in the park with Mother Theresa. I’ll need a little time to figure the best way to approach him. Is there any more of that coffee?”

  Joey dropped the note and envelope onto the table and walked over to the stove. He grabbed two cups from a cabinet above the sink and brought them and the coffeepot over to the table. He poured a cup for Sonny and for himself, and refilled mine. He sat and motioned for Sonny to join us.

  “Tell me what else is on your mind,” Joey said. “You can eat while you talk.”

  In an hour we had come up with what might be called a plan.

  I would return to Los Angeles to check Jimmy’s office.

  I would try to see Walter Richman. Try to find out if Richman really knew so little about how his highly qualified staff of corporate advisors, as Ted Alster had referred to them, invested his millions.

  And I was also curious to know who else Bobo Bigelow may have tipped to Harry Harding’s hideaway.
r />   Sonny would keep his ear to the ground for anything that might come back regarding Joey’s inquiries into the whereabouts of Hannah Sims of Colorado.

  Joey would work out whatever magic it would take to get Tony Carlucci to talk about his business with Jimmy Pigeon.

  “That about cover it?” asked Joey.

  “Well,” I said.

  “Spit it out, Jake, while the iron is hot.”

  “Maybe you can throw Grace Shipley’s name into that pipeline of yours.”

  “I haven’t heard her mentioned in a long time,” said Joey, “does she figure in this somehow?”

  “I really don’t know. It’s like a little buzzing in my head,” I answered.

  “Done,” Joey said.

  I would fly to Los Angeles the next morning. Sonny would take me to the San Francisco airport; Joey would arrange for someone to pick me up at LAX and drive me anywhere I needed to go.

  I was feeling guardedly optimistic.

  The potato-and-egg sandwich was terrific.

  Nineteen

  I made it over to my office by one in the afternoon.

  “Vinnie call?” I asked Darlene as I walked through the door.

  “If he had, you’d have heard about it from the hall,” she said.

  I filled her in on the latest developments, including my planned trip back to LA.

  “You’re lucky,” she said.

  “How’s that?”

  “If some paying work actually came along, you wouldn’t have all this free time to run up and down the coast.”

  When the phone rang, Darlene looked at it as if it had teeth.

  “Diamond Investigation, Jake Diamond speaking.”

  “Jake.”

  “Yes, Vinnie.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  I can be too kind at times.

  “Ever hear of a guy named Vic Stritch?”

  “Sure. Jimmy used to use him occasionally. All Jimmy had to do was call him, wire some cash, and Stritch would do what was asked with no questions. Most of the time the guy doesn’t even know who he’s working for.”

  So much for that.

  “Any idea where Grace Shipley might be?”

  “Not really. I could sniff around.”

  “Why don’t you do that, Vin. It would be a great help.”

  “I’m on it,” he said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  And then he was off the line.

  “That was easy,” Darlene said.

  “Too easy. Any calls?”

  “You mother called.”

  “What did she want?”

  “What do you think she wants? She wants to feed you.”

  I hadn’t seen my mother in almost two weeks. If I didn’t get over soon she would make my life unbearable.

  Not that it was such a joy to begin with.

  I called Mom and said that I would bring the wine.

  I spent most of the afternoon huddled with Darlene going over accounts payable and accounts receivable.

  It was a sad state of affairs.

  I gave Darlene the five hundred I was holding for Vic Stritch so that she could at least keep the phone alive. If by some miracle Stritch came to tell me who had hired him to trash my door, I could always offer him my 1952 Mickey Mantle baseball card.

  I left the office at five. I walked down to the wine shop and picked up a good bottle of Chianti. I hopped into the Toyota and aimed for the Bay Bridge.

  To Mom’s house.

  Mother Mary.

  Mom lived with her younger sister, Aunt Rosalie, in a small two-bedroom house in an East Bay suburb, northeast of Oakland.

  Rosalie’s son was my cousin Bobby, the film actor.

  Pleasant Hill is a place that takes its name seriously. Not more than thirty-five minutes from my door on Fillmore Street, the house on Maureen Lane might have been more appropriately reached in a time machine than in a Toyota. Pleasant Hill was as close to downtown San Francisco as Mayberry was to Gotham City.

  Mary had moved out West from New York seven years earlier, shortly after my father passed away, to share the house with her widowed sister. Rosalie’s husband had been killed when a large portion of ceiling in his Oakland loan office crushed him as he sat behind his desk working a refinance. Rosalie lived off her husband’s life insurance and the proceeds from the sale of the Mortgage business.

  I found Mom in the kitchen, which was like finding George Bailey in Bedford Falls. She was slicing thick pieces of tomato for a salad; a large pot of red sauce was simmering on the stovetop. The first thing my mother did when she moved into Aunt Rosalie’s house was to have the electric range pulled out, junked, and replaced with a gas stove. Mary claimed she couldn’t even boil water on electric. On the burner beside the sauce, water was boiling for the pasta.

  “What are you burning Mom?”

  “Don’t be cute, Jacob. Make yourself useful and turn the pork chops in the oven before they do burn.”

  I grabbed a fork and moved to the oven to flip the chops. Mission accomplished I dipped a hunk of Italian bread into the saucepot for a quick taste.

  “Stop that Jacob. You’ll ruin your appetite.”

  “Ragu or Prego?” I asked.

  “Jacob I’m going to hit you with this cucumber. Open that nice bottle of wine you brought with you.”

  “I hope you’re not in a bad mood, Ma, because I came over to get cheered up.”

  “I’m not in a bad mood, Jacob,” she said, sounding like she was in a bad mood, “but don’t expect me to tickle your toes, either.”

  “Where’s Aunt Rosalie?”

  “Out.”

  “Out?”

  “On a date.”

  “On a date?”

  “Is there an echo in here, Jacob?”

  “So that’s what has you in a funk?” I asked.

  “Watch your language young man. Your Aunt Rosalie is a grown woman. If she wants to go out on a date with someone twice her age it’s her prerogative.”

  “Rosalie is out with a one-hundred-twenty-two-year-old man?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “Throw the rigatoni in please, and open the wine already before we die of thirst.”

  Mom obviously had a knock down argument with her sister. Her night was blown and cheery conversation, even if I could scare it up, wasn’t going to help.

  “Coming right up,” I said, hunting for a corkscrew.

  “So, I heard that you saw Sally,” Mom said, passing the oil and vinegar after we finally sat down to the meal after a half hour of dodging each other in the kitchen.

  Darlene had a big mouth.

  “Sally’s getting married,” I said, heading Mom off at the pass.

  “And how is your work going?” she asked, looking for an alternative route.

  “Fine,” I said, sounding like a fifth grader describing his day at school.

  We spent the rest of the meal talking about Mom’s garden and the plague on her basil. We had cake and coffee in front of the TV, watching the Giants play the Mets.

  I thought about my father. The times he had taken me out to Shea Stadium when I was a kid.

  Bernie Diamond’s enthusiasm for baseball had been equaled only by his enthusiasm for radical politics.

  Dad had been a journalist, novelist and educator. He demanded a lot from himself and expected a lot from others.

  But Bernie never imposed expectations on his children. In fact, he rarely questioned us about what were up to. I had always taken his hands-off attitude as a compliment, an indication that he trusted me and had faith in my choices.

  As I grew older I began to suspect that Dad’s non-interference might have been due to a lack of interest. That he was too busy with the great social issues, with his own crusades and ambitions, to pay much attention to his kids. And the less interested he seemed, the less I told him about myself.

  “Can I ask you something, Mom” I said, as I was on my way out the door, “about Dad?”

  “Jacob, yo
u know I don’t like that kind of question.”

  “What would Dad think about what I’m doing with myself?”

  “Your father was always proud of you Jacob,” she said, with a quick peck on the cheek, “and so am I.”

  I raced home to ask George Dickel the same question.

  After a few drinks I thought I finally understood why Jimmy Pigeon had never told me about his marriage, about staying in contact with Grace, or about Ex-Con.com. Why Lincoln French, Vinnie Strings, Dick Spencer, Tina Bella, and even Sam Chambers from inside the Men’s Colony, had learned more from Jimmy about Jimmy than I had. And why Jimmy hadn’t reached out to me if he were in some kind of trouble.

  Jimmy may have simply felt that I wasn’t very interested.

  It was a sobering thought.

  One that didn’t have me interested in being sober.

  Twenty

  When Sonny picked me up in the morning I was surprised to find Joey Russo with him.

  “Tony Carlucci is in Las Vegas until sometime late tonight,” Joey said, “so short of visiting his brother John at San Quentin, which I’d rather avoid doing, it’ll have to wait.”

  “Alright,” I said.

  “So I thought I’d come along to LA, keep you focused.”

  When we reached LAX there were two men waiting at the gate.

  “Jake, these are the Fanelli brothers, Jerry and Tom,” said Joey. “Boys, this is Mr. Diamond. You work for him now.”

  The office of Ex-Con.com was above a large drugstore on Wilshire Boulevard. We all went up. The office was fairly large, with at least a dozen computer stations and two executive offices, unoccupied. In fact the place was entirely deserted except for one pimply kid pecking at a keyboard in the far corner of the main room.

  We ambled over looking like the Earp brothers. He stopped typing. He couldn’t decide whether to stand or stay seated. If Vinnie Strings had been there, he’d be taking book on which way the kid would go.

  Finally he got up and took a few steps to meet us.

  The kid was brave. The Fanelli brothers were large.

  “Who are you?” he said, trying to sound authoritative.

  “A friend of Jimmy Pigeon,” I said.

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because I just told you.”