Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  “I can’t hit Al Pazzo.”

  “That’s not what I had in mind,” I said.

  And then I explained to Tony Carlucci what he could do for me.

  Carlucci allowed me to listen in on his office phone; he made the call from the telephone at the bar.

  “Let me speak with Mr. Pazzo,” he said. “This is Tony Carlucci.”

  “Tony, how are you?”

  “Good, Al. Listen, you know a PI named Diamond?”

  “Yeah, what about him?” Pazzo asked.

  “Diamond was just in here, putting a good dent into one of my bourbon bottles. It loosened his tongue. He said that Joey Russo in leaning hard on him; Diamond owes on some ill-advised basketball wagers. Diamond said he was coming down to LA to get the money he needs to pay off Russo. From you.”

  “How does he plan to do that?”

  “Diamond claims that you left Harry Harding alive long enough to name you. He thinks that his silence might be worth a few bucks to you.”

  “He can’t touch me, there’s no evidence; it’s his word against mine.”

  “Granted, but put his story together with Evelyn Harding’s testimony that you were threatening Harding and Bobo Bigelow’s testimony that you knew where Harding was holed up, well, it could cause some unnecessary heat. I just thought that you might want to know.”

  “Diamond is a bug; he doesn’t worry me. But I appreciate it, Tony,” Pazzo said.

  “No problem. Take it easy Al. Good luck.”

  The line went dead.

  I wondered if it would be enough to be able to tell Evelyn Harding that I’d tried.

  That’s if I would be able to talk at all after Pazzo was through with me.

  It was a gamble.

  I lost.

  The phone rang.

  “Tony.”

  “Al? What’s up?”

  “While Diamond was flapping his tongue, did he happen to mention my wife?”

  “No.”

  “Is Diamond still around?”

  “No, he left for the airport to catch his flight down there. And not a minute too soon, Joey Russo just walked in looking for him.”

  “Can I speak with Russo?”

  “Sure, hold on.”

  “Al.”

  “Joey, how much is Diamond into you for?”

  “That’s between Diamond and me, Al,” said Joey, “you know that.”

  “Take it easy. I thought I could help you out is all.”

  Joey paused just long enough.

  “About ten grand, Al.”

  “How about I take care of it, and throw in a little bonus, let’s say five more?”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “Tony C says that Diamond is trying to lay a murder rap on me, this guy Harding. I mean the fucking guy is delusional, but I could do without the attention. And I’m not going to let a loser like Diamond blackmail me; it’s not good for my image. I’d like to shut Diamond up, but I don’t want you to get stiffed for what he owes you.”

  “That’s good of you Al.”

  “Common courtesy, Joey,” Al said.

  It was going just as Joey Russo had said it would, almost word for word.

  “Listen, Al,” Joey said after a beat. “I have an idea how you can take care of Diamond and take the Harding murder off the books at the same time.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a Lieutenant down there. Ray Boyle.”

  “Yeah, I know him,” said Pazzo.

  “Boyle doesn’t like open homicide cases, it’s against his religion or something. He’s going to keep the pressure on. At first he liked Diamond for the Harding murder; Boyle was thinking that Diamond killed Harding as payback for Jimmy Pigeon. Boyle even has Diamond’s prints at the scene, but no murder weapon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Diamond is on his way down there, he’s headed for his cousin’s place in Westwood somewhere,” Joey said.

  “I know the place,” Pazzo said.

  “I don’t care what happens to Diamond, as long as I get my cash. The guy is a menace. Next thing you know he’ll be threatening me.”

  Joey was convincing; it sent a shiver down my spine.

  “But if Boyle found the gun that killed Harry Harding with Diamond,” Joey said, “it could solve Boyle’s problem and yours. It’s just a thought, Al. Makes more sense than icing Diamond and getting Boyle all stirred up over another open homicide.”

  “How would the gun that killed Harding wind up with Diamond?” asked Pazzo.

  “I have no idea, Al. Diamond gets into LA in a few hours. Maybe the piece is already there. I gotta run, Al. Good luck.”

  Joey hung up the bar phone.

  I hung up the office phone and called Ray Boyle.

  I walked out to the bar. Tony Carlucci was gone.

  Joey ushered me out of the restaurant and into his car.

  “Well?” I said, as Joey started for my place on Fillmore Street.

  “Call Evelyn Harding. Let her know you tried at least,” Joey said.

  Thirty Three

  Ray Boyle called me the next morning. Sunday.

  They had picked up Al Pazzo’s driver going into my cousin Bobby’s place. He was carrying the gun that killed Harry Harding. He quickly gave Pazzo up.

  “The guy told us where we could dig up a few more bodies,” said Ray, “we have Pazzo locked up without bail. He’s not going to see the street again for a long time.”

  “Think he’ll send someone after me?”

  “I think I convinced him that I was after you to begin with, that we had the place staked out waiting for you to show. With any luck, Pazzo will appreciate the irony and concentrate more on his own immediate situation.”

  “Thanks, Ray,” I said.

  “Jake.”

  “Yeah, Ray.”

  “I got a strange call just after Frank Slater disappeared. A woman, she wouldn’t identify herself.”

  “Oh?”

  “She said that Frank Slater definitely killed Jimmy Pigeon. She said that she was there when it happened. I’ll look into it,” Boyle said.

  And he rang off.

  Grace had come with Slater that night to talk with Jimmy.

  It explained how Slater had gotten close enough to put a bullet from Harry Harding’s gun into Jimmy’s chest.

  It explained the hell that Grace said she would have to inhabit, jail time or none.

  I kept busy during the week working a few cases.

  I tried reaching Vinnie a few times but he seemed to be avoiding me.

  Come to think of it, and not to sound paranoid, it felt like everyone had been avoiding me for days. Angela Russo told me that Joey was out of town every time I called. Sonny always seemed to be off with him. The guys I played poker with on Thursday nights called off the game without good reason. I left a few messages on Sally’s machine and hadn’t heard back from her. I’d called Lincoln French, to thank him again for his help, but always got his answering service. Darlene had made herself scarce since returning from the island, said she needed a few days off, her boyfriend was in town, this and that.

  Jesus, even my mother seemed to be dodging me.

  I called Mom to invite myself to dinner on the upcoming Saturday and she said she was busy.

  Could we make it sometime next week?

  I found Darlene at work when I came in on Friday. She told me she had a load of catching up to do so I shouldn’t bother her at all. I went into my office and sat at my desk twiddling my thumbs.

  At around noon Darlene buzzed to say I had a call.

  “Jake.”

  “Sam?”

  “I can’t talk long, there’s a line of inmates behind me who gave up on patience a long time ago. I just wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday.”

  “Thanks Sam.” I was touched that Sam had remembered, and had put himself through the turmoil of lining up to make a prison phone call.

  “I have to run Jake,” he said after a very short dialogue.

&n
bsp; “I’ll be down to see you soon, Sam. Next week in fact, count on it.” And I would.

  I walked out into the reception area and stood stupidly at Darlene’s desk.

  “What?” she said, looking up at me with annoyance.

  “That was Sam Chambers calling to wish me a Happy Birthday.”

  “That was sweet of him. Don’t expect another present from me Jake, I gave you your shirt already,” she said, “I thought your birthday was tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, it is,” I said, and went back to my room.

  I lasted there for another two or three minutes and couldn’t stand it any longer. I told Darlene, if she cared, that I was heading out for lunch.

  “Can I bring you anything?” I asked.

  “No thanks,” she said; then she stopped what she was doing and looked up at me. “Listen, Jake, why don’t you take the rest of the day off. There’s nothing going on here, it’s almost the weekend anyway. I’m not staying long myself. Go catch a movie or something; you look like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

  “Maybe I will. Have a good weekend.”

  “You do the same,” she said, “I’ll see you back here on Monday.”

  I left the office and walked down to Columbus Avenue.

  What the hell. What did I have to be so depressed about? So I was turning forty years old the next day. What was that the end of the world or something? What was the big deal? So my mother was busy tomorrow night. When was the last time I changed my plans for her birthday?

  I could entertain myself, treat myself. Business wasn’t bad, the rent was paid on my office and apartment, and I still had pocket cash.

  I’d start with lunch at Little Mike’s. The works.

  Maybe I would catch a movie, I hadn’t seen one in at least six months.

  For dinner I’d buy myself the biggest porterhouse in San Francisco, and the most expensive bottle of Cabernet.

  As for the next day, as for my fortieth birthday.

  Well, I’d never been one for planning too far ahead.

  Thirty Four

  When I woke up Saturday morning I wasn’t feeling too bad. Considering. I had thrown quite the bash for myself, from the middle of the day before through late into the night.

  Wisely I had imbibed only the finest wine.

  Truth be told, I felt much better than just okay, inasmuch as I had been knocking around the planet since 1960.

  I jumped in and out of the shower and headed into the kitchen to try out the new coffee maker. When I picked one up for the office I decided to buy another for the ranch while I was at it. The result was very good. I’m sure the fact that the coffee came from Hawaii and was priced at seventeen-ninety-nine a pound didn’t hurt.

  I was enjoying the morning, reading the Examiner. The Giants were making a run at the first-place Arizona Diamondbacks. I was doing the continental thing with a sourdough baguette and seedless raspberry jam. I was on my third cup of coffee with not a serious thought my head when the phone rang.

  “Jake?”

  “Sally?”

  “How are you?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “I just got back into town. I wanted to know if things worked out all right. You had me worried there for a minute.”

  “You know me, Sal. I land on my feet.”

  I said it, but it shouldn’t imply that I knew what it was supposed to mean.

  “I was wondering,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “I thought that if you didn’t have anything special planned you might want to come over for dinner tonight.”

  Now I might have felt embarrassed to admit that I had nothing going for me on a Saturday night, but look at it this way. It was better than having to remind Sally that it was my birthday and I had nothing special planned.

  So why not?

  “That sounds great, Sally, what time?”

  “How about eight?”

  “I’ll be there. I’ll bring some wine.”

  How about that?

  I spent the rest of the morning feeling anxious about dinner with Sally. God knows why. I suddenly realized that I’d probably find Dick Spencer there with us, sucking his food through a straw. There was a thought to bring me right back down to earth. At least it inspired me to stop agonizing about it, which in turn helped get me through the day and over to the wine shop and to her door at the house in the Presidio.

  I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

  When she opened the door I held out the wine bottle and grinned like an idiot.

  “Come in,” she said.

  “What are you planning to do with the wine, Jake?” It was Joey Russo’s unmistakable voice. “We have twelve bottles of Dickel here that need immediate attention.”

  I turned toward Joey as he was pulling a bottle out of the cardboard case.

  Standing beside him was Sonny, with his wife, Joey’s daughter Connie. And Angela Russo, holding onto Joey’s arm like a cheerleader claiming her hero.

  “Happy Birthday, Jake,” they all said at once.

  And there were other voices also.

  I looked around the room in astonishment.

  “Hey, old man,” said Vinnie Strings, “the odds down at the Finnish Line were that you’d never make it to forty.”

  “Did you lean in my favor, Vin?”

  “You bet, Jake. I cleaned up.”

  Lincoln French and his wife were there. The fact that Jenny came meant a lot to me.

  The jokers I played poker with were all there.

  “Deal ’em, Jake,” someone shouted, and they all broke out laughing.

  Darlene was there, of course, with her football player.

  “Here, Jake. Happy Birthday,” she said, handing me a baseball signed by Willie Mays. “Lughead has connections in the sports world if nothing else.”

  My cousin Bobby Sanders the actor, just back from the shoot in Mexico, appeared to shake my hand. His mother, Aunt Rosalie, was there, with her new boyfriend. The man wasn’t quite a hundred twenty years old, maybe only seventy-five.

  And then I spotted my mother, on the sidelines waiting to be spotted.

  “It was so difficult to say no to you when you called son, to ask if you could come for dinner. I’ve felt terrible for days.”

  “Thanks for the surprise, Mom,” I said. “Speaking of food, something smells great. You didn’t come over here to cook, did you?”

  “Oh, no. The food was prepared by a lovely woman who delivered it fresh less than twenty minutes ago. Mr. Russo called her Mama Carlucci.”

  “Telephone, Jake,” I heard Darlene call out.

  “Hello,” I said into the receiver.

  “Happy Birthday, Jake.”

  “Tina?”

  “I can’t stay on the line; I just wanted to thank you for everything. I’m doing fine.”

  After speaking with Tina I heard a familiar voice and turned to find Myron Coolidge, boy wonder, standing beside me.

  “Happy Birthday, Mr. Diamond,” he said.

  “Thanks for coming kid, ever try George Dickel?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Follow me,” I said.

  I’d never been to a surprise party in my life where I believed that the victim was really surprised.

  Until that night.

  Sally looked fantastic, and Dick Spencer was conspicuously absent.

  “How is Richard doing?” I asked her when I had a chance to get her alone for a moment.

  “Dick and I had a little falling out,” she said.

  There was a lot I felt like saying, but I decided it could wait. Maybe I would call her during the week. I was almost about to say something inane, just to say something, when Darlene bounced up to us and held out an envelope.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It came to the office yesterday, sorry I opened it; I thought it was a bill.”

  “Cheap bastards only gave you one per cent,” said Joey, coming up to join us.

  I took th
e check out of the envelope. It was a finder’s reward from the insurance company that covered Richman International. It was written out to me in the amount of two-hundred-thousand-dollars.

  “That should keep you in Mylanta for a while,” Darlene laughed.

  Actually, I knew exactly what I would do with the money. Fifty grand would go to Darlene and another fifty to Sonny, for their trip to the island.

  I would put fifty aside for Sam Chambers, for when he got out of the Men’s Colony, to get him started in good shape.

  For a moment I thought about giving the rest to Vinnie, but decided to keep it myself so I’d have cash for all the times he was going to hit me up for a loan that he would never pay back.

  Later in the evening I felt George Dickel doing a little dance in my head. I felt I could use some fresh air and a cigarette. I’m a die-hard believer that the two aren’t mutually exclusive.

  I walked through the kitchen and out the back door into the small yard behind the house. I sat down in the cedar armchair and lit a Camel. I had spent many evenings in that chair during the time I lived with Sally, listening to the noise of the city and gazing at the Golden Gate Bridge.

  I realized that I loved San Francisco, maybe as much as Jimmy Pigeon had loved Los Angeles. I understood that even though Jimmy and I had drifted apart, we were both where we wanted and needed to be.

  I thought that Charles Dickens could relate.

  I thought about the people inside the house. What really amazed me was not so much the surprise of finding them all there as the fact that they had all made the effort.

  They were all there to celebrate with a sap who had made a habit of pushing them away.

  I promised myself that I wouldn’t forget their clemency.

  The night could hardly have been better, although it would have been terrific to see Jimmy Pigeon there. I remembered something Jimmy said to me the last time I’d spoken with him.

  “It’s not what you know or who you know,” he said. “It’s how far you are willing to go to know better.”

  Sitting there on my fortieth birthday, watching the headlights of the cars crossing the Golden Gate, I finally got it.

  “How are you doing, Jake?”

  I turned from the bridge to see Joey Russo heading for me with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and two glasses filled with ice in the other.