Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  He’d found a manager in San Francisco and had fought professionally for two years, amassing eleven bouts, most of which he’d won. It was the last fight against an up-and-coming black contender that ended Gibbons’s career as a pugilist, at least one who plied his trade inside a ring. His opponent knocked him silly, and his manager dropped him. After that Gibbons bounced around the fabled City by the Bay doing odd jobs. He drove a truck, signed on as a bouncer at a couple of gay nightclubs in the Castro district, did construction, and worked as a mechanic at various gas stations. His last job before hooking up with Borger was with a limousine service. He’d liked that job the best because he got to wear a uniform and meet many of the city’s big shots, one of whom was Dr. Sheldon Borger, psychiatrist to the rich and famous.

  For Borger, Gibbons was just another driver who squired him around town when he didn’t feel like driving. But one night two years ago had changed all that.

  Borger had attended a charity dinner at the Mark Hopkins hotel. He’d decided to leave early and called for a car from the limo service. It arrived driven by Jake Gibbons, who’d driven the doctor in the past.

  “You goin’ home, Doc?” Gibbons asked as Borger slipped into the backseat.

  “Too early,” Borger responded. He scrolled through phone numbers in a small black book until deciding on one, a call girl with whom he’d spent time before. He gave Gibbons the address and instructed him to wait outside her apartment building. “I’ll only be an hour,” he said, handing Gibbons a twenty-dollar bill. “Go get yourself something to eat while you’re waiting.”

  Gibbons stopped in a tavern a few blocks away and had a meatball sandwich and a beer at the bar. He returned to the apartment building forty-five minutes later but couldn’t find a parking space directly in front. He made a U-turn and parked on the opposite side of the street, where he stood next to the black Lincoln Town Car and lighted a cigarette—smoking was prohibited in any of the company’s vehicles—and waited for Borger to appear. He was on his second cigarette when the doctor emerged through the front door and looked right and left for the car. As Gibbons was about to call out, a man carrying a knife stepped from the shadows behind Borger, wrapped an arm around Borger’s neck, and pressed the knife against his throat.

  Gibbons sprang into action. He bolted across the street, yelling as he went. Borger’s attacker loosened his grip on him and turned to flee. Gibbons grabbed him and threw him to the pavement. He came down on top of him, his knee pressed into his chest, and brought his right fist against the man’s cheek. He hit him repeatedly until Borger, who’d stepped away and cowered behind a tree, said, “Okay, that’s enough.”

  Gibbons hauled the man to his feet and hit him again, this time in the stomach, causing him to double over. Gibbons’s knee came up into his face, which straightened him.

  “Let him go,” Borger said.

  Gibbons looked quizzically at Borger.

  “Let him go,” Borger repeated.

  Gibbons took a step back as the man stumbled away, vomiting and moaning, and disappeared around the corner.

  “Are you all right?” Borger asked.

  “Me? Yeah, I’m fine. How come you wanted me to let him go?”

  “He’s just a punk, not worth getting involved with the police. I owe you a big debt.”

  “Nah. Just a good thing I was around. How was—?”

  “How was what?”

  “The lady you visited.”

  “Oh, she’s fine, just fine. I’d like you to come back to the house, where I can thank you properly.”

  “I have to drop off the limo.”

  “All right. Drive me home, get rid of the limo, and come back. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  An hour later, Gibbons sat with Borger in the living room of the house on Nob Hill, a bottle of locally brewed Iron Springs beer in his hand. “This is some nice place you’ve got,” he commented, taking in the expansive room filled with valuable Chinese art and antiques.

  “It’s comfortable,” Borger said. “You know, this incident tonight might prove to be serendipity.”

  Gibbons wasn’t sure what that meant but nodded in agreement.

  “Tell me something about yourself,” Borger said.

  Gibbons shrugged and finished his beer. “Not much to tell. I used to be a prizefighter, but that didn’t work out, so I’ve been doing different things.”

  “Like driving a limo.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Another beer?”

  “Wouldn’t mind, thanks.”

  When Borger returned from the kitchen with a fresh brew, he asked whether Gibbons knew anything about cars.

  “Matter of fact I do. My old man was handy with cars, anything mechanical, and he taught me what he knew.”

  Borger shifted in his chair and casually crossed his legs. “You saved my life tonight, Mr. Gibbons.”

  “Didn’t take much. He was probably a druggie, a skinny little bastard.”

  “But you didn’t hesitate to act. You came to my defense, and let’s face it, you really don’t know me. The reason I asked about your background is that I’ve been looking to hire someone like you.”

  “Like me?” Gibbons asked. “What do you know about me?”

  “What I do know is that you’re a man of action, and I assume you’re loyal. Do you think you’d be interested in coming to work for me?”

  “Doin’ what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, being available when I need you, do some driving for me, be a bodyguard of sorts, take care of my cars. I have some nice ones out in the garage. Want to see?”

  Borger took him to the garage where his collection of four expensive automobiles was housed.

  “You’ve got some beauties here,” Gibbons said after whistling.

  “Just a hobby of mine. I need someone to care for them.”

  “Don’t look at me, Doc. The engines in these are all computers, nothing like the ones I worked on.”

  “I have two very fine mechanics who specialize in cars of this class. I need someone to keep them shining and ready to go.”

  As they returned to the house, Gibbons began to wonder whether the doctor was a strange-o, maybe even a homosexual. No, that couldn’t be. He’d just been with a woman he’d called from the limo. He decided as they settled again in the living room, and Borger had fetched another beer, that he’d hear this doctor out. Nothing ventured, nothing gained was the way his father used to put it.

  “Well?” Borger said. “Would you be interested in working for me? I should tell you that I lead a very busy life. I have a clinic across the bay in Berkeley, where I spend much of my time, and I have my private clients, some of them quite well known. I’d have to be assured that you’re a man of discretion, someone who can keep secrets.”

  “No problem there,” Gibbons replied.

  “I should also tell you that I do some government work, highly secret work. Obviously, discretion is a must.”

  “What sort of secret work?”

  Borger put up his hand and smiled. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret any longer, would it?”

  “No, I guess not. You serious about a job?”

  “Yes, if you are.”

  “So what’s it pay?”

  “Would sixty thousand a year be sufficient?”

  Gibbons was speechless. He started to respond, drank from his beer instead, and looked around the room.

  “Well?” Borger said. “I have a partner who will have to approve, but he never disagrees with my decisions. Your pay will be off the books because of my government work. There will be no benefits, no health insurance or pension. But you will be paid on time. When can you start?”

  Another swig of beer and a belch preceded, “How about right now?”

  * * *

  Gibbons wandered the Mall and eventually made his way into the Air and Space Museum, where he took in the World War II aviation display. But he soon became bored and left the building to continue walking down the Mall until
reaching a tourist information kiosk.

  “Hello,” a woman in the kiosk said.

  “Yeah, hello. I was wondering if there’s a gym in this city, you know, where boxers train.”

  “Boxers?” she said. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know anything about that, but I can look it up for you.”

  “Yeah, that’d be good.”

  She consulted a thick phone directory. “Here, look,” she said, turning the directory so he could see where her index finger was pointed. The listing was for the Downtown Boxing Club on M Street. “Are you a boxer?” she asked.

  “I used to be,” he said.

  “I met Muhammad Ali once,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “He was the greatest.”

  “Yeah, he was pretty good. Thanks. Where’s M Street?”

  She tried to give him walking directions, but he became confused. “I’ll take a cab,” he said. “Thanks again.”

  His taxi driver dropped him in front of the address he’d been given, and he entered the gym in which a half dozen fighters went through their routines, one skipping rope, one hitting a heavy bag, some doing sit-ups, and two of them sparring in the ring. Gibbons felt immediately at home. He’d been in gyms where it seemed that only yuppies wearing pastel spandex workout clothing exercised to piped-in rock music, not a real boxer to be seen. But this was different. It was like a scene out of Rocky—the Rocky movies were Gibbons’s favorites. There was no music playing, no women in fancy workout clothing, just the odor of sweat and a bunch of young men (and one woman) training to get in the ring.

  Gibbons noticed two men standing at ringside watching the sparring contest going on. One looked to easily be in his seventies; the other was considerably younger. The older man, who wore a T-shirt that was too short on his bulky frame, his sizable belly protruding from beneath it, had a towel draped over his shoulders, and barked instructions at one of the fighters in the ring. Gibbons sidled up to them and took in the scene until the older man called out, “Time!” The boxers removed their protective headgear and left the ring laughing, their arms around each other.

  “The kid in the blue shorts looked good,” Gibbons commented.

  The older man turned. “He’s coming along.”

  “Nice gym,” Gibbons said.

  “You in the game?” the younger man asked.

  “The fight game? Used to be,” Gibbons replied. “I manage a couple of young fighters.”

  “That so? Anybody I know?” the older man asked.

  “Probably not. I’m on the West Coast.” He shook hands with them. “Jake Gibbons.”

  Another pair of fighters climbed into the ring, and Gibbons stayed to watch. He also stayed through a third sparring session. He felt very much at home in the gym, more at home than he was in the small house in Virginia with Puhlman and Itani. He checked a large clock on the wall; he’d been there for two hours.

  “Nice meeting you,” the older man, who’d been a trainer for most of his adult life, said.

  “Same here,” Gibbons said.

  He stepped out onto the street and realized that he was hungry. He’d spotted a bar and restaurant a few blocks away while in the taxi and walked to it. The only people at the bar were two young bikers wearing black leather jackets, sporting multiple tattoos, and downing vodka kamikaze shooters followed by beer from bottles. Gibbons took a stool at the far end and ordered a beer. Seeking out the gym had been a smart move. He’d been in his element there and he wasn’t looking forward to returning to the house. What would he say about how he’d spent his time? He was supposed to have arranged for Itani to be licensed to fight. What if the kid asked for specifics? What if the kid asked again who his opponent would be? What would he say, that the license was now arranged for and that the opponent was still unknown? He’d depend upon Puhlman to fill in the blanks. Puhlman was a good talker. Let him handle it. Gibbons wasn’t paid to make up stories.

  He downed the first beer that the barmaid, a pretty young thing with lots of cleavage showing, had served him and ordered a second. And a third. By this time the other two men at the bar were drunk and boisterous. One of them turned to Gibbons and said, “What do you think, old man?”

  Gibbons looked at him and ignored the question.

  “Yeah. Whatta ya think?”

  Gibbons asked, “About what?”

  “About that crud Mortinson.”

  Gibbons shrugged and ignored them again, drank from his bottle, and motioned for the barmaid to set up another.

  “Hey,” said one of the bikers, “we got a Mortinson lover here.”

  “That right?” his buddy said. “You like Mortinson? What are you, some Commie pinko, some nigger-lovin’ do-gooder?”

  Gibbons felt his temper rising but held himself in check.

  “You don’t say much, do you?” Gibbons was asked.

  “Why don’t you clowns cool it?” Gibbons said.

  “What? What’d you say?”

  “Just cool it. Don’t ask for trouble, okay?”

  “You call me a clown?” one said.

  Gibbons drew a breath and tensed, waiting for the next verbal assault.

  The two bikers got up and slowly approached him. Gibbons downed what was left in his beer bottle and gripped the bottle’s neck.

  “You got a problem with us?” Gibbons was asked.

  “No, I don’t have a problem,” Gibbons said, increasing his grasp on the bottle.

  One of the bikers moved closer, too close, and bumped into Gibbons. Gibbons pushed him away with his left hand while holding the bottle in his right. The biker pushed back. Gibbons motioned to the barmaid, who’d been taking in the budding confrontation from behind the bar, that he wanted a check. The biker grabbed Gibbons by the collar of his shirt and yanked. Gibbons didn’t hesitate. He spun around on his barstool and raised the empty bottle. As the second biker lunged at Gibbons, he swung the bottle and hit the first biker in the temple, causing him to stumble back. Simultaneously Gibbons sprang off the stool and delivered the bottle to the second biker’s face, splitting his lip and generating a string of four-letter words.

  Gibbons was now on his feet, his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his broad face. “Come on, punk,” he snarled, feet set apart, slightly crouched, ready for the attack. One of the bikers picked up a wooden chair from a nearby table and swung it at Gibbons. It missed its target and smashed against the bar. Gibbons grabbed a splintered piece of it and jabbed it into one biker’s gut, causing him to double over. Gibbons’s response was more than the bikers had bargained for. They stood side by side glaring at Gibbons and deciding whether to continue the battle or to leave. The decision was made for them when the door opened and two uniformed cops entered, having responded to the barmaid’s call to 911. They ordered the bikers and Gibbons up against a wall.

  “What the hell is going on?” a cop asked.

  “Just a little argument,” Gibbons said.

  “That son of a bitch attacked us,” said a biker.

  “The hell I did,” Gibbons said. He pointed to the barmaid. “Tell ’em who started it,” he said.

  “I didn’t see,” she answered.

  “All right,” one of the cops said to Gibbons, “name.” He was poised to write in a pad he took from his uniform pocket.

  “You don’t need my name,” Gibbons said. “These punks started a fight, that’s all. It’s over, no harm done.”

  “What about the chair?” the barmaid said.

  “You want to press charges?” she was asked by a cop.

  “My boss’ll kill me if that chair isn’t paid for.”

  “All right,” Gibbons said. “I’ll pay for your goddamn chair.”

  “You want to press charges?” a cop repeated.

  “No, just get them to pay for the chair and their drinks and get out of here.”

  “I still need names,” a cop said. “Gimme your licenses.”

  The bikers complied, and their names and addresses were noted.


  “You,” Gibbons was told.

  While the cops took down the information from the bikers, Gibbons had time to process what was taking place. He carried two driver’s licenses—his legitimate one from California and the phony license he’d been given to use to get through airport security in San Francisco—and didn’t know which one to hand over.

  “Come on,” a cop said.

  Gibbons pulled out his wallet, slid his legitimate license from its plastic sleeve, and gave it to the cop.

  “How much for the chair?” his partner asked the barmaid.

  She shrugged. “A hundred maybe.”

  Gibbons had plenty of cash on him and tossed bills on the table, which the barmaid scooped up and tucked in her cleavage.

  “Okay,” a cop said to the bikers, “why don’t you jerks take a hike.”

  They started to leave, but the barmaid stopped them. “Your drinks,” she said.

  They combined what cash they had, paid the bill, and left, tossing a couple of curses at Gibbons over their shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Gibbons said.

  “Stay out of trouble,” a cop said. “San Francisco? Always wanted to visit there.”

  Gibbons remained behind after the cops had left and ordered another beer. It occurred to him as he drank that it might have been a mistake giving them his real driver’s license. Too late now. He decided as he paid his tab, added a good tip, apologized to the barmaid for the fracas, and left the bar that he wouldn’t mention what had happened to Puhlman. As long as he kept it to himself, no harm was done.

  CHAPTER

  33

  Nic Tatum’s eleven o’clock client told him at the outset of their session that she couldn’t be hypnotized. He conducted the Spiegel Hypnotic Induction Profile and determined that she was in the midrange, an Odyssean, and asked that he be allowed to at least try. She agreed, and after a few minutes she’d entered trance during which he went through a prescribed set of suggestions aimed at her smoking habit. When she came out of trance she laughed and said, “I told you I couldn’t be hypnotized.” Tatum didn’t argue. He gave her a CD and suggested that she listen to it a few times each day, especially when she had the urge to smoke. She promised that she would and asked about another appointment.