JO02 - The Brimstone Murders

by Jeff Sherratt

  “I see your point. But what are we going to do?”

  “We’ll figure it out later. After you’ve rested, after the doc gets through with you.”

  “What kind of doc is this guy, anyway?” I asked.

  “He’s good,” Sol said. “He’s got penicillin and everything,”

  “Sol, what kind of doctor is he?”

  “A vet. So what? If he can stitch up a snarling Rottweiler, he ought to be able to handle you. Do me a favor, though.”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t bite the guy.”

  It wasn’t long before we arrived at Doc Tully’s Animal Clinic in Pico Rivera. I stripped out of the bloodstained milkman uniform, put on one of the doc’s lab coats, and sat on a stainless steel table holding my arm above my head while the doc finished his Frankenstein stitch job.

  When Tully was through, he gave me a handful of pink pills that looked as if they could choke a horse. Maybe they could, but he explained how I was supposed to break them up and take a quarter of one every six hours. I put the pills in my pocket. I’d take the first dose after I had my oats.

  By the time we left his office, I was starting to feel weak again. I wondered if I’d ever get out of this mess. But all I wanted at that moment was to get to my apartment and ask Rita to bring me some of Foxy’s wonderful, therapeutic chicken soup.

  The Deacon and Cubby practically carried me back to the limo. Sol was talking on his mobile radiophone when Cubby opened the passenger door and I slid into the back seat.

  Sol said, “Ten-four,” and cradled the receiver. He turned to me. “Jimmy, we’re taking you to a safe house. Don’t argue, because it won’t do any good. I don’t want to take any chances. No telling about Moran and his goons.”

  I was too beat to argue. I didn’t care where he took me. All I wanted was to eat some soup and lie down. “Okay, Sol.” I glanced at my watch: just after four in the afternoon. Rita would still be at the office. She could bring the soup to the safe house.

  “Sol, can you get my office on the horn, please?”

  He didn’t respond. Cubby started the car and we drove out of the parking lot, heading south on Rosemead.

  “Sol, I’ve gotta call the office. I want to talk to Rita.”

  He just glanced at the floor of the limo. “Don’t push it, Jimmy.” My pulse quickened. “Sol, something is wrong!”

  “Calm down, my boy, it’s nothing like that.”

  “What’s the matter? Damn it, Sol, I’m talking to you.”

  “Don’t get hot. Rita’s a trifle upset, that’s all.” A crooked grin appeared on his face. “You know how women can get.”

  “What do you mean a trifle upset?”

  “Well, Mabel said she just quit. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.”

  “What the hell?”

  “She said she can’t be your lawyer anymore. Can’t trust you. Mabel told her you got a little worked over out at the base.”

  “Goddammit, how’d Mabel know?”

  He shrugged. “Ah, well, I might have said something.” Then he perked up. “Hey, you want I should get Morty to take your case?”

  “Oh Christ, Sol. Call my office.”

  The limo turned left onto Artesia Boulevard and soon we were in Dairy Valley, a city of milk barns and cow shit. The smell complemented my mood.

  C H A P T E R 33

  Sol’s safe house wasn’t a house at all, but a barn. To be precise, it was a one bedroom suite—kitchenette, small bedroom, sitting room with an old-fashioned console TV—built into the middle of a milk barn. Long rows of stalls, each a rectangle four feet by eight feet and each loaded with a Holstein cow, hid the entrance to the suite. Hooked up to the cows were milking machines with suction nozzles and long hoses, contraptions that made loud slurping and clanking noises, a mechanical cacophony mingled with the occasional moo.

  Sol ran around the suite like a bellboy, opening doors, adjusting the thermostat; he even turned on the TV. “Welcome to the Holstein Hilton, Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, rooms with a moo.”

  “A Guernsey getaway.”

  “No bull.”

  I agreed to stay in the so-called safe house until I felt better, a couple of days at most. Sol’s men would secure my apartment, setting up an alarm system and attaching professional deadbolt locks on my door. Who knew—Moran might attempt to follow through on his sentence of death. As Sol had said, “He’s a real badass, makes Attila the Hun look like a nun. His boys might try something rash.”

  The barn stood on Herman Van den Berg’s farm in the community of Dairy Valley, twenty miles east of downtown L.A. The town, established by milk farmers, was set up to protect their lands against the encroachment of urban sprawl. But the sprawl went on unabated, devouring everything in its path like molten lava, an eruption of tract houses and strip malls. Now it had already been decided that the dairies would be closed, the cows hauled to Chino, joining others that had been relocated from South Gate, Norwalk, and Downey years earlier. Dairy Valley would then be a memory, and what was left of the community would be merged into the city of Cerritos, its nearest neighbor to the north.

  I crashed on a ratty Naugahyde sofa, a piece of furniture straight out of a ’50s TV sit-com. The Honeymooners came to mind. Cubby ambled into the kitchenette to warm up a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle.

  Sol left and returned a few minutes later with Herman Van den Berg. Herman was a big-boned, gangly man of about sixty with a tangled mess of burnt-orange hair, which crowned his thin, pinched face. His round blue eyes were close set, separated by a spider-veined, misshapen nose. The eyes seemed to be asking a question, but I didn’t know what it was and Herman didn’t say. He might’ve been asking something like, what in the hell is this guy doing sprawled on my Ralph Kramden couch? What could I tell him? Could I tell him a bible-thumping monster was out to get me? He’d probably say, aren’t they all?

  Could it be that everyone in the dairy business was named Van something or other? Van Hoek at Sunnyville Farms and now Van den Berg out here. When Sol introduced us, he said that the name meant from the mountains in Dutch. After mulling it over for a moment, I realized there weren’t any mountains in Holland. That is, unless they were referring to the mountains of Holstein dung at all those diaries there. So, I reckoned, loosely translated, his name meant Herman, who came from a pile of shit. His body odor confirmed my reasoning.

  “Jimmy,” Sol said. “Herman here was gracious enough to let us use his hideaway for a few days until you’re better.”

  I waved. “Thanks, Herman.”

  “Yaw, Immy. I help Sol. He’s my friend,” Herman replied in a heavy Dutch accent.

  Herman explained how, sometime ago, he had a problem and Sol had helped him out of a serious jam. It seems that Herman had a fire on his farm. A year’s supply of baled hay—worth thousands of dollars—had caught fire and burned up. The hay had been insured of course, and at first the insurance company disavowed the resulting claim when it was discovered that the fire had been purposely set. But when Sol had proved that a fanatic animal rights activist had hired an arsonist to start the fire, the insurance company promptly cut the check.

  Herman had built the bedroom suite inside his milk barn as living quarters for his foreman, who had later married and moved away. As a gesture of his appreciation for Sol’s efforts in the insurance matter—along with a sizeable check—Herman granted the use of the suite whenever Sol needed to stash someone out of sight for a few days.

  Everyone cleared out as soon as the soup was served. I took a few spoonfuls, but my appetite was gone and the soup was terrible. It wasn’t just because it was canned; Cubby had decided to spice it up and dumped in about a gallon of Tabasco. I like Tabasco, but give me a break. Making my way to the bedroom, I stretched out on top of the covers. I stared at the ceiling and thought about Rita. Maybe I should’ve just leveled with her from the beginning; then, if she didn’t want to be my lawyer, so be it. At least I wouldn’t be a liar in her eyes.
>
  She was gone by the time I’d called the office from Sol’s limo. Would she come back? Would she stay on with our little law firm? She wouldn’t for sure if she found out about the gun that Mabel had hidden.

  C H A P T E R 34

  I must have dozed for a couple of hours, because when I awoke, sunlight was no longer filtering through the thin cloth curtain covering the window. I glanced at my watch: almost seven o’clock. I carefully made my way into the bathroom and winced as I examined my image in the mirror. I looked like hell, about the same as I felt. The guy who stared back at me wore an animal doctor’s lab coat, had bloodshot eyes and a three-day growth of stubble. I looked more like the Wolf Man than a criminal lawyer. Some people said criminal lawyers were monsters, and my appearance tonight would certainly reinforce that. I leaned in closer to the mirror and flinched when I lightly touched the blue and yellow puffiness growing just below my left eye. The bruise was as big as a tomato; I figured it would get as big as a rutabaga before it healed.

  I opened the medicine cabinet. It was fully stocked, filled with shaving gear, a couple of new toothbrushes, toothpaste, and a large economy-size bottle of aspirin.

  A fresh terrycloth robe hung from a hook on the door. I slipped out of the lab coat, turned on the water in the shower, and brushed and shaved while I waited for the water to get hot.

  While in the shower, I was careful not to disturb the bandages covering my gunshot wound, and when I was through, I shrugged into the robe and wandered back into the sitting room.

  I stood in the center of the room and stared at the phone. Should I call her? It was seven-thirty; she’d be home by now.

  I made a couple of calls to Rita’s apartment, and each time when the answering machine came on, I hung up without leaving a message.

  Turning on the TV, I sprawled on the sofa and flipped through the channels with the clicker. Mannix, a private peeper, with not a hair out of place beat up the bad guys without breaking a sweat—click—The FBI—click—A live variety show, fresh-faced youngsters dancing and singing. Some kind of oddball disco thing, like disco as performed by Lawrence Welk. It was a pop religious number, young women telling viewers, “…let’s get down and funky with Jesus…” Wait, the reverend leading them was the guy I’d met with Bickerton at his White Front church. Snavley, Hazel Farris’ pastor, the guy who told her about the teen drug center. The one who told her to send Robbie out to the base at Rattlesnake Lake.

  I noted the station. The live broadcast originated from the school in the valley where Robbie had killed his professor, Golden Valley College. When the dance number ended, Bickerton walked out on stage and introduced the audience to Reverend Elroy Snavley and his dancers, J.C. and the Sunshine Singers—the J.C. of the group being there in spirit only.

  Flashing on the screen while Bickerton pranced around the stage booming his sermon was a phone number. Words scrolled by under the number saying something to the effect that if you were a teen in trouble, had a drug problem and nowhere to turn, call this number, that angels were standing by the phones with help.

  Snavley handed all of the young dancers a white lily, saying the flower was a symbol of virginity, female purity, or something like that.

  I leaned back and pondered. The college station must have been sold to Bickerton’s network after all. Sold, as the college administrator had said, over Professor Carmichael’s dead body.

  I grabbed the phone again and dialed Sol’s home number. I couldn’t just sit here while this was going on. “Hey, Sol, send someone to get my car, will you? I left it at Sunnyville Farms when I took the milk truck. I have a hunch.”

  “Go to bed, Jimmy. You need your strength. We have to figure out a way to get Robbie back. We’ll talk about your hunch in the morning. I’ll pick you up early tomorrow.”

  “Sol, I need my car!”

  There was silence on the line. “Sol, are you there?”

  “Listen, Jimmy, ah, there’s a little problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now don’t get upset,” Sol said. “I’m working on it.”

  “Working on what?”

  “Well, Van Hoek, the owner of Sunnyville, is a little pissed. Can’t blame him. After all, we didn’t return his truck, now did we?”

  “Sol, you said he’d send someone. What are you saying now?”

  “He’s holding your car hostage. But, hey, it’s just until he gets his truck back.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “It might be a little touchy at the moment trying to get the truck out of the Rattlesnake base, know what I mean? But don’t worry, I’m working on that too. Good night, Jimmy.”

  “Sol—” He hung up. I stood there with the receiver in my hand feeling like a fool. Why did I let him talk me into this?

  While wondering what to do next, I heard a knock at the door. I answered it. Framed in the doorway stood a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. She was squarely built, with wide shoulders and thick arms, and there was no visible waist hidden under the flower-print housedress she wore. Her face, which, long ago, might have been pretty, had a look of grief about it now. Her hair, once blonde, was mostly gray, and the blonde strands that remained were the yellowish color of old paper stored in a musty attic. Folded over her arm was a pair of pressed Levis and a checkered shirt.

  “Hello, Jimmy. I am Betje, Herman’s wife. I brought you some fresh garments. Socks and underwear are in the drawer in the small bedroom.”

  After thanking her I stepped aside, and Betje Van den Berg entered, draping the clothes over the back of the sofa.

  She turned and studied me intently for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Herman told me you looked like him, same size. My God, you have the same blue eyes. Herman was right.”

  “Who, Mrs. Van den Berg? Who do I look like?”

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said and covered her mouth. Finally, after a few seconds, she dropped her hands and said, “You sound like him too. You could be brothers.”

  “Who, Mrs. Van den Berg…”

  “You call me Betje, yaw? I’ll call you Jimmy.”

  “Okay, Betje.”

  “You are exactly like our son, Joris. Herman told me, but I had to see for myself.”

  “Does your son live with you?” As soon as I asked the question, I knew what the answer would be. It was etched in her face.

  She turned and fussed with the clothes, straightening the shirt, refolding the jeans. When she turned back to me, there were no tears in her eyes. They had dried long ago, I could tell, but the hurt was still there. “Vietnam,” she said. “Joris was the commander of a little boat, patrolled the rivers in the jungle. They told us—Herman and me—when they give us his medal, they told us Joris was very brave, saved his men at the cost of his own life.”

  “I’m so sorry, Betje,” I said, and after a moment added, “Your son died a hero.”

  “Yes.” Her voice trailed off and she made a move for the door. When her hand touched the knob, she paused and turned back. “This country is wonderful. When Herman and I moved here from Friesland—you know Friesland?” I nodded. “When we came here, we had nothing, not even one cow. Now we have many. America gave us everything, and we gave America everything back when we gave our son. We still have the cows, though.”

  We stood motionless without saying a word, letting the silence wash over us and soothe our wounds, mine superficial and visible, hers deep and raw.

  Finally, she said in a soft voice, “Are you a hero, Jimmy? You’ve been hurt. Herman told me you were hurt trying to save a boy who had lost his soul.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not a hero, and I’m not really hurt. What pain I’m feeling now will pass, and I’ll be fine.”

  “No, you are having pain, real pain. But you must fight. Don’t let what you are fighting for slip away. Do you understand?”

  I glanced at the phone, then back at Betje. “Could I borrow a car? There is something I must do.”

  “Herman took our sedan to a c
ity council meeting, but you can use the El Camino.” She tucked her hand into a big pocket on her housedress and pulled out a set of keys.

  C H A P T E R 35

  My plan was to catch Bickerton at the college where the broadcast originated and lay it on the line; browbeat him until he came clean about his involvement with Moran and the Rattlesnake Lake base.

  The idea flashed in my mind as soon as I saw the TV show. Moran and Bickerton were working together. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was. It all fit together; it had to. I figured that Bickerton, through his Holy Spirit Network, recruited the troubled teens, snagged them with the funky entertainment, then pitched the drug program and captured them with his religious mumbo-jumbo, like the Pied Piper had mesmerized kids with his magic flute. And what about Robbie killing the professor—the man who was dead set against the sale of the college station? Could he have been a pawn, brainwashed by Bickerton or Moran and sent out to deliberately eliminate the only obstacle standing in their way? Perhaps I was overreaching, seeing conspiracies where none existed. But I couldn’t stay cooped up in the dairy barn and do nothing until Hammer pinned a murder charge on me.

  Before I asked Betje to loan me a car, I thought about calling Sol back, but I knew he’d try to talk me out of going to see Bickerton. He wouldn’t feel as strongly about my hunch as I did. And even if he did, he’d want to wait until morning. He’d want to have backup, pack a lunch. Christ, he’d want to make a production of it. No, if my plan had a shot at all, I’d have to catch Bickerton by surprise tonight, while he was off guard.

  I also realized I was being optimistic. Bickerton wouldn’t want to talk to me. At first he’d deny any suggestion that he was involved with Moran, of course. But I’d keep pressing. I’d pound it into him that Sol and I knew the whole story, had the evidence—I’d make that part up—and I’d tell him how if he didn’t cooperate, he’d be indicted for murder. Even if he didn’t participate in the activity at the base or in the professor’s homicide, I’d explain how he’d be indicted anyway for conspiracy, which in the eyes of the law is the same as if he’d wielded the knife himself. And as a kicker, I’d offer him a deal. TV stations had recording equipment. He could record his testimony, then I’d give him twenty-four… no, make it forty-eight hours to get out of the country, time enough to grab some cash and flee, before I’d turn the tape over to the authorities.