by Phil Swann
“Thank you, Trip!” she squealed. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But be careful what you ask for, Bets. Clegg’s thorough when it comes to investigating someone. I hope your flyboy doesn’t have any skeletons in his closet, because if he does, Clegg will find them.”
“He doesn’t, and Clegg won’t,” Betsy responded. “Rodney’s ‘bout the sweetest and most honest person I’ve ever met.”
“Un-huh,” I replied. “So, what’s his full name?”
“It’s—”
“Hang on, let me write it down.” I retrieved a pen from inside my blazer and then tore a sheet of paper out of the ragged phone book hanging under the telephone. “Okay, I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“It’s Rodney Eugene Bullard. You spell that—”
“I know how to spell it,” I said. “Okay, I’ll let you know what Clegg says.”
“Thank you, Trip. I owe you.”
“You’re welcome, and no, you don’t. So, speaking of your father, is he there? I need to talk to him.”
“He’s in the kitchen. I’ll get him. And Trip, this is between us. Right?”
“I’ll utter nary a word about it to Luther.”
“Great. Hang on.”
As I waited for Luther to come to the phone, I started imagining Clegg’s reaction to me asking him if he’d look into Betsy’s beau. I figured it would go one of two ways. He could just say, “Sure, no problem,” and that’d be that. But what was more likely is he’d start laughing uncontrollably, ask if I’d lost my marbles, and start reciting pages of regulations that forbid law enforcement from invading the privacy of American citizens for the sake of learning if they were good potential boyfriend material or not. What was I thinking promising Betsy I would do such a lamebrain thing? Maybe I had lost my marbles.
“Hey Trip!” the voice boomed through the telephone line. “How are things in Tinsel Town?”
“Hi, Luther. All good, all good. Hey, guess who I saw play the other night? Wynton Kelly.”
“No, you josh? Wynton Kelly? Can that boy play or what? You know, I heard Wynton jam with Miles a few years back. Totally righteous. I can’t wait to tell Eighty-Eight. Did you know that’s Wynton Kelly playing on Miles’s Kind of Blue album? Where’d you hear him? Was he with his trio?”
“At the Manne-Hole, and no trio, he was just sitting in.”
“I see. Well, ain’t that something?”
“Yes, it was. And he was brilliant, of course.”
“I bet. So, what can I do you for? Bets said you needed to talk to me?”
“I just had a question.”
“I probably have an answer,” Luther replied. “Shoot.”
“Sometime back, you were talking about beef, and I seem to remember you saying something about the best beef in the world came from Argentina. Did I imagine that, or is that what you said?”
“That’s what I said,” Luther answered. “The best steak a man can put in his belly comes from Argentina. No question about it.”
“That’s what I thought. Why?”
“Well, mainly because of how and where the beef is raised. It makes the meat more tender and flavorful.”
“Is that right.”
“Yup. You see, Argentinian beef is grass-fed on the plains of Argentina—las Pampas, they call it. It’s a big ol’ green prairie down there where the humid climate is perfect for growing plenty of cow-friendly grass. The Spanish introduced about a dozen new breeds of cattle to the region in the sixteenth century, and those breeds thrived in the Pampas. They just guzzle up all that delicious grass, resulting in leaner, better-tasting beef. Most American beef is grain fed on corn and such. It does fatten the cows up fast, you see, but the problem is, cows weren’t meant to eat corn, and you can taste the difference, let me tell you. Argentinian cattle ain’t rushed that way, no sir. And the result is a higher quality of meat. Yum yum,” he crooned.
“I see,” I said.
But Luther wasn’t finished. “Also, in addition to the way Argentinian beef is raised, the way it's butchered adds to its better flavor too.”
That certainly perked up my ears. “The way it’s butchered? How so?”
Luther explained. “Argentine cuts are based on the texture of different parts of the cow, such as their cut of tenderloin they called lomo, or the rib cap, which they call tapa de asado. So, rather than have a single piece of steak with more than one texture—like say our American T-bone or rib-eye—an Argentinian steak stays consistent all the way through, thereby making it cook evenly. That makes it tender enough to cut with your fork.”
“Interesting,” I muttered.
“Yup, it is. And I tell you what, once you have an Argentinian steak, you’ll never want to eat one from anywhere else.”
“I bet. I assume one of these steaks would be expensive to buy.”
“Oh my, yes. One will cost you a pretty penny, no doubt about it. That is, if you can even get your hands on one.”
“Are they hard to find?”
“As hard as finding gold in the Mississippi.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just the way things are down there in South America. Sometimes it’s hard to get stuff. Guess it’s political, like everything else is.”
“Right,” I replied, my brain going a zillion mile an hour. “Well, thank you, Luther. That’s all I wanted to know.”
“That’s it?” he said back. “I thought you were going to ask me something hard like what’s the square root of sixty-four.”
I laughed. “It’s eight.”
“Couldn’t prove it by me. I never was much good at arithmetic.”
“I have a feeling you’re better than you let on,” I replied.
“So, when you coming home, boy? The regulars here sure do miss you sitting in with Eighty-Eight. Isn’t that picture you’re on finished, yet?”
As I have previously stated, I lie—a lot. But I never lie to Luther. He’s the one person I’m always honest with. However, sometimes I find it better not tell the old guy everything, especially when everything involves a case I’m on for Clegg. It’s as much for Luther’s peace of mind as anything.
“Picture just ended,” I said. “But I’m doing a TV variety show for a few days. Money was too good to pass up. But I’ll be home after it’s finished.”
“Now, don’t you go and become all Hollywood on us and not want to come home.”
“No chance, Luther,” I laughed. “I can’t wait to get home, I swear. But I got to run. Tell everybody I said hey, and I’ll talk to you soon.”
“I will, indeed. You take care of yourself, son.”
“You, too. And thanks again for the info, Luther. Bye.”
I hung up the phone feeling satisfied, validated, and more than a little proud of myself. I was now sure I knew exactly what was going on with the Cabaneri-Goetz crimes-capade, and that meant the only thing left for me to do was to tell Clegg about it and have him pass the information on to D.A. Colson. After that, as far as I was concerned, my work would be done, and I’d be free from tyranny.
I jumped into the Falcon, fired her up, and peeled out of the diner’s parking lot. My foot was heavy on the gas because I couldn’t wait to get to the Roosevelt Hotel and tell my fearless feds what I’d found out. I was certain Clegg was still peeved about me not checking in with him after my rehearsal earlier that day, especially since it resulted in me being conked on the head in my apartment, but I was equally as certain once the G-man heard what I had to tell him, all would all be forgiven.
I think it’s important at this juncture to point out that I’m not a suspicious bloke by nature, and I’m not overly paranoid. I tend to think of myself as being just the right amount of paranoid. That’s why when the headlights on the car across the road from the diner suddenly came on after my own did, and then that same car peeled out behind me, I noticed.
It was too dark for me to ascertain the make and model of the vehicle, except to know it was small. I t
urned onto the Hollywood freeway and glanced in the rearview mirror. The car was still behind me. Once I was up to speed, I floored it. I changed lanes twice before I looked again in the rearview. The car was no longer behind me, but I was certain the headlights on the car one lane over, and two cars back, belonged to the same car.
I stayed calm and decided there was no reason to panic. It was a busy freeway, and I was about to exit into downtown Hollywood. Which meant there was little chance the person, or persons, inside the car would attempt anything violent with a throng of witnesses looking on. I exited the freeway, drove past the Hollywood Bowl, and then made a right turn onto Hollywood Boulevard. I looked in my rearview one more time but didn’t see any headlights that looked familiar. I concluded that either I had lost them, or I wasn’t being followed to start with. Regardless which was true, when I arrived at the Roosevelt, I pulled in front of the hotel and left the Falcon with the valet instead of parking it myself in the back, the way I usually did.
I let out a breath I’d been holding in for several miles before I finally opened the car door and got out. I tossed my keys to the attendant, straightened my jacket, and then scurried up to Clegg’s suite, or as Clegg called it, headquarters. As fate would have it, guess who was there waiting?
D.A. Sebastian Colson was seated on the couch but stood when I walked in. “What did you find out?” he blurted out, forgoing any salutation.
I didn’t remember him being so tall. Yet another reason to not like the guy. I made a beeline to the mini bar.
“A house call?” I said, tossing ice cubes into a highball glass. “Didn’t think you guys ever left the office.”
Colson didn’t even snicker. “We do when our investigators don’t report in like they’re supposed to. What did you learn at The Palomino?”
Clegg entered from the other room with Square Head and Tonto behind him. Remembering Clegg’s instructions to tell him everything I learned before telling Colson, I looked at him and waited. He gave me a subtle nod. I nodded back and then poured a wee dram over my glass of ice.
I assumed Clegg had brought Colson up to speed on everything, so after taking a gulp of my whiskey, I went right to the heart of the matter.
“Yes, the twins hang out at The Palomino, as does the rest of the band. Apparently, they’ve been showing up there ever since they got to L.A.”
“Why?” Colson asked.
“They like to sit in with the house band,” I answered.
“But why at that place specifically?”
I took another drink and then turned to Clegg. “Were you able to learn anything more about Goetz?”
Clegg narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Were you?” I asked again.
“A little,” he answered. “The state department phoned an hour ago.”
“Would you mind telling me what they said?”
Clegg grinned ever so slightly. He knew I had something. “Okay,” he said, removing a piece of paper from inside his jacket. “We’re still gathering information, but here’s what we know so far. Ricardo Goetz, born and raised in the La Pampa province of Argentina. It appears Goetz was married, but wife is now deceased. He has one offspring, a daughter named Gabriella. She’s a singer. Father and daughter perform together regularly at clubs in Buenos Aires. Gabriella sings, and Ricardo plays—”
I interrupted. “But music isn’t his fulltime job, is it?”
Clegg looked at me and shook his head. “No, it’s not.”
“And what is his other occupation?” I asked.
“He owns land. A lot of it. He’s also a—”
“Cattle rancher,” I said.
“That’s right,” Clegg confirmed.
“And how did you know that?” Colson asked.
I smiled at the district attorney. “Okay, Mr. Colson, I’ll answer your question now. Gabriella’s tango band hangs out at The Palomino because it’s next door to a meatpacking factory.”
“So?” he replied.
I finished my drink, set the glass on the bar, and began pouring another. “So,” I said as if I couldn’t understand how they all couldn’t see it, “that’s where they butcher the beef.”
“What beef?” Colson asked.
I paused for dramatic effect, and then made a face that blatantly said I believed a person would have to be a complete numbskull to ask such a silly question. “The beef that Goetz and Cabaneri are smuggling into the United States from Argentina, of course.”
Chapter 9
I began by explaining what I had learned from Luther about the specialness of Argentinian beef. I then proceeded to connect the dots. I reminded everybody what I had witnessed at the docks, seeing Cabaneri, Goetz, and a man in a necktie go into—what was now obvious to me—a refrigerated cargo container. I then told them about the Everfresh name and logo on the container, and how I saw that same name and logo again on a panel truck at the meatpacking factory. I told them that I felt confident that if anyone was so inclined to dig into the financials of the Everfresh trucking company, they’d probably find it was owned by none other than Anthony Cabaneri. I concluded my dissertation with Pinky’s story about how blood was noticed on the pants of one of the bandoneon twins, and how the brothers explained they worked at the meatpacking factory. As a final, final coda, I reminded everyone what we all had just learned about Ricardo Goetz being an Argentinian cattle rancher. It was a brilliant presentation, if I do say so myself, and I felt satisfied I had laid out my case thoroughly and thoughtfully. I sat on the couch, awash with superiority and totally full of myself.
There was a brief silence, and then Colson asked, “So, who attacked you at your apartment?”
“I still think it was one of the brothers,” I answered. “Cabaneri, or Goetz, must have spotted me at the docks. They wanted to know what I knew, so they sent one of the twins to toss my pad.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?” Colson replied.
I was indignant and came to my feet. “Well, it was either that, or you have a leak in the D.A.’s office, because one way or the other, Cabaneri knows I’m working undercover.”
“Just because he talked to you?” Colson shouted.
“Not just because he talked to me, but the way he talked to me. It was about nothing. Nothing at all. He was stalling, Colson. Trying to get under my skin and keep me off balance, because what he was actually doing was giving whoever he sent to my apartment time to nose around.”
Clegg said, “But you showed up before they were finished.”
“Right,” I agreed.
“Now you’re reaching,” Colson bellowed. “I can’t do anything with any of this. Everything you said is conjecture and could have a completely innocent explanation.”
“What’s wrong, Colson?” I said. “Smuggling sirloins not sexy enough for you?”
“It’s all circumstantial,” he shouted back. “No grand jury will buy it.”
“Relax, Colson,” Clegg broke in, “it’s not your problem anymore, anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Colson replied.
Clegg said, “It’s not your problem, because it’s not your case any longer. If what Trip says is true—and I must admit, the evidence is pretty convincing, circumstantial or not—it’s a matter for U.S. Customs, and the Department of Agriculture now. I’m turning it over to them.”
“No way!” Colson yelled. “This is my case. I’m bringing down Cabaneri myself. Even if it is on some BS smuggling operation.”
Clegg walked over and patted the attorney on the back. “Don’t worry, Sebastian. I’m sure the federal government will welcome your assistance.”
“You can’t do this, Clegg,” he said. “I’ve got the state attorney general on my side. Remember, you owe me.”
Clegg snapped back. “And I’ll see your state attorney general and raise you the director of three federal agencies. Debt paid, counselor. It’s over.”
I could tell Colson wanted to fire something back but couldn’t find the words. After sh
ooting all of us a look that would have made lesser men whimper, he picked up his briefcase and stomped out. The door slammed behind him. It was a beautiful thing to behold. I almost got teary.
“He doesn’t seem too happy,” I said, feigning concern.
“He’ll get over it,” Clegg responded, heading toward the minibar. “You sure about all of this?”
“I am,” I replied. “But there is something I left out.”
“What?”
“I might have been followed here tonight.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Clegg shrugged and proceeded to pour himself a whiskey, straight.
“Can we wrap this thing up before something unseemly happens to your favorite undercover trumpet player?”
Clegg smiled and then came over to me with his drink in hand. When he perched himself on the arm of the sofa, I knew from his expression I wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “Look, Trip. It’s going to take some time to get the guys from the other agencies up to speed on all of this. You’ll need to stay put for a little while longer so the bad guys don’t get suspicious, or more suspicious than they already are. Understand?”
I closed my eyes and let go of a defeated sigh. “How much longer?”
“Not long, just a day or two. Don’t worry, I’ll have you back in the Copa Room in no time.”
“You better. I know two showgirls who are heartbroken I’m gone.”
Clegg laughed. “You’ve done good work. I’m proud of you.”
I nodded. “Just get me back to Vegas, will you?” I started to stand, but stopped myself and sat back down. “There is one other thing.”
“What?”
“Betsy Beaurepaire is dating an Air Force flyer stationed out at Nellis. I think you should look into him. You know, do that whole background check thing you’re so good at.”
“Why? Is he a part of this?”
“No, no, not at all. But…well, Betsy knows I work for you, and I think it’d be a good idea for us to know who she’s fraternizing with, don’t you?”
