Mike Befeler Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series E-Book Box Set: Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder, Senior Moments Are Murder, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder

by Mike Befeler

  “Now let me find us a story to read.” I thumbed through the table of contents. “Here’s one called ‘The Green Door.’ How does that sound?”

  “Fine. I’m ready.”

  I opened the book to the right page and read aloud the story of Rudolf Steiner who receives a card with the words “Green Door.” Seeking an adventure, he enters an apartment building and finds a green door. He knocks and discovers an attractive woman who is starving. He helps her, feeling that the card led him to her. When he leaves he discovers that every door in the building is green and the card had been an advertisement for a theater called the Green Door.

  When I finished I asked Meyer, “What did you think of that?”

  “Interesting story. Paul, you’re an adventurer just like Rudolf Steiner.”

  “It reminds me of what I read in my journal about my crazy life. This guy ended up in the wrong place at the right time. Only difference is that I seem to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time and find dead bodies instead of green doors.”

  “But you found Marion.”

  “Somehow. I don’t remember how it happened, but I sure am grateful. Someone past his prime like me ending up with a chick like Marion is quite an accomplishment.”

  “You’re an adventurer with a life of surprises.”

  “I still need to find a way to stay out of jail.”

  “You’ll work out something, Paul.”

  “So tell me how your health issues are doing.”

  “Well, with my macular degeneration, I can’t read anything, so that’s why your reading to me is so much appreciated. I can barely see my plate at dinner. Once in a while I’m surprised to be eating what I think is a piece of zucchini and it turns out to be cucumber, but other than that I’m getting by. I listen to the TV, but the picture is a blur.”

  “Not much worth seeing anyway. It all sex, violence and crime.”

  “Kind of like your life, Paul.”

  “Give me a break. In between the weird stuff, my life is pretty boring. Anyway, you should be able to find something worthwhile to watch . . . I mean listen to on TV.”

  “I take in the sound and try to imagine what’s going on. Then there is the matter of my incontinence. The medication I’m on seems to help. I only have a few accidents.”

  “That must be a pisser.”

  “Well stated. I shouldn’t keep you longer. Marion won’t appreciate it if I take up all your time.”

  “No problem. She’s the one who reminded me to ring you up. I’ll give you a call again, Meyer.”

  After I hung up, I had the mixed feelings of excitement from a conversation with a good friend, with an element of sadness because I couldn’t recall anything else about him other than what I had read in my journal. I thought about my condition and Meyer’s. He could remember but couldn’t control his peeing—couldn’t even see well enough to read or watch TV. I was in great shape thanks to my regular walks, but my memory leaked like a dripping faucet. The luck of the draw. I guess I should have been grateful that all my major organs functioned well, except my brain. But what the hell, I had to feel sorry for myself once in a while. I would get on with my crazy life for however long it played out, but for the moment I sat there letting all the events swirl around in my dysfunctional cranium.

  Before I had a chance to improve my attitude, I heard a knock on the door. Marion answered it.

  “Hello, Austin.”

  “Grandma, I have an e-mail message from Jennifer for her grandfather. I printed it out.” He handed her several pages.

  Austin trotted off, and Marion gave me the papers.

  “I’ll be damned. A message from my granddaughter.”

  I settled in an easy chair and started reading an article describing the relationships between the three leading art dealers in Venice: Clint Brock, Vance Theobault and Frederick Vansworthy. It was obviously written before Vansworthy met his Maker. It touted Vansworthy, the most recent on the art scene, who through his superior art-selection skills seemed poised to surpass the more senior Brock and Theobault. With that in mind, Theobault had struck a deal with Vansworthy that left Brock in the most precarious position.

  I thought over what I had read in my journal. Here were motives for both Theobault and Brock to put Vansworthy permanently out of the way. Theobault benefited from taking over the partnership, and Brock would have one less competitor.

  And then the matter of Muddy Murphy was muddying the waters, so to speak. I wondered if the detective I had read about was making any progress.

  Marion interrupted my muddling. “Paul, our honeymoon cruise is a little over a week off. I’m concerned because Detective Quintana told you not to leave the state.”

  “I hope this murder situation gets cleared up quickly. I’ll have to see if I can help move it along. Apparently Quintana hasn’t brought the perpetrator to justice yet. He’s been too busy badgering me.”

  That afternoon I strolled down to the beach. My musing about art dealers and murdered artists led me to the graffiti wall, and I watched a man with wild, spiky red hair wield a collection of spray cans like a juggler. After he had covered an area approximately five feet by four feet with vivid geometrical shapes, I confronted him.

  “Why do you do this?” I asked.

  He spun around and gave me a toothy grin. “Because it’s here. I can’t resist adding my designs to the wall whenever I have the chance. Look at the color, the texture, the blending of hundreds of layers of paint.”

  “But doesn’t someone else just come along and paint over your work?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the painting that matters. I do mine. Someone else does theirs. Then I come back again. It’s like having an unlimited canvas.” He swung his arms out to highlight the panorama of the whole wall.

  I stared at a pattern that reminded me of a seasick sailor surrounded by boxes of exploding oatmeal. “Not really a career where you could support yourself.”

  “This is my therapy. I pick up cans and squirt paint to my heart’s content. I come here and let my imagination run wild without getting into trouble like I used to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His face turned serious. “I’m a reformed environmental artist. I got in trouble by destroying trees when I lived in Boulder, Colorado.”

  “Hey. I have family in Boulder.”

  “It’s a nice place, but they’re very touchy when it comes to certain types of art. I even did a stint removing graffiti. That’s where I came to appreciate the nuances of spray paint. By the way, my name is Pitman. Mallory Pitman.”

  I introduced myself and then had an idea. “Did you know Muddy Murphy?”

  His eyes lit up like Christmas candles. “Yes. Now there was an original artist.” Then he frowned. “Too bad he died.”

  “Yeah. He was murdered. I hear it may have been because he and some art dealers didn’t see eye to eye.”

  “Those vultures.” He threw a can of spray paint into the sand.

  “You don’t think highly of them?”

  “No. They like to wring blood out of the local artists. They should be supporting up-and-coming artists, not beating us down.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had some bad experiences.”

  “That’s why I restrict my art to the graffiti wall for now.” He stepped back, extended his right thumb as a reference to where he was painting and squinted at his work. “I support myself as a waiter in the evening at the Renaissance Restaurant. Good tips.”

  “But art is still in your blood.”

  “As long as I have the graffiti wall, I’m content.”

  * * * * *

  When I returned home, I said to Marion, “I met a graffiti artist who used to live in Boulder. Name of Mallory Pitman.”

  She looked at me askance. “You’ve obviously forgotten, but you had a run-in with him when you lived there with your family.”

  “Don’t remember it.”

  “He sawed down trees in the yard of a friend of yours. You turned
in Pitman to the police.”

  “He must have as bad a memory as I do. He didn’t recognize me.”

  “I think it all happened at night so he may not have even seen you. I saw some of his work when I visited you in Boulder. It was on display at an exhibit on the Pearl Street Mall.”

  “I’ll be damned. In any case, he knows the local art community. He might be a source of useful information. How’d you like to go out to dinner tonight?”

  “You have something in mind?”

  “Yeah. There’s a restaurant I want to try—The Renaissance.”

  Chapter 13

  Marion forced me to swallow three huge pills before she would accompany me to the restaurant. Then after a call to the local taxi monopoly and a short wait, our chariot driver arrived.

  When the cab dropped us off at the restaurant, the first thing I noticed was a gilded entryway with a large chandelier overhead. Inside, the room had multiple identical chandeliers with the lights dimmed and a string quartet playing from an alcove. The aroma of sizzling steak permeated the air. I suddenly felt hungry.

  “Pretty swanky,” Marion said.

  “Nothing but the best for my bride.”

  We were seated at a table with a crisp white tablecloth, gold utensils and crystal glasses. I unfurled a white napkin and placed it in my lap.

  When our waiter appeared, I was pleased to see the red mop top of Mallory Pitman.

  He didn’t seem to recognize me, so I said, “We spoke at the graffiti wall earlier today.”

  He wrinkled his eyebrows and then smiled. “Oh, yeah. Now I remember.”

  “As a result of that conversation, I decided to try your fine establishment. You can tell your boss that you’ve brought in a new set of customers.”

  “Then I’ll bring you the chef’s hors d’oeuvres on the house.”

  He trotted off and soon returned with a plate of pâté, shrimp adorned with a béarnaise sauce and mushrooms filled with crab.

  “Not bad,” I said as I munched away at some of the pâté on a dark rye cracker.

  We ordered glasses of Bordeaux, salads and juicy steaks. Afterwards I asked for a doggie bag for the steak scraps, and we completed the meal with crepes to die for.

  Now fully sated, I signaled for Pitman to come over.

  I leaned close to him. “When we spoke earlier today, you mentioned you lived in Boulder. I have a confession to make. I was the guy who turned you in for sawing down trees in people’s yards.”

  His eyes grew large. “You’re the one who stuck a stick in my back pretending it was a gun?”

  “I don’t remember the particulars, but my wife reminded me of the event. I’m afraid I’m the one who interrupted your art career.”

  Rather than acting irritated, Pitman laughed. “I guess I deserved it. My limited local acclaim went to my head. The new scenery here has given me a better perspective on life.”

  “But don’t you miss your artwork?” Marion asked.

  He leaned close to us and spoke in a soft voice. “I’ve saved some money from tips and can soon afford to rent studio space. I’ll start over from the right basis this time. When the creative desire strikes me, I’ll pursue it in a more appropriate manner.”

  “I’m glad there are no hard feelings,” I said. “In fact I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m trying to learn more about the art dealers in this community and could use the advice of someone, like yourself, who is versed in the art world. I’d be willing to pay a little stipend if you’d serve as an art consultant to me.”

  He gave me a large grin. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll be happy to advise you. And no charge.”

  “There’s an open house at Clint Brock’s gallery Saturday night. Could you meet me there?”

  “That’s my night off and I planned to stop by anyway. I try to attend all these events. I’m developing contacts for when I start working again . . . I mean other than being a waiter.”

  I thanked him and left a sizable tip to move him closer to his dream of having his own studio.

  * * * * *

  In the cab on the way home, Marion and I held hands. I was excited by her touch, but felt a twinge of sadness, thinking of my friends and acquaintances who I would forget overnight.

  “You seem pensive,” Marion said. “A penny for your thoughts.”

  “Hell, I’d give a few hundred thousand dollars to have my memory back.”

  “That would be nice, but it isn’t going to happen.”

  “Don’t use reality to confuse me,” I said. “I have to have something to gripe about.”

  * * * * *

  Back at our place as we climbed the stairs, a gray tabby cat joined us.

  “Hello, Cleo,” Marion said.

  I reached down and opened the doggie bag I’d brought.

  Cleo busied herself munching the goodies left over from our feast.

  “And I thought the scraps were for you, Paul.”

  “Nah. I thought I’d bring them for our watch cat.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning after I reacquainted myself with the life and times of Paul Jacobson of the journal-reliant memory, I decided to wander down to the beach while Marion was off running errands. Along the way I passed a vacant lot with what looked like a convention for homeless people going on. Next to a building stood half a dozen shopping carts loaded with clothes and plastic bags. Sitting on the scraggly grass was a scruffy crowd of people in a random medley of ragged clothes.

  One man waved to me. “Hey, I know you. Come on over.”

  I pointed to myself.

  “Yeah, you’re Paul Jacobson.”

  What the hell. I ambled over.

  The man who had shouted to me lumbered up. He stood my height with a beard, wavy hair—not too dirty—and wore old baggy jeans complemented by a plaid shirt.

  He grabbed my arm. “We talked over by the paddle-tennis courts.”

  “My memory’s not so hot so I can’t say for sure.”

  “That’s right, you told me that before. I’m Harley Marcraft.”

  The name rang a bell with what I had read in my journal. “Yeah, we did speak.”

  He snapped his fingers. “We talked about Muddy Murphy.”

  Now he had my attention. “I am interested in Muddy Murphy.”

  The man threw his arms out toward the crowd of folks sprawled on the grass. “Here’s Muddy’s extended family.”

  “Some of you knew Muddy?” I asked.

  Half a dozen heads nodded.

  “Wow, Harley, you have quite a mob here.”

  He grimaced. “Unfortunately, our population has increased lately.”

  “Poor economic times?” I asked.

  “No. It’s the Los Angeles Police Department. They’ve been cracking down on the homeless in downtown LA. They let people pitch tents at night, but during the day they keep kicking people out of their territory.”

  “How does that affect you here in Venice Beach?”

  “Simple. If the police hassle our colleagues in downtown, they just migrate out to the beach. Our people are not going away. We move on.”

  I scanned the crowd. One woman who I had noticed shaking her head continued to do so while mumbling to herself. I hoped she enjoyed the conversation with herself.

  “It’s surprising that Muddy lived on the street when he was a well-known artist.”

  “There are a number of us who choose to live here even though we could afford accommodations. Take Ralph for example.” He pointed to a man in his thirties who nodded at me. “Tell him your story, Ralph.”

  Ralph stroked his bearded chin. “I used to be a stockbroker. Had a decent place in Santa Monica. Then one day I quit my job. I could have lived in my apartment but just let the lease expire and took to the streets.”

  “But you can’t afford an apartment anymore, I bet.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not the case. I left my portfolio intact and have
n’t touched it since. Probably worth a fair amount. I’m not interested in it. I found my friends here, and I don’t have to put up with all the crap of being in an office anymore.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m kind of attached to sleeping in a bed.”

  “You get used to it. It’s not so bad as long as the weather holds. But, hey, this is Southern California and it doesn’t rain that much. And if a storm comes in we can go to Saint Andrew’s and sleep on the floor of the meeting room.”

  “I did my fair share of camping when I was a young squirt,” I said. “The old body now prefers sheets and a mattress. I’m curious. What kind of reactions do people give you when they see you on the street?”

  “Three general types. First, most people won’t make eye contact. They want to pretend homeless people don’t exist. Then there are the do-gooders. They want to convince me to find a job and live in an apartment. They mean well but generally have no clue. The third category is the bad one. Those that like to beat up homeless people.”

  “Does that happen often?” I asked.

  “Once a month or so a homeless person is found beat-up or dead. Recently a woman had her head bashed in down on Speedway. It was sad. She was harmless. Don’t know why some people seem to get their jollies through violence. It’s the negative side of the people who ignore us. This third group places no value on the life of a homeless person. But still this is the lifestyle I’ve chosen.”

  I turned toward Harley. “Not all these people are here by choice.”

  “No. Most have no alternative. The combination of poverty and mental illness is pervasive. Take Benny for example. He’s the one standing against the wall.”

  I looked over. A man had his hand to his ear and his mouth moved a mile a minute.

  “He’s either on a cell phone or he’s on his own wavelength,” I said. “I can’t tell if half the people I’ve seen today are on cell phones or nuts.”

  Harley laughed. “Benny has no cell phone. He doesn’t need one. He’s in constant communication with his departed wife, the CIA and an invisible UFO hovering over Santa Monica Bay. He has a party line that he thinks is the result of a chip being implanted in his brain by al-Qaeda.”

  “I don’t have an implant. My problem is that someone snipped some of the wiring.”