by Bill Moody
I pull into a parking space on the street near Emerson’s office and put some money in the meter. Emerson’s lot is only half full, and there’s no sign of his car.
After a quick glance at the street I go inside, taking one of the Rusty Riddle records with me. Emerson’s secretary Marge is in the outer office sipping coffee and reading the paper. She looks up when I come in and gives me one of her breathtaking smiles. She’s in a clingy pink skirt and sweater today that contrasts with her coffee skin. Marge almost makes me wish I were a lawyer.
“Evan,” she says, getting to her feet. “What a nice surprise. It’s getting lonely around here.”
“Hi, Marge,” I say, trying to keep my eyes focused on her face. “Where’s Emerson?”
Marge shrugs. “Who knows? I haven’t heard from him since yesterday morning. He’s due in later this afternoon and he’s scheduled for a court appearance at four. Can I help?”
“Well, it’s nothing important. I just wanted to drop this off.” I lay the Rusty Riddle album on her desk.
She looks at it and wrinkles her nose. “Country? What’s this?”
Marge and I had one conversation about music when she first came to work for Emerson. I’d told her the story about Buddy Rich. As the flamboyant drummer was being wheeled into surgery, the doctor asked him if there was anything he was allergic to. “Country music,” Rich had said. Marge had understood completely.
“Guy laid this on me. Claims he talked to Lonnie about doing some arrangements. I guess he heard about the Charlie Crisp collaboration. I just wanted to check it out with Emerson.”
She puts the album aside like an unpaid bill. “Well, I’ll see that he gets it,” she says.
“Great, thanks, Marge.”
“Wait,” she says. “Do you want to leave a number for Emerson?”
“No, that’s okay,” I say. “He knows where to find me.”
From a pay phone at a convenience store on Sunset I make two calls. The first is to Carol Mann. She picks up on the second ring. “Dr. Mann.”
“Carol, it’s Evan Horne.”
“Oh, Evan, I’m so glad you called. Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, I got it. Look, Carol, I won’t be making the group session today. Something’s come up. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“What’s going on, Evan? Dr. Martin says you missed physical therapy Monday.”
I’d completely forgotten about that. Instinctively I go for the rubber ball.
“Evan? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” I say, glancing at my watch.
“There’s something else. Two men came by here this morning looking for you. Pretty rough-looking guys, tried to pass themselves off as cops. They wouldn’t tell me anything, though. I didn’t buy it.”
I look over the parking lot and the street, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary and no sign of the beach boys. “Was one of them black, late thirties, medium height?”
“No, nothing like that. These two looked like they could be cast in The Godfather.” She pauses for a moment “You’re worrying me, Evan. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No, nothing like that, Carol. I’ll explain it all later. I’m okay. Look, I gotta go. Talk to you later.” I hang up before she can press further.
The second call is to Cindy, and for once I don’t get her answering machine.
“Evan, where are you? Lieutenant Cooper called. He wants you to call him right away.” Cindy sounds worried too.
“Anyone else?” The beach boys know where I live, they saw her on the beach, and it won’t take them much to figure out Cindy’s connection with me.
“No, why?”
“Just checking. Look, can you get a flight out today?”
“Work, you mean? I’m not scheduled but I could put myself on standby. Why?”
“Just do it, Cindy. I want you out of the apartment, out of town. Go out to the airport and wait it out there.”
“You’re sweet, Evan. You really are worried about me, aren’t you?”
“Cindy, if you can’t get a flight, stay with a girlfriend or something. Trust me.”
There’s a long pause before Cindy speaks again. “When is this going to be over, Evan?”
“Soon, Cindy. Soon.”
I just miss the afternoon rush hour and head down the San Diego Freeway toward Fullerton. There’s the usual congestion at the 10 Interchange, but it’s pretty clear sailing after that. I find the Cal State campus with a minimum of trouble. I pull into the field parking lot just before three. From the sounds coming from the field, the Rams are still practicing. I can’t see anything with the canvas stretched around the chain link fence, but I can hear a voice on a megaphone from inside. There’s a slightly built man in his mid-twenties sitting at the entrance in a deck chair and holding a clipboard.
“Can I help you?” he says, getting to his feet. He’s wearing a Rams T-shirt, gold sweatpants, and running shoes.
“Yeah„ is T.J. Buchanan around?” I ask.
“Sorry,” he says. “This is a closed practice. If you’re not on the visitors’ list I can’t let you in.” He doesn’t even glance at the clipboard.
“Can you check if he’s in? It’s important.”
He looks at me for a moment, decides I’m not a 49ers spy. “Wait here,” he says.
I light a cigarette and pace around for a few minutes until he comes back with T.J. in tow.
“Evan,” T.J. says. “What are you doin’ here?”
“I need to talk to you, T.J. It’s important.” T.J. is in a warm-up suit and a Rams baseball cap. He looks like he’s been doing laps. Rivulets of sweat glisten on his face and he’s breathing hard.
“Well, come on in, man. It’s okay, Rudy. He’s with me,” T.J. says to the kid.
“Whatever you say,” Rudy says, grinning at T.J.
“One of your fans?”
“Yeah, I guess,” T.J. says. “I helped him out once.”
We go inside. A lot of the players are milling around, talking. A couple of them are playing catch. In the middle of the field there’s a scrimmage going on. The defense, in white practice uniforms, is on one knee looking tired and hot. Opposite them the offense huddles around several coaches, one of whom is giving a giant offensive tackle hell.
“Pinch it in, pinch it in,” the coach says. “Goddammit, you know your assignment on the draw play. Execute!”
Eleven Rams helmets bow in a circle. They break the huddle. The quarterback wears a gold pullover. Nobody is going to hit him. He barks some signals, the ball is snapped. The linemen clash in a flurry of clacking pads, expelled breath, and grunts and groans. The quarterback spins, hands off to a running back who veers to his right. He’s smashed to the ground almost before he gets the ball by a mammoth, younger version of T.J.
The coach slams his baseball cap to the ground and rushes the offensive lineman, who obviously missed his block. He’s just getting to his feet when the coach jumps him. “Goddammit, you going to let a rookie do that to you?” he bellows.
The lineman, breathing hard, squints and glares at the coach. His voice is almost inaudible. “Not anymore,” he says.
“All right, let’s try it again.” The coach turns back to the huddle already starting to form again. “We’ve got to execute, people.”
T.J. takes it all in with a satisfied smile. “Some days, retirement is just fine. That rookie will start on Sunday,” he says. He leads me over to the bleachers and we take a seat a few rows up from the field, away from the small crowd of onlookers.
“Lonnie wants to hear from you,” T.J. says. “I talked to him today.” T.J. sprawls across three bleacher seats.
“I know, T.J., but he’s not going to like what I have to say.” T.J.’s eyes are on the field, but I know he’s listening. We listen to the quarterback’s voice shouting signals, the crash of pads and helmets. “I think it’s Emerson, T.J., all the way. He’s behind the whole thing. He took the pictures, wrote the notes,
and he’s running a record scam on Lonnie.”
T.J. shakes his head, but his eyes never leave the field. “I knew something was wrong, but Emerson? Are you sure? He and Lonnie go way back. Hell, man, they went to school together.” Despite what he says, T.J. doesn’t seem that surprised. Has he had his own reservations about Lonnie’s lawyer?
“Things change, T.J.” I have no other explanation. “I still don’t know what or how it happened, but I’m pretty sure. It’s Emerson.”
We silently watch a couple of more plays, then the team gathers in a large circle listening to the coach’s final words of the day. Helmets are off now, water bottles are out and suddenly they’re jogging off the far end of the field. In minutes, T.J. and I are alone on the bleachers.
“You goin’ to the cops with this?” T.J. asks.
“I can’t yet. I need more proof, and I might need your help.”
T.J. nods, resigned to his role. He’s known Emerson a long time, but his first loyalty is to Lonnie. “Whatta you want me to do?”
“There’s still those guys who jumped me on the beach the other night. They’re still out there. I want you to watch my back when I go for Emerson. Are you with me?”
T.J. clenches and unclenches his fists. “I’m there, man. I’m there.”
I have T.J. follow me back to my place. The traffic is very heavy now. The freeway is dogged with commuters going home from work, so it’s nearly an hour before we pull into the narrow alleyways of Venice. I have T.J. park down the street where he can have a clear view of my apartment. I pull into the carport feeling much better.
The beach is dotted with a few stragglers as the sun makes its descent into the Pacific. Parked out front, Coop and Dixon are waiting for me. They’ve already spotted T.J., and as I walk up the steps, Dixon goes over to talk to him.
“You said two days,” I say to Coop.
“I know,” Coop says, “but it’s like this. You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” From where we’re standing I can see Dixon talking, then T.J. drives off.
“Burglary.”
“But Markham said—”
Coop cuts me off. “It wasn’t Markham. Somebody else filed a complaint, got a warrant issued late this afternoon.”
Coop shows me the name on the complaint.
Now I know for sure.
“Sorry, sport, that’s the way it’s going down,” Coop says. “You got a lawyer?”
I shake my head. Dixon joins us. Coop shrugs and looks out toward the ocean. In the eleventh grade Coop and I struggled through a second-year Spanish class. I wonder if he ever thought then he’d be a cop arresting me for burglary. “Well, let’s do it,” he says.
Dixon takes a card out of his pocket and reads me my rights. Then he produces some handcuffs. “Turn around, please,” he says.
“Oh, come on, you gotta be kidding.” I start to protest. But I know they’re not. Dixon cuffs my hands behind my back. He opens the car door, puts his hand on top of my head, and eases me into the car.
Coop and Dixon get in front. “I guess we can trust you not to try and escape,” Coop says. I know he’s troubled about this, but there’s little he can do. We drive to Santa Monica in silence. Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror as he turns into the parking lot “You get one call,” Coop says. “Make it a good one.”
I’ve never been arrested before, but the booking procedure is familiar thanks to movies and television. Dixon takes off the cuffs. I rub my wrists. Even on that short ride they bind and pinch. Forms are filled out; everything comes out of my pockets, including my rubber ball. A bored sergeant rolls my fingers in black ink and fingerprints are taken. Coop comes back and escorts me to a holding cell.
“What about my call?” I already know who I’ll call. I’ve memorized the number.
“Coming up,” Coop says.
“I need some change.”
It takes Rick Markham about an hour to round up a lawyer and get down to Police Headquarters. Everything goes okay and I find myself relieved and standing in front of the booking desk collecting my things.
“This wouldn’t fit in the envelope,” the sergeant says, handing me my rubber ball. “Going to play some handball, are we?”
“Yeah, you never know when you might find a game.” I go out past Coop. He’s sitting on the edge of his desk. He hands me my typewriter. “We don’t need this anymore, but the clock is still ticking on your two days,” he says as I leave.
Markham is waiting outside. “Evan, I hope you know I had nothing to do with this.” He’s still in his boating outfit. “I was quite surprised, in fact, to get your call.”
“Well, I was almost working for you,” I say. “I figure it’s the least you could do. You can do me one more favor and drop me off at my place.”
“Certainly,” Markham says.
We get into his Mercedes and head for Venice. Markham is a careful driver, both hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead on the road. He barely turns his head when we talk.
“So,” Markham says. “What are your plans now?”
Good question, I think. Now that I’ve seen the name on the complaint, do I wait for him to come to me or go after him myself? The first thing I want to do is call T.J. With the beach boys maybe still out there somewhere, I want some backup. I look over my shoulder as we turn south on Lincoln, but none of the cars behind us turn.
“I’m just going home to think about everything, I guess.”
Markham nods. “Are you any closer to figuring this out?”
“Oh yeah. I’m real close.”
With my directions, Markham pulls up in front of my building. “Going to the awards show tomorrow night?” I ask him. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t. Pacific Records was no doubt in line for a few awards of their own.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Markham says as I open the door.
“Neither would I.” I watch him drive off and check the street. No strange cars. Mine is still in the carport. Cindy’s is gone, so she must have gotten a flight or found someone to stay with. Good girl.
I take out my keys, unlock the door. I go inside, right to the phone, and dial Lonnie’s number. Come on, T.J., be there. I let it ring ten times before I give up.
“Nobody home?”
I spin around at the sound of the voice. How did he get in here?
“Hello, Emerson,” I say. “You’re early.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Emerson shuts the door behind him and motions me to sit down on the couch. The gun he holds I’ve seen before. It’s Lonnie’s chrome-plated .38.
This is not the Emerson Barnes I saw playing glad-handing host at Gemini’s Restaurant. He looks tired, tense, stressed out. His suit is rumpled and from the look of his eyes he obviously hasn’t slept much lately.
“Hard day in court?” His face is full of resignation, as if he’s accepted an unfavorable decision from a judge and is already planning an appeal. He looks at me and sighs.
“You should have listened, Evan,” he says. “You just wouldn’t give up, would you?”
“Why, Emerson?” My mind is racing. Only Rick Markham knows for sure where I am. Where are Coop and Dixon? T.J.?
“It should have worked, and you only know half of it.”
“That’s enough, isn’t it? You don’t think you can get away with this, do you?” My mind goes back to the beach boys, the gun at the back of my head, Elvin Case on a steel table in the morgue.
“I already have,” Emerson says with confidence. “You’re just a stumbling block that got in the way and now has to be removed.” Emerson sits down opposite me. “How’d you get Markham to bail you out? You should have stayed in jail for one more night. Then it would have all been over. I had to call in some favors to get that complaint signed and a warrant.”
“Would it? How do you know I didn’t talk to the police?”
Emerson waves that aside. “What could you tell them? Conjecture was all you had. Lonnie and Crisp would have sung their song at the awar
ds show and everybody would have been happy. We were even going to give you a bonus for your trouble.”
We? Emerson, I, realize, is over the edge. He doesn’t see. He glances at my typewriter and smiles. “Yeah, you got that part right. I wrote the blackmail notes, but you don’t have it all, even with Markham’s help.”
“I think I do,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Somehow you managed to fake the returns, make it look like Lonnie’s records weren’t selling. You bought up copies of Rusty Riddle’s Greatest Hits, or had some more pressed, and maybe sold them off to some independent distributors.”
“There really were returns,” Emerson says. “Lonnie’s last records didn’t go all that well. He needed some unaccounted-for cash and I came to the rescue as usual.” He shrugs out of his coat one arm at a time. He may be shaken, but the gun is steady in his hand. Keep him talking is all I can think about.
“We?” Of course Emerson couldn’t have done it all alone. “Once Lonnie knows about this do you think he’s going to thank you?”
“I told you, you only know half of it. Lonnie knows what I want him to know.” He stands up, keeps the gun on me, goes over to the phone, and dials. He listens for a few moments, then hangs up. He glances at his watch, then waves the gun at me. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”
I get to my feet. Emerson directs me outside and we walk halfway down the street to his car. There’s no one on the street, no one to yell to.
“You drive,” Emerson says. He opens the curbside door and I slide over behind the wheel. Emerson follows me in, still holding the gun. With his other hand, he puts the keys in the ignition.
I start the car. “Where are we going?”
“Lonnie’s place. C’mon, let’s go.” Emerson seems nervous suddenly.
I make a U-turn, scanning the street, but there’s no help anywhere, not even someone walking their dog. All the way to the San Diego Freeway, I check the rearview mirror. If anybody is tailing us, they’re hanging way back or they’re awfully good.
