by Bill Moody
“Was killing me always part of the plan?” I ask.
What are my options? Ram a car? Cause an accident and hope I survive?
Emerson doesn’t answer for a moment. “It had to look good, the blackmail setup. We knew your girlfriend would be with you, and I called the police. So you went in the water for a few minutes. You didn’t get hit that hard.”
We again. Who was in on this with Emerson? “And after that?”
“After that, if you had any sense you would have let it go,” Emerson says, “but you had to keep digging. You’re poking around caused a lot of complications.”
“Like Elvin Case? What happened, Emerson? Did it just get out of hand?”
He doesn’t answer that one. His eyes flick from the road to the speedometer. “Keep it down. We don’t want a speeding ticket, do we?”
We continue up the grade and I take the Sunset exit, continue north to Mulholland, then make the turnoff to Lonnie’s house.
“I thought that’s what I was supposed to do,” I say. “Poke around.”
“Yeah,” Emerson says. “You were better than we thought.”
I pull up to the gate and glance at Emerson. There’s a button and a bank of numbers like a telephone dial. “Two-seven-four-one,” he says. I punch in the numbers and the gates swing open. I ease down the gravel drive and park in front of the house. There are lights on but no other cars except for Lonnie’s Jag.
“Let’s go,” Emerson says. He keeps the gun on me as we walk up the steps and go into the house using a key Emerson fishes from his pocket. He leads me into the living room. “Over there,” he says, directing me to sit down on the sofa. He glances at his watch again. Who is he expecting?
He goes over to the bar and pours himself a scotch from a crystal decanter, drinks it off, and pours another, then sits on the ottoman opposite me. Through the patio doors I can see the pool lights dancing, casting shadows. The dogs. They’re quiet now, but maybe I can get them going.
“What now?” I ask.
“We wait. It won’t be long.”
“You took the photos, then?”
Emerson shrugs. “That was the easy part. It wasn’t hard to get Lonnie to down around with Crisp for a video. Shit, it was a party. Took the photos right here.” He points the gun toward the big-screen TV and VCR unit on one wall. A tripod is folded on the shelf. No wonder the quality of the prints was good. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tell Carl Caye he was right about the photos.
“So I was set up from the beginning?”
Emerson nods, takes another sip from his drink.
“And the money?”
He smiles. “I’ve had it all the time. If you hadn’t gotten in the way, the photos would have been returned in the morning, just in time for the awards show. Lonnie and Crisp would have made their appearance and everybody would have gone home rich and happy.”
“And now?”
“You’re still a problem.”
“Like Elvin Case?” Again, Emerson doesn’t answer.
We both turn our heads as the sound of tires crunching on the gravel reaches us. We listen as the car door slams. There’s a key in the front door lock, then someone walks down the hall toward us. He stands in the doorway for a moment looking at Emerson and me, almost surprised to see us. Of course he knows everything I’ve been doing because I’ve been passing the word to him via T.J. It’s still a shock to see him standing there.
“What’s happenin’, Evan?” Lonnie Cole says.
Lonnie joins us and pours himself a drink “How about you?” he asks me.
I nod yes. A scotch sounds just fine, and at least I’ll have something in my hand. Lonnie hands me the drink and sits down in a recliner. He glances at Emerson. “Put that away, man,” he says. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Reluctantly, Emerson pockets the gun. “Now,” Lonnie says to me, “what are we going to do with you?” He looks at me over the rim of his glass.
“Lonnie,” Emerson begins, but Lonnie cuts him off.
“Shut up, Emerson. This is my gig.”
Emerson gets up and walks over to the window. “Lonnie, we can’t leave any loose ends. He’s got to go.”
Lonnie stares at the floor for a moment. “He’s right, you know,” Lonnie says to me. “We can’t let you out of this.”
“Lonnie,” I say, “use your head. You’ve got the money. It can be returned. I won’t pretend to understand why, Lonnie,” I say.
Lonnie glances around the room. “This is why, man. Don’t you understand that? It takes lots of bread to run this place. I’m never going back. You don’t know what it’s like growing up down there.”
I know he’s talking about Watts, Central Avenue. I understand that but not murder, blackmail.
He looks at me again. “How much would it take?”
I realize he’s talking about a payoff. That’s what Lonnie wants. He’s in too deep now. It’s all gotten out of hand, but there’s no way out and Emerson knows it.
“Hey, let’s cut the bullshit,” Emerson says to Lonnie. “You know what we’ve gotta do.” He turns back to face me, the gun out of his pocket again.
“Think, man,” I say to Lonnie. “The money is one thing, but I can’t believe you had anything to do with Elvin Case’s murder.”
Lonnie’s hand stops in midair. “Murder? Who’s Elvin Case?” Lonnie stands up and turns to face Emerson. The gun is out of his pocket again, pointed at both of us now.
Lonnie’s eyes bore into Emerson. “What’s he talking about? I asked you a question.”
“Shut up, Lonnie,” Emerson says. They square off at each other, almost as if they’ve forgotten I’m there. “He was getting too close, I took care of it, like I always do. I’ve been tired of making deals for you for a long time. I come from Watts too, remember? Only you made the big bread. Now it’s my turn.”
Lonnie stares at Emerson in disbelief “You killed someone?” he asks Emerson. “You killed someone?”
Emerson backs up a couple of steps. “You going to do it yourself, Emerson, or deliver us to the beach boys?” I ask.
Over Lonnie’s shoulder, behind Emerson, I see a huge shadow. Then T.J. is in motion charging toward Emerson. The thick carpet muffles his steps, but Emerson senses the movement. He spins toward T.J.
At the same time Lonnie lunges for Emerson.
“Watch the gun!” I yell, and throw my glass. I miss Emerson’s hand. It glances off his shoulder, enough I hope to throw off his aim. I watch his finger squeeze the trigger, but nothing happens. The gun flies out of his hand as T.J. slams into him with all of his two hundred sixty five pounds.
No NFL quarterback was ever sacked with such force. T.J. drives his shoulder into Emerson’s chest. He flies backward with T.J.’s arms still around him and they both crash through the patio door. The glass shatters and they end up on the patio, T.J. on top of Emerson. T.J. gets to his feet, brushing glass from his hair. His face is bleeding from a score of tiny cuts from glass shards. Emerson moans and tries to get up. Lonnie’s dogs are going crazy, throwing themselves at the gate to the dog run.
T.J. glares down at Emerson, grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, and yanks him to his feet. T.J.’s face is contorted in pain and rage.
“Time out, T.J.” I yell, “Time out!” I’m on my feet, running toward them.
T.J. turns his head slightly. His eyes are glazed. For an instant, he might be back on the field at the Coliseum questioning a referee’s call. Emerson’s feet are almost off the ground. T.J. looks at him, but then for good measure he shoves Emerson into the pool.
When I look around for Lonnie, he hasn’t moved. He gets up now and walks slowly to the patio. There’s broken glass everywhere.
“That’s it,” is all he says.
I grab the gun off the floor and hand it to T.J. “Get him out of there,” I say, pointing to Emerson, who looks like he’s going down the third time. “I’ll call the police.”
T.J. nods and wades into the pool. Holding the gun aloft w
ith one hand, he drags Emerson out, waterlogged and still moaning in half-consciousness. He drops him near the edge of the pool.
I don’t have to worry about Lonnie. He’s sitting on the floor, staring straight ahead.
I run into the kitchen and dial 911.
Ten minutes later paramedics, the West Valley Police, Coop, Ivan Dixon, and Megan Charles all arrive at the same time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Oh, my God,” Megan says, surveying the damage. Some of the glass from the patio door has been kicked aside, my glass still lies on the floor, and the overturned chair Lonnie hit when he went for Emerson still rests on its side in the same position. Megan looks from Lonnie to T.J. to Emerson and back to me.
“Not now, Megan,” I say. For once she has nothing more to say. She sits down with Lonnie and starts talking to him softly about his position and how it should be handled.
I’m mainly concerned with T.J., but I should have known he’d be okay. He’s joking with a paramedic. The few cuts on his arms are dressed and bandaged. The facial cuts are glass nicks. T.J. probably had worse injuries in his last playoff game. It was Emerson who took the brunt of the damage.
T.J. looks up at me and grins. “Like that hit, man? I took him out, didn’t I?”
“A clean sack. You put Emerson on the injured reserve list,” I say. “Thanks, T.J. I owe you.”
Coop stands in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets, looking around, taking in the richness of the furnishings. “So this is lifestyles of the rich and famous, huh?” he says. His eyes finally come to rest on me, but he allows me to see a hint of a smile. “You’ve got some blanks to fill in, sport.”
The paramedics take Emerson Barnes out on a stretcher. He’s conscious now but probably wishes he weren’t. As they roll him by, he turns his head toward me and moans in pain. I don’t know if he recognizes me, but I can’t resist the moment. I tell him the same thing he told me.
“So you went in the water for a few minutes,” I say. “You weren’t hit that hard.” He’ll be arrested at the hospital as soon as he’s coherent.
Lonnie comes out of his trancelike state and is led away by two uniformed cops from West Valley after being read his rights and cuffed. He stops and looks at me. “Remember what I told you about guns? Emerson wasn’t going to shoot nobody.”
“I’ve already called a lawyer,” Megan says to Lonnie, but he hardly responds. He’s going down and everything is going down with him. What I guess is most on his mind is what Grandmother Sarah is going to say when she hears the eleven-o’clock news.
Megan follows Lonnie outside, already planning for his release, but this is one she won’t be able to fix so easily.
Coop takes the gun and opens the chamber. It’s empty. “He’s right. Dumb.”
He motions for me to follow him out to the kitchen. We sit down at the table and I light a cigarette. “How about if I give you a quick rundown now and do the heavy stuff in the morning?”
“Fair enough,” Coop says. “We’ll need a detailed statement and, when this comes to trial, your testimony.” He looks out the window. “It would be nice if somebody could shut up those goddamn dogs.” Miles and Bird have been barking and throwing themselves against the fence since T.J. and Emerson went through the patio door.
I nod with relief. It finally is all over. The questioning, following people, fencing with the Cole brain trust, and now, according to Coop, I can forget about the beach boys.
“We know about the guys on the beach,” Coop continues. “Imported talent that Barnes arranged. The Las Vegas police picked up one of them playing blackjack at the Flamingo. He says they were only supposed to scare Case, find out what he’d told you, but they got carried away and blew it. The other two are probably already in Florida by now, but I imagine Barnes will cooperate.”
“Don’t count on it,” I say. “Barnes can be tough. He’s an experienced trial lawyer.”
“I live in terror,” Coop says. I stare at him for a moment, then look away.
“What is it?” he asks. “What’s bothering you? It’s over, sport, and you came out okay.”
“Elvin Case didn’t. I just keep thinking, if I had given this up sooner that might not have happened.”
Coop shrugs. “Maybe, but Barnes was out of control. If you had quit, we might not have gotten the whole story out of Barnes and we might never have figured out the record scam deal.”
I know Coop is right—at least, for now that’s what I choose to believe. “How did you get here so fast?”
“We were following the big guy, Buchanan,” Coop says. “He was coming to your place and must have seen you come out with Barnes. Didn’t he used to play for the Rams?”
“Yeah. He’s probably taking this pretty hard.” Partly, I realize, because he was feeding Lonnie information I was giving him without knowing Lonnie was in it with Barnes. “He and Lonnie are like brothers.”
“I thought Barnes was too.”
“Almost,” I say. Emerson wanted it all. I wonder too how much he pushed Lonnie.
“The blackmail scheme was a setup from the beginning, I take it,” Coop says.
I shake my head, still trying to digest it all. “Yeah, I guess they picked me to keep it in the family and figured once I lost the money and went into the drink at the marina, I’d give it up and feel guilty enough to not ask any more questions.”
“You didn’t lose it,” Coop reminds me. “You were knocked in the head. The money was taken from you by force.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “It’s just that—”
“What?” Coop says. “Quit beating yourself up. You did more than most people would have.”
“Okay, you win.” I stub out my cigarette. “You know, I really don’t think Lonnie knew anything about Elvin. If you had seen his face. All he wanted was money. With that new record, his money problems would have been over.”
“Sure,” Coop says. “You think he would have returned Crisp’s five hundred thousand? How would he have explained that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” Coop says, “it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“No, I guess it doesn’t. Has anybody called Crisp?”
“The Charles broad,” Coop says. “I think that was her second call.”
We go back in the living room. Lonnie, Emerson, the paramedics, everyone but T.J. is gone. He’s sitting in the recliner where Lonnie had been, his head resting against the back, his eyes closed.
“You okay, T.J.?” I ask him.
His great head moves forward, his eyes search mine. “Fool on the Hill is right,” he says.
I nod. “You couldn’t have known, T.J. I’ll be talking to you.” I go outside with Coop and leave T.J. alone in the house.
Coop and Dixon drive me back to Venice and drop me off with the promise that I’ll be in to give them a statement in the morning.
“You got any Art Tatum?” Dixon asks as I get out of the car.
“Sure,” I say. “The complete set. Why?”
“I was just thinking of something appropriate,” Dixon says. “‘Little Boy You’ve Had a Busy Day’ might work.”
Coop snorts. “You jazz guys always talk in code. It’s wonderful to hear two aficionados talk about art. See you in the morning, sport.”
I go inside, pull off my clothes, and fall on the bed.
“Evan, wake up.”
I roll over. Squinting through one eye, I see Cindy standing over me, dressed in her America West uniform. “That detective Cooper was just on the phone. He says you’re late. He wants you down there right away.”
“What time is it?”
Cindy glances at the clock. “Almost nine. C’mon, get up.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “You had quite a night,” she says softly. “You’re on all the morning news shows. You have to tell me everything.” She leans over and gives me a hug. “I’m so glad you’re all right,” she whispers.
Another minute of Cindy breathing in my ear an
d Coop will have to wait even longer. “We’ll celebrate tonight, Cindy, okay? Then I’ll tell you the whole story.”
First, I have to tell it to Coop.
There have been several other calls, Cindy tells me. Tim Shaw at Blue Note wants an exclusive first-person story, and a Los Angeles Times reporter has called several times for an interview.
“You’re a celebrity, Evan,” Cindy says, showing me the paper. The story is page one, complete with a photo of Lonnie Cole.
SINGER ARRESTED ON EVE OF AWARDS SHOW
Award-winning singer Lonnie Cole was arrested last night at his Encino home along with his attorney Emerson Barnes, who has been charged as an accessory in the murder of former record company executive Elvin Case. At this point, the charges against Cole remain unclear. Also present was Cole’s former pianist and conductor, Evan Horne, who police say was assisting them in their investigation.
Cole and country and western star Charlie Crisp were scheduled to appear at tonight’s American Music Awards show. Cole’s publicist said a statement regarding Cole’s appearance would be released later today.
The rest of the story is sketchy, but it sounds like Barnes had finally come around. Thanks to T.J., he had three broken ribs and a concussion, but he was coherent enough to be read his rights and give the police a selective account of things. There would be more, but I’ve given Coop enough for them to make a strong case.
Later, sitting in his office over coffee and doughnuts, I go back to Day One for the benefit of a police stenographer. There are still details of the record scam to wrap up, but with my testimony—and, I suspect, Rick Markham’s—Barnes will be charged with fraud, embezzlement, and as an accessory to the murder of Elvin Case. Lonnie will be arraigned as a coconspirator.
“I still think Lonnie would have pulled out,” I tell Coop. “His records weren’t selling and the returns were real. But with this new album with Crisp, he would be discovered by a lot of country fans. Barnes told me there was some money Carlton Burroughs didn’t even know about, so I guess the blackmail payment is stashed away somewhere.”
