“Where’re we going?” Frank asked.
“The Shamrock, across from Hollywood Park. It’s an off‑duty cop bar in a tough area, so watch what you say about L.A.’s finest.”
“In that area with the legalized gambling?”
“Just twenty-five hours a day. Why? Got a hot tip on a horse?”
“Is Seabiscuit still running?”
“You’d best keep your money in your pocket, pal.”
The Shamrock was old, dingy, and smelled like the inside of a beer hooka. Frank counted twenty or more patrons through the cloud of smoke that hung in the air. The clientele was spread out among the stools at the long bar, a few booths, and bistro tables scattered throughout the open room. Mostly men between thirty and fifty, more than half wearing police uniforms.
An attractive woman in her late thirties, business-dressed in a maroon suit and cream blouse, sat in one of the booths. She locked her dark, penetrating eyes on Marty as the two newcomers stepped into the room. Marty tilted his head her way and led Frank to the booth.
“Good to see you, sweetheart,” Marty said and leaned close to kiss the woman lightly on the lips.
“You too. You look thinner,” the woman said.
“Always the psychologist. This is Dr. Charlene Stone, Frank. The best campaign manager in the business. Charly, this is Detective Frank Dugan.”
“Like he needs an introduction. I have a television, a radio, and I subscribe to six newspapers.”
“Next you’ll tell me your crapper’s in the house,” Marty said, inviting Frank to slide into the booth opposite Charly.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Stone,” Frank said.
“Charly’s fine.”
“The place still looks as medieval as the last time we were here,” Marty said and sat next to Frank. “What is it about this joint? Can’t be the uptick décor.”
“It’s a beehive of information,” Charly said. “My work depends on a lot of it. Like getting country lawyers behind DA desks.”
“Country? Ouch.” Marty said.
“So what’s this about?” Charly asked.
“Frank here thinks I should make a bid to replace McCallister.”
“Jesus, Marty. The man’s not even autopsied yet.”
“It’s my fault,” Frank said. “I know soon there’ll be a lot of hopefuls tossing their hats in the ring for the senator’s seat. We need his replacement to be an aggressive anti-crime person like he was, not some joker campaigning for more entitlements and lower taxes.”
“And you’re on board for doing this, Marty?” Charly asked.
“I’m here to discuss it.”
“Where do you want to start?” Charly said.
“What are my chances, and what’s it going to cost?” Marty said.
“Right out of the chute, it’ll cost you a drink,” Charly said.
“Coming up,” Marty said and marched to the bar.
“How are you doing, Frank?” Charly said. “I followed the trial every day. When they read the verdict, I threw a Prada stiletto at my TV.”
“I’m okay. But I’d be a liar if I told you I’m accepting that verdict.”
“You thinking of going after those guys?”
“First, I want to know if they did it. If I can prove they did, well, let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be them.”
“So you’re willing to sacrifice yourself to even the score?”
“If need be. I don’t see myself with much else to live for.”
“I know more about you from Judd Kemp. He thinks you’re as good as it gets in police work. You’re an intelligent young man with a purposeful life ahead of you. He doesn’t want you to waste it on trash like Ernie Gaither. He’ll get his soon enough.”
“How about Rico Guzman?”
“That’ll be a tougher banana to peel. He’s got more insulation than the space shuttle.”
Marty returned laden with drinks.
“Beers for the boys, and a Gran Marnier in a snifter for the lady. Man, your bartender sure knows his Willies,” Marty said, setting down the drinks and scooting into the booth.
“Willies?” Frank said.
“People who tip more than 20 percent,” Marty said.
“It pays to take care of those you depend on,” Charly said.
“So, what are my odds?” Marty asked.
“I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version,” Charly said.
“Fair enough,” Marty said and sipped his beer.
“Marty, you’re a popular man in the news media,” Charly said. “But so was Al Gore. That doesn’t get you elected to public office. You haven’t had one minute’s experience in national political life. You’re going after an office held by one of the most prestigious public servants since Lincoln, and, because all nature abhors a vacuum, there will be, as Frank said, a dozen other prominent people attempting to fill the job left open by McAllister. I don’t mean to be so black and white about this, but these are the realities.”
Frank stared at Charly during a lengthy silence. Marty scraped the label off his beer bottle with his thumb.
“Any positive notes?” Frank asked.
“Marty’s a respected state’s attorney with a sterling record. People in southern California know him and like him. People in San Diego County love and trust him. I like him too, but I’m only one vote. The ones coming from those raving liberals in the other big cities my not find him nearly so appealing. Being a toughie on crime will resonate well with those who’ve been mugged, but the others who’ve never had a brush with theft, rape, and murder will dismiss its importance. It’s going to take a lot of contributions to run a campaign that will give you a real shot at the title. Steven Spielberg lives in this state and may throw in some help, but you’re going to need Bill Gates and Rupert Murdoch size coffers to win.”
“So, when do we start,” Marty said.
“Tomorrow, six sharp. My office,” Charly said. “Bring coffee. Lots of it.”
Chapter 12
Rico Guzman sat on the patio of his sprawling mansion that overlooked his walled estate in Palos Verdes. Waves from the Pacific Ocean lapped against the rocks and narrow beach far below the mansion’s foothill elevation of two hundred feet. The orange ball of the dipping sun silhouetted Santa Catalina on the western horizon. The Bali Ha’i scene form the film South Pacific replayed in his head.
Errol Malay sat across from Guzman at a teak table where they both sipped black Cuban coffee and stared out at the last of the day.
“I’ve arranged for you to be on the primary ballot,” Guzman said. “The recent news will give you a boost, but we’ll need a lot more to gain momentum on the others who’ll be running.”
“McCallister’s death is a stoke of good luck,” Malay said.
Guzman looked at Malay and smiled.
“Luck seems to always favor those who prepare,” Guzman said.
“Anyone know who did it?”
“They have a low rez video of a man who looked a little like Han Solo in a red baseball cap.”
“He get rid of the mask?”
“It made a nice fire for a few seconds.”
“He should’ve kept it. Han Solo is a hell of a sight better looking than Mitch Davis.”
“Maybe we’ll get him a George Clooney one,” Guzman said.
“Get your speeches lined up,” Guzman said. “Number one on your platform will be a continuation of McCallister’s ideas. Play on the public sympathy for a great American. Talk anti-crime, but be prepared to have tough questions thrown at you because of your association with me. Your court win with Gaither won’t help you get votes, so tip-toe around issues that draw them in.”
Malay said, “I don’t think defending O. J. Simpson made F. Lee Bailey look like he was pro-crime.”
“If he ran for public office, you’d see how beloved he was to hard anti-crime voters.”
“In that case, we’ll need a publicity blitz. All that media’s going to cost a ton.”
“We
have that covered,” Guzman said and pushed a humidor filled with Cohiba Espléndidos toward Malay.
“Cuban?” Malay asked.
“You must be kidding,” Guzman said as he snipped the end off his seven-inch cigar with a gold cutter. “Cuban cigars are illegal in this country.”
* * *
Frank Dugan stood at a podium in a sparsely filled auditorium. A sign on the front of the podium proclaimed:
Mira Costa High School
Home of the Mustangs
Large posters contained the promo: “Martin Dimino for U.S. Senate” printed in red, white, and blue. At the top of the poster were the words:
Time to Get Tough
Enough is Enough
A banner over the stage proscenium stated: “Manhattan Beach Parents Care About Government.” Charly Stone, Marty Dimino, and Mike Graham sat together in a front row of the auditorium. Barbara Chalmers sat by herself a few rows back.
“The criminal does not receive any real punishment from incarceration,” Frank said. “In fact, as many criminals have publicly stated, they actually prefer prison to the outside. Having gone to prison and later released, a parolee has before him two easy choices: to continue his criminal behavior on the outside, trying to avoid arrest, since no one, in his mind, wants to hire an ex‑con, or to allow himself to get caught and return to his friends in prison. Few of us have such clear and easy choices in life. If he robs, he has plenty of easy spending money without having to work for it. If he gets caught, he goes back to bed and board with his pals and still doesn’t have to do any real work. Not bad, huh? And while many of you may hold to the idea that prison offers rehabilitation, let me stress this: prison is the College of Crime. It’s where criminals go to sharpen their craft. People who don’t want to go to prison, don’t go. And people who don’t want to go to prison, but get caught in a crime and go there once, don’t want to go back. It’s the ones that don’t care that I’m talking about. The career criminals. The chronic repeaters. The offenders who seem born without a conscience and any sense of responsibility for the acts they do. Let’s deal with them now. It’s what Senator McCallister wanted to do. It’s time to get tough. Enough is enough. We have the man to get the job done now, to carry on the good work of Robert McCallister. The man is District Attorney Martin Dimino, the next senator from the great State of California.”
What there was of an audience applauded with moderate enthusiasm. Frank’s friends in the audience showed more animation in their response. Barbara Chalmers even stood and applauded.
Frank smiled, but he felt like a rookie stand-up comedian in a comedy club, relegated to working the handful of early arrivals before the headliners played to the capacity crowds.
* * *
On the floor of the auditorium, Frank received congratulations by a few people from the audience who lagged back, and a handful of his friends. After the supportive group dissipated, Charly approached him.
“Not bad for your first attempt at public rhetoric,” Charly said.
“Are you kidding?” Frank said. “I’m a wreck. I’d rather run through hell with gasoline panties.”
“It gets easier.”
“I never understood why people are so afraid of public speaking. I do now.”
“C’mon. Buy me a drink and I’ll give you my real critique.”
“Can’t wait. It’ll be like getting beaten half to death, then shot.”
* * *
Frank and Charly sat across from each other in a booth at the Shamrock, drinks before them.
“We’ve got a good message, but we’ve got to get it to larger groups of people. The death of any performer is a small audience, and, as a public speaker, you are going to be a performer. Ask any actor who’s worked before a small house. We need heavy word‑of‑mouth. There’ll be a primary election in two months. Primary winners get financing. I’ll try to pick out the front runner against Marty, but for the most part I want you to talk a positive campaign on the issues and to hell with sniping at the opposition. Mudslinging is what candidates do that have weak positive issues.”
“I’ll do little polishing on the speeches between the inconveniences of being a homicide detective.”
“Is the department giving you liberal leave?”
“Yeah, Judd Kemp’s cleared it with the captain. He’s always been a stand-up guy.”
“Judd wants you to concentrate on anything positive. This campaign work fits that bill.”
“When’s our next meeting? We can’t keep holding sessions here.”
“As much as I’ll miss this place, I’ll be setting up our headquarters this week. In San Diego for now.”
“What’s the territory we’ll cover?’ Frank asked.
“In the beginning, Marty will work southern Cal, I want you up north. They know who you are from the news. They want to hear about you, your personal experiences with crime. Later we switch, after the media blitz. In the end you and Marty will campaign together. A one-two punch to score the win.”
“We have a chance?”
“I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have a chance. Marty ain’t going to be no shoo‑in, sugar, but there’s a light in the tunnel.”
“My life flashing before my eyes?”
Charly smiled and patted Frank’s hand.
“Got a little scoop for you. You’ll be the reason Marty gets elected,” Charly said. “The people will be voting for you.”
Chapter 13
Frank entered the La Jolla beach house, closed and locked the door. He stepped into the kitchen and switched on the overhead lights when tiny objects on the floor caught his eye. There were food crumbs around the base of the cabinets. More fell from the space behind a door. Scratching noises carried out from inside the pantry section.
Frank cautiously opened the cabinet door. A small field mouse looked up from the cereal that he was eating and stared at Frank for a second. The mouse skittered for the rear of the compartment and disappeared. Frank closed the door and leaned on his elbows on the counter top.
* * *
The shelves in the pet store contained all manner of pesticides. Frank browsed the labels on several rodent-killing products, but returned each to its place on the shelf.
A clerk approached.
“Something I can help you find, sir?” the clerk asked.
“Yes, ... maybe. I’ve got a mouse in my house. In my kitchen. I’d like to catch him. Not kill him, just catch him and put him outside,” Frank said.
“We don’t sell conventional traps here, but you may want to look at one of these,” the clerk said, taking a box from a nearby shelf and removing its contents. “It’s called a Humana trap. It doesn’t harm the animal. You just put your bait in here.”
The clerk pointed to a specific place inside the trap
“I suggest cheese, or better yet, peanut butter. When he takes the food, the doors at each end close. Then you can do what you want to with the little culprit.”
“I like it,” Frank said.
Frank and the clerk stepped to the checkout counter where a second clerk rang up a sale at the cash register for a male customer. Frank waited to pay and listened to their conversation.
“Boy, when I saw the prices on those gerbils, I thought my son was crazy for buying that boa constrictor from you,” the man said. “Crazier than he already is, anyway. Eight bucks a pop to feed a snake. I was going to go home and choke him with it.”
“A lot of people think we sell the regular gerbils for snake feed,” the second clerk said.
“What did you say I should ask for next time? Boxing gerbils?”
“Fighting gerbils. They can’t live in community with the other gerbils and have to be isolated. They don’t make good pets, either, so we sell them for feed. That’ll be seventy‑five cents.”
The man paid the clerk and took a small box from the counter.
“That’s a hell of a sight better than them eight bucks deals,” the man said and walked to the door. “I swear I�
�m gonna hafta choke that boy one day. He’ll stroll in one night with a sumbitchin’ elephant. Mark my words. He’ll want me to rent a damn semi and go on peanut runs.”
* * *
Frank carefully placed the set trap inside the lower kitchen cabinet and eased the cabinet door shut. He left the kitchen and strode to the bedroom. At the dresser, he removed items from of his pockets, placed them on the dresser top, and stared into the mirror. His tired eyes studied the new lines on his face. He massaged them gently, hoping they would disappear. His hands dropped to rub his lower face. Something in the mirror’s wider view of the room behind him put a pause on his cheekbone therapy. Frank turned to face the bed.
The comforter on the mattress was moving.
* * *
In the middle of the bed, a rolling a furrow in the down comforter rolled from side to side. Frank cautiously approached the bed, slid out a pillow, and slowly pulled back the covers.
A noise emanated from the dark under the comforter and bed sheet. A sound like a tire rapidly losing air. Frank tugged the covers further toward the footboard. The black head of a king cobra lashed out at Frank, barely missing his forearm. Frank reeled and stumbled backward with the pillow onto the floor. The huge snake writhed out from under the bedclothes and loomed high on the edge of the bed above Frank and struck again. Frank barely had time to jerk the pillow between him and the snake’s venom-dripping fangs. He quickly folded the pillow around the snake’s head, holding it captive, its six-foot tail lashing about the room, slapping Frank more than once.
Frank struggled to his feet, holding the writhing cobra fast in the pillow, and dashed into the bathroom. He threw the snake and pillow over the top of the glass enclosure of the shower.
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 5
