The Brimstone Murders jo-2

by Jeff Sherratt

  The speakers came to life. “Aircraft calling on 121.5, this is Los Angeles Center. Say your position and identification.”

  “I’m over the old borax works, somewhere west or maybe north. Aw… south of Barstow.”

  “Unknown aircraft transmitting on the emergency frequency, are you a pilot?”

  “No, and that’s my problem,” I said, turning away from Rita and speaking in a low voice. “I don’t know how to land this thing, but I’ve got to put down on the runway at the borax works.”

  “Are you declaring an emergency?”

  “Damn right I am.”

  “Roger that. Now hold tight and answer my questions. First, how many souls are on board?”

  “Two right now. One just departed.”

  “What?”

  “Two, two people on board. But I have to land this plane. It’s a Cessna 172.”

  “Don’t worry. I have a private pilot’s license. I’ll talk you down.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Yeah, piece of cake,” the guy said. “Those 172s practically land themselves.”

  I glanced at Rita, who gave me a weak smile and tried to pretend that all was fine, but the look in her eyes told me she had a few concerns. “Okay, let’s go for it,” I said to the controller.

  “That’s the spirit. Now, first we’re going to dispense with the formalities. Forget about radio protocol. Just speak in a normal manner. Do you roger that? If so, answer in the affirmative.”

  “Ten-four,” I said.

  “We don’t say ten-four. Cops say ten-four.”

  “Roger, that’s affirmative.”

  “Look, sir, just talk normally so I can understand you,” the controller said. “Now, do you see the runway?”

  “Yeah, it’s down there. I’m circling over it.”

  Rita tapped my shoulder. “Jimmy, that’s not the runway, it’s a road.”

  “Shut up, Rita!”

  The loudspeaker interrupted. “Say again.”

  “Not you, I was talking to Rita.”

  “Listen, fella, just talk to me, okay?”

  “Roger. I mean, sure.”

  I hadn’t been concentrating, and the plane wandered off. But the controller said he had me on radar and gave me a vector, as he called it, and soon I was circling over the facility again.

  “Pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. It might get a little tricky,” the controller said.

  “Listen to the guy, Jimmy. We’ll hit a mountain.”

  “Dammit, Rita, I told you to shut up and I mean it.” She hit my shoulder with her fist. I pretended it didn’t hurt and pressed the mike button again. “I’m ready.”

  As instructed, I maneuvered the airplane until it was on the runway approach, fifteen hundred feet in the air and a couple of miles away from the end of the landing strip. I trimmed the elevator tab and the plane began a shallow decent. I settled in and flew straight, aiming right for the touch-down zone. It would’ve been pretty cool, sailing on a wing over the ground at ninety knots, as graceful as a gazelle and feather light-if I wasn’t scared out of my wits. Captain O’Brien at the controls, bringing her in on one engine.

  But immediately reality hit.

  “Jimmy! We’re gonna crash!”

  “Pull up!” the controller shouted. “You’re below my radar. Are you still with me?”

  My heart stopped. We were too low, skimming over a building that somehow managed to move itself right to where the runway should’ve been. I dropped the mike, tugged back on the control and goosed the throttle. The plane jumped. We soared over the roof and continued to climb.

  At three hundred feet above the ground, just when I thought I had everything under wraps, the plane veered off to the right with the wing low. Careful, I told myself. If I don’t fix it in about five seconds, we’ll hit sideways and flip.

  “Hey! Why are we on our side?” Rita covered her eyes.

  I stepped on the left rudder and turned the wheel at the same time. Oops, overdid it. I yanked the wheel back… easy, baby. Now the plane was sinking, dropping fast and out of control again. More power! Isn’t that what Susie used to say? The plane ballooned and became squishy.

  Then it nosed down. I was now two hundred feet in the air and moving fast, dropping, flying crooked with that damn wing low. We flew perpendicular to the landing strip, the ground tilting every which way. Correct it, get it straight; okay, okay… steady. Now hold it, hang on, we’re going to make it. One wheel hit the ground, banged hard-the plane bounced and was in the air again. I cut the power and we were suddenly falling. Rita remained silent, her hands planted firmly on the dashboard. She stared at the ground coming up fast.

  “Come in, aircraft transmitting on 121.5! Are you with me?”

  “Jimmy, my God, do something!”

  Wait! Don’t cut power, add power! Susie’s nagging voice filled my head. I jammed the throttle to the wall. It felt like the knob was going to push right through my palm and come out the other side of my hand. The engine roared.

  “Answer me, Cessna!”

  The strident rush of the wind, the crackling radio, the engine screaming, and Rita’s fear caused my head to spin, the world a blur. Vertigo! Snap out of it and fly the goddamn plane!

  “Aircraft on 121.5! Are you still with me?”

  “Rita!” I shouted. “Reach down and find the mike, tell the guy I’m too busy to talk.”

  Rita grabbed the cord and with quick hand-over-hand movements she pulled the mike off the floor. “Jimmy, you’d better talk to the guy. It’s probably a Federal reg or something.”

  She held the mike out to me, but both of my sweaty hands were busy turning the wheel, trying to keep the plane from doing a flip. “Just tell the guy I can’t talk now.”

  The plane responded. Finally we were stable and I heard Rita say, “Sir, the idiot… I mean the pilot at the controls is tied up for a moment. Could you call back?”

  Christ, Rita made it sound like I was out going to the potty. “Give me that damn thing,” I told her. “Hey, L. A. Center, this is the pilot talking. Over.”

  “Look, guy. We’re going to start over, now listen to me-”

  I dropped the mike and looked up. We were heading straight for the runway, zooming over the threshold.

  At the last second, I let go of everything. The little plane straightened, plopped down, stayed down, and rolled effortlessly along the runway. The guy was right: these things did land themselves. I’d keep that in mind for the next time. Well, I’d just keep it in mind.

  When we finally stopped with a few inches of runway to spare, Rita leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Hey, Flyboy, not too bad. Sky King couldn’t have done any better.” I managed not to roll my eyes.

  Several patrol cars rushed up on the runway and surrounded us. I glanced out at the cops moving toward the plane and whispered to Rita that we’d talk about that partner thing later, just as soon as the cops let me leave. Sooner than twenty-five to life, I hoped.

  CHAPTER 43

  On Sunday, a week or so later, Rita and I were having brunch at Rocco’s, celebrating our victory over Moran and the demise of his organization. Jeanine brought my coffee and Rita’s iced tea. After the waitress left, Rita sat quietly for a moment. Then she raised her glass. “You saved my life. Thank you again.”

  I smiled and clicked her glass with my cup. “Here’s to the future of our little firm. Oh, and that’s the three hundredth time you’ve thanked me.”

  “You look a little down, Jimmy.”

  “Nah, I’m fine. Hey, shall we discuss that partner thing now?”

  “I don’t think so. Why don’t we let it lie for a while?”

  “Why, Rita? I though you wanted to be my partner.”

  “Jimmy, I need time, that’s all.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time to think. I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” she said. “You weren’t exactly honest with me. Letting Mabel hide your gun, then not informing your lawyer-me.
”

  “Yeah, I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry. But it all worked out okay.”

  “Well, I may have been your lawyer, but I didn’t really help you. Without Moran’s guards spilling their guts to the D.A. and the kids talking, you’d still be a suspect.”

  “Rita, you did a great job. You fought the D.A., came up with a plan, and if it had gone to trial, I’m sure we would’ve won. And now you’re going to represent me at the inquest.”

  Although there would be an official inquest into Moran’s death, I was assured by the San Bernardino D.A. that the ruling would be self-defense.

  “Jimmy, you know that’s a done deal. The authorities want us out of their sight as fast as possible. The shooting will be ruled justifiable, but don’t expect any accolades.”

  She was right. Sol and I wouldn’t get medals for our involvement in the affair; medals are rarely given to those who expose corruption existing under the watchful eyes of the bureaucracy. I knew the system, and I knew what to expect. When the public had learned about Moran’s enterprise a firestorm had ensued, the populace demanding heads. Government agencies from the FBI on down were scrambling, running for cover, pointing this way and that, and promising intense investigations. The hoi polloi, always curious about the efficiency of their government at work, demanded to know how all of this could’ve been going on under the agencies’ collective noses. When the smoke cleared, heads would roll-at least, one head. As usual, it’d probably be some guy way down the political food chain with little to do with the business who’d take the fall-probably a lowly clerk in the fishing license bureau or something. After all, he should’ve known. He should’ve stopped Moran early on. Wasn’t it common knowledge that he was using illegal bait, longjaw mudsuckers, in waters where such bait was not allowed? An early retirement for the clerk, the rabble would have their bloodlust satisfied, and that will be that.

  Cathy and Tom Rogers of The Barstow Sun broke the story about Burt Krause, Barstow’s chief of police, who had been involved with Moran. Because of their inside knowledge, Krause had been arrested and held without bail on a laundry list of charges, starting with section 187, then conspiracy, and working its way down to… well, just pick a random page in the California Criminal Code and you’d find one or two of his crimes listed there.

  J. Billy Bickerton was shocked. How could he have been duped by those ungodly apostates? He gave a rousing, fist-pounding sermon on his TV show damning the sin of greed. I liked the proverb he quoted: “Greedy eaters dig their graves with their teeth,” although I wasn’t sure how the quote related to Moran and his bunch. To me, the proverb seemed more suitable to a group of heavyweights meeting at their annual dieting convention.

  To great fanfare, his network aired Professor Carmichael’s expose. It drew a rating of 23.6 on the Nielsen overnights, topping two highly acclaimed network shows, and because of the rating, Bickerton’s Holy Spirit Network was able to raise its advertising rates by 15 percent.

  The big winner-if there was a winner-had to be Sol’s attorney friend, Morty Zuckerman. Sensing a buck to be made, he’d jumped in on behalf of the teens and filed a lawsuit against the Moran estate, requesting a motion for a summary judgment. Zuckerman’s complaint demanded that title to all the assets held by the late Mr. Moran and/or his corporations be immediately transferred to the kids in lieu of payment of back wages.

  The judgment was instantly granted. What judge in his right mind would deny that? Zuckerman took his customary 40 percent, and with the balance helped the kids set up a Subchapter S corporation. An initial public stock offering was in the works.

  One of my concerns had been put to rest when Sol invited Rita and me to join him the following week at the grand opening of a new restaurant. He said he was part-owner, and when he told me what he had done, I was flabbergasted. He’d bought the Bright Spot Cafe and turned it over to his partners in the venture: Maggie, the waitress who’d passed us the tip about Jane Simon, and Jane herself. I’d been worried sick that something had happened to her, but Sol was the kind of guy who took care of those who helped him. I was always proud to be his friend, but when I heard what he had done… well, let’s just say I was very proud. I laughed when he told me that Jane had suggested they change the name of the cafe to Steinbeck’s.

  “So, what do you think, Rita? Want to be the firm’s first new partner?”

  “I just don’t think I’m ready.”

  “Don’t think you can cut it in criminal law, is that it? Want to be like Zuckerman, with his IPOs and GMOs, BSOs, and a belly that looks like it’s stuffed with Spaghetti Os? Is that what you want?”

  Rita shrugged. “I guess not. I’m staying with the firm.” She paused and then said, “But, Jimmy, let’s just let it go. We’ll both know when the time is right.”

  From across the crowded room Mabel’s voice rose above the clamor: “Rita, Jimmy. Look what I’ve got.”

  Mabel, wearing a faux leopard coat and carrying a huge matching handbag, waved a piece of paper above her head as she rushed to our booth.

  “Hey, Mabel, what’s up?” Rita slid closer to me. She patted the spot next to her. “Sit and have brunch with us.”

  “Look at this,” Mabel said as she slipped into the booth. “A check from Zuckerman! Sol called, told me to come and pick it up. He forced Zuckerman to cut our firm in on the proceeds from the Moran lawsuit. Wow, look at the number with all those beautiful zeros!”

  She passed the check around. I shook my head, said a silent prayer of thanks, and handed it back. Mabel tucked it in her purse.

  Rita glanced at me and smiled. “Does this mean I can get some of my back pay?”

  “Hey, we’ll all get our back pay and maybe a bonus. Mabel, the brunch is on the firm, and we’re going to order a gallon of the best champagne.”

  “I have to leave in a minute,” Mabel said. “I’ve got a date. Gordy Payne invited me to join him for a bite. I’m meeting him here in a few. You know Gordy?”

  “Sure, Mabel,” I said. “He’s a nice guy.” I didn’t mention that his wife thinks he’s a nice guy, too. Rita was upset with me, and that was enough. I didn’t need the whole firm glaring at me all next week.

  Rita shook her head. “I don’t know him, Mabel,” she lied. “But have a good time.”

  “Thanks, Rita,” she said as she reached into her purse and pulled out a large manila envelope. “Here, take this, Jimmy.” She slid the envelope across the table. “It’s yours. I’m tired of babysitting the damn thing.”

  I opened it. Inside was a.38 revolver. I hooked the trigger guard with my finger and pulled it out.

  “My God, Jimmy, what are you doing? Put that thing away,” Rita said.

  My eyes swept the room. Nobody was looking. I started to tuck it back in the envelope, but something caught my eye.

  “Mabel!” Rita said. “What’s going on? Is that Jimmy’s gun, the one I found behind the cabinet?”

  “One and the same,” Mabel said. “The killer used it to shoot Hazel Farris and planted it there, but I didn’t toss it in the ocean or anything. Maybe I was dumb, but I just kept it. Now that the heat’s off, no sense me lugging it around anymore. Though I did feel comfortable having it handy. A girl with my looks can’t be too careful, ya know.”

  I held the gun in my hand, and even in the dim restaurant light I could see where someone had filed off the serial numbers. Suddenly, it hit me.

  Rita smiled at Mabel’s remark. Then she turned and glanced at me. “Hey, Jimmy what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  It felt like I’d seen a ghost-or worse. “This is not my gun,” I said.

  CHAPTER 44

  I jumped up and immediately drove out to Chatsworth. When I saw that the gun had no serial numbers, I knew it wasn’t mine. I mean, if someone was trying to frame me with my own gun they wouldn’t file off the numbers, would they?

  Being Sunday, I figured the parking lot in front of the White Front Church, Snavley’s Divine Christ Ministry,
would be jammed, but when I swung off Winnetka Boulevard into the lot there wasn’t a car in sight.

  I didn’t know what to make of it. Had the church gone out of business? Had he just closed up shop? Money couldn’t have been a problem. The TV show that aired on Bickerton’s network featuring the J.C. Down and Funky Dancers or whatever they were called must have raked in a ton. It’s funny, I didn’t exactly remember the group’s name, but I remember vividly Snavley handing each girl a white lily. He remarked that the flower is a symbol of virgin purity.

  At that moment, it came to me. I knew why the church was closed. No, it wasn’t something as simple as a lack of cash that shut down the church.

  I parked the Corvette close to the front, climbed out and tried the double-wide doors: locked. But taped on the wall next to them was a hand-lettered notice written on binder paper: No Services Today.

  I made my way around to the back of the white concrete structure and saw a small sedan parked next to a doorway at the end of the building. I recognized the car. It was Snavley’s, the same car I’d seen when I went out to the college that night looking for Bickerton and bumped into him instead.

  The door wasn’t locked, saving me from breaking in-and I would have done just that. I entered the auditorium and moved quickly but quietly to Snavley’s office.

  When I got to the office door, I heard Snavley’s muffled voice filtering through the wall. I stopped and listened. Was someone in there with him? That could be trouble.

  Leaning closer, but cautiously, I held my breath and listened. No, Snavley was alone. He was mumbling some kind of prayer. Not from the Bible or a prayer book; he seemed to be making it up as he went along.

  Should I knock or just barge in? I tried the doorknob: locked. I took a step back. Leading with my shoulder, I rushed the door and banged it hard. It flew open.

  A disheveled wreck with a cadaverous face and lunatic eyes stared at me from across a desk. Snavley had aged a hundred years in the last couple of weeks. It looked like his brain had folded up and turned out the lights. A dirty T-shirt hung on him like an ill-fitting shroud; an odor-the smell of fear-pervaded the room. But what really caught my attention was the gun-my gun, no doubt-lying on the desk, inches from his fingers.