by Dave Balcom
“Next morning, Sam Rudolph and all his ladies are found in a naked heap in the landfill.
“Christ! It was awful. He killed seven of those bastards in one night, and then announced he was moving the operation to Portland, and if anyone wanted to stay in, they should pack a bag.”
“Who went?”
“Everyone, including my mom and her boyfriend. The word on the street was you were either movin’ up or cavin’ in.”
“But nobody ever saw this big guy in the flesh?”
Arresto wrinkled up his lip like he might smile, then asked, “You gotta smoke?”
I shook my head and pointed to the No Smoking sign on the wall.
“Figures you’d be straight.”
“Arresto, you know I’m not a cop, right?”
He nodded.
“So, let me ask you something. Your answer means a lot to me, but I doubt anyone else would care. You gotta know I have no interest in telling anyone that we talked, much less about what. You dig?”
He nodded, but I noticed he appeared to have lost interest for the most part.
“You know anyone in the non-Outfit that goes by the name of Crocker or Lindsay?”
At the sound of the names, Arresto’s chin raised and his head cocked back as if he’d just intercepted a rank odor. “No, man. I don’t know no crackers or any olive brands.”
I was out of step for a second. I wasn’t sure that he’d understood my question, “No, not cracker, Crocker; Wallace Crocker. He’s a lawyer of some sort.”
He shook his head. “No. No Crocker, no lawyer, and no queen-sized olives.”
I mentally took a double take, keeping my gaze constant and friendly, and then it dawned on me. I nodded.
He nodded back, his black eyes dancing. “I know you’re no fool, Mr. Stanton. You gotta know I would never I.D. a mate. But I certainly know nobody with the God-given name Lindsay.”
“And, Arresto, I assure you, nobody will hear different from me,” I said with some emotion.
I went to lunch with Jensen and Sylva and shared with them the gist of my interview.
“I guess that was pretty much a bust,” Sylva said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I answered as we got up from the table and headed for the door. “There is one thing I’d like you two to do for me, if it’s not too much trouble...”
“Whatyagot?”
“Have either of you got anything on file relating to The Outfit a name like Olive or Martini?
Jensen cocked his head at me, and then wrote the names in his notebook. “I’ll check and one of us will give you a call.”
Jensen called the next day, as Jan and I were leaving to walk down to the Nelsons for dinner. He again started speaking without preamble. “You might be interested to know that a guy named Pedro Martini was considered a capo of The Outfit, working the docks with a bunch of Filipino thugs up until early this summer. He and four of his boys just disappeared. The rumor mill went crazy, but nobody has heard of them since.”
“That’s cool. Do your files indicate if Pedro had a steady girl or family?”
“Didn’t dig that deep. Should I?”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’m thinking any martini worth drinking would have a Lindsay olive or two in it.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Wait. You got a photo of this character?”
“Yeah, he was charged with assault on a union rep once, and we got a mug of him. It’s old, though, taken back in ninety-eight.”
“Any chance you’d e-mail that to me?”
“Done. Anything else?”
“Thanks. I’ll await your call.”
The call came while I was on the mountain, working my forms and trying to keep up with Judy. When I got back to the house, Jan was gone, but had left a note to call Jensen, which I did.
He answered on the first ring, and started talking without any preamble. “Forgot about your morning madness. Pedro Martini was known for his penchant for martinis, shaken not stirred no doubt, and picked up the nickname ‘Lindsay.’ And, yes, he had a favorite girl, but she disappeared about the same time he did. She was a working girl, according to Portland Vice. They figured she shared whatever fate befell Pedro.”
I had just clicked open the file containing Pedro Martini’s booking shot from 1998. “She wasn’t on that black cruiser when I was there, and there was no sign any woman had ever been on that boat.”
“Are you saying Pedro was on that boat with you?”
“It’s him; Lindsay. I don’t know what he was in nineteen-ninety-eight from this picture, but I can tell you that today this man is a decider. He contemplates and takes action. He killed Stan Liske without hesitation, and he fed Seth Richmond to those two on the beach with the same lack of emotion.
“It’s him, and I’ll bet he has another boat and that we’ll never see that black cruiser again.”
“I’ll check with the state to see if he has a licensed craft here or in Washington.”
“I wonder if we could find somebody who knows Pedro’s gal, whatsername.”
“Angelina Wright.”
“Think Vice could help us with that?”
“I’ll check. If they can, you want to come over and interview?”
“I do. I’m thinking I need to hear some live jazz, and Jan needs to move around a bit. I’ll let you know where we’re staying as soon as we set it up.”
“Okay. I’ll work with Vice for some leads on the lady.”
He hung up without saying goodbye. I looked at the phone for a second, and wondered if all government investigators were that abrupt, or if it were just the ones who befriended me.
30
Calling the Hotel Monaco in downtown Portland always brought a bit of nostalgia; it had been the hotel of choice in that great city since my Sandy and I discovered it on our first-ever visit.
Then it was called Fifth Avenue Suites, and the staff and the ambiance of the rooms themselves, plus the great fun that was always in walking distance or just a short cab ride away, drew us back over and over again.
After Sandy died, I hadn’t been to Portland for recreation until I met Jan. She had come to Portland to be near me, and to share my love for the jazz of that place.
By then it had become Hotel Monaco, and I was prepared to hate it, thinking it would have suffered so mightily at the hands of some new cost-cutting giant corporation.
I smiled as I waited for the reservation desk to pick up, remembering my first impression of the Monaco: They had a house Labrador retriever with the title “Director of Pet Relations.” He was a rescue dog that the hotel had brought home and had become a special friend to the Bell Captain who housed him when they were off duty.
I was amazed at how lucky that dog had been, and I couldn’t help but wonder if a dog could relish good fortune or bad. But think of it: One day he’s in the pound, and life is like the sand running out of the hourglass. Then, the next day, voila! He finds himself getting bathed two, three times a week and living in the lap of luxury, which for a Lab may well be summed up in a tail-wagging, treat-crunching life with new strangers all the time.
What fortune.
The operator took my reservation information, and we were booked into the hotel from Tuesday through Saturday.
I notified Jensen of my plans, and then confirmed them with Jan when she got home. She was tickled.
“I love that hotel,” she gushed. “It has a very special place in my heart. We made love there!”
Not for the first time I was a bit embarrassed to hear her go on like that.
“You’re blushing! It’s just us, and you’re blushing. You are such a prude.”
“I don’t blush. Period. I don’t and never have blushed. It’s a family characteristic. Stanton men don’t blush.”
She snuggled up to me and wrapped her arms around me, put her head right under my collar and held me tightly. I returned the hug and she whispered, “I have a real soft spot in my heart for p
rudes. Trust me to fix your prudishness.”
“Hell of a word from a journalist.”
“Sound word; I’ll bet on it.”
Jensen called me that afternoon and told me that he had three names from Portland Vice of known associates of Angelina Wright.
“How do you think we should handle this, Jim? We could have Vice pick them up along with some other women so as not to single them out. They might talk that way.”
“They might be too pissed, too.”
“There’s that. What are you thinking?”
“Have Vice finger them for me, and I’ll interview them in their own environment for a magazine article on life on the streets of American cities.”
“Worked before, but you’re going to have to do more than those three interviews, or else word will get to The Outfit and we could have dead bodies on our hands.
“We’ll also need to provide you with protection. I don’t want a couple of them mentioning you and having some wise guy add two and two and get you. I’ll start working on it with Vice and we’ll have a plan for you when you get here Tuesday.”
After I had hung up Jan asked, “Shall we ask the Nelsons to watch Judy or will we take her with us?”
“I’ll bet she’d rather be here than cooped up in a city. I know Shirlee thinks the dog is community property anyway, so it’ll be no imposition.”
“Seems like it’s all going one way between us and them lately.”
“You don’t remember mushrooms, trout, grouse, chukars, quail and pheasants? Not to mention sushi? You have to know that nobody’s keeping score here. We’re not trying to keep up or get ahead. We all do what we can, when we can, every time. It’s called friendship.”
“You’re right and I know it, but it’s a rare thing. You have to admit that.”
“Nope, I don’t. I think it’s an ‘us’ thing, and I cherish it.”
The getting around and going didn’t take that long, and by five, we were in Portland.
When we registered at the hotel, the clerk found an envelope waiting for me. It was a brown manila envelope with my name on it. No indication from where it came.
We went up to our room, and found a gift from the concierge desk; some flowers, a bottle of wine and chocolates.
“They don’t miss a trick, do they?” Jan said.
While she busied herself unpacking, I opened the envelope. I had thought it was from Jensen, and it was.
First there was a note: Jim, these are what we know about the three girls. They all do call-out, but they also cruise from time to time. You’ll find their names, booking history, photos, and known relationships (pimps). The last entry is a wild ass scientific guess on where you might find them on a weeknight in late summer.
We’ll meet in the Red Star Tavern Bar at about 8 to make a plan. – Jensen
I spread the files out on the desk, and started to read each:
The first one was a black-haired, black-eyed beauty whose name was Monique Wright. That took me aback a bit, and I quickly checked the other names: Georgia Wright and Shannon Wright.
“Everyone’s looking for the ‘Wright’ girl,” I mused.
I went back to the file looking for an alias notation, but there was none.
I went back to the photos and found Georgia to be a round-faced, blue-eyed blonde and Shannon to be ginger-haired with the freckled face of a tomboy.
“If they’re all related, there’s a genetic bouillabaisse going on here,” I said out loud.
Jan came over to peer over my shoulder.
“They’re beautiful women,” she said softly, “but I doubt their real names are Wright.
I nodded, “They may have had them changed legally as a condition of hire.”
“That’s an interesting proposition to consider; why would anyone want that condition?”
“Maybe there’s a Mr. Wright in the mix, and he doesn’t want any confusion as to whom these girls belong?”
“That makes me shudder.” She actually shuddered.
I went back to my reading. The pattern of behavior developed in the files was that these women could be bumped into on the downtown streets on a week night, but never on a weekend.
Monique was quoted by an anonymous official as having said, “I’m always spoken for on the weekend. Every weekend and all weekend; I’m not some street walking whore. I just go out on really fun dates.”
She was described as having a heavy French accent. Another side note related to her accent ironically suggested it might have been heavily influenced by growing up in Milwaukie, the Portland suburb.
Georgia’s file was similar in depth. She too was billed as being a ‘Northern Delight’ and talked about her Swedish birthright. There was no mention of a foreign accent.
Shannon was described in her file as being a prototypical “snow bunny.” She called Bend, Oregon home. “Very physically strong, agile and lively,” were the side notations on her file.
“Jan, I think you should go with me on these interviews.”
“Me? Why?”
“You’re a good interviewer, but mostly you’ll diffuse any suspicions of my real motives. I have interviewed hookers before, and, while none of them were as attractive as these, they all shared the belief that all men were johns; that all men were susceptible to their physical charms. They’re used to being pursued, and they use that awareness as a primary defensive weapon.”
“I’ve never been around a real professional prostitute,” Jan said. “I’ve known my share of amateurs, but I always figured they were just making bad decisions. These women are different, aren’t they?”
“Some of them, probably. But, again, I’ve never been around this type of pro. I’m sure they all have a story about...” and I went into my lame Humphrey Bogart impression, ‘“...Mister, I met a man once...”’
Jan laughed, “Your Bogie is awful, but I get the point. Did you see the note on all three files? All three of these women have college degrees; two from Oregon; Monique from OSU.”
“Yup, and look at the degrees: Psychology, business management, and history. I’m starting to get a feel for this Outfit, and it’s not my usual vision of gang bangers. It’s more like super organized crime.”
“You think it’s the Mafia?”
“I think it’s thoughtful, organized and brutal criminal activities on a wide scale. I think it’s gang behavior that is being run by smart, mature, and ruthless leadership.”
“I think it’s terrifying,” she said with another shudder.
I was sharing those thoughts with Jensen at the bar adjacent to the hotel later that evening, when we were joined by two men in casual clothes.
Sylva, I had met. His companion was a fair-haired, stocky man who looked to be underage for the barroom. “This is Jerry McPhee of Portland Vice,” Sylva told me as we shook hands. I introduced Jan to Sylva and McPhee.
Sylva turned to the bartender and ordered a beer for him and McPhee spoke up, “one for me, too.”
The bartender didn’t pause, “I.D.?”
McPhee opened his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license in the way that said this was just another routine part of his life. “You don’t look thirty-three, Mr. McPhee,” the bartender said.
“You need more I.D.?”
“No, that’s a real license; I’m just not used to being that wrong on age.”
“No problem; happens all the time.”
We sat at a large, round table in the corner. The music and the buzz of the people bouncing off the stone decor easily made eavesdropping impossible.
“So, what are we thinking?” Jensen started.
“That FBI agents with their white shirts and ties stick out like Mormon missionaries when they’re trying to blend in with the rest of the population,” Sylva joked.
Jensen was all business, but he smiled for a second, “Probably true, but the other four agents in this room seem to be blending in quite well, don’t you think?”
Both officers quickly scanned the
medium-sized crowd in the restaurant. “I guess they do,” Sylva admitted.
“Back to business; what do we want to do about getting Jim next to these women? Are we going to start tonight?”
I spoke up. “Jan and I have been talking about how we approach them, and we’re thinking we might interview them as a team.” Both Sylva and Jensen started to speak, but I held up my hand, palm out for them to wait. “I’ve done some work with hookers – not this quality, that’s for sure, but it was real hard to get to the interview because I had to convince them that I wasn’t just trying to get laid. I’m thinking that two journalists working on a series of magazine articles studying life on streets of American cities, and a married couple to boot, might break down a barrier to conversation. That’s all.”
McPhee nodded, “That’s possible. How will you find them?”
“We were thinking that you could join us in some bar-hopping their usual haunts. Meanwhile Sylva could check out some of the places further out of downtown, and if he came across one of them, he could call us and we could cab over.”
Jensen nodded. “That could work, but I’m afraid that McPhee could be known to these women or their friends, and that could blow the whole works.”
Jan spoke up, “Yeah, but what if he tells the story, if anyone asks, that he’s been assigned to help these out of town journalists, and while he doesn’t appreciate the assignment, a job is a job even for a cop...”
“I could sell that as long as they’re sittin’ at the table and no men are being baited,” McPhee said. “That’s basically what we’re going to find. Two to six of these girls will be having a drink, listening to music. Some guy on the make will ask one of them to dance. If she says yes, then she’ll qualify him, and if he makes the grade, she’ll have a drink with him at his table, and hustle him into the sack.”
“What’s the grade?” Jan asked. “Looks, personality?”
The three cops exchanged a look. McPhee spoke up, “He’ll qualify if he can pay five hundred bucks in cash for a dirty memory.”
“There’s another thing,” I said. “I think we want to go into this as Mr. and Mrs. Coldwell – still Jim and Jan – but if they get gossiping among themselves or with their pimps, I’d just as soon have people looking for the Coldwells and not the Stantons. Okay?”
