Hear the Wind Blow, Dear... (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  However I knew he was off that day as I knew where he was and it wasn't in downtown LA – he'd taken everyone up to Santa Barbara for the weekend to visit Mom's cousin Vi, which was why I'd taken Mom to Tony and Gaye on Friday instead of Sunday, our usual swapping-over time. Vi lived in a mobile home, and drank. There is not necessarily any connection.

  In a clean, sweet-smelling, quiet room down in the first basement, the antithesis of what a room in a police station usually looks, smells and sounds like, I found Sid Myers, also known as Sneezy, a long-term friend and co-worker of Tony's and also a more than nodding acquaintance of mine. He was a cantankerous, harassed little sod who had to work weekends and overtime as he had one of the most expensive hobbies known to man – marriage. No one minded his grumpy nature however as he was a genius at his job.

  Sid looked up from his console when I wandered in and gave me his usual look of pain and high dudgeon, he reminded me of that small redhead who was always in a frenzy of rage against Bugs Bunny. And that small redhead reminded me of that Scotsman who was always in a frenzy of rage against Laurel and Hardy.

  'Good afternoon, Sneezy,' I said brightly.

  'It was,' he said, 'up to now. It was also a brilliant and starry eve the night the Titanic sailed. What are you doing here, anyway, you're not even supposed to be in here.'

  'I need the help of the mighty LAPD record section,' I said, 'in order to combat crime and evil-doing.'

  'Save it,' he said. 'I've heard it all before.'

  'Maybe not this one,' I said. I told him briefly about Mr Lubinski's unusual problems.

  'So what's it got to do with me?' he said. 'And what'cha got in there, a contribution to my next alimony payment?' He was referring to the envelope I was holding containing the jewelry box.

  'Italian fingerprints, I hope,' I said. 'Any chance you can run it through the machine for me?'

  Sid hemmed and hawed, as was to be expected, but he finally took me next door where a pretty lady technician he didn't bother to introduce me to dusted the box, lifted a set of prints, photographically transferred them to a sensitized sheet of pink paper about eight inches by ten, put them through a kind of toaster, then handed the result back to Sneezy, all of which took her some five minutes.

  'Step one,' Sid said.

  I followed him back to his desk. He slipped the sheet into a slit in a shoe-box size piece of hardware, typed busily on his console, then a perfect image of the prints came up in green on the screen.

  'Step two,' he said. He went over to a file cabinet, unlocked it, and brought back a handful of floppy disks, one of which he fed into his computer. He did some more tapping to enter the prints into the memory system, and asked for a run. He got a match on the second run, then switched on the printer, which as you all probably know by now operates sort of like a teletype, but faster. It hammered away for some twenty seconds, then stopped. Sid tore off the printed sheet and handed it to me:

  Luigi (Louis) Bellini.

  AKA Little Lou. B. 4 July 1960 Orange NJ. M. Marion M. (d). F. Luigi G. (d). PA 4453 B St Orange NJ. LKA Apt 42 Quincey Arms Bourne BLVD Inglewood CA . . .

  1974–76 Adams Juv. Home, Jersey City, 1977 – con. AR, 14 mos of 2 yrs served Dannamorra, NY. 1981 – AR EM-PB – Prob. 1981 – AR, EM, dis. 1983 – AR GBH, cd. K A: Maureen Larosa, aka Red, ad. sm. Antonio Gardino, aka Tony Garden. MORE FBI/22B/43/C. CLOSE.

  Which, roughly translated, meant that Little Lou had been a bad boy, had done time twice, once in a juvenile home, had plea bargained once and walked, was up for extorting with menaces and got off, was up for grievous bodily harm and had the case dismissed, more than likely the victim declining to testify as he preferred grievously hurt to grievously dead.

  Sid, who didn't miss much, said, 'Tony Garden.'

  I said, 'You're telling me, Sneezy,' thanked him effusively and got out of there. See why I love computers? In the old days it would have taken weeks to check one odd set of prints for enough points of similarity against, say, a quarter of a million other sets, to say nothing of having to wire them to all the other police forces and federal agencies in the country and wait to see what they could come up with. Had it been the old days, I would have stealthily found out Lou's name to start with, which would have made it easier, but today, hell, you only need half a thumbprint and a computer terminal. Tony told me they can pretty much do the same thing with a photo now, especially if it's sharp and shows at least one ear, but that wasn't the main reason I'd brought Scoop Sara the kid reporter and her trick camera into it.

  If Little Lou was a bad boy I don't know what you'd call Tony Garden, whom the print-out had simply listed as one of Lou's KAs, or known accomplices, but who was certainly Lou's employer-capo. A very bad boy, or a very naughty boy indeed, doesn't seem quite strong enough. Serious trouble is more like it, from what I heard. One of the two big drug chains was his, and I don't mean Rexall, most of the white hotel hooker action was his, Star Cars Taxis was his, a dozen escort services were his, half of the numbers action in most white areas of LA was his, Acme Construction, which laid more roads in California than any other two companies, was his, and God knows how much real estate, how many bookies, how many linen services, how many cops and how many robbers. To sum it up, Mr Garden was to be dealt with extremely carefully, if at all, and preferably at a considerable distance.

  However who am I but an extremely careful fellow; I not only let Boy Scouts help me across busy thoroughfares but never never go out in the rainy season without a hanky and rubbers. And I did have a plan, or most of one.

  On the way back uptown I stopped at Moe's for a couple of franks, mustard and relish only, and a root beer, and sweet-talked Son of Moe, who was sucking sugar, as usual, into letting me use his phone which wasn't supposed to be used by customers. The first call I made was to Mr Lubinski. He must have been lurking near his phone because he answered it almost before it rang.

  'Lubinski, Lubinski and Levi,' he said. 'Good afternoon.'

  'Good afternoon,' I said. 'This is your friendly travel agent calling. Time to lock up your valuables and pack your bags, Mr Lubinski, Philadelphia awaits.'

  'Not only am I already packed,' he said, 'I've already left. Goodbye.'

  'Got a number where you're going?' I said. 'I'll call you in a week or so, with any luck it'll be all over by then.'

  'And without luck?' he said. 'I don't got a number but I've got a name.' He gave me his brother's name and address in South Philly, which I wrote down on a slightly used paper napkin. 'Luck,' he said bitterly. 'If I had any luck, would I be going to Philadelphia in winter? To my brother Mort's?'

  I laughed and hung up. Then, as it was coming up to two o'clock and there was an outside chance my pal Benny might be awake, I gave him a ring.

  He was up and delighted to hear from me, or so he said.

  I asked him if he wanted to buy some gold.

  He said, no, but he knew somebody who might want to buy some, how much did I have?

  I told him. The amount didn't faze him for a moment.

  How much was I asking?

  'Two hundred and seventy-five dollars an ounce,' I said, adding, for purposes that will be revealed later, twenty-five dollars per ounce on top of the Italian's asking price.

  'Seems very reasonable,' he said. 'Are you sure you've got your figures right?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'I am sure. Benny, just out of curiosity, who would your potential customer be?'

  He told me; I recognized the name, it was one of the names of a Chinese gentleman who had roughly the same status among L A's Orientals as Tony Garden did among the whites and for roughly the same reasons.

  'What would he want it for?'

  'Teeth,' said Benny. 'Do you know how many gold teeth there are walking around Chinatown and Little Korea and Little Vietnam?'

  'No,' I said, 'of course I don't. How would I know? Benny, why wouldn't my guy sell direct to your guy?'

  Benny thought for a moment. 'Is your guy perhaps of Italian hue?'

&
nbsp; 'Perhaps,' I said, 'if "hue's" the right word.'

  'That's why,' he said. 'They don't mix. They hate each other. It's worse than Romeo and Juliet or the Hatfields and the McCoys or Jews and Arabs, you name it. I mean they do not get on. Their idea of friendly relations is total war.'

  'Ah,' I said. 'Benny, you know any of the names your guy trades under, more or less legally?'

  'Sure,' he said, and he rattled off a half a dozen, including the Far East Trading Company. 'It'll take a while to set it up at this end, my friend, even if my guy is interested, because you better believe I'll go through at least two cut-outs, there's no way I'm talkin' to those guys direct about that much gold.'

  'I hear you,' I said. 'It'll take me a few days too, for slightly different reasons. So I'll get back to you when I can.'

  Fine by him, he said. He gave me a post office box number where any communications of a sensitive nature could be safely addressed. He wanted to know if I had any spare time during the weekend as I was well overdue for a humiliation at the chess board; at one time he'd thrashed me regularly a couple of times a week but due to this and that, mostly that, I hadn't been by his nondescript Hollywood apartment for a while. I told him that quite frankly I had a lot more important things to do right then than play some childish game but I'd let him know. Before I hung up I asked him if he had a lot on next week. He said, no, not a lot, odds and ends, bits and pieces, you know me.

  I did indeed. Benny's odds and ends might include anything from some slick new variation on pyramid selling to peddling space in trade directories of which there was only one copy, one he'd printed himself. Once he sold the same house three times although to be fair it was his house to begin with. He told me once he started as a mere youth selling color portraits of U S presidents, by mail, for a buck. His customers got a one-cent stamp. Then he sold again by mail and again for a buck, a guaranteed system of making money. The system you got was to put a small-ad in a paper or comic that said, send me a buck and I'll send you a system guaranteed to make you money. Kid stuff, really, but you still see them today. He told me he'd once lived for a year selling tickets to bus tours, only he didn't have a bus or a tour, all he had was a cap, a badge and some tickets. He told me he used to make the odd fiver selling copies of special keys that open up those automatic machines on street corners that vend newspapers. He told me a lot of things, but that's enough for now.

  Onwards. Onwards to Mrs Martel's stationery store next to the post office, where I nipped in first to look up the address of the Far East Trading Company. I told Mrs Martel, a short, arch woman wearing sequined glasses held on by a flashy gold chain, that business was so good I had to start another company. Two, in fact.

  She nodded knowingly.

  'And what are we to call our companies this time, Mr Daniel? The FBI? The California Committee for Unwed Mothers? The U S Immigration Service? The California State Tax Department, Carmel Branch?' How she remembered these examples from my checkered past I'll never know.

  I looked shocked. 'We are simply going to call them the Near East Trading Company and the Far East Trading Company,' I said.

  'And I suppose we'll need both headed paper and matching headed envelopes again, medium bond?'

  'You read my mind, darling,' I said.

  'Lino or offset?' she said.

  'Offset,' I said. 'And by the way, all this is in aid of, or at least I hope it will aid, a certain amazing gent called Mr Lubinski, sometimes known as Solly, who is right now, I believe, on his way to visit relatives back East.'

  'I know,' she said, reddening slightly. 'He dropped in to say goodbye.'

  'Well!' I said. She dealt with a customer while I looked over her selection of maps, then she took me out back where her chinless son Geoffry held sway. I don't know if you care, but offset was the greatest invention in printing circles since Herr Gutenberg's original system of individual letters clamped together in rows, which you then inked and then pressed on a sheet of paper. With offset, you don't need thousands of individual letters in all the different typefaces. All you do is run your typed material through a machine that is basically a copier and it produces, given another easy step or two, the plate you ink up and print from. Suffice it to say that twenty minutes later I was out on the street again with two sets of twenty-four copies each of professionally printed, headed notepaper and matching envelopes. (I always had a few extras made up, it cost but pennies and one never knew.) I also had a map of South-Central California so I could track down Carmen Springs, where something called Tim's Tavern could be found.

  And, I devoutly hoped, two of their regular customers, Dell and his brother, whoever he was. 'Asshole,' Tommy had called him: not a bad name for the kid.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Back at the office, I scribbled some rough notes, got the electric typewriter from the safe and was looking up the address of the head office of Acme Construction (CAL) Ltd when Sara came in and tossed her latest work of art on my desk.

  'Here. You said you needed it right away.'

  'Did I? Oh, yeah. Nice coat.' I gave an admiring whistle. She was wearing something that trailed on the floor and looked like it was left over from the Zulu Wars.

  'Well? Aren't'cha gonna read it? Oh. I brung ya something else, as you're my favorite creep.' She dug in one pocket and produced a couple of crumpled oatmeal cookies wrapped in a Kleenex. 'Made by me,' she said proudly, as if oatmeal cookies were hard to make and anyway they were the bumpy normal kind, not the flat, brittle, golden-brown ones I really liked. I nibbled on one of the things to give her pleasure and skimmed through her 'report' while she puffed at one of those long women's cigarettes that look like cigars to try and calm her nerves. If there's anything I hate it's reading something of a so-called artistic nature in front of the person who wrote it. You'd think she was exposing her poor fragile soul in every badly typed line:

  CONFIDENTIAL

  17 Jan.

  Report

  From: Agent S.S.

  To: V.D. (Ha ha)

  (From notes taken in field)

  8.45 a.m.

  Left office of V.D. after briefing and instruction in use of

  Spy camera. Nifty gadget, height (or depth?) of sneakiness,

  Le voyeur's special.

  8.50 a.m.

  Purchased spiral notebook and Rapidwriter pen

  Expenses $2.51.

  From lippy lady in paper store across from L.L. & L.

  A gift, are they? she says, implying, I suppose, that I was

  Completely illiterate. If she only knew.

  8.55 a.m.

  Arrived at L.L. & L. (Address on request.)

  L., mucho nervioso, let me in. Dropped small box he was polishing twice.

  I says, calm down, sir, the coward tastes of death a thousand times,

  The valiant never tastes of death but once. A poetic quote.

  If I dealt in candles, the sun would never set, he says. A Yiddish quote.

  Snapped a few snaps. Jotted a few jots.

  Asked him why he was polishing already polished box.

  He told me.

  Began to interview him properly to sink into my role,

  Also to take his mind off things.

  Did you know he was born in Estonia?

  Did you know he had an operation on his prostate two years ago?

  Did you know girls don't have prostates?

  Do you know he speaks a bissel Yiddish, whatever that means?

  9.40 a.m. (about)

  Think I spot large, furtive private eye sneaking into health-food bar

  Across the street. Can't be right, from the look of him he's never been

  Near one of those places in his life.

  9.55 a.m. (about)

  Enter Greaseball. Yecch. Fake tan, shirt open to his curlies, gold

  Medallion the size of a hubcap, basketweave shoes.

  Almost made me prefer the Hawaiian look.

  Musclebound, oozing oil and slippery yeech.

  Sees m
e ever so vivacious, ever so questioning, and pretends interest

  In a display of cufflinks.

  L. hangin' in there. Be right with you, sir,

  He says, this young lady (!)'s just finishing up her interview with me

  For her school paper.

  Then I snap off a few last shots, including I'm positive some beauties of II Greaseballo.

  You tell your teacher Lubinski is always glad to help, L. says.

  Greaseball drifts to back of store as

  I drift to front with L. Using L. as blocker, I neatly pocket

  Cufflink box Greaseball has handled, taking L. off the hook.

  Pose L. for final shot in front of his store.

  See in reflection huge furtive private eye sneaking hurriedly off

  Down the street,

  Inconspicuous as dog doo on a white carpet.

  10.05 a.m.

  Report back to office of V.D.

  Take that,

  Sez Sara S. Total Expenses $2.51

  'Terrific,' I said when I'd finished. 'Most amusing. I think I have a right to go into that health-food bar if I want to, they happen to have excellent fresh orange juice there, I'm almost a regular.'

  'Did I get him?' she asked. 'I thought I nailed the sucker.' She tapped her ash in the wastepaper basket.

  'Use the ashtray,' I said. 'Yeah, you got him, and we got a make on his prints, too.'

  'Who is he? Show me the pictures.'

  I showed them to her. 'He's a hood called Little Lou who's been arrested even more times than you've had weird haircuts,' I said.