by J. L. Abramo
I ruled against attempting to drive and tried hailing a cab. Four taxis flew by without slowing. I couldn’t blame the drivers; I was a very scary sight. The guy that finally picked me up had no excuse not to stop, since he looked considerably worse than I did.
“What’s with the Fred Munster impersonation, Jake?” said Darlene when I walked into the office at eleven.
Bless her little heart.
“Tell me about Lansdale,” I said, painfully lowering myself into the client chair.
“He’s big trouble,” Darlene said.
“Tell me something I don’t know, Darlene.”
“Your vest wasn’t made to be reversible.”
Fifteen minutes later Darlene had my coat off, the vest turned right side out, and my shirt rebuttoned so the bottoms of the tail would meet, and had me back in the chair with Tug McGraw’s sleeping pillow propped behind my back.
The dog wasn’t happy.
“I did a little research on the Internet last night,” Darlene began. “I’ll explain how the Internet works some other time.”
And she told me all she had learned about Max Lansdale.
Max’s father was Simon Lansdale, who for nearly fifty years had been one of the most respected and feared members of the Chicago legal community. Respected by those who for a very hefty sum were cleared of criminal charges, whether innocent or guilty, by way of his courtroom acumen and his influence on the street. Feared by those who, when careers hinged upon winning high-profile cases, found themselves up against the lawyer who didn’t know how to lose.
Simon was only twenty-one years old, and still in law school at the University of Chicago, when a summer apprenticeship had him sitting at the defense table during the Al Capone tax evasion trial in 1931. Simon Lansdale was young enough to be spared the displeasure that Capone violently displayed toward his counsel after the prison sentencing.
At the same time, Lansdale was mature enough to understand that he was in the right place at the right moment.
Simon completed his law studies with one eye in his textbooks and the other on the realignment of Chicago’s power structure, political and otherwise.
Simon Lansdale had ambition.
Legend had it that a case forcing him to work late in the office of one of the city’s largest law firms in late July of 1934 caused Simon Lansdale to miss an appointment to join John Dillinger for a movie at the Biograph Theater.
By 1940, at the age of thirty, Lansdale had opened his own shop, Lansdale and Sons. It would be six years before he would slow down enough to find time to stand at an altar, let alone think about male children and their prospective vocations.
When Simon Lansdale finally decided it was time to start a family, he thought mostly in terms of alliances when shopping for a bride. After due consideration as to the direction of Chicago’s future, Simon courted and then married a niece of Sam Giancana. Giancana had started in the Capone organization running guns as a teen, and with Scarface in prison, Sammy “Momo” Giancana was systematically working his way to the top.
And Simon Lansdale liked heights.
“Take a look at this,” Darlene said. “I took it off one of the Web sites.”
She handed me a page with a photo she had run off her computer printer.
“Is that Joe Kennedy?” I asked.
“Chicago. Summer of 1960. Drumming up support for his son’s bid for the presidency. The gentleman standing shoulder to shoulder with Kennedy wearing a matching smile was Simon Lansdale.”
If I had to describe Simon Lansdale in two words they would have to be dapper and confident.
“Sam Giancana was shot to death in 1975. One bullet in the head and five in the mouth while in bed. Simon Lansdale took it as an omen, a strong suggestion to put distance between himself and his most unsavory clients. By that time, Jonathan and Randolph Lansdale were working for their father in the law firm,” Darlene said. “Simon decided he would prefer a less dangerous work environment for his sons to inherit.”
“Very considerate,” I said.
“Simon cleaned up his act. He did such a good job of making the law practice totally legitimate that he succeeded in dying peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of eighty-five. Randolph, by virtue of being the oldest son, took over as chief mouthpiece for the firm. At least until three months later, when he stopped a bullet with his head.”
“And you got all this off the Internet?”
“There was much more. I gave you the CliffsNotes version.”
“Any mention of someone named Harrison Chandler?” I asked.
“Not that I recall, but I can go back and look for it.”
“What made you say earlier that Max Lansdale was big trouble?”
“You mean other than the way you look?” Darlene said. “I borrowed the turn of phrase from Tony Carlucci.”
“Carlucci said that Lansdale was big trouble?”
“High praise coming from Tony, don’t you think?” she said.
“Did Tony say anything else?”
“He said that if you wanted more you could visit him at the restaurant.”
Terrific.
“Meanwhile, I couldn’t reach Sonny,” Darlene reported. “Joey, Angela, Sonny, and Connie are doing two weeks at the Russo’s condo in St. Martin. They left yesterday morning, won’t be back until Sunday after next.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
I certainly didn’t know.
“I called Joey’s place and Vinnie Strings answered the telephone. At first I thought I had misdialed, but then I remembered that I went through a session with a hypnotist to purge Vinnie’s phone number from my consciousness. He’s house-sitting. Joey offered him five hundred dollars and all the food he could eat if he could succeed in keeping Angela’s basil plants alive.”
“That’s the first good news I’ve heard in twenty-four hours,” I said. “At least Strings won’t be able to follow me down to Los Angeles.”
“What’s in L.A.?” Darlene asked.
“I need to talk to a private dick named Stan Riddle.”
“I thought you hated the term ‘private dick,’ Jake.”
“Unfortunately, sometimes it’s appropriate.”
“How about taking me along,” said Darlene. “You could use some help walking.”
I thought about Lansdale’s threats. Maybe keeping Darlene close wasn’t a bad idea. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the danger she could be in just for being someone I cared about. Not to mention that I had no idea about how in the world I was going to broach the subject with Sally French.
I decided to put it on hold until I caught up with Stan Riddle.
For the time being, I took Darlene up on her offer to join me.
After all, it wasn’t as if the office telephone was ringing off the hook.
“Sure, why not,” I said. “I’ll give Willie Dogtail a call and see if he can put us up at his house on the beach. Riddle works out of Santa Monica; maybe we can avoid Los Angeles entirely.”
“I might want to run into the city and surprise Lenny. He’s down there for a Gatorade commercial.”
L. L. Bruno was Darlene’s boyfriend, an offensive lineman for the 49ers.
“Great, we can drive down in the Impala,” I said. “I have a few calls to make, maybe some people to see. Do you mind leaving tonight? We can be down there in the morning.”
“Fine with me,” Darlene said. “Do you hear that, boy? We’re going on a road trip with Uncle Jake.”
Tug McGraw peeked out from under the desk. As usual I had forgotten that the dog existed.
I gave them both a goofy smile, painfully lifted myself out of the chair, and baby-stepped my way to my cubbyhole in back to try reaching Willie Dogtail.
Willie Dogtail was a full-blooded Sioux, a friend from the old days with Jimmy Pigeon in Southern California. Willie made his living selling authentic Native American artifacts, which his mother and her sisters wove or molded or painted or carved and shipped
down to him from South Dakota. Willie Dogtail took hospitality very seriously. His door was always open.
Willie answered his phone on the fifth ring. He was out of breath.
“Dogtail’s Inn,” he said, “no reservation needed.”
“Willie, it’s Jake Diamond.”
“Hey, compadre, how’s your tomahawk hanging?” Willie wheezed.
“Been out jogging on the beach, Willie?”
“Are you kidding, Jake. You know I don’t run unless someone’s chasing me. I was out back working on the cinder-block addition,” he said. “What’s up? I haven’t had any smoke signals from you in ages.”
“Darlene and I are heading down your way for a day or two; I was hoping you could put us up.”
“You shacking up with your trusty assistant, Jake?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I was trying to be envious,” Willie said, “and you know you don’t have to ask, Jake. Mi tepee, su tepee. Sorry I’ll miss you, though, unless you’re calling from Ventura.”
“Oh?”
“I’m out of here in an hour, heading down to see my little senorita in Guadalajara,” Willie said. `You remember where I keep the house key?”
“In the front-door lock?”
“Make yourself at home, Kemosabe. There’s some choice buffalo jerky in the cabinet above the stove, next to what’s left of the bottle of Dickel from your last visit.”
“Thanks, Willie.”
“De nada, Wyatt. Give me a little more warning next time and I’ll throw a bash. What’s the occasion, anyhow?”
“I have to see a guy named Stan Riddle,” I answered. “Happen to know him?”
“To my dismay, pardner. He’s real well known in these here parts for leaving messes around for all us luckless pedestrians to step in. I’d ask why in the name of Sitting Bull you’d want to get anywhere near the clown except I’m running late.”
I thought of asking Willie if he knew anything about Harrison Chandler but decided to let him go.
“Okay, Willie, I’ll let you go. Thanks again.”
“You bet. Later, paleface.”
I spent the remainder of the afternoon on the phone, either pacing the room as much as the cord would allow or sitting on the edge of my desk. I knew that if I sat down in my chair it would take a come-along to hoist me out of it.
Tom Romano was a fellow San Francisco private investigator who had been in the business a lot longer than I had. I had met Romano three years earlier at a Holiday Inn cocktail lounge. I’d been hired by a woman who suspected her spouse of infidelity, and I’d followed her husband to the hotel. He entered the lounge, walked over to a booth, and greeted the redhead sitting there with a lusty kiss. I took a seat at the bar and watched as they worked on their gin and tonics.
As I nursed my own drink, I noticed a bearded guy at the bar who seemed to be as interested in the couple in the booth as I was. And I soon realized he was more than a little interested in me also. When the couple finally rose to leave the booth, the beard and I were so busy observing each other that we almost missed their exit.
I turned away from him, made a theatrical event out of lighting a cigarette, and watched from the corner of my eye as he took off after the couple. I crushed the Camel into an ashtray and headed out to the hotel lobby.
I caught sight of the couple getting into an elevator and then saw the beard at the check-in counter slipping the clerk some cash. Then he walked straight over to me.
“Room 1416,” he said. `You owe me ten bucks.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tom Romano, TomRom Detective Agency. I’m following the redhead. She’s married to the poor sap who hired me. I’m guessing that you’re here on behalf of her boyfriend’s wife. The room number cost me twenty, I figure you owe me ten.”
He put out his hand; I went for my wallet.
“Forget the dough,” he said, grinning; “professional courtesy.”
“Jake Diamond,” I said, accepting the handshake.
“Didn’t you work with Jimmy Pigeon down in Santa Monica?”
“Yes I did.”
“Good to meet you. I was a big Jimmy Pigeon fan,” Romano said. “How about I let you buy me a scotch and soda.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll meet you at the bar,” he said. “I need to call my client and tell him where his wife is. You might want to call and break the news to your client. We can have a drink and wait to see the fireworks when they both show up here. Then we can remind each other about how much we hate domestic-treason cases.”
Tom and I had been buddies ever since.
After my call to Willie Dogtail, I gave Romano a ring. As I waited for his assistant to get him to the phone, I tried to stretch my aching neck. I slowly leaned my head back and moved my chin in small clockwise circles. The sound it made was like popcorn in a microwave.
“Jake,” Tom said, “hope you’re not calling to cancel Thursday night.”
Torn, Ira Fennessy, and I played pinochle on the first and third Thursday every month. Fennessy was another PI. The game was like group therapy.
“Thursday looks good,” I said. “I should be back from Los Angeles well before the first hand.”
“What’s in L.A.?”
“I need to see Stan Riddle.”
“Jake, not for anything,” Tom said, “but if you’re that hard up for things to do, you might want to consider taking up needlepoint.”
“Does the name Harrison Chandler mean anything to you, Tom?” I asked.
“Sure. He was a legend in the business.”
“The PI business?”
“There must be thousands of private investigators who have worked L.A., but aside from fictional characters there were only two who were worthy of respect. One was Jimmy Pigeon. The other was Harry Chandler,” Tom said. “I can’t believe you never heard tell of him; Jimmy and Harry were like a mutual admiration society.”
“It must have been before my time with Jimmy,” I said. “I understand Chandler checked out eight years ago or so. Do you know the details?”
“Not really. It was sketchy. Something to do with a case that Harry was working and a woman he wasn’t supposed to be seeing. Someone planted a bomb in Harry’s place in Westwood, killed them both.”
“Chandler and the woman?”
“Boom.”
“Who was she?”
“Couldn’t tell you. All we heard up here was that Harry had met her in Chicago and that maybe someone wasn’t too happy to find her in Los Angeles with Chandler. I’m guessing Jimmy may have known more about it,” Tom said, “but not much help there. What’s Stan Riddle got to do with it?”
“Riddle’s been claiming that Harrison Chandler is alive,” I said.
“Not a chance. Who is he trying to sell that fairy tale to?”
“A scary attorney named Lansdale. And Lansdale hired me to check it out.”
“Don’t know the name, and I know every mouthpiece in Northern California.”
“This nightmare is in Chicago,” I said.
“Chicago,” Tom said. “Coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in them, Tom, any more than you do.”
“Why take the case, Jake?”
“At the moment I don’t have much of a choice,” I said, “and I could use a favor.”
“Sure, Jake, ask away.”
“Could you keep an eye on Sally while I’m down south?”
“Is this Midwest fuck threatening to hurt Sally?”
“He mentioned it, and I don’t know if the man is as dangerous as he seems to think he is. I’d feel better if someone was paying attention.”
“No problem, Jake, I’ve got you covered. Anything else I can do, don’t hesitate.”
“Thanks, Tom. I’ll call when I get back.”
“Jake.”
“Yeah.”
“You might want to look up Ray Boyle while you’re down there.”
“Ray and I don’t exactly get along, Tom. I
work hard at avoiding him.”
Ray Boyle was an LAPD homicide detective who had often referred to me in terms usually reserved for a discussion of hemorrhoids.
“You may want to make an exception this time. Boyle was the primary investigator on the bombing incident that I mentioned earlier.”
“Thanks for the tip, Tom. Maybe I will. Talk to you in a few days.”
The thought of having to deal with Ray Boyle had the tiny vertebrae in my neck popping again.
On the up side, it made a chat with Lieutenant Laura Lopez of the San Francisco Police Department a bit less undesirable.
On top of that, I wanted to put off calling Vinnie Strings for as long as humanly possible, and I thought that a reasonable amount of walking could help work out some of the kinks in my upper extremities.
So I decided to take a stroll to visit Lopez.
“When was the last time you ate something?” Darlene asked as I passed through the front room.
“I don’t know if I could chew. I’m off to see the lieutenant.”
“Why don’t you pick up a couple of smoothies from the Juice Barn on your way back?” Darlene suggested. “Make mine a banana-kiwi.”
“Do they do a sausage and pepper?”
Tug McGraw peeked out from under the desk, his ears straight up, looking at Darlene as if he were listening for an affirmative.
As much as the mutt ignored me, when it came to certain subjects we shared a strange, unambiguous understanding.
Darlene stayed out of it.
McGraw looked to me, I gave him a shrug that cost me no small amount of pain, and I headed out for the Vallejo Street Police Station.
Four
Darlene had reminded me of how hungry I was. When I made it down to the street I was in front of the door to Molinari’s Salumeria and couldn’t come up with an excuse not to go in. There were plenty of excuses; I just couldn’t come up with one in time.
“What happened to you yesterday, Jake?” Angelo Verdi asked, in the way of a greeting. “I saved an order of calamari for you all day. I wound up having to take it home with me for dinner.”
I decided to try jumping right past it. Maybe he would forget he asked. I needed something of sustenance that I could digest with minimum effort.
