Counting to Infinity

by J. L. Abramo

I gave Tom Romano a quick call, to thank him for his vigilance and to apologize again for missing the pinochle game with him and Ira Fennessy the night before. I had called him from Chicago when I was sure that I wouldn’t make it back in time.

  “Ira’s brother sat in, but it wasn’t the same, he bids like a maniac,” Tom said. “How did it go in Chicago?”

  “Not very far. I’m stuck in a holding pattern. I’m supposed to hear from the late Harry Chandler if and when he gets in from the far ends of the earth. Meanwhile I have to appear to be searching for him and Joe Clams, in case anyone is watching. Lansdale said he would take the heat off the women, but I have a problem with his sincerity. So, if time allows, keep an eye open.”

  “Sure. How did Eddie Hand treat you?”

  “Like a brother, Tom. Thanks for that also.”

  “Eddie is a good man. And he’ll do some follow-up for you if he said he would. How about a drink after work?”

  “Can’t tonight. I have to shop for a three-thousand-dollar watch at five, and then I’m hoping that my mother will feed me. I don’t know about you, Tom, but if opening day at Pac Bell doesn’t get here quickly I’m going to go stir-crazy.”

  I called my mother after finishing with Tom. She was delighted.

  “It’s Friday, Jacob, you’ll have to settle for fish,” she said.

  “That’s fine, Mom.”

  “I’ll do linguini with clam sauce, and throw together some of the rice balls you love so much. I’ll just use the peas and mozzarella and leave out the ham.”

  “Great, Mom, I’ll bring the wine and dessert,” I said. “Look for me at seven; I’ll be the kid with the appetite.”

  Linguini con salsa vongoli. It figured.

  The next morning, though I would have preferred to sleep in, I met Monty at the same diner where I’d picked up three thousand bucks in cash from him the evening before.

  “Nice timepiece,” I said, sliding the Rolex to him across the table.

  “What did it set you back?” Monty asked.

  “Here’s the change,” I said, placing two one-hundred-dollar bills beside the watch.

  “Son of a bitch,” Monty said. “Look at this.”

  He had stopped into his shop before meeting me and picked up the sales log. The last sale of the day was for a silver Rolex. The sale price was entered at $2,650.

  “What will you do?” I asked.

  “Look for a new employee,” he said. “Too bad you already have a job.”

  “Sometimes I wonder.”

  Monty slipped the two hundred back my way.

  “That’s too much,” I said.

  “Did you make any money yesterday, Jake?”

  “No.”

  “So don’t complain. It was worth it. You can buy me breakfast.”

  Somehow I managed to squander the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon doing absolutely nothing. At four, I was at Sally’s house in the Presidio. We had a few drinks and planned an evening around dinner and a movie, with a working budget of two hundred dollars. When Sally invited me to stay the night, I nearly let out an audible sigh of relief.

  If there was something strange about enjoying time spent with my ex-wife, I was ready to make strange my new favorite word.

  We stayed together most of the day Sunday, talking, cooking, watching videos, generally having a grand old time. I made it back to my place in the Fillmore, brewed a pot of espresso, made up for the cigarettes I hadn’t smoked at Sally’s, read a couple of chapters of Karamazov, and hit the hay.

  Monday and Tuesday were uneventful. I stopped over to Joey Russo’s place on Monday evening to check on Vinnie Strings. Somehow he was managing to keep the basil plants alive. I was reminded of how much I missed having Joey around, being that whenever I found myself stuck between a rock and a hard place, Joey Russo had a natural talent for squeezing in beside me. Vinnie and I shared a pizza and a six-pack and we called it a night.

  On Tuesday, I finally woke up to the realization that Darlene might need a little bit of attention. She claimed that her weekend down at Half Moon Bay had been a gas, but she wasn’t entirely convincing. I can be pretty thick, but it was no excuse for neglecting the fact that Darlene had found her piece-of-crap football-player boyfriend in the sack with a girl sporting patent leather boots. There was a new health food restaurant recently opened in the Castro and I suggested that we try it out for dinner.

  On me.

  “What if you can’t find anything on the menu to eat?” Darlene asked, as much as she appreciated the gesture.

  “I called the place. They serve free-range chicken, whatever that is. I mean, if the bird was running around the range so free, how did the poor bastard wind up on the menu?”

  “I’d love to have dinner with you, Jake,” Darlene said.

  Call me selfish, but it made me feel good to see her smile.

  On Wednesday morning, I made it to the office at nine. Darlene was paying bills, so I did what I always did when Darlene was dealing with finances. I went to hide in my back room.

  At half past ten Darlene buzzed me from her desk.

  “Telephone call for you, Jake,” she said. “A sweet-talker claiming to be Harrison Chandler.”

  Ten

  Harrison Chandler made it short, and he did most of the talking.

  “Meet me at exactly five on Friday afternoon. There is a joint called the Pork Store Café on Haight, between Ashbury and Masonic. There’s a green metal door off the alley behind the place, you can access the alley from Masonic. The door will be unlocked. Take the stairs to the second floor. Don’t be late, don’t be followed.”

  “Why not come here,” I asked, “or meet in a public place if you’re worried about safety?”

  “Whether you realize it or not, your office and your apartment are being watched. And public places aren’t well recommended for someone who is technically still wanted for murder,” Chandler said. “It’s the best I can do, and I’m going out on a limb. And it’s a one-shot deal. I’ll see you on Friday.”

  And the line went dead.

  I had no clue as to what I could possibly do to keep myself occupied for two days waiting for the showdown with Harry Chandler.

  A few minutes after Chandler ended his call, Tom Romano rang with a temporary solution.

  Tom asked if I could meet him at his office.

  “I got a call from Eddie Hand,” Tom Romano said when I got to his office. “He had no luck on the reporter, Phil Cochran. But he did get a line on Katherine Carson, the receptionist who identified Chandler. Eddie found what may be a current address from a friend of his at the IRS.”

  “Oh?”

  “Marina del Rey.”

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Sorry, pal.”

  Tom let me use his telephone to call Willie Dogtail.

  “Willie, Jake. I need a favor.”

  “Name it, paleface.”

  “I’m trying to find a woman.”

  “How tall?”

  I gave Dogtail the Marina del Rey address.

  “I need to know if a certain woman still lives there, Willie, and I wouldn’t mind finding out where she works,” I said. “The name is Katherine Carson, goes by Kit.”

  “Kit Carson? I’m Sioux, Jake. Are you trying to give me the shivers?”

  “Scope it out, Willie, and try not to spook her. I need to talk with the woman, so keep your scalping knife locked up until I do.”

  “No problem, Wyatt. I’ll get on it first thing in the morning, see if I can’t ID the lady and maybe follow her to work. I’ll give you a call as soon as I have something.”

  “Thanks, Willie.”

  “How about a card game tomorrow night, Jake?” Romano asked when I was through with Dogtail. “To make up for the one we missed last Thursday. I can give Fennessy a call, see if he’s down for it.”

  “Sure, why not, if I can have a word or two with Kit Carson without having to haul my aching body back down there.”

&
nbsp; It was getting close to noon, so I offered to treat Tom to whatever the greasy spoon down the street from his office was calling special that day. I made it back to my office just before two. I gave Vinnie Strings a call, to enlist the help I would need from him to make my Friday meeting with Harry Chandler.

  Thoughts about leaving work early were interrupted when Max Lansdale called from Chicago at half past four.

  “How are we coming along, Jake?” he asked.

  I could feel the chicken-fried steak do a flip-flop in my stomach.

  “I’m working a couple of leads, Max,” I said. “Keep your shirt on.”

  “You know, Diamond, I’ve been very liberal with you. Please don’t forget who you are talking to.”

  Fat chance.

  “Look, Lansdale, I hate to burst your bubble, but you’re really not doing me any favors. If you want to get talked nice to, call Regis. I’m doing the best I can. If you’re unhappy with my work, call the Better Business Bureau.”

  Lansdale hung up.

  I couldn’t care less if the guy liked me or not. I was in the same spot, one way or the other.

  A snake pit is a snake pit.

  On the upside, Max Lansdale’s call had held me long enough to catch a phone call from Sally. She had tickets to one of the semiprofessional theater productions over at Fort Mason.

  Sally was an executive with the arts council. The theater company was looking for funding, and Sally wanted to check out the work. I realized that if the play was bad, it would be two hours of torture without escape. And if it was good, it would have me pining over the good old days Off-Off-Broadway. In any event, seeing Sally was worth the risk. And it would take care of another evening of waiting to see Chandler. I told Sally I would pick her up at seven.

  I walked Darlene and the pooch back to her car at five, and grabbed an eggplant sandwich at Molinari’s to take home. If someone was trying to watch my movements without being spotted, he was doing a damn fine job of it. I only hoped that Dogtail would do as well in the morning with Kit Carson.

  He did. He called the following afternoon. I was out of the office picking up the beer and snacks for the pinochle game, so Darlene had him call me on my cellular.

  Willie was able to confirm that Katherine Carson did in fact live at the Marina del Rey address, and he gave me both her residential and office phone numbers.

  I thought it would be better to confront her at home and decided that I would call before I left for the card game. “I don’t understand it,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else.

  “What’s not to understand?” Tom Romano said, arranging his cards, handling each one as if it would bite him. “It’s Ira’s night. It’s always Ira’s night. No matter how long I look at this hand, it still looks more like a foot to me. I pass.”

  I had reached Kit Carson, but try as she might, she was little help.

  “So Ms. Carson tells me that when Randolph Lansdale learned that his sweetheart had fallen for Harry Chandler, he went on a two-day bender. Kit Carson nurses him through it and before you know it they’re in the sack together. And Randolph Lansdale is suddenly head over heels for Katherine, she’s always had a thing for him, and they’re both hearing wedding bells.”

  “Nice rebound,” Ira Fennessy said. “I’ll bid three fifty.”

  “Jesus, Ira, have a heart,” Tom said.

  “Ira probably has a fist full of hearts,” I said. “So, Carson asks me, and it’s a very good question, why would Randolph Lansdale be dragging his ass to Los Angeles to stalk the slut who dumped him, let alone to blow the bitch to pieces? I’m paraphrasing, but I am trying to capture her tone,” I said. “Four hundred.”

  “If you’re looking to buy some meld, Jake, forget it,” Ira said. “Four fifty.”

  “Don’t let him intimidate you, Jake,” said Tom.

  “I haven’t bought meld in about three months, so intimidation is futile. I only bid if I have it in my hand. Five hundred.”

  “I ought to stick you with it, Diamond,” Ira said.

  “So, I say to Carson, ‘What about all of the photos he took of Chandler and Carla?’ The pictures that brother Max said he found in Randolph’s desk and warned Chandler about. And she says that Randolph Lansdale never took a photograph in his life and that he wouldn’t know which end of a camera was up if he owned one, which he didn’t,” I said. “The bid is five hundred, do I hear five fifty?”

  “I don’t see how you come close to making five hundred, Jake,” Ira said.

  “Max Lansdale never told you personally about his brother’s jealous rage,” said Romano. “Isn’t that something you got from Ray Boyle?”

  “Who probably got it from Chandler, so who knows? But Max did claim that he developed photos of Chandler from his brother’s camera, so something gives. And the photograph that was used to identify Chandler to the police, the one that was taken in front of the newspaper building. Where did that really come from?” I said. “What’s the bid?”

  “Five hundred, and I don’t think you can make it,” said Ira.

  “So pass,” I said. “Harry Chandler was investigating Randolph Lansdale. He must have been onto something, and it scared Lansdale pretty bad. The question is, did Harry even know, or did he really believe that it had to do with love and romance?”

  “You can ask Chandler tomorrow,” Tom said.

  “And why didn’t Carson hear a gunshot when Chandler walked into the office and put one into Lansdale’s head?” I said, thinking out loud. “The woman told me that she never heard a gunshot.”

  “A silencer?” said Tom.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can ask Chandler tomorrow,” Tom said again.

  “If I can make it to tomorrow,” I said.

  “I pass,” said Fennessy.

  I turned over the cards in the kitty. Jack of spades. Nine of spades.

  “What do you know,” I said, flipping over the last card, “there’s your second ace of hearts, Ira. Gives me one hundred aces, the run in spades with the double marriage in trump, and a pinochle.”

  “Jesus,” said Ira.

  “I don’t know if I can add this high. Two hundred, two forty, three forty,” I counted as I laid the cards down. “What do I need to make the hand?”

  “One sixty,” said Ira, “and you bid five hundred with what? Eighty points in your mitt?”

  “Maybe your luck is changing, Jake,” Tom Romano said.

  I could only hope.

  Eleven

  The switch was something that Vinnie Strings and I had learned from Jimmy Pigeon back in the Santa Monica days. Although it unhappily meant putting Vinnie behind the wheel of my cherished 1963 Chevy Impala convertible, at least for the first part of the trip, I felt fairly confident that it would do the job of shaking any tails.

  The logical choice was the Broadway tunnel. I left the office at twenty to five on Friday afternoon and drove the Toyota to the west entrance of the tunnel. I silently prayed that Vinnie would be on time, since stopping in the middle of the tunnel during rush hour was going to cause a great deal of commotion regardless of how quickly we could switch vehicles. For a change, the answer to my prayer was yes. At the center of the tunnel, I saw the Impala slow to a stop, halting the opposing traffic. I stopped the Toyota and hopped out. Vinnie and I brushed shoulders as we each crossed the traffic lane divider. I jumped into the Chevy, threw it into first, and took off. I saw Vinnie head off in the opposite direction in the Toyota. The whole deal had taken less than a minute. The riot of horn blasts in the tunnel could have raised the dead. I exited the tunnel at the place where I had entered.

  I was already back out onto Powell Street before I realized that Vinnie had a tape going in the cassette player with the volume pumped. Joey Ramone screamed out of the speakers about wanting to be sedated. I quickly switched it off and pointed the car toward the Haight.

  I parked the car on Masonic, near Frederick Street, and walked the few short blocks back down to Haight Street
. I entered the alley off Masonic and found the green metal door. I glanced at my watch; it was exactly two minutes before five. I passed through the unlocked door and started up the stairs to the second floor.

  At the top of the stairs I found another metal door, this one blue. I rapped lightly. I heard sounds of movement and then a voice.

  “Diamond?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was Jimmy Pigeon’s middle name?”

  How the fuck would I know?

  “How the fuck should I know?” I said.

  I heard footsteps approaching from the inside, and when the door swung open I found myself eyeball to eyeball with the legendary Harrison Chandler.

  “Come in,” he said.

  I walked past him into the room.

  Chandler closed the door behind us and led me into a large space crammed with what appeared to be multicolored cars from kiddie amusement park rides.

  “How did you know it was me?” I asked.

  “Your lack of hesitation answering the test question. Are you sure you weren’t followed?” Chandler asked.

  “Pretty sure,” I answered. “What was Jimmy’s middle name?”

  “How would I know? Take a seat,” he said, indicating one of two folding metal chairs sitting between two child-sized bright yellow cars in the shape of ducklings.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “A storage area for amusement park ride equipment,” Chandler answered.

  “I thought so,” I said.

  “What can I do for you, Diamond?”

  Get me out of this pile of shit you put me in.

  “Make Max Lansdale forget that I ever existed,” I said.

  “Let me tell you about Max Lansdale,” Harry Chandler volunteered.

  “Okay.”

  “Care for a drink while we talk?”

  “Happen to have a bottle of Dickel handy?” I asked.

  Chandler walked over to a tiny red car in the shape of a Volkswagen with a big goofy smile below its headlights.

  “We’ll have to make do without ice,” Harry said, reaching into the car and pulling out a bottle of George Dickel Tennessee sour mash whiskey and two glasses.