by J. L. Abramo
“Can it, Diamond, before you make me forget my manners,” said Lopez. “Who was this Chandler?”
“I really didn’t know him,” I said, changing my focus from pining for a smoke to stonewalling the lieutenant.
“You just happen to meet him while you were shopping for spare merry-go-round parts?”
I was going to have to give her something.
“Do you remember me mentioning a visit from an ape named Ralph Battle last week?”
“Vaguely.”
“Battle took me to a mandatory meeting with a Chicago lawyer named Max Lansdale. Lansdale made me an offer that was hard to refuse, to locate Chandler and another ghost known as Joe Clams. On Wednesday, I received a call from Chandler and he set up tonight’s meet. Before we made it past the small talk, someone started blasting”
“Battle?”
“Like I said, I didn’t see the shooter. But I don’t see how Battle could have made it back into San Francisco, what with the extensive dragnet you had in place.”
“You’re making me angry, Diamond.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, please forgive me,” I said. “I’m still a little shook up. A few of the bullets were aimed in my direction.”
“Save it, Diamond. I know you’re holding out, because it’s all you ever do. I need to hear more about the victim and I have a lot of cute ways to keep you here until you start remembering something.”
“Call Ray Boyle at the LAPD, he should be able to tell you all about Harrison Chandler,” I said.
Lopez looked as if she were debating whether to shoot me, lock me up, or tell me to get the fuck out.
“Get the fuck out of here, Diamond,” she said.
Lieutenant Lopez didn’t have to add that I would be hearing from her. I walked out of the police station and immediately lit a cigarette. I spotted Darlene leaning on the Impala across Vallejo Street. I crossed to the car and invited her to take the passenger seat. As I drove her to her house near Buena Vista Park, I filled her in.
“And you’re sure it was Battle?” she asked.
I reached into my pocket and handed her the metal ball.
“And why did he wait so long to plug Chandler?”
“I’m guessing that he was listening for something to help identify Joe Clams, and waiting to see if Harry was carrying this,” I said, reaching into my jacket and handing her the letter-sized envelope I had taken from Chandler. It was addressed to Lieutenant Ray Boyle.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Haven’t had a chance to look,” I said, “but I know Jimmy Pigeon’s handwriting when I see it. I’m guessing that there’s something inside addressed to Chandler.”
Darlene pulled out a second envelope. Chandler’s name was written across it in Jimmy’s distinctive script.
“Did Chandler identify Joe Clams?” Darlene asked.
“Never got around to it.”
“And you told Lopez none of this?” asked Darlene.
“Not a word.”
“Jesus, Jake. What about Battle? He’s out there in the streets thinking about how disappointed Lansdale will be when he finds out that you have this letter. Not to mention wanting his ball back.”
“I think that I gave Lieutenant Lopez just enough to inspire Ralph Battle to lie low, at least for the time being. I have a very strong desire to read the note from Pigeon before turning it over to Lopez,” I said as we came up in front of Darlene’s place. “We’ll have to watch our backs. Let’s go in and see what Jimmy Pigeon had to say to Harry. Do you have anything other than brown rice in there to eat? I’m starving.”
“I picked up a veal parmigiana sandwich on my way to the police station,” she said, reaching into the backseat.
“You’re a saint,” I said. “And to drink?”
“Coffee and Zambucca?”
“Perfect.”
We climbed out of the car and entered the house.
Tug McGraw greeted us at the door and immediately began eyeballing the veal sandwich.
I ate, McGraw drooled, Darlene read Pigeon’s letter aloud. It was dated just before Jimmy was killed more than a year earlier. Pigeon had never posted it. Somehow it had finally reached Boyle and then Chandler.
Jimmy had discovered evidence that Simon Lansdale had been suffocated on the night he died in bed. The medical examiner called to the scene had withheld the information after a phone call promised him a very large reward for the oversight. The ME, Richard Kearney, had retired to warmer climates shortly after. According to Pigeon, the doctor was willing to roll the rock over if the price was right. Kearney estimated the price to be “just enough to allow me to stay clear of the Chicago Police Department and anyone named Lansdale or Giancana, forever.” Jimmy ended the note with the all of the information Chandler would need to get in touch with Kearney if he so desired.
“‘Stay away from open windows. Best, Jimmy Pigeon’,” read Darlene, “that’s it.”
I lifted my plate off the table and looked to Darlene for a sign. She nodded reluctantly and I placed the plate on the floor at McGraw’s feet. The dog restrained himself long enough to award me an adoring glance before devouring what remained of the sandwich.
“Mind if I use the telephone?” I asked.
“Are you going to call Ray Boyle?”
“No, I think I’ll wait for Ray to call me,” I said, walking over to the wall phone. “It won’t take him long once he hears from Lopez. Read me the phone number that Jimmy gave to Chandler. Let’s find out if Doc Kearney is still down in fun-filled Acapulco.”
An answering machine at the Mexican end of the line informed me that Kearney was unavailable and that I could leave a message if I pleased. The recording then repeated what I supposed was the same suggestion in Spanish.
I declined both offers.
“So?” said Darlene, handing me a mug of coffee topped off with a healthy serving of the clear, licorice-flavored Zambucca.
“So I guess I’ll head home and try again later. I can check if there’s a message from Ray Boyle. Stay away from the office until you hear from me,” I said. “I’ll try to get Tom Romano to look at the phones tomorrow.”
“What if Ralph Battle is out there waiting for you, Jake?” asked Darlene.
“I’ll tell you what. Call the police station. Ask for Johnson. Tell him that you’re worried about me and ask if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to have a patrol car cruise by my place a time or two,” I said. “Sergeant Johnson might do it for you.”
“What’s the point, Jake?”
“The point?”
“You seem pretty sure that Max Lansdale is behind all of it. Why not hand it over to Ray Boyle or to Lopez or to the Chicago PD and let them iron it all out?”
“I have nothing to hand over. There’s no proof and everyone seems to have lost interest. Chicago is happy with Harry Chandler as Randolph Lansdale’s assassin, Los Angeles is happy with Randolph Lansdale as Carla Rosario’s assassin, and all I have for Lopez and the San Francisco police on Harry Chandler’s assassination is a metal ball just like a million other metal balls. There’s only one person left who might really care to know how it all went down, and I have no idea how to find him.”
“Joe Clams?”
“Joe Clams.”
“So you’re planning to stick it out for a while and try to dig Clams up.”
“Cleverly put.”
“It’s not very smart, Jake.”
“If I were smart I would have stayed married to Sally and made my living selling Taiwanese-manufactured sporting equipment.”
“Thank goodness Joey and Sonny will be back from their island vacation on Sunday.”
“The last thing I want to do is to get Joey involved in this mess, Darlene.”
“Good luck trying to keep him out of it,” she said.
Over the past year or so, Joey Russo had evolved from someone who leased me garage space to someone that I could hardly do without. Joey had pulled me out of a few very tight spots, at n
o small risk to himself. The Russos had adopted me into the family. Joey had taught me what I had never taken time to learn about friendship. Joey insisted that he loved the stimulation, the break from the backyard barbecue. But I felt that I had put Russo in harm’s way too often and was very determined to keep Joey out of Max Lansdale’s path.
“When you see Joey or Sonny,” I said, “how about keeping Max Lansdale and Ralph Battle out of the conversation?”
“My lips are sealed,” Darlene said, “but you’d better bring a roll of duct tape when you see Vinnie Strings.”
“Great advice,” I said. “Have a good weekend.”
“Do I have to tell you to be very careful?” Darlene asked.
“You just did and I will. Thanks for the grub,” I said. “Mind if I take the coffee to go?”
“Not at all. And you can trash the mug when you’re done.” The mug displayed the logo of the San Francisco 49ers. Darlene was obviously ready to give up all that was left of her ex-boyfriend.
Darlene and McGraw walked me to the door and watched as I climbed into the Impala and drove off.
I parked a few short blocks from my building and approached with caution.
I spotted a police cruiser slowly driving past the apartment house, reaffirming my confidence in Darlene’s unequaled charm.
In my apartment, I checked my answering machine for messages. No word from Boyle.
I needed more caffeine, so I put up a pot of espresso after dropping the empty mug into the kitchen wastebasket.
I decided to wait awhile before trying to telephone the doctor in Mexico again.
When the coffee was ready, I carried a demitasse of the espresso and a glass of bourbon to my reading chair.
I settled in and picked up the paperback lying on the side table. Old man Karamazov had been murdered by one of his sons. The question was which one.
I read and drank and drank and read.
Before I could solve Dostoyevsky’s intricate puzzle, I was asleep.
Thirteen
A loud rapping on the apartment door woke me.
The paperback dropped to my feet.
The pounding became louder and more insistent, nearly knocking me off the chair. I decided to keep my distance from the door and spoke from my seat.
“Who?”
“Ray Boyle.”
I squinted at my Swatch. It was well before six in the morning. The door shook violently. I jumped up from the chair and rushed over.
“Ray? What did you do, hop the red-eye?” I called.
I opened the door. LAPD detective lieutenant Ray Boyle’s eyes answered my question.
“What happened last night, Diamond?” he shouted.
“Jesus, Boyle, keep your shirt on,” I said. “It’s Saturday morning, you’ll wake the whole building.”
I made room for him to squeeze past me into the apartment.
I followed him in and shut the door.
“What happened last night?” Boyle repeated.
“Harry Chandler was shot to death,” I said, heading for the kitchen. “I need coffee.”
“I know he was shot, Diamond,” Boyle yelled, following on my heels. “I just came from identifying his body.”
I filled the percolator from the tap in the kitchen sink, went to the refrigerator and pulled out the can of Maxwell House and a container of half-and-half. I noted that one of my only two coffee mugs was sitting on a shelf in the Frigidaire holding water and cut celery stalks.
“Damn it, Diamond. Talk.”
“Give me a minute, Ray, I’m not awake yet,” I pleaded.
I spooned coffee into the basket and placed the pot over a high flame. I reached into the trash can, pulled out the discarded 49ers mug, and rinsed it in the sink.
Ray was tapping his right foot on the floor like Lawrence Welk.
“Take a seat, Ray, you’re giving me a headache,” I said, wickedly watching him squirm. “How about breakfast? I think I have all of the ingredients I’d need for a nice celery omelet.”
“Are you through torturing me, Diamond?” Boyle said, sinking heavily into a kitchen chair.
“Okay,” I said, placing the half-and-half and the two empty mugs on the table, “what was the question?”
“Who killed Harry Chandler, Jake?”
“Where can I find Joe Clams, Ray?”
“Christ, Diamond.”
“Quid pro quo, Boyle.”
“Where the hell did you pick that up, from The Silence of the Lambs?”
“Exactly, so don’t ask me to spell it,” I said.
“I can’t tell you about Joe Clams, Jake,” Boyle said. “What I can do is let him know you need to find him.”
“We went that route with Chandler, Ray. I don’t have to tell you how it worked out.”
“Fuck.”
“Okay, Ray, we’ll get back to that,” I said, pouring the coffee. “Can you at least tell me what you know about this?”
I pulled Pigeon’s note to Chandler from the inside of the jacket I had draped over the kitchen chair and set the envelope down on the table in front of Boyle.
“Fuck.”
“Give, Ray.”
Boyle lightened his coffee and told me about Jimmy’s note. The envelope was discovered by the police in Jimmy Pigeon’s apartment during the investigation into Jimmy’s murder. It landed in an evidence room at Parker Center and was discovered by a clerk during an evidence-room cleanup six months later. The envelope was eventually released to Boyle. Boyle forwarded it to Harry Chandler.
According to Boyle, Chandler got in touch with the ex-Chicago medical examiner. Kearney had been having a good old time in Acapulco with the money he’d earned by covering up the fact that someone had pressed a pillow over Simon Lansdale’s face on the night Lansdale died. By the time Harry finally reached the doctor, Kearney had run through his retirement savings wining and dining senoritas one-third his age. Kearney was willing to give Chandler the identity of his benefactor for fifty thousand greenbacks.
Chandler, assuming that Kearney would name Randolph Lansdale, got in touch with brother Max with the news that Harry Chandler was alive and well and looking to make a deal. Figuring that Max would want to protect the Lansdale name, at least what was left of it, Chandler promised that he could keep all pillow talk quiet for the bargain price of one hundred grand. Chandler was thinking that he’d pay Kearney off and keep the change. Lansdale told Harry that he needed time and asked Chandler to get back to him in a week. Chandler tried reaching Kearney with the news, but the doctor was not answering his telephone and not returning his messages. Finally understanding that Kearney was never going to resurface, and having nothing to sell, Chandler decided to go back to being dead and gone and to forget the Lansdales once and for all.
Boyle had taken the narrative far enough along for me to make it the rest of the way on my own.
“So Max Lansdale somehow tracked Kearney down and paid him off or knocked him off,” I said when Ray took a breather, “and then Max started hunting for Harry to make sure he stayed dead this time. And Max succeeded. It was Max’s boy, Battle, who was doing the shooting last night.”
“Can you prove that?” Boyle asked hopefully.
“No. And I’ll tell you what else I can’t prove. That Max killed his old man, Carla Rosario, and his brother.”
“How the hell do you get there, Diamond?”
“Harry Chandler’s gun, the one that killed Randolph Lansdale, did it have a silencer?”
“No,” Boyle said.
“So why didn’t the receptionist hear the gunshot?”
“The gunshot?”
“Kit Carson claimed that Chandler went into the office and came out a few minutes later. She then tried to scare up Randolph on the intercom, got no answer, went in, and found Lansdale dead. Chandler had grabbed the gun off the floor. According to Katherine Carson, she and the victim had returned from lunch together an hour earlier. Randolph had never left the office nor had Carson left her desk. If Ra
ndolph Lansdale shot himself in the head, unless he took time to remove and hide a silencer before he died, Carson would have heard a gunshot.”
“Jesus, Diamond, did you lay it out for Harry?”
“I didn’t have the time, Ray, we were interrupted. No one entered Randolph’s office through the reception area from the time they returned from lunch until Chandler and Clams arrived. The only access was from a door connecting Max’s office to his brother’s. Max Lansdale iced his own brother. And I don’t know about you, Ray, but I think that the fuck deserves a little payback. And I think you’re a very good cop, Boyle, but that’s exactly why I don’t think you can help. And exactly why you need to put me together with Joe Clams. I believe he deserves to know who really killed his sister.”
“Fuck,” said Boyle, for about the tenth time. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You do that, Ray,” I said. “How about the celery omelet?”
“Thanks, I’ll pass,” he said, draining the remainder of his coffee. “I need to be going, I have some thinking to do.”
“Think hard,” I said, escorting him to the door. “And get some sleep, Ray, you look worse than I do.”
I closed the door behind Boyle and went back to the kitchen for a coffee refill. Six hours slumped in an armchair hadn’t done much to heal my aching body. I flirted with the idea of crawling into bed; after all, it was still before seven on a Saturday morning. I fought off the urge and hit the shower instead.
Feeling close to human again, I ventured into the outside world. I crossed through Alamo Park and pointed my nose in the direction of the grease burning at the Hayes Street Diner near the Panhandle. I settled into a rear booth and ordered a breakfast combination that would make Darlene cringe.
As I ate, I thought about Harry Chandler.
Mostly, I was trying to assuage my guilt over having led Ralph Battle to the meeting with Chandler. I rationalized between bites of fried potatoes, eggs, and bacon.
Harry had written his own ticket.
It was greed that had moved Chandler to let Max Lansdale know he was still alive.
It was true that Max had used me to get to Harry, and it made me very angry, but I hadn’t marked Harry Chandler.
