An Old Man's Game

by Andy Weinberger

  “My sister and I still talk once in a while. She’s starting to come around slowly, now that our father’s gone.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Yeah, well, we were talking about our dad, and she said something I thought you might be interested in.”

  “I’m listening, Ruth.”

  “She said she overheard our mom talking with someone on the phone, and from the little bit she could gather, it seems like my father did have some real enemies at the synagogue.”

  “What did she hear?”

  “Well, I’m telling you this thirdhand, of course, but the gist of it was that someone had gone to the president in the last month or two, and whoever this fellow was, he was trying to pressure him into tearing up my father’s contract.”

  “Kind of a moot point now,” I say, “but still, that must have upset your mom.”

  “Actually, she wasn’t all that surprised, according to my sister. So maybe she’d heard that sort of talk before. But when my sister told me, it got me thinking. I guess I wasn’t the only one who hated my father. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “That’s one more reason to go back and have a chat with Howie Rothbart. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”

  She says goodbye. I glance up and see Omar snaking through the foliage back toward the car. By the slope of his shoulders and the dejected look on his face, I can tell there is no wall to climb. The only way forward is through the iron-grilled gate.

  “Tell you what, Omar,” I tell him. “You stay here. I’m going to go up those stairs and pretend I’m a helpless old man.”

  “Why pretend?” says Omar.

  I plod up the stairs and peer through the iron grill. There’s no one in the courtyard beyond, but I can see the swimming pool, where, just out of earshot, two reasonably well-endowed women in bikinis are earnestly doing laps under the palm trees. I stand there and wait. This seems to be my lot in life. After about ten minutes, a short elderly lady approaches the gate with a large canvas sack of groceries cradled in her arms. “Here,” I say, “let me help you with that,” as she struggles to punch in the gate code without dropping her purse.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” she says. “These things are such a nuisance.” The gate buzzes open. I hold it steady for her and hand her the groceries. “You’re very kind,” she nods to me and wanders off.

  “Not at all,” I call after her. I keep the gate ajar with my foot, and as soon as she has vanished into the elevator, I wave Omar forward. And just like that, we’re in.

  Eric Wayne Blanchard lives on the second floor, in apartment 209, which looks out over the swimming pool. We take the stairs and make sure the ladies doing laps below don’t see us or hear us.

  I return the gun to Omar. He tucks it behind his back beneath his shirt. “Keep it handy, will you?”

  He nods.

  “And don’t get rough with him unless he starts it first, okay?”

  He smiles, flashes me the old sixties peace sign.

  I press the buzzer. There’s no answer at first. Then I hear footsteps moving closer. A voice on the other side of the door asks, “Who is it?”

  “An old acquaintance,” I say.

  The door opens then, and I’m staring directly at Eric Blanchard. He’s wearing flip-flops and a baggy blue swimsuit that comes down almost to his knees. The light is such that he has to squint to look at us. “Who are you?” he asks.

  “We should probably talk inside,” I say, and before he can react, I step in and Omar does the same, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  Maybe because it’s a sunny day and because we’re standing in his apartment and because he’s half-undressed, he doesn’t immediately sense that there’s anything to be afraid of. He’s just a little thrown off balance by our presence, the way I used to be when Jehovah’s Witnesses came knocking with their pamphlets and their unremitting goodwill.

  “You don’t remember me, Eric? Really?” We take a few more steps. We’re in what passes for the living room now, although there’s hardly any furniture. Just a leather couch, a wood-veneer coffee table, and, on the opposite wall, a large flat-screen TV.

  “I don’t know you,” he says. “You must have the wrong guy.”

  “The wrong Eric Blanchard? I don’t think so. Do you think so, Omar?”

  “He’s the right guy, all right.”

  “Look, gentlemen, I don’t know what this is all about, but unless you turn around and leave—”

  “We can’t leave just yet, Eric. We still have questions.”

  “All right,” he says, “that’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m giving you three seconds to leave and then—”

  “And then, what?” says Omar. “You’re gonna take out a crowbar and whack us like you did that doctor?”

  Eric’s eyes widen and all at once he throws a surprise right at Omar’s jaw. Omar steps aside and the punch lands harmlessly on his neck. Then he returns with a stiff right of his own that draws blood from Eric’s nose and momentarily staggers him. Eric is almost six inches taller than Omar and probably outweighs him by fifty pounds. He yells and throws his body into Omar’s. The two of them lock together, pulling and grappling for an advantage. At one point, the gun falls out of Omar’s pants, and I bend down and nab it before Eric even knows it’s there. They’re too close to trade punches now. Omar extends his leg and Eric trips over it and is tossed like a giant rag doll onto the floor. As he tries to rise, Omar leans in again and pounds him in the face with both fists. Again he goes down, but as he falls, he grabs hold of Omar’s leg and yanks it out from under him. Omar lands on his back on the coffee table. Eric looms over him for a second, then flings his head downward. He wants to crush Omar like silly putty, land on him like a cinderblock. The problem is Omar is just too quick. He rolls off the coffee table and Eric’s head shatters it into three thick jagged pieces. After that he stops moving.

  Omar and I look at each other. “Don’t you just love gravity?” I smile, as I extend my hand and help him onto his feet.

  “What the hell do you mean, gravity? You think it was the coffee table that knocked him out?”

  “Nah, nah. You did it, Omar.” I pat him on the back. “The coffee table helped, though.”

  I lift Eric’s head. There’s some swelling, all right, but he’s not gonna die. While he’s out, we do a quick-and-dirty tour of his apartment. There’s not much of interest. A closet with some shirts, a dark blue suit, and two pairs of pants to match. A bureau full of socks and underwear. A Bible that’s been thumbed almost to death. The fridge has a six-pack of Coors, a cube of butter, and a pint of half-and-half that’s past its sell-by date. In the freezer there’s a bunch of microwavable meals—lasagna and chicken parmesan. It’s like he’s a traveling salesman, I say to Omar. Except for one thing. He has a snub-nosed 38 caliber tucked away in a drawer in his night table. I sniff it, and it seems as though it may have been fired recently, but it’s fully loaded, and really, it’s hard to tell. I cough a bullet out of the chamber as a souvenir and tuck it in my pocket. Who knows? I tell Omar, maybe it’ll match the one from my car hood. We also find several old street maps of LA, and inside his sports coat, a little red notebook with five telephone numbers and initials. I copy them all down in my notebook and return the little book to the coat pocket.

  Back in the living room Eric is still lying there inanimate. “Let’s go,” I tell Omar. “I don’t think we should be around when Mr. Blanchard wakes up.”

  “Yeah,” Omar says. “He might look at you and figure out who you are.”

  “You know something? That’s really a good idea. That’s what I want.” I take a business card out of my wallet and place it gently on Eric’s back. He moans gently, then twitches as if he’s being tickled.

  Omar gives me a look and shakes his head.

  As we’re driving back toward LA proper, I can see Omar’s having second thoughts. “I hope you realize, man
,” he says, “what we did back there was a mistake.”

  “What do you mean? You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy punching that oaf.”

  “Oh, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it just fine. That’s not what I’m getting at. But now he knows we’re onto him. What’s he gonna do? He’s not gonna stick around. I’ll bet you he vanishes right back to Kansas or wherever the hell he came from. Then what do we have? Nada, man. Less than nada.”

  “I hear you, Omar. And you’re right. He might decide to just run. But they can’t bust him unless they have some evidence, and at the moment we don’t have evidence. All we have are coincidences. And a couple of very loose connections. We have a guy who maybe the cops can link to Jonah Siegel. That is, if they can find any fingerprints on the crowbar or some DNA in Blanchard’s Audi. But they’re not going to search the car unless they have a good reason. That’s why we paid him a visit, my friend.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Omar says.

  “I want Eric to wake up soon and remember who we are. That I was the one he was tailing. I’m hoping he’s smart enough to see that the shoe is on the other foot. What’s he gonna do, then? Well, he could pick up and run, that’s certainly one way to go.”

  “That’s my bet.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Whenever he’s gotten into trouble before, whenever someone crosses his path or maybe poses a threat, what does he do?”

  “I’ll tell you what he does, man. He kills them.”

  “My point exactly. He tries to kill them.”

  “Well, so far, it looks like he’s batting a thousand.”

  I nod. “And that’s why I expect he’ll try to do the same with us.”

  “That’s what you’re hoping for? Really? Amos, you got some kind of death wish going on? You trying out to be a matador? What the fuck?”

  I put my hand on Omar’s shoulder. “Listen to me. I know there’s risk here. But what choice do we have? I’m hoping he’ll come after us, and when he does, I’m hoping he makes a mistake. Something big enough to bring in Malloy and his people.”

  Omar shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.

  The theories are still spinning around in my head, and after a while I pick up where I left off. “And another thing,” I say. “Even if we’re right, even if somehow we can link Eric to all three murders, there’s still an enormous hole in this case.”

  “You mean, besides the ones he’s gonna put in us?”

  “Omar.” I start to laugh. “You are such a sad sack of beans. I don’t know how you’ve survived up to now.”

  “I’ll tell you how I’ve survived, man. I survived by being careful. By not looking for trouble like we just did.” He stares at me incredulously. “Okay.” He heaves a big sigh. “What’s the enormous hole in this case?”

  I give my old friend a long hard appraisal. He’s almost got what it takes to be a detective, I think. He’s careful. He’s always balancing what he knows with what is likely and what’s not. He’s brave, but he doesn’t climb out on a limb, not if he can help it.

  “It’s the most important thing, Omar. Why. Why would he do it? We still haven’t got a motive. I mean, really. Why would a God-fearing Christian, ex–Green Beret or whatever, from Podunk, Kansas, all of a sudden drop everything in his life and come to LA and murder a rabbi? Does that make any sense at all? Is he insane? Did you think he was acting insane back then when we were in his apartment? I didn’t get that impression, somehow. Mad? Okay. He was angry. But not insane.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do it on his own,” says Omar. “Maybe somebody hired him.”

  “Ah, yes. Now you’re talking. Eric Blanchard is not going to kill someone unless he’s following orders. And who do you think might hire a big brute like that?”

  “The weasel?” Omar says, and now there’s a faint smile on his face.

  “That’s what I’m guessing. Jonah’s quote-unquote uncle.”

  Chapter 19

  WE PULL OVER at a Shell station to get gas and I let Omar drive the rest of the way to his place. I call Malloy on my cell. He picks it up right away, which is unusual.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says. There’s an emptiness in his voice, like he’s having a bad day, like he’s at the end of his rope.

  “Really. Why’s that?”

  “Well, you’re the only one plowing up the ground in this case. The people around this office of mine can’t seem to do squat.”

  “Why, thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll consider that a compliment.”

  “Good. Because it’s probably the last one I’m doling out.”

  I start to fill him in on our visit to Eric Blanchard’s. How we knocked politely and tried to speak with him. How uncooperative he was. Malloy is instantly suspicious.

  “What are you talking about, Amos? Don’t sugarcoat this thing. Tell me straight.”

  “You want straight? Fine. So we conned our way past the gate and knocked on the door. He didn’t recognize us, which I thought was odd, since he’s been following me around for a week or two, but he probably didn’t expect me to show up on his doorstep. Out of context, you know.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing, really. We asked him a few pertinent questions. He got a little hostile. Told us to leave or else.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Well, if it was just me, I probably would have. Only Omar’s not like that. He doesn’t respond to threats the same way I do. You know how they do in Boyle Heights. It’s a macho thing, I guess.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Anyway he asked Blanchard what he intended to do about it if we stuck around.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Who? Omar or Blanchard?”

  “Omar. I want his exact words.”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t remember his exactly. It was something like, ‘What are you gonna do about it? Take out a crowbar and whack us like you did the doctor?’”

  “He’s got balls, your friend. And how did Blanchard react?”

  “Eric? Eric got very upset. I mean, who wouldn’t? He looked at Omar like he couldn’t believe it. Then out of nowhere he threw a punch at him. That’s when all hell broke loose.”

  “Uh-huh.” Malloy was silent for moment. “And where’s Blanchard now?”

  “Last time I saw him he was lying facedown on his broken coffee table. He’ll be okay. You don’t have to worry. Right now, he’s a little banged up.”

  Bill Malloy and I have been friends for so long that even when he’s silent I can hear when his mood starts to go south. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Amos. Honest to God, I’m starting to worry. I told you this guy’s trouble.”

  “I know, Bill. But we need evidence. And like you said, everyone downtown is just sitting on their laurels.”

  “Okay.” He swallows hard. “So what did you get me?”

  “There’s not much in his apartment. Doesn’t even seem like he lives there, tell you the truth. He owns a 38 revolver, which we left in the drawer by his bed. Smells to me like it could have been fired recently. I helped myself to one bullet. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why?”

  “I was thinking maybe your people could match it up with what’s left of Jonah Siegel’s skull.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Also, I found some phone numbers in a little book. If you could tell me who they belong to, that would be wonderful.”

  “Read them to me.”

  I do. Then I ask him if he would please, pretty please, put an immediate tail on Eric Blanchard.

  “You’re gonna cost the taxpayers more money, Amos. I hope you realize.”

  “What else do they have to spend it on?”

  Then I tell him that as of right now, Blanchard is our missing link. I tell him that if he ever wants to close this case, he’s our only link. That now that he’s met me, Blanchard might decide to cut and run. Or he might try to go after me for real. “Either way,” I say, “I think we’re onto something with th
is guy. It’d be a crying shame to lose him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Malloy says. “In the meantime, listen to your Irish mother, will you? You go straight home, you lock the door, and you keep your gun loaded.”

  “I will. I promise. Just as soon as I drop off Omar.”

  “And another thing. Tell your pal Omar to do himself a favor: lay off the fisticuffs.”

  “It was self-defense, Bill, I swear. Also, I doubt our Mr. Blanchard would ever be calling the cops on us. Not his style.”

  When we reach Omar’s place, I ask him to download the pictures he took of Blanchard and the weasel to my cell phone. “No problem,” he says. Then I tell him that under the circumstances, I think maybe it’s time for me to reclaim my gun.

  “You sure you still remember how to use it?” he asks, as he hands it over.

  “I was in Vietnam, Omar. They worked the same way then as they do now.”

  “Yeah, well, remember, I can buy myself another piece if you need more fire power. They’re cheap around this neighborhood.” He climbs slowly out of the car. His eyes scan up and down the block. Now we’re both standing on the curb, looking at each other. “I’ll go inside and send you those pictures.”

  “I’ll be all right, amigo.”

  “You call me if you need help, understand?”

  “I understand.”

  He gives me a short, powerful embrace, then bounds up the steps to his darkened house and disappears.

  I drive slowly west toward Howie Rothbart’s home. The afternoon shadows are lengthening. I could take the freeway, but I’m not in any hurry, and besides, I need the time to think. Blanchard is probably awake by now and staring at his bangedup face in the mirror. What would he do then? Once he comes to terms with his bloody nose and the welts on his cheeks? What’s the next step? Blanchard is a soldier, I say to myself, a soldier in the service of the Lord. He doesn’t run away from battle. That’s not how he was raised. He has a Bible and a gun. What else does he need?

  My phone rings as I pull up to the curb in front of Howie’s. It’s Malloy.

  “Hey, Lieutenant. What’s up?”