The Halfway to Hell Club

by MARK J. McCRACKEN

  “Special Agents Ashwythe and Dunderbeck, will you please take our daughter home, then take Mrs. Broadcreek home. Mr. Wang, would you have your men take Mrs. Wang and your son home?”

  Wang nodded.

  “Mr. Wang, would please join me in the bar for a drink. O’Farrell, you organized this mess, you’re coming too. And while I’m thinking about it, you can pay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Wang ordered a Johnnie Walker Black, neat. Broadcreek ordered a Glenlivet. I ordered whatever was the cheapest they had. It was the most I could afford. I don’t make the kind of lettuce these high rollers make.

  After the drinks arrived, the staring, glaring, and evil-eyeing began. They appraised each other like prizefighters.

  Finally I had had enough and called for the bartender and asked for a bowl of nuts. I started barbering about absolutely nothing: Which nuts go better with Scotch; which was better, Johnnie Walker or Glenlivet.

  Finally, in unison, they said, “SHUT UP.”

  I went to the other end of the bar and left them alone. Jerry Ronkowski and Marty pulled up a stool next to me.

  “Are they talking at all?” Jerry asked.

  “No, they are sitting down there, not a word.”

  After about an hour, they got up simultaneously and shook hands. Jimmy appeared in the doorway and handed Mr. Wang his hat, and they quietly slipped out. On his way out, Jimmy turned around and gave me the sign that he would call, and nodded.

  Broadcreek was alone. I approached him and asked him if I could give him a ride. He asked for a ride to the ferry; there was one in twenty minutes. We piled into the Ford and drove without a word to the Embarcadero. As he got out, he put both hands on the door and looked in to me.

  “You handled this whole thing like a pro, O’Farrell. I am at a loss for words, but thanks for your efforts.”

  He buried his hands deep into his trench coat pockets, lifted his collar, adjusted his Hamburg and walked to the ferry entrance. Within seconds he disappeared into the fog.

  I went home and hit the rack, exhausted. However, there was no closure, no peace for anyone. I felt sorry for the kids and the parents. There would be no easy answers for anyone.

  I got to the office at eight. I grabbed a paper from Marty and thanked him for his help.

  “You missed the fun. The reporter got tough with Jerry; he wanted to call the cops for slugging him. Jerry told the guy to go ahead and call the cops; he would have him arrested for trespassing on private property. That shut that dummy right up.”

  I thanked Marty again, went to my office, and called Jimmy Chin. I asked how the Wang’s were doing.

  “They are okay, Sean. They were a little put out about the way you set the meeting up. But after I talked to them they realized you were in a no-win situation and you did what was best for all parties. I explained you were thinking about the kids and how to best control the meeting. It was a smart play. At the very least, Sean, Kuai is relieved that he doesn’t have to sneak around anymore, and to be honest with you, I think Mrs. Wang knew something was up. She was not caught as flatfooted as Mr. Wang.“

  “Okay, Jimmy. Where do we go from here?”

  “Obviously, there is no need to follow the kids. But be around; the Wang’s may want to talk to you. I’ll let things ride for a day or two, then I’ll close out your bill, buddy. The Wang’s really appreciate what you have done for them.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. Keep me in the loop.” I hung up.

  I then called Kaitlin at home and got no answer. I looked at my watch: 9:15. I opened my bag and got out my two library books and decided to walk to the library and visit Kaitlin, a sort of kill-two-birds-with-one-stone type of visit. The elevator stopped on three, and Morehouse and Wheeler got on. Morehouse looked fit as a fiddle. I let them get out and head to the door. I handed Marty my library books and asked him to hold them.

  Morehouse and Wheeler got into a large black 1936 Packard 120 closed coupe sedan. I was lucky that my Ford was handy, and I was behind them in seconds. They headed out of town going east. We were on the road for forty-five minutes.

  When we arrived at Bay Meadows Racetrack, why should I have been surprised? Morehouse was a gambler; it would seem only natural that he would bet on bangtails.

  The first time I laid eyes on Morehouse, he was reading a paper in the Delta Queen waiting room. I sensed he was hiding something behind it. It must have been a racing form. Morehouse was betting the ponies the same time he was in a card game.

  All I know about horses is which end the feedbag goes on and which end the political promises come out, and that end requires a shovel. Morehouse and Wheeler wandered around the paddock and examined the horse flesh like experts. They made the occasional note on their racing forms with a pencil.

  When it came time to place a bet, Morehouse went right to the twenty-dollar window and walked away with a fistful of betting slips. They went to the club stands and waited for the first race. It was ten thirty in the morning, but they were already taking a sniff from the barrel. Not my way of getting the day started.

  The first race was called and the gamblers crowded to the rail. Morehouse was yelling for some nag named British Bobby to make the move.

  “Come on, British Bobby. Here is the turn. Pour it on, kid,” Morehouse cheered.

  I checked the tote board. British Bobby was twenty-to-one. He finished last. Morehouse spent five minutes tearing up the betting slips. When it came to the second race, he dropped another bundle on another surefire winner named Bug Juice. At six-to-two odds, Bug Juice fared a little better, coming in fourth.

  The same held true for the next four races. He went with long odds and lost. By four in the afternoon, Morehouse was tanked. There was one race left. He raided his wallet and all that was left was a dollar. He went to the one-dollar window and bet it on a horse called Lucky Lady, two to one.

  The race was very close; all the horses were in a tight bundle at the rail around the clubhouse turn. There was some pushing and shoving going on, but Lucky Lady broke to the outside and won by a nose.

  Morehouse was beside himself with joy. He must have lost a couple of thousand, but he waited in line to collect two bucks on a one-dollar bet. The line was so long, Wheeler convinced Morehouse that they had to leave. He looked at the betting slip with pride and put in his suit pocket for safekeeping. It was his greatest accomplishment of the day, maybe the week. He staggered back to his car.

  I made up my mind that this was the end of the line for me on this case. I couldn’t watch this guy destroy himself every day.

  I followed them back to the Morehouse place; Wheeler helped him into the house. A few minutes later he came out with Connie in tow. She was dressed rather conservatively; she apparently had just got home from the hospital. She closed the front door and he was all over her, right in front of all the neighbors, dry humping her on the door and pawing her tits.

  I wasn’t trying to figure out what Randall Morehouse was doing anymore. I was trying to figure out what Wheeler was up to and whether Connie involved with him on a criminal level. It was time to talk to Connie Morehouse.

  When Wheeler was done with Connie, he jumped back in the Packard and bolted. I stayed where I was for a few minutes, then faded.

  I went back to the office and called the Morehouse place. Connie answered. “What can I do for you, Mr. O’Farrell?” She seemed a little miffed with the interruption.

  “I have the complete picture on your husband. It’s time for us to meet. When are you available?” I said.

  “I’ll clear my schedule, let’s meet at the Cliff House tomorrow at noon. I’ll make a reservation.”

  “I’ll be there, and Doctor, please be prepared for a complete report.”

  “What does that mean?” she stammered.

  “I have some information that could be unsettling; I just want you to be ready
.”

  “All right, I’ll see you at noon.”

  I hung up. I wanted her to be edgy. What she would tell me tomorrow will help me to determine her level of involvement. Whatever my suspicions were about Connie Morehouse, I still didn’t think she knew that Wheeler was up to no good.

  I called Kaitlin at home. I asked her to breakfast in the morning. She said she was working at nine and was getting a ride from her father. I told her to be at my place at seven thirty, and to tell her father that I was feeding him too. She giggled and said they would be there. I loved that giggle of hers.

  As I was getting up to leave, Vinnie Castellano called.

  “Boy, Sean, you can sure pick ’em. All four of those guys you asked me to check out are Chicago boys, all right. They are part of the Frank Nitti mob. He is the gee running the store while Big Al Capone is cooling his heels at Alcatraz.”

  I could hear Vinnie flipping through his notebook. “All of these guys have got sheets, but this guy you call Wheeler—his real name is Tony Giovanni—he is a real sweetheart. A Chicago cop told me that he killed a twelve-year-old kid with a knife because he was shaving a few pennies off the numbers rackets he was running. They couldn’t make the charge stick. He knifed a cop when he was eight, for Christ sakes. He is ruthless as hell, Sean.”

  “Charming. Why can’t I get an easy case for once?” I groused.

  “Knights of Columbus meeting tonight, pal. See you there.”

  As I hung up the phone I began to wonder if maybe I should go back to practicing the law. It was safer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I got up at five thirty and got cleaned up for the day, then got fresh bread from Petey at the bakery.

  I returned home and went to work. I made coffee and starting browning my corned beef. I peeled and diced potatoes, onions, and beets, then mixed them and ladled them into some individual cassoulet pans. I set the egg timer and set the table.

  I was making toast when Kaitlin and Shamus arrived. I gave Kaitlin a kiss and shook Shamus’s hand.

  I brought the dishes out and placed them on a plate and served. I thought Shamus was going to pass out.

  “Red flannel hash. You are playing dirty, trying to win me over.”

  I reached for the plate. “Well, if you feel I am attempting to unduly influence you, I’ll understand if you don’t eat.”

  Shamus protected the plate. “I’d pull those fingers back, boyo, if you want to keep ’em.”

  I took a seat and asked Shamus to do the blessing.

  “Oh Father in heaven. Please bless us and protect us, and we thank you for the food you gave us to nourish our bodies. In your name we pray; in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. For you, Sean, may you be in heaven for an hour before the devil knows you’re dead.” Shamus winked at me and smiled.

  “So what’s on your agenda, Sean?” Kaitlin asked.

  “I am finishing two cases at once, and once I am done with that I am free till the next case.

  “Well, good. You are free Saturday night.”

  I didn’t like the sound of this. Shamus lowered his head and carefully examined his hash.

  “Okay, what gives?”

  Kaitlin buttered her toast and kept the suspense up.

  “Saturday night is a fundraiser for Catholic charities, at the Fairmont. It’s a formal dance. Do you dance, by the way?”

  “I went to Catholic schools with nuns, Kaitlin. It was Dance or Die. By the way, I am aware of this event; the Knights of Columbus are the sponsor. Let me head off your next series of questions: Yes, I own a tuxedo; yes, I have a ticket; yes, I was going; and yes, I was going to ask you to come as my date.”

  Kaitlin spent a couple of moments formulating an answer. She was really milking it. Finally Shamus could stand no more.

  “For goodness sakes, Katie, answer the man. Paint dries faster than you sometimes.”

  She was perturbed. “All right yes I’d love to go, and you”—she pointed to her father—“you mind your breakfast.”

  Shamus ate a spoonful of hash. “I kid you not, Sean. It’s like her mother is sitting right here.”

  That brought a great laugh from everyone.

  Shamus ate his toast. “Sean, this raspberry jam is wonderful. Where did you get it?”

  “I made it. My mom and I use to make jam and jelly every summer when I was a kid. We kept on doing it together until I went to college. Now it’s sort of a hobby. My cousin Petey and I go over to Marin County in the summer and pick raspberries, then we make the jam.”

  Time flew and they both had to get to work. I gave Kaitlin a kiss and shook hands with Shamus.

  “My boy, it was like a little piece of Boston. I have missed red flannel hash so much, thank you.” Shamus said.

  I watched them drive away and they both waved. I cleaned dishes and straightened the living room a little, running the vacuum around for a few minutes. As I was doing this, I reviewed in my head the questions I would ask Connie. I knew the answers; I just didn’t like any of the questions. I had a low sinking feeling about Doctor Constance Morehouse.

  I did housework until eleven forty-five, then I hopped in the Ford and drove to the Cliff House. The Cliff House is located on top of a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was built as a private home, then converted to a restaurant, but it folded in 1925 due to Prohibition. It reopened this year after being extensively remodeled. This was my first look at the place.

  I pulled up to the valet and the kid came running. He hopped in and gave me a kind of disappointed look.

  “Is there a problem, kid?” I said.

  “No, no problem, sir, other than the car.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a shame you couldn’t get a good car.” He smiled.

  “Oh, you mean like a Chevy,” I said.

  “Now you are talking, pal.” He pointed his index finger at me to punctuate that I was correct.

  “Do you know how to double the value of a Chevy?” I asked.

  The kid’s face went blank. “No.”

  “Put half a tank of gas in it.” I strolled for the door.

  The kid rolled over laughing. “Okay, mister, you won that one all right. Have a great lunch.”

  The restaurant lobby was lovely. The view in the restaurant was million-dollar, one of a kind. You could see for miles in any direction. Directly below the windows were rocks on the beach with waves crashing into them, sending spray hundreds of feet in the air. You could hear the dull roar from below. The sun was bright and the fog was almost completely burned off.

  It was high noon, and sitting all the way in the corner was Connie Morehouse, drinking a martini.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor Morehouse,” I said.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. O’Farrell. I have been waiting all morning for your report.” She smiled pleasantly.

  I sat down and adjusted my chair. I put my hat in another chair. A waiter came hustling over and asked if I wanted a cocktail. I ordered black coffee instead. He returned to fill my cup with the steaming hot liquid. How appropriate, because the conversation was about to get hot as well.

  “Dr. Morehouse, I have a lot to tell, but I have a great many questions for you,” I said. “I have a feeling you aren’t going to like them or me very much.”

  “Please, Mr. O’Farrell, I hired you to do a nasty job. I am expecting it.” She took another sip of her martini.

  “Yes, it was a nasty job.” I said.

  I lite a smoke and added cream and sugar to my coffee. I stirred with the silver spoon. I was stalling, so I just got to it.

  “Your husband, Doctor Morehouse, is a degenerate gambler. He owes almost one hundred thousand dollars to bookies.” I said bluntly.

  That got her attention. She downed her martini and held up the empty glass and waved it at the waiter, who wav
ed back.

  “You must be exaggerating, Mr. O’Farrell?” There was a crack in that steely demeanor of hers.

  “No, Doctor, I’m sure. He plays cards on the Delta Queen, he plays cards at the St. Francis Hotel, he’s a regular at Bay Meadows Racetrack, he plays cards at a sleazy little fleabag hotel in Sacramento. He bets every nickel he has, and he always loses. He drinks while he losing and then he drinks after he loses. He sleeps in hotels that you wouldn’t walk in, let alone sleep in.”

  She did not lower her eyes or break the gaze. Instead, she took a pull on the new martini, and without thinking she ate the olive and pearl onion.

  “Is there another woman?” she demanded.

  “No chance on that, Doctor. He just gambles. Now here comes the really hard questions for you, Doctor. Are you faithful to your husband?” I delivered that question without fear.

  She exploded.

  “That is none of your fucking business, mister. I hired you to snoop into my husband’s business, not mine.” She spit out the words with the greatest amount of indignation she could muster.

  “What do you know about your husband’s business partner, Jonathan Wheeler, Dr. Morehouse?”

  A shrug was all she gave me.

  “Here comes the really bad news, Doctor Morehouse. Jonathan Wheeler is the man who owns all the paper for your husband’s gambling debts,” I said.

  “Well, what about this Joey person in Sacramento?” She was starting to lose control; she was fidgeting in her seat.

  “He works for Wheeler. Since we are getting everything straight, Doctor, you need to know that Jonathan Wheeler is not his real name. His real name is Anthony Giovanni, he is from Chicago, and he works for the mob. Organized crime.” I let that sink in for a minute.

  “Al Capone’s mob, to be exact. His organization is being run by a guy named Frank Nitti. These guys kill people the same as barbers cut hair; it’s just part of the business. Wheeler is a convicted, hardened criminal, and the son of a bitch has got his hooks into your husband, and he has got you in his bed.” I glared at her without mercy.