Deception in Savannah: A Humorous Novel of Murder, Mystery, Sex, and Drugs

by Charles Dougherty

  The voice had expressed understanding and disappointment in words uttered without inflection. Sam wondered, not for the first time, if he was talking with a computer. He was required to give a detailed explanation, naming names. The voice had been particularly interested in everything Sam could relate concerning Dave Bannon.

  Sam was surprised at this, but when he tried to pursue the matter, he had been told pointedly not to ask questions. The voice ended the conversation by wishing Sam the best of luck in resolving his difficulties, and provided him with a new 800 number to use when he resumed operations. The voice disconnected. Sam used the redial button to call the old 800 number, just out of curiosity. He wasn’t surprised to get a recording announcing that the number had been disconnected.

  Sam called Jimmy on his cell phone and asked if they could get together. Jimmy sounded uncharacteristically distant. He told Sam that he would call right back. Jimmy got in his car and drove to the DeSoto Hilton downtown, where he shut himself into a phone booth outside the men’s room. He dialed Sam’s number. When Sam answered, Jimmy explained that they had trouble.

  "My guy in the police department says the cops are watching me, Sam," Jimmy advised. "That's why I didn't want to talk on the cell phone."

  "Barrera probably told Denardo about you being involved in the money laundering, Jimmy. You gotta figure on the cops pickin' you up for questioning, at the least. May even arrest you," Sam said. "Just keep your mouth shut and call Haynes Rollison. I'll give him a heads up as soon as we get off the phone."

  Sam knew he could count on Jimmy to keep quiet. A little white-collar crime was no big deal. Haynes Rollison, Sam's long-time attorney, might even get Jimmy probation or community service, since he had a clean record. Sam would have a bigger problem than Jimmy did, once Angela found out her little brother was taking a fall.

  Day 15, Midday

  Jimmy had been followed to the hotel, and as soon as he had vacated the phone booth, the undercover cop had called in with the number of the pay phone. The County Solicitor’s office had been ready with a court order, and the telephone company had quickly associated Jimmy’s call with an unlisted number at the residence of Sam Alfano. Everyone agreed that they might as well pick Jimmy up at this point.

  He was in the bar at the DeSoto, about four blocks from where Joe and Charlie were sitting, so they joined in the arrest. Jimmy was savoring an icy cold beer, thinking it might be his last one for a while. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he did enjoy a cold beer on a hot summer day. He was wondering how long the cops would let him run when he felt a solid hand on his shoulder.

  He turned to see Joe, who said, "Jimmy Taglio, you’re under arrest for the murder of Dr. Rick Leatherby."

  Joe proceeded to read Jimmy his rights, but Jimmy might as well have been on another planet. He wasn’t hearing anything Joe said. He had been so sure he was clean on the Leatherby thing; he couldn’t believe he was busted for that. He had been thinking that after the dust cleared, Sam’s lawyer would have him out on bail and would probably end up getting him probation on some dumb charge like fraud. Going down for murder was not what he had in mind. Georgia still had the death penalty. He could die! Jimmy worked hard to get a grip on himself as Joe snapped the handcuffs on him and marched him out to a waiting patrol car.

  Jimmy felt feverish; his mind was racing as he tried to grasp how they had tied him to Leatherby’s death. He reviewed his activities for that evening, and couldn’t find a single thread that would cause this sort of unraveling. The doctor had still been alive when Jimmy had hung him, so it couldn’t be something funny about the cause of death.

  Jimmy knew there were all kinds of tests that they could do, so he had been careful not to choke the jerk to death before hanging him from the rafter. He was sure nobody had seen him enter or leave the Leatherby house. This had to be some scam the cops were trying to work on him to make him talk. That’s all it could be. Jimmy began to relax a little bit. He was no dummy. Cops couldn’t fool him that easily. They surely had rattled him for a minute, though.

  Jimmy got pissed off at Joe as he thought about that. Joe "God damn" Denardo, Sam had always called him. Maybe this was why. Jimmy had always figured Sam just didn’t like the guy after he had chased Sam away from his sister, but maybe there was more to it than that. Jimmy thought that Joe was a real slime ball for trying to confuse a poor honest crook by making up stuff. Jimmy knew why they were arresting him. Murder, his ass. The Barrera woman had ratted on him about the money. Bitch! Then Joe was trying to screw him around, no doubt to get him to blow the whistle on Sam. No way would Jimmy do that. Sam had been good to him.

  Jimmy wasn’t about to turn on Sam just because Joe thought he could falsely accuse Jimmy of a murder that he hadn’t committed. Well, okay, he really had committed it, but that was a technicality, because there was no way the cops could tie it to him. Denardo was just a liar – a prime example of why you couldn’t trust cops. They were devious bastards. Sometimes they were so devious they outsmarted themselves and got things straight without knowing it, like now. Dumb bastards thought they were lying to Jimmy, but they really had it right and didn’t even know it. That’s how stupid they were. You couldn’t trust them for a minute.

  Jimmy was icy calm now that he had figured out Joe’s game. He maintained what he thought was an aloof attitude as the cops processed him. He kept his mouth shut and waited until he got to make his phone call. Rollison had been expecting the call; Sam had briefed him right after talking with Jimmy earlier. Rollison promised to see Jimmy as soon as he had "checked my traps," as he put it. Jimmy knew Rollison was connected to the movers and shakers in Savannah. That was why Sam used him.

  Rollison had smoothed over lots of scrapes for Sam’s people over the years. Often all it took was "checking his traps," and reminding someone of a favor. A more serious problem might require a meeting in some judge’s chambers, where a bottle and some glasses inevitably materialized at some stage. The participants in the meeting most likely had known each other since childhood and nobody they knew or cared about had been hurt by the act under consideration. Most of the time, these so called crimes were the result of some outsider complaining about something that had been going on since Oglethorpe had run Savannah after he marked off the first plots of land in the colony.

  Jimmy settled back in his cell, waiting for Rollison to spring him. Two hours went by before Rollison showed up. He was, as always, immaculately groomed. He was wearing a slightly rumpled seersucker suit, the mark of a true local power broker, his cordovan loafers polished to a soft gleam. Once he and Jimmy were established in a conference room and the guard had left, Jimmy asked how long it would be before he could go home. Rollison leaned back in his chair and hooked a thumb into his belt on either side of his ample belly, a contemplative look on his face.

  "Well, Jimmy…" he paused, shaking his head.

  "Talk to me," Jimmy wheedled. "I've been here too long already."

  Still shaking his head, Rollison said, "Jimmy, boy, you in some real trouble, here. Sam never said they were charging you with murder."

  "That's just a bunch of shit. They just made that up to try to get me to give Sam up. The Barrera broad told 'em I was skimming money from the clinic and they're trying to tie us both into some money-laundering scheme they made up. They ain't got anything to tie me to Leatherby's death, ‘cause there is nothing. It's just smoke."

  "No, Jimmy. They think they got you cold. Fingerprints and an eyeball witness. The Barrera woman did tip 'em about you skimming money, but that's not what your big problem is. I could get you sentenced to six months coachin’ basketball for orphans on Sunday afternoons, that’s all they had on you. They got your prints on Leatherby’s suicide note, and that eyeball witness says she saw you leave his house right after the time of death. You’re in a pile of trouble, boy. They goin’ for the death penalty, and the County Solicitor is up for re-election. Nice easy capital murder case is just what he needs. Ain’t no bail, and I don’t
do capital cases. We’re goin’ to have to get you a serious criminal lawyer. You got an alibi?"

  Jimmy was struggling to come up with a plausible lie. He thought about using his wife for an alibi, but she had been out with her sisters that night and spent the night with one of them. There were too many holes in that one. He obviously couldn’t use Sam. That was too close to home. He felt Rollison’s steady gaze on him.

  "Don’t tell me anything I don’t want to know, Jimmy. We got to work something out here. I’m goin’ to tell you some things to think about. Don’t you say anything else -- just listen. Then I got to talk to Sam."

  "First thing, think about whether they can prove you knew a dope dealer named Ski Cat Wilson. Then think about whether you knew a lawyer named Jonas Belk. Assumin’ for argument that you did know Ski Cat, think about whether you know why he might have searched a condo that belonged to a woman named Barrera, or a condo that belonged to Denardo’s sister. While you think about all that, I’ve got some stuff to do. I’ll be back."

  Rollison left and the guard took Jimmy back to his cell. His mind was racing like a blue bottle fly banging against a window glass. He wondered how much the cops knew. He had not known they could get fingerprints from paper. Rollison seemed to think they could, and there was no reason for him to screw Jimmy around. Then Jimmy wondered if Rollison was setting him up to save Sam. This death penalty thing was eating at Jimmy. He wasn’t troubled by violent death, but the idea of being executed clinically, with no passion involved, that just made his stomach go watery.

  It was like some bizarre science fiction fantasy, this idea of the state putting somebody to death like it was a medical procedure. Jimmy thought hanging or a firing squad might not bother him so much. Having his head shaved, and all, well, that was sick. Jimmy didn’t know if he could get through that without going screaming crazy. He was already fraying around the edges, just thinking about it. He would be exterminated like a mad dog so Sam could go free.

  He didn’t think so. It was all Sam’s fault. Sam got him into this. Sam was the one who should have to get treated like some science experiment gone wrong, not him. He wondered if he could cut a deal, somehow. All of a sudden, he didn’t trust Rollison. Rollison was looking out for Sam. No question about that. Jimmy yelled for the guard, and when he showed up, Jimmy asked to speak to Joe Denardo.

  Joe was surprised that Jimmy asked for him, especially so soon after seeing Rollison. He went down to the lockup and had Jimmy brought to an interview room.

  "What can I do for you," Joe asked after Jimmy was sitting down. "Should we get Rollison in here?"

  "No!" snapped Jimmy. "Just you and me. I want a deal."

  Joe’s mind went into overdrive. They had Jimmy cold on Leatherby’s killing. The County Solicitor was pumped up about the death penalty. Joe wasn’t sure there was room to deal. He had to provoke Jimmy into showing part of his hand.

  "So, what do you have, Jimmy?" Joe asked from behind his best poker face.

  "Not so fast. I don’t want the chair. That’s the deal. You square that; I’ll tell you everything."

  "Most guys we bust for murder, they were hopin’ for a chance at the chair all along. You confused or somethin’? Innocent, maybe?" Joe taunted Jimmy.

  "I didn’t set out to do no murder. I ain’t sayin’ I did. I did some white-collar stuff, okay. Maybe I got boxed in, or somethin’."

  "Well, Jimmy, I think if you just explain it to the jury like you just did to me, it’ll be fine. They’ll understand that you didn’t mean to fake Leatherby’s suicide, that he boxed you in. I mean, he wasn’t even from around here. Not one of us. But if you get a bunch of folks that ain't from around here on that jury, you’ll be in deep shit, boy. You need a local jury, fella."

  Jimmy was about to lose it. Joe "God damn" Denardo was mocking him, and his life was hanging in the balance. At first, Jimmy had thought he was serious, with that straight face and pious manner. Jimmy was angry and so frustrated that he couldn’t see straight.

  "Sam set you up, didn’t he, Jimmy? Angela’s little brother. He probably got tired of you hanging around all the time, figured to get rid of you for good. He always was a shit. He ever tell you he tried to date my sister? The girls all thought he was handsome, even if he did stink like dead shrimp. Even Kathy. But he’s short on guts, Jimmy. Always has been. He was scared of me back then, and I was half his size. You should have chased him away from Angela. Then you wouldn’t be here, buddy."

  "I’m serious, Joe. I ain’t scared of doin’ time, but I’ll go nuts, they shave me and smear that jelly stuff on me, put me in that chair in that little room."

  "Yeah. Pretty scary, ain’t it Jimmy? You think about it before you did the doctor?"

  "I ain’t said I did the doctor," Jimmy protested.

  "We got you cold, Jimmy. Nothin’ you can give us on that, except who paid you to do it. We both know it was Sam. Give me a little more time and I’ll have him, too. Then you got nothin’ to trade. Your information is getting’ stale already, boy. Pretty soon, it’ll smell like dead shrimp."

  "Okay, Joe. Get me out of the chair, and I’ll give you Sam."

  "I hear you now, Jimmy. We need some lawyers; both sides. County’s already got the chair warmed up for you. You give us Sam for Leatherby, Belk, money-laundering, and dope. Maybe you can do life instead of the chair. I’ll try."

  And Later…

  Joe had his feet up on the coffee table. He was eating take-out gumbo from the container and watching the beads of moisture run down the side of his beer bottle to collect in a puddle on the Formica tabletop. He was glad that he didn’t dine like this often, but tonight it suited his mood. The whole Leatherby mess was more or less settled, his mother was playing bridge at the Rose of Sharon, and Kathy was driving to Charleston with Dave to bring Dave’s boat back to Savannah. He was as close as he ever came to being relaxed.

  He was thinking about Connie, headed for Eleuthera last time they had spoken. Ironic that she was the only one who got what she intended out of this situation, Joe thought. Rick Leatherby was dead; Jimmy was embarking on two consecutive life sentences after coming clean on Belk and Leatherby and telling them all he knew about Sam. Sam; he was a loose end, for sure. Sam had disappeared, along with Julia’s Pride, the flagship of his fleet. His hysterical wife had been enfolded in the arms of her family. She was too incoherent to guess at where Sam might be headed.

  Joe had tried to put himself inside Sam’s head. Like Joe, he was a local boy with roots that ran deep in the mucky wetlands around Savannah. His family was big and cohesive -- bigger than Joe’s -- and Joe had trouble imagining what it would be like to pack up and leave in the middle of the night, presumably never to return. Based on Jimmy’s information, Sam certainly had enough money to finance his disappearance, but Joe figured Sam’s biggest worries were not financial. Sam had set out to live on the run. He had to go somewhere where nobody knew him, and pretend to be somebody else, for the rest of his life, and it wasn't just the police that he had to avoid. To the extent that he and Sam had similar origins, Joe could foresee that this would be a devastating experience for Sam. Plenty of anonymous money would make it possible, but not pleasant from a personal perspective. Joe wondered if Sam had contemplated that an exit such as this might be necessary.

  Joe knew that the Alfanos had been crooks since Sam’s grandfather had first come to Savannah in the 1800s. For generations, the Alfanos and the Denardos had lived, worked, played, and died in the same parish. The families had an odd kind of respect for each other. Both strongly supported the Church. The essential difference was that the Alfanos never acknowledged that anybody outside the family or the Church could tell them what was right or wrong -- they were a law unto themselves. The former generations, though, had lived by their own inflexible moral code. At its core, it kept them square with the Church and left them free to make their own rules in temporal matters. While they had often run afoul of the law, they had never done anything that they or the community
at large had seen as purely evil.

  Sam had clearly crossed that line. Joe knew that Sam had brought shame on his family, and that had he not been its de facto head, he would have been dealt with severely. As it stood, there was no heir apparent to step into the vacuum created by Sam’s departure. Joe thought wearily that this was sure to bring disorder to Savannah’s underworld, at least until someone reordered the criminal infrastructure. Joe was certain that some of the attendant pushing and shoving would spill over into the streets of the city, disrupting the tourist trade and making his life harder for a while. Still, he was glad Sam was gone, although he was disappointed that Sam had not been locked up.

  Dave was sprawled comfortably in the passenger seat of Kathy’s car as she drove up Highway 17 toward Charleston. The windows were down, even though it was a sticky evening. They both liked the salt-marsh smell too much to turn on the air-conditioner. Every time Dave had come home during his 30 years away, that smell had enfolded him and welcomed him back. Something about it was unique to the area. None of the other coastal lowlands he had visited had quite the same tang to the air.

  When he smelled that smell and saw the ancient, moss-draped live oaks, the years fell away and he was in that ageless state of being where time was to be spent or wasted as whim might dictate. For all the years he had been away, he felt this way every time he returned. He had always assumed it was an experience that was his alone, but Kathy had disabused him of that notion. She had given voice to virtually the same thoughts on that first afternoon, when she had driven him around showing him the different neighborhoods.

  He was comfortable in their easy relationship, and as excited as a teenager at the prospect of sharing several uninterrupted days aboard the Alice Munn with Kathy. They would bring the old sloop down the Intracoastal Waterway rather than taking the faster offshore route. The inshore trip from Charleston to Savannah was beautiful, and Dave knew that Kathy would appreciate it. She had told him that she could only picture the coastal plain as the isolated communities separated by marshlands that she had visited by car. To Dave, the coastline was a continuum, punctuated by those settlements that Kathy knew, to be sure. The water was a shared source of lifeblood for the communities that had evolved from waterborne commerce over the last few centuries.