Clutching at Straws

by J. L. Abramo

  When I was feeling too anxious to stay any longer I headed back to the kitchen with every intention of leaving the way I had come in. The dog followed me and took a drink from a large bowl of water. I heard a key being turned in the front door and was rushing for the window. Then I heard a gunshot. I froze, not knowing which way to go, checking myself for leaks. I heard something hit the door, and then the floor, hard. The dog was barking and I heard footsteps running from the door. I moved to the front window to see if I could catch sight of anyone going out. Nothing. I heard a door slam down in the alley, but when I made it back to the kitchen window it was too late.

  I went back to the front door, slowly unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. The key was in the lock. A body lay in the hall. He was as dead as Jesse James.

  The name tag on his chest read Thomas Katt.

  I walked back to the kitchen and put in an anonymous phone call to the police.

  I looked down to find the dog looking up at me. I bent down, picked up the water bowl, dumped its contents into the sink and headed for the front door with the empty bowl in my hand. I grabbed the leash I found hanging on the doorknob and went out into the hall.

  “Let’s go,” I said, as I stepped over the body.

  The dog looked back into the apartment for a moment, stopped for a quick whiff of Katt’s corpse, and then turned and followed me out to my car.

  I stopped into a 7-Eleven for dog food and drove over to Darlene’s house on Buena Vista. I carried the bag of food, the bowl, and the leash to Darlene’s door with the dog at my heels.

  I rang the bell.

  When Darlene came to the door she looked from me to the dog and back to me again.

  “What’s wrong, Jake. You look terrible.”

  “I’m sure I do,” I said. “Can we come in?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Darlene, do me a favor,” I said, filling the water bowl and placing it on the floor in her kitchen. “See if you have something to put this food into. And see if Sonny and Joey are interested in the game on Sunday. Tell anyone who cares that I’ll be out of touch until Monday morning.”

  I handed her the two football tickets and walked out without another word.

  The Round Table

  On the stage Oa was natural, simple, affecting;

  ‘twas only that when he was off he was acting.

  —Oliver Goldsmith

  Retaliation

  Fourteen

  Lefty Wright’s death hit me hard.

  And that surprised me.

  I really didn’t know him well, but I had come to like him.

  Lefty was a bright kid, he was covertly optimistic. Lefty wasn’t an innocent, but he was fairly harmless. He did what he did well. Professionally, carefully, and with no malice intended. Lefty never tried to rationalize his actions with lofty notions like the egalitarian redistribution of wealth.

  I was convinced the moment I met Lefty Wright that he would never physically hurt a soul.

  I had a pretty strong feeling that Lefty wasn’t done with me yet. My first impulse was to jump in feet first.

  I wanted all the answers and I wanted them yesterday.

  I wanted to confront, accuse, alarm, and convict the culpable. I wanted to release the hounds. I wanted to be the thorn in the side, the righteous bust, the roadblock to the clean getaway, the unforeseen contingency.

  I needed to hold my horses or I would find out the hard way. I wanted to stop feeling partly responsible for what happened to Lefty.

  I decided to take the weekend to mull it over.

  I checked my provisions. A full fifth of Dickel, a half carton of Camels, a ton of frozen leftover pasta from my mother’s kitchen, and The Count of Monte Cristo.

  I was ready to hunker down in my capsule for two days with all I needed to survive until splashdown Sunday night.

  I broke the seal on the bottle of bourbon, fired up a cigarette, and picked up the Dumas book.

  I don’t remember much about the next forty-eight hours. I managed to feed myself, devour five packs of smokes, knock off most of the bourbon, spend short fitful periods of time in bed, and read when I could hold the book open.

  In waking and sleeping dreams I found myself incarcerated in the Château d’If. The island prison off the French coast near Marseilles was the Alcatraz of its time. A life sentence was exactly that. No one departed alive.

  Another prisoner had dug a tunnel out of his cell in an attempt to escape, which ineffectually dead-ended at my cell. He looked very much like Lefty Wright, and though no closer to freedom, the man reveled in our companionship, having been isolated from human contact for many years. We took turns making the arduous trip between the two cells and shared dreams of salvation.

  One evening I crawled through the close tunnel only to find him lying lifeless in his cot, his body tied into the long canvas bag that would serve as his coffin. Shortly his remains would be taken by guards to the island cliffs and dropped into the sea below.

  I lamented over the loss, over my return to solitude.

  And then, at the very height of hopelessness, I saw what could only be seen from that desperate altitude.

  I untied the ropes that bound his shroud and pulled his body through the narrow tunnel and into my own cell. Then I returned, crawled into the body bag, retied the ropes, pulled my hands inside, and lay waiting. Finally, after what seemed the better part of my life, I felt myself being lifted from both ends. I was carried out of the cell and down the long stone corridor. I felt the cold wind and knew that we were outside. I heard the men struggle with my weight up a steep hill and place me on the ground.

  I heard the sound of the sea beating violently against the shore below. Soon I felt hands on my legs and shoulders again. My body took on the motion of a pendulum as they swung me forward and back between them.

  I experienced the release that sent me sailing upward and outward and felt myself dropping through the air, forever.

  And my body plunged into the frigid ocean.

  And the glass of bourbon dropped from my hand.

  And I filled the bathtub with hot water and climbed in to stop my shivering.

  And it was Sunday night.

  And from the bath I could hear the television. The Mets had eliminated the Giants from the playoffs.

  And I dried my body, and dried my eyes, and ate cold ziti.

  And I drank strong coffee.

  I sat up and read Dumas until I was too tired to sit. Edmond Dantes had made it safely to the mainland. And he swore that he would find the men who had framed him and imprisoned him and stolen his youth. And he would have them pay.

  And I swore that I would try to do the same for Lefty Wright.

  And I went to my bed and fell into a dreamless, guiltless sleep.

  Fifteen

  When I walked into the office on Monday morning I found what was by normal standards a full house. Darlene Roman, Vinnie Strings, Joey Russo, Sonny the Chin, and Bobo Bigelow. They greeted me as if I were Neil Armstrong returning from a walk on the moon, which wasn’t far from the way I felt. Seeing Bigelow’s Mr. Potato Head grin made me think I’d made a wrong turn on my way back to Earth.

  Darlene handed me a cup of coffee, and they started right in.

  “Freddie Cash lost his toe to a runaway lawn mower. He was eleven years old,” Darlene said. “His father rushed him to the hospital and then rushed back home to fire the gardener.”

  “According to Max Snail, who runs the poker games at Fort Mason, Freddie is a regular player and sat to the left of Vic Vigoda more than a few times,” Vinnie chimed in. “Max can’t say if the two had anything going outside the game, but they definitely knew one another.”

  “There was a second safe at Chancellor’s house, in the down stairs study behind a portrait of Ronald Reagan. No brown manila envelopes,” said Sonny.

  Bobo Bigelow cleared his throat.

  I looked at him for as long as I could stand it and turned to Joey Russo.
<
br />   “You remember Spuds, don’t you Jake?”

  Bobo Bigelow, aka Spuds Lonegan, was an ex—car thief and present air travel consultant. There had to be a really good reason for Joey to have brought him in.

  “How are you, Jake?” Bobo asked.

  “What do you know, Bobo?” I said, meaning it literally.

  “I saw Vic Vigoda the night before he took the swim. Came to me for plane tickets, San Francisco to New York, New York to Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Aren’t there more direct routes to Brazil from here?”

  “Sure. But he had me send the Rio tickets on to New York. Said he didn’t want to carry them around with him. No skin off my nose, it was a lot more profitable for me and he paid in cash, nice crisp fifties and twenties. He also had me working on a passport for him. Too bad he never got to use it. I took a really flattering photograph of the guy.”

  Bobo was a real sentimentalist.

  “Where did he ask the ticket be sent?”

  “Tickets. There were two for Rio. Had me send them to some dame at the Plaza in Manhattan.”

  Bobo Bigelow was the only guy I’d ever met who could use the word dame and make it sound politically correct.

  “The lady have a name?”

  Joey took over from there.

  “Her name is Brenda Bionda. Vigoda’s sweetheart. She flew to New York the night that Lefty went into the Chancellor place. She checked into the Plaza and was waiting for Vic to follow. She paid for the room in cash. Twenties and fifties.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I sent my cousin Sal over. He grilled the desk clerk before he went up to see Brenda,” said Sonny. “She was expecting Vigoda. Sal had to break the news.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She pulled a gun on Sal. He had to take it away from her. She had ten grand in her suitcase; she offered him five thousand to take her to the airport. So Sal put her on the phone with me,” Joey said. “I told her that she wasn’t going anywhere until she talked about the money and what she knew about Vigoda and the Chancellor murder. She said that I might as well have Sal kill her then and there because she wasn’t talking about anything until she spoke with Tony Carlucci.”

  “Carlucci?”

  “Yeah, said she couldn’t trust anyone else. Poor misguided kid. So I told Sal to let her call Tony and call me back. After speaking to Tony, Brenda said she would talk but only to you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Brenda said that you came highly recommended.”

  “An endorsement that I could have lived without. Can we get her back here?”

  “She said no way. She’s one scared girl—won’t even talk on the phone. You may have to go to New York. Sal can tuck her away somewhere safe until you get there.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “I can get you a cheap flight.”

  “Shut up, Bobo, I’m trying to think,” I said.

  “And tickets to see the Mets and St. Louis when they get to Shea.”

  “Really?”

  “Stay focused, Jake,” said Joey.

  “How long can Sal sit on her?”

  “She’s not going anywhere until you say so.”

  “Okay. I need a few days here. Maybe I can get there Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “Leiter is pitching on Saturday.”

  “Bobo, thanks for your help. Good-bye.”

  Joey helped get Bigelow out the door.

  “What now, Jake?” asked Vinnie Strings.

  I could use help from the others, but I really had nothing for Vinnie to do.

  But if I didn’t give him something he would drive me insane. “The name Alfred Sisley mean anything to you, Vin?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Hit the streets, ask around. We need to find the guy.”

  Strings gleefully bounded out of the office to do his part. I asked Darlene to try to locate Freddie Cash, asked Joey if he could do anything to save me a trip to New York to see Brenda Bionda, and asked Sonny to get as much background on Lowell Ryder as he could find. I told them I was headed over to Vallejo Street Station to talk with Lopez. It was only then that I noticed the dog’s head peeking out from under Darlene’s desk. I’d forgotten all about him.

  “Speaking of names, Jake. Does this animal have one?” Darlene asked.

  “Tug McGraw,” I said as I moved to the door. It was the first name that came to mind.

  “He must be a southpaw,” said Sonny.

  “The dog is named after Faith Hill’s father-in-law?” asked Darlene.

  Joey Russo was laughing as I walked out.

  I found Lopez in her office.

  “Before I say anything, let’s hear the department line on what went down Friday afternoon,” I said.

  “Lefty Wright tried to get hold of Katt’s service revolver, and the officer shot him in a struggle in the police parking lot. Katt was briefly interviewed by IA and sent home.”

  I knew that if Lopez weren’t skeptical, she wouldn’t even be talking with me.

  “Lefty was on his way to be freed on bail, why would he try to escape?”

  “Maybe Wright wasn’t so sure about the outcome of the bail hearing. Maybe he realized that even if he were cleared of Chancellor’s murder, he was still facing parole violation and a third B and E conviction,” Lopez suggested.

  “I feel as if I’m missing something. Am I missing something? How is the death of Officer Katt being explained? A random incident of urban violence?”

  “Look, Diamond. Let the police department handle it. There’s nothing more you can do for Lefty Wright.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Lieutenant. I trust you. On the other hand, I have little faith in the department. No one seemed very concerned about who really killed Chancellor as long as they had Lefty behind bars. Fewer will care that Lefty was iced. And one of your own officers was directly involved in what happened to Judge Chancellor, Vigoda, and Lefty. I’m far past having any doubt about that.”

  “You’re talking about Officer Katt?”

  Lopez knew exactly who I was talking about, but she wasn’t talking about the cash I had seen at Katt’s apartment.

  Lopez was fishing. Hoping to find out if I knew more than the police did about Katt’s involvement.

  I ignored the question.

  “I didn’t have much interest in Chancellor myself, I never liked the guy,” I said, “but now I know that Vigoda and Katt were killed to keep them from talking about what happened to the judge, and that interests me a great deal. You’re wrong when you say that there’s nothing more I can do for Lefty Wright.”

  “You’re flirting with danger, Diamond,” Lopez said.

  “Well, I never got very far flirting with you, Lieutenant. Maybe I’ll have the same luck with danger,” I said, on my way through the door. “Thanks for your time.”

  I called Darlene to ask if she had located Freddie Cash. She said I could find him at the health club, the one he had allegedly been kidnapped outside of.

  I pointed the Toyota toward Marina Boulevard.

  When I walked through the door of the Bodies in Wonderland health club, I found myself in a narrow mirrored tunnel. There was a sign hanging overhead halfway down that read You’ll Like the View a Whole Lot Better on the Way Out. It inspired me to test the theory without hesitation, but I bravely forged on.

  At the end of the long corridor was a counter, which blocked further forward movement, and another sign that read Members and Guests Only Beyond This Point. As if this in itself wasn’t discouraging enough, the person at the counter greeted me as if I were a postal worker with a grudge and a concealed Uzi.

  She had a flat, round featureless face that mocked the expression “as cute as a button,” a male or female weightlifter’s body, take your pick, and a large plastic name tag that read Tammy or Tommy. The only thing that might have clued me in to gender was the copy of Martha Stewart Living lying open on the counter. But I could have been very mistaken.

  I was ba
nking that the voice would tip the scale.

  No such luck.

  “Can I help you?”

  Tammy or Tommy had a voice like Alec Baldwin.

  “I was hoping to find Freddie Cash,” I said.

  “What is your name, sir? I’ll check Mr. Cash’s guest list.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Tammy,” she said, looking first at her name badge and back up at me as if I was a moron.

  “Tammy, please locate Mr. Cash and tell him that Jake Diamond is here to see him. Tell him that it’s urgent and that if he doesn’t appear within ten minutes I will break every mirror in the hallway.”

  “Wait right here,” she said, jumping up to reveal legs that would have looked better on Richard Simmons.

  “I’ll be outside,” I said, “if I can make it back to the door without falling down the Rabbit Hole. Tell Freddie to get into his street clothes.”

  Tammy moved quickly into the impregnable interior and I carefully made my way to the exit, looking straight ahead to avoid being immobilized my own infinitely reflected image.

  I was pretty certain that I didn’t look any better than when I had come in.

  I certainly wasn’t about to break any mirrors. It’s not that I’m superstitious. I simply choose to stay away from broken glass whenever possible.

  And I probably would have waited at least twenty minutes, but Freddie was at my side in nine.

  “You caused quite a commotion inside, Mr. Diamond,” he said. “Maybe they can replay it for the aerobics class. Let’s take a walk.”

  I settled for a bench at the Marina across from the gym and invited Freddie to join me. I offered him a Camel, which he nervously refused. I looked out to Alcatraz Island, this time from another side. So far, I was still on dry land.

  “Okay, Freddie,” I began, “you can talk to me or you can talk to the police.”

  As inane as it sounded, I somehow knew that with Freddie Cash it would work.

  “You were never really kidnapped and your father knows it. So where did the money go?” I asked. “If you can work Vic Vigoda into the narrative, so much the better.”