by J. L. Abramo
“Look, Diamond. I’m here because of a promise I made to you. I said that if you could give me anything solid to go on I would follow it up. You still haven’t given me anything. I’m here to clear my conscience.”
“I’ve never held you responsible for Lefty, Lieutenant.”
“That’s beside the point. I’m here to give you a chance to tell me what you know or think you know. Everything.”
“Okay. Let me get the coffee. Need a fork for the cannoli?”
“No thanks, I think I can handle it without.”
I placed two cups of espresso on the small table between the sofa and my reading chair. I sat on the couch, since the chair was occupied.
“What do you know about the Cash kidnapping case, Diamond?” Lopez said.
“What I read in the papers.”
“Weren’t you working for Jeremy Cash?”
“You know client information is confidential, Lieutenant.”
I wanted to know where she was headed before I accidentally jumped into her path.
“You play games, Diamond, and people wind up dead.”
“How’s the cannoli?” I asked.
“We found money,” she said, shaking her head, “in Katt’s apartment. A load of cash, in tens and twenties. The money that Al Wright picked up outside Chancellor’s house was also in tens and twenties, and so was the cash that floated up in Vigoda’s wallet. If that isn’t coincidence enough, the ransom for Freddie Cash was paid in the same denominations. So please excuse me if my curiosity compromises your credo of client confidentiality.”
“If you’re looking for a connection between the Chancellor murder and the Cash kidnapping, I honestly can’t help you,” I said, wishing that I wasn’t being honest, “but you have to believe now that Katt was involved somehow in the judge’s death and that Lefty could have been set up.”
Lopez took a large bite of the pastry, washed it down with a sip of espresso, and waited at least a minute before she spoke. Lopez had a talent that I had never been able to master. Thinking a thing through before opening her mouth.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Diamond. If I’ve said that to you once, I’ve said it a thousand times and I’m tired of saying it. I’m not an idiot. I believe that Vigoda and Katt were involved in something, but I don’t know what. They were both walking around with a lot of unaccounted-for cash. And I do believe that Lefty was set up. But it’s not enough to connect the dots for me. You haven’t told me a thing that you haven’t told me before. So, if there’s nothing else, I’ll take the rest of the cannoli to go,” Lopez said.
“No need to rush off, Lieutenant. Finish your espresso,” I said.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry; we’re working on a big case. Trying to locate a German shepherd that disappeared from Katt’s apartment. Do you have a paper towel,” she said, rising, “I don’t want to take your plate.”
Lopez departed, letting me know in not so many words that the only worthwhile item I’d sent her off with was the cannoli. If she had come to clear her conscience about following all viable leads, I suppose the visit had done the job. If she had come to remind me of how little I had in the way of hard evidence, she had succeeded admirably. Lopez said I should feel free to call anytime I had more to tell her, using the word more very generously.
I had a hard time conjuring up a connection between Chancellor’s death and Freddie Cash’s phony abduction, telling myself that twenty- and fifty-dollar bills were pretty common. Still, I found myself suddenly very interested in who Freddie was in to for the gambling debts he kidnapped himself to pay off. I tried calling Freddie at his apartment and at his father’s house at the beach. There was no answer at either place.
I had intended to take a short siesta before heading out to Pleasant Hill, but the coffee had me wired. I tried reading, but I couldn’t concentrate. I was planning to pick up the Chevy for the drive over to meet Bobby, but I knew that the Russos would be having dinner and Joey would insist that I join them. I had little appetite for one meal, never mind two.
So after a quick shower, shave, and change of clothes I found myself in the Toyota, heading for the Bay Bridge.
Nineteen
I drove through Pleasant Hill, heading for Hogie’s Roadhouse in nearby Concord where I had shared a drink with my father years ago. I’d also been there a few times since Mom moved out from New York to live with her sister Rosalie after my father died.
On my way over, I thought about Bernie Diamond.
Bernie Diamond was a Jew from the Bronx. Bernie met Mary Falco, an Italian from Brooklyn, at a “Save the Rosenbergs” rally in Manhattan. They married after college graduation. Mary began teaching third grade at the local public school; Bernie landed a job reporting for the Herald-Tribune and worked for the newspaper until it folded.
Between weekly visits to the unemployment office, Dad wrote a book. The novel was about the younger brother of a slain president who decides to run for the same office. In the novel, Promises Kept, the former attorney general wins a close election, pulls our soldiers out of Vietnam during his first year in office, serves two highly respected terms, and is ultimately appointed to the Supreme Court. The book died on the shelves; a prominent book reviewer called it “science fiction.” Undaunted, Bernie went on to earn a doctorate and a professorship in political science at Columbia University.
I hadn’t spent much time with my father during the last five years of his life, after I relocated from New York to Los Angeles to pursue my film-acting fantasies. We shared an afternoon together when my parents came out to California for the funeral of Aunt Rosalie’s husband. Bernie talked more than usual that day, mostly politics. It was as if he knew that his time was short.
When I complained about my waning hopes of becoming the next Harrison Ford, he put his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him as you would a small boy. He must have considered it important, since he rarely crossed the line between the intellectual and the personal, particularly with his children.
“Son,” he said, “before you aspire to making your name a household word, be sure that you know what the word means.”
Then he jumped back over the line and went on at length about Dan Quayle.
Hogie’s Roadhouse became extremely raucous at night; but it would be fairly quiet during dinnertime. I thought I’d kill an hour and then head over to Mom’s.
I hopped up onto a bar stool, pulled out my Camels, fired one up, and waved the bartender over.
“Still drinking Dickel?” he asked.
I couldn’t comprehend how the bartender not only remembered me but also remembered the bourbon I drank, almost three years after the last time I’d been in the place. I certainly didn’t recognize him.
I could hardly remember who I’d seen that morning. I wondered which of us was better off.
“Make it a double,” I said.
“Are you sure you won’t stay here for dinner, Jacob? I made a nice roast,” Mom said when she greeted me at the door an hour later, “here, let me put the pastries in the icebox.”
I had a good idea that it would go that way. I was so confident in fact, that I had picked up a couple of bottles of Chianti on my way over from Hogie’s.
“Okay, Mom,” I said, “give me a few minutes alone with Bobby before we eat.”
“Of course,” she said, taking the bakery box and beaming like a schoolgirl.
I followed her to the kitchen, opened one of the wine bottles, poured three glasses, handed one to her at the stove, and took the other two to look for Bobby.
I was trying to find out who wanted Lefty Wright dead and why. I thought that finding out who snuffed Chancellor was the key. Jimmy Pigeon had told me that the first three words in investigating a crime were motive, motive, motive. The only thing that had the faintest resemblance to a motive had to do with Chancellor and Ryder and the parking lot in Folsom, circa 1985.
I found Bobby in front of the television.
“What are you watching?”<
br />
“I rented The Lost World. I’m brushing up on the milieu.”
“Any idea how I can find Chance Folsom?” I asked, handing him a glass of wine.
“I happen to know exactly where you can find him. He begins shooting a film in and around Denver next week. I found out he was doing it when I dug up his photo for you. Funny thing is, I was offered a role in the film but I decided to do the dinosaur flick, instead. I’ve always wanted to work with Laura Dern.”
“What’s the film Folsom is doing?”
“The Cincinnati Kid. Seems like all Hollywood can come up with these days are sequels or remakes of Steve McQueen pictures. Could’ve been fun, though. Hackman is playing the Edward G. Robinson part.”
“Think you can get me on it?”
“In the movie?”
“A small part, or even as an extra? Anything that wraps early in the shoot.”
“Do you have an active SAG card?”
“Sure. I send them fifty-two bucks every six months, and they send me another piece of flimsy plastic in another unidentifiable pastel color.”
“I guess I could call my agent.”
“Great.”
“You’d have to get through an audition with the casting director.”
“What’ve I got to lose?”
“And this is for what? To get close to Folsom?”
“Between you and me, yes. It’s part of an investigation I’m working on.”
“Like going in undercover? A private eye pretending to be an actor, I like it. I’ll see what I can do, Jake.”
It wasn’t difficult to appeal to Bobby’s love of irony. “Thanks. Soup’s on in fifteen minutes.”
“Need any help?”
“No. Watch your movie, I’ll yell when it’s ready,” I said. “Bet you’re excited about working with Spielberg.”
“Steven’s not directing III. But I loved working with him on Private Ryan.”
Bobby had lasted about two minutes on Omaha Beach.
“Why are they filming The Cincinnati Kid in Denver, couldn’t the location people find southwestern Ohio?”
“Actually, the original took place in New Orleans. They were planning to shoot in Canada, but I heard they got a sweet deal with the Brown Palace Hotel for the big poker game, and there’s a better catering service in Denver. And the way to an actor’s heart is through his stomach.”
Twenty
Edmond Dantes had been tossed into the sea from the cliffs of an island prison in a canvas body bag and was pulled out of the sea by the crew of a smuggling ship. Dantes had been fourteen years in prison. Now thirty-three, he could hardly identify his reflected image as the boy who had been locked up at nineteen. The priest, Faria, who had been Edmond’s only human contact on the Chateau d’If, had died, giving Dantes the chance to escape. Faria had also made Edmond aware of the great treasure concealed on the Island of Monte Cristo, hidden by the Cardinal Spada to protect the riches from the clutches of the pope and the Borgias. Spada had died leaving the knowledge to the priest. Edmond lived for one thing only: to avenge those who had imprisoned him. To that end he sought to reach the island, retrieve the treasure, and approach his false accusers. And in order to do so without suspicion, Edmond Dantes would assume a new identity. He would go undercover, so to speak. Dantes would become the Count of Monte Cristo.
I hoped I could pull off passing as an actor.
The following morning I received a call at the office. “Mr. Diamond, this is Cyrus Lentspring.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lentspring?”
“Call me Cy. My therapist does. I’m Bobby Sanders’s agent; he gave me a call. I think I can get you on the Denver picture. Two or three days’ work next week, if you’re still interested.”
“Do I have to read for it?”
“No. The casting director trusts me, and they’re desperate.”
“It’s that good a part?”
“It’s not bad. Someone dropped out at the last minute. Ever see the movie?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Well, not much to your part. A long card game and a short scene following. Lancey Howard, the Hackman character, is the king of poker. The Kid plays against him. It’s like The Hustler without the pool balls. What the Kid doesn’t know is that the game is being rigged in his favor by a guy named Slade, the Rip Torn character in the original, who lost a bundle to Howard in the past and wants payback. You follow so far?”
“I think so.”
“So the director wants to set it up by starting with the earlier game, where Lancey Howard wipes out Slade. Tells you something about the confidence Hollywood has in the ability of today’s audiences to make intellectual leaps. Anyhow, you’d be one of the players in that early poker match, a small bit afterward, and then you’d be done.”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
“Ten percent is all the thanks I require. I’ll send a script over this afternoon. You’ll need to find your way to the Brown Palace Hotel in downtown Denver by seven Monday morning.”
“I’ll be there. Who else is in the scene?”
“Hackman, of course, and the guy who plays Slade. Chance Folsom, he’s not bad. I doubt you’d know the others.”
“Okay. Thanks again, Mr. Lentspring.”
“Call me Cy. My barber does.”
I thought about calling to thank Bobby, but I wasn’t sure yet how thankful I was.
I tried reaching Freddie Cash again. He wasn’t at home, and his father wasn’t sure where to find him.
I was thumbing through my copy of Stanislaysky’s Creating the Role, more or less to avoid having to face the dog issue with Darlene, how I’d dumped him in her lap and ignored him since, when she buzzed me with word that Joey Russo was on the line.
“Jake, I just spoke with Doc Brady. He remembers the incident in Folsom very well. Brady said that Chance Ryder showed up at the scene with bruises that would suggest a struggle, but that somehow his injuries didn’t seem consistent with what he would have expected by looking at the dead kid’s body.”
“Did he speculate?”
“No.”
“I may be able to find something out. I’m doing a scene in a movie with Folsom.”
“You’re kidding. What’s the movie?”
“The Cincinnati Kid. My part shoots in Denver for two or three days starting Monday. A poker game.”
“Not surprising. Who’s playing the Kid?”
“I don’t even know, to tell you the truth. I’ll be done before he comes into it.”
“They just love remaking those old McQueen pictures, don’t they?”
“Let’s just hope they steer clear of The Towering Inferno.”
“Anything I can do for you while you’re gone?”
“Haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ll let you know.”
“Jake. Do me a favor.”
“Sure, Joey. Anything.”
“Go out and talk to Darlene about the dog.”
I’d known it was coming.
“Did she say something?”
“Just go talk with her,” he said, “and make sure you come to see me before you leave for Colorado. And call Bobo Bigelow for plane tickets. I know he’s a royal pain in the ass, but he knows how to cut corners.”
I went out to face Darlene.
“Darlene, about the dog.”
“Wait, Jake, let me speak. I don’t ask too much of you, right? I don’t complain much. I don’t bug you for a raise every five years. I throw out the half-and-half when it turns to cottage cheese. I even tell your mother that you’re not here when you are here, and that breaks my heart.”
“Darlene—”
“Wait, please. I just want to ask one favor. I love this dog. He runs with me in the morning. He barks when someone comes too near the house. He warms my feet while I’m slaving at this desk. And he even likes the soy dog chow I get at the health food store. Can I keep him, Jake?”
I could have asked Darlene to
give me some time to think about it, but I’m not that big a jerk.
“He’s all yours, Darlene.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
McGraw peeked out from under the desk.
“You’re one lucky pooch,” I said to the mutt.
Darlene was almost as excited about my landing a movie role as she was about inheriting Tug McGraw. Darlene is probably the only human alive who has seen all the films I have ever done. She has gone to great lengths to hunt down videos of every one.
Darlene is hands down my biggest fan and has gone as far as to include me in the same sentence as Connery and Hackman on more than one occasion.
“No matter how bad the flick,” she would say, “if Sean, Gene, or Jake are in it, it’s worth checking out.”
The fact that I would be doing a scene with Hackman contributed profoundly to her enthusiasm.
Later that afternoon the script was delivered to the office.
Since pinochle was my game, I decided that brushing up on the nuances of poker might not be a bad idea. I gave Vinnie Strings a call.
“Sure, Jake. In fact there’s a small stakes game tonight at the Finnish Line in the Mission. Very friendly. We can watch the Yankees and Mariners on the big-screen TV while we play.”
I knew the place; a subterranean betting parlor for irrepressible pony players like Vinnie. It might remind you of the joint in The Sting, but only if you had an extremely vivid imagination. It was San Francisco’s answer to OTB, three mammoth TV screens pulling in live racing from Belmont to Pimlico to Santa Anita. Of course, wagering wasn’t limited to the sport of kings. You could find someone there to cover football, basketball, hockey, baseball, and soccer; pro, college, even high school. You could also put down money on most of the local and national election outcomes.
“What are the odds on Ryder these days?” I asked Vinnie.
“Shorter than Mickey Rooney, Jake. He’s running two to five. You’d get a much bigger bang for your buck betting on Hillary for President.”
I told Vinnie I’d buy him dinner before the game.