Clutching at Straws

by J. L. Abramo

  “You spoke with your brother?”

  “After all these years he finally got in touch,” said Ryder, “and all he wants to talk about was Davey King. You really are something, Diamond, and you picked a terrific afternoon for a surprise visit. But after Tuesday’s election I doubt that I’ll have time for you at all. So I’m going to tell you what I told my brother, and then I’ll have to rejoin my guests. I killed King in self-defense. I was drunk, yes. I was rough with the girl. I tried to kiss her, she broke away, and we both fell to the ground. She began to scream and I belted her. It was a reflex action, I was suddenly cold sober and really scared and I needed to shut her up and get out of there. I was about to get up when the King kid grabbed me from behind. If I hadn’t found the rock he would have choked me to death. I believed it then, I believe it now. It was a major fuck-up that would have ruined my life, except my father wouldn’t allow it. He told Chance and me what to do and what to say and we did and said it. There was no debate. Nobody was ever the same afterward, but I survived and Chance survived and it seems that Jenny Solomon survived. And no one wants to go back there. There’s really no point.”

  “But Chancellor could have dragged you right back,” I said.

  “He threatened to and I told him to do what he had to do, in not so many words. And I’ll tell you the same thing. But no one will back you up.”

  “So you still insist you had nothing to do with Chancellor’s death?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Have any theories?”

  “I’m obviously putting all my cards on Charlie Mancuso.”

  My drink was empty. And so was I. I wondered if I even cared anymore, since no one else did. Maybe everyone had gotten what they asked for, some just paid a little more. Or a little sooner. I didn’t know whom to feel sorry for. I felt sorry for everyone. Lowell Ryder was right; no one was going to back me up. As Mark Twain so aptly put it, everyone complains about the weather but no one does anything about it.

  “Thanks for the drink,” I said.

  I rose, walked down the stairs and out of the house.

  I walked down the hill to my office and picked up the Toyota. I drove while trying to decide where to drive to.

  I thought about going to see my mother, and then about checking to see if Sally was at home.

  In the end I found myself back at my apartment, alone, a glass of Dickel in hand, cracking open a paperback I had picked up from a street vendor that morning.

  Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky.

  I’m a sucker for the classics.

  Thirty Two

  It was the last Monday in November. I was still feeling the effects of the obscene amount of food my mother and Aunt Rosalie had forced me to consume on Thanksgiving.

  I was sitting in the Toyota, parked on Bryant Street across from the Potrero Center Station Post Office. From where I sat I could see the wall of post office boxes, and with the use of binoculars I could identify each box by number. I was waiting for someone to show up for mail at box 6170.

  The assignment had been referred to me through Sonny the Chin. A good friend of his wife was trying to track down her ex-husband. There were two small children who weren’t getting their child support entitlement. Tracking down a deadbeat father through the courts was excruciatingly slow. On the other hand, if you could turn the culprit over to the police on a silver platter, results were promising.

  I hadn’t been able to nail down a residence for the subject, Ted Benson, but had been able to connect him to a small mail order business working out of a P.O. box. Just before eleven, I watched a young woman empty box 6170, put all the mail into a large envelope, and drop it into the mail slot. Cute.

  I followed her on foot from the post office to a small diner on Seventeenth Street, at the opposite side of Franklin Square. I watched her enter and walk through a door behind the counter. I lit a cigarette and paced back and forth in front. Ten minutes later she reappeared in a green apron over her white shirt and black slacks, with a guest-check book in her hand. She walked over to a newly seated table of diners, pulled a pencil from behind her ear, and began jotting down food orders. From where I stood I could read the name tag on her shirtfront, Joan Hiller. I wondered what her relationship was to Ted Benson and if she knew what he was hiding from.

  I decided to watch the P.O. box a while longer before confronting the woman, for fear of frightening her or giving her opportunity to warn Benson.

  On Tuesday no one showed up at the box, at least according to Vinnie Strings who sat in for me and swore he had stood guard all day.

  Now, Wednesday morning, I was back on the job myself. I had been sitting across from the post office since six a.m. It was the only way to assure a parking spot from where I could view the boxes, just in case someone other than Joan Hiller came to gather the mail from 6170 this time.

  It was almost eleven and I was working on a hero sandwich that Angelo Verdi had thrown together for me at Molinari’s at the break of dawn. I had been reading an article in a day-old Examiner on the jury conviction of Charlie Mancuso for the murders of Mike Flanagan and Freddie Cash. Lowell Ryder was the cat’s meow. Ryder had won the DA’s office in a landslide victory on Election Day three weeks earlier.

  The rap on the passenger window caused an involuntary hand jerk, which shot a meatball out from the end of the sandwich like a clown out of a cannon. It bounced down my chest and landed neatly on the newspaper I had draped over my lap. I had tucked my pocket-handkerchief into my collar and spread it across the front of my shirt to protect against such a contingency. I looked down at my makeshift bib. The handkerchief resembled a Salvador Dali painting. I glanced up to the passenger window to find Vinnie grinning down at me. I wrapped the handkerchief, the errant meatball, and what was left of the sandwich into the newspaper, tossed it carefully into the backseat, and reluctantly unlocked the door.

  “I brought you a cold drink, Jake,” he said, opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.

  I was grateful, since the drink I had in the car was warmer than the sandwich had been.

  “A little early in the day for you, isn’t it Vin?”

  “When something excites me I can’t sleep. I love this stakeout thing. I’m envious, Jake. You have a great job.”

  “You call sitting in a car all day watching people pick up mail a great job?”

  “It’s the idea of it. Would you rather be slinging patties at Burger World?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said.

  “That’s the trouble with the world, Jake. No one appreciates what they’ve got.”

  Just then I spied Joan Hiller walking into the post office with a large brown envelope under her arm.

  “Hold that thought, Vinnie,” I said, and jumped out of the Toyota to follow her in.

  I stood back as she emptied the P.O. box and carried the mail over to a nearby counter. I casually strolled over beside her, pretended to fill out a certified-mail slip, and watched as she stuffed the mail into the large envelope. I quickly scribbled the Daly City address written under the name T. Benson on the front of the envelope. She looked at me for a moment without expression and then decided to smile. I returned the smile, resisted the urge to say something to her, and walked back out to the car.

  “Get your man, Jake?” Vinnie asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, not feeling all that proud of myself.

  I dropped Vinnie off in front of the Finnish Line and drove over to the Vallejo Street Station. I spotted Sergeant Johnson as soon as I stepped through the door. As usual, he wasted no time expressing his joy at seeing me.

  “Diamond,” he said, “great to see you, but I was just on my way out.”

  “Could you do me a quick favor before you run away,” I asked, forgoing the snappy comeback.

  I took his deep sigh for an affirmative.

  “There’s a Ted Benson being run through the court system on child support arrears. I don’t really know the status of the case. I was hoping you c
ould check if there’s a bench warrant out on the guy.”

  “And if there is?”

  “Then I think I could tell you where you can find him,” I said. “Give me a minute, Diamond,” he said, and walked over to the PC terminal at the front desk.

  He was back after five minutes.

  “The answer is yes,” he said.

  I handed him the P.O. slip with Benson’s address.

  “I hope this isn’t a wild goose chase like the missing Rolex you put me on to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chancellor wore a pocket watch on a gold chain. It was on his body when they found him. If he was wearing a wristwatch at the same time, the judge was a stranger bird than everyone says he was,” said Johnson. “I never really understood what the Wright kid was trying to sell with the Rolex story, but it looks like it was a bill of goods.”

  “Unless Lefty did see a Rolex on the floor, only it wasn’t Chancellor’s watch.”

  “A Rolex was never found, Diamond.”

  “Jimmy Hoffa was never found, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t exist.”

  “You never know when to give up, do you Diamond,” he said.

  “You’re right about that, Sergeant, and it usually results in my giving up too soon,” I said.

  I walked out of the station, jumped into the car, and headed back to the office. I walked past Darlene straight back to my desk. I called directory assistance for Mill Valley and was given a phone number for Bob Gentry.

  “Mr. Gentry, I don’t know if you remember me, Jake Diamond?”

  “Sure I do, the San Francisco PI. I read about what happened to that Officer Katt. What in the world do you folks have going on down there?”

  “I’m still working on it, I was hoping you could help me out.”

  “I’ll try, son. Shoot.”

  “The last time you saw Judge Chancellor, that Sunday before he was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he wearing his Rolex?”

  “Andy never wore a watch on his wrist. Claimed it gave him a rash. He carried a pocket watch, quite a beautiful piece really. I’d often tell him, half-jokingly, how much I would love one like it. He would tease me by promising he’d leave it to me in his will, or by putting it up as a bet in the chess matches we played and he always won. In fact, we played chess that Sunday, and he wagered that if he didn’t have me checkmated in three moves, he would hand the watch over to me right then and there. Of course, three moves later the game was over.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gentry,” I said, “you’ve been a great help.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Diamond,” he said, and rang off.

  I walked back out to Darlene’s post. Tug McGraw peeked out from under her desk. I sat in the customer chair. Darlene broke the silence.

  “Good to see you, too, Jake. Glad you could drop in.”

  “The Rolex belonged to Chancellor’s killer,” I said.

  “Do you think Katt knew it?”

  “I’m guessing it’s what got him killed.”

  “But you didn’t find it when you searched his place,” she said.

  “And unless he was toting it around and his murderer picked it off him outside the door that day, the watch is still out there somewhere.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “I may have. Anything important happen this morning?”

  “Have you seen today’s Examiner?”

  “I’ve only gotten as far as yesterdays.”

  “Lowell Ryder went out to Sacramento last night. His father died in a hospital there. The wake is today and the funeral service and burial are tomorrow morning in Folsom.”

  “Do I have anything scheduled for tomorrow?”

  “Are you still staking out the post office?”

  “No.”

  “Then, though I hate to rub it in,” Darlene said, “you’re wide open. Thinking of going out to pay your respects?”

  “Yeah, I am,” I said, “and hopefully Chance Ryder will be there to accept them.”

  I sat at the back of the church during the funeral service. The church stood on Natoma Street, between the Folsom Public Library and the police station. Looking around I spotted familiar faces. Mrs. Dewey, the librarian. Ray, the counterman from the town diner. A few of the uniforms I had seen the last time I visited Chief Gunderson.

  Lowell and Chance Ryder sat in front, only for decorum’s sake it seemed. They hardly looked at each other, and they never exchanged a word.

  When the service was complete I stepped out to the street and stood waiting for Chance. Lowell Ryder appeared first and was met with handshakes and shoulder pats by a number of attendees at the top of the church steps. He was receiving equal doses of condolence for his loss and congratulations for his recent victory. He finally broke away and was almost into the limousine when he saw me. He walked over to where I stood and extended his hand.

  “Mr. Diamond, I’m surprised to see you here,” he said. “Good of you to come.”

  He was away and into the limo before I could say a word. I turned back to the church entrance and saw Chance coming down the stairs.

  “Business or pleasure, Jake?” he asked as he walked up to me.

  “I just wanted to pay my respects.”

  “On such an occasion,” he said, “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Coming to the cemetery?”

  “No, I think I’ll pass. Did you get to see your father before he died?”

  “As a matter of fact I did, thanks to you. Just after you gave me your spin on what happened with Davey King and Jenny Solomon I had this idea that I needed to hear it from him. Of course, when the time came all I could do was to ask him how he was feeling. And his answer didn’t sound all that sincere.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “My father was a simple man. As much as he supported Lowell’s ambitions, as far as he was willing to go, I don’t think that he ever really understood them. I believe that he considered farming, working with the land, more admirable. When I came out of prison my father offered me a gift, a job picking avocados and a partnership in the business. When my brother graduated Stanford, Dad gave him a gold Rolex. The funny thing is, I’ve finally come to realize that my father considered his gift to me more valuable.”

  “I noticed that your brother was wearing a silver Elgin today. I wonder why he didn’t wear the Rolex your father gave him. Do you think he’s come to feel the same way?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “want me to ask him for you?” Intentionally or not, Chance was rubbing my nose in it.

  But I’d come this far, and I’d left my pride in San Francisco. “If you can give me a few days, we could ask him together,” I said.

  “You’re thinking that now that my father is gone, I’ll be more inclined to entertain your wild notions about my brother.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  Chance Ryder started toward a second limousine, which would take him to the burial. He stopped and turned back. He looked into my eyes for a good minute. He looked as if he were trying to melt me down into a wet spot on the sidewalk.

  “I’ll give you a few days,” he finally said.

  He entered the car and was gone.

  I stood planted to the spot until I heard Mrs. Dewey’s voice, which sounded a lot like Casey Stengel’s, calling my name from the top of the church steps.

  I was suddenly rushing to my Impala.

  Minutes later I was heading out of town, back to the city by the Bay.

  To search for a wristwatch.

  Thirty Three

  Whether or not you ever actually find what you’re looking for, the looking can take a very long time, and the odds can range from even to impossible.

  Though there is one circumstance where you can hope to end a search quickly and efficiently, one way or the other, with a good fifty-fifty chance of success.

  Ironically, that’s the case when you can only think of one place to look.

  And that’s exact
ly what I had going for me.

  It was Saturday, late morning. Two days after Calvin Ryder’s funeral, twenty-three shopping days until Christmas. I thought it better to confront Officer Phil Moss when he was off duty, away from the police station. His house was in a small subdivision in south San Francisco, just below Hillside Boulevard close to Sign Hill Park. I ran into at least six cul-de-sacs before I finally found the place.

  I pulled up in front of the house. Two boys, five and seven years old maybe, were making a valiant attempt at throwing a plastic ball back and forth. The kind of plastic ball that did nothing but curve. They paid no attention to me as I passed them and went on to the front door. I rang the doorbell. A minute later a woman wearing denim overalls came around from behind the house. She looked as if she had been wrestling a tossed salad.

  “I’m working in the garden,” she said, “in case you were wondering. Boys, if that ball goes into the street, forget you ever saw it. What can I do for you?”

  “I was looking for Phil Moss,” I said, slipping a word in edgewise.

  “That would be my husband, aka the guy out back destroying very expensive machinery. I hope you’re here to fix the lawn mower.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Are you selling something?”

  “No, just a visit.”

  “Go around the house, Phil’s the one with the fan belt hanging from his left ear. Do you think if I duct taped the holes in that plastic ball it would go straight?”

  “I do,” I said, and started around back.

  If Phil Moss was surprised to see me, he did a real good job of not showing it.

  “Moss,” I said, coming up to him, “it’s time to fess up.”

  “How about a beer?” he asked, moving to a nearby cooler.

  “Not before noon,” I said, “but if you had some kind of bourbon I’m sure it’s noon somewhere.”

  “C’mon inside,” he said, grabbing a beer.

  I followed him in.

  I sat at the kitchen table while Moss fixed a bourbon on the rocks. From the window I could see his wife in back, tackling her vegetable garden.