by David Bishop
“Clarice is innocent and I won’t stop until she’s freed.” I said this loudly, and then waited to hear the reaction I would get. If this attack was related to my investigation these two would likely react differently from how they would if this were a random mugging by a couple of druggies looking for money.
“Back off, Kile. This is a friendly warning. You won’t get another.”
The voice didn’t sound like Agent Smith or Jones or Tweedledee and Tweedledum from France. The good part was when they said, “Back off.” If they planned to put me down forever, back off would not be in their thoughts. So, I’d likely walk away from this. Well, limp away. But at times like this I’ll settle for crawl away.
“Did I meet you guys in France last week?” They didn’t answer. I didn’t really think so. The two instances in France had been finesse and calculated rough stuff. These two were long on muscle and short on brains. Still, I wanted to get them talking. The voice had sounded somehow familiar although forced deeper.
“Go back to your writing,” one of them said. “You’re no longer a cop. This is out of your league. We won’t tell you again. If you make us come back, next time will end with someone shoveling dirt in your face.”
They hadn’t bothered to frisk me. They knew I wouldn’t be packing a gun. While my inability to get a weapons permit was a matter of public record, I doubted these fellows read the public record. Instead, they worked for someone who knew. Clarice knew. So did Susan, which likely meant Charles, too. The FBI knew. And, of course, my old friend Two Dicks, who had made a personal appearance to speak against my being licensed to carry.
“Let’s just kill him now,” a different voice said. “Why trust that he’s got the message?”
“No. This is all you’re being paid to do.” So, the boss man is here. Then the first voice said, “You’ve been warned, Kile. Now stay where you are.” Then his voice changed like it would if he were facing a different direction. “I’ll leave now. You keep him here for five more minutes and then split.”
I lay there until I heard a motorcycle start up. Then I started a move that I hoped would allow me to stand. When I was part way off the deck, the motorcycle moved closer. The sound was not right at me, but near. Then a foot pushed me back down. The rider laughed and speeded away deeper into the underground garage. I did get to my feet, sort of got to my feet and headed toward the ramp that took cars up to the street. Then I heard the motorcycle tires squeal as the bike turned around. The rider had gone for the ramp that led up to the back street. Given the hour, that entrance had been chained closed. I heard the bike accelerate. The rider was coming back toward me, toward the ramp to the front street, the ramp toward which I staggered. I tried to hurry, but the effort was doomed to fail. The rider would reach me before I reached the street.
When I got near the little booth in the middle, I stumbled. The bike drew closer. I anticipated another kick from the rider. I dropped to one knee and lowered my head as the motorcycle got close. Then, just as the biker swerved to get near me, I stood, leaned against the little booth and quickly raised the chain that had been lying over the pavement of the ramp. The one the building super puts up to close the entrance side while leaving the exit side open. No one drove in through the exit side due to the angled spikes that would puncture tires.
The chain struck the rider across his chest. The bat he was still holding skidded and bounced across the cement floor until it reached the wall where the fat end made it roll in a tight circle, then lost its energy and went still. Meanwhile, his bike had continued up the ramp without him until it charged into a tangle of evergreen bushes.
I staggered over to pick up the bat, staggered back to the fallen rider and rolled him face up. When I pulled his mask off, all I could think of was Mr. Clean from the TV commercials. The guy was white, head shaven, and wore a small hoop earring in his right ear. I love the bikers who think they’re too tough to wear helmets. He was out cold.
I went through his pockets. No identification, but he had a cell phone. I took that, also three hundred he had in his pocket, likely the fee for working me over. I was insulted I came so cheap. Still, I figured I had gone through more to earn the money than had Mr. Clean, so I put the three hundred in my pocket next to the cell phone. He had no weapons other than the bat I now had. I always liked baseball. I had always liked smashing the ball over the wall. Unfortunately, I didn’t smash enough balls over enough walls to have a future in baseball, so I became a cop. Funny how life happens to us on the way to our dreams.
I considered pissing in his face to revive him. I would have except that damn DNA stuff has taken a lot of the fun out of such things. It wouldn’t be cool for a pardoned con to be charged with pissing on Mr. Clean. So, I did the next best thing, I used the bat to imagine I was smashing three home runs over the wall. The first smash went into the center of his back and the other two on the rear of his left thigh. Even in my pained and woozy condition, I was certain those three blasts would have all cleared the centerfield wall at Dodger stadium.
Then I headed up to my place. It hurt to move, but the hurt told me they had not broken anything except my belief in being invincible, but that belief had been shattered while I was in prison. This sneak attack after the sneak attacks I endured in France was pretty convincing. No one came at you straight on anymore. Face to face. Mano a mano. Nowadays, it was all about guns or knives, drive-by shootings, and in this case a drive-by batting. Whatever happened to the American west? Meet at high noon in the middle of the street. The good guy wins, and the bad guy goes to Boot Hill. The world we live in now has a lot of thugs, but we are in short supply of real tough guys.
In prison you learned to always know who was behind you or coming toward you. Your eyes slept in shifts, one and then the other.
Right then I knew I needed to be more careful if I was going to live this kind of life and not just write about it. I also decided I would try my best from now on to stick to writing about it. But damn it was fun to do it, even if a lot of pain came along with the fun. It was a struggle, but I got upstairs where my Irish medicine waited. I planned a liberal, internal application after which I would sleep. In the morning I would decide if I needed any further care.
Chapter 24
My leg hollered at me from inside when I bent over to pick up the morning paper which had been left just outside my door. After coming back inside, I twisted some to pull my robe over and look at the back of my black and blue thigh using the full length mirror in the hallway. That move reminded me that Mr. Clean, playing the role of bat-man, had also worked on my back. I used a handheld mirror to learn the thigh-matching color on my back ran from just below my shoulders nearly to my waist.
Thank God for coffee machines that start automatically, and for my having found the time to pick up some filters yesterday afternoon. I filled the biggest mug in my kitchen, lathered a bagel, and squeezed the morning paper under my arm before heading out to the balcony where I sat with my back toward the warmth from the rising sun.
I went inside long enough to get the biker’s cell phone. Back on the balcony I opened the phone and fumbled around until I found the window where it showed his recent calls. There were six. Five calls from yesterday and a call he had made about an hour before we met in the parking garage. All the calls made before yesterday, assuming there had been some, had all been erased. The oldest of yesterday’s calls had been to the number he called just before we met in underground parking. A different window told me he had received a call from that same number around dinner time. I called the four numbers which he had called once: three were bars and the fourth a motorcycle repair shop. Then I zeroed in on the number involved in the other three calls. Thugs often use stolen phones bought on the black market. Often these are quickly shut down after the real owner discovers the theft. When that happens, the thug switches to a different hot phone, and the entire process repeats itself.
The called number looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. When I cal
led the number, I got a recording saying this number is no longer in service, likely because it had been stolen. I thought about calling Fidge. He might find out who owned that number, but the odds weren’t good, and it would put Fidge in a tough spot. Two Dicks was still pushing my ex-partner to find a way to pin Garson’s murder on me. If Dickson ever found out Fidge was helping me with anything, my ex-partner would be back directing traffic. For now, I’d trust that eventually I’d recall why that number seemed familiar.
I took a bite of my bagel and opened the Long Beach Press Telegram. The front page banner headline read: KEY SECURITY, HAH! Below that was a picture of yesterday’s edition of the Press Telegram propped up on Garson Talmadge’s dining room table. The story rolled over to page seven. The story supported what would become part of Brad Fisher’s defense. The cops had proclaimed, in part, that Clarice had to be the shooter because the deadbolt prevented anyone else from getting inside the condo. They would also claim their contention was further supported by the fact that all the keys to the Talmadge unit had been accounted for. At the end of the article was a circle around the word TRUTH with a big X which appeared to be stamped over it.
There were two more pictures on page seven, and both were absolutely spectacular. The first showed a straight down photograph of the same newspaper as I was reading, this morning’s, with a door key beside it lying on a black flat cloth, ideal for a blowup to confirm it was the key to the Talmadge condo. The other picture was a wide-angle shot staged to clearly confirm it had been taken inside the Talmadge condo, the newspaper visible in the distance.
Malloy had come through big time. God bless you Tiny Tim. Ah. Now I remembered. That was Malloy’s first name, Tim. Timothy Malloy, a fellow Irishman and, I imagined a fellow lover of Irish spirits.
* * *
I called Brad who agreed things were looking good for Clarice. He wasn’t certain it would get her released, but it definitely took a big bite out of the D.A.’s circumstantial case. And I expected it would also put the kibosh on Two Dicks efforts to get me added in as an accomplice. Brad also told me that Blackton, Garson’s business attorney, had called and asked Brad to come to his office in an hour.
“No,” he answered when I asked, “Blackton didn’t say why. He only said it would be good news for my client. I want you to come along, Matt. I smell something big. I could hear it in Blackton’s voice. Then we’ll figure out our next move.”
* * *
On the way over to Blackton’s office, I told Brad Fisher about my meeting two strangers in the underground parking for my building. He offered to take me to his doctor or stop at the hospital. I convinced him that wasn’t necessary. They can’t do much for bruises and sore muscles other than apply a generous portion of bedside manner and some pain meds. It would have been different had the batting I took broken any bones, but it hadn’t.
I needed to tell Brad about my being worked over because he might be penciled in for the next visit. There was a certain pecking order to these things. The investigator came first, then, maybe, the attorney. They could instead bump me off, but that wouldn’t stop anything because Fisher could simply hire a different investigator. Whoever had hired the thugs wanted the defense of Clarice Talmadge to end, or at least be relegated to going through the motions. That meant, regardless of their threat, that they would be more likely to put the muscle on Brad than rub me out. I hoped I had that figured this correctly.
By noon, Brad Fisher and I were sitting in matching leather chairs across from Sidney Blackton, who was clearly uncomfortable.
“Sidney,” Brad said for openers, “why are we here?”
Sidney Blackton reached out, his hand quivering slightly, and handed us each a copy of a one-page letter dated three days before Garson was killed. “The original,” Blackton said, “I have under plastic to be turned over to the police.”
I didn’t yet know what the letter said, but Blackton’s emotions were clearly scrambled. We read in silence:
Dear Sidney, We have an appointment in a few days to discuss the changing of my will. We didn’t have a chance to talk on the phone, but I wanted you to know I have decided to increase the amount left to Clarice to half of the total and reduce what is left to the children. GR
It had taken only a moment to read, but at least a minute to find our voices after the reading. The meaning of this was immense. Why would Garson reduce the amount to his children? I mean they were not his children in a biblical sense, but he had raised them, and they had remained loyal to him. The existing will said one third to each child and the other third to Clarice. The D.A. was preparing to argue that Garson had told his son he was axing Clarice entirely. This letter said something quite different.
“Mr. Blackton,” I said, “From the copies you’ve given us, it appears the letter had been folded as if it came in an envelope. Was it?”
“It clearly has been folded to fit a number ten business envelope. The envelope however was not with the letter.”
“Is that normal? I mean throwing out the envelopes of letters?”
“Yes. The exception being when return addresses are meaningful for some reason, but that’s rarely the case in my kind of practice.”
Brad asked, “Sidney, when did you get this?”
“I can’t say exactly. I was going through his file to see if there were any lingering matters that might still require my attention. The date on it was three days before his death. I found it this morning while going through the file.”
“You hadn’t seen it before?”
“No.”
“How did it get into your file?” I asked.
“I can only guess. I can’t say that other correspondence has never been mishandled, but not often,” Blackton said. “Somehow it came in and got filed without having been seen. We have a file clerk, a law school student who comes in on a regular basis. My secretary has a tray. We both put things in it. The clerk files them away. Somehow this might have gotten into that tray and—” he left the obvious unsaid, but punctuated it with a shrug.
“Well,” Blackton said, looking back and forth between Brad and myself, “this certainly punches a big hole in the argument that Clarice killed Garson because he was going to drop her from the will.”
Brad looked over at me and added, “It also shows that Charles was lying about what Garson told him in the late call the night he died.”
“Does it?” I countered. “A few days passed between when this letter was created and when he was killed. It is possible that Garson could have changed his mind again and called Charles and told him he would cut out Clarice, just as Charles has told the police.”
“So,” Blackton said, “I still have no clear idea of what Garson wanted done to his will.”
“This is your area of law not mine, but wouldn’t you agree,” Brad asked, looking directly at Blackton, “that the only course as to the disposition of his assets is the current executed will that divides it all three ways between Clarice, Susan and Charles?”
“That’s how I see it. If any of the three of them tries to argue to the contrary, we are back to conjecture since this letter says a second thing, and his son will claim a third. The will is properly executed; it should prevail.”
“Can we talk to your file clerk?” I asked Blackton.
“I already have. I drove over and met her between her morning classes. I took along a copy of this letter. She doesn’t recall it, but that’s to be expected. She files hundreds of things every week. No reason any one should stick in her mind. She pays no attention to content. But, sure, I told her you might want to speak with her.” Blackton tore a sheet off a scratch pad. “This is her name and contact information. Now, may I ask you a question?”
Brad nodded. Blackton said, “Criminal law is your specialty. What are the chances of finding fingerprints on the original of this letter?”
Before Brad could answer, I jumped in. “Mr. Blackton, may I also speak with your secretary? Perhaps take her to lunch so as not to infringe o
n your office time, with her agreement of course.”
Blackton nodded then looked to Brad, “The fingerprints?”
“Well, first off, your instinct to try to protect the original was good. As I understand it, paper is one of the hardest surfaces from which to lift prints. This is due to paper being absorbent, except for highly glossed paper, which is rarely used for writing purposes. There are techniques for chemically drawing the skin oil of the print up out of the paper, but this is not an easy process. I’m sure the police experts will give that a good effort as we’d all like to know who handled that letter. Obviously, finding Garson’s prints on it would be very helpful for my case.”
“I should have called the police first. I’ll do that as soon as you leave.” Blackton nodded as if agreeing to his own decision. “I’ve also prepared a sworn statement as to what I have just told you.” He reached out. “Here’s a copy, I’ll give the police the original of that as well.”
“Is there anything else, Mr. Blackton,” I asked.
“No. I think that’s it.” He stood and reached out to shake hands. Brad first, then myself. While still grasping his hand, I asked. “So, Garson was doing weapons deals right up until his death, right?”
“I have no knowledge of that. I was his civil lawyer. I never asked and I never knew anything about that part of his life.”
“What’s your gut telling you, Sidney?” Brad asked.
“Off the record?” We both nodded. “I think he had stopped before he died. I can’t give you anything hard on that. Just little stuff made me think so, nuances, like that.”
“How far back?” I asked. “We know it’s a guess.”
“A few years, but I could be all wet about that. The only thing he ever said was that he used to do that, and he wanted me to know he had stopped when he got his U.S. citizenship and came to America.”