JO03 - Detour to Murder

by Jeff Sherratt

  In the morning as I gulped my first cup of black coffee before heading out the door for the office I mulled over the list of phone calls Vera had made from the motel room, particularly the ones to MGM. Jerome was a contract player with Metro at the time. It was more than possible that Vera saw the photo in the movie magazine, the one taken at Ciro’s with Sue Harvey and Jerome cuddling at a cocktail table. She knew about Sue’s connection with Roberts. Maybe that’s why she made the call. Maybe she wanted to talk to Jerome, let him know Roberts was in town. Maybe she had an angle, figured it might be worth a few bucks somehow.

  But then again, it could’ve have been Roberts who’d made the calls. After all, they were staying in the same bungalow.

  After being caught by the security guard at the movie retirement home, I decided to ask Rita to drive out to Woodland Hills and talk with Jerome. He liked her, and she would probably get more out of him than I would, anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to have Rita ask Jerome if he remembered talking to either Vera or Roberts back in the summer of ’45. She could also ask him if he had a recent visitor. Maybe a blonde in a mini-skirt. If so, would he tell Rita the woman’s name and what she had to do with him and Roberts?

  I drained the coffee, took the last bite of a leftover pizza slice and thought about my day ahead. Later in the morning, after Sol arrived at his office, I’d ask him to run the mystery woman’s license plate; that might shed some light. But most of my morning would be spent untangling the mess at the bank. I also made a mental note to call Millie. I checked my wallet. No problem, I had enough cash to take her to Burger King, hopefully making up for my no-show yesterday.

  I set the cup in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes and left the apartment. When I got to the carport in the back I stood slack jawed, staring at the empty slot where my Corvette was supposed to be parked.

  My car had been stolen.

  I darted around to the front of the building and looked up and down the street. No car.

  “Goddammit,” I shouted as I dashed back into my apartment and called the Downey Police Department.

  After being transferred to burglary detail, I explained to the detective on the line what happened, giving him the make, model, and license number of my missing Vette. The cop put me on hold, but came back in about fifteen seconds.

  “I got good news and bad news, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “What are you talking about? Did you find my car? Was it damaged?”

  “No, that’s the good news. It wasn’t stolen.”

  “What do you mean, not stolen? It isn’t here. It’s gone!”

  “Well, that’s the bad news. It’s been repossessed. They towed it away last night.”

  “That can’t be! I made the payment. Maybe a little late, but I paid it.”

  “The repo jockey dropped the docs off this morning at about three a.m. The papers indicate you broke the contract, late payments.”

  Christ almighty. “Repossessed?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  My next call was to the finance company. The account rep told me my contract had been sold. Selling contracts was common practice in the industry, it seemed.

  He stated that his firm had nothing to do with the repossession. He gave me the name and number of the outfit that now held my loan, Los Angeles Bank and Trust. I called them.

  In order to have my car released, the bank employee explained, I’d have to pay off the loan balance completely and cough up a myriad of additional fees, the towing bill, cost of storage, substantial late charges, and so on.

  Then he said, “But I think we can work something out. Give me a moment to check your file.” I heard the rustle of papers in the background. “According to my report the repossession order came directly from our corporate owners, in fact, straight from the Tower.” He paused for a moment. “Hmm… this is strange. There’s a notation. It says, ‘No compromise allowed.’ I wonder why.”

  “If that’s the case I want to talk to someone at your corporate headquarters. What’s the phone number and who do I talk to?”

  “Sorry, Mr. O’Brien, but they won’t discuss the matter with you.” He chuckled at the absurdity of my request.

  “Why not?”

  “Because our bank is owned by a private trust and they simply won’t talk to anyone. Especially someone who just had their car repossessed.”

  “I’ve got to get it back! I’m a lawyer. I need my car. Just tell me who owns your bank. I’ll look up the damn number myself.”

  “Have it your way, Mr. O’Brien. We’re owned by the Haskell Foundation.”

  After banging my fist on the wall and feeling sorry for myself for a minute or two, I called Rita at her apartment, hoping she might still be there and would give me a lift to Rent-A-Wreck. I caught her just as she was rushing off to meet her client, the kid with the marijuana rap.

  “I’d be happy to pick you up, but I’m due at a conference with Bennie, my client,” she said after I explained about my car being in the shop for repairs.

  “I thought the kid’s retainer had been canceled.”

  “Yes, but Bennie likes me, wants to keep me as his lawyer. He doesn’t care what his uncle thinks. It’s his decision, after all. Don’t worry about the fee, Jimmy. As soon as I get the charges dropped, he’s going to get a job and pay us on the installment plan.”

  “We don’t have an installment plan.”

  “Oh, Jimmy, you’re always kidding around. Of course we do. I told Bennie it would be okay. Gotta go. Call Mabel, she’ll pick you up.”

  Another call, this time to the office. “The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected—”

  I slammed down the phone. Goddammit! After taking several deep breaths, I called the phone company. Repair service transferred me to someone who said her hands were tied, and after being placed on hold several times and getting the runaround for an eternity, I finally got a supervisor on the line.

  “We canceled the service due to reports of illegal activity associated with this number.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Frankly, Mr. O’Brien, we were informed that the line was being used to facilitate an illegal horse wagering establishment, and according to the PUC code we were obligated to terminate the service immediately.”

  I was shocked. “You’re calling me a bookie?”

  “I believe that’s the term.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m a lawyer with a three-person firm. My God, what the hell’s wrong with you—?”

  “Sir, I don’t have to take your verbal abuse. But I will say this: if you only have three people in your office, how come you ordered the installation of thirty new phones recently?”

  “I didn’t order the damn phones. The guy just showed up—”

  “You got a beef, call the PUC. Goodbye.” The line went dead.

  A guy with the Public Utilities Commission located in downtown L.A. explained the routine: I’d have to drive to the office and fill out a complaint form. Once the form was officially filed and approved, the commission would do a complete investigation. If they found in my favor the phone would be turned back on. The man I spoke with added that it usually didn’t take long at all to get these types of issues straightened out, a couple of months at most. Jesus!

  Thirty minutes later, after hoofing it to Sol’s building, I was ushered into his office by Joyce, his private secretary.

  Sol, sitting behind a desk the size of New Hampshire, glanced up at me when I entered. He waved his hand and pointed to a leather armchair facing him. A man, dressed in a white uniform, stood in front of the desk holding a pink box.

  “Have a seat, Jimmy. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He faced the guy in white. “What do you mean, you’re bringing me crumpets?” Sol asked.

  “Your secretary said I was to give them to you myself.” The man, obviously a baker, placed the pink box on Sol’s desk.

  “She didn’t have the courage to bring me the damn things her
self,” Sol said, lifting one of the porous yeast cakes out of the box, holding it up gingerly between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. He handled it like he had a dead mouse by its tail.

  Sol opened his fingers and the crumpet dropped to his desk. “Where are my goddamn apple fritters that you’re supposed to deliver every morning?”

  The baker answered, “Mrs. Silverman called earlier, sir. Said you’re on a diet and to change the standing order to crumpets instead of fritters. She also said, well sir, she said…” His voice tailed off.

  “What else did she say?” Sol demanded.

  “Aw, well, she said…”

  “C’mon, tell me, damn it.”

  “That you’re too goddamn fat.”

  Sol cracked up.

  As soon as the baker left, I took one of the crumpets out of the box. Sol sat in his desk chair and peered at me while I ate it.

  “What’s bugging you?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t come here just to eat a crumpet.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to have crumpets.”

  “Look, Jimmy, we’ve been friends a long time and I can tell when something’s on your mind. Maybe I can help.”

  “Yeah, Sol, I got a little problem. But I’m not going to bother you with it.”

  He let out a small laugh. “Yeah, sure. You just happen to pop in here, nothing to do today, so you thought you’d say hello. And, what the hell, as long as you’re here, may as well eat a crumpet. Is that it? Is that what this is all about?”

  “I thought you’d have fritters—”

  “Jimmy, goddammit, out with it.”

  Just because Sol and I worked together on legal cases didn’t mean it wasn’t hard for me to ask him for help on personal matters. But, I had nowhere else to turn and I knew he’d be there for me.

  I hung my head and said, “My phone’s been disconnected.”

  “You didn’t pay the bill?”

  “Nah, that’s not it. They think I’m a bookie.”

  Sol started to laugh, harder this time. “Well, hell, that’s not a bad idea. Christ, you could make more money than you do now if you just took my action.”

  “Sol, that’s not funny.”

  “Yeah, sorry. But why would the phone company think that you’re in the gambling racket?”

  “I think it had something to do with my car being repossessed.”

  “Jesus, you’re car was snatched, too.”

  “Yeah, by a bank that’s owned by the Haskell Foundation.”

  He leaned back in his chair, interlocking his hands across his belly. “Obviously Raymond Haskell’s behind your tsores.”

  “That’s what I figure.”

  “Well, what did you expect?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You shouldn’t threaten billionaires in public restrooms, Jimmy. I figured you would’ve known better.”

  “But, Sol—”

  “You have chutzpah, my friend. I’ll say that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chutzpah, it’s Yiddish, means—”

  “I know what it means. But we were both there at the dinner. Haskell wanted to meet us in the restroom. You said we should—”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s a putz and I’m glad you read him the riot act. He moved forward in his chair. “I’ll handle this stuff for you. But, that’s it, right? Nothing else going on?”

  “Yeah, Sol, that’s it.”

  “Okay, no problem. But, goddammit, Jimmy. When things like this come up, call me right away. That’s what friends are for. I’ll never forget what you… well, you know.”

  “Do you really think you can get my phone back on? They said I’d have to go to the PUC.”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh, like I’d question the obvious. “You hide and watch,” he said, as he buzzed for Joyce.

  Her voice came over the intercom. “Do you need something, Sol?”

  “Yeah. Get in touch with our guy at the phone company and tell him I want Jimmy’s office phone turned back on, and tell him I want it on right now!”

  “Will do,” Joyce said and clicked off.

  “Thanks, Sol.”

  “A lawyer without a phone is like a monkey without a banana.” He chuckled, then said, “By the way, my friend Vince returned my call. He’s on his book tour right now, but will be back shortly. He’s wants to meet with us as soon as he’s in town.”

  “Vince?”

  “Vincent Bugliosi.”

  “Oh yeah. With all that’s been going on I almost forgot about him.”

  “He has some info that might help you get the DA, Joe Rinehart off your back.”

  “Rinehart’s not on my back. It’s all over as far as he’s concerned. He’s the one that decided to cut Roberts loose.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We have to meet Bugliosi. The guy’s doing you a favor.”

  “Of course, I’ll meet with him. I’m kind of curious anyway about what he’s got.”

  He handed me a black box about the size of a cigarette pack. “Here take this with you. Carry it at all times.”

  I held the gizmo, looking it over. It had a small switch and red button on the top. “What the hell is this?” I asked.

  “It’s a Motorola Pageboy beeper. It’ll beep when I need you. And when it does, get back to me right away. I’ll beep you when Bugliosi calls.”

  I tucked the Pageboy in my jacket pocket. What’ll they come up with next? I wondered. Whatever it was, Sol would be the first to have one.

  “It’s very expensive,” he said. “Cost three hundred, plus a monthly service charge. Don’t lose it.”

  “Sol, I’m not going to lose the goddamn thing.”

  “Well, you lost your goddamn car.”

  “I have to rent something, until—”

  Sol reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a set of car keys and tossed them to me. “Take one of the company’s Chevys. Use it until I can spring your car.”

  “Thanks. What can I say?”

  “Just leave a little gas in it. And don’t bang it up.”

  I stood and started to walk toward the door but stopped. “Thanks again, Sol. I’d better head back to the office…”

  “Hey, what friends are for?” Sol said, peering closely at the crumpet on his desk, pushing it around with his finger.

  “There is one more thing,” I said.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Can you run a plate number for me?”

  C H A P T E R 26

  I took care of the bank, draining the last of my emergency fund to cover the checks Mabel had written. At least we were now current on most of the bills. I took some comfort in that thought. But I worried about new cash coming in. Without Judge Balford’s court-appointed cases there wouldn’t be enough money to keep the office open.

  By the time I made it to the office the phone had been reconnected. Good ol’ Sol. I checked it as soon as I walked in the door. Mabel wasn’t at her desk, but she’d left a note: “Our phone has been disconnected, so I took my work home. I don’t know what’s going on. I hope their check didn’t bounce. Jimmy, I’m worried.”

  I crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket. A moment later Rita walked in.

  “Hi, boss,” she said, setting her purse on Mabel’s desk. “My case is over. Bennie’s off the hook. The DA dropped the charges.”

  “Really, why?”

  “I demanded to see the evidence. You know, the marijuana plants he was accused of growing, but guess what, they’re gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah, somebody stole the seedlings from the evidence locker. So the Deputy DA had no choice but to dismiss the case. Then I took Bennie to Chris ’n Pitts’ Barbeque on Lakewood. Chris Pelonis—the owner—was there and I talked him into hiring Bennie as one of his dishwashers.”

  “That’s great.”

  Yeah, he’ll start paying us next Friday, his payday. Five dollars per week. Not bad,
huh?” Rita picked up the empty coffeepot and asked, “Hey, where’s Mabel?”

  “Ah…. she had to take care of some personal matters.”

  Rita scooped a couple of heaping tablespoons of ground coffee into the pot. “I saw the Chevy in your parking spot. One of Sol’s?

  “I borrowed it. Just until my Vette’s fixed.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Well, not much… I guess it needed a tune-up.”

  She whirled around. “Why are you lying about your car…and about Mabel?”

  “What… makes you say that?”

  “I can tell when you’re lying. It’s written all over your face.”

  I stood there in silence staring at the floor.

  “What happened? Did you have an accident, or what?”

  “No, it’s just…”

  “You do that all the time, Jimmy. You don’t level with me and it’s getting old. I know that sometimes you try to shield me from the hard facts. You think it’s for my own good. I’d worry too much. But damn it, I’m a big girl. I can handle pressure. Maybe even better than you. So treat me like an adult, okay?”

  “My car was repossessed in the middle of the night.”

  “Oh, Jimmy… but if you needed a few bucks, you should’ve called. I could’ve—”

  “No, it’s nothing like that, Rita.”

  I walked to the window and looked out at the building across the street, a pink apartment house. I thought about my history of telling white lies to Rita. She was right, of course. I did try to shield her from the harsher realities of our profession, which wasn’t fair to her—or to me.

  She was a lawyer now, my associate, and she deserved the truth. I turned and started talking. I told her the whole story. I told her about the meeting with Haskell, my aggressive behavior at the Reagan dinner, and how he was now getting back at me. I let the words escape, holding nothing back. I told her about the phone being turned off, the bank overdraft, and how Judge Balford removed my name from her list of court-appointed attorneys. I admitted that her client’s retainer had been canceled because of my less-than-stellar reputation.