by J. L. Abramo
Knowing as well as I did who was calling at the moment I half hoped she would say just that. Instead she picked up the receiver and handed it to me without a word.
“Diamond Investigations, Jake Diamond speaking.”
I lack Darlene’s imagination.
“Diamond.”
“Tony, what a pleasant surprise.”
“It’s Benny.”
“Benny? Benny who?”
“Benny Carlucci.”
“Astonishing,” I said. “You sound exactly like Anthony Carlucci, are you related?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Diamond.”
I thought I was being serious.
“Benny is my cousin Guido’s kid,” Tony Carlucci said.
Cousin Guido. Okay.
“What about your cousin Guido’s son Benny, Tony?”
Darlene was biting on the wooden handle of the letter opener, trying to avoid interrupting the conversation with maniacal laughter.
“He was picked up by the cops last night. He’s in jail waiting on an arraignment.”
The fact that someone named Carlucci was involved in something the police might not cotton to was nothing new. The fact a Carlucci had been caught doing it was uncommon.
“What was he arrested for?” I asked, wondering why in God’s name Tony Carlucci thought it was any of my business.
“For stealing a Coupe de Ville,” Tony said, and after a short but dramatic pause threw in, “and murder.”
“Oh,” I said. Even if I wasn’t hung over and had all of my mental faculties intact I couldn’t have articulated my feelings any better.
“They found a dead body in the trunk of the Cadillac,” Tony explained, and before I could say a word, if I’d had anything to say, added, “Benny says he didn’t off the guy.”
“Tough break,” I said, before I could stop myself.
“Yes it is,” he agreed.
It was very close to a grunt.
“So what do you think I can do for you, Tony?” I said, with no clue how I could have been foolish enough to ask.
Carlucci told me exactly what he expected me to do.
I telephoned Joey as soon as I could manage to get Tony Carlucci off the line.
Tony had been rambling, and the only way I could cut him off was by giving some him ill-advised assurances.
Darlene had been listening in on the conversation with the rapt attention of an audience member at the staging of a Chekhov play. When I was done with Carlucci and punching in Joey Clam’s telephone number, she offered me a familiar facial expression that said: Way to go, moron.
Joey was obviously waiting on my phone call because he answered, “Give me the good news first.”
There was no good news.
“Carlucci wants me to find out who whacked the guy in the trunk,” I said.
“Oh?”
I ran it all by him.
“Does Tony believe Benny did it?” Joey asked, not that it would make much difference.
“I’d say no,” I said. “But Tony seems convinced they’ll hold the kid until a better solution comes up. Tony may be crazy, but he’s not stupid. Tony says the cops like to have a suspect in custody—it eases some of the pressure from the public and the mayor’s office while they’re trying to figure it out. Meanwhile, Benny rots in jail until the actual killer is found. Carlucci wants me to find the real killer.”
“Tony lacks faith in the police department?”
“Tony said, and I quote, The SFPD couldn’t find Barry Bonds in a bowl of vanilla ice cream.”
“What did you tell Tony?”
“I told him I would get on it,” I confessed.
“Did you make any guarantees?”
“Did I have a choice? He asked me if he had to worry about it.”
“And?”
“And I told him not to sweat it, or something as inane or insane.”
“What’s your first step?”
“If I was smart, my first step would be into the path of an oncoming streetcar. In lieu of that, I will stroll down to the Vallejo Street Station and see if they’ll let me talk to Benny Carlucci. It’s doubtful, since I never took the Bar Exam. Maybe if I walk in gnawing on a hunk of provolone they’ll believe I’m one of the family. Then I’ll try to see Lopez, though when the Lieutenant senses I’m in the building, and she always can, she does a marvelous job of making herself invisible.”
“Let me know if I can help,”
“You’ll be the first to know, Joey.”
I cradled the receiver and Darlene caught my eye.
“Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
“Did you catch the final episode of Lizzie McGuire on the tube last night? Are you heading over to Vallejo Street Station?”
“Not this minute, I think I need to procrastinate for a while.”
“Procrastinate awhile sounds redundant.”
“I’m going to sit at my desk for a time and feel sorry for myself.”
“Jake.”
“Yes, Darlene,” I said, heading to my inner office.
“Stay away from open windows and street cars.”
FIVE
Molinari’s Italian Delicatessen on Columbus Avenue between Grant and Vallejo Streets had been offering the finest imported meats and cheeses and flawlessly prepared Italian dishes for more than a century. Molinari’s was a delicatessen in the strict sense of the word—a storehouse of delicacies. The market opened at eight in the morning, every morning except Sunday. By ten the joint was jumping. Molinari’s was exclusively take-out. San Franciscans and tourists alike picking up something special to take to a park bench for their lunch or something to carry home or to the hotel for dinner. For those who actually cooked, the shelves were lined with everything possibly needed for a home-prepared meal and the selection of fine wines was equally impressive.
Angelo Verdi filled the wire basket with more breaded calamari and he slowly lowered the basket into the hot oil. The previous batch sat beside the deep fryer on a layer of grease soaked paper towels. The bell above the front door of Molinari’s Delicatessen jingled, announcing the arrival of a customer.
A man in casual attire moved to the soda cooler of the market and after a moment browsing the selections he pulled out a Manhattan Special.
Angelo, occupied with the squid, waved to his wife Antoinette to deal with the sale.
She met the customer at the cash register.
“Coffee soda,” the man said. “What a concept.”
“Much too sweet for me,” Antoinette offered. “Will there be anything else?”
“This should do it for now.” The man placed a couple of dollars on the counter, waited for his change, and left the shop.
Antoinette returned to the back counter where she had been busy preparing a large salad of tomatoes, fresh basil and mozzarella for the display case. Angelo had turned his attention away from the fryer long enough to watch the man who had just exited the shop cross to the opposite side of Columbus Avenue. The man stopped and stood sipping the Manhattan Special while looking up at the second story of the building. Verdi felt he had seen this man before, but he couldn’t recall the occasion. Angelo quickly pulled the basket out of the oil just in time to keep from turning the squid into charcoal.
Norman Hall took another drink of coffee soda and lit a cigarette. And he stared up at the bay windows of Diamond Investigations above Molinari’s.
Sergeant Johnson had been trapped in the high-rise apartment building for nearly two hours. He was feeling more like a traffic cop than a homicide investigator.
The body of the dead doorman had been moved to the morgue, but the building was still a world of commotion. Johnson had called in four pair of uniformed officers to canvass the building floor by floor, four more uniforms were interviewing tenants as they left to begin the day, the tall skinny kid and whatshisname were doing the best they could to keep pedestrian traffic moving.
The testimony of a dog walker who reported seeing an
indescribable woman out in front of the building sometime after midnight was all they had to show for their efforts.
Johnson stood in the building lobby daydreaming. Bad day dreams. Wondering how long this ordeal would drag on, dreading another evening without a decent home cooked meal, another night alone in bed. Johnson was missing his wife already.
Johnson was thinking about the afternoon when he first shared time with Amy Singleton. She sat next to him in his sophomore biology class at the University of Pennsylvania. It took him two weeks to work up the courage to ask her to join him for a cup of coffee. The Singletons had been a very well-respected and influential Philadelphia family for generations, which was a bit intimidating to Johnson until he recognized how unaffected Amy was. Her father, Sterling Singleton II, was a different story completely—as Johnson would eventually discover. He was recalling that afternoon with Amy, at a bench on campus, sipping coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts Styrofoam cups, awkwardly getting to know each other.
“I just have to ask you,” Amy said, after telling him about the mighty Singletons.
“What?”
“About your name.”
“What about my name?”
“It’s not very common, at least not around here.”
“I would think Johnson was a very common name around here,” he said, smiling.
She smiled also. A beautiful smile.
“You know what I’m talking about. I’ve never met anyone with that name before.”
“First time for everything, I guess.”
“C’mon.”
“I was named after the town where my father and my mother were born.”
“Roxton?”
“Roxton.”
“England?”
“Texas.”
Albert Johnson had been a third generation Texan and a second-generation welder. When there was no longer work in the small northeastern Texas town near the Oklahoma border, Bert Johnson moved with his pregnant wife to California. A son was born six months after they settled in San Francisco and the proud father named the boy after the hometown where Bert, and his father before him, had been born and raised.
“Can I call you Rocky?” Amy asked, after the Johnson family history lesson.
“Sure, I’d like that.”
Amy’s parents’ anniversary party was set for Saturday. She would be back in San Francisco late Sunday evening.
Two and a half days.
Johnson hoped he could make it.
“Sergeant Johnson.”
Johnson suddenly found himself back in the building lobby. Officer Murdoch was trying to get his attention.
“Sergeant Johnson,” Murdoch repeated.
“What is it?”
“We just received a radio call from the thirty-fifth floor.”
“And?”
“And the officers canvassing up there found another dead body. Male Caucasian. In Apartment thirty-five-zero-one.”
“Terrific,” Sergeant Roxton Johnson mumbled, moving quickly to the elevators.
Angelo Verdi transferred the fried calamari into a hotel pan and dropped it into the steam table. His wife was in back, sliding a large pan of lasagna into the oven.
Angelo admired their morning accomplishments. The refrigerated display case was loaded with salads, fried eggplant, rice balls, and a wide array of other Italian dishes. There was fresh focaccia with tomatoes and basil sitting on the counter. Angelo glanced up to the front door when the bell tinkled and gave Darlene Roman a wide smile as she walked into the shop. As she approached the front counter a movement on the street caught Verdi’s eye. He gazed out and noticed the man who had been in earlier for a soda. The man was standing across Columbus Avenue watching the shop entrance.
“Good morning, Angelo,” Darlene sang.
Verdi turned to greet her.
“Buongiorno, pretty lady. What can I help you with?”
“I need two very large coffees and a couple of cake donuts.”
“Donuts. Since when?”
“They’re for Jake.”
“I thought you were trying to keep Jake away from donuts.”
“He needs something to soak up all of the whiskey he poured down his throat last night,” Darlene explained.
“I have an extra roll of paper towels.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if all else fails,” Darlene smiled, sharing the joke.
Verdi filled two paper cups with dark coffee, snapped on the lids, and placed them neatly into a white paper bag. He threw in sugar packets and creamers, wrapped two donuts in deli paper and gently laid them on top.
“How about a little taste of the tomato and mozzarella salad, Darlene? My wife just made it.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. It’s a little too early in the day for me to handle that.”
If Antoinette had used chunks of smoked tempeh in place of the oil soaked cheese, Darlene might have given it some further thought.
“Tell Jake I have fried calamari today,” Angelo said, handing her the white paper bag.
“He’ll know,” she assured him. “Can you put this on our tab?”
“Done. Have a good day, bella donna.”
“You do the same, Angelo,” Darlene said as she turned away from him and toward the front door.
Verdi watched her as she moved out to the street.
Looking past her, Angelo saw that the man who had been loitering across Columbus Avenue was gone.
Sergeant Johnson moved up to the door marked 3501 with Officer Murdoch behind him. The door was partially opened and Johnson used his foot to push it open wider.
“Wait out here, Murdoch. Don’t let anyone else in.”
Johnson glanced at his wristwatch. It was exactly ten in the morning. He stepped through the doorway.
A uniformed officer who had been standing idly in the front room snapped to attention.
“How was the body discovered?” Johnson asked.
“We were going door-to-door. This door was propped open with a shoe. We rapped on the door and called out. There was no answer from inside, so we entered.”
“Did you touch anything,” Johnson asked, regretting that these days you had to ask.
“Over there,” the officer answered. He pointed to a plain white envelope inside a clear plastic evidence bag sitting on a solid oak coffee table. “It was lying on the carpet, right inside the door. I was afraid it would get trampled when the troops arrived.”
“How did you handle it?”
“Latex gloves, sir.”
“Touch anything else?”
“Only the victim, long enough to check for pulse, and then I called it down to the lobby.”
“Where’s the body.”
“The bedroom, down the hall on the left. My partner is in there.”
“Did he touch anything?”
“She. I begged her not to, sir.”
“What’s your name?” Johnson asked.
“Cutler, sir. Davey Cutler.”
“Good work, Cutler. Stay out here, see that no one gets in,” Johnson said, and he headed for the bedroom.
A very young female officer in uniform was standing at the foot of the bed staring down at the body. They are all so young, Johnson thought to himself.
“Officer.”
She turned, a bit startled by his voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“What do we have?”
“One gunshot wound to the back of the head, sir. He may have just come into the room when he was shot.”
So young and so eager.
“I know this man, sir,” she added.
“Oh?”
“Take a look. I’m sure you’ll recognize him also.”
Johnson looked down at the victim’s face. A day that had started out badly suddenly looked a whole lot worse.
SIX
It was past ten if my ancient Timex had anything to say about it. I’d been sitting at my office desk like a zombie for more than an hour. If I had something to be thankful about
after drowning myself in Jameson’s Irish whiskey the previous night and the phone call from Tony Carlucci that morning, it was the chair. It was a large bulky leather monstrosity, but it was comfortable as hell.
The chair was a gift from Vinnie Stradivarius, often referred to as Vinnie Strings for the sake of convenience, saving breath or avoiding embarrassing mispronunciations. Vinnie Strings tried to help Darlene and me with our work, when he wasn’t busy gambling. He rarely succeeded in the help department, but always earned an A for effort.
Strings had rolled the massive thing into the office two days before Christmas, saying it was worth four hundred dollars and he won it in a poker game. Strings rarely won at poker. I could only imagine the other treasures thrown into the pot when Vinnie and his poker gang got together. I pictured gold mine claims and land deeds. Vinnie said the chair I had been using since setting up shop above Molinari’s eight years earlier was an ergonomic disaster.
I had no idea what that meant.
“Let me put it this way,” Vinnie had explained while he moved the newly acquired chair behind my desk and pushed the old catastrophe out the door. “You sit on that thing much longer and your posture will make Walter Brennan look like a guard on duty at Buckingham Palace.”
I’m not sure I knew what that meant either.
The scent of fried calamari floated through the window from Molinari’s Delicatessen. It was generally an inviting aroma. This morning it only served to intensify my headache and cause my stomach to do cartwheels. I rummaged through my desk drawer and dug out the drugs. I washed two Tylenol down with a healthy swallow of Mylanta.
I stuffed a paperback copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame into my jacket pocket, anticipating a long wait before making any progress at the Vallejo Street Police Station.
I lifted myself from the chair and ventured out front.
“If you’re done wallowing in self-pity,” Darlene said over her shoulder, “I brought you a coffee and a couple of donuts.”
“Can’t do it,” I said, walking around to the front of her desk. “What I need to do is try to find out where Benny Carlucci stands before his father’s cousin Tony begins to doubt my enthusiasm.”