by J. L. Abramo
The speech changed Sergei’s life.
Sergei became a disciple, and although he had the same surname as the royal family, he was soon transformed into an anti-monarchist to the core. In 1915, Sergei Romanov traveled with Lenin to Zurich and he assisted in the writing of Lenin’s Imperialism: The Highest State of Capitalism in 1916.
In February, 1917, Tsar Nicolas II abdicated the Russian throne. Upon hearing the news, Lenin was determined to return home as quickly as possible. Russia was at war with Germany, but it was the Germans, hoping to stir up more turmoil in Russia, who helped Lenin get back into the country. Sergei Romanov was among the thirty followers who accompanied Lenin by train and boat from Zurich, through Germany and Sweden, and finally to Finland Station in Petrograd. During the historic journey, Lenin drafted the April Theses, his programme for the Bolshevik Party.
Sergei remained a member of Lenin’s closest circle up until Lenin’s death in 1924. He was then forced to choose allegiance to Josef Stalin or Leon Trotsky. Sergei supported Trotsky. It was a losing bet. Stalin seized power. Trotsky and his followers were branded enemies of the state. Trotsky ultimately settled near Mexico City, via Istanbul, France and Norway. Sergei Romanov escaped Stalin’s purges, landing in Cuba in 1926. He obtained work at a sugar plantation outside of Havana, became a favorite of the plantation owner, and he married his employer’s daughter in 1927. He was forty years old. The young bride was nineteen.
Upon news of Josef Stalin’s death in 1953, Sergei Romanov decided to return to his homeland. He left Cuba with his wife and twenty-two-year-old daughter in 1955. Their twenty-seven-year-old son, Alexander, now married, felt much more Cuban than Russian. Alexander chose to remain in Cuba with his wife and two young children. It was at that time that Alexander Romanov became Alex Roman.
On the first of January, 1960, after New Year’s Eve celebrations in Havana, Cuban President Fulgencio Batista fled the country.
By 1964, following the Bay of Pigs invasion, the missile crisis, and the assassination of the American President, Alex Roman was unsure about a future for his family in Cuba. Alex decided to abandon the island with his wife, fifteen-year-old son, Nicolai, and thirteen-year-old daughter, Carmella, while they could still get away. After a brief residence in Miami, the family travelled across the country to California and settled in San Francisco.
Nicolai Roman was a strong, healthy and handsome fifty-five-year-old. Nicolai lived alone in a house in Concord, in the East Bay, which he had built himself from the ground up. He had constructed homes throughout the San Francisco Bay area for nearly thirty-five years and he could still walk a roof rafter and pound a sixteen penny nail with the best of them.
Nicolai was just twenty-two when he lost his wife to leukemia in 1971, only three years into their marriage. Though he always remained very popular with the ladies, Nicolai never remarried. His wife had left him with a two-year-old daughter, who he cherished above anything else in the world.
Nicolai Roman peered across the old chess board, brought over from Russia to Cuba to America, and watched his daughter contemplate her next move.
And he knew something was troubling her.
She moved her king’s bishop to king’s rook six and called check just as Nicolai had expected. Nicolai countered with knight to king’s bishop seven, to block the threat against his king.
“Tell me again, about how your grandfather beat Lenin in a game of Durak on the train to Petrograd, Papa,” she said as she studied the board.
“Tell me what is upsetting you,” Nicolai responded.
“Upsetting me?”
“Please,” Nicolai insisted.
Darlene Roman had avoided answering the same question from Jake Diamond earlier at St. Mary’s Hospital.
It would not work with her father.
Darlene told Nicolai what was troubling her.
Indecision is not necessarily a bad thing at times.
Blake Sanchez had been standing in Marston Campbell Park at 17th and West Streets in Oakland for nearly twenty minutes casing the liquor store across West Street. In all that time, only two customers had entered and exited the store. Blake looked up and down the deserted intersection, and then finally decided to make his move. It was not a good decision.
Sanchez entered the store and quickly moved toward the man behind the counter, holding the gun in his right hand, his right arm fully extended.
“Don’t look at me,” he said.
The man behind the counter looked down without hesitation.
“Empty the cash register into a bag,” Blake said. “And make sure I can see both your hands at all times.”
“The bags are under the counter,” the man said.
Give me a break.
“Forget the bag. Paper money only, stacked in a neat pile. Don’t forget the large bills underneath the change compartment.”
The man began pulling all of the bills from the register, and then he involuntarily looked up.
“I said don’t look at me,” Sanchez warned.
But the man was not looking at Blake Sanchez. He was looking past him.
Blake turned to see what the guy was gawking at and found himself face-to-face with a boy, no more than thirteen years old, trying his best to level a gun at Blake’s chest. The gun was a lot bigger than the one Sanchez held. He tried to say something like PLEASE, DON’T! —but it was too late.
The .44 went off like a cannon and the impact blew Sanchez backwards, clear over the counter, taking the cash register with him.
Sergeant Johnson drove across the Bay Bridge, picked up the Nimitz Freeway to Broadway, and took Broadway over to 7th Street. Johnson stopped the first uniform he saw after entering the Oakland Police Department building and asked for the officer in charge.
“That would be Lieutenant Folgueras,” the uniform said. “That’s him there, on his way out the door.”
Johnson hurried to the well-dressed man the officer had pointed out, catching up to him just as he was about to climb into a squad car beside a uniformed driver.
“Lieutenant Folgueras?”
“Yes?”
“Sergeant Johnson, SFPD.”
“Well, what a surprise. Don Folgueras,” he said, offering a handshake. “What brings you across the pond, Sergeant?”
“A murder case we’re working on,” Johnson said, accepting the handshake. “I’m hoping you can help us out with some information.”
“I’m on my way to a shooting scene, attempted liquor store robbery.”
“Anyone hurt?
“Only the perp.”
“Could I ride along?”
“Sure, hop in,” Folgueras said, opening the back door of the cruiser. “We can chat on the way.”
As the patrol car pulled away from the police station, Johnson handed the photo to Folgueras from the back seat.
“Know this guy?” Johnson asked.
“Sal DiMarco—he’s looked better,” Folgueras answered. “What happened?”
“Found him stuffed into a Cadillac trunk under a freeway overpass across the bay last night.”
“It just isn’t safe for Italians on St. Patrick’s Day. Wish I could say I’m sorry, but DiMarco was a bad man.”
“Did he have any connections to your department?”
“May have been busted by a few of our people over the years, if you consider that a connection.”
“Was he ever used as an informant?”
“Not that I know. What are you driving at?”
“I’m not really sure. Can you tell me anything about this?” Johnson asked, handing Folgueras the Zippo lighter.
“The original owner of this lighter would have been an Oakland homicide detective, couldn’t get one like this any other way. And I can tell you it has been around for some time. This is an old logo, they stopped using it in the late nineties.”
“How many lighters like this one are out there?”
“No clue.”
“Is there any way to find out? How many w
ere made? Who may have received one? And if DiMarco ever informed for any of your detectives?”
“Possibly. But there would be no way of telling where any of the lighters turned up afterwards. Things get lost, stolen, sold and given away. And you know as well as I do police detectives don’t like talking about their snitches.”
“I realize that. And I know it’s a lot to ask of you.”
“You’re looking to connect the lighter to DiMarco’s murder,” Folgueras said, “and to a present or former Oakland police detective. I don’t like the sound of it.”
“It’s probably a wild goose chase, but I have nothing else to go on. One of our assistant district attorneys was murdered last night. The murder weapon was found in the trunk with DiMarco. DiMarco may have been the trigger man, but I feel certain there was someone else involved. Someone who may have killed DiMarco and dropped the lighter.”
“How about the gun that killed DiMarco? Did it turn up?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Folgueras said. “Here we are.”
The cruiser stopped in front of the liquor store on West Street and they climbed out.
Folgueras quickly located Bruce Perry, one of the two uniformed officers who had been first on the scene.
“What do we have?”
“I recognized the perp, Blake Sanchez, neighborhood kid, sixteen years old. He’s been in trouble a few times, but never armed,” Perry said. “That’s the owner. Blake ran in waving a thirty-eight in his face and demanded the cash in the register. That’s the owner’s son, twelve years old. Arrived on the scene like Dirty Harry and put a forty-four slug into Blake’s chest. Sanchez was rushed over to the ER at Highland General.”
“Real nice,” Folgueras said.
“Here’s the weapon Sanchez was carrying,” Perry said, holding out a plastic evidence bag containing a .38 caliber pistol.
Lieutenant Folgueras took the bag, opened the zip lock, and put his nose to it.
“Did Sanchez fire a shot?” the lieutenant asked.
“They say no,” Perry said, referring to the owner and his son, who did not look as if they had enjoyed the experience.
“What do you make of this, Sergeant?” Folgueras asked, handing the bag to Johnson.
“I’d say it is a textbook throw-away. No serial numbers, taped grip and trigger, untraceable,” Rocky said after taking a quick look. He also put his nose to the bag. “And I would say it has been fired recently, possibly within the past twenty-four hours.”
“Where would a kid like Sanchez get a piece like that?” asked Perry.
“Very good question,” Folgueras said. “Get this gun over to ballistics on the double. Have them check it against any shootings involving thirty-eight caliber weapons in the past few days.”
“Yes, sir,” Perry said, and hurried out of the store.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Folgueras asked Johnson.
“It would be one hell of a coincidence.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Folgueras said.
“Yes, they have.”
“Can you get the bullet that killed DiMarco over to our ballistics guys?”
“I’m sure I can.”
“Do it. And if it matches the gun Perry just walked off with I’ll buy California State Lottery tickets for the both of us,” said Folgueras. “And I’ll see what I can do to help you out on the cigarette lighter question.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Do you know Laura Lopez very well?”
“She’s been my boss for five years.”
“Good cop.”
“Great cop.”
“You might ask her about the lighter. She was here with Oakland Homicide, before she made the big move across the bay. Lopez would have been around when those Zippos were a fad in the department.”
“I’ll run it by her,” Johnson said.
“Don’t know that we can do much more here,” Folgueras said. “I’ll leave my driver to wait it out. A psychologist should be arriving any minute to talk with the boy. Let’s blow, I’ll give you a ride back to your car.”
Norman Hall sat on a bench in Buena Vista Park, watching Darlene Roman’s house on Frederick Street.
Waiting for Darlene to come home.
Hall didn’t mind waiting.
Norman was a very patient man.
And Darlene was worth waiting for.
He did worry at times when she was out too late.
The meeting with his parole officer earlier that day had gone very well. Norman told his officer he had applied for a job at an Italian delicatessen on Columbus Avenue, and the prospects were good.
Norman had brought provisions for his vigil. A package of cookies, his favorite, Keebler fudge covered grahams. You gotta love those elves, he found himself thinking. And three bottles of Manhattan special. He was developing quite a taste for the coffee flavored soft drink.
As he continued watching the house, he was thinking tonight might be the night.
Sergeant Rocky Johnson stood at the stove trying to fan the smoke out through his kitchen window. He realized he was using a copy of Travel and Leisure magazine for the purpose. His wife, Amy, liked looking at the pictures of the exotic places they would most likely never visit. Johnson had been attempting to grill a cheese sandwich, and he had failed terribly. It sat in the frying pan looking like a square hockey puck.
Johnson had tried reaching Lopez again on his way back over the bridge. The lieutenant was not answering her phone, and was not returning his calls. He decided to go home. He thought he’d had enough intrigue for one day.
And Johnson was out of ideas.
Except for the one that had to do with confronting Lopez.
And that was an idea he was trying very hard not to think about.
He dumped the ruined grilled cheese sandwich into the trash and wondered if he could fuck up a bowl of cereal.
He needed to talk to someone, but he was alone.
He thought he should telephone Amy, but remembered it was well after midnight in Philadelphia.
Johnson reached into the cupboard and pulled out a box of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.
And he went to the refrigerator hoping to find milk.
FOURTEEN
I was waiting for a call or a visit from Travis Duncan.
Meanwhile...
Esmeralda was wallowing in the mire, and it seemed the hunchback had made up his mind he would not abandon the sinking gypsy.
The girl had agreed to a rendezvous with Captain Phoebus. Frollo caught them fooling around and he stabbed the captain in a fit of jealous rage. Esmeralda was tortured to the point of admitting it was she who stabbed Phoebus. She would have confessed to throwing the 1919 World Series. The Archdeacon allowed her take the fall. Frollo was deferring responsibility for his actions like a champ.
There was a soft tapping on the office door.
I hated having to put the book down.
The silhouette framed by the opaque window in the door was unmistakable.
Travis Duncan was a very scary man if he didn’t care for you. He was an ex-U.S. Army Special Forces veteran of Desert Storm. On top of that, Duncan was a Texan.
The family had been Texans for generations, since Travis’ great-great-great-great-grandfather, Joshua Duncan, moved his wife and two young sons from Duncan, Oklahoma, in 1835.
A year later, Joshua left his wife and boys in Austin and rushed down to San Antonio to die at the Alamo.
Joshua’s oldest son rode with Robert E. Lee at the battle of Fredericksburg and his son rode with Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill. Travis’ grandfather fought the Japanese at Okinawa in 1945 and Travis’ father was in Vietnam for the Tet Offensive.
After Iraq, Travis decided he was weary of dangerous places. He left the Lone Star State and landed in California.
Travis Duncan made Tony Carlucci look like a pussy cat.
I had helped Travis out of a jam. I’ll skip the details—that
’s another story. In any case, Duncan’s appreciation was boundless. He was the lion, I was Androcles.
I walked over and opened the office door. Duncan stood at the threshold, his right hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of George Dickel Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey No. 12.
For a tough guy, Duncan could be very thoughtful.
Travis held up the bag of ice cubes he gripped in his other hand. “Compliments of Mr. Verdi,” he said, referring to Angelo in the deli below.
“Come in. I’ll see if I can find a couple of clean glasses.”
I fixed the drinks, straight on the rocks. We exchanged a few courteous preliminaries, and then he asked what he could do for me.
I sketched out the discord between Vinnie Strings and Manny Sandoval.
“I’m sorry this happened to Vinnie, tell him I said so.”
“I will.”
“I know a little about Manny Sandoval,” Travis said. “He is a big talker, take away the apes Manny travels with and he loses his conversational edge.”
“How do we do that?” I asked. “His gorillas are attached to him like Peter Pan’s shadow.”
“I have a few ideas. First I have to find the rock Manny hides under and convince him he needs crawl out and meet with you.”
“Are you suggesting I can handle Sandoval one-on-one?”
“Not exactly. But taking his goons out of the equation will level the playing field somewhat.”
“Okay.” It was all I could come up with.
“How about tomorrow night?”
“I have a dinner engagement.”
“Celebrating St. Joseph’s Day?”
Travis Duncan was full of surprises.
“Uh-huh,” I said, offering Travis another example of my superb vocabulary.
“Joseph. Patron Saint of Workers. He has always been one of my favorites. I mean, could anyone have been more humble? The early Christians were trying to persuade the pagans that Jesus was the son of God, and to do that they had to promote the verity of a virgin birth. It was a very hard sell, and the fact that Mary had a husband clouded the issue. So they played down the carpenter’s importance, and it was centuries before Joseph was given his due. How about after your dinner tomorrow night?”