Chasing Charlie Chan - Special Edition: Includes Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  Pigeon sat quietly while Ray Boyle drove from Parker Center to Good Samaritan.

  Jimmy was so anxious about Vinnie’s condition he almost forgot the reason he had come out to see Ray in the first place. When it finally came back to mind, they were at the Emergency Room entrance and Pigeon decided it could wait.

  They found Frances Stradivarius pacing in the hallway outside the recovery room.

  “How is he, Fran?” Jimmy asked.

  “He had a mild concussion, the x-rays were negative,” she said. “His left leg was fractured badly; the surgeons set it in plaster and traction. A nurse just told me he’s awake and they’ll be moving him into a room shortly.”

  “Let us buy you a coffee, Fran,” Jimmy said. “We’ll let them know where we’ll be and they’ll let us know when we can see Vinnie. Have you met Detective Boyle?”

  “Yes, the kind detective has helped my son out of a jam or two.”

  “The kind detective, well how about that,” Jimmy said, smiling ironically.

  “Don’t spread it around,” said Boyle.

  Jimmy exchanged a few words with the nurse before he, Fran and Ray walked down to the hospital cafeteria. Less than twenty minutes later an orderly came to their table to tell them they could see the patient.

  “I’ll wait for you down here, Pigeon,” Ray said. “I’m sure Vinnie will be fine, Fran, the kid is resilient.”

  They found Vinnie in bed, a bandage wrapped around his forehead, his leg suspended by pulley and cable. He looked as if he was having trouble keeping his eyes opened.

  Vinnie was glad to see his mother and surprised to see Jimmy. Pigeon allowed Fran some time to fuss over her son before asking Strings how he felt.

  “Like I was run over by a cab,” said Vinnie. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I think I lost the library book when the car hit me.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Vinnie. Maybe one of the EMTs grabbed it off the street. I’m sure it will turn up or we can find another copy.”

  “I’ll have lots of time to give it a good going over for you now,” Vinnie said. “And I wanted to tell you all the stuff I know about Charlie Chan, but I’m very groggy. They gave me drugs and I can hardly stay awake.”

  “Relax, Vinnie, get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

  Before leaving the room, Jimmy told Frances she should not hesitate to call him if she needed anything at all.

  Boyle was waiting for Jimmy outside the cafeteria.

  “I suppose you had something to bother me about before this distraction,” Boyle said.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s do it over dinner, I’m famished. I’ll buy you a sandwich at Philippe’s.”

  “I had a sandwich for lunch.”

  “But it wasn’t a lamb French dip,” said Boyle.

  “No.”

  “With a cup of the Wednesday soup du jour.”

  “Oh?”

  “Corn chowder.”

  “Lead the way,” Pigeon said.

  “So, all I need to do is stash this piece here in my place?” asked Ricardo Diaz, taking the .38 from Raft.

  “Simple as that.”

  “Where’s my cash?”

  “I should have it in a day or two, I’ll let you know,” said the detective. “Meanwhile, do what you need to do to prepare for the move to sunny Guadalajara.”

  “If you’re fucking with me, Frank, it would be a big mistake.”

  “Don’t make threats, Ricky, it upsets me. Just get ready to disappear. I’ll call you.”

  Diaz watched Raft walk out and then he looked down at the gun in his hand. Diaz thought about the high times he could have with two hundred grand below the border. Ricky Diaz wondered, just for a moment, why he deserved to be so fucking lucky.

  BEAM AND BEETHOVAN

  It is generally accepted as a historical fact that the French dip was originally created at Philippe’s in downtown Los Angeles in 1918.

  According to legend, Philippe Mathieu, the French-born proprietor, accidentally dropped a sliced French roll into the pan of hot juices while preparing a sandwich.

  The patron, a Los Angeles policeman named French, told Philippe to use the bread as it was. The next day, Officer French returned with a group of fellow lawmen, each asking for their bread to be juice-dipped.

  “So,” asked Jimmy, between spoonfuls of corn chowder. “Was the sandwich named after the Frenchman, the bread or the cop?”

  “Who cares?” said Ray Boyle. “So, what’s on your mind?”

  “I bumped into Raft. He insinuated Lenny and the newspaperman could have been murdered for snooping into the drug trade.”

  “And?”

  “And it doesn’t wash, Ray. Lenny Archer wouldn’t have touched it. And there’s the book. Someone thought it was important enough to bury back at the library and as far as I could see the book had nothing to do with drugs.”

  “Maybe you just didn’t look close enough,” said Boyle. “Where is the book now?”

  “Vinnie lost it when he got hit by the taxi. It’s probably being dragged to Ventura. But I don’t buy it, Ray. Raft said they were working on a tip from an informant. Could you look into it?”

  “I did some looking, and this whole business is a fucking circus sideshow. No one is sure who is doing what. The Sheriff’s Department somehow got the ballistics and Santa Monica has the bodies. And anytime I ask a simple question I get told to mind my own fucking business.”

  “Damn,” Jimmy said, “that reminds me. I was going to check into getting a copy of Lenny’s death certificate for the government paper pushers. Raft told me LASD was sending Archer’s body back to Santa Monica.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. The whole fucking business is like a Chinese fire drill. And the bottom line is this, Pigeon. However it shakes down, whoever is handling whatever evidence, the whole mess is out of my jurisdiction.”

  “I don’t like it, Boyle.”

  “There’s nothing to like about it. And admit it, if there was anything likable about it I doubt you would be here sharing it with me.”

  “Will you at least try finding out why they’re trying to sell this drug angle, Ray?”

  “And what will you be doing while I’m hanging my ass out in the wind?”

  “I guess I’ll try to find out if there’s anyone at the newspaper who has any idea about what Richards was sticking his nose into.”

  “I’ll say it once more, Pigeon. I’ll see what I can do, no promises,” said Boyle. “Now please, I beg you, let me eat this cold chowder before the fucking lamb gets here.”

  “I thought I asked you not to call me, Frank.”

  “We need to talk,” said Raft. “We may have a problem.”

  “I don’t like problems, Frank,” Jackson Masters said, regretting he had answered the phone. “That is why I have you, Detective, so problems get solved before I need to hear about them.”

  “I have an idea for cleaning up the mess we made with Richards and the private dick. I want to run it by you before I go ahead. And then I need some advice, about Tully.”

  Masters listened patiently while Frank Raft laid out his plans for Ricardo Diaz.

  “Fine, go ahead. Don’t screw this up, Frank.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “It’s in my nature to worry. Now, what about Tully?”

  “He never took care of Richards’ computer. He gave the fucking thing to his son.”

  “You assured me Tully could be trusted, Frank. Did he tell you that he destroyed the laptop?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, he lied to you.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Don’t play with me, Frank. Tully told you he took care of it when he hadn’t. He lied to you. There is no confusion here. The man cannot be trusted. You brought him in on this, Frank. Tully is your liability. You do what needs to be done.”

  “Jesus, Masters, do you know what you’re asking?”

&n
bsp; “I want you to tell me that you will take care of it, Frank. Can I trust you?”

  “Yes, you can trust me. I’ll take care of it.”

  “How old is Tully’s son? What is the boy like?”

  “Sixteen, he’s a great kid, so?” said Raft.

  And the boy calls me Uncle Frank, Raft wanted to say but couldn’t.

  “So, get the kid a new laptop, Frank,” Masters said before hanging up the telephone.

  Before leaving Philippe’s, Jimmy made a telephone call to the Santa Monica Outlook hoping to reach someone working late who might help him get a line on Edward Richards’ most recent news interests. His call was ultimately transferred to the desk of the City Editor.

  “Look,” said Hank Fellows. “I’m extremely busy at the moment. I have a morning edition to get to press. And I’ve already been through everything I know with both the Santa Monica Police and the LA County Sheriff’s Department. So, who the hell are you and why should I care?”

  “My partner was brutally murdered Sunday night, less than two hours before your reporter was killed. I believe the homicides are related.”

  “That’s old news. We’re running a story in tomorrow’s paper,” said Fellows. “Speculating your partner and Ed were working on an investigation that made some drug dealer nervous.”

  “And how does that sit with you, knowing Richards?”

  “It surprises me.”

  “It more than surprises me, knowing Lenny Archer. I thought you might like to share our doubts.”

  “The paper goes down to the Press Room at nine. Meet me at my office, I’ll give you fifteen minutes and then I’m going to get the hell out of this place. Nine sharp.”

  Jimmy arrived back in Santa Monica at eight and went directly to Meg’s Café. He found Meg at the counter, her face buried in the newspaper.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, coming up for air.

  “No, thanks. Ray Boyle treated me to dinner in LA. I just got back, Vinnie is in the hospital.”

  “Hospital? What happened?”

  “He walked in front of a cab while it was moving. He’ll be laid up for a while, but he’ll be all right. What are you reading?”

  “Oh, just an article about Edward Richards. A condensed life story. He had been a society writer for more than twenty years; he reported on the rich and famous, wrote half a dozen books. He had no family to speak of, a few ex-wives, no children. The funeral service is tomorrow morning. What about the arrangements for Lenny’s funeral?”

  “I’m waiting for a death certificate, so the Navy can get the ball rolling,” Jimmy said. “I’ll try to run it down in the morning.”

  “I have free time in the morning, if I can help.”

  “Maybe you can.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Maybe you could attend Richards’ funeral and have a look at who shows up. I thought about going myself, but I want to downplay my interest. Just in case the SMPD or the LASD are there to pay their respects. My presence might be taken as a lack of confidence in the police investigation.”

  “A genuine lack of confidence?”

  “A growing lack of confidence.”

  “Sure, I can do that,” said Meg.

  “Great.”

  “Speaking of great, Jimmy, did you have as much fun as I did last night?”

  “At least.”

  “Up for a rematch?”

  “I can’t tonight, Meg. I need to run over to the newspaper office at nine and I’m really wasted. I wouldn’t be much of a challenge, but I do appreciate the offer and I hope it won’t be the last.”

  “You have enough time for a cup of coffee,” Meg said, leaving it at that. “Interested?”

  “Very interested.”

  “Start packing, Diaz, we’re on for tomorrow night.”

  “I’m good to go, Raft, as long as you can cover your end,” Diaz spoke calmly into the phone.

  “Two hundred grand and a free pass to your favorite hacienda, Ricky, but I need something else from you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you remember asking if you would have to kill someone for me as part of the deal?”

  “I think I was joking, Raft.”

  “Well, start thinking more seriously.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s not to know, Ricky? Twenty years in Chino or a nice little chicken ranch on the Rio Bolaños. Are you still on the line, Diaz?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Good. So shut up and listen.”

  Pigeon found Hank Fellows standing at his desk, preparing to leave for the day. Fellows stopped what he was doing and sat, inviting Jimmy to do the same.

  “I appreciate your time,” Jimmy said, taking a seat in a chair opposite the City Editor.

  “You have only fifteen minutes, use it judiciously.”

  “I read your piece on Richards in today’s paper. It was nicely done.”

  “Flattery will not buy you more time, Mr. Pigeon.”

  “Then I’ll get to the point.”

  “Please do.”

  “I’m interested in hearing anything you can tell me about what Ed Richards may have been investigating prior to his death. If your short biography of the man is any indication, crime reporting would seem to be way out of his field of expertise.”

  “I would have to agree with you there. Richards was a fine writer, very good at what he did. But what he did was human interest, not hard news. He reported Hollywood, entertainment, it was rarely front page. I told the police what I will tell you. If Ed Richards was taking a stab at crime reporting, I knew nothing about it. And to be quite honest, it would surprise me.”

  “Would it be possible to take a look around his desk?”

  “You said the private investigator who was killed that night was your partner.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can understand your zeal, but that would be out of the question even if Ed Richards had a desk here. Richards was a contributor, Mr. Pigeon, he was not on staff. He did his work at home. On occasion, he would bring his computer down here and I would find him a place to sit where he could write or print out copy. If there’s anything that may help, you would most likely locate it at his house or on the hard drive of his laptop.”

  Suddenly, the roar of the printing presses below shook the room.

  “For what it’s worth,” Fellows said, raising his voice to compete with the din, “Ed did mention he was researching a new book, but he neglected to mention the subject.”

  “How can you handle that racket?” asked Jimmy.

  “I can’t handle it, that’s why I try my best to be gone before it begins. I really need to go.”

  Fellows rose from his seat and Jimmy followed suit.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Fellows said as he collected a few files from his desk. “If you discover anything concrete concerning Richards’ death, please let me know. I liked Ed Richards and I would like to know who is responsible.”

  “Not to mention the news value,” said Jimmy.

  “Please do not underestimate my sincerity, Mr. Pigeon. In some cases selling the newspaper is not my major concern.”

  “I’m sorry, I was out of line.”

  “Again, I appreciate the commitment to your late partner. If there is something I can do to help, please trust that I will make every attempt.”

  “Thank you,” said Pigeon. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  They came out of Maria’s Italian Kitchen on Mulholland Drive and crossed the parking lot to the red Camaro.

  At the car, Carlos Valdez took Angel by the elbows and kissed her once on each cheek.

  “Be well, amiga,” Carlos said. “And if you get tired of this fool, you know where to find me.”

  “It might be sooner than you think,” Angel Rivas said, laughing as she opened the car door.

  “Very cute,” said Ricardo Diaz, suppressing a smile. “Two comedians, fucking Lucy and Desi.”

  Angel started the Chevy engine
and the two men turned to each other. Carlos took Ricardo into his arms and they shared a strong embrace.

  “Will you be good?” asked Carlos.

  “I don’t know how to be good, compañero,” said Diaz.

  “I mean, will you be all right?”

  “Better than all right, bro. Free and flush.”

  “Buena fortuna, hermano,” Carlos said. “Be sure to let me know where you roost.”

  “You’ll be the first to know and there will always be a place for you wherever we land.”

  They embraced once again before Ricky climbed into the passenger seat of the Camaro. Valdez looked on silently as the car moved away.

  “Drive to my place,” said Diaz as Angel pulled out of the lot.

  Ten minutes later, they sat in the Chevy outside of Ricky’s sub-let condo in Woodland Hills.

  “Why can’t I stay tonight?” asked Angel.

  “Because I have too much to do before we leave. And so do you. We’ve been through this. Go home, get packed and tomorrow make sure you get everything you need to take with you. I don’t want to hear you whine about not being able to find the right shade of nail polish once we get into Mexico.”

  “You’re cruel, Diaz,” Angel pouted.

  “Give me a break, Rivas. Be here tomorrow evening at eight. Don’t be late. Park in back. Wait for me in the car. Got it?”

  “Yes, I got it. So get out if you’re getting out.”

  “I promise you, bonita,” Ricky said, kissing Angel’s forehead, “I will treat you like a queen.”

  “Or else,” Angel teased. “Go.”

  Diaz climbed out of the car and stood watching as the Camaro drove off.

  Free and flush, he thought.

  The drive over to his apartment from the Santa Monica Outlook brought Pigeon past his work place. He slowed the LeBaron as he made the turn onto Fourth Street, rolled to a stop opposite the building and briefly considered going up to check the telephone answering machine. He realized if there were any recorded messages, they would most likely be for Lenny Archer. The thought of screening phone calls for the dead was not inviting. He looked up to the second story of the building and decided it could wait until morning. Pigeon stepped heavily on the accelerator and continued home. Had he lingered for only a minute longer, Jimmy would have noticed the movement of a flashlight beam in the windows of his office facing Fourth Street.