by Bill Bernico
“Thanks,” Clay said. “I think I’ll wander a little more, if that’s okay.”
“Knock yourself out,” the sergeant said. “A little walking is probably good for your heart anyway.”
Clay walked the hallways, stopping occasionally to look at awards, plaques, and photos of fallen policemen. Some of the dead cops looked to be around Elliott’s age and Clay thought about what a waste of life it was that these men had to die so early. He moved on, unwilling to think about how he’d feel if anything ever happened to Elliott.
Clay continued down the hallway when he saw Gloria walking towards him. He smiled when she caught up with him. “What are you doing here?” Clay said.
“Well,” Gloria said, “I finished up at the bank and I knew you were coming here so I decided to meet you and maybe sit in on your meeting with Dean, if that’s all right.”
“Sure,” Clay said. “Dean’s still in a meeting for another ten minutes or so. What did you find out at the bank?”
“I can fill you in on that later,” Gloria said, turning to look down the hall. She spotted a wooden bench and pulled Clay toward it. “But right now I need to talk to you about something important.”
“What is it?” Clay said, sitting on the bench.
Gloria sat next to him and said, “When we left your house, Elliott asked me how I knew what your usual drink was and how I knew where you kept your liquor. He kind of caught me off guard.”
“And what did you tell him?” Clay said.
“Nothing,” Gloria said. “I just copped an attitude and told him that he was sounding accusatory and that I didn’t like it. We moved away from the subject and he dropped me at my car.”
“What can I do?” Clay said. “I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to what you two have. It seems like you both have something special.”
Gloria laid her hand on Clay’s forearm. “Oh, we do, Clay,” she told him. “I had no idea that Elliott was the jealous type, though. I can’t even imagine what he’d say or do if he ever found out about us.”
Clay thought about it for a moment and then offered, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have a talk with that son of mine. Before I’m through with him, he’ll be buying you flowers and apologizing to you.”
“Just don’t be so obvious,” Gloria said. “He’d see right through you in a minute. Do you know what you’re going to say to him? I’d like to know so that I can be prepared if he wants to talk with me about this later on.”
“I’ll just tell him that you had stopped over at my house while I was recuperating,” Clay said. “I can tell him that I was sitting in the living room and that it was a bit of a strain for me to get up, so I asked you to fix me a drink. Naturally, I’d have to tell you where to find the liquor and I’d have to tell you what I wanted.”
“And during the course of that time,” Gloria said, “You told me that a White Russian was your usual drink and that most bartenders around town also knew that.”
“Sounds innocent enough,” Clay said.
“And believable,” Gloria added. “Thanks, Clay. I owe you one.”
“One what?” Clay said, raising his eyebrows.
Gloria placed her hand over Clay’s heart and said, “Now now, let’s not get excited here. You know what that could do to your heart, and I don’t want that responsibility hanging over me again.”
Clay patted Gloria’s hand. “Don’t worry about it. Elliott’s a reasonable man. He’ll come around.”
Gloria stood and grabbed Clay’s hand, pulling him upright. The two of them continued walking down the hall toward the lunchroom. Clay glanced at the wall clock above the lunchroom doors. It was a minute before ten and he could hear harried conversation coming from behind the doors. It looked like the meeting was letting out on time.
The double doors opened and two-dozen uniformed officers filed out and disbursed into the hallway, going to their assigned patrol cars with their assigned partners. Dean was the last one out of the room and smiled when he spotted Gloria and Clay.
“Does Elliott know you’re stealing his girl?” Dean said, winking at Gloria.
Clay and Gloria kept their straight faces. “You’ll keep this to yourself, won’t you?” Clay said and then broke out into a broad smile. Gloria took his cue and smiled as well.
Dean held his palms up. “Mum’s the word,” he said. “What brings you two here this morning?”
“Can we talk?” Clay said.
Dean studied Clay’s face. “Sounds serious,” he said. “What is it?”
“Not here,” Clay said.
“Let’s go to my office,” Dean said, glancing at his wristwatch. “I still have a few minutes before my next meeting.
The three of them sat in Dean’s office and Clay laid out the whole scenario for him, ending with the threatening phone calls. “I think we’ve narrowed it down to John Phelps,” Clay said. “We’re looking into his background and recent activities. Elliott’s checking the phone and utility company records and Gloria stopped at the bank to see if anyone or any company has recently applied for an unusually large line of credit.”
Gloria leaned forward in her chair. “I did find out,” she said, “but I swore to the bank president that I wouldn’t tell anyone what he had let slip to me.”
Clay looked a bit worried and turned to Gloria.
“It’s Phelps,” she said. “But he’s using another name and he just got a five hundred thousand dollar line of credit downtown. There, are you happy that you forced it out of me?”
Dean smiled broadly. “Gees, you’re easy,” he said and then realized the double meaning behind his statement. “That is, I mean…”
“Never mind,” Gloria said. “I know what you meant. So what do we do now?”
“What name is he using now?” Clay said.
“Pearson,” Gloria said. “Russell Pearson. He recently acquired a large warehouse and it looks like he’s preparing to open his new business in the next few months.”
“And I’ll bet he has backers supplying the rest of the money,” Clay said. “The initial five hundred grand from the bank would just be startup capital. He’d need millions to get the business up and running and that means backers.”
“And those backers would pull out if the book came out,” Dean said.
“He is probably thinking along those lines,” Clay said.
“But you say you didn’t record his calls to you,” Dean said.
“Even if I had,” Clay told him, “he whispered probably trying to avoid voice prints. So all you have is my word about what happened and he could always deny that it was he who made those calls.”
“We’ll have to catch him in the act,” Gloria said.
“We’ll be keeping a close eye on Phelps,” Dean said. “Or Pearson, whatever he’s calling himself.”
“Thanks Dean,” Clay said. “When this is all over, you’ll have to let me buy you dinner.”
“Including dessert?” Dean added.
“Including dessert,” I said.
“I’m an expensive eater,” Dean said. “Could run into a couple of bucks.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’ll be on me. Listen, Gloria and I have to get going. Let’s keep in touch with each other on this thing.”
“You got it, buddy,” Dean said.
Clay and Gloria drove back to their office and parked in a space in front of their building. Gloria let herself out on the passenger side while Clay exited into the street and walked around to the sidewalk. When he caught up to where Gloria was standing a shot rang out and a piece of the brickwork next to Clay’s head shattered. The bullet ricocheted off in a different direction, making a high-pitched whirring sound that faded in the distance. Clay pulled Gloria’s head down and they both ducked into the lobby of their building.
Gloria pulled out her cell phone and hit the speed dial button for Dean’s office. She got him on the first ring. “Dean,” Gloria said, her voice a little higher pitched than usual. “It’s Gloria. Dean
and I were just shot at in front of our building. I don’t know if the shooter’s still out there, but he just missed our heads by inches. Be careful.”
“We’re on our way,” Dean said. “Stay inside. Did you notice where the shot came from?”
“From someplace across the street but not that high up,” Gloria said. “The bullet ricocheted almost straight east. If he was higher up, the bullet would have bounced onto the sidewalk at our feet.”
“I have a squad in the area,” Dean said. “He should be there in a minute or less. I’ll be right there myself.” Dean hung up and hurried out to his cruiser.
The elevator door opened into the lobby and I hurried out and toward the front door. I stopped when I saw Gloria and Dad, both of them crouching, trying to see out onto the street and both of them with their guns drawn.
“I heard the shot from the office,” I said. “Are you two all right?”
“Missed us,” Clay said. “And he might still be out there, so stay in here. The police are on their way.”
“If it is Phelps,” I said, “he just upped the ante in this game of his, and I want his ass more than ever now.”
“Just don’t let this cloud your judgment,” Clay said. “We all need to be thinking clearly when we all go after him.”
Outside I heard the squeal of tires and the whine of a police siren. A moment later several other black and whites converged on the spot where a gunman had taken a shot at Dad. I could see out the front door. Most of the officers ran towards the front doors of the neighborhood businesses, looking for a possible perch for the shooter. Two uniforms came into the building and found the three of us crouching in defensive postures. They both held their guns on us and told us to lay ours down on the floor and to identify ourselves. I pulled my I.D. folder from my pocket and held it up for them to see. Once they knew who we were, they allowed us to retrieve our weapons and then began asking their usual questions.
Amid the chaos, Dean came through the front door and the two officers straightened up noticeably. “Clay,” Dean said when he saw Dad, “Are you okay?”
“Not even a scratch,” Dad said.
Dean turned to Gloria and she waved him off before he could ask.
When Dean turned to me, I stopped him before he could ask. “I was upstairs,” I explained.
From somewhere outside, I heard the unmistakable crack of a high-powered rifle, followed by a volley of rounds from several police .38s returning fire. Dean hurried to the front door and peered out. After a moment he opened the front door and left the three of us standing in the lobby. Dad and Gloria and I exited to the street and saw a group of five or six officers standing in a semi-circle half a block to the west. We saw Dean running toward them.
By the time we got to that spot in the street, the semi-circle had broken up and I could see Dean standing over the body of a man lying in a pool of bright red blood. Next to the man I saw a rifle laying in the street, its stock broken and the barrel scuffed up. Dean turned around when he saw us approaching. He held his arms out from his sides when Gloria tried to get a closer look at the man lying in the street.
“Is that Phelps?” Dad said, looking to Dean for answers.
“I don’t know yet,” Dean said. “I’m waiting for Andy Reynolds and the police photographer to do their jobs before I move the body.”
I looked down at the body and remarked, “That’s an awful lot of blood for a shooting victim.”
“He was only hit twice,” Dean explained and then pointed at a third floor balcony. “But he fell from there when he got hit. When a skull meets concrete, the concrete always wins.”
A few minutes later a white ambulance pulled up to that spot in the street and two white-garbed attendants got out and pulled a gurney from the back of their vehicle and stood waiting for further orders. Andy Reynolds, the country medical examiner, followed close behind with his little black bag. We all knew he was just going through the motions when he pressed his stethoscope to the victim’s heart and stood up again, announcing the official time of death, which he wrote on his clipboard.
Another black and white cruiser pulled into the area and a uniformed officer emerged along with a man in a tan suit jacket and blue jeans. He was carrying a large, expensive-looking camera. It took him only a few minutes to take a dozen photos of the body and the surrounding area. When he had what he needed, he nodded to Dean, who bent over and retrieved a wallet from the victim’s inside jacket pocket. He opened the wallet and found the driver’s license.
Dean turned to Dad. “It’s Russell Pearson,” Dean said, “or Phelps, if you prefer.” He tucked the wallet into his own pocket and then gave the go ahead to the ambulance attendants. They picked up the body, deposited it onto the gurney and loaded it into the ambulance in an almost robotic manner that let any onlooker know that they’d done this many times before and that they weren’t affected by the bloody mess they’d just cleaned up. They drove away, their red lights and siren off.
Dean turned to Dad and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hopefully there aren’t any more like him out there who don’t want to see your book make it to the book stores.”
“Not likely,” Dad said. “I’ve sort of scrapped that idea.”
“Why?” Dean said. “You’re not going to let some kook like that stop you, are you?”
Dad held up one hand. “Dean,” he said, “can we talk about this some other time? I’d just like to go home now, if you don’t mind.”
“You go ahead,” Dean said. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. You gonna be around in the morning?”
“Sure,” Dad said. “Stop over whenever you can.”
“I’ll drive you home,” I said.
Dad waved me off. “I can drive,” he said. “Besides, I’ll need my car there for tomorrow. But if you and Gloria would like to come over, I have something I’d like to tell you both.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” I told Dad.
On the drive to Dad’s house, Gloria turned to me and said, “Elliott, I don’t think your dad should give up on his writing, do you?”
“Not really,” I said, “But he’s going to do what he’s going to do, no matter what either of us say to him, so go easy on him, will you? This couldn’t have been easy for him.”
Gloria nodded and straightened up in her seat again, choosing to remain silent for the rest of the drive. Dad pulled his car up into his driveway and got out, walking around his car and up to his steps. I parked at the curb and the two of us got out and followed Dad up the steps and onto his porch. Once we were inside, Dad hung up his coat and gestured toward his couch. We sat and waited.
“Elliott,” Dad said. “Remember when I told you I was writing somewhat of a memoir centering around some of my old cases?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “What about it?”
“Well,” Dad said, “That was almost three months ago and I think I also mentioned something about sending inquiries to several agents and publishers, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” I said. “Did you get any responses to them?”
“Not exactly,” Dad said. “I sent out nearly three hundred inquires that described the project I was working on. Most of the publishers just sent back a form letter stating that they only deal with agents. And most of the agents sent back form letters saying that either they weren’t taking on new clients at this time or that the project was not for them, but wished me luck placing it elsewhere. I have to tell you, it was a very discouraging experience.”
“If the whole process was easy,” I said, “then everybody would be an author. You just have to hang in there and keep trying. One day someone will want it.”
“One of them does want it,” Dad said.
“That’s great, Clay,” Gloria said. “Which one?”
“It was a smaller publisher from New Jersey,” Dad told her. “Only…”
“Only what?” I said. “You got a publisher interested. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well,” D
ad said, “after I got nearly three hundred rejections, I started to wonder if it was my material or my writing style that they were all rejecting, so I switched horses in mid stream and tried another approach.” He smiled. “And it worked.” Dad held up a check in the amount of one thousand dollars. “They sent me an advance of a grand.”
“Fantastic,” Gloria said. “I wonder what this publisher saw in your work that the others didn’t.”
“Well, uh,” Dad said, “I sort of scrapped the whole memoir idea and took the book in another direction entirely.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “I thought you had a lot of interesting P.I. stories of your own as well as some great ideas from Grandpa Matt’s old files.”
Clay reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out an inch-thick sheaf of papers and handed them to me. I took them, read the title page and then looked up at Dad. “What’s this?” I said.
“It’s my book,” Clay said. “The one that is going to be published.”
“But…” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” Clay said. “Ironic, isn’t it? Phelps went through all that effort of trying to stop me from writing my book. He needn’t have bothered. He got himself killed for nothing.”
“What does it say?” Gloria asked, tilting her head sideways and straining to see the cover. “The cover, I mean.”
I held the title page up for her to see and read it aloud. “The Hollywood P.I. Cookbook.” I passed the title sheet to Gloria and thumbed through the next few sheet in the pile. I thumbed past the index page and the dedication page and found the first real page. It read as follows:
Gumshoe Gumbo
1/4 cup chopped onions
16 oz. whole milk
3 chopped carrots
1 cup diced potatoes
I skipped past the rest of the ingredients and the cooking instructions and thumbed through a few more pages and stopped when I saw another title that read:
Private Eye Pie
2 eggs
1/4 cup whole milk
2 cups flour
1 tsp. vanilla extract
I read enough of the rest of that page to get the idea. Dad was writing a cookbook. I put the pages back in order and picked up the index page. Even though I was disappointed that the book was not the memoir I had hoped that Dad would write, I had to admit that some of the recipe titles were interesting enough for me to take a closer look. That’s probably the same way it hit the publisher when he first looked at Dad’s submission. In among the index entries I found: