by Richard Wren
Casey smiled, “Now that you’ve explained it all so succinctly, it all seems crystal clear to me too.”
Smitty turned to Josie. “Is he always such a smart ass?” He continued, “Can you use your connections at the D.A.’s office to find out what they know about Shirl’s murder without involving us?”
Josie screwed up her face in distaste. “Not any more. That damn Gordon’s blacklisted me, the son of a bitch. He threatened to fire anyone that talked to me or Marilyn. I’m trying to reach the cop that rescued you guys at Shirl’s bar. You said he seemed to know Shirl, maybe he’ll keep us posted.”
“Names George,” Casey volunteered. I heard Shirl call him that when he came in.”
“C’mon, we’re wasting time,” Smitty ordered.
Casey headed for the front door and Josie’s car. Smitty stopped him.
“Motorcycles,” He announced. “You’re riding with me, and Dave follows, okay?”
For not the first time, Casey was going as a passenger on Smitty’s hog. Both Smitty and Josie seemed to almost been born on motorcycles. He didn’t mind riding with either of them, except Smitty was so burly it was difficult to hang on. He much preferred riding along with Josie. Hanging on to her had proved to be an introduction to their eventual wedding.
At the corner of 19th and Broadway, Casey saw why they had cycled down instead of driving. They were able to park directly in front of the building.
Inside, Smitty ignored the receptionist, headed to the elevator, pushed the up button and waited. It was an old and tired elevator that took forever to get to the third floor. “Billy around?” he inquired of the first person he could nab as they stepped out.
Without looking up, the young girl he’d asked said, “Probably, way back in the corner behind that screen.” She nodded in the direction of the corner where Casey sawa tall, three-panel screen had been unfolded to hide whatever was behind it. As they crossed the room, it seemed as if all eyes were on them. Two tall men wearing denim jeans and jackets, carrying motorcycle helmets in their hands, heading purposely toward the far corner of the room.
As they approached the screen, Casey heard the slow sound of someone laboriously one-fingering a typewriter. Smitty poked Casey in the side. “Watch this,” he said.
“Hey Shorty, you hiding back there?” Smitty called out.
“Fuck you,” A very deep voice responded immediately, followed by the unmistakable sound of the typewriter carriage being slammed back and a chair being bounced off a wall. Then one third of the screen was pulled back and the shortest man Casey had ever seen outside of movies barreled out shouting, “Don’t call me Shorty.”
Smitty, all six foot three inches of him, loomed over the man and said, “Don’t get your panties in an uproar, Shorty.”
The man skidded to a stop, slowly raised his eyes to Smitty’s face, and suddenly broke into a huge smile.
“Smitty!” he roared. Every eye in the newsroom was on the two of them. “You son of a bitch, where the hell you been?” Without waiting for an answer, he reached up and grabbed Smitty’s arm, dragging him back behind the screen. Smitty pulled Casey in behind him.
Shorty yelled at their audience as he pulled the screen closed. “Any the rest of you call me Shorty gonna get a knuckle sandwich.” He turned and winked at Casey, “Who the hell’re you?”
Smitty answered him with pride in his voice, “Josie’s husband, that’s who.”
Casey tried to judge the little man’s age, but was having trouble. He looked to be in his seventies, but what would a seventy-year-old be doing actively working at a major newspaper?
Smitty answered his unspoken question. “This here’s Samuel Harrison Reginald Yost, the best damn news photographer on the West Coast. Sam to his friends and Shorty if you wanna get your head bashed in.”
“Glad to meet you--Sam,” Casey said, shaking his hand.
“So,” the short man said to Smitty. “What brings you two outa your hole? Looking for wedding presents?”
He indicated two chairs for them to sit on as he sat down on a roll-around desk chair in front of a large table. Directly in front of the chair was the old-fashioned typewriter flanked by two computers, both displaying different newscasts.
“Why not?” Smitty hesitated for a second. “How about a set of family pics done in your inimitable style?”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re lookin’ for?”
“Not really, you old codger. We need to dredge through some of your old memories, unless you’ve got a head start on old-timer’s disease.”
“Alzheimer’s? I don’t think so. I don’t remember,” he laughed. “Try me.”
“OOOOkay,” drawled Smitty. “How about the mid-seventies? A murder case that never got solved. One that your old buddy Gus was kinda involved in. Ring any bells?”
“Gus? Gus Dalziel? How in hell could I ever forget him? The two of us got into more trouble than you could ever imagine. The seventies? Those were the days. Ol’ Gus and I were the seventies! But a murder case? I don’t think so. We didn’t get along with the cops then, not at all.”
“Well the cops’ve got Gus in jail right now. They think they have an airtight case against him where a PI was knifed to death way back then. Evidently, some of Gus’s DNA turned up on an old piece of evidence, and the D.A. says he’s a cut and dried case. Back then, Gus said he knew who the guy was and might have run into him a couple of times, but sure as hell didn’t kill him. That refresh your memory any?”
“Not much. What was the PI’s name?”
Smitty looked blankly at Casey. After an embarrassing moment he said, “Christ, I never asked. We were just focused on Gus.”
“I can phone Josie if you think it’ll help.” Casey offered.
“Wait a mo,” Smitty ordered. He turned back to Shorty. “Back then, Gus wasn’t considered a suspect. He got hauled in only because the cops thought he knew the guy, but from what we heard there was some suspicion that some strings were pulled to control the investigation. Maybe about somebody’s son and a cover up?”
Shorty snapped his fingers loudly. “Got it! Sure. Seemed fishy to a bunch of us, but nobody knew nothin’ about anything if you know what I mean. But I don’t recollect Gus being involved in any way?”
Smitty ignored his question. “You still got it. Screw Alzheimer’s, your mind’s like a steel trap. What do you remember about the case? What seemed fishy to you?”
“Wasn’t just me. A bunch of us thought the cops gave up too easy. Way I remember it was he wasn’t a real PI, just a wannabe. He was kind of a hanger on around some pretty rough criminal types. You know; a sycophant. He was always trying to act the tough guy, but no one took him serious.” Sam sat down, leaned precariously back in his desk chair, sighed deeply and continued. “Dumb idiot. What we heard was that some politician’s son was involved in a campus rape at Cal and that he thought he’d make a bundle by getting the goods on the politician’s son, but he ended up taking a knife in his belly instead.”
Casey immediately saw the connection. “And I bet the college kid never was arrested or prosecuted?”
“Hell. I don’t think his name ever even came up. There was a lot of hoopla when it happened, a murder in one of our hotels?” He stopped and looked at them questioningly for a moment. “The D.A. thinks he’s got an airtight case? Maybe we should dig deeper. How about we look up the old papers and look?”
“Your papers are archived and digitized that far back?” Casey asked.
“Now they are; couple of years ago, they weren’t. Trouble is I’m slower’n molasses on the computer.” He bounced his way out of the office chair, nimbly bypassed both Casey and Smitty, and quietly called out, “Jenna, can I borrow you for a few?” He winked again at Casey and said conspiratorially, “Gotta be careful, management gets pissed when I use any of the staff.”
In a moment, the folding screen was partially unfolded, and a slim, mature woman slipped into the space. She smiled and shook hands with both Casey and
Smitty as Sam introduced them, then addressed Smitty. “What kind of skullduggery is he up to now?” She nodded her head at Sam.
Smitty brought her up to date on what they were looking for, and then said, “Sam here claimed you were the office whiz on the computer?”
She jumped into the spirit of the group saying, “I may not be the office whiz, but I’m sure as hell better than Sam. What year are you looking for?”
In a few minutes, she found the articles about the murder, but no matter how many ways they tried to find any mention of a rape or a college boy in any of the articles, there was none. After more than thirty minutes of trying, she gave up.
After she left and the three of them were sitting absorbing their failure, a thought struck Casey.
Slowly he advanced his idea. “You know, if there’s any truth to the rape rumor, there’s one person that knows what that truth is.”
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“Yep, we go to Mexico!”
“The girl in Mexico? But nobody knows where she is except Lanner. Sounds like a dead-end street to me. Hell, he’s trying to kill us.”
“We don’t know that for sure. All we have is Peterson’s word, besides, there’s another way.”
“To find her?”
“I think so. Remember when Josie first mentioned the Onion Identity site as one place where you could buy false documents and that the D.A.’s been trying to shut them down for a long time?”
“Yeah, of course, so what?” Smitty responded.
“Well, when she threw that out, I happened to be looking directly at Peterson, and he flinched. I bet that’s the outfit that Earl used, and Peterson knows them. She said they’re a bunch of nerds that’re making a lot of money, but they’re not bigtime crooks. That’s why they haven’t been able to find them---yet. They move around, operate out of somebody’s basement, and then move on.”
“So you think we can find the gal in Mexico from them? Why would they tell us anything?”
“Because they’re not bigtime crooks with a lot of muscle behind them, and we’re not the D.A.’s office. Plus Peterson can get us in, I think.”
“Did you say the Onion Identity?” Shorty spoke up.
“You know them?” Casey asked as he swung toward him.
“Heard of them,”
“Spill it, Shorty,” Smitty demanded.
“Well,” he drawled, “I might be able to talk to somebody who can talk to somebody, if you know what I mean.”
Smitty was in a hurry. “Do you know them or not?”
“Didn’t say I did. Didn’t say I didn’t. Said I’d try,” Shorty snapped.
“For Christ’s sake, Shorty, we need it like yesterday.”
“Ever go to the T & D anymore?” Shorty asked unexpectedly. Smitty merely shook his head no. “Meet me there in a couple of hours?”
Casey had no idea what was going on right before his eyes. T & D?
“Got it,” Smitty said, grabbed Casey’s arm, and hustled him out.
“The Tough & Dirty,” laughed Smitty. That’s what everybody calls it.” He reflected for a moment, and then laughed again. “Hell, I don’t even remember what it really stands for, but don’t worry Shorty kicked us out so he could get on the phone to his contacts.”
Casey snorted. “Doesn’t sound very promising to me. Aren’t we just wasting time?”
“Don’t discount old Shorty. He’s been here so long he’s kind of a living legend. Knows everybody and forgets nothing. Let’s run home for lunch and find out if the D.A.’s office knows anything about the Onion Identity.”
“Screw that old elevator, let’s walk.” Smitty insisted as they left. Outside a group of teenagers surrounded his bike. “Good thing I padlocked the forks.” Smitty observed. All but one of the kids scattered as the two approached and Smitty bent down to open the padlock.
“These your wheels old man?” The kid glanced at the other teens for support.
“Yep.” Smitty calmly acknowledged.
“I don’t think so, old man. I think it’s his. You’re too fuckin’ old to handle something like this.” He pointed at Casey and smirked to his audience.
Smitty put the padlock away and moved to climb on the seat. The kid put his hand on the handlebar. So fast it could hardly be seen, Smitty punched his elbow into the kid’s belly. There was a loud OOF! and the kid collapsed to the sidewalk. Because his back had been to the other teens they had no idea he had been hit. To them he just suddenly collapsed to the sidewalk for no reason.
Smitty, very solicitously leaned down and took the teen’s hand to help him. “What happened? Did you slip?” he asked as he pulled him to his feet.
The boy held his stomach, glared at Smitty and staggered back to his group, gasping for breath.
Smitty threw his leg over the bike, Casey climbed on and they left for home.
Casey thought to himself, “never a dull moment.”
CHAPTER 26
While they prepared their own toasted ham and cheese sandwiches, Josie checked with Marilyn about the illegal group.
“Okay. Here’s what I know about Onion Identity. They’re pretty young, probably all in their twenties, and maybe some even younger. Most of them went to Cal, and they don’t have any connection to organized crime. What they’re most like is a bunch of very sophisticated hackers.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“For us, I think it’s good. You know how moralistic some of these hackers are, how they love working on the people’s side against an invasive government? I think if you can convince your guy that by finding that girl they’d be striking a blow against dishonest government, they might be willing to help.”
“So when we meet with them, be on our good behavior and hope for the best?
Josie couldn’t resist the pun. ”I think being on your bad behavior might be more effective with this group.“
Smitty looked at Casey. “You agree?”
“Makes sense to me.”
“Okay then. Tough and Dirty here we come.”
At 4:15 p.m., Casey was getting fidgety over his third refill of coffee. Smitty reassured him. “Old Shorty’s never been on time for anything in his life except when photography’s involved. He’ll be here.”
Five minutes later, he waltzed in with a young man in tow.
Shorty made the introductions. “I told him about you, and he said he’s heard of you and wouldn’t mind meeting you. Name’s Ted.
“Oh shit, I’m in trouble,” laughed Smitty.
“Just the opposite,” Ted said. He leaned forward to emphasize the seriousness of his point. “I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t told me.”
Casey wondered just how much Shorty had told Ted as he watched the interplay between the two. Ted, in his mid-twenties and dressed as a collegiate with tennis shoes, jeans, and a pullover shirt, unshaven and intense. Then Smitty, weather-beaten face, a shock of graying hair, mid-sixties, but also dressed in jeans and a denim jacket.
Ted continued, “You’re trying to find a girl in Mexico that maybe could prove a politician bribed someone to protect his son from a rape charge some years ago. Is that about it?”
“In a nutshell,” Smitty agreed.
“And you think there’s an outfit called Onion Identity that might know where she is, and my closed-mouthed friend said I might know something about that outfit, right?”
Shorty interrupted. “I just said you got around a lot and might know somethin’.”
With a quick glance at Shorty, he went on. “Doesn’t matter. Fact is, there may or may not be such an outfit. The problem is that, from what I’ve heard, they don’t usually know where the people go once they get the papers.
Smitty wasn’t to be put off so easily. “We heard that this might have been some sort of a special arrangement. We heard that the young lady was sent to some sort of a commune?”
Ted was startled. “Where did…?” he started, then stopped and was silent for a moment. “Some sort
of a commune?” he asked.
“That’s what we heard.” Smitty repeated.
Ted drummed his fingers on the table as he stared at Smitty. Smitty simply returned the stare. Time passed. Finally, Ted abruptly stood up and said, “Let me make a phone call.”
The moment he was out of sight, Casey voiced their concern. “Think he’s coming back?”
“Course he is,” Shorty volunteered. “I think he wants to tell you something, but needs to get some agreement from some of the other guys first.”
“All we can do is wait.” Casey observed. The waitress came by offering more refills on their coffees; only Shorty accepted. “Good thing you’re a regular here, Shorty my boy,” Smitty observed. “Most people would’ve been thrown out by now.”
“Big tips, that’s the answer.” Shorty humphed just as Ted came back through the front door.
“Sorry guys, had to clear something up.” He pulled his chair up, sat down, and started talking. “First off, you’re talking a long time ago, and the outfit you’re talking about, if it exists, is run by a bunch of young guys. They wouldn’t know anything about anything that happened that long ago.”
“So no luck for us?” Casey asked.
“Didn’t say that.” Ted replied. “Evidently, these young guys sort of inherited an older kind of word-of-mouth business and’ve turned it into an up-to-date money maker. You know computers and websites and so on, but there’re still a couple of the older guys hanging around, and stories are told.”
“Gettin’ interesting,” Shorty observed.
“It gets better,” Ted teased. “Seems the guys used to send younger people to a commune in Mexico sometimes when they weren’t paid a lot of money for documents and a history. I had a hell of a time talking one of the old farts into giving me the name of the commune, but I did it. Specially when I told him it might be we were trying to get the girl off the hook and fry an old politician.”