“Interesting choice of words, Mickey. But thanks. Cortez in Portland. I’ll bet it was a Wednesday. I’d like to hear from Dunphy.”
“Hey, one other thing I almost forgot,” said Mickey. “About John Q. Smith. Something funny.”
“Funny, like ha ha or like peculiar?”
“You tell me. We know the assistant DA that handled Smith’s case. It was his first year out of law school, first year in the DA’s office.”
“Who?”
“Jonas Wiesel. He prosecuted the John Q. Smith case.”
“Our Jonas Wiesel?”
“Yeah,” said Mickey, “Wiesel the Weasel.”
Chapter Twenty
The Five Spot in Long Beach was the type of establishment where the patrons went to drink up this month’s rent. It was a few blocks from the waterfront, and at one time must have been a workingman’s bar. Now it was just a place where young men drank and sat dreaming of their ships coming in, and where old men sat around drinking and waiting to die. The trip up from Cardiff-by-the-Sea had taken me an hour and a half, and a small Sunday afternoon crowd at the bar moaned and droned on about all the wrongs that had been done to them. Banks, the government, doctors, lawyers, and all the other usual bogeymen had robbed them of their dreams, stolen their destinies, and left them here in this pit of perdition called The Five Spot.
When I asked the bartender for a bottle of Steinlager, he looked at me as if I were gay. I wondered what type of reaction I might get if I ordered wine by a vintage year.
“Got those and Bud on draft,” he said, pointing to six different bottles of domestic beer showcased above the bar. “You want something not American, we got Mex. Two kinds in fact.”
I ordered a Corona, and to blend in with my environment, I also ordered a shot of well bourbon. I broke a fifty, displayed the change prominently on the bar, nursed my beer, and read the newspaper. And I waited. I was waiting for what I called the “barfly mooch.” Every low bar or tavern has one and they are attracted by someone new, or someone just passing through who is fairly well-dressed and well-groomed—not hard to be by Five Spot standards—and has at least a couple of twenties sitting on the bar. The barfly mooch always has a story or a scam as to why you should buy him a drink and/or loan him money.
I didn’t expect to wait long to find him at The Five Spot, and I wasn’t disappointed.
“Can I borrow your sports page?” the man asked as he stood next to me at the bar. He was white, early forties, and wall-eyed. He needed a shave, a haircut, probably a shower, and definitely some mouthwash.
“Sure,” I said.
“I tell you, friend, if you don’t like who you are, wait until someone steals your identity. It is a fucked situation.”
“I hear that crime is more common than ever,” I said. “I hear it’s a real nightmare.”
“Tell me! Let me tell ya, four days ago somebody hijacked all my credit cards, my bank accounts, my business accounts, and now I can’t even use my fucking ATM. My brother is wiring me some money from Ohio, says I’ll have it later today or tomorrow. Until then I can’t even buy a fucking drink. Can’t even be open for business. I own a plumbing supply shop and can’t even open the doors for at least three days until all this gets sorted out.”
My first reaction was, Who would want to be you? But I said, “Hey, I ordered a shot, but a breakfast burrito I had isn’t sitting well with me. Would you like to take it off my hands?”
“Much obliged,” he said, throwing the shot back in one gulp. “Name is Wally.” He extended his hand.
“Name is Pete,” I said, shaking his hand. “Sorry about your tough luck.”
“Not from around here, are you, Pete?”
“No, up from San Diego,” I replied. “Just stopped for a drink on my way to L.A.”
“If you could spot me a drink or two and a couple of bucks for a sandwich, I’ll mail you the money as soon as the wire from Ohio comes in.”
“Shoot pool?” I asked. “If you do, I’ll play you for a drink and a couple of bucks.”
I wanted to get Wally away from the bartender and the other patrons. I ordered two more beers and two more shots.
As I handed Wally a glass of beer and a shot of whisky, I said, “This is my good faith deposit.”
He took the drinks and followed me to the back where the pool table was. He let me break and I sank the first four balls.
“You a hustler?” asked Wally.
“No. But you know the old saying, ‘Proficiency at pocket billiards is the sign of a misspent youth.’ ”
Whether Wally knew the saying or not, and whether he had a misspent youth or not, he clearly wasn’t much of a pool shot.
I didn’t want to make it too obvious so I sank three more balls, but when it came to the eight ball I scratched, giving the game to Wally.
“Shit,” I said, ordering Wally another shot and a beer. As he was racking up the balls for another game, I said, “You know one reason I stopped here was that a friend of mine told me about this place. If you come in here often, maybe you’ve met him.”
“Been coming in here regularly for over five years. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Jesus Cortez?”
“A beaner?”
“Yes, a Mexican.”
“In here? A wetback walks in here, he gets shown the door in a hurry, if he’s lucky and doesn’t get his ass kicked just for drill.”
A man approached who looked like he was also a barfly mooch or at least a barfly mooch in training. Wally introduced him as Dave.
“Dave, Pete here says he has a buddy that used to drink here. A Mexican named Jesus. Ever seen a beaner drink in here?”
“The only Mexican that gets served in here is either Corona or Tecate,” laughed Dave.
We shot another game and I tanked that one, too. I gave my shot to Wally and got him another shot and a beer. I continued to ask about Jesus but it was obviously a dead end. I told Wally I had to hit the road and he asked for my address and swore to God he would send me the money he borrowed. He needed fifty. I gave him five along with Pete “The Pineapple” Inouye’s business card as the address to return the money.
“Pete, I need a new car but my credit has really been fucked by this identity theft. Do you think you could work with me on financing a car?”
“Come to the lot and just ask for me,” I said. “I guarantee we’ll finance you.”
“Thanks a million, Pete.”
I left The Five Spot and for the moment put it down as just another dead end in a case that had plenty of dead ends already. After being inside the dim Five Spot, I was blinded by the bright daylight. As I walked to my car, my cellphone rang. The call was from an Oregon area code.
“Hello, Jackson? This is Father Malcolm Dunphy.”
“Thanks for calling, Father.”
“Of course. I haven’t seen you since your father’s funeral. Fine man, your father.”
“Thanks.”
“His death was tragic. As was your mother’s. You know, I knew your mother. Not well, but I knew her, and as my Aunt Lorelei from County Limerick would say, ‘If beauty were a capital offense, surely they’d have to hang her twice, they would.’ A very handsome woman.”
I often wondered if Father Dunphy thought he was Pat O’Brien from some old movie.
“Thank you, Father. Mickey Mahoney told me that you knew my friend, the late Father Jesus Cortez.”
“Yes, met him in San Francisco at a seminar. Took a liking to him. A very bright young fellow. I suppose Mickey said that I saw him at the Portland airport.”
“Yes.”
“I saw him one morning, but even though we’d had quite a long chat in San Francisco, he seemed to have no time for me. I tried to find out where he was staying while he was in town, but he was in a hurry.”
“Do you remember exactly when that was?”
“Several months ago. I was out to pick up a colleague from Chicago. I have my date book here, so let me see.” I heard the
shuffling of papers, and then, “Yes, it was two months ago, first week of June.”
“Was it a Wednesday?”
“In fact it was. How did you know that?”
“Just a lucky guess. And a woman was with him?”
“Yes, she was there to pick him up. I could tell they weren’t traveling together as he had just a bag and she had no luggage. He didn’t introduce us—in fact, he sort of gave me the bum’s rush. Said he was only in town for the day and was running late.”
“Do you recall what she looked like? Hair? Height? Age?”
“I didn’t really spend any time with her or him. But I recall she was a very good-looking woman. Quite handsome, in fact. In her mid to late thirties, I guess. A blonde or redhead, I think. I’m sorry, but is it important?”
“It might be.” I was reminded of Mickey’s comment about how Dunphy didn’t pay much attention to females past the age of eighteen. “I don’t have a picture at this point, but if I get one and email it to you, do you think you might recognize her?”
“I might. I will surely try. I wish I could be of more help.” He gave me his email address. “Tell me, Jackson, do they know yet who or why Father Cortez was murdered?”
“No.”
“A terrible thing. Terrible. Now, you were a member of his parish?”
“No. We were just drinking buddies. But Father, I have a question for you. Does it sound odd that the office of the cardinal would be calling an assistant parish priest?”
“Very unlikely, not without a very good reason.”
“Just to see how the priest was acclimating to a new parish and country?”
“Someone from the bishop’s office or his chancery would do that, not a cardinal. The priest would have to have some special connections or influence. Why do you ask?”
“The former pastor of Cortez’s parish said the cardinal’s assistant called several times to check and see how Jesus was doing. Any idea why?”
“No. Unless Father Cortez knew someone the cardinal knew or had a friend in the Vatican. Which seems most unlikely. No. The whole thing sounds quite unusual to me.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“I understand you live in Berkeley now. What’s your parish?”
“Father, my cellphone battery is low,” I lied. “Thank you and goodbye.”
I wondered what I disliked more: the icy, condescending arrogance of former Father Ken Macdonald or the syrupy solicitousness of Father Malcolm Dunphy. I didn’t consider it for long; my thoughts went back to Jesus. Wednesday. The day he was in Portland. So that’s where Jesus went on his day off, at least that particular Wednesday. Portland. And the woman …. At this point I had to assume that she was Muriel. And I had to assume that she knew what happened on that Wednesday that made Jesus so upset. Did she know why he was coming to me? And what got him killed? I suddenly felt that at last something was beginning to come together in this case.
I reached for my car door and as I did, I heard a swish and felt a thin sharp wire around my throat.
“Take it easy, Slick,” said a voice from behind me. “If I was going to do you, you’d already be done. Breathe through your nose and put your hands against the wall.”
I did as I was told, gagging from what I guessed was a piano wire garroting me.
“With your left hand, hand me your piece. Nice and slow.”
I complied.
“You aren’t from around here, so I can understand how you got lost. Let me give you some directions, and some good advice: where you are is the major leagues. What you are, Holiday, is strictly bush league. I’m gonna say this one time, real slow: what you need to do is never go back to St. Martin’s Parish in San Diego. Never go to St. Peter’s Parish in San Pablo. And never come back to The Five Spot. And most important, you need to forget you ever heard of anyone named Father Jesus Cortez.”
He pulled the wire tighter for a moment and I gagged again. “Stand here for three minutes and don’t turn around,” he said, releasing the wire. “One last thing, Slick: you didn’t see me coming this time, and you won’t see me coming next time. And next time I’ll be delivering something besides friendly advice.”
Just as I hadn’t heard him approach, I didn’t hear him walk away. I couldn’t tell anything about him except his voice. It was the same pancake-flat, hollow-sounding voice with no regional accent that had telephoned me the night Jesus had been murdered.
I picked up my Walther, got in the car, and checked my rearview mirror. I saw no one. I started north toward Los Angeles and Boy’s Town.
Chapter Twenty-One
Considering the source, this anecdote is more likely apocryphal than not: some twenty years ago, Jefferson Davis Grubb, having been convicted of fraud for the third time, was asked by the judge why he wasn’t learning from his mistakes. “With all due respect, Your Honor,” said the defendant, “I seem to be repeating my mistakes perfectly.” What had I learned from my mistakes in this case so far? Just this: the next time a drunken priest fell off his barstool, he would have to help himself up off the floor.
Battling Los Angeles traffic always raised my blood pressure and left me less than rational, but today the starting, stopping, and the rude fellow travelers gave me a welcome distraction and a certain sense of calm. I was able to process what had happened to me outside of The Five Spot. I still didn’t know who the man with the hollow voice was, and still had no idea why he had called me the night of Jesus’ murder.
But as I slogged my way through the smog and fumes, I considered his warnings and the first three seemed mute. Number One: I was to stay away from St. Martin’s Parish—but I couldn’t see why I would return, as I had accomplished my only mission there and already found the former Father Macdonald. Number Two: The same threat about St. Peters Parish in San Pablo—but I had never been there and had no reason to go. I believed Hobbs’ evaluation of the pastor there: that he was senile, and like the housekeeper and parishioners, he knew less about Jesus than I did. As for Number Three: I could foresee no reason why I would ever want to return to The Five Spot. I had found that it was not a hangout of Jesus’, although it was perhaps some clearing center in a town where the harbor was teeming with smuggling operations—everything from drugs to Asian sex slaves.
That brought me to Number Four, the last and the only warning of significance: I was to forget about Jesus, or rather, I was to quit looking into his death. I wasn’t about to stop investigating his murder, although I wasn’t certain of all the reasons why. I just vowed to be as discreet as possible.
I left Santa Monica Boulevard and turned onto Robertson and into the heart of Boy’s Town. On the road from Cardiff-by-the-Sea to Long Beach I had called Budd Rosselli, introduced myself, and told him why I wanted to talk to him. He had been curt and to the point.
“You on the job?” he asked.
“No.”
“Were on the job?”
“No,” I said, “but—”
“You want to talk to me about an open case? Because it’s still an open case, so where are your bona fides?” he demanded.
“You can check me out with the chief of D’s of Berkeley, Horace Hobbs.”
He responded the way everyone with a law enforcement background always responds to that name, “The Horace Hobbs?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back.”
As I was driving from Long Beach, Rosselli called to tell me that I had checked out, and that I could meet him at 7 p.m. at a Lutheran church on Robertson Boulevard. He said that once I was inside the basement of the church, I should follow the signs to the AA meeting.
I found a public parking lot and arrived at the church ten minutes before seven. Outside the basement doors stood two thin men, smoking. One looked emaciated, and the other just looked dehydrated. I asked for directions to the meeting inside.
“Turn left when you go inside,” said the dehydrated one.
“Do you know Budd Ro—” I caught myself, “Budd R? I’m supposed to
meet him for the first time, but I don’t know what he looks like.”
“He looks like the biggest guy in the room.”
“Yeah,” said the emaciated looking one, “the biggest man in any room.”
Following their directions, I went down a corridor and found a room that had almost no furniture but two long tables. Approximately twenty men sat around a boardroom-style table that, now in its twilight years, was more apt to display cookies and Dixie cups of Kool-Aid than spreadsheets and deal memos. A small man at the head of the table said in a booming voice that there was time for one more share. I took a chair at the end of the table just a few seats away from a man who raised his hand and said, “I’m Darryl, and I’m a grateful alcoholic.”
The room addressed him in chorus, “Hi, Darryl.”
He was a man in his forties, impeccably dressed and groomed with effeminate mannerisms and an affected style of speech. “Many of you have heard me share before, and many of you know my story,” he started. “I want to welcome the newbies, urge you to keep coming back, and I want to thank everyone in this room for this fabulous fellowship.”
He took a sip from a Styrofoam cup and continued, “I was in a detox ward in Honolulu fully expecting, and fully hoping, to die when I first met someone from AA. He said he had help for me if I wanted it, and said he was from Alcoholics Anonymous. I said, ‘That sounds like an organization I need, because I sure can’t drink under my real name any more.’ ”
The room was sprinkled with polite laughter. I looked around until I found Rosselli. He had already found me. Staring at me with cop’s eyes, he gave me a slight nod, which I returned. He matched the description I’d been given; he did look like an overstuffed version of a middle-aged jock going to seed. He was wearing what looked to be a XXXXL Notre Dame Football jersey, and appeared to be a jock that middle age, alcohol, and a diet high in sugar and fats had made morbidly obese. He needed two chairs to hold his girth.
The Big Bitch Page 10