“Ten a.m.? It’s ten p.m. now. Do you know how many files there are? Do you know how long that will take?
“Don’t give a fuck how long it will take, but ten a.m. tomorrow is how long you’ve got. So you better get a pot of coffee and get on it, pronto! You will tell me what the files say and then you’ll tell me how the other murders dovetail with Cortez. After that you are to continue telling me everything ’til we close the Cortez case. I mean everything! You do that and Grubb walks. He walks tonight.”
“So you let Grubb go now and just trust me to come up with my end tomorrow and continue to cooperate on down the line? Why?”
“ ’Cause you are going to give me your word.”
“You’re going to take me at my word?”
“You used to be president of a bank, didn’t you, Holiday?”
“Briefly.”
“Well,” said a sneering Hobbs, “if you can’t take the word of the president of a bank, then just who can you trust?”
I gave Hobbs my word that I would tell him everything, except in the case that my disclosure might incriminate me. When we reentered the saloon, I sat at the table next to Manners, who sat across from Grubb. Hobbs took a chair directly across from me.
Hobbs asks Grubb if there was anything he left out.
“Just that there is—pardon my cornpone—another hog at the trough. There is someone involved who we don’t know. No idea who, but I don’t think that Grace and Jack are in this alone. There is someone else, and I reckon that someone is running the show.”
Hobbs asked Grubb to guess who it was, but he said he couldn’t. He asked him twice, and twice Grubb said he had no idea. Everyone at the table was silent for a long beat before Hobbs spoke again.
“Grubb, I’m going to let you walk,” he said, “but with conditions: You walk, and you walk fast and far. By six a.m. tomorrow you are out of California. By noon this Saturday you are on the other side of the Mason Dixon line. You’ll be back in the land of cotton, where you can drink moonshine hot out of the still, fuck your first cousins, buy new strings for your banjo and sing songs to the faded glory of the Confederate dead. I don’t give a fuck what you do except that you are gone—at least a thousand miles away from here and from this case. And you never come back.”
“I’ll be as gone as the good ol’ days,” said Grubb.
“Captain,” protested Manners, “we can’t do that. We have federal holds and the law is very clear—”
“The law?” Grubb broke in. “All due respect, but there isn’t the law, there are two laws: the law for the people and the law for the police. But don’t take my word for this. Ask your Cap’n here. There’s two laws, ain’t there, Cap’n?”
Hobbs stared at Grubb, then looked at each man at the table and then back to Grubb. He said nothing, but just stared into the remains of his drink.
“You know, Cap’n, my mama used to say that silence means consent. Now do you suppose my mama was a liar?” asked Grubb.
“Since your mama was likely a whore, I would say she was likely a liar,” Hobbs said, looking Grubb in the eye. He finished the last of his rye and stood to leave. “As for the point about the law, fact is, the people get the police they deserve.”
Chapter Forty-One
A resigned Manners stood to go and was followed by Hobbs, who reminded me of our morning meeting. He also reminded Grubb never to return to his jurisdiction, or to use his exact words, “never even enter a time zone I’m in.”
Grubb thanked him.
“You really think I give a fuck if the Jefferson Davis Grubbs of this world live or die?” asked Hobbs, then over his shoulder, turning to go, said, “Don’t thank me. Thank Holiday.”
We watched Hobbs and Manners leave as Grubb sipped from his sour mash. “How’d you get the Cap’n to let me go?” he asked.
“Sold my soul.”
“Now I know that’s a lie,” laughed Grubb. “Doc, if you ever had a soul to sell, you bargained it away a long, long time ago.”
“You’re probably right about that,” I agreed, laughing, “Whatever I gave up to Hobbs, I probably would have given up eventually anyway.”
Mary approached the table. “Asshole and the Mormon missionary gone?”
I nodded as Grubb inquired, “How about a dance, Miss Mary?”
“Get this fool away from me, Jackson!” cried Mary. “Swear I’ll shoot him.”
Grubb rose, and bowing in a courtly fashion, said, “Now, Miss Mary, I’m sure that you have more important things to do than to make an old, lonely, ugly man smile. But if you only knew what one dance would do to help him down that long, dark, empty road …. Yes, sir, mean the world to that lonely, old man.”
“Get away, horse thief!” cried Mary.
“Just once dance, pretty lady,” implored Grubb.
Mary stomped over to the bar and returned with a pistol by her side, the muzzle pointed at the floor. “Horse thief,” she said, “this here is a deluxe edition Smith and Wesson. And I damn well know how to use it.”
With a motion that was quicker than the blink of any eye, Grubb reached over and deftly plucked the pistol out of Mary’s hand.
“Sonofabitch!” she shouted, vainly trying to retrieve the firearm.
“A Lady Smith. A 357 Magnum. Now this here is a gun!” said Grubb as he studied the pistol then broke open the cylinder. “And fully loaded,” he said in approval. He returned the firearm, butt first, to Mary.
“Ask me to dance again and I’ll shoot you dead,” said Mary, the Lady Smith pointed at the floor.
“So this is where it all ends for ol’ Jeff Davis,” said a smiling Grubb. He took a step closer to Mary then looked at me. “This is how I figured I’d to go out, old friend: shot dead in a saloon just for asking a pretty woman to dance.” He made a clucking sound, shook his head, and continued, “A George Jones song on the jukebox, a half-drunk shot of Single Barrel Jack on the table, and Doc Holiday leaning down, looking for a pulse, and when finding none, sadly shaking his head.” He hung his head in mock sorrow and said, “Son, please see I get me a Christian burial.” Then, turning to Mary, “I’m a big man, but with that there hog leg you only need one shot.” Pointing to the left side of his chest, he said, “Right about here, Miss Mary.”
“Sonofabitch!” Mary cried out, then stomped over to the bar. She put away the pistol then returned. “One dance, horse thief.”
Several regulars at the bar encouraged Mary to dance. I helped Grubb move several tables, clearing a space in front of the jukebox, where Grubb deposited coins and made a selection.
He bowed and reached out to Mary. “It’s the Tennessee Waltz, Patti Page version.” He took her in his arms, and whether he had ever been the lead waltz instructor or owned five dance studios as he had once claimed, the fact was, Grubb could dance. At least he could waltz. And waltz he did as he swept her gracefully around the floor to the sounds of syrupy violins and the ballad of lost love. The saloon was uncharacteristically quiet as Grubb and Mary moved to the plaintive stylings of Patti Page. The patrons seemed quietly lost in the thoughts of their used-to-bes, their should-have-beens, and yes, their Angelinas. When the song was over, Grubb again bowed, and this time Mary curtseyed slightly as the whole bar applauded.
Mary loudly instructed her clientele to stop looking at her and to start looking in their pockets to pay for their drinks. She came back to the table with a fifth of Knob Creek Bourbon and two shot glasses. She poured a drink for Grubb and one for herself.
“One for the road,” toasted Mary, lifting her glass. “One for the old, lonely, ugly horse thief.”
“You dance divinely, Miss Mary,” said Grubb as he toasted her.
“I dance like a rusty old gate, but thanks.” Mary surveyed the bar and then looked back at Grubb, who finished his shot, excused himself and went to the men’s room. Mary, uncharacteristically quiet, poured another drink for Grubb and returned the bottle to the bar. I walked over to find her in a darkened corner behind the bar, and when I a
pproached her she motioned me away. In the shadowy light her profile was perfect, fine-boned and elegant, until the flashing light of a beer sign showed her age. The blinking neon of the Budweiser sign showed a face being eaten by the intractable, indifferent, and incurable cancer of time.
“Take Me Back to Tulsa” by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys played on the jukebox as Grubb came out of the restroom, finished his drink, and paid his respects to Mary.
As we walked down the street, Grubb said, “You know that Mary must have been a show-stopper in her day. She’s got a lot of miles on her, but you can tell she was a beauty when she was young and shiny.”
“I saw a picture of her when she was in her forties,” I said. “Even then she was a very pretty woman.” Once again a feeling of déjà vu swept over me as I recalled the photograph. Once again I dismissed it. I turned to Grubb, “What didn’t you tell Hobbs?”
“I told you both all I knew. What’s important here is that there is a least one more hog at the trough. Maybe two. I think that there’s a hog at the trough we’ve never met and don’t know. And like I said, I think that hog is running the show. Think maybe that hog is in the business, or else how could he set us up so easily, him not knowing the business?”
“Any idea who?”
“Dealt strictly with Polozola. Barely even met Grace. Talked to Smith once and he only said, ‘Talk to Polozola,’ and hung up on me. Whoever it is has built them one nice briar patch to hide behind.”
We stopped when we came upon a classic, shark-finned Cadillac, candy-apple red and in mint condition.
“This yours?”
“The finest car ever produced by Detroit. Nineteen fifty-nine Cadillac El Dorado. Just look at them lines, Doc.”
“Who’d you get this from, Elvis Presley?”
“Actually, at one time it belonged to Jerry Lee Lewis. Least so the story goes.”
“Nice car for keeping a low profile.”
“Son, this car is non-flashy by its flashiness. Who would think someone running from God-knows how much law and who knows how many outlaws would drive a car like this?”
As he opened the driver’s side door I thanked him for the files. Grubb didn’t get in, but stood in the open doorway looking down at me.
“Nothing to it, Doc. I know I took a risk coming here, but it’s about the hole in your bucket.”
“The rogue and hero thing?”
“Yeah, and you’re just like your namesake. I know better than most what a drunken, drugged-up, womanizing, no-good outlaw and all around sonofabitch you are and have been. But when the time comes for a showdown at the OK Corral, you’re there coughing blood into a handkerchief with one hand and carrying a loaded shotgun in the other. And you’re taking point.” Grubb stuck a piece a gum in his mouth and offered me a stick, which I declined. “Yeah, I know just how big a rogue you have been and are, but I also know what kind of hero you can be. Hell, Doc, you got class.”
It was the second time in a week someone had referred to me as a hero. After all the slings and arrows, the indictments, the black-listing, the bankruptcy, foreclosure and divorce, at least I was still a hero to some people. Somehow it didn’t really much matter that those people were Dumpy Doyle and Jefferson Davis Grubb.
“I don’t want to know,” I asked after a moment, “but do you know where you are going?”
“Maybe down south. Down to the gulf, see whatever is left of it. Maybe the seacoast of old Mexico. Get me a bottle of some of that designer tequila they’re making these days and a little señorita who can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, and just sit in the sun until I run out of time or money. Got some bucks stashed away,” he said. “Mid six figures. And most of it’s real money, too.” He laughed and shook my hand as he got in his car and turned on the ignition. It had the roar of a hot rod.
“We’ll bump heads again, son. You know me; I keep showing up like a bad penny.”
“In your case, old friend, it’s more like a wooden nickel.”
The cackle of his laughter hung in the air along with the exhaust fumes of his Cadillac as he drove off into the night. I lingered for a moment watching the taillights fade as Jefferson Davis Grubb cast his lot to the fickleness of fate and his skill at a variety of felonies and misdemeanors.
Chapter Forty-Two
At 9:30 the next morning, as I was in my office reviewing the files Grubb left me, my cellphone dial read Portland Police. I had called Mickey a day earlier to see what he could find out about the possibility that Lichtman had a secret stash of millions in diamonds.
After the formalities Mickey asked, “You know who Ira Barsky is?”
“The old man of Barsky and Sons?”
“Yeah.”
Of course I knew who Ira Barsky was. His family had owned the premier jewelry store in Portland for almost four generations. A pillar of the community, a patron of the arts, Ira Barsky always had a float in the annual Portland Rose Festival parade that never won less than an honorable mention.
“Nobody does major amounts of diamonds, retail or wholesale, legit or otherwise in this town without Ira either involved or knowing about it,” continued Mickey. “Barsky told me that he quit doing business with Lichtman a few years before Sid was murdered. Said not only was he tired of being nickeled and dimed and poor-mouthed by Sid, but Lichtman was getting into some gray areas of ethics and the law. Barsky said he was worried about his reputation dealing with ‘that loud-mouthed car salesman prick’ as he called him.”
“What about his having eight million stashed away?”
“Barsky said that he knew Lichtman was stockpiling large quantities of diamonds. When I asked what he guessed their worth was, he said, ‘If that gonif said he had eight million, he probably had ten million.’ ”
As I thanked Mickey I wondered just what he had on a man like Ira Barsky to make him give up confidential information on a client. Even a former and dead client. As usual I didn’t ask, and as always I didn’t want to know.
Avoiding a phone call, then a text, and then an email, I was still managing to duck both local and national media regarding Jesus’ death. I even had stopped watching the news and only glanced at the front pages. Tabloid murders like his seemed to take on a life of their own.
Shortly after I hung up with Mickey, Hobbs appeared the same as always: looking as if he had shaven without a mirror and slept in his clothes in his car. It was ten a.m. sharp, but no matter the hour of the day, the breath mints barely covered the smell of whiskey on the man who’d once been a legend. He entered my office without knocking, flopped loudly into the clients’ chair, and sans any other salutation, said, “Tell me everything you know, and then everything you think you know.”
My head had the wet sawdust feel that all-nighters give one. I sipped some lukewarm coffee, got right to it, and told him what I knew. First what we both knew. That Jesus Cortez was murdered in Berkeley nine days ago with the same weapon that killed car dealer Sid Lichtman in San Diego three years ago, and the same weapon that murdered one Eve Smith thirty years ago in Portland. And the same gun that three days ago had murdered Jack Polozola in Oakland. The same Jack Polozola I was hired by Grace Lowell to find, and did find—in the Oakland Morgue. But Grace, who’d told me she was on her way to claim the body, never showed. She also hadn’t answered either my voicemails or emails.
“Which brings us to your client,” pointed out Hobbs.
“Which brings us to my client, who not so incidentally is the widow of Sid Lichtman and the former employer of Jack Polozola.”
“I know that. I’ve been looking into Grace Lowell, particularly since I discovered she was your client,” said Hobbs. “But at this point I don’t know much more than what Rosselli told me.”
“How did you know she was my client?”
“What do you think? And what the fuck difference does it make?”
“How about my expectation of privacy and my client’s right to confidentiality? Those minor issues.”
“Bullsh
it. But if there were those issues, they walked away with the old grifter.”
“I think my civil rights walked away the day I met you. But I take your point, Hobbs. I also get it that Grace makes a reasonable suspect, or at least person of interest.”
I stood to stretch and told him my about conversation with Mickey. Hobbs rose and walked over and studied the print of Guernica.
“Lieutenant Michael Francis Mahoney,” said Hobbs turning away from the Picasso print and looking at me. “Interesting name for a rabbi, but he is your rabbi, isn’t he? Had him checked out when I found that out. Found out he has a reputation for being a fixer. That right?”
“I know what a rabbi is in police jargon—someone with rank who looks out for you—but I’m not sure what fixer means,” I said sitting back down.
“Sure you are. It’s someone who does favors and makes arrangements for other people, usually of an illicit or devious nature.”
“Doesn’t sound like Mickey,” I said as I gave Hobbs a facetious smile.
“Probably a different Mickey Mahoney,” Hobbs said with a sarcastic sneer. “.But back to his intel. We should consider it solid?”
“Mickey is a solid as it gets. And so is his intel. Always.”
“So maybe she sets up the whole scheme,” said Hobbs. “This whole money laundering deal, uses what you guys call the Holiday Treatment and then hires you to see just how well they’ve executed it? See if maybe there are some holes—no one could find them better than you. And what’s her plan then? Maybe buy you off? Maybe pay you to patch up the holes? Maybe if you weren’t culpable before, you would be when she got done with you. Ensure that you are truly the fall guy. Whatever she’s up to takes some balls. Some brains. And a very cool head,” said Hobbs, shifting in his chair.
“She’s that cool. As for the brains, maybe. But Grubb thought someone else was pulling the strings. He thought maybe a mortgage broker or mortgage banker. He’s usually right about those things, and after reviewing these files, I agree. But if not Grace, who?”
The Big Bitch Page 19