Death Walks Skid Row
Page 15
While it was not a planned thing, she told a writer who was profiling her for Los Angeles Magazine that she was thinking of legally changing her first name to ‘Arone’.
The Governor was seen less and less on the street. Most of the other streeters figured it was because of his age – if they worried about it at all. The Governor was still available to pass a spare quarter or Washington on to anyone who needed it, but he was also spending more time at home with Pooch. He had even bought himself a television.
What nobody knew was that Charlie was also working as an unpaid advisor to Mayor Soto’s office on the project to reform the Row.
Nobody except Ramona Rios, who kept it to herself.
About once a month, Ramona snuck her way over to his apartment, dressing down as best she could to blend in, just to see how he was doing. Sometimes she arrived with a shopping bag of dog food.
“You know something, baby girl,” he said during one such visit, “I’m not going to last forever.”
“Don’t talk about that,” Ramona said.
“Let me say my piece. Nobody knows what’s going to happen to them, and I’m no spring chicken. I have a meeting with my attorney tomorrow to put my affairs in order and make out a will.”
“Charlie …”
“Don’t worry, I’m not dying, or anything like that. I’m just getting older, and now that you know my secret, you know all that money has to go somewhere. I’m planning on establishing a foundation to help streeters, but that’s neither here nor there. What I’m asking you is whether, when the time comes, you’d take the most valuable thing I’ve got.”
“What’s that?”
Charlie nodded toward Pooch, who was resting on the floor in front of them. The dog’s tail began to thump.
“Of course I will,” Ramona said. “But not for a long, long time.”
“It’s a deal, then. If you’ve got the time, what do you say to dinner at T’Jacques?”
****
A week later, the Governor was on the job, sitting on a battered folding chair on San Pedro Street, watching the world shuffle by. An unmarked police car pulled up and Detective Darrell Knight got out.
“Detective,” the Governor said.
“Governor. Can I talk to you a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Adam Henry’s trial has been scheduled. They’re expediting it because his mental health is failing. Everybody thought he was just a dimwit, but it turns out he’s been suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease.”
“Damn.”
“Anyway, you’ll be required to testify. I just wanted you to know that.”
“I understand.”
“Here’s the thing. There’s probably no way to protect your secret on the stand. Your financial situation is going to come out, most likely through cross-examination. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well … maybe it’s time to retire anyway.”
“Just wanted to warn you.”
“Appreciate it.”
Knight looked around and scratched the back of his neck.
“Okay,” the Governor said, “what else is on your mind?”
“Well, we’ve had a report of a disappearance. A young girl from a rich, influential family … very rich, very influential … who got into the drug scene and then vanished. Since the department now thinks I can work miracles, thanks to you, I’m getting leaned on to solve the case.” Knight pulled a photograph of a blonde, freckled, pouty-faced young woman. “This is her, Audrey Chandler. If you happen to see her down here, or even hear anything about a new girl on the block, I’d appreciate a call.”
The Governor studied the photo.
“I’ll let you know, detective,” he said.
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About the author
Michael Mallory is an internationally recognised authority on 20th century pop culture. He has written six books and more than 400 magazine and newspaper articles on such subjects as film history, animation, and comic books. Within the realm of fiction he is best known as the author of the Amelia Watson mystery series, which chronicles the adventures of the second wife of Dr John H. Watson, friend to Sherlock Holmes. In addition, Mike is a frequent public speaker, a joke-writer, a former newscaster, and over the years has been known to take an acting role or two. He lives in Los Angeles.