Eventually I turned the conversation toward what I needed. “So is there anyone in town that you would call a really uptight religious person? More than the deputy, I mean, no offense. I was raised Catholic myself,” I stretched the truth a bit, showing the cross at my neck that Dad had given me for catechism. A keepsake, not a statement, though it served me at times like this. “Anyone wound really tight, you know, railing against iniquity or anything like that?”
“You must have heard about Preacher John.” Alice smiled wider, showing too-white, too-even teeth. Dentures or applications, must be.
“Not specifically, but I have a lead.” I left it at that and so did Alice. I’d already made a mistake with Marilou, talking too much.
“You’ll find him at the mission on Third Street downtown, sweeping up the homeless, feeding them and preaching to them.”
“Sounds harmless. Beneficial, even.”
“He’s all right.”
“How long’s he been here?”
“Less than a year, but not by much. I think he came right after Christmas. Begged the city to pay his rent for a few months in return for organizing the soup kitchen. To my mind, did a damn fine job of it.”
“So he’s no trouble?” I persisted.
“He comes to all the open city council meetings trying to get his way. Wants the tattoo parlor shut down and hard liquor licenses revoked. There’s a novelties shop over on Canal that sells a few sex toys that he’s been trying to get to give up anything lewd and lascivious. Stuff like that.”
Sounded like the kind of guy I was looking for, the kind of guy that might take exception to someone like Frank. “Any crazies in town follow Preacher John close?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know the type. Borderline sling-blade kinds of guys. Guys that don’t necessarily process right and wrong the way normal people do. Guys that might take what Preacher John said and make something else out of it thinking they were doing the right thing.”
Alice shook her head. “None that I know of, but I haven’t really paid attention. Mike and I attend Grace Presbyterian over on Salem Avenue and any charity work I do ain’t going to involve volunteering to serve food if you know what I mean. I give through my church. That’s about all this old carcass can handle.”
I chuckled at her and told her, “You’re far from decrepit, Alice. I’m sure Deputy Davis thinks so too.” Something crossed my mind. “What about his daughter?”
“Eh…” Alice scratched at the tabletop with a short, stiff nail. “She don’t like me much. Thinks I’m not good enough for her daddy. Got no room to talk, far as I’m concerned,” and then she stopped.
I looked a question at her but she just shook her head with lips pressed together, and I didn’t want to push. “More background, then. When I talked to Linda yesterday she said her boss Frank at the school was a little person.”
Alice snorted. “Yeah. Linda idolizes Frank. Says he’s the best special-ed teacher and supervisor she’s ever seen. Guess it’s because he’s special himself.”
“Special?”
“Well, not mentally. Physically challenged, I guess you’d say.”
“Uh-huh. Any other of his kind in town?” I left that vague to see how she would answer it. Open-ended questions were always better than those with only two or three possible answers.
“Little people? Just one, a kid with normal-sized parents. Ronny Randall. He’s eight or nine, I think, and ain’t but the size of a kindergartner, if that.”
Damn, I thought, and shook my head. “What about African-Americans?”
“Blacks? There’s one family, fairly new. Robert and Lisa Turner. Bob teaches at the high school. Nice folks. Go to our church. God-fearing people. Keep to themselves.”
“You know, Alice, if I didn’t know this was California I’d be wondering when I’d start hearing the banjo music.”
“Oh, come on now, Cal. We’re not like that. We get along fine with the Hispanics in town. Not our fault black people’d rather stay in the big cities with their own kind.”
“So, no racial problems in town at all?”
Alice sighed. “I don’t know what you’re drivin’ at. Thought you were looking for a skipped felon?”
I rubbed my face. “Not sure what I’m doing now, Alice. I came through yesterday and said something that should have stayed confidential and within an hour or two it seemed like it was all over town.” The coffee tasted good as I finished my cup. “Then a couple bikers try to run me off the road, giving me the distinct feeling I’m not wanted around here.”
“People talk too much in this town, that’s for sure. But I don’t.” She jutted her jaw out and shook her finger at me as she rose to retrieve the pot of coffee, pouring me another cup. Afterward, she sat down on the fixed counter stool across from my booth.
“Even to Mike?”
Alice sniffed, like she didn’t want to say anything bad about her beau, but the eloquent sound told me all I needed to know. “It’s not for Mike’s sake. It’s that Monroe woman and her son Eric. He’s probably one of the bikers causin’ you trouble. Hound dog after any pretty young thing he comes across.”
Something clicked in my head. “Eric have a nickname?”
“Hmm. They call him Laser, though heaven knows why. Hangs out with a fat slob called Pork Chop. They come into town to visit mom all the time, acting like they own the place.”
Interesting. It hadn’t been Laser that was giving me trouble, though the hound dog part rang true. “Why is an older patch-wearer like Pork Chop playing second fiddle to Laser?”
Alice’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t know. Didn’t used to be that way.”
So Laser had come up in the world, gaining status somehow.
Just then an elderly couple came in and Alice hustled to seat them. Once she had, I ordered a salad and a grilled cheese sandwich, but the opportunity to talk had fled as more customers trickled in for the lunch hour.
I wrote my cell number on a card and left it with a twenty on the table. Pretty soon, maybe tomorrow, maybe even today, the word about Frank’s murder was going to arrive in town and I had an idea that would shake something loose. The more law-abiding citizens had my number the better.
Until then, I was going to keep digging. I especially hoped I would run across someone who seemed to know too much. For the narrow window I had before the word got here, anyone too interested in Frank except me was a suspect.
Chapter 8
My next stop was the Old Mill, its parking lot crowded enough I had to find a space around the back. When I went inside the beer-lunch crowd had control of the bar. Plates of burgers and fries warred with shrimp baskets and empty longnecks on the counter. Kerry popped tops and pulled drafts as fast as he could and the restaurant section seemed full as well.
It made quite a contrast with the diner I’d just come from. I wondered why. Then I looked at the lunch menu artfully chalked in colors on the blackboard wall and realized something I hadn’t noticed before.
Food was cheap here. Real cheap. Half what it would cost in the City, probably a quarter less than similar items at the Forty-Niner Diner. Prices for the drinks were even cheaper. Shockingly so, which was weird. Usually the strategy is to make the food cheap to sell high-margin drinks. Even soft drinks give restaurants a lot of profit, ounce for ounce. I couldn’t figure out how the Old Mill made any money and everyone around here was taking advantage.
I decided to come back a bit later and talk to Kerry after things died down. Maybe Preacher John was around.
As I stepped outside I heard the distinctive roar of Harleys as they accelerated away, thinking nothing of it until I rounded the side of the building and saw Molly settled low on four flat tires.
Bastards. Pulling out Deputy Davis’ card, I dialed him up on my cell and told him what happened. Three minutes later he cruised into the lot and parked next to my car.
“Couple of Harleys took off just as I saw this,” I said as he got out.
“But you didn’t see them do it.”
“Nope. Just saying, combined with what happened yesterday…”
“You didn’t file a report about the incident yesterday.”
I shrugged. “I was in a hurry.”
“And today you’re not.”
“Not exactly going anywhere right now, am I? But I need a report so my insurance pays for this. Four high-end summer tires. Almost two grand worth of damage.”
Davis grunted, took out his clipboard and started filling out his report while I called my insurance company and arranged for a tow and a rental car. Once I’d hung up, he said, “I guess they don’t want you finding their tweaker buddy. Looks like a knife blade straight into the sidewalls.”
“Yeah. You know that rest stop up on J59 is a drop point for dealing. Or was. That’s where those nomads chased me away from.”
“I know,” Davis said as he scribbled, leaning his butt on his squad car. “And that’s where Jerry Conrad’s bike was stolen from. Now there’s a philosophical man.”
I looked a question at him as I rested a hand on Molly.
Davis went on, “Didn’t seem to care much about his bike getting stolen, I mean. Three thousand dollar machine. He bragged to me once that he has one worth fifteen thousand. Can you believe that? Fifteen thousand for a bicycle?”
“Yeah, I got the same impression when I talked to him. Like he wanted to just put it behind him.”
Davis chuckled. “If it wasn’t for his wife I wonder if he’d have reported it at all.”
“His wife?”
“Yeah, Carol. She’s a bit high strung, always reporting stuff, all minor. She made the initial call. Said Jerry texted her from the rest stop and wanted her to pick him up because his bike got stolen. Called the station and I was at my desk. Said her husband needed a ride back to town, but she was in the beauty shop getting her hair colored. Asked me if I couldn’t give him a ride back, seeing as I had to fill out a police report anyway.”
“And?”
“And I did it. I mean, why not? Jerry’s a pillar of the community. Invested a lot in this town. Generous with all the school fundraisers, Chamber of Commerce, Rotary. Owns this place, after all, though he don’t seem to want to run it.” Davis pointed at the Old Mill with his pen.
“He owns the Old Mill?” Now that was interesting. Conrad had made himself out to be just a guy who had a comfortable cushion and was looking to enjoy life, take it easy from now on, but the Old Mill represented a pretty good chunk of prime real estate, five acres and a nice big old building right at the main turnoff into town. Nowhere in California was cheap, especially not good business locations. This place had to be worth a couple million easy.
I wondered who owned the busy gas station across the street so I asked Davis.
“Yep, that’s his too. Bought them both in 2002. Crash dropped property values and slowed down business so I hear he got a good deal. They were getting a bit long in the tooth anyway. Jerry put a bunch of money into renovations and now they’re humming along as things pick back up.”
Just then my tow truck pulled in, one of the kind that loaded the car onto the big flat bed rather than just lifted and pulled. I waved it over and filled out paperwork while Davis finished with his scribbling. I asked him where the best tire place in town was and told the driver to take it there. Once I signed the police report I took my copy, thanked the deputy and hopped in the tow truck.
As we drove off, I could see Davis grab his car radio mike and pull it on its long cord out the window as he stood, taking another call. Staring out the truck’s back window, I watched the squad car roar away, making a left out of the Old Mill’s parking lot and heading east on Yosemite Boulevard, higher into the foothills and deeper into the gold country. I’d have to phone him later on to see what all the excitement was about.
At the tire place I told them to take their time and I would pick Molly up near closing. Better that I left her safe in the shop than drive around some more and risk another attack. I packed all my bounty hunting gear in duffle bags and took it with me. Pretty soon my rental car pulled up. I slung the stuff in the trunk and hopped in.
The rental car guy drove me over to the office where I signed that paperwork, charged straight to my insurance, thank God. I suspected I was going to lose money on this case, with no more paying client. I didn’t really care right now. Frank’s sad corpse hung in my minds eye, feeling like an affront to me personally. I was going to nail whoever did Frank in as a point of honor.
From the rental place I drove over to Third Street and cruised up and down until I spotted the John 3:16 Revival Mission, so marked by big white painted letters on the brick beside its doorway and the marquee above the entrance.
Obviously the mission had once been a movie theater, one of the classic old types that showed only one film at a time and tried to make up for that with double features on weekends and cheap B-movie matinees on weekdays, the kind my father used to reminisce about.
Dad used to say, “It sure was better back then.” Maybe in some ways it was, but I had to live in the here and now.
The smell of fresh popcorn still lingered in the air. A machine sat behind the concession counter, obviously recently used. No other food, no hot dogs or candy or sodas remained, just that popper. Instead, tracts and revival literature of all sorts lined the counter.
Open doors beckoned me into the dimly lit theater space, still sporting most of its chairs except for the front five rows or so. Those had been pulled out in favor of folding tables and chairs set up in semi-permanent status, with salt shakers and napkin holders already in place. I wondered what Preacher John fed his flock besides popcorn.
A dozen people sat scattered here and there in the chairs, scruffy and unkempt. Most had trash bags or old suitcases piled on seats next to them, obviously folks with nowhere else to be. Some dozed, others chatted with those nearby. One played some kind of ancient handheld video game that beeped and buzzed.
“Can I help you?” asked a voice behind me. I turned to see a tall man of about sixty, balding with a fringe of white hair around his shiny dome, reminding me of one of those friars from Robin Hood’s time. Tonsure, I think the hairdo was called. This one wore a clean old suit instead of robes.
“Preacher John?” I asked.
“That’s what they call me. What can I do for you?”
No wild light in his eyes, no crazy look. Just that flash of humor and kindness that seems to light up the best of humanity’s holy men, the ones that when you meet them convince you that love really can save you, that people can be good to each other and peace with your fellow man is just a matter of listening hard to God and your better self. Men like John reminded me that for every charlatan and hypocrite there was also someone really trying to do good in this world.
I liked to think I was a part of that, in my own small way. If I didn’t, I guess I’d be selling insurance or, I don’t know, teaching school. That reminded me of Frank, who did such a great job with the special kids despite his faults.
I wondered what Preacher John’s faults were.
“Cal Corwin,” I said. I didn’t offer my hand and he seemed not to notice. “I’m a bail bondsman doing a bit of investigating. Can we sit down somewhere?”
“John Studemeyer’s my name. Come up to my office.” John led me to a door that still displayed its Authorized Personnel Only sign. It turned out to lead to stairs up to the projection room. Only now, no projectors; just a desk, shelves filled with an assortment of books, a single bed and an old wooden dresser. Two more suits hung on a sturdy hat rack in the corner.
“Welcome to my humble abode. Please, sit.”
“Thanks. Now, sir –”
“Please, call me John. Or Brother, if you must.”
“Okay, John. I hear you’re a rabble rouser, preaching against the evils in this town.” I spoke lightly and smiled to show I wasn’t condemning him.
“I speak my piece in the market square, if that’s what you
mean.”
“And the city council meetings?”
“Render unto Caesar, Miss Corwin.”
“I always thought that meant for believers to stay out of politics.”
Brother John shook his head. “This isn’t politics, Miss. It’s governance. I don’t care what political party anyone belongs to. I talk about issues of the heart. Sometimes that crosses over into the community and the law, things that affect people’s real lives. I stand against what I believe is wrong like any other good citizen should.”
I got a good vibe from this man. Wherever these feelings come from – my rattled brain, the spirits of the Cosmos or God Himself, I can usually read people pretty well. I often know who to believe after talking with them for a while. Whatever else I might think about Brother John, I decided I could trust him.
“John, I’m going to level with you because you seem like an honest man who can keep his mouth shut. Can I count on you to keep your mouth shut?”
John nodded solemnly. “I’ll do that. I used to be a priest before I quit the Catholic Church. Consider this under seal.”
“Quit the Church?” That surprised me.
“If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. An issue of unaddressed corruption. A story for another time, perhaps.” His smile turned sad.
“Sure. Sorry. All right. Do you know Frank Jackson?”
“Yes, the special education teacher. Very good with the children, I hear. Excellent reputation.”
Here was where I’d been ready for John’s demeanor to change, but it didn’t. If I was a betting woman – and I am – I’d put money down that John didn’t suspect Frank of anything untoward.
I sat back, watching John’s face intently. “I have some bad news. He’s dead.”
Shock. Surprise. Sadness. Just what I’d expect. Okay, that was good, in its way.
“I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”
“He was hanged in a hotel room in San Francisco.”
“Oh, my.” John’s eyes narrowed. “Was hanged, you said?”
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