by J. L. Abramo
I waited for her to close the door and went back to the car.
“Well?” asked Joey.
“Jimmy was working on a plan to square Harry’s debt with Pazzo without having to sell the company,” I told Joey. “Boyle said that Harding was into Pazzo for a hundred thousand. How would Jimmy have pulled that off?”
“Carlucci?” said Joey.
“It’s all I can come up with. The twenty grand that came in the mail had to be a down payment. Whatever Jimmy was doing for Carlucci had to be worth a lot more to Tony if it was going pay off Pazzo to get Harry off the chopping block.”
“We’ll see Tony when he gets back from Vegas,” said Joey.
“I’ve got this bad feeling that I’m being played like a fiddle. I just can’t sort it out,” I said. “I couldn’t picture Evelyn calling anyone, least of all Vinnie Strings, to casually mention that Grace was back at the Harding house. I’m thinking that it had to be Grace who called Vinnie, that she wanted me to find her.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea. And now she’s gone again.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for Myron to find something. I’m waiting to hear what Vic Stritch has to offer.”
“And?”
“And I’m really hungry. I suppose we could grab something to eat.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Joey, “and I know just the place.”
Joey Russo always did.
After a pound and a half of steak, a baked potato, and three or four beers I was ready for a nap. We were working on coffee and desert when Joey’s cell phone went off.
“Darlene,” Joey said, handing me the phone.
“Jake, Stritch just left. I gave him the five hundred; he gave me a phone number. He said it was the number of the guy who hired him to demolish your door.”
“Did he say how he got it?’
“He said the guy called him again, wanted Stritch to keep an eye on you for a few days. Vic has caller ID. He decided that he’d rather sell the number to you than take the job and have to deal with Sonny the Chin.”
“Let me have the number.”
“I already called the number, Jake. It was Richman International,” said Darlene, “and you’ll never guess who answered the telephone.”
“C’mon Darlene, I don’t need any more suspense.”
“Ray Boyle.”
“What the hell was Ray Boyle doing there answering the phone?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I hung up.”
“Okay, Darlene. Let me know if you hear anything.”
“Something else. Sonny called. He’s been trying to reach Joey and having trouble getting through,” she said.
“The contract on my door came out of Richman’s office,” I said, handing Joey the phone. “Give Sonny a call, he’s been trying to reach you.”
“Do you want to go back to Richman’s, try to find out who hired Stritch?” asked Joey after he had talked with Sonny.
“Ray Boyle is over there; God knows why. I’d rather stay away until we know what’s up.”
“Sonny said that he may have a line on Jimmy’s ex-wife, that she may be in California, north of San Francisco. I was thinking we should get back up there,” said Joey, “maybe we can get to see Tony Carlucci tonight.”
We headed back to Jimmy’s office.
Twenty Four
Tom Fanelli dropped us in front of the airline terminal. We had left Myron back at the Internet company napping on the sofa in Harding’s office. Jerry was still going through Jimmy’s office. Joey sent Tom back with instructions to wake the kid and babysit him for as long as it took.
“Pick up some food for yourself, Jerry, and the kid on your way back,” Joey said.
Joey had called ahead to the airlines; the tickets were waiting for us at the gate. We made it onto the plane with no time to spare.
Twenty minutes later we were in the air and Joey had ordered bourbons. We had to settle for Jack Daniel’s.
I thought about Grace. How apprehensive I had been about seeing her again after almost three years. How when I did see her it was not what I had expected.
When Grace skipped on me she had left a short note. “The trouble with you, Jacob, is that you never seem to know what the trouble is.” If she had meant it as constructive criticism, it didn’t do me much good at the time.
I tried finding her for a while with no luck. Not one of our mutual acquaintances was willing or able to give me a lead. Those who had remained loyal to Sally probably figured that I had it coming.
Thing is, all this time I’d been working under the assumption that I was still in love with Grace. Not obsessed, or anything that gothic, but definitely carrying a torch. It was no wonder I was plugging us into the Dickens novel in my dreams.
Then I finally saw Grace at Evelyn’s that afternoon and discovered that the feelings were simply not there. I wasn’t in love with her. And here’s the really funny part. Since seeing Sally at the hospital it was Sally who was drifting in and out of my mind the past few days. Maybe funny isn’t the right word.
“Jake?” said Joey, snapping me out of my reverie, “want another drink?”
“Why not. Damn, I wish I’d called Darlene before we took off.”
“There’s a phone right there in front of you,” he said, handing me his platinum Master Card.
I swiped the card and dialed Darlene’s home number.
“They’re asking for a PIN.”
“A-N-G-E-L-A,” Joey said.
“That’s your credit card password?”
“It’s easy to remember; she’s what I really love most.”
I hung up the phone.
What did I love most? My personal identification number spelled Dickel, if that’s any clue. What did Jimmy Pigeon love most? Mystery, poker, football, movies, vodka, Marlboros, Tina Bella?
I picked up the phone again, but I dialed Myron this time.
“Try Los Angeles.”
“What?”
“The password; try L-O-S-A-N-G-E-L-E-S. Call my assistant Darlene if you get anything.” I gave him my office number and Darlene’s home number and hung up.
“Los Angeles?” said Joey Russo.
“It’s worth a shot.”
I called Darlene at the office.
“Did you miss your plane?”
“We’re on the plane,” I said, “have you heard anything about what happened at Richman’s?”
“Nothing,” she said, “Sonny just stopped in, said he was on his way to pick you up at the airport. I’m heading home.”
“You might hear from a kid named Myron,” I said, “if he does call take down everything he has to say. I’ll call you later at home.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she said.
We were making our approach to San Francisco International.
Twenty minutes later we were on the ground.
When we came off the plane Sonny was waiting for us and, though he didn’t know it, he wasn’t alone. They must have followed him from my office. They swooped in on me like hawks on a field mouse.
“Jake Diamond, you’re under arrest for the murder of Walter Richman,” said Sergeant Johnson, the handcuffs out and ready, “you have the right to remain silent.”
“Silent my ass, what are you insane?”
“Calm down Mr. Diamond,” said Lieutenant Lopez, “let’s not cause a scene. And you men, move away please.”
Joey and Sonny looked at each other and took a step back.
“Okay, I’m calm. Can you tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”
“Walter Richman was killed in his office. His assistant, Susan Fairbanks, said that you were in with Richman when she left this afternoon.”
“Richman was alive when I left his office. I don’t even own a gun.”
“Richman wasn’t shot Diamond; he was bludgeoned to death with an Oscar statuette,” said Johnson. “Now let me see your hands.”
I let him see my
right, very close up. He hit the floor like the ton of bricks he was. I’d never slugged anyone like that before, and I thought I’d broken the hand. Then I was running. I could hear Lopez yelling behind me. I wasn’t afraid that she would shoot, but I was sure that some airport rent-a-cop or mindless bystander was going to throw a tackle on me. To my amazement I made it outside without incident and jumped into a standing cab.
“Downtown,” I said, “on the double.”
The cabby pulled out into the exiting traffic.
“On the double, I like that, on the double,” I heard him mumble.
And we were on our way into the city.
I knew that I wouldn’t take the rap for killing Richman, even though they were going to find my prints on the murder weapon. I gave Ray Boyle a lot more credit than that. At the same time I didn’t want to be sitting in a jail cell at Vallejo Street while it was ironed out.
I wasn’t sure where to go. I thought about Carlucci’s Restaurant, thinking that Joey might look for me there. But I had no way of knowing if Tony Carlucci would be back from Las Vegas, and if he was back I didn’t want to deal with him before Joey showed up. Besides, it was too close to my office.
The cops could be watching my apartment; Joey’s place, Vinnie’s, Darlene’s and maybe my mother’s as well.
Traffic was heavy and getting heavier the closer we came to the ballpark. I could see Pac Bell Stadium from the window of the cab, all lit up for a game. The Mets were in town, the third of a three game series. I was tempted to change my destination and try to scalp a ticket to the ballgame. Getting lost in a crowd of fifty thousand Giant fans sounded like a fine idea.
After passing the exit to the stadium the driver pushed the cab to sixty-five miles an hour.
“On the double,” he mumbled, “I like that.”
“Mind if I smoke?” I asked.
“I don’t care if you burst into flames,” he answered.
When we got into town I asked the driver to stop at a pay phone. I called Darlene.
“Jesus, Jake. Where are you? Your face is plastered all over the TV.”
I should have kept up the dues on my SAG card.
“I’m in a phone booth on Van Ness.”
“What if your mother calls?”
Only Darlene would think of that.
“Tell her I said, ‘Top of the world, Ma.’ She’ll know what it means.”
“Jake.”
“I don’t know, Darlene. Just tell her I’m innocent.”
“The news says that your prints are all over the murder weapon. An Academy Award, Jake?”
“It’s a long story. Did Myron call you?”
“Yes. He said that Los Angeles did the trick. I don’t even want to know what that means. He said he’d wait at the office for thirty more minutes; after that you can reach him at home.”
She gave me the number.
“And Sally called,” Darlene added.
“Sally?” I said.
“She’s at her house in the Presidio; she was tired of hanging around the hospital in LA. She saw the news and called to let you know that if you need a place to lay low you can go there.”
How do you like that?
“I was planning to come over to your place.”
“Not a good idea,” she said, “two police cruisers just pulled up in front.”
“Okay, I’ll get in touch. Stay calm.”
“Yeah, sure. Maybe you should turn yourself in, Jake, before some gun-happy cop stumbles across you.”
“Can’t do it, Darlene. I can’t clear myself from a jail cell.”
I was beginning to sound like Harry Harding.
“I have to get the door. Be careful, Jake.”
“Presidio,” I said to the driver when I got back into the cab. I gave him Sally’s address.
French Lessons
There’s no big mystery about life, Jake.
It’s what happens.
—Sally French
Twenty Five
We pulled up in front of the house where Sally and I had spent two shaky years of marriage. I reached for my wallet. I opened it and found three bucks. The meter read $28.75. My panic level was cranked up a few notches and then I remembered that Joey had handed me a fistful of bills when we stopped for the Mylanta. I reached into the jacket pocket of my expensive suit and took out the cash.
I was happy to find the bottle there also.
“If someone happened to ask, would you have to tell them where you dropped me off?”
“Not necessarily,” the driver said.
I handed him two fifty-dollar bills.
“I dropped you off at Fisherman’s Wharf.”
I handed him two more.
“I dropped you off at the Greyhound Terminal in Oakland.”
I got out of the cab, took a quick swig from the bottle of Mylanta, and walked up to Sally’s door.
“Jesus, Jake. You look like shit. Nice suit though,” she said, “come in.”
I followed her into the kitchen.
“Are you hungry?” Sally asked.
“No. I had a big steak not long ago.”
“Those things will kill you, Jake.”
“If the cops don’t kill me first.”
“What’s this all about?”
“It’s a misunderstanding, Sally. It’ll work out. I just have too much to do right now to wait it out in custody. I appreciate your help.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about a few things, about what went down three years ago.”
“Don’t mention it,” she repeated, “I’m not up for it at the moment and you have other things to worry about. How can I help?”
“Maybe some coffee, and a phone.”
“I’ll put some up. Use the phone in the study.”
I called Joey Russo.
“Where are you,” Joey asked.
“At Sally’s, the Presidio.”
“Carlucci just blew in. He’ll meet us at his place tomorrow at noon.”
“Jesus, why tomorrow?”
“Be thankful he’ll see us at all, Jake. I had to appeal to his ethnic solidarity.”
“Is it safe?”
“It’ll have to be. Sonny tracked down Hannah Sims through the Colorado State Teachers’ Association. She’s retired, living off a small pension and her husband’s life insurance up in Sonoma County if you still want to talk with her.”
“I doubt she knows anything,” I said.
“Whatever. The police are probably watching my place; I’ll try to sneak out past them. Meet me at the restaurant at noon; stay clear of your office.”
“See you there. Thanks, Joey.”
I went back to Sally in the kitchen.
“So?” she asked, pouring the coffee.
“So I guess you’re stuck with me for the night.”
“No problem,” she said, “there’s plenty of room.”
“Why are you going out on a limb for me, Sally?”
“Because I sense that you’re trying to do the right thing, that you’re putting yourself at the back of the line for a change. I saw it at the hospital, the Boy Scout in you coming out.”
“Trying to find out who killed Jimmy may not be as selfless as you think, Sally.”
“I can see that also, Jake. It’s not like I know nothing about you. You’re thinking that finding Jimmy’s killer will somehow square you. That doing something for Jimmy now will make up for not doing enough for him while he was alive. You might even be thinking that it’s time to even the score with some other people who have given to you without expecting much in return. You’re hoping that it’s not too late.”
“Is it too late?”
“For Jimmy, yes. But following through is a noble gesture and a step in the right direction. Look, Jake, I’m the last person that has a right to be preaching to you. I was a spoiled, selfish brat the whole time we were together. But I’m working on it.”
“Dick Spencer is a luc
ky guy,” I said, as corny as I knew it would sound.
“We’ll have to wait and see how lucky any of us are. For now, I don’t think it would hurt for you to try to get some sleep.”
It was good advice.
I took it.
Twenty Six
When I woke the next morning, Sally was gone.
She had left a note saying she had work to do, and had left a set of house keys. There was a small Post-it on the coffee maker, just below the on/off switch, that read push me.
I drank some coffee and looked through the Examiner. I found a not too flattering photograph of myself on page three. The good news was that the short accompanying piece indicated that I was wanted for questioning and not murder.
Fortunately I had slept late, and only had two hours to kill before the meeting at Carlucci’s Restaurant. Even at that, I had no idea what to do with myself.
I decided on a shower for starters, wishing that I had something other than a wrinkled five hundred-dollar suit to wear. I went to grab the cigarettes from my suit jacket and found a pair of chinos, a flannel shirt and a pullover sweater neatly folded on the sofa beside the jacket. I was fairly certain that they belonged to Dick Spencer, but I couldn’t be choosy. I’d have to stick with the shoes from Rodeo Drive because Dick had feet like a ballerina.
Squeaky clean and donned in attorney casual, I left the house at eleven-thirty. The walk would do me good. I circled around, taking Bay Street past Columbus Avenue to Powell and then down Powell to Washington Square. From there I could get into Carlucci’s and avoid the avenue completely. I fought the temptation to glance up toward my office and quickly ducked inside.
The clock above the bar made it five minutes to twelve.
The place was already filling up with a lunch crowd.
There was an old wooden phone booth at the far end of the bar, just at the entrance to the dining room in back.
I remembered admiring it the first time I was here. When Joey, Grace and I met with John Carlucci, before Frank Slater’s testimony put Johnny Boy in San Quentin. I headed straight for the phone, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone at the bar or at the tables along the opposite wall. I made it to the booth, sat down, and closed the door.