Beat Until Stiff

by Claire M Johnson

  “Was Thom involved?” I needed to cover all angles.

  “Brent never mentioned Thom’s name once. Besides, Brent thought he was a good controller but the guy has a perpetual bee up his ass.” An apt description if ever I heard one. “Brent used him to butter up those socialites, but didn’t like him much personally. Whatever was going on was between Brent and Juan.”

  “Are you sure you don’t know anything more about it?” I wanted any pointless detail she could remember.

  “No,” she replied wearily. “All he told me was that it had something to do with the wine, nothing else. He refused. Said it was better that I didn’t know.”

  Okay, now we’re cooking with gas. This tied into what Teri Baxter had said. I leaned forward. “Do you know which winery is involved?”

  “No. You heard me. When we got to the restaurant, Juan had erased everything on the computer and was going to manufacture fake invoices to cover up the fact that the shipments had arrived.”

  “Sharon, do you have any idea who would want to kill Brent?”

  She laughed, a mean, nasty laugh. “Oh please, Mary. I naturally assumed a woman had done it. When I found out that it happened in your house, I was surprised. You’re right, he liked ’em young. But to be honest, I’d come to the point where I believed the man would fuck anything female. Except me,” she whispered, with tears in her eyes.

  She still loved him. He humiliated her with bimbo after bimbo, and she still loved him.

  Sharon began rubbing her eyes. “I’m so tired, you can’t believe how tired I am.” Then she looked straight at me. “I’m sorry for my kids, they’ll really miss him, but you don’t know how bone weary I am. I wasn’t like this before. Maybe now I can get back my self-respect and focus on taking care of them. At least Brent was insured, and if I sell the restaurant we should be fine. Anyway, you want details about the wine, grill Juan. He had Brent completely under his thumb. He’s an evil man.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “This is Juan Vamos we’re talking about, right?” I needed to make sure. There was no way to candy coat the word “evil.” Was my internal radar so amiss that I’d missed the true nature of Juan’s personality?

  “He’s a snake. Do you wonder why your restaurant runs so well? He threatens the staff with their jobs and makes them work overtime with no pay. If any of them make any noise, they’re fired, and good luck in finding another job. Juan blackballs them. Brent wanted to fire him, but depended on him too much.”

  All these years I assumed the deferential attitude the staff displayed toward Juan was respect; now I find it was abject fear.

  Memo to self: learn Spanish in the New Year.

  “Brent let him do this?” I was incredulous. Brent might have fucked his way through countless women, but he was a scrupulously fair employer.

  “He tried to stop him, but Juan did it behind his back. If Brent found out about any overtime, he’d give people money under the table. The threats and blackballing he couldn’t do anything about.”

  I was speechless. O’Connor was right. You could work with people for years and not know anything about them.

  “Now, please, Mary, I need to make arrangements for Brent’s funeral.”

  Like beached whales trying to get back to water, we heaved ourselves out of our seats and headed for the front door.

  “Sharon, one more thing. Do you think Juan’s capable of murder?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she said flatly, “In a New York minute.”

  Chapter 20

  I drove around the block, parked my car, and then ripped the tape off my arm and threw the steak knife on the passenger floorboard. I needed to think, balancing what I knew against what I didn’t know. Given: Brent and Juan were in on the wine deal together. Who else? Cross out Drew, Teri, and Sharon. Thom? Sharon said no, but the new BMW and fancy address said yes. Thom wasn’t available—this very second O’Connor was roasting him over hot coals. That left Gilberto.

  I pulled into the parking lot of San Francisco General and headed to the information desk to find out Gilberto’s status. S.F. General was, unfortunately, all too familiar territory. Two years ago Amos had wasted down to a hundred and twenty pounds and had been fighting leprosy in addition to AIDS. I spent many hours here keeping him company while they poked and probed, trying to stop that evil virus from destroying him. Then the FDA approved the cocktail. His recovery has been amazing; he’s a poster boy for the drug companies.

  The pink ladies told me Gilberto had been moved out of intensive care to the fifth floor. My luck held until I got off the elevator and made my way down the corridor. A police guard sat in front of Gilberto’s door reading a magazine.

  Time for Plan B. I made a U-turn and went to a pay phone near the elevator bank and tried to ring Gilberto’s room. He wasn’t allowed any phone calls either. O’Connor was too efficient for me.

  I’ve been around hospitals all my life. My dad was a doctor, my mother a nurse. As a kid I hung about the back corridors of emergency rooms and surgical units. I know how hospitals work. Time for Plan C.

  I checked my watch and scanned the ward. I had a plan. It was just after five-thirty, but I didn’t see any sign of the dinner carts. This might work.

  I took the elevator down to the fourth floor. Eureka. Halfway down the corridor stood a rack half filled with dinner trays. I checked the nursing station; one nurse was on the phone writing on a chart, the other was watching a monitor. I hoped that if they noticed me, the white chef’s jacket would fool them into thinking I was a doc. A uniform does two things: first, it makes you invisible. If I’m wearing chef’s whites it takes forever to be waited on in a store. Second, it gives you an identity.

  Sweating buckets from the adrenaline racing through my veins, I walked quietly over to the rack and without a sound, slid out one tray. I half expected someone to stop me, but no one noticed. I carried the tray to the elevator without a hitch and went back up to the fifth floor.

  Now the hard part. The cop guarding the door looked like he had just graduated from the Academy. His shoes and badge were shined to perfection, suggesting his uniform hadn’t yet lost its allure. He didn’t have a nametag, but I was betting it would be something like Riordan or O’Sullivan. The red hair and blue eyes were a dead giveaway. Time to play the Irish card.

  “Hello, Officer,” I beamed. “How’s it going? My name’s Moira O’Connor, I’m the Chief Dietician here at S.F. General. I have Mr. Perez’s dinner. Okay if I go on in?”

  “Ms. O’Connor did you say?” His eyes searched my jacket for a nametag.

  I nodded and smiled, working those Irish dimples overtime in an effort to make up for the lack of identification.

  “Perez gets his food before everyone else? They didn’t tell me that.”

  “Glycine allergy,” I lied. “If he has anything except vegetables or fruits he breaks out in gigantic pustules all over his body, poor man.” I tsked several times. “I know an Irish face when I see one,” I teased. “Let me guess. You look like an O’Shaunessy to me.”

  “Powers, actually, ma’am.”

  I looked at him in faux amazement. “That’s my grandmother’s maiden name. Wouldn’t surprise me if we were related somehow.”

  I smiled that little smirk of conspiracy that the Irish give to one another.

  He hesitated for a moment, checking out the uniform and the food tray.

  “I guess it’s okay. Don’t be too long.”

  “Quick as a bunny,” I assured him. I felt a surge of triumph. The nuns never told me lying could be so much fun.

  I’d have to move fast. Even that novice would get suspicious if I stayed in Gilberto’s room too long.

  Luckily he had a private room. I stashed the food tray on his bedside table and then wove my way through the various machines surrounding his bedside to monitor his vital signs. Everything seemed to be beeping in a steady rhythm. Hopefully he wouldn’t need any
nursing assistance in the next five minutes.

  Gilberto was asleep but he must have been having a nightmare. His brow was deeply furrowed, giving a sneak preview of what he’d look like as an old man. I put a hand on his thin shoulder and shook him gently.

  “Gilberto, it’s Mary, Mary Ryan, from the restaurant,” I whispered. “Wake up. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  He opened his eyes slowly, as if he were a vampire and the light from the bedside table were an instrument of torture.

  “Señora?” he asked and then fell back into a foggy stupor.

  Dammit, I hadn’t counted on him being so drugged.

  “Gilberto, wake up,” I said louder this time and tickled his cheek.

  His eyes opened again and tried to focus in my direction.

  “Gilberto, this is very important. Was Thom Woods mixed up in the wine scam at the restaurant?”

  “No, not Mr. Woods. Juan.” The drugs made his speech slurred and thick. It was almost impossible to understand him.

  “Were you involved?”

  He closed his eyes again and nodded yes. “Only to protect Carlitos. He needed money. Juan malo. Evil. You stay away from him.”

  My knight in shining armor.

  His face went slack; he had nodded off again. I pinched the web between his thumb and index finger. “Gilberto, stay awake. Mr. Woods. What’s he doing at the restaurant? Something illegal?”

  “Mishter Woods?”

  I leaned over and gently squeezed both his cheeks.

  “Mr. Woods, Gilberto. What was he doing that was illegal?”

  “Makes green cards. Can’t go to police. Not legal. Send us back to El Salvador. Me. Rosa.”

  Restaurants used to automatically look the other way when they hired Latinos. You assumed they were illegal. Then about fifteen years ago the Feds offered the iron fist in the velvet glove. The glove meant amnesty for those who could prove they’d been in the country for a number of years. A lot of illegals got green cards through this program. The iron fist was that it was now the legal burden of the business community to make sure that the people they hired were legit. This created a whole new market for bogus green cards

  Things were falling into place. I felt a smug satisfaction. First, Thom’s new car and the expensive apartment, then Gilberto’s reluctance to talk to the police. The color of his skin and heavy accent would immediately trigger a check on his immigration status. If he was deported, who was going to support his family back in El Salvador? Gilberto’s palpable frustration that afternoon at Rosa’s place now made sense.

  Thom, you slag heap of putrid lamb fat. You paid for that fancy new car off the backs of people making eight bucks an hour. What in the hell is Amos doing with this man?

  Memo to self: Ask him.

  I brushed Gilberto’s hair away from his face. “You take care. I’ll be back in a couple of days when you’re feeling better.” Gilberto grunted and then fell back asleep.

  I exited the room and closed the door behind me without making a sound. Looking at Officer Powers, I put a finger up to my lips, indicating quiet.

  “He’s asleep,” I said in a mock whisper. “I’ll wake him up in a little while.”

  I sauntered slowly down the hospital corridor and nonchalantly pushed the elevator button. I was so nervous beads of sweat dribbled down my back. It wasn’t until I reached the parking lot that I allowed myself a gargantuan sigh of relief.

  I paged O’Connor. While waiting for him to call me back, I rehearsed various scenarios in my head, searching for the right tone to adopt with him. I must be detached, professional, and above all, not mention that scene in his car.

  “Ryan.”

  That was it. Just my name. The bastard was putting the ball in my court. Two can play that game.

  “O’Connor.”

  Silence.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m just getting off the freeway,” I lied. “I’m passing S.F. General right now. I just talked to Amos and…”

  He cut me off. “Meet me at the restaurant in ten minutes. If you get there before I do, lock your doors and wait for me. Don’t move.”

  I pulled out of the S.F. General parking lot and was heading down Army when a number of loud, insistent honks got my attention. I looked in the rearview mirror. A blue van muscled its way out of the S.F. General parking lot and began weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic. Trying to catch up to me.

  My stomach dropped to the floorboard in a panic. I’d heard on the radio two weeks earlier that the worst mistake a woman can make is to ignore her instincts in potentially dangerous situations. My instincts were screaming loud and clear. This time I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  I leaned over and scooped the steak knife off the floor and placed it on the seat next to me. Then I called 911.

  “My name is Mary Ryan. There’s someone following me in a blue van. The windows are,” I gasped for air, “dark and I can’t see the license plate, but a…a…a…this guy’s been,” I took another couple of deep breaths, “stalking me for a couple of days. What should I do?” It was difficult to talk. Fear was choking off my oxygen. I rolled the window down, letting the cold October night air fill the car. If I didn’t get more air I was going to pass out.

  “Ma’am, you’re calling from a cell phone, right? All cell phones are routed to the CHP. Give me your exact location.”

  Cell phones are the 911 dispatchers’ bane of existence.

  “I’m at Army and Potrero. He’s three cars behind me.”

  “Okay, turn right onto Potrero. Is he still following you?”

  I checked the mirror. Yep. It was rush hour, so there were plenty of cars for cover. He was able to keep a safe distance between us.

  “Y…y…yeah.” My teeth were chattering. I’d never been so afraid. “He’s still there.”

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “A light blue, late model Chevy van. One of the longer types.”

  “Okay, Ma’am. Listen closely. What kind of car are you driving?”

  “A 1986 Subaru wagon, beige, license plate number 582 SHY.”

  “Drive slowly. The Potrero Street Station is at the corner of Connecticut and Potrero. I’m going to have someone contact S.F.P.D. right now. Stay on the line. Hear me? There’ll be a couple of cruisers waiting for you to drive by the station. They’ll corner the van with their cars. Got that?”

  “Y…y…yes,” I stuttered.

  That drive to the Potrero Street Station was the longest drive of my life. The traffic had thinned out so it was only him and me. The van kept me in its sight, but stayed several car lengths behind. As I got closer to the police station, he started to slow down, realizing where I was headed. It was too late. Two cruisers squealed out of the side streets, blocking Potrero. Two more cruisers came up from behind the van at breakneck speed with their lights flashing and pinned him from that direction. He was trapped.

  I stopped my car in the middle of the street, got out, and hid behind a telephone pole in case there was any gunfire. I didn’t trust that sardine can car of mine to stop any bullets. I peeked around the pole to see who it was—the person who had murdered Carlos and Brent.

  Four officers leaped out of their cars, three of them with their guns drawn. The fourth officer cupped a radio-operated megaphone in her hand and ordered the driver to exit the car, hands over his head.

  He got out of the car.

  I screamed at him, “You fucking idiot.”

  It was Jim, his badge held high in the air.

  Chapter 21

  I kept mute while Jim explained to his fellow officers why he had been stalking his ex-wife for the last three days. I wasn’t going to sabotage him, but I certainly had no intention of making it any easier.

  At some point they got O’Connor on the phone, who explained that Jim wasn’t actually stalking me. O’Connor, concerned about my safety as the lead witness to two homicides, gave Jim per
mission to keep an eye on me because the department didn’t have funds for a tail. Next, Jim started telling a few jokes, and pretty soon everyone was slapping each other on the back and laughing about Jim nearly getting his head blown off. Failing to see the humor in the situation, I went and sat in my car, taking deep breaths in an effort to bring my pulse down to normal and stop my hands from shaking.

  After yucking it up for a few more minutes, the cops got into their cruisers and drove off. Jim shuffled over to the Subaru, his hands in his pockets, his face flushed with embarrassment. He began to walk around the car, as if to get into the passenger’s seat and then saw the expression on my face and stopped.

  “Mary, I’m really sorry,” he apologized.

  “You were way out of bounds.” I struggled to stay calm. “Pick up the newspapers lately? Sickos abducting women right, left, and center. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

  He laughed. “You? You wouldn’t even let me have guns in the house when we were married.”

  “Stop laughing,” I ordered. My jaw was clenched so tight that I could barely enunciate. “I’ve never been so terrified in my life.”

  “I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to see me. It’s just that O’Connor and I, well, we were worried about you. You’re so goddamn independent. You wouldn’t stay with your mother. Can’t you understand that you could be in real danger?”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to stalk me.” I leaned against the steering wheel and took several more deep breaths.

  “Can I get in?” he asked.

  I shook my head. I opened both front doors and leaned back, trying to get as much air into my lungs as possible. Slowly my pulse eased its way back to normal.

  After about five minutes, Jim slipped inside and sat down. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I replied. I sat up straight and looked at him. “I say this not to be mean or nasty, but I’m not your business anymore, Jim. We’re done.”

  He shook his head. “Mary, you’re still my business. If I was hurt or killed in the line of duty, would it mean nothing to you?”