“Tell me how to get there. I need to see if they have what I want before we make any other plans.”
Shortly after Smitty left, we got a call from the chief in El Cerrito. He wanted to know if we were making any progress. I told him we were but didn’t get into any details. I wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know how many laws we were skirting.
Then he said, “I’ve got news that Smitty’ll like. Grab this morning’s San Francisco Chronicle and see what it says about our old friend Carpenter.”
“Good news?”
“Go get the paper and read it for yourself!”
We’d been so hurried by Smitty to get over here; nobody had thought to glance at a paper. One of the guys said he’d run down to the corner and come back with a couple. I couldn’t picture any news about Carpenter that Smitty’d particularly like. Boy was I in for a surprise!!
As soon as I glanced at the front page I knew what the chief meant. “MURDER UNCOVERS LURID PAST.”
The article, most of which was on the front page, went on to document Carpenter’s murder at his home and the ensuing investigation. It detailed his blackmailing schemes and, more importantly for Smitty’s thinking, made a big deal about his background involving child molestation. It was a long article, continued on an inside page, complete with pictures of him, his house and some of the papers found there.
Gus said, “Wait till Smitty sees this. It completely destroys any reputation Carpenter ever had.”
I read the article all the way through to see if the chief’s name was mentioned. It wasn’t, only that the El Cerrito chief of police had been instrumental in helping the FBI break the case. I guess he was off the hook. I hoped so. I really liked the guy.
A short time later Smitty rushed into the house, eyes sparkling and all excited. Before we could tell him anything about Carpenter, he said, “Look at this! Isn’t this a little beauty?” He was holding an ordinary looking fountain pen in the air like it was a prize or something.
“Looks like a pen, doesn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “But it isn’t a pen. Well, I mean, itis a pen, but it’s more than just a pen! That electronics store Little George sent me to is like Santa’s Village. Everything they have, I want.”
He handed the pen to me and said I’d be taking it with me when I went to the IRS. “With that pen, you can get all the information we need for Gus to become an IRS agent with his own office,” he claimed.
He told me to uncap the end and write with it. It wrote quite nicely, but I did have one complaint.
“It’s a little bulky,” I said.
So he told us why it was a little bulky. “That little beauty is called a DVR camcorder pen camera recorder and it does everything its name says. It’ll record up toforty hoursof crystal clear audioand video, which you can download directly onto your computer! How d’ya like them apples?”
I whistled my appreciation.
“When you’re at your IRS interview, you can fiddle with it, write with it, take notes, anything. At the same time you can be taking pictures of the whole damn place for Gus to look at when you get back. Go play with it right now and get used to it,” he suggested. “You have to use it naturally, as if it’s been yours for years. Go interview Josie and take pictures of the room. Not for too long – don’t want to use up the batteries. I wanna’ see the results on the computer. Anyway, go. Get used to it.”
Finally Gus got a chance to shove the newspaper in front of his nose.
Smitty was ecstatic. “Holy shit! This is even better than I hoped! He’s completely ruined! I mean, his reputation is! Hot damn, I love it! The perfect obit!”
I told him that it looked like the chief had been completely cleared; his job and future were safe.
Then Smitty sobered up a bit. “Jesus, at times like this I sure miss Red. And dammit, that poor kid on the boat.” Turning to Gus, he asked if the kid’s identification had ever been established.
Gus apologized, saying he’d forgotten to tell him. He’d gotten a call at the hotel last night saying the police had identified him and gotten in touch with his parents, who were actually foster parents. He’d been with them for several years. They had no idea who his real parents were, but they wanted to take care of all the arrangements for his burial near their home in northern California.
“Oh hell, that’s a shame. I bet it was the first night he’d ever slept on a boat.”
“Poor kid,” Gus said. “I hope he didn’t die in much pain.”
“Didn’t the medics say they thought he’d been knocked out by the force of the explosion?”
“I think you’re right. I sure hope so”
There was a long silence.
Finally Smitty said, “Well, Carpenter got what he deserved. Doesn’t make me feel any better though. I wish to hell we’d never gotten involved with all this in the first place.”
I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way, but what he said made me feel guilty. If I hadn’t screwed up with the boat slip, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. I guess how I felt showed on my face because Josie sidled up to me and whispered,
“It wasn’t your fault that the guy got murdered on the boat you delivered. And Dad would have gotten roped into it some way anyhow, with that damn sergeant being there.”
More silence from Smitty, then a huge sigh and, “I guess we better move on.”
CHAPTER 70
Right after breakfast Smitty took charge. He became a detail man.
“Casey, for your IRS interview – wear your old boating clothes so you look the part. And Gus, go out and buy an IRS suit.”
“What the hell’s an IRS suit?”
“You know what I mean. Go to a used clothing store and buy the best conservative suit you can buy, one that looks like it’s been worn, not brand new. Think of it as camouflage.”
I looked at the pen slash camera. It really was a thing of beauty, like Smitty said. It had a rechargeable battery. When plugged in, it lit up green, meaning the battery was charging. I tried writing with it and it wrote just fine. Unplugged, the light went out.
Josie and I played with it again for a few minutes. I took pictures of dark corners and across the room to see how well it functioned.
Next we connected it to the computer to see the results. Damned if it didn’t work. In no time we had downloaded the sequences. They were clear as a bell. I erased our pictures from its memory. The pen and I were ready to go.
“Satisfied?” Smitty asked.
“It’s really neat! So, how am I gonna use it?”
“Here’s what you’re going to do. Call the IRS office and say that you want some help with your personal taxes. Tell them that you need to talk to someone in person, that your income is mostly cash and you don’t know how to declare it. They’ll probably try to fob you off to someone on the phone, but don’t let them. Tell them you’re afraid or something. Insist on seeing someone in person. I called my accountant. He said if you’re insistent enough, they’ll see you. So the first step is to get an appointment, for this afternoon if possible. Clear?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Rehearse with Josie what you’re going to say to the receptionist or whoever it is that answers the phone and then get on it.
Josie was a little more than cooperative.
“Good afternoon, she said. I’m the very pretty, young, single lady with whom you want an appointment this afternoon.”
I had to laugh.
“Why are you laughing, young man? Don’t waste my time. I’m expecting a serious answer.”
I slid my hand down over my face as if I was wiping the smile off and replied, “I’ve been earning a fair amount of money this year delivering sailboats, ma’am, and I don’t know how to report it.”
Smitty interrupted and said, “C’mon Case, let’s make the call.”
Thinking back later, I should have realized the call would be easy. After all, that’s what the IRS did. They held interviews with nervous taxpayers.
A melodious voice answered after four or five rings. “Good morning, Internal Revenue Service. How may I help you?”
“Uh, I think I need to talk with somebody about my taxes?”
“Yes sir. Do you need help preparing them?”
“Uh, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever paid any.”
“So this is the first year you’ve had earned income?”
“No – well – see that’s the problem. I’ve been earning a fair amount of money the last few years, ferrying sailboats up and down the coast.”
“Sir, have you been filing returns yearly?”
“Actually, I haven’t. I don’t think I’ve earned enough to pay taxes up till this year.”
“Can I have your social security number?”
“Do I have to? You’ll probably nail me for some back taxes.”
“There’s no way we can tell you if you owe back taxes or not unless we have your social security number.”
“Can’t I just come in and find out how to report income?”
“Well, I guess you can come in, but you’re not going to get all the information you really need.”
“But I think that’s what I’d like to do.”
“All right sir, hold on. I’ll get the first available agent for you.”
I waited for a few minutes until a young sounding female voice asked me if she could help me.
“Yes, I’m waiting for the next available agent.”
“Yes sir, that’s me. My name is Rachel. How may I help you?”
I went through the whole story again. Again, she wanted me to handle it on the phone. Again, I said I wanted to come in and talk to somebody. She set up an appointment for that afternoon at four-thirty and gave me directions. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor.”
So I was set for the appointment and had nothing more to do.
By now, in spite of all that’d happened this morning, it was still only a little after eleven. I was nervous about my afternoon appointment. I wished I’d been able to make it much earlier. I was more than ready to go. Josie, tuned in to how nervous I was, suggested we go out for a long lunch and maybe a walk or something.
As we left, she suggested getting a quick sandwich and going over to visit Old Fort Sacramento. “Little George says it’s only a few blocks away,” she told me.
“What’s Old Fort Sacramento?”
“It’s what’s left of early Sacramento. Like from the early days. It’s really a museum, with lots of interesting California history stuff in it, he says. He thinks we might enjoy it. It’ll make the afternoon fly by, he says.”
So that’s what we did. Itwasinteresting, and it certainly helped make the afternoon fly by alittle more quickly. We got back to Little George’s home about three-thirty, late enough for Smitty to have gotten nervous about us.
“You sure you’re ready? Just be yourself and remember to act dumb so you can be there long enough to get lots of pictures.”
“Smitty, I’m ready,” I griped. “We’ve been over all this, three times now. I’m ready!”
I think he was more nervous than I was.
We went in Smitty’s car and in a short time, we were there. It was a fairly large, kind of nondescript building. Typical government mid-twentieth century architecture, now showing the ravages of time. You know the type: big, old, square, dirty, tired, ugly. It was sure busy though. Lots of traffic through the huge brass front doors.
Smitty pushed me out the car door, pointed to a public parking lot across the street and said he’d be waiting for me there.
The first thing I saw was an information kiosk in front of the elevator banks with a sign on it saying, “All Visitors Sign In.” The uniformed attendant directed me to the sign-in book and wanted to know who my appointment was with.
“Uhhh, I don’t know her last name. She’s with the IRS.”
“Most of the building is IRS, sir,” he said. “You’ll have to be a little more helpful than that.”
“Um. I think she’s on the fourth floor and I’m pretty sure her name is – Rachel? Does that help?”
“Is this about personal taxes?”
“Yes, sir, it is. Rachel.”
“Okay, you must be seeing Mrs. West. Rachel West. She’s the only Rachel we have. I’ll call up and verify your appointment.”
My immediate thought was how is Gus gonna get past this hurdle? On top of that, how do we get our target past this hurdle?
He told me to wait where I was, that someone would be down to get me. Great.
However, as I was waiting, I noticed that most people coming in headed right for the elevators instead of going over to the kiosk as I had. Okay, that’s good information. My faith in Plan B started to return.
In a few minutes a plain-looking, fortyish, brown-haired lady emerged from the elevator and headed toward me.
As I stood up, she said, “You must be Mr. Alton?” She looked much older than her voice had sounded.
I admitted I was, and she asked me to follow her into the elevator and up to her office. I asked her if I was getting special treatment since it looked like most other people just went to the elevators on their own.
“Well, I guess in a way. You told me that it was your first time here, so I thought I’d come down and get you. Most people are here for their second or third meeting. They just come right up.”
Pass kiosk. Ignore the sign. Go right up.
“I think on the phone you said you’re on the fourth floor?”
“That’s right.”
“Does that mean that you’re more important than the people on the lower floors?”
I was being so clever. I hoped she’d tell me what the other floors were used for, and she fell for it— she fell right into my cunning little trap. Oh, I was good. Or was she just humoring this idiot taxpayer?
“No, Mr. Alton, it doesn’t work that way,” she said. “Except for seniority and occasional special assignments, we are all considered equal. The IRS doesn’t use all five floors, though,” she said, loosening up a notch. “We only use the third and fourth. The rest of the space is rented out to private businesses.”
At the fourth floor we stepped off the elevator directly onto an open floor of cubicles. A small reception desk and waiting area sat off to one side. Apparently it would be easy to bypass, just as we now did. Mrs. Rachel West led me, a bit self-consciously I thought, to her desk. As I’d been led to expect, she didn’t have an office. She barely had a cubicle. The walls couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.
On the way I kept fiddling with my pen and got a bunch of pictures of the entire office area.
“What an unusual pen,” said the observant Mrs. West. “Can I see it?”
CHAPTER 71
I didn’t panic, did she know about these pens? I decided to ignore Mrs. West’s question.
“What? Oh – oh, I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little nervous. I tend to twiddle. It’s a bad habit. I better put it in my pocket or I’ll drive you crazy.” And I stuck it in my jacket pocket.
“People do that,” she said, sat down, looked up, smiled mechanically, then gestured to a chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat?”
When I was seated facing her, I continued to act the wide-eyed boob, as per Smitty’s instructions. “I guess I thought you’d have a private office for interviews?” I said, looking around. “This isn’t very private.”
“Well, this is as private as it gets at my level, senior agents and management get those offices over there,” she said, pointing to a row of offices next to the windows.
“So how do you get an office like that? Do you move from desk to desk till you get a desk next to them, and then your next promotion is from the last desk into an open office?”
She looked up at me, probably trying to figure out if I was trying to be funny or if I was just plain stupid. I think she went for stupid. “It sure doesn’t work likethat,” she said, a bit grimly, I thought. Bitterly, perhaps? I waited her out, looking ex
pectant, and again she fell for it. “No,” she said finally, “promotions likethat come from breaking a big case. Or, eventually from hard work, perseverance – and luck. If you live that long.”
Now I looked at her to see ifshe was going for humor. She wasn’t.
“If it was as automatic as that,” she added, “we wouldn’t have those empty offices near the front door.”
Ha! This was turning out to be easier than I thought!
“Why can’t you use one of those offices?” I asked, like some indignant life-long taxpayer. “You do important work. They just let those sit there unused?”
“Well, I can use one if I have to. If I had a large family in, for example, I could use that larger space. Even three people. But not today.”
“Now, Mr. Alton,” she said, glancing down at a paper in front of her, probably checking that she had my name right. “How can I help you?”
I re-explained the whole scenario to her. She sat there nodding like someone who’d heard it all before, which she had. It was, word for word, the same story I’d given her that morning on the phone. Finally, she got my Oakland address and my social security number and looked me up on the computer. After checking and rechecking the data, she finally looked up.
“You’re right,” she said, seeming mildly surprised. “There’s no record that you ever filed before.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s what I told you.”
“Mr. Alton,” she said, “It’s good you came in today because the IRS is making a special effort to help people like you who have never filed before. Tell me again what the circumstances are?”
“I went ahead and delivered the story I’d made up, about the few thousand dollars in delivery charges I’d been paid over the last year. I told her I didn’t know if the boat owners had ever reported paying me or what. The only records I had were the delivery contracts, and they usually didn’t mention the money.
With little interest and about as much patience, she advised me that I should treat my business, small as it was, as any other businessman would. Keep records of all my income. She also told me to keep records of expenses, that, depending on how much I made, some of my expenses might be deductible.
Casey's Slip Page 25