JO02 - The Brimstone Murders

by Jeff Sherratt

  I came out from around the counter. “In the meantime, you can tell us where the drug center is located.”

  Moran lowered his arms; the chanting stopped. His eyes shifted from the men lined up at the wall to the Deacon, then to Sol.

  Buddy the Bear slowly hoisted his three hundred pounds of flab and attitude out of the chair. He pinned me with a defiant scowl and then focused on the Deacon. His face had the hue of a hot brick. Any minute he’d explode. Tension filled the room; you could squeeze it with your fingers and it would bleed.

  “Hey, boy!” Buddy the Bear yelled at the Deacon.

  The Deacon spun around, exposing his back to the men lined up behind him.

  Then it happened.

  “Get ’em, men!” Moran shouted.

  At once all five of the men attacked the Deacon.

  Buddy the Bear sprang on the balls of his feet—lightning fast—and pounced on Sol.

  One of the guys at the wall pulled a toadsticker from his coveralls pocket, flicked open the six-inch blade, and eyed me cautiously for a split second before he charged, the blade glittering in the light.

  The Deacon’s gun clattered to the floor. Ben Moran grunted, pushed his massive bulk out of the chair, and scrambled after the revolver as it slid across the room. He looked up. Cubby, who had silently slipped into the café, had his foot on the gun. He wagged his finger. “Sit this one out, old man, before you get hurt.” Moran moseyed back to his table and settled in, an innocent bystander at the Bright Spot rumble.

  I stepped back. The guy with the blade flew past me and sprawled on the floor, after he tripped on my outstretched foot. He banged his head on the wall, stuck himself in the leg with his knife, and didn’t get up. He sat there and stared at the blood that started to pool under his thigh. I toyed with the idea of tossing him the washrag that sat on the counter.

  The ruckus continued. The Deacon had made short work of the first three guys and now was pounding the last hooligan into hamburger.

  And Sol, his jaws clenched, was busy with the redneck. He had the big bear in a hammerlock, thumping the guy’s head on the table.

  “Hold it,” Moran shouted. “I think these city folks have had enough.”

  Sol looked up. Surprise was written on his face. “Yeah, guess we’re not as tough as we thought.” He dropped the redneck and the guy rolled slowly to the floor. Then with his hand, he made a slashing motion across his neck indicating to the Deacon and me—like a director making a movie—Cut, the fight scene is over.

  I strolled to the counter and tossed the rag to Mack the Knife, still on the floor by the wall. The bloody mess was becoming unsightly.

  The room became quiet and Moran said in a loud voice, “That girl, the one you called Jane, she just wandered in here, hungry, wanted food.” He nodded. “Gave her some, and she cleaned tables for an hour or two. That’s all I know about her.”

  Sol dabbed at a cut on his lip with a napkin he grabbed from a table. “Why didn’t you tell us that before?” he asked.

  “You folks come in here throwin’ your weight around, itchin’ for a bruisin’. I figure why spoil the fun?”

  Sol looked at me. We both heard the whooping sounds of sirens off in the distance. It sounded like they were converging on the Bright Spot. “Where can we find the teen drug center?” I said to Moran.

  He turned to me. “What is it with you? There ain’t no damn teen center out here. Where’d you come up with that notion?”

  Before I could answer, Sol jumped in. “I think he’s right, Jimmy. I think the party you spoke to about the center could have said it’s in Bakersfield, not Barstow. Don’t you think?”

  The sirens were getting louder. “Bakersfield?”

  “Yeah, Jimmy, Bakersfield. I guess if it’s not there, then that’s the end of the line.”

  Moran climbed out of his chair bit by bit. “If you folks just leave town, nice and quiet like, then there’d be no sense in pressing charges. Provided you don’t come back and bother us about this nonsense no more.”

  Whoop, whoop, whoop. The sirens were blaring just outside the café. The police had the place surrounded.

  “Come out with your hands in the air.” A bullhorn-filtered voice growled, the words bouncing off the café walls.

  Sol’s eyes locked on Moran who stood with pursed lips, stoically, as if challenging Sol. Sol nodded once, then turned and marched outside. “Whaddya want?” he shouted into the circle of squad cars that surrounded the café.

  The Deacon picked up his gun, tucked it away, and helped people to their feet. Their fun was over and they wouldn’t be causing any trouble. Cubby settled in at one of the tables and tried to get the waitress’s attention. He wanted a cup of coffee and a hamburger. I stood in the doorway and watched the scene in the parking lot unfold.

  The bullhorn again. “Put your hands in the air.”

  A half dozen of Barstow’s finest were crouched behind their black-and-whites with guns in their hands, the hands rested on the hoods of the cars, and the guns aimed directly at Sol’s chest, not a small target by any means.

  Sol pranced closer to the cop cars. “Who’s in charge, goddamn it?” he shouted. It sounded as if he was getting upset again.

  An angry voice flew out from behind the barricade. “Hey, fella, hold it right there—”

  “It’s all right, Burt,” Ben Moran shouted through the window. “We had a difference of opinion, that’s all. And now these gentlemen are leaving.”

  A swag-bellied cop, with more decorations dangling from his khaki uniform than Napoleon wore at his coronation, popped up and motioned vigorously for his troops to holster their weapons. He sauntered toward the café, tugging at his Sam Browne belt, which had slipped to his ass during the standoff. “What was the trouble in there?” he asked, the question directed at Sol.

  “Food sucks,” Sol answered.

  “Well, hell, what do you expect in a dump like this?”

  “Burt, knock it off. It’s all over,” Moran hollered to the police chief. “These gentlemen are leaving.”

  “Ben, we got a call. Said the old place was being held up,” the chief shouted back.

  “You fool, there’s no money in here, what the hell you talking about? These guys are leaving town, won’t be back.” Moran said. “Now, do as I say and let them go.”

  “Okay, Ben, you’re the boss. I ain’t gonna hold ’em. Just want to have a few words with this guy. That’s all.”

  “Hey, Chief, I’m Sol Silverman. Everything is under control. We were just heading out for Bakersfield.” I heard Sol say before he lowered his voice and stepped closer to the big cop.

  C H A P T E R 17

  Sol and I huddled outside by the limo for a few moments while Burt, the chief of police and his men pulled out. Sol told me he’d assured the chief that we were heading directly out of town and would leave posthaste without beating up on anyone else. He said it seemed easier to agree to that stipulation than to post bail and go through the rigmarole.

  But we were intrigued with Ben Moran. He was obviously the kingfish in town. We speculated why he wanted us out of Barstow so badly. And how he seemed to lighten up when Sol mentioned Bakersfield.

  “Bakersfield, Sol?” I asked.

  “Yep, a lovely town. Don’t you think, Jimmy?”

  “Sure, lovely.” I answered.

  Bakersfield was an oil boom town in the 1920s, but its glory had faded when the price of oil started a steady decline in the late ’50s, and now was a struggling working class community about a hundred miles north of Los Angeles. I had nothing against Bakersfield, and in light of the Yom Kippur War, oil prices might raise yet again. But I doubted that Sol was serious when he said that the drug center could be located there.

  “Bakersfield’s fine, I guess; that is, if you like the sight of rickety oil derricks on every empty lot,” Sol said, leaning against the car.

  “Moran’s not that dumb, Sol. He knows we aren’t going to Bakersfield. Why didn’t he have his cop
buddy, the chief, hook us up? I mean, we did mess up his joint.”

  “He doesn’t want to create waves, just wants us out of town. I just said that stuff about Bakersfield to help him save face. But you’re right, Jimmy, I can feel it. Something’s going on out here, and Moran is smack-dab in the middle of it.”

  “I think he’s afraid that we’ll discover something about the girl that would prove to be unsavory for him in light of his religious fervor, or at least his image of it,” I said.

  “Could be, but I think he figures we’ll take off and not come back. Because if we do, he’ll have the police pick us up and hold us. What kind of snooping can we do from a jail cell?”

  “He has it both ways. We’re gone and won’t be back, and there is no fuss, no need to get a judge involved.” I paused for a second. “Who is he anyway, Sol? He’s not just some old fogey who sits around the Bright Spot all day waiting for famous writers to pop in.”

  Sol glanced at the white clapboard building, then he turned back and mentioned that it would be worthwhile to run an R & I on the old guy. I told him he sounded like Joe Friday of Dragnet. He gave me a playful tap on the shoulder. I’d have a bruise for a week.

  Before climbing into the limo, I fished the waitress’s note out of my pocket. In a tiny female script was written the girl’s name, Jane Simon, and under that was what I assumed to be the name of the local newspaper, the Barstow Sun.

  We kicked around a few ideas about why the waitress slipped me the note, and why the girl’s name would be associated with the newspaper. But Sol and I agreed we’d come this far, might as well check it out before leaving town. After prying directions from a different gas station guy than the one I’d talked with before—we wanted to get there sometime today—we drove east on Main Street looking for Sweetwater Road. When we came to it, we turned left and pulled up in front of a well-maintained, painted cinderblock building. An old-fashioned sign hung above the entrance, The Barstow Sun, the words cut into the wood.

  Cubby and the Deacon waited in the limo with the motor running in the event it became necessary to make a fast departure. Cubby would tap the horn if he spotted any cop cars approaching.

  Inside the paper’s business office, a striking woman who appeared to be about thirty-two, thirty-three, with a figure you’d bow down to, walked to the counter. Her voice was crisp and businesslike, but her eyes were dark and gleaming, suggesting a passion burning inside. Or was it my imagination? Slender women with dark eyes always have passion, I thought. And like the others, I doubted that this gorgeous woman would be an exception.

  “Hi, I’m Jimmy O’Brien, and this is my friend Sol Silverman,” I said. “And you have a passion…”

  “What?”

  “Ah… I mean we have a passion for the truth. And that’s why we came to the Sun.”

  “Wise choice,” the beauty said.

  “For chrissakes, Jimmy, let’s get to the point,” Sol interrupted. “Sweetheart, we need some information. Is your boss in?”

  “Hi, Sol. My name is Cathy Rogers. I own the paper.” The lovely woman reached across the counter and offered her hand to Sol.

  I beat Sol to the outstretched hand and shook it. “Hi, Cathy,” I said, “maybe you can help us. We are looking for a girl by the name of Jane Simon—”

  Sol jumped in. “Miss Rogers, what my young friend here wants to know is do you have an employee by the name of Jane? Simon could be her last name. She’s a dark-haired teenager who might be working here. We have reason to believe she may be in some trouble.”

  “No, I’m sorry, we don’t hire teens. My husband, Tom, and I run the paper and…” At the mention of a husband, I deflated a little. “Wait, what did you say her name was?” Cathy paused. “A dark-haired girl? Did you say Jane Simon? My God, fair skin and deep blue eyes?”

  My pulse raced. “Yes, yes, that’s her! Do you know the girl? How can we find her?”

  “No, it can’t be. No… I’m sorry, gentlemen, I know of no one by that name. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Cathy started to turn away.

  Sol leaned on the counter. “Wait a minute, my dear. Couldn’t you help us, please? The young girl is in serious trouble, and we’re here to see what we can do for her, that’s all,” he said with tenderness in his voice, a gentleness he rarely displayed.

  Cathy turned away from us. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard a muffled whimper. Was she crying?

  “Cathy, we’re sorry, we didn’t mean to upset you.”

  A man with tousled sandy hair standing next to a clanking printing press in the back of the shop looked our way. He paused for a few seconds before he walked cautiously toward Cathy. His eyes pinned Sol and me as he approached. When he got close, he studied Cathy’s face. “What’s the matter, honey? Are these guys bothering you?” He gave us a puzzled look.

  Cathy raised her head. “No, no, Tom. It’s not that. It’s about Jane. Something they said reminded me of her, that’s all.”

  Tom wrapped a loving arm around Cathy’s shoulder and his eyes shifted first to Sol and then to me.

  “Did you gentlemen know Jane?”

  C H A P T E R 18

  The ten-year-old headline in bold, black type screamed at me: Air Force Man Kills Wife, Daughter, Self. I started to shake. But it wasn’t the headline that shook me. It was the picture below it—a man, a woman, and a little girl posed in the shade of a plain stucco house.

  I bolted out of my chair and pointed at the picture. “That’s her. Same dark hair, eyes, and my God, the girl I met has a striking resemblance to the mother in the newspaper photo.”

  Sol and I sat with Cathy and Tom in their modest office at the rear of the print shop. Cathy’s antique roll-top dominated the room, but there was a small work table in the center, and we all sat there staring at the ten-year-old edition of The Barstow Sun spread out on top of the table. After we’d told them why we came, explaining about my meeting with the teenage girl who called herself Jane, and after I showed them the scrap of paper from the waitress, Tom had dug out the old edition from their archives, a closet next to the restroom.

  He calmly explained that the photo printed below the headline had been taken a few months before the tragic murder-suicide. But I was almost positive that the small girl standing next to her mother and father was the same girl I’d met, the same Jane Simon. The girl in the photograph was a pint-sized version of the teenager.

  “Impossible,” Tom said. “She’s been dead for ten years now.”

  Cathy’s hands were on the table, folded tight in front of her. “I saw her body and went to her funeral,” she said to no one in particular.

  “Are you sure, Jimmy, absolutely sure that’s the girl you met behind the building?” Sol asked. “That’s an old picture. The girl’s just a kid.”

  “Sol, I think so. I couldn’t swear in court.” I studied the newspaper photo. “But Jane, the girl from the café, told me about her father killing her mother. She was very convincing. I don’t think she was lying.”

  “Look, Jimmy, you met someone, a dark-haired girl, sure. But the story about the murder and suicide was in the papers, anyone could’ve—”

  “Sol,” I said. “It has to be her. It’s the same girl. Too many things match up. The family resemblance, everything else. Besides, why would a dead girl try to convince someone she was alive?”

  Sol shook his head. “Irish logic?”

  “You know what I mean.” I pointed at the picture again. “I’m convinced. That’s the girl I met. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s her.”

  Tom and Cathy listened to our exchange without saying a word.

  Sol and I fell silent for a moment.

  Cathy moved her hand and partially covered her mouth. “It can’t be. It just can’t be. I can’t believe she’s alive.”

  Tom added in a quiet voice, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  Although I was now convinced the teenager I’d seen in the café and met later behind the Harvey House was the same girl who
was supposedly killed ten years ago, I still had no idea what all of this had to do with Robbie Farris’ escape and his mother’s murder.

  The four of us sat looking at one another not knowing exactly what to say. Cathy started talking, telling us about Jane Simon. She explained her involvement with the little girl, and why she’d lost it out in the front office. We sat silently and listened to her story.

  “When I was a teenager myself,” Cathy said, “I babysat for the Simons, and naturally Jane and I became close, almost like I was a big sister to her. As she grew older, she had a difficult time adjusting to her parents’ constant bickering and arguing. Her father was an officer in the Air Force. They had a house here in town, but he was assigned to the old military base at Rattlesnake Lake. It’s closed now. They closed the base shortly after the shooting.”

  Cathy paused to gain her composure—or maybe to gather her thoughts. She glanced at her husband, Tom. He nodded silently, and she continued. “Most days, Jane’s father stayed out at the base, but when he came home, there was hell to pay. Jane couldn’t handle it. When her parents started fighting, she’d call and ask if she could come and stay with me. Well, of course, I always said yes.”

  She stood and walked slowly to her roll top desk. “On the night of the shooting, Jane had called, and when she did…” Cathy spun around. Her eyes were filled with dread. “I told her she couldn’t come over… I had a date.”

  The implication was obvious. Cathy still held strong feelings of guilt. Jane would still be alive, if only…

  I now believed that Jane hadn’t been murdered that horrible night, but Cathy had agonized about the girl’s death for ten years and she wasn’t about to accept the word of a stranger who said the girl was alive and living at a teen drug center right here in Barstow.

  “Do you happen to know a kid named Robbie Farris?” I tossed out the question not just to change the subject, but on the slim chance that they might know something that would tie him to Jane’s appearance. As expected, neither Cathy nor Tom had heard of him.