Rock & Roll Homicide

by R J McDonnell

  “I’m asking you,” I said.

  “A twelve year old could have built it,” he said. “Maybe that’s why the cops didn’t bother to ask.”

  “What are you going to tell them when they ask about the allegation that you fragged your boss in Iraq?” I asked.

  “Who the fuck told you about that?” GI Jo-Jo asked with alarm.

  “If I know about it, you can bet the cops know, too,” I said.

  “Then why aren’t they coming after me?” he asked.

  “Terry wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality. You’re just one of several suspects. But, eventually they’ll get around to you. Why don’t you tell me what happened so I can stop thinking it was you?” I said.

  “Why should I tell you anything?” he said

  “I thought we went over this on the phone. Do you need to hear it again?” I asked.

  GI Jo-Jo said, “I was an ordnance tech in Iraq. My unit cleared land mines and unexploded ordnance. My C.O. was a prick and a chicken-shit. When there was dangerous duty he had no problem putting a new guy on it, even if he got blown up. But he would never go near anything dangerous himself. One day he assigned a very tricky procedure to a fresh recruit. The kid said the job was done, then went to the latrine to throw up. A bunch of us techs were standing about 40 yards away from the ordnance when this dickless captain came up to me and asked if the job was done. I told him the kid said it was. He told me to go check it out. I asked him if he left his balls in the states. We went at it a few more minutes, then he decided to show everybody he was a man. Instead, he showed everybody what an incompetent jerk he was. I never touched the ordnance. Once the brass got their facts straight I was cleared.”

  “Then why did you get run out of the Middle East?” I asked.

  “Because dead captains have friends with pull. I made the mistake of going on record about what a shithead this guy was and his buddies decided to teach me a lesson,” he said.

  “That’s it for now, Jo-Jo. If I need anything else I’ll ask Nigel to get in touch,” I said.

  “I’ll hold my breath,” he said, then stood up and left the club.

  I walked back to Bernie’s office, knocked twice, then entered. “Any luck with the homemade karaoke set-up?” I asked.

  “Check this out,” Bernie said as he stood up and walked from his desk to a worktable on the far wall. “Are you definitely going to perform the songs in the order that you gave to me?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I told Nigel what we were doing and he said the order they appear on the CD works fine,” I said.

  Bernie handed me a small remote control. “Just have your assistant hit ‘On’ to get the first screen of the first song on the monitor. Then he just has to hit ‘Page Down’ when you’re ready for the next screen. I saw you looking at the monitor when I was giving Jo-Jo the tour. What do you think?”

  “I think you saved my butt again, Bernie,” I said. “Hey, I’ve got a couple of old friends coming on Saturday that you’ll be glad to see.”

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “Calvin Dawson and Justin Emerson,” I said.

  “If I ever decide to retire, Justin will be the first person I’ll call,” he said.

  “I know he thinks of you as a role model. How long has it been?” I asked.

  “Too long,” he said. “I did see Calvin a few months ago. He was in town for a show and stopped by the club afterwards. I could talk to him non-stop for a week. He knows more inside information about this business than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “I’ll bet we get a few old regulars out to see their favorite band, too,” I said.

  “I was thinking about that yesterday. Most rock & roll fans connect with bands they enjoyed during a significant time in their lives. I’m betting you’ll bring out some people who haven’t been to a club all year. But they’ll see the ad in the paper and say, ‘hey honey, guess who’s back at the old Dali Lama?’ It’s going to be a fun night,” Bernie said.

  After briefly explaining my behavior around Jo-Jo I said, “Bernie, I gotta go. You have my cell phone number. Call me if you need anything,” and departed.

  When I re-entered the club I saw Kelly sitting at a table by herself. I walked up behind her, disguised my voice and said, “Hey blondie, ya lookin’ for a good time?”

  Without a glance she replied, “Hey sailor, I thought you’d never ask.” She then stood up and gave me a hug. “Do you really think it’s necessary to get out of town tonight?”

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” I said. Then threw in, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

  “We’ve been going to too many ballgames. You’re starting to talk in cliché-speak,” she said with a nervous laugh.

  “Let me introduce you to the band,” I said. I led her to the Tsunami table where intros were given and it was decided to hit the road right away. Jeannine had arrived by cab while I was meeting with Bernie and was seated with the boys. We managed to maintain a two-vehicle caravan across Interstate 8. At her request, Jeannine rode with the band in Derek’s SUV. We reached the last exit for El Cajon by 7:15 PM and decided to look for a place to eat and watch California Confidential.

  At 7:25 PM we bribed a bartender at T.G.I. Friday’s to change the channel and got a drink order in before the show opened:

  “Tonight on California Confidential … Could California be in for another recall election? … Is one of California’s top pro baseball players ready to come out of the closet … And our top story – Was Doberman’s Stub front-man, Terry Tucker, killed by a Southern California branch of the Russian Mafia? You’ll find out after these messages.”

  We managed to get our food orders in during the first two stories. I wasn’t sure I would want to eat after the report.

  “The music industry and rock fans of Doberman’s Stub were devastated three weeks ago when singer/guitarist Terry Tucker was brutally murdered during a recording session. While the police remain baffled, California Confidential has come to learn that the band’s record company, Cerise Records, is owned by a man who has strong ties to the Russian Mafia. Here we see photos of the owner, John Koflanovich. But California Confidential has learned that John Koflanovich is really Ivan Chofsky of the Ukraine. You can change your name, Mr. Koflanovich, but you can’t hide from California Confidential.”

  “Less than two weeks ago the agency of San Diego detective Jason Duffy, began taking a close look at Cerise’s operations. Since then Duffy’s office has been invaded by armed thugs on two occasions. The last time, Duffy’s administrative assistant, Jeannine Joshlin, was bound and gagged while the Russians stole company computers and photos related to the case. A few days later, former National Geographic photographer, Cory Pafford, who captured these photos, was assaulted and hospitalized by men Pafford recognized as employees of Cerise Records. He has identified those men as Vladimir Torhan and Boris Melsin. Torhan was a former Ukrainian amateur boxing champion.”

  “It is believed that Cerise Records is funded by the owners of California sweatshop Yuliya, Inc., that has made its money on the backs of immigrants of questionable green card status, for many years. It is run by Peter Chofsky, and has been in California since the early 1900’s. But, they shifted their way of doing business when the Soviet Union broke up and the Mafia gained a stronghold.”

  “But, what about California? Are we going to sit back while this world renowned, ruthless bunch of cutthroats infests our beloved state? Not if California Confidential has anything to say about it. We salute Jason Duffy and his efforts to do what Interpol has not been able to achieve. Keep up the good work, Jason. California Confidential has got your back.”

  “Oh my God,” Kelly said slowly.

  “What’s the big deal?” asked Kyle. “This will probably be a huge boon to your business. We should be celebrating.”

  “It’s a little hard to cash those big checks from the cemetery,” said Michael. “Take it from a full-blooded Italian, the Mafia hates publicity. Nobody wants to
be the point-man in a Mafia probe even if the FBI has your back,”

  I said, “My big problem is that I’m not sure Cerise Records is affiliated with the Mafia. When Chofsky’s daughter was kidnapped there was no evidence that he had any ties with them. I think it’s just as possible that Chofsky is running from the Mafia as it is that he cut a deal with them to save his daughter.”

  Jeannine asked, “Then why would they use all those strong-arm tactics with you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe that’s what they think they need to do to survive. If he’s running from the Russian Mafia there will be no mistaking where he’s hiding after tonight’s broadcast,” I said.

  Derek said, “I can’t believe that anybody in his right mind would actually watch that crap. I saw a teaser for it last week and they were interviewing people who said they were abducted by aliens on Mission Bay. I don’t know how they stay on the air.”

  Jeannine said, “Our new security guard once saved a child from being abducted by aliens. But I don’t think it was on Mission Bay.”

  “Sounds more like Ocean Beach to me,” said Kyle.

  We finished our meal in relative silence. Traffic had thinned considerably, so the trip to Alpine was mercifully quick. We arrived at the country home of Derek’s Aunt Esther at about 9:00 PM. Esther has always been very cool about supporting the band. She is also a bit on the old fashioned side, so I was curious about how she would establish the rules for the girls’ sleepover. True to her image as a cool septuagenarian, Esther announced she was spending the night with her friend and would be back at 7:00 AM to cook breakfast. She also bought us a case of beer.

  After a couple of beers we were ready to rock. Over the next half-hour we were absolutely terrible. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Russians and how I had put everybody I cared about in jeopardy. Derek was trying to flirt with Jeannine, and Michael was pissed that we were about to destroy his reputation. As we argued, Kelly walked out of the four-car attached garage where we practiced and into the house. Five minutes later she returned to an even louder argument wearing a skimpy pair of baby-doll pajamas. Everyone went silent.

  “Jason,” she said in a sweet voice, “will you sing a song for me like you did last night?”

  I was immediately snapped out of my argumentative funk. Before I could decide how to respond, Michael launched into a sexy old Bush tune called “Glycerine.” I locked eyes with Kelly and gave a performance that came straight from the heart. It was amazing how the evening turned around. All of the emotions that were keeping us from being functional got channeled into an exciting, passionate interpretation of our favorite cover songs. If we could come anywhere near this vibe on Saturday night we would be just fine and we all knew it.

  We called it a night at 1:00 AM. Kelly and I took Aunt Esther’s bed. I soon found that while I was getting a tremendous energy release playing with the band, Kelly was getting turned on to the extreme. There would be no insomnia bringing me back to the Russian dilemma tonight. By the time she finished with me I was as spent as a sailor’s paycheck on a wartime liberty.

  Chapter 14

  I awoke in a panic when I heard Michael open the bedroom door and yell, “Aunt Esther’s here!” I jumped out of bed naked and spun around to Kelly’s side of the bed only to see that she wasn’t there and her side of the bed was made. Michael was laughing with an abandon I hadn’t heard since Tsunami Rush broke up. “Would you like me to shut this?” he asked.

  I picked up a lavender pillow and chucked it at the doorway as Michael ducked to avoid being hit. I took a shower and Derek lent me the extra clothes he packed when planning the office kidnapping. As I got to the kitchen Esther and the girls were putting the finishing touches on a hearty breakfast. The mood was refreshingly light. There was a confidence in the dining room that sent me off to battle traffic and the day’s upcoming travails with a sense of hope, instead of dread.

  I was in my office no more than five minutes when Walter Shamansky blew in like a level-five hurricane. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he screamed. “I can’t believe you blindsided me in the press.”

  “It wasn’t my idea. I can explain,” I said.

  “This stunt of yours isn’t going to keep your client out of jail. If anything, it makes me believe you’re trying to blow smoke up my ass,” he said.

  “I know you’re pissed and I don’t blame you. But I had nothing to do with giving that schlock show the story,” I said.

  “Then how the hell did they get it,” he said angrily.

  “My cameraman, Cory, got worked over by two of Cerise’s goons. They put him in the hospital with broken ribs and a concussion. When he regained consciousness he checked himself out and went into hiding. By the time he resurfaced he had given them the story. He thought he was protecting us and had no idea how badly this was going to mess things up,” I said.

  “You’ve got to take responsibility for your people,” he said.

  “You’ve got to stop closing your eyes to the fact that these guys are running amok and you’ve done nothing to even slow them down,” I said getting hot. “So far I’ve had a gunman break in on a Saturday afternoon, my secretary was assaulted at gunpoint, my place was robbed, I was shot at and my assistant was beaten senseless. And what have you done about it? Have you brought Koflanovich in for questioning? Have you searched Cerise for guns or stolen property? I don’t like that Cory went to the press, but I can certainly understand it, considering that the police have done absolutely nothing to stop them.”

  “Can I expect to hear your little speech on tonight’s California Confidential?” he asked.

  “If you actually watch that crappy show, I just lost a lot of respect for you,” I replied.

  “You’re right. That show isn’t taken seriously by anyone with half a brain. But, the legitimate press is going to want to talk with you now to get your take. This is where you can set things right, or totally fuck things up. What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. These thugs from Cerise need to be stopped, even if they weren’t the ones who killed Terry,” I said.

  “Sounds like you’re finally realizing Chelsea is dirty. What made you come around,” he asked.

  “I don’t think Chelsea had anything to do with it, but I do have another suspect who’s looking like a strong possibility,” I said.

  “Cripes almighty, who’s your suspect today?” he asked.

  “I know this California Confidential thing is going to cost you a lot of time, so I’m gonna give you what I’ve got. Doberman’s Stub has a combination roadie and sound man named Joseph Martin, a.k.a. GI Jo-Jo. He was an ordnance technician in the Army and was accused of blowing up his commanding officer in Iraq. He’s dating a stripper/groupie that thought she was in love with Terry, and he was seen punching Terry not long before the murder.”

  “Are you sure about these things?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, “and, he was the last person to be alone with the headphones.” I spent the next ten minutes giving Shamansky the details, except for how I came by his service record. I also told him GI Jo-Jo’s explanation and the fact that he has been very uncooperative.

  “You done good, Duffy. See if you can keep this info under your hat when you talk to the press,” he said.

  “Now I have a question for you. Last time we talked you were going to be presenting your evidence on Chelsea to the DA. What did he say?” I asked.

  “He likes her. Have you talked with her father? Terry made him look like shit in front of his business cronies and Chelsea was livid. I’m gonna take a close look at Joseph Martin, but I still have a gut feeling Chelsea got fed up. My boss is ready to ask for an indictment,” he said. “Keep me posted if you come up with anything new.”

  After he left I called Glenda MacPhearson and discretely asked if she could check on the disposition of Jo-Jo’s case. I also asked if she and her main man would like to attend the club concert of the twenty-first century. “We’ll come, but
only because I really don’t like talking on the phone,” she said and hung up.

  The legitimate press was all over the California Confidential story. I responded by locking the door and call screening. I let all of them go to voice-mail until 10:30 AM when a caller with a Texas accent said, “My name is Billy Tyler. I’m a partner in Cerise Records. I’m the guy that got Doberman’s Stub signed to the Cerise Record deal.”

  I picked up the receiver. “This is Jason Duffy.”

  “Mr. Duffy, I would very much appreciate the chance to meet with you and talk about what’s been going on between you and Cerise Records,” he said.

  I replied, “I’d like some answers myself, but so far everyone I’ve met from Cerise Records has carried a gun. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m reluctant to schedule a get-together.”

  “You name the time and place and I’ll be there. We can meet on the steps of police headquarters if you like,” he said.

  “Will you be alone?” I asked.

  “Yes. You can dictate the terms of the meeting,” he said.

  I had him give me his cell phone number and told him to be on foot at an intersection two blocks from Larabee’s at 12:30 PM. I then called Beaver’s Mom and used my Kojak connection to get a 12:45 PM reservation for two. I arrived early and took a cruise through the neighborhood to make sure Billy hadn’t arranged for his partners to stake out the area. At 12:25 PM a tall guy in a white cowboy hat appeared with cell phone in hand. I watched him for five minutes to see if he would glance at any foot soldiers in hiding. At exactly 12:30 PM I called and instructed him to walk one block in the opposite direction of the restaurant. Again, there was no sign of an ambush. So, I called back and told him to meet me at Larabee’s. Enough with the cloak and dagger, I was getting hungry.

  Beaver’s Mom got me seated before he arrived. As he entered the dining room I could see he was in his mid-fifties and appeared to be quite fit. When he arrived at my table I stood up, but did not offer to shake hands. “Thanks for agreeing to see me,” he said looking out the window at the multi-terraced alfresco dining area. “Quite a spread they have here.”