Rock & Roll Homicide

by R J McDonnell

  “Let’s get down to business, Tyler. Your partner has robbed me, shot at me and assaulted two of my staff members. I’m in no mood for small talk,” I said.

  “First, I’d like to assure you that I had absolutely nothing to do with any of that. In fact, I never heard of you until a California buddy of mine got me out of bed last night after seeing that horrible show,” he said.

  “How can you be partners with the Russian Mafia and not have a clue?” I asked.

  At this point, our conversation was interrupted by a waitress I hadn’t seen before, who took our lunch orders.

  “I know you’re not going to believe this, but John Koflanovich is not with the Russian Mafia. In fact, he lives his life in fear of them,” he said. “He moved to the United States to get away from them after they kidnapped his daughter.”

  “I suppose he didn’t cut a deal with them to get her back,” I said.

  “Actually, he led them into a trap set by the police. Unfortunately, they were smarter than the police anticipated and a dozen police officers were killed, along with eighteen Mafioso’s. The cops managed to rescue the girl, but at a terrible price. The Russian mob swore revenge, and John closed up shop and immigrated to the US where he has family,” Tyler said.

  “If this is true, why does he have so many thugs with guns working for him?” I asked.

  “John Koflanovich is sure the mob will eventually find him and his family. He believes the only way he can stop them is to fight fire with fire. He grew up with the paranoia that comes with living in a commie state. After what happened to his daughter, he’s suspicious of everyone,” he said.

  “But I’m American. How could he think I’m with the Russian Mafia?” I inquired.

  “I asked him the same question myself this morning. He was convinced you were with the American Mafia and you were helping your Russian comrades,” Tyler said.

  “How the hell did he get that idea?” I inquired.

  “He said it had to do with you sneaking into his back offices and knocking out his bodyguard. Is this true?” he asked.

  “I knocked out his bodyguard after he stuck a gun in my face,” I said. “How did you get hooked up with this guy in the first place?” I asked.

  “I own a semiconductor business outside of Fort Worth. One of my customers is Yuliya, Inc. Are you familiar with them?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I found some of my stolen property in their possession in Tecate,” I replied.

  “That’s disturbing,” he said. “I’ve known Peter Chofsky for over ten years. Anyway, I had dinner with Peter a while back and I happened to mention that I made a nice little profit investing in some musical acts out of Nashville. About six months later he came to me with a proposal to launch Cerise Records with his cousin, John, as the president. He showed me John’s resume and, frankly, it’s quite impressive.”

  “I don’t suppose he had any music industry experience on the resume?” I asked.

  “That was a concern. But, Peter invested double what I put in and sweetened the deal for me by substantially increasing his orders for semiconductor wafers. It looked like a no lose situation, until now,” he said.

  “Is he coming after me?” I asked.

  “No. In fact, he’s finally convinced you aren’t with the American Mafia, because you never would have gone to the press if you were. He has much bigger problems to deal with now. He’s sure it’s inevitable that the Russian mob will come after him and his family very soon. I just came from his place. If the Alamo had half the firepower he has, Santa Ana would have high-tailed it back across the Rio Grande so fast you’d think he was shot out of a canon,” he said.

  “Why the meeting? What do you want from me?” I asked.

  “To be perfectly honest, I was hoping that once you learned that Koflanovich isn’t associated with the Russian Mafia you’d help with damage control,” he said.

  I replied, “After what he did to me and my staff, do you really expect me to help him?”

  “Jason, he came after you because he was convinced you were a threat to his family. After what he went through, having his only child’s finger mailed to him, you can surely understand why he might err on the side of caution,” Tyler said.

  “So you think he was justified in what he did?” I asked.

  “Of course not. But I’m also willing to consider that John grew up in a culture that preached suspicion and taught paranoia. I’ve been an avid anticommunist all my life. My friends were shocked when I started doing business with Yuliya, but I did so when I learned that the Chofsky’s refused to return to Russia after the communist revolution. Peter Chofsky hates communism with a passion no American could ever understand. He assured me that his cousin felt the same way and I made damn sure that was the case before I agreed to the partnership,” he said.

  As we finished lunch our server brought coffee and our bill. “Are you going to maintain your business relationship with these people now that you know they ordered the robbery and assault?” I asked.

  “No. It will take a little time, because to pull out immediately would mean laying off a lot of good people in Texas, but you can be damn sure that within the year I’ll cut ties completely,” he said. “In the meantime, it seems to me that if Cerise Records gets shut down, all of its assets, including the new Doberman’s Stub CD, will be put in an escrow account until the legal system finishes litigating court cases and appeals.”

  “In other words you’re saying that if Cerise Records goes down, so does Doberman’s Stub,” I said. Tyler paid our bill and we walked back down to the street in silence.

  When I returned to my office I saw a TV camera crew and several reporters gathered outside of my building. I called Heather Gaines, a CPA who runs an accounting business in the suite next door to mine. “I need a favor,” I said.

  “Just name it,” Heather said brightly. “I’ve gotten more free publicity today than ten years worth of Kiwanis Club, Toastmasters and Rotary meetings combined.”

  “Any chance you could drive down the block, then come back five minutes later and tell the reporters you just saw me at Schlotsky’s Deli and that I won’t be coming back to the office today?” I asked.

  “Can I tell them anything else that might get me a little more face time?” she asked.

  “Tell them I got a new lead that could change everything, but that it will take me out of town for a couple of days,” I said.

  Fifteen minutes later I was checking voice-mail in my office, a mere thirty messages. Uri asked that I call back as soon as possible. I reached him at his office and was told he could arrange a conference call with the Odessa police lieutenant at 7:00 AM Sunday morning on my office phone line. Uri’s acquaintance will serve as interpreter.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon tying up loose ends, including a conversation with Chelsea about California Confidential. Considering her level of aggravation I opted not to tell her about the gig Saturday night.

  I spent the 90 minutes it took to drive to Alpine listening to the Doberman’s Stub demo. When I arrived, the band was playing an old Blondie tune called, “Heart of Glass,” with Jeannine singing lead vocals and doing quite well for an amateur. She was wearing one of Aunt Esther’s vintage dresses, a string of pearls and the kind of hat one might wear to a speak-easy during Prohibition.

  We managed to pick up the vibe that started last night, until it was time for California Confidential. Kyle said, “Last time we watched that stupid show we played like shit afterwards. Can’t we just DVR it and watch it on Sunday?”

  What Kyle said made sense, until I reminded myself that the gig was secondary to solving the case. “I can’t ignore something that could have a direct bearing on my case. You guys can keep playing if you like.”

  Michael replied, “And miss the circus. Are you kidding? I want popcorn, beer and a front row seat.”

  We adjourned to the living room and caught the headlines, where they gave a tease for a follow-up to the Terry Tucker murder
story. Aunt Esther served slices of homemade pizza while we suffered through three stories of no interest to any of us. The update was looking equally uninformative as they showed a clip of Shamansky saying ‘no comment.’

  “Finally, this just in. Police apprehended Mikhail Dracovich outside the home of Jason Duffy, the Private Investigator who discovered the link between the Russian Mafia and Cerise Records. Dracovich was spotted by a neighbor climbing a tree across from Duffy’s home while carrying a high-powered sniper’s rifle. Jason could not be reached for comment, but we heard from one of California Confidential’s snoops, Heather Gaines of Gaines Accounting, which is located next door to Duffy Investigations. “Jason told me he was following an important new lead in the case and would be out of town for a couple of days.”

  “California Confidential field reporter Jennifer Wilde here. Did he say what that new lead might be?”

  “He told me the new development could change everything,” Heather said.

  “Did he say when the case might be broken?” Jennifer asked.

  “No. But I’m guessing it will be long before tax season. And by the way, Jennifer, if any California Confidential viewer tells me they saw me on your show, I’ll pay their electronic income tax filing fee when I prepare their tax return.”

  When the camera returned to Jennifer Wilde she was frantically waiving her hand in front of her throat, giving the “cut” sign.

  “Thanks Heather, it’s so kind of you to think of our viewers while your neighbor is in so much peril.”

  I couldn’t wait for the 10 O’clock News. I called Shamansky at his office and reached a coworker. “Call back on Monday, he isn’t here.”

  “This is Jason Duffy. I think he’ll want to talk with me tonight,” I said.

  “You got that right. Hold on and I’ll patch you through,” he said.

  “Duffy, I heard Forest Lawn Cemetery is having a going out of existence sale. You might want to give them a call,” Shamansky said.

  “You’re a riot Shamansky. Were you in on the bust?” I asked.

  “No, but I did get a sit down with the gunman about a half-hour ago. I think you need to send a thank you card to the Neighborhood Watch Program,” he said.

  “I’m in no mood for a comedy routine. Were you able to find out if the sniper was from Cerise or the real Russian Mafia,” I asked.

  “What do you mean, ’the real Mafia?’ Are you telling me you don’t think they’re mobbed-up anymore?” he asked.

  “I met with an American silent partner this afternoon. He strikes me as credible and he’s sure Koflanovich lives his life in fear of the Russian mob. He said Koflanovich came after me because he was convinced I was with the American Mafia and I was helping the Russians. Apparently, he knows better now,” I said.

  “Well, you have the real Russian Mafia coming after you now,” he said.

  I decided it might not be the best time to tell him about my gig at the Dali Lama. “Does Dracovich have a sheet?”

  “It looks like he’s been an enforcer for the mob for at least five years. In that time he’s had six arrests but no convictions. Eight eye witnesses recanted their stories and two turned up missing - permanently,” he said.

  “So what am I supposed to do to keep out of harm’s way?” I asked.

  “From what I understand it’s already been taken care of,” he replied and paused to catch my response.

  “What do you mean? What’s taken care of?” I asked.

  “Rumor has it that the Russian Mafia met the Irish Mafia about two hours after Dracovich got pulled out of your neighbor’s tree,” he said.

  “My father?” I asked incredulous.

  Shamansky replied, “As I understand it, about twenty sworn and retired personnel made a show of force at a known Russian Mafia bar. It was communicated in no uncertain terms that you are the son of an SDPD cop, and if any harm comes to you that every known or suspected Russian Mafioso will be hounded until they are all either in jail or deported, that is, if they survive the arrest. In the meantime, they’ll be the most highly publicized group of criminals in the history of California.”

  “Do you think it will work?” I asked.

  “The reason they came after you in the first place, according to Dracovich, is because they felt you were responsible for the publicity. They thrive in the shadows. With the Smiling Sons of St. Patrick threatening to turn into a proctology squad, the Ruskies are sure to back off. You’re not worth it to them. You should keep your head down for a few days until word gets out that the contract has been pulled, but I’m sure the show of force will do the trick,” he said.

  “What’s a proctology squad?” I asked.

  Shamansky replied, “That’s a group of cops that will get so far up your ass you won’t need a rectal exam for the rest of your life.”

  “Thanks, Shamansky. I’ll keep in touch,” I said and hung up.

  When I returned to the living room everyone was in a very somber mood. I gave them the highlights of my conversation with Shamansky. When I got to the part about the Smiling Son’s of St. Patrick, Kelly beamed. When I finished she jumped to her feet, threw her arms around me and exclaimed, “Everything’s going to be alright!”

  The band quietly mulled the events of the last half-hour, but Kelly got it immediately. “Do you guys think we should still do the gig?” Derek asked.

  “It’s up to you,” I said.

  “I want to play,” Michael stated without question.

  “My life has been way too safe lately,” Kyle said.

  Jeannine asked, “Do you think there’s a chance the men with the ski masks could show up at the club?"

  Kelly couldn’t keep still anymore. “You can’t let an opportunity like this pass you by. You’re getting a chance to do something you love at your favorite place to play in front of a group of people who probably loved you and miss you. Forget Doberman’s Stub, I can’t wait to hear you guys in front of a live audience. If it’s anything like what I heard last night, Doberman’s Stub won’t want to follow you. What do you think Jeannine?”

  “Kelly’s right. It would be a shame if you cancelled,” she said.

  “Derek?” I asked.

  “Isn’t the drummer supposed to be the wild and crazy one? I can’t be responsible for ruining that reputation by doing something sensible and sane,” he said. “I’m in.”

  “OK, we’re all agreed,” Michael said. “Now let’s go practice for a couple of hours so we can live up to our fans expectations.”

  Over the next three hours we finalized our play list and sets. About two hours into the session, Jeannine walked into our practice room wearing a surprisingly low cut nightgown she had borrowed from Aunt Esther. I’m not sure if she was trying to replicate the momentum Kelly generated last night when she inspired us with her baby dolls, but it had a very different effect on the boys. For starters, Jeannine had been fidgety since the California Confidential bombshell was dropped. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder can get magnified when you mix in a large dose of anxiety. Tonight Jeannine became obsessed with the nightgown’s tight fitting elastic sash that ran under the bust line. Unconscious of the attention she was getting from the band, Jeannine adjusted and readjusted her breasts above the elastic sash at least twenty times.

  Michael managed to continue to play without missing a beat, though he had a smile frozen across his face. Kyle and Derek kept playing too fast and too loud. The session was getting counterproductive. Just as I was about to pull the plug and call it a night, Jeannine’s left breast managed to escape the confines of the flimsy bodice. Derek hit one of his cymbals so hard the stand fell over and the side of the symbol landed squarely on Kyle’s toe. “Aaaaayyyyyeeee,” he screamed.

  I said, “I think we’re as ready as we can possibly be in one week. I don’t want us to peak too early, so let’s call it a night.”

  “I peaked,” said Kyle. “Did you peak, Derek?”

  He replied, “I peaked, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to
get up from behind my drums yet.”

  While the boys were carrying on, Jeannine quietly turned to Kelly and said, “That was a close one. My boob popped out right after the symbol fell on Kyle’s toe. If they weren’t so distracted I think they would have seen me.”

  “You might want to change into what you wore last night. Esther’s nightgown is pretty but it looks a little uncomfortable,” Kelly said.

  “Good idea,” she said.

  Chapter 15

  The first thing Kelly asked me when I woke up was, “Did you call your parents and tell them you’re alright?”

  “No ‘good morning’? No ‘did you have a nice sleep?” I asked.

  “I’ll bet your mother didn’t have a nice sleep. Here’s your cell phone. Why don’t you give her a call now,” she stated.

  “You’re right. Can I use the bathroom and get a glass of orange juice first?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied. “Do it now before they go out for the morning.”

  I tried. Twelve rings later I hung up. “They must have already gone out. What time is it anyway?”

  “It’s just after nine. Why didn’t you leave a voice-mail message?” she asked.

  “Because I have the only parents in America who don’t have voice-mail or an answering machine,” I replied.

  “I guess we know what they’ll be getting for Christmas,” she said.

  “I already tried. It went back to the store the next day,” I said.

  “I’m going back downstairs to see if Esther needs help with breakfast,” she said and disappeared.

  Luckily I stored Glenda MacPhearson’s home number in my cell phone. “Glenda, it’s Jason. Top ‘o the mornin’ to ya.”

  “Don’t go givin’ me none of that Irish bullshit. It’s Saturday morning and if you’re calling, you want something,” she said.

  “You didn’t hear about my brush with death yesterday?” I asked.

  “What happened? Did some cheating husband try to stuff your Nikon where the sun don’t shine?” she asked with a laugh.