Rock & Roll Homicide

by R J McDonnell

  “You mean you haven’t watched California Confidential the last two nights?” I asked.

  “Why? Were you abducted by aliens?” she asked.

  “You know what I’m working on. Thursday’s show notified the world that I’m after the Russian Mafia, and Friday they showed a Russian hit man being pulled out of a tree across the street from my house,” I said.

  “No shit!” she exclaimed. “What do the Russians have to do with Joseph Martin?” she asked.

  “I’m in Alpine and about to head into the city. I was hoping I could stop by your place on the way in to find out what you’ve learned. Would that be OK?” I asked.

  “You’re not being followed, are you?” she asked.

  “Actually, I’m being followed by my girlfriend. Is it alright if I bring her along?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “But we’re going to be talking about stuff I can’t be quoted on. I’d hate to see this come back on me.”

  “I understand. You can just nod at her if you want me to ask her to wait in the car. I’m sure she’ll be OK with that,” I said.

  “I need to get out of here by 11:30,” she said.

  “We’ll be on our way in a few minutes,” I said and hung up. When we arrived at her house in Julian, I introduced her to Kelly and she called her fiancée, Tyrone, in from the backyard where he was mowing the lawn. She introduced us and told him he could go back out and finish the lawn, then take a quick shower because they were leaving by 11:30.

  “Are you still playing at the Dali Lama tonight?” she asked.

  “Provided I’m not sleeping with the fishes,” I replied.

  “Good. Then Kelly can catch me up on all this tabloid TV stuff while you’re on the stage. Let’s get down to the information you wanted, I really am on a tight schedule,” Glenda said.

  “Fine with me. I told Kelly that some of this stuff is very sensitive. If you’d like her to go into another room, or the car, or rake the lawn for Tyrone, I’m sure she’d be fine with that,” I said and got elbowed in the ribs.

  “There’s an eleven o’clock news show about to come on. Maybe Kelly can check it out and make sure your office hasn’t been firebombed,” she said.

  “I’ll be glad to,” Kelly said. Glenda brought her into the living room, turned on the TV and asked if she wanted coffee, which she didn’t.

  When Glenda returned to the kitchen she was carrying a file folder with a piece of paper taped over the file name. “The deceased, Captain Carson, had friends in high places calling for Martin’s head after the explosion. No matter how you look at it, he definitely could have prevented this guy’s death.”

  “Is there more than one source?” I asked.

  “I’m not going to tell you where I got this information, but I will tell you I drew this from four separate sources. One reads like a vendetta written by the dead officer’s buddy. But the others sound objective and correct,” she said.

  “From what you read, Glenda, what do you think happened in Iraq?” I asked.

  “Martin and Carson didn’t get along at all. Martin thought Carson was cowardly and would delegate anything remotely dangerous to his subordinates, including freshly trained recruits. On the morning of the incident, Sergeant Martin told his coworkers that Carson was required to sign off on a new recruit’s first assignment disarming ordnance. He was quoted by two sources as telling them the recruit would probably forget about a grounding wire and that when Carson made the same mistake and tried moving it, be sure to stand clear.”

  “Did they suspect that Martin tampered with the ordnance?” I asked.

  “The captain’s friend suggested that, but there was no evidence to back it up,” she said. “When Carson arrived for the inspection he told Martin to do it for him and, in front of the whole squad, Martin asked if he was incompetent or just plain chicken shit. They argued for a few minutes, then Carson went off to do the inspection while Martin got everybody out of harms way. Two minutes later the ordnance detonated and Carson was killed instantly.”

  “What was the finding of the inquiry board?” I asked.

  “They found that Martin couldn’t be held directly accountable for Carson’s death, but that it was definitely a preventable loss and that Martin was no longer welcome in the command. They sent him to the US to work with the Corps of Engineers while they were deciding what to do with him. Then they gave him an honorable discharge,” Glenda said.

  “But he orchestrated and coordinated everything that led to Carson’s death. He didn’t just idly step back and watch, he pushed the guy into a situation that got him killed,” I said angrily.

  “The brass felt that no matter what Martin did, Carson ultimately died of his own incompetence. He shouldn’t have passed the buck so often that he lost his skills. The general feeling was that the Army got rid of two bad seeds and good riddance,” she said.

  “Can I use any of this to make a case for Martin’s character and capabilities?” I asked.

  “Not through me you can’t,” she said pointedly. “If it got out that I gave you this information, not only wouldn’t I make captain, I wouldn’t make honorable discharge.”

  “What do you think I can do with it?” I asked.

  “If you have a cop friend, see if you can get him to get a court order,” she replied. “A friendly judge might grant it, based on the fact that he was an ordnance tech.”

  “Thanks Glenda. Are you two going to make it tonight?” I asked as we walked to the living room.

  “I think so,” she said to me. Then to Kelly she asked, “Any breaking news to report?”

  “Just a huge lawn and garden sale at Home Depot,” she said.

  “Tyrone! Are you ready?” Glenda yelled up the stairs. Then to us she said, “That’s where we’re going. We’re taking a landscaping class at noon, then burning the plastic to take advantage of the sale afterwards.”

  “Thanks Glenda, we’ll see you tonight,” I said as we made our way out the door.

  At Kelly’s request we pointed the Acura towards my parent’s house. “We can stop by to say I’m OK, then hit Little Italy for lunch so I can carb up for tonight,” I said.

  “Just make sure you don’t carb out over your belt,” she said. We continued to listen exclusively to the Doberman’s Stub demo CD. She kept the conversation to a minimum so I could absorb as much as possible before tonight’s performance.

  When we arrived at my parent’s house, my mother met us as we walked through the door, threw her arms around me and exclaimed, “Thank God you’re alright! Why didn’t you call? I’ve been worried sick!”

  “I did call, but there was no answer. If you two had kept the answering machine I gave you…” I said.

  “Don’t start,” she said, then jogged toward the backyard and yelled, “Jim, Jim, Jason’s here with Kelly.”

  A minute later Dad walked into the living room and said, “That’s quite a fix you’ve gotten yourself into, son.”

  I replied, “I’m sure you had a few bad guys come after you in your day.”

  “A few bad guys, yes. A whole crime wave, no,” he said.

  “I heard you threatened to pit the Russian Mafia against the Irish Mafia,” I said with a smile.

  “None of my friends like that name. Who told you that?” he asked.

  “Your old buddy Shamansky gave me the highlights. Thanks Dad. It sounds like you made quite an impression,” I said.

  “You aren’t out of the woods yet. In fact, you shouldn’t even be out and about for a few days,” he said.

  “We’ve been up in Alpine the last couple of nights,” I said.

  “Good. Continue to lay low,” he said.

  Kelly chimed in, “Does that mean we shouldn’t go to Little Italy for lunch?”

  “You’ll have lunch with us,” Mom ordered. “I’ll get it started right now.”

  “Can I help?” Kelly asked.

  “Come with me dear,” Mom replied and took her by the hand. “I can’t imagine what you’ve
been through,” she added as they walked into the kitchen.

  “That’s quite a catch you got there son,” Dad said as he smiled and nodded his approval of Kelly.

  “If you knew where to find the local Russian Mafia Don the SDPD must have somebody monitoring their activities,” I stated.

  “We do, and I’m damned glad I never got stuck with that assignment,” he said. “It’s like working Chinatown. They keep pretty much to their own community and that community keeps Omerta better than the Italians. Nobody talks. No snitches, no outraged citizens, no jilted lovers looking to get even. The victims are too scared to serve as witnesses, and as a result, charges never stick. We keep an eye on them, but it’s strictly minimal monitoring.”

  “Do you think your visit had the desired effect?” I asked.

  “The last thing they want is to have their way of life disrupted. They put a contract out on you because you picked up the rock they live under. But once they came to understand that killing you would be a lot more trouble than it’s worth, they backed off,” he said.

  “Then why did you tell me to continue to lay low?” I asked.

  “It’s an old ways, new ways issue. The young guys all carry cell phones and are hooked up to the Internet. Ten minutes after the contract was lifted those guys knew about it. On the other hand, you have the old school guys who get the word on the contract and immediately go underground to put their plans into action. You might have a gunman staking out your house, or office, or Kelly’s place, who will stay in his car from one day to the next. Give one of these guys a gallon of vodka, a box of beef jerky and a pee jug and he might be good for a week,” Dad said.

  Kelly walked into the living room and announced, “Lunch is on the kitchen table. Come and get it.” Dad looked at Kelly then back at me and gave me a big smile and a thumbs-up gesture. It’s hard to believe this guy once worked undercover.

  Lunch was fun and light. Kelly had the good sense not to mention the gig tonight, and Mom had the good sense not to mention my childhood. Dad seemed to be making a conscious effort to be on his best behavior. When we finished, Kelly volunteered to help Mom with the dishes. Dad said he had something for me and led me back into the living room. He told me to have a seat on the couch, then went into a closet and came out with what appeared to be a picture album that he handed to me.

  Just as I thought we were about to go down memory lane, I opened the floral-covered binder and saw four mug shots complete with name and last known address. “I threw it together this morning. These are suspected Russian Mafioso’s living in San Diego County who are forty years and older. I suggest you let Kelly drive, and you study these faces. Are you planning on going by your place?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I need to get some clothes and a few other things,” I said.

  “Then swap cars with me and put on a pair of sun glasses. When you get to your house, drive by at least four times before you park. Look for people sitting in cars, enclosed vans, vehicles with tinted windows and vehicles with puddles under them,” he said.

  “Why the puddles?” I asked.

  “It’s hot outside. Somebody on a stakeout will run the air conditioner every half-hour or so. When they shut it down, it will make a puddle,” he said.

  We swapped keys and I agreed to return for lunch on Wednesday to swap back. Dad said, “Kelly, do you think you’d feel comfortable driving a Buick Rivera?”

  “Sure,” she replied, ”What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, Jason just needs to do a little homework on the bad guys now that he’s back in the city,” Dad said.

  “Is there anything you need to show me about driving it?” Kelly asked.

  “As a matter of fact, why don’t you come with me?” Kelly and Dad went to the garage while I said goodbye to Mom. A half-hour later I had Kelly do a thorough drive-through of my block before parking. I live in a three-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood, perched on a hill jutting out over a canyon. There is only one road in and out of this little development comprised of eight square blocks. At the entrance is a convenience store that is heavily patronized by SDPD. We got into my house without incident. The only puddle I noticed was at the base of the carrotwood tree in front of my house, and undoubtedly created by my neighbor’s schnauzer, Sigfried.

  I had the gut feeling that everything was OK as I opened the front door. But, since Dad put the fear of God into Kelly, I thought it would be best to put on a TV detective demonstration for her benefit. “Stay here,” I said as I drew my gun. While using a two-handed grip, I executed a series of spin moves, deep knee bends and rolls that I must admit, I had practiced a few dozen times during my first year as a PI. In my practice scenarios I always imagined that my attractive female client would be very sexually aroused after seeing me in action. “All clear,” I called to Kelly.

  As she walked into the living room she looked me square in the eye and asked, “Who’s your choreographer, Mike Hammer?”

  “Would you have preferred I call out ‘Anybody home,’ and leave it at that?” I asked with my disappointment apparent.

  “I’m sorry, Jason. That was spectacular,” she said enthusiastically, and I brightened. “I just hope you had the safety on.”

  “Next time you’re in a damsel in distress situation I’m referring you to Delbert Henson,” I said, and she laughed.

  Over the next half-hour we packed clothes for a couple of days, put my guitar and accessories in Dad’s car and had just enough time for that brief moment of passion Kelly knew I was seeking. Afterwards she said, “Sex and rock & roll. Whoever sang, ‘Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad,’ sure knew what he was talking about.”

  I replied, “It was Meatloaf and if you sit next to either Ian Davis or Jack Pascal this afternoon you’ll probably catch a contact high that will take you to three out of three.”

  “If that roadie you and Glenda talked about is there, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one I’ll be sitting near,” she said.

  “They call him GI Jo-Jo and his girlfriend, Delitah, will probably drop by if the strip club she works at gives her the day off,” I said.

  “Are you suggesting I do the girl talk thing with her?” Kelly asked.

  “I don’t want you getting into any dangerous situations. But if GI Jo-Jo is working the mixing board while we’re practicing, and Delitah’s sitting by herself, I don’t see any harm in a little friendly chat,” I said.

  “What do you want me to find out?” she asked.

  “GI Jo-Jo had been pretty uncooperative, so I had to tell him more than I’d like to. My big concern is that he’ll disappear. I think if he made that decision he’d try to get Delitah to go with him. If you could get her talking about the future of the band now that Terry’s gone she might open up about their plans,” I said.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Kelly said doubtfully.

  “All you need is a good opening line. Why don’t you tell her you’re dating the new singer and start complaining about musicians? See if you can get the conversation to come around to her current boyfriend,” I said.

  “Complain about you? I could do that. How long is this practice session supposed to last?” she said with a mirthful grin.

  As arranged, at 2:15 PM I called Bernie from the stage door entrance of the Dali Lama, and two minutes later we were in. After exchanging pleasantries Bernie asked, “Who’s going to operate the karaoke machine?”

  “I think Derek can handle it,” I said.

  “I have a million things to do before the show. Will he be here soon? I’m anxious to show him how to work the software,” Bernie said.

  “I’m not expecting him until 7:00 PM. Is that going to be a problem?” I asked.

  “I guess not, as long as he knows the songs he should be OK,” Bernie said.

  “He hasn’t heard the songs yet,” I said.

  “Then he’s going to have a problem. Most karaoke songs are on CDG’s which will automatically pause for instrumentals and changes in tempo. This home-made versio
n that I put together is nowhere near that sophisticated. You really need somebody who knows the songs,” he said.

  “I know the songs,” Kelly volunteered. “That’s all we’ve listened to in the car. I’ve heard each of the songs at least eight times.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not a musician,” I said.

  “I’m a multi-subject elementary school teacher. Who do you think serves as the music teacher?” she asked.

  “You’re hired!” Bernie interjected. Before I could say a thing we heard a pounding at the stage door and knew that GI Jo-Jo had arrived on schedule. Bernie let him in. He was trailed by another roadie and Delitah, who wore a sleeveless, Harley-Davidson jeans-jacket over an emerald green, sequined, sleeveless mini-dress. When we made eye contact she gave me a discrete finger wave.

  “Ouch!” I quietly exclaimed as I felt my butt being pinched. Kelly doesn’t miss a thing. I wouldn’t want to be the class clown in her second grade classroom.

  Fortunately, Bernie set up the karaoke equipment at a backstage table, rather than at the PA station where Kelly would have been forced to sit with GI Jo-Jo. She and Bernie spent fifteen minutes together while I helped GI Jo-Jo and his toady get set up.

  About halfway through this process Jack arrived with a bass case in each hand. He made his way over to me and said, “Thanks for making this happen. The more things we can do that seem normal the less lost we’ll feel without Terry.”

  “We’ll see how grateful you are after I try singing and playing those new songs,” I said.

  “I heard you at my house a few days ago and I have every confidence you’ll do a fine job,” he said with a soothing reassurance. I wondered if he was stoned or just permanently mellow.

  A few minutes later Nigel rolled in with the dark-haired beauty who flashed me on my first visit to the Choate mansion. He was decidedly tense as he walked up to Jack and asked, “Has anyone seen Ian today?”

  From the back of an amplifier we heard Jo-Jo yell, “I got him.” He then stood up, walked to the front of the stage, jumped down to the floor where we were standing and said, “He’s sleeping in the back of the equipment truck outside. Ian was a little more restrained than usual last night. He’ll be fine. I’ll get him up whenever you need him.”