by Mike Befeler
“You’d fit right in. You should join us.”
“I don’t think my new wife would approve. As I said, I’ll leave the camping to you younger folks. So, any new theories on what happened to Muddy Murphy?”
My buddy scratched his head. “Theories range from sea monsters to art dealers doing him in. I still side with the view of art dealers. Muddy had pissed off enough wealthy people that someone decided to get him out of the way. These powerful types seem to do what they want and others suffer.”
“And the value of his paintings shot up after he died.”
“There you go. Greed probably led to his murder.”
In the crowd, I spotted a young fellow who appeared to be in his early twenties. He seemed too clean-cut to belong. “What’s that guy doing here?” I asked as I pointed.
“Why don’t you go over and ask him?”
I moseyed over to the young man who whistled a happy tune while arranging things in his backpack. “What brings you to this gathering?” I asked.
He smiled, leaned close to me and whispered, “I’m not really homeless. I’m out of college for summer vacation, and I’m spending it here at the beach.”
“So what gives?”
“I’m trying to see if I can get by all summer without spending any money.”
“I gather the beach provides your sleeping accommodations.”
“Exactly.”
“How about food?”
“That’s easy. I have a routine. For breakfast I visit one of several motels that provide free breakfast for their customers. I drop in, have a bowl of cereal, a bagel or sweet roll, orange juice and coffee. I can usually leave with a banana or apple and a muffin for lunch. One-stop shopping.” He laughed.
“Doesn’t anyone stop you?”
“As long as I look neat, no one questions me. I shave and wash off every morning in the outdoor shower on the plaza. I make sure my shirt is clean and my hair combed. Appearances are everything.”
I shook my head in amazement. “That provides breakfast and lunch. What about dinner?”
“Several choices there. I hang around restaurants on Main Street. When people leave with doggie bags, I politely confront them and with an accent ask if they would help feed a down-and-out foreign student. Works at least twenty percent of the time so within an hour I have a meal. Usually pretty good food, too.”
“What happens when the weather’s bad?”
“That’s pretty infrequent. Then I join the rest of the crowd here sleeping on the floor of the church up Venice Boulevard. Not a bad life.”
“And you’d rather do this than have a summer job?”
He shrugged. “I worked construction in Ohio last summer. I decided to see a different part of the country this year. It’s a good way to spend time at the beach and it prepares me for my anthropology major. This is like studying a tribe in the Amazon or on a Pacific island. You get to know them by living with them.”
“Any of the real homeless types resent that?”
“No. I’m unobtrusive. I let them live their lives, and I go about my business. People here aren’t trying to foist themselves off on others.”
“Well, you’ve given me ideas on how to survive if my wife ever tosses me out.”
“Just stay away from the dumpsters. That can make you sick.”
As the young fellow strolled away to organize his backpack, I gave a doleful glance at Benny, still communicating with aliens over Santa Monica bay. He and I shared scrambled brains. At least I could function, although I needed Marion and my journal to provide any continuity. In spite of my travail trying to stay out of the clutches of the law, I preferred my problems to his. I’d have to suck it up and keep figuring out the links in the chain of solving the Venice Beach murder spree.
* * * * *
I said good-bye to Harley who told me he was going to head down to the paddle-tennis courts in a few minutes. I decided to continue my trip to the beach on my own, mulling over, as I walked, the mixed bag of the people ignored and written off as homeless. Then I had a sudden need to visit a restroom. Fortunately, I found a facility on the plaza near Muscle Beach. It wasn’t the type of place I wanted to frequent but walking home would take too long. Inside I had the place to myself, other than one man who obviously used the restroom for his personal grooming, at least as much as his rumpled demeanor required. I entered a stall and looked down at the toilet bowl that exhibited deep scratches. Oh, well. It gave new meaning to the phrase “shitting bricks.”
Chapter 14
By the roller-skating area at the beach, a young twerp accosted me. When he realized I didn’t recognize him, he explained he was Marion’s grandson Austin. The name clicked from my diary, and I remembered reading about his difficulties and activities.
“I thought you had band camp,” I said.
“I do but it doesn’t start for an hour.”
“How are things with your Pierce problem?” I asked.
His eyes lit up. “Better. I convinced the guys to hold a secret ballot on whether or not to beat up a homeless person, and my side won five to two. That idea you helped me come up with worked.”
“I’m glad I was able to assist in some small way.” I thought back to what I had read in my journal. “So you received one more vote than you expected.”
“Yeah. Only one other guy sided with Pierce.” Then his glum expression returned.
“But you still don’t look that excited by the outcome,” I said.
“I’m happy that we’re not doing anything as a group, but Pierce is still determined to cause trouble on his own. After the vote he stomped off and said he’d do it himself since we all were a bunch of chickens. That guy is something else.”
“At least he didn’t try to draft the one other remaining holdout.”
“No, but I’m concerned he’ll hurt somebody. He has a real violent streak, and I don’t know how to stop him.”
“I have an idea. You want to take a stroll over to the paddle-tennis courts with me?”
“Sure.”
As we walked along, a loud bang sounded behind us. I turned around to see a puff of smoke from the muffler of a motorcycle that had just come to a stop and also happened to notice a man in tan slacks, white shirt and a gray baseball cap half a block behind us. He saw me looking his way and ducked into a vendor’s stand.
A few minutes later Austin stopped and bent down to tie the laces of one of his tennis shoes. I watched the crowd of beachgoers stroll by. As I turned, I caught sight of the same man I had seen before. He had paused and appeared to be inspecting a pair of sandals at a street vendor’s stand.
Austin stood up and we continued on our way. As we approached the paddle-tennis courts, I said to Austin, “Keep your eyes peeled for a guy with a beard who yaks a lot.”
Austin pointed out a bearded man sitting in the bleachers, waving his hands and talking to a young woman.
“That’s him.”
We sidled up to them. “Harley, I have something to discuss with you,” I said.
“Fire away.”
“This is my wife’s grandson, Austin.”
Harley stretched out a large worn hand, and Austin shook it.
“Austin has learned something of importance that concerns the homeless community.”
Harley wrinkled his brow, and Austin cleared his throat. “You see, uh, there’s this kid named Pierce who says he’s going to beat up a homeless person. I thought we should warn someone.”
“Damn. Always some smart aleck who wants to make a statement. No use talking to the police. They won’t do anything until afterwards. I’ll put the word out to be careful.”
Austin lowered his eyes. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he’s kind of crazy.”
Harley chuckled. “He’d fit in with my crowd. Too bad he feels he has to take his aggression out on one of us.”
“Yeah. I don’t know what Pierce’s problem is, but he’s determined to cause trouble.”
“Thanks for the
alert.” Harley turned back to the game. “Good overhead, Clyde. Way to show the young kids how it’s done.”
* * * * *
As Austin and I walked back home, he kicked a rock off the sidewalk. “What else can we do?” he asked. “I just wish I could find some way to prevent Pierce from hurting an innocent bystander.”
“I think you’ve covered the bases for now. Keep an eye on Pierce, and if you get any indication of when he’s going to try something, let me know.”
“I won’t have any warning. He’s not speaking to me now.”
“Probably just as well. Austin, you did the right thing to confront him on this. Let’s see how it plays out.”
He gave me a half smile. “I guess you’re right. Too bad there have to be people around like Pierce.”
I put my arm around his shoulder. “Makes me appreciate people like you, Austin.”
His step seemed lighter and as I removed my arm, I happened to look behind us. Damn. There was the same guy I had seen earlier.
“Austin, stop and pretend you’re tying your shoelace again. Surreptitiously look back where we’ve been. There’s a man following us.”
“How do you know?”
“He was behind us on our way to find Harley, and he’s there again.”
Austin stopped and played out his role.
“The man in the gray baseball hat who stopped to look in the window of the store?” Austin asked.
“That’s the one.”
“I have an idea.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll pretend I’m talking on my phone. Then I’ll race back right past him and take his picture.”
“Where’s your camera?”
He gave me a disgusted look. “My cell phone can take pictures.”
I scratched my head. “I thought it was for phone calls.”
“Cell phones also take pictures.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“I’ll meet you at home.” Austin acted like he was chatting on his cell phone. Then abruptly he turned and raced down the street past the guy in the gray baseball cap.
I finished my return journey. When I entered the gate at home, Austin was already in the yard.
“I have a great picture of him.” He held out his phone, and I saw the ugly mug of the guy who had followed us—crooked nose, bushy eyebrows and a scowl. “Come on. Let’s go inside and I’ll print it out.”
“How are you going to do that from your tiny phone?”
“I’ll download it to my computer.”
“Whatever the hell that means. I wouldn’t know a download from a load of bricks.”
Austin did his magic and within minutes he handed me a full-size color picture of our stalker.
“I wonder who this guy is,” I said.
“I don’t know, but you can show his picture around and see if anyone recognizes him.”
“Good idea. Print me an extra copy.”
After Austin gave me the additional picture, I carefully folded one and put it in my wallet. The other I took with me to show to Marion when she returned.
As I slunk across the backyard, I looked furtively over my shoulder, fearing a return of the mystery man who had been trailing me. In addition to Detective Quintana following me now I had to worry about this stranger. Damn. That’s all I needed. Too many unknowns were descending upon my uncertain brain. I’d make some progress and then something new would be thrown at me. But I had to keep trying to put the pieces together. Eventually I’d solve this puzzle or die trying. Hell, that could be any moment for someone my age.
* * * * *
Marion wasn’t back yet from running her errands so I settled into my easy chair for a moment of peace and quiet. The phone rang and I picked it up.
An oily voice announced too loudly into my ear, “Mr. Jacobson. You’re the lucky recipient of a brand-new car. You’ve won the Bonneville Sweepstakes!”
“That’s funny. I never entered any damned sweepstakes.”
“Your name came up as the winner. Maybe a friend or relative entered your name. In any case, we have a brand new Pathfinder waiting for you.”
“Well, send it over.”
“We’ll be happy to. We only require a low-cost service charge. Just five hundred dollars.”
I thought back to what I had noted in my journal about senior scams. “I’ll consider that after the car arrives.”
“We’ll have the car to you soon. The up-front fee covers the cost of delivery.”
“Fine. Come pick up the fee. I’ll be here.”
He double-checked my address which I double-checked in my wallet, and then he indicated that a man would be over in an hour.
After I hung up, I retrieved Detective Quintana’s card and called his number. He answered on the third ring.
“Detective, this is your favorite suspect, Paul Jacobson.”
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Can you put me in touch with your bunko squad? I just received a call from a man trying to pull off a scam on old coots like yours truly.”
I could hear him sigh on the phone. “What’s the scam?”
“I received a phone call telling me I had won a car. All I have to do is pay five hundred dollars first and then it will be delivered.”
“That one’s been active lately. How did you respond to the contact?”
“I told him to send someone and then called you.”
“When will a courier be there to pick up the money?”
“In an hour.”
“I’ll get an officer right over.”
“And, Detective, I learned more regarding these art dealers in Venice. I’m convinced more than ever that either Brock or Theobault murdered both Vansworthy and Muddy Murphy.”
“Interesting hypothesis, Mr. Jacobson. Trying to keep the focus away from yourself?”
I sighed. I wasn’t going to get through to him.
“And someone has been following me, and I don’t think it’s one of your people.”
* * * * *
In forty-five minutes I heard a knock on my door. A young fellow in a suit stood there. He had short-cropped blond hair and a serious expression on his thin face. He held out a police badge. “Mr. Jacobson, I’m Special Investigator Benson. I understand you’ve been contacted in regard to the car sweepstakes fraud.”
“That’s right.”
He handed me a packet of bills. “Here’s five hundred dollars of marked money. I’d like you to give this to whoever shows up.”
I took the money. “I can do that. Then what?”
“I have three cars waiting. We’ll tail the courier and take it from there.”
“As long as you’re here, someone has been following me.”
I handed him the picture of the man with the bushy eyebrows. “Here, give this to Detective Quintana. This guy has been stalking me.”
He left and I waited for the next visitor. Shortly, another knock and this time a sleazy guy in a ponytail handed me a document. “Congratulations! Here’s your award certificate. Just need the five-hundred-dollar service charge.”
I handed him the packet of money, which he counted. Then he turned to go.
“Aren’t you going to give me a receipt?”
“Oh, yeah.” He quickly scribbled out a note, handed it to me and scrambled out the door.
I shook my head. I hoped Detective Quintana’s crew nailed these bastards.
Now having done my part to make the world a better place, I needed to help myself by finding out more of the workings of the art-dealer community. I found some notes I had made and decided to call the two art dealers who had been driven out of business in Venice Beach. I punched in the numbers for Pieter Rouen and once again heard a metallic click followed by an equally metallic voice informing me that I had reached the Rouen Gallery. I couldn’t imagine it was doing that well if no one ever answered the phone. Next I tried James Farquart and finally reached a human being, one of the female persuasion.
“May I speak to Mr. Far
quart, please?”
“And who may I say is calling?”
I stated my name in a tone as if everyone in the world knew that my piss smelled like lilacs. It seemed to work as she said she’d find her boss. I tapped my fingers on the table as I waited. Finally, a soft-spoken voice came on the line. “Mr. Jacobson, this is James Farquart.”
I took a deep breath and launched into my spiel. “I understand you used to have dealings with Clint Brock, Vance Theobault and Frederick Vansworthy in Venice Beach, California.”
There was a short pause. “That’s correct. What is this call in regards to?”
“Vansworthy was murdered recently as well as a local artist named Muddy Murphy.”
“Oh, dear. I remember Muddy Murphy. Very eccentric man.”
“There are implications that both murders may be connected with either Brock or Theobault. Do you have any comment?”
I kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t go off on a tangent and ask who the hell I was and why I had called him.
“If you want my humble opinion, they’re both capable of it. You couldn’t find a better pair of vultures.”
“I detect you don’t hold them in the highest regard.”
“No. And I’d be tempted to say Vansworthy deserved what befell him as well. The three of them systematically drove me out of business. They lied to my potential clients, and one of them—I’ve always suspected Theobault—planted a dead cat in the middle of a buffet table when I held an open house.”
“Sweet guys, huh?”
“Each of them would be perfectly happy if all the other dealers in Venice dropped dead. One of them must be taking the steps to make that a reality.”
“So between Theobault and Brock who would you suspect?”
“That’s a hard call. Theobault is more blatant, and Brock comes across on the surface as friendly and smooth. Underneath they’re both probably psychopaths. Take your pick.”
“Muddy Murphy had stopped painting as a protest because he felt the Venice art dealers were taking advantage of him. Your perspective?”
“Muddy was a unique talent. He went through different styles as fast as he went through paintbrushes. But he had a fragile ego and would go into funks if he felt he wasn’t appreciated. I could see him quit painting if he felt someone took advantage of him.”