There’s a .38 snub nose revolver concealed in the passenger side headrest. I know that a lot of people now want to have concealed weapons permits, but believe me, packing a gun around is highly overrated. They’re bulky, heavy, and, if you wear a hip holster, extremely uncomfortable. Then there’s the problem if you’re of the male persuasion and you have to answer a call to Mother Nature. Dropping your pants in a public toilet can be quite an adventure. I had a friend who did just that and blew off three of his toes.
I’d decided to carry a Kimber pepper spray blaster that weighted four ounces and resembles a kid’s water pistol, but is powerful enough to drop an NFL linebacker in his tracks.
There’s a spare pepper spray in the glove compartment, along with binoculars and some burglar tools. All the necessities for modern urban living.
I deposited the check at the bank, kept a thousand dollars in cash, and then drove home. I was anxious to go over the reports Rigsdale had stuffed into that envelope. Home and office was the upper unit of a pair of spacious flats in the North Beach area of the city. I’d inherited the flats when my mother and father were killed in an airplane crash. I’d also inherited their hard-earned lifetime savings and a considerable cash settlement from the airline’s insurance carrier—the pilot had been intoxicated when he flew into a mountain during a flight from Reno to San Francisco.
It seemed like a fortune to me at the time—enough money for me to retire from the police department and enjoy the good life. I quickly found out that I had a talent. A talent for changing a fortune into misfortune. My financial advisor wasn’t Bernie Madoff, but he was close.
So, I had to go back to work—as a private investigator.
Luckily, I’d held on to the flats. I’d also held on to the lower unit’s tenant, Mrs. Damonte. She’d been living there from the day my parents had purchased the property.
As best I can figure, Mrs. D is somewhere between eighty and a hundred-and-twenty. She’s under five feet tall, with iron gray hair pulled back in a bun and secured with knitting needles. I couldn’t even guess at her weight, because rain or shine she’s always bundled up in thick black clothing from her wattle neck to her toes, which were usually encased in black Converse high-topped tennis shoes.
The black isn’t a fashion statement for Mrs. D. She just likes to be ready to go to a wake or funeral. A day without a wake is like a day without sunshine to Mrs. Damonte. She was born in Genoa, Italy, and speaks Italian most of the time. Her favorite words in English are “Nopa” for no, “Shita” and “Bingo.” That one she shouts out in perfect diction when the need arises.
Her one piece of jewelry is a large brass whistle that hangs from a gold chain around her neck. She uses it to scare away birds from her vegetable and herb garden and to frighten the hell out of the butcher when she thinks he’s laid his thumb on the scale while weighing her veal shanks. She is, without a doubt, the best cook I’ve ever come across. A Nob Hill banker sends his chauffer to her door three or four days a week to pick up one of her special dinners. Mrs. D doesn’t charge a set price for these goodies, she always says, “Ascio a vostra discrezione,” I leave it to your discretion, with all of the humility and piety of the pope’s confessor.
The banker ends up coughing up more dough that way. I’m not complaining because she always cooks up more than is needed, and I end up with some fantastic meals.
Mrs. D was in full battle gear when I pulled into the driveway: a broom in one hand, an insect-repellent spray can in the other.
When I was out of the car, she nodded her head a half an inch. For Mrs. D, that was quite a greeting. She was walking toward me when someone she considered more important came into her view. The mailman. I took the stairs to my flat two at a time.
I made some coffee, warmed a few of Mrs. D’s Baba al Limoncello cookies, delicious little puffballs filled with lemon and cream, and started going through Rigsdale’s file, beginning with the list of Paul Bernier employees who resided at the Nicasio estate: Clive Marwick, majordomo, age fifty-six, employed for fourteen years, no known criminal record.
Majordomo. A word I hadn’t heard in a long time. A rank or two above a butler. Alfred, Batman’s butler, had been called a majordomo upon occasion.
Rebecca Jensen, age thirty-three, Bernier’s coadjutor, in his employ for six years—no known criminal record.
Coadjutor, a very fancy description of a personal assistant, and another word I hadn’t come across in a long time.
Then there was a man by the name of Dieter Klug, whose profession was listed as automotive consultant. There was that word again. Klug was forty-eight and had worked for Bernier for eight years. No known criminal record.
“No known” records meant that Rigsdale wasn’t able to find anything because he didn’t have access to confidential police records.
Employees who didn’t reside at the house included the cook, a commercial cleaning crew that came to the house two days a week and were supervised by Marwick, the majordomo, a gardening firm, and a pool maintenance outfit that showed up once a week.
There were no reports on direct interviews with Bernier or his adopted daughter, Gloria.
The information on Lamas was sketchy: no California driver’s license, no date of birth, or social security number—the three items that made tracking someone relatively easy. Estimated age: thirty-five to forty.
Al Lamas. If for some reason you want to vanish into thin air, Al is the name to pick, because many data base searches are keyed in on the first name. Al could be Alan, Allan, Allen, Alvin, Albert, Alex, Alcot, Alfred, Alec, Alex, etc., etc.
There were several photos of Lamas, one catching him in profile, walking along a tiled path toward a swimming pool. He was a handsome devil, with a strong nose and full lips. He was wearing a brief black speedo that clung to his butt and made no secret of the bulge in front. Broad shoulders, flat stomach. A man with a tan—and a plan?
Another photo had him standing between two women, his arms wrapped around their shoulders. George Rigsdale or one of his staff had printed their names at the bottom of the page.
Gloria Bernier was wearing a Day-Glo orange bikini. Her collarbone and ribs stood out from her flesh. Her arms and legs were pipestems, her face narrow, her jaw pointed. She looked like one of those malnourished fashion runway models, except for her breasts, which were prominent and bullet-shaped. She had dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her hair was the color of freshly stripped copper wire.
Rebecca Jensen was a blonde, decked out in a cream-colored shirt-dress unbuttoned down to her waist, and ankle-strap high heels. She was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t see her eyes.
There were also a few photos of the missing chauri. It wasn’t very impressive, an elaborately carved ivory handle topped by a straw-like plume. Outside of the fancy handle, it didn’t seem much different than the gadget Mrs. Damonte used to clean her venetian blinds.
If Al Lamas had indeed swiped the ancient flywhisk, his best bet to make some big money and stay out of prison was to negotiate with either Bernier directly or Feveral & Lenahan for its return.
I decided to invade Mr. Bernier’s privacy by using Google’s Earth to take a peek at his estate in Nicasio, which is some thirty five miles north of San Francisco. I watched as Earth magically zoomed down to its destination. Bernier’s place had to be at least twenty acres, with thick patches of oak, Madrone, and pine trees sheltering a large house with a blue tile roof. There was a smaller building with a blue tiled roof, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a large red corrugated metal roofed building, and a long, straight strip of asphalt. A private airfield?
I zoomed in as close as Google allowed, but couldn’t find anything that resembled an airplane. There were six or seven cars parked in front of the corrugated metal roofed building.
I then ran the address through Zillow, an online real estate database. I’d been way off on my acreage estimate for the property. Forty-nine acres. Brother Bogaley, my Catholic high school mat
h teacher, had pounded the fact into us (literally, he was fond of rapping kids over the head with a book, supposedly to encourage them to learn algebra; I thought he did it as some kind of sexual release, the expression on his face was of pure rapture) that an acre was the size of a football field without the end zones. I tried to imagine living in a house situated in the middle of forty-nine football fields.
I went back and checked Rigsdale’s file. Dieter Klug, auto consultant, was no doubt in charge of all of those cars by the tin-roofed building.
I then spent another half hour in front of the computer screen. There were dozens of hits on Paul Bernier, most of them related to his wine business, and a brief article on the death of his second wife, Erica, who had died from injuries incurred from a skiing accident in Switzerland.
There were three photos of Gloria: attending opening night at the opera, cutting the ribbon to start a car race in Monterey, and at a reception honoring a new jewelry store on Post Street. She looked the same in all of the photos: well-dressed, well-coiffured, and outside of the huge boobs, amazingly thin. She gave you the urge to shout “Get thee to a bakery, lady.”
There was nothing on Clive Marwick, Dieter Klug, Rebecca Jenson, or of course, Al Lamas, but the nightclub, Noche, had one very interesting bit of information. The manager was listed as Joe Sarco. Joe was an ex-SF cop who’d been caught with his hand in the crime lab’s cookie jar, the one with all of the cocaine evidence, and had lost his job and served time in San Quentin.
We had never been close. Sarco worked undercover narcotics most of the time, but I’d see him once in a while at the Hall of Justice or in a local bar, and he’d give a friendly wave and say, “Hi, Ginzo.”
Ginzo is a racial slur for a Sicilian, but since we were both Sicilian, it was taken as a friendly greeting.
Now we had something else in common. Jail time. My jail time took place after I’d left the department.
I’d been hired by an attorney to find one of his clients, a seasoned criminal who had missed his trial date on a narcotics charge. I found him, dead from an overdose of heroin, his bloated body lying on the mattress of a flea-bag hotel on Turk Street. Lying alongside the body was a suitcase full of cash. Three hundred and ninety-six thousand bucks.
Rather than call the cops right away, I contacted the attorney. He took one glance at his client and headed for the bathroom. We discussed the situation for some fifteen minutes, both of us staring at the cash all the while. The attorney came to the conclusion that if the money was turned over to the police, it would be held as evidence for a time, then, barring the possibility that someone in the police property clerk’s office didn’t make off with it, it would be turned over to the government. There would be a long fight between officials from the city, the state, and the federal government as to who had rights to the money. All of this legal maneuvering could cost the tax payers double the four hundred grand amount—so he suggested that we split it in half.
I, being as greedy as the next guy who stumbles over a suitcase full of money, went along with the plan. Two weeks later the police came a knocking on my door—with a warrant. The attorney had decided that what we did was not right. He also decided to come clean to the feds as long as he was left off the hook. Of course the feds jammed that hook down my throat. I ended up doing eight months in the minimum security wing of Lompoc State Prison.
I checked with my answering service. An answering service may sound a little antiquated today, but it has its perks—the caller talks to an actual human voice rather than a recording, making it sound as if I had a real office, and because of the multiple lines and volume of numbers they control, it’s difficult for someone to hack into one account.
“Mr. Polo’s office,” a soft seductive voice said.
“Hi, Angie, it’s Nick. Any calls?”
There was just one from Laura Feveral, the daughter of lawyer Jim Feveral. She was a lovely lady who lived in a loft in the Potrero District with high ceilings and good lighting. She was trying to make a name for herself as an artist. So far most of her efforts hung on the walls of her father’s law firm.
I called and she was in a good mood.
“I hear you’ve come into some money, Nicky. Let’s party. Dinner and then some fun.”
“You’ve been talking to your father.”
“He mentioned something about you picking up a case.”
“Have you heard of a club called Noche on Townsend Street?”
“Oh, yes. It’s hot, but…they cater to a young crowd, Nick. You might feel a little out of place.”
“I’ll tell everyone I’m your father. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Click here to learn more about Polo’s Long Shot by Jerry Kennealy.
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Here is a preview from Les Cannibales, a crime novella by DeLeon DeMicoli, published by Shotgun Honey, an imprint of Down & Out Books.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
Chapter 1
The maroon Cadillac ATS slowly pulled into the empty space on the street, leaving its back end to stick out and block traffic. Commuters voiced their displeasure by laying into their horns.
Phil remained calm and took his time to parallel park the car. He knew if he returned home with any sorta mark on his wife’s caddy, he’d never hear the end of it. How he saw it: he’d rather listen to car horns for as long as it took for him to park the car just right than feel rushed and end up on his wife’s shit list.
Phil carefully adjusted the car’s back end. Traffic began to flow. Once he felt comfortable with the amount of distance between the cars parked in front and behind him, he turned off the engine and raised the steering wheel. He popped up the faux fur collar on his coat and lowered his skull cap over his eyes.
“Mind if I smoke?” Syd asked while seated in the passenger seat. He dug in his pockets and pulled out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes. He looked like a man who knew what it felt like to get punched in the face.
“Don’t even think about it. Rose will chop my balls off—swear ta God.” Phil raised his right hand like he was sworn into office.
Syd pocketed the smokes while fidgeting in his seat, looking to get comfortable. The seat may have been made of leather, but it didn’t provide the same lumbar support like his La-Z-Boy recliner back at his ma’s.
Seated in the backseat was Phil and Syd’s partner from out of town, Carlo. He grabbed Syd’s attention by pushing on the back of the passenger seat headrest.
He said, “Hey, plant it already. You’re driving me nuts with all the moving, and I ain’t got a lot of leg room back here.”
Syd leaned forward and looked under his seat.
“Phil, where’s the seat mover doohickey?”
Phil’s eyes were shut, arms rested on top of his big stomach. He pointed to the passenger door.
“Side there at the bottom. Be careful with the controls—they’re delicate.”
Syd located the lever and pushed it. The seat slowly moved forward.
“Say when,” he said over his shoulder.
“When,” Carlo said while yanking on his junk like he was delivering the punch line to a joke. “Now the boys can breathe.”
“How long we stuck here for?” Syd asked. “You know being seated for long periods of time causes blood clots, my ma tells me.”
Carlo scooted to the middle of the back seat to look at himself in the rearview mirror. He had the chiseled mug of a Spanish soap opera star and began patting his hair like some old lady on Forty-Second Street returning from the salon.
“You listen to everything your ma tells you?” Carlo asked.
“For sure,” Syd said. “Who else you gonna trust to come get you when you gotta make bail?”
Phil pushed the rim of his hat off his eyes and pulled back on the cuff on his coat. The gold Rolex watch attached to his wrist read late morning.
He
said, “Dance already started. Once we see the van pull out, we can make like aircrafts and jet.”
“I need ta take a piss and have a smoke,” Syd said.
“Smoke outside, why don’t cha?” an annoyed Phil responded before adjusting the driver’s seat to an incline position.
“You kidding me? I ain’t about to have some Joe Blow ID me on the street for the five o’clock news. I got mouths ta feed and two strikes against me,” Syd said. He turned the key in the ignition and pushed seek on the car radio. Electronic sounds and heavy bass pumped through the stock speakers.
“You’re making my ears bleed,” Phil said while using the back of his hand to itch his Jewish nose.
“What’s your problem, baby? You don’t like this?” Syd asked. “She’s an all right singer, don’t cha think?”
“This ain’t music. Sounds to me like a broken kitchen appliance,” Phil said.
“I think it’s pretty swell.”
“That’s because you’re a fricking retard. I’ll take Dion and the Belmonts over this clown any day of the week.”
Syd turned around in his seat and gripped the leather headrest.
“You dig this music, Carlo?”
Carlo was busy watching the traffic. He despised being lookout. He liked the action, the adrenaline rush that came with stealing shit and pointing a gun in someone’s face.
“Sounds like two alley cats screwing in a garbage can, you ask me.”
Frustrated, Syd said, “Both of you sound like a couple of old farts.” His bulldog snarl softened once the rhythm set in. He snapped his fingers and bopped his head. He hummed along. “We listened to pop music when we was young and our parents hated it too. Just trying to keep an open mind so I can connect with lil’ Mickey.”
“Your son, Mickey, is just a kid. I’m an old man. Old men like quiet, and since you’re in my car, I make the rules. And when I say turn down that goddamn radio, you better turn down that goddamn radio or else I’m gonna pop one of these off into that simple head of yours.” Phil pulled out a .38 Remington snub-nosed revolver from his coat pocket and rested it up against the steering wheel.
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