by J. L. Abramo
“Thinking has nothing to do with it. Listen, I don’t want to keep Ralph waiting. I don’t figure him for a high patience threshold. Find out everything you can about this Lansdale. See if the phone number does any tricks. Give Sonny a call to see what he can do. If all else fails, throw the name at Tony Carlucci. And for heaven’s sake, put that gun down.”
“If you’re not back by midnight I’m calling out the National Guard.”
“You do that, pal. Shit, I blew lunch waiting for that damn phone to ring.”
“You want a PowerBar?”
“No thanks. I’ll grab a Cinnabon at SFI. Does that mutt do anything but sleep?”
“Hardly a thing, unless you kick him real good.”
“Wish me luck,” I said.
“You need a shrink, Jake,” Darlene said.
I could hear Ralph grinding his teeth on the other side of the door.
The mere thought of nearly four hours sitting beside Battle in a closed airplane had my teeth chattering.
I stepped into the hall to join him in a two-part harmony.
Two
It’s a safe bet that somewhere in the world someone is wondering whether you can find a cozy, handsomely appointed meeting room within the confines of Chicago’s international airport.
The answer is yes.
I never gave it much thought myself, but there it was. Down a short hallway off Concourse A, looking like the set of an Alistair Cooke PBS series. Complete with a fully stocked bar, Persian rugs, framed reproductions, a huge-screen television showing Lou Dobbs Moneyline with the sound muted, leather armchairs, and a working fireplace.
“Make yourself at home,” Lansdale said, once Battle had ushered me in.
If the place had been a little closer to the Pacific Ocean, I would have been searching around for a change-of-address form.
I settled into one of the two armchairs.
Between the chairs stood a glass-topped table holding a silver tray covered with tiny sandwiches, crackers, and a mound of foie gras that cost some poor fowl a lot more than an arm and a leg. The bread was ink-jet black, the crusts had been cut off, and the beef spilling from the corners was so rare it made tartare look overdone. The crackers were multigrained, ten or eleven at least. They had the appearance of untanned shoe leather. The chopped liver looked as appetizing as corned beef hash. Granted I wasn’t very hungry, and I’d had my fill of goose for the day. The cinnamon roll that I inhaled while dashing to make takeoff was like eating a down comforter.
Lansdale had moved to the bar and was busy determining how much noise he could make clinking ice cubes together.
Battle had placed himself squarely in front of the only door and had taken on the demeanor of a San Quentin prison guard preparing for a breakout. He was clicking his metal balls in tune to Lansdale’s ice cube number.
I was way out of my element.
“How do you take your Dickel, Jake?” Lansdale called from across the room.
All was not lost.
The man had done his homework.
I was about to say Shaken not stirred, but Battle was giving me a glare that said one more wisecrack and I’d be added to the pâté.
“Straight up,” I said.
Lansdale walked over and handed me a glass.
He reached out for a handshake.
“Jonathan Maximilian Lansdale,” he said, giving my mitt a healthy squeeze. “Good to finally meet you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Lansdale,” I said.
It was all I could muster up.
“Call me Max,” he said, snatching a cracker as he sat.
I caught a look from Ralph Battle that said Don’t you dare.
I was tired and bored, so I wanted to get the small talk out of the way as quickly as possible.
“How did you manage the digs, Max, on such short notice?”
“Let’s just say that I have friends in high places, Jake.”
I guessed he wasn’t talking about the air traffic control tower.
“So, what can I do for you?” I asked, moving right along.
“I’m looking for a man,” he said.
“I don’t really know the town, Max,” I said. “I’d be lucky if I could find the Sears Tower.”
“I have reason to believe that the man is in San Francisco.”
“Why didn’t you say so when I had you on the phone? I could have brought you the white pages.”
“Mr. Diamond, you’re very clever, but we’re wasting time. And you have a bingo game to get to. Can you concentrate, or do you need Ralph to help you to focus?”
“Mr. Lansdale, I came up here to get Ralph out of San Francisco because the zoo is already heavily overpopulated. I’m prepared to hear you out, but don’t threaten me. I happen to be a favorite of the Carlucci family.”
“John and Tony?” he said.
“Precisely.”
“Johnny Boy is locked up in Quentin for the next lifetime or two and his brother Tony is a pimp. You’re going to do more than hear me out, Mr. Diamond.”
Oops.
I couldn’t tell if he was bluffing, but I knew that I was. And Lansdale was right, we were wasting time.
I decided on the better-safe-than-sorry approach.
“I’m all ears,” I said.
It went something like this.
Eight years earlier, two men walked into the law office of Lansdale and Sons on South Wacker in downtown Chicago. While one babysat the receptionist, the second entered the private office of Randolph Lansdale, Max Lansdale’s law partner and older brother.
A few minutes later he was back out and the two men left as quickly as they had come in. The receptionist buzzed the elder Lansdale and got no response. She then entered the office and found Randolph Lansdale slumped in his chair with a bullet hole in his right temple. The woman’s screams brought Max Lansdale in from the adjoining room.
“I think you can imagine what a horrible discovery it was,” said Lansdale.
It was difficult to imagine.
I tried to imagine my own brother, Abe, with a bullet hole between the eyes, but it didn’t work. It clashed too much with his thick, black-framed Sergeant Bilko eyeglasses.
I thought about Jimmy Pigeon’s murder. At the time I had spent all my energies trying to discover who killed Jimmy and not a moment trying to imagine how his lifeless body had looked. And I wasn’t about to try conjuring it up now
I did my best to empathize with Lansdale.
“I can imagine,” I said.
“Randolph had just returned from a business and sightseeing trip to Los Angeles a few days earlier. The pictures he took while he was away were still in his camera. I had the roll of film developed, and our receptionist identified the man who murdered my brother from one of the photos.”
“Pardon the interruption, Mr. Lansdale,” I said, “but if I’m following correctly, this happened six years ago and is perhaps tied to your brother’s visit to L.A. I’m not quite sure how you expect I can help you.”
“I’m coming around to it, Jake,” Lansdale said, shooting a glance over to Battle. “Do you think you can bear with me a while longer?”
I stole a look at Battle also.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“I hired a well-regarded private investigator from the Los Angeles area,” he continued. “His report came back in less than a week. The man in the photograph was Harrison Chandler, and Harrison Chandler was no longer among the living.”
“Good news,” I said, more like a question.
“Not exactly. I remained very interested in identifying the second man. All I could discover was that it could possibly have been someone known as Joe Clams, out of San Francisco, who ran around with Chandler. I’ve been trying to locate such a person since the day my brother died, with no success. And I went through a lot of men and women in your business to get nowhere.”
The reference to San Francisco helped me to relate, but not enough to understand even vaguely what the hell I was doing i
n Chicago.
I chose not to mention it.
“No other names came up for the second man?” I asked. “None. Clams was it,” he answered.
Joe Clams. I could see where the phone book I’d offered to bring along might not have done Lansdale much good.
“Okay,” I said, “I’m with you.”
“Two days ago I heard from one of the many investigators I’ve dealt with during the past eight years, Stan Riddle—perhaps you know him?”
I knew Riddle all right, from back in the days working with Jimmy Pigeon in Santa Monica. The guy played at being a private investigator as if it were a movie role with a script written by Nora Ephron.
“And Riddle recommended you call on me?”
“No,” Lansdale said. “May I continue?”
“Please do,” I said.
“Riddle told me that he had spotted Harrison Chandler at Venice Beach, very much alive. So I’m hoping that you can help me locate Chandler, and with him this Joe Clams character,” said Lansdale. “And that, Mr. Diamond, is the reason I have invited you here.”
Voila.
Nearly six hours since Ralph Battle had stormed into my office and I finally discovered what Jonathan Maximilian Lansdale was after.
The problem was that I still had no idea why me.
And the big problem was that I had no idea how to ask.
“Now, you are probably wondering why I chose you, Jake,” Lansdale said.
“I’m curious, yes,” I said.
I waited for his response, knowing it might solve one little uncertainty and absolutely positive it would fall far short of getting me off the hook.
“If you recall,” said Lansdale, “I mentioned that an investigator whom I hired out of Los Angeles reported to me that Harrison Chandler was deceased.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a question, so I kept waiting.
“The man was apparently mistaken or he purposely lied to me. Since that man himself has since passed away, and since it is my understanding that you were a close associate and confidant, I feel that you deserve to inherit the responsibility that he failed so terribly to honor.”
I really didn’t have to ask, but sometimes when you wish hard enough the thing that you know is true might simply be a bad dream.
“It was Jimmy Pigeon,” I said.
“Yes, it was,” said Lansdale.
I placed my drinking glass on the table.
I slowly rose from my chair.
“I can’t help you, Mr. Lansdale,” I said, “and I really do need to be getting back to San Francisco.”
“Sit down, Mr. Diamond,” he said calmly. “You’re not going anywhere quite yet, and you will help me.”
“I can’t help you,” I repeated.
I began to turn toward the door when a cannonball, which had to be Ralph Battle’s fist, struck me in the back between the shoulder blades and knocked me straight down to the floor. My right elbow hit the edge of the food tray, flipping it end over end into the air.
The pâté did a fine job of turning a Norman Rockwell on the wall behind Lansdale into a Jackson Pollock.
I tried to rise, but my neck was wedged between the Persian rug and Ralph Battle’s shoe.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Diamond,” Lansdale said from some-where above me. “I believe that Ralph is still upset about what happened back at your office.”
I guess Battle kept no secrets from the Boss after all.
“If you’ll promise to listen politely for a short while longer, I’ll explain why I’m so convinced that you will feel compelled to work with me on this. I can ask Ralph to allow you to resume your seat, I can freshen up your drink, and we can have you out of here and back to San Francisco in no time.”
I was forced to speak out of the corner of my mouth. A piece of horsehide that tried to pass as a food snack was poking me in the eye. I wanted to tell Lansdale to drop dead. I wanted to tell Battle that if he didn’t get his Florsheim wingtip oxford off me I would bludgeon him to death with a wheat cracker. I wanted to ask them what the fuck they thought they were going to do if I said no. I realized that that was exactly what Lansdale was itching to tell me.
“I’ll listen,” I managed to squeak out.
“Now, isn’t this a lot better?” Lansdale said when I was once again seated across from him with a fresh bourbon in my hand.
“Let’s get on with it, Mr. Lansdale, sir,” I said in my most polite voice.
I took a long drink. It was a tremendous challenge due to a severe limitation of neck motor ability.
“If you agree to assist me, and do a conscientious job, I will reward you handsomely. If you decline my offer, or approach the assignment with less than due diligence, I will make your life a living hell.”
Lansdale didn’t mince words. He was a man with a mission. I was waiting for the part about how the tape would self-destruct in thirty seconds.
I tried to guess what Lansdale felt it would take to turn my life upside down. “What exactly are you threatening, Mr. Lansdale?” I asked, as much as I didn’t want to hear it.
“I am threatening the well-being of Darlene Roman and Sally French,” he answered.
My well-loved associate.
And my ex-wife, current steady date.
Lansdale had it pretty effectively covered.
All I could think about was how much I wished he would die, instantly.
“Can you tell me something about the purpose of your brother’s visit to Los Angeles just before he died?” I asked, fighting to keep the tremble in my chest out of my voice. “The business end of the trip. I believe that I can guess about the sightseeing part.”
I was trying to avoid any talk of Disneyland.
“You ask good questions, Mr. Diamond.”
“It’s my forte. If you want someone who can’t ask a good question, get Larry King.”
“I really can’t say much concerning the nature of Randolph’s business,” Lansdale said. “And Jake, I really wouldn’t bother about it if I were you.”
I was being shoved hard against a locked door and being warned not to look for the key. I guess it just wasn’t my day.
My next two good questions would have been:
Why do you think your brother had a photo of his assassin in the camera?
Do you still have the photograph?
Intuition told me that I already knew how Lansdale would answer.
“I’ll do my best to locate Harrison Chandler, Mr. Lansdale,” I said.
“And Joe Clams.”
“Yes. May I go now?”
“Certainly, Jake. Here is a little something to get you started,” Lansdale said, pulling out a wad of cash from his pocket and peeling off ten C-notes.
As much as I could use the cash, Lansdale was the last person in the world I wanted to be retained by.
“I would prefer billing you, Mr. Lansdale, if that’s okay.”
“Whatever,” he said. “Can I have Ralph escort you to your plane?”
“No, thank you, I’ll manage. No offense to Mr. Battle.”
“Fine, then. I look forward to hearing from you, Jake. Have a good evening.”
“You do the same,” I said, taking the long way around Ralph Battle and heading for the exit.
“And, Jake.”
“Yes, Mr. Lansdale?” I said, without turning or slowing my pace.
“Thank you so much for dropping by.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said.
And then I was in the corridor and rushing to the concourse and then racing to the gate.
Twenty minutes later I was in my seat on the jet, rolling down the runway for takeoff.
When the flight attendant kindly asked if I was okay, I realized that my hands were shaking.
I was back in my apartment on Fillmore Street just before midnight and gave Darlene a ring, telling her to call off the National Guard and insisting that she would have to wait until morning for details.
“Don’t you want to hear what I le
arned about Max Lansdale?” Darlene asked.
“In the morning,” I answered.
As tired as I was, I was afraid to go to bed.
I realized that the stabbing pain I felt in my entire upper body was nothing compared to how it was going to feel after sleeping on it.
So I did what I usually did when I was too tired, too wired, or too scared to go to sleep.
I took my cigarettes, the ashtray, the bottle of bourbon, and the paperback novel I was currently reading into the bedroom.
I thought about calling my mother, calling Sally, calling Joey Russo, calling Lieutenant Lopez of the SFPD. But I knew after calling Darlene that I wasn’t prepared to talk to anyone about the mountain of trouble I was in.
I might have been able to talk it out with my dear friend, former employer, and mentor.
But Jimmy Pigeon was not available.
Three
I slept late.
I could hardly move.
The place between my shoulder blades where Battle had pounded me felt like a railroad tunnel. My neck felt as if it had been used for a doormat. Come to think of it, it had been. But that didn’t explain the paralysis in my legs. I hadn’t felt as reluctant to get out of bed since the morning of my SAT exams.
I found the alarm clock on the floor beside the bed. It took me forever to pull it up by the cord and check the time. It was well past ten a.m.
I wondered why Darlene hadn’t called eight or nine times already to ask when I thought I might be dropping in to work, until I found the telephone receiver off the hook. I reeled it in and managed to place it in its cradle. The phone rang immediately.
“Give me an hour, Darlene,” I said, before the handset dropped out of my hand and bounced off the end table.
I braved it over to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. I needed a shave badly. It would be tricky with no head movement, even if I could somehow work my arm up high enough.
I decided to come back to it and staggered into the shower. It was basically a quick rinse because I couldn’t hang on to the bar of soap. It was impossible to towel dry my hair, let alone get a comb up there. I struggled into a suit, vest no jacket, didn’t consider a necktie, slipped into an overcoat, and hobbled down to the street.