Counting to Infinity

by J. L. Abramo

  “What do you have for soup today, Angelo?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a beautiful chicken soup, Jake. Huge chunks of white meat, crisp celery, crunchy carrots, and al dente orzo.”

  “Think you could strain out the big stuff and give me a cup of the liquid?”

  “I could do that, Jake. But you’ll be forcing me to go to the confessional on Sunday to atone for the sin.”

  “I’m having trouble chewing and swallowing, Angelo. I’ll give you a note for Father Conti.”

  Angelo did the deed with a mesh strainer, filling a large to-go coffee cup with hot chicken broth.

  “Angelo,” I said, not thinking, “ever hear of a guy called Joe Clams?”

  “There was a guy they called Joey Crab, had the newsstand down on Stockton and Fallon. Joey lost one of his paws in Korea and the VA fixed him up with one of those mechanical hands, worked like a vise grip. He got loaded on Thunderbird one night and spray-painted the thing red. Looked like an Alaskan king claw.”

  I thanked him for the soup and wondered if I would ever learn.

  I was told that I would find Lieutenant Lopez in her office on the second floor. Her door was open but I had to tap on the glass a few times to get her to look up from the book she was reading.

  “Is that the latest Oprah selection?” I asked.

  Lopez held the book up just long enough for me to read the cover: Deadly Choices: Forensic Psychology in an Age without Conscience.

  “Catchy title,” I said.

  “What do you want, Diamond?” she said.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I’m here to lodge a complaint,” I said.

  “The Complaint Department is back down near the street entrance,” said Lopez. “You can’t miss it. It’ll be on your right just before you leave the building.”

  “I was hoping to bypass the normal channels and take advantage of my ties within the department.”

  “Speaking of ties, who dressed you this morning?” she said. “Come in and sit so we can get this over with.”

  I went in and sat.

  I sipped the soup.

  “What’s the gripe?” she asked. “Someone stiff you for the ‘plus expenses’?”

  “An ape named Ralph Battle barged into my office waving a forty-four and threatening Darlene harm.”

  “And?”

  “I took the gun away,” I said. “I’m afraid that I may have hurt his feelings and that he might be looking for satisfaction. I wanted to get it on record so if he bothers us again I won’t have to hold for forty minutes when I call nine-one-one.”

  “Was the gun licensed?”

  “Battle claimed he picked it up at the airport when he got in from Chicago.”

  “A lot of that going around,” Lopez said. “Did you bring it along?”

  “I didn’t want to walk up Columbus Avenue with the barrel sticking out of my pocket.”

  “Don’t forget to turn it in. This guy came all the way from Chicago to pester you? What’s with that?” Lopez asked without missing a beat.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a riot, Diamond. You come in here, interrupt my quiet time, give me half a story, and I’m supposed to be able to assist you in some way? Tell you what. I’ll set up a special unit and have them stake out the airport, the bus terminal, and Union Station. Now, why don’t you run along so I can get started on it.”

  “Ever hear of a big-shot lawyer in Chicago named Max Lansdale?”

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” she said. “Never heard of him; why do you ask?”

  “How about Joe Clams?”

  “Didn’t he run a newsstand over on Stockton?”

  “Have a nice day, Lieutenant,” I said, getting up to leave.

  “It may be too late,” she said. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “I just wanted to make you aware of Battle, should he return and endanger the tranquility of your peaceful precinct.”

  “Thanks for being such a model citizen, Diamond. Keep in touch.”

  With that she went back to her reading and I left the office and the building.

  I knew the lieutenant well enough to feel confident that although Lopez wasn’t planning a dragnet for Ralph Battle, I had stirred her curiosity. Which, truth be told, was all I had expected. The next time I came to Lopez with questions about Max Lansdale or Joe Clams, she’d have more information.

  I would wait until that time came before I began agonizing over how I would get her to spill it.

  I picked up a smoothie to take back to the office for Darlene.

  “Get anything out of Lopez?” Darlene asked.

  “Only a reminder that she’s a lot smarter than I am.”

  I went to my desk to call Vinnie Strings.

  “Jake, am I glad you called,” said Strings, sounding, as usual, as if it were the end of the world. “It’s the basil plants. I can’t remember if Angela said four cups of water every day at three, or three cups at four.”

  “Why don’t you play it safe and alternate day to day, Vinnie,” I suggested.

  “Jeez, why didn’t I think of that?” he said.

  I could list a million reasons.

  “Do me a favor, Vin.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Check the oil in the Chevy, top it off if needed. There’s Quaker State 10-40 in the trunk.”

  “Sure, Jake. Going somewhere?”

  “L.A. Want to come along?”

  Okay, so I’m not perfect. Who is?

  “Damn. I’d love to go with you; I’m stuck here with these fucking plants.”

  “I understand, Vin.”

  “Is there something else I could do?”

  Vinnie Stradivarius lived for any opportunity to help. He wasn’t very good at it, but he really tried.

  “There may be one or two things you can do for me while I’m gone, Vin. Let’s talk when I come for the car.”

  “Okay, Jake,” he said.

  “I’ll be over around seven.”

  “Jake.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Should I do the four cups today, or the three?”

  I looked at my watch. It was ten past four.

  “Do three today, Vin,” I said, “and don’t forget to check the oil.”

  I went through my desk drawer and located the .38. I opened the chamber and found it was loaded. I emptied the gun and pulled the trigger a few times. It did what it was supposed to do. I reloaded and slipped the revolver into my jacket pocket.

  “How about I pick you up at eight,” I said to Darlene when I came out to her desk. “We’ll grab a bite while I talk with Tony Carlucci.”

  “Think I’ll pass on Carlucci’s, Jake. There’s really nothing on the menu that I can eat. And I don’t want to inhibit you or Tony from being totally candid. You can call me at home when you’re leaving and we’ll be ready to go when you get there.”

  “You’re serious about Tug McGraw coming along? You know Vinnie could look after him for a day or two.”

  “Don’t be callous, Jake. The poor dog would have about as much chance surviving two days with Vinnie as those poor basil plants do.”

  “I’ll call when I’m leaving Carlucci’s,” I said. “What did you do with Battle’s gun?”

  “I locked it in the safe.”

  I took the Powell streetcar to Market and the bus up Market to Fillmore, then walked the two blocks to my apartment.

  I was feeling a lot more limber than I had in the morning. I managed to do a much better job showering, was able to shave and to get my clothes on right side out. I threw what I thought I might need for two days into a small travel bag.

  I had an hour or so to kill before driving the Toyota over to pick up the Chevy from Joey Russo’s garage and deal with Vinnie.

  I killed the time with a strong pot of espresso and the paperback copy of The Brothers Karamozov that I was working on. Whenever I need to feel b
etter about my own circumstances, a Russian novel always does the trick.

  “What can I do?” Vinnie asked.

  He was sitting on the Russo porch when I pulled up front in the Toyota, and he spit out the question before I was out of the car.

  I followed him into the house and let him talk me into a Miller Lite.

  “Jimmy Pigeon ever talk about a PI named Chandler?” I asked.

  “Sure. I met Harry a few times. He worked a couple of jobs with Jimmy in the old days, before Jimmy moved to Santa Monica. Chandler was LAPD before he went private.”

  “Oh?”

  “Harry was working a grand theft auto case. It led him to a chop shop out on Broadway near the L.A. River that was doing thirty to forty high-end vehicles a month. While he was staking out the place, Harry spotted a city politico dropping in to visit. He took it to his captain, asking for a go-ahead to raid the shop. Next morning, Harry was placed on suspension. Story was they found cocaine from a recent drug bust in Harry’s locker. When the troops finally hit the chop shop all they found were stripped Beemers, Benzes, and Jags and not a single soul to talk about Mr. City Councilman. The evidence from Harry’s locker mysteriously disappeared and he was reinstated, but when Harry went in to retrieve his gun and shield he broke the captain’s nose, and then he quit the force. And a year later the very same councilman was photographed by PI Chandler in a motel room playing doctor with a high school cheerleader. Sort of put a damper on the guy’s mayoral campaign.”

  “Chandler sounds like someone Jimmy would run with,” I said. “How did he take it when Chandler was killed?”

  “You knew Jimmy, Jake. He always took everything in stride.”

  “Any chance that Chandler is alive, Vinnie?”

  “Where did you get that idea?”

  “I heard that Stan Riddle was selling it.”

  “Riddle is a joke.”

  “Maybe so, but somehow my name managed to get included in the punch line. I’m headed down to check it out. While I’m gone, maybe you could sit in the office for a few hours the next day or two and check calls.”

  “Sure.”

  “The name Joe Clams mean anything to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ask around.”

  “Will do.”

  “Did you check the oil in the Impala?”

  “Sure did. I added a quart and filled the window-washer reservoir.”

  It was the first answer Vinnie gave that didn’t sound to me as if it had been briefly stuck in his throat. It wasn’t like Vinnie to hold out on me, so I decided that for the time being I would believe that I was hearing things.

  “Thanks for the beer. Don’t kill the plants. I’ll call you when I get back,” I said.

  I went out the back door, pulled the Impala out of the garage, and backed out of the alley to the street.

  Vinnie waved at me from the front porch as I left. He was wearing what looked to me like a three-dollar-bill smile.

  Or maybe I was just seeing things.

  Any other time, Vinnie’s behavior would have been distracting, if not impossible to ignore. But when you’re on your way to a sit-down with Tony Carlucci, it’s easy to forget what happened a minute ago.

  I took a table in the rear of the dining room and ordered a Dickel and a plate of ziti with eggplant. I asked the waiter to tell the chef to seriously overcook the pasta.

  Tony Carlucci didn’t show up at the table until the plates were cleared and the espresso was poured. Tony had strong feelings about interrupting people while they ate. And much stronger feelings about being interrupted himself.

  “How was the ziti, Jake?” he asked, slipping into the chair across from me. “It looked a little mushy coming out of the kitchen.”

  “Tell me what you know about Lansdale,” I said.

  “His mother is a Giancana.”

  “So?”

  “So he has a lot of leeway,” Carlucci said.

  “Is he untouchable?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean is he protected?” I asked. “For instance, if he referred to you as a pimp could he get away with it?”

  “The fuck called me a pimp?”

  “It’s a theoretical, Tony. This fuck is squeezing me and I need an idea about how difficult it would be to get him off my back.”

  “Let’s put it this way, Diamond,” Tony said. “The guy has connections, but his protection isn’t carte blanche. If a good case could be made, whoever may be looking after him could be persuaded to turn their backs for a minute or two. It’s tricky, but my brother John might be able to help out.”

  “If?”

  “If this fuck Lansdale ever referred to Johnny Boy as a pimp.” Johnny Boy Carlucci was doing twenty to life at San Quentin. But his influence out in the street, particularly by way of his younger brother Tony, was undiminished.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said. “Thanks, Tony.”

  “Don’t mention it, Diamond,” Carlucci said, “and I mean that literally.”

  I drove over to Buena Vista to pick up Darlene and the mutt.

  We drove straight through, reaching Willie Dogtail’s place just after five a.m.

  Dogtail’s beach house was not much more than a shack. A very valuable shack. It had a Santa Monica mailing address but was actually in Ocean Park, on a squiggle of a street called Sea Colony Drive. The house had been a gift from an uncle from the Narragansett tribe who did extremely well running a casino in Connecticut.

  An area of dense growth separated the house from the ocean. The view from Willie’s back door reminded me of pictures I’d seen of the Mekong Delta. A heavy long-sleeved shirt was required to negotiate the twenty yards to the beach if you didn’t care to have your arms amputated by thorny branches. Coming through Willie’s private jungle at night always had me expecting to stumble upon a corpse or two. That being said, it was a magnificent location.

  I had done most of the driving from San Francisco so that I wouldn’t have the responsibility of entertaining the dog. Darlene was much better at that. At one point I could have sworn that they were taking turns counting out-of-state license plates.

  When we got into the house all I wanted to do was nap.

  “Mind if I take the car into L.A., Jake?” Darlene asked. “I could get there in time to surprise Lenny with a wake-up kiss.”

  “Sure. Give him one for me.”

  “Mind if I leave McGraw here?” she asked.

  “As long as he doesn’t try to get in bed with me,” I answered.

  “What time do you need the car back to go see Riddle?”

  “Take your time, I’ll use Dogtail’s truck if you’re not back.”

  I crawled into Willie’s bed after determining that he had made it up with clean sheets. I tried reading a little Dostoyevsky but was out cold before I turned a page.

  When I woke up four hours later the dog was lying pressed up against me with his chin on my knee.

  I threw some fresh water into one of his bowls and some soy chow into the other. Unfortunately for the canine, Darlene’s eating habits were contagious.

  I took a shower. I thought about trying to unclog Willie’s shower massage but didn’t know where he kept his blowtorch.

  I thought about coffee but remembered that Dogtail didn’t own a coffeemaker. He cooked his Folgers camp-style in a saucepan on the gas burner.

  Stan Riddle’s office was in downtown Santa Monica. I decided that I would drop in unannounced.

  I found the keys to Willie’s truck in the ignition. It was a 1954 Ford with a camper top that looked like Mickey Rooney’s log cabin. It was so full of junk that I would have to let the dog ride up front with me. Instead, I let him stay to guard the house.

  The receptionist at Riddle’s office looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of Monster Movie magazine. If she’d been standing in a group photo with the Alice Cooper Band, you would have had trouble picking her out. She batted her eyelashes while she told me that I had just missed S
tan. I felt as if I were in a wind tunnel.

  “You can catch him at the Broadway Bar and Grill on the Third Street Promenade,” she said. “A great place for lunch if you like a fifties theme.”

  Terrific.

  Stan Riddle and the Five Satins. I could hardly wait.

  “I don’t much care for it myself,” she added.

  It didn’t surprise me.

  I thanked her for her candor, left the truck in front of the place, and walked the three blocks over to Third.

  Five

  I found Stan Riddle sitting at the bar, leaning into a plate sporting a thick slice of meat loaf and a mound of mashed potatoes smothered in brown gravy. The jukebox was pounding out “Moody River” by Pat Boone. A movie poster from The Wild One hung on the wall behind the bar. I slipped onto the stool next to Riddle.

  “How’s the grub, Stan?” I said.

  He looked up at me, swiped a smear of gravy off his chin with a cloth napkin, and swallowed.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “This won’t take that long,” I said. “What’s this I hear about Harrison Chandler being alive?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Max Lansdale. He says he got it from you.”

  “You’re Jake Diamond.”

  “Guilty. Tell me about Chandler.”

  “I was down at Venice Beach. There’s a Chinaman down there sells me herbs for my allergies. I spotted a young lady in a bikini on Rollerblades that I couldn’t tear my eyes from and I literally walked into Harry Chandler. I said something stupid like, ‘Holy cow, I thought you were dead.’ He said, ‘Hold that thought’ and he walked away.”

  “You’re certain it was Chandler?” I asked.

  “As certain as one can be in this illusory day and age.”

  “Save the philosophy, Riddle. What made you run to the phone to call Chicago?”

  “Money, Diamond. Lansdale has been paying investigators all over creation for any tip on what happened to Harry Chandler. No reason why I shouldn’t take a piece of the action.”

  “Why is he shelling out cash looking for someone who’s supposed to be dead?”