Counting to Infinity

by J. L. Abramo

  I decided to deny culpability and concentrate instead on my own situation. I had no desire to be next on Ralph Battle’s hit list.

  I cleaned my plate and went back to my apartment building on Fillmore Street, feeling as if I’d swallowed a lead ingot.

  I found myself looking over my shoulder. Often.

  I ran into Mrs. Martucci on the first floor.

  “Good morning, Jacob,” she said, “could I talk to you for a moment?”

  Mrs. Martucci lived in the apartment directly below my own. I was sure that she was going to remind me of Boyle’s very early and very vocal visit.

  “Good morning, Annie,” I said, digging into my limited arsenal of charm. “I’m really sorry about all of the noise this morning. It really couldn’t be avoided.”

  “It was no problem, Jacob, I understand how you young people are,” she said. “And the excitement is good for me.”

  Mrs. Martucci wore a black dress, as she had every day since her husband passed away ten years earlier. The widow had to be ninety-five years old. She had shrunk at least six inches since I’d first met her.

  “Thanks for your understanding, Annie,” I said, moving for the stairs.

  “Jacob.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wondered if you could do me a favor.”

  Oh boy.

  “What can I do for you, Annie?”

  “I need to visit my older sister up in Santa Rosa; Millie’s not feeling very well.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Martucci,” I said, trying to picture someone older than Annie or shorter than four foot eight.

  “I’ll be gone until Monday afternoon,” she went on. “I was hoping that you could see to Augie.”

  Augie was Annie’s pet cat, a gift from her daughter as company for the old woman after Mr. Martucci died. Annie had named the animal after her dead husband and I’d often heard Annie talking to the cat in what I imagined was much the same tone as she had talked to the old man.

  “Sure, Annie, I’d be happy to. It’s always a treat to visit with Augie. I love that cat as if he were my own,” I said, not meaning a word of it.

  I’d “seen to” Augie more than a few times before and I knew the drill. I kept a spare key to Annie’s apartment for emergencies, so I was all set.

  “Thank you, Jacob.”

  “You’re welcome, Annie,” I said. “Have a safe trip and send my best to your sister. And don’t worry about Augie, he’s in good hands.”

  I bit my lip and took the stairs up to my apartment.

  I glanced at my wristwatch; it was 8:26.

  Saturday morning.

  All dressed up and nowhere to go.

  I undressed and crawled into bed.

  I woke at noon, thinking that was more like it.

  The ingot in my stomach had dissolved, sending molten saturated fats and cholesterol coursing through my circulatory system.

  I hopped out of bed, feeling like a new man.

  I found my cigarettes, fired one up, and went to the phone to call Sally.

  I made a little wish that we were still on for dinner as I reached for the receiver.

  The phone rang.

  “Jake’s den of iniquity.”

  “Jacob, how terrible.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” I said, flicking the cigarette into the kitchen sink. “How are you?”

  “Alone,” she said. “Your aunt is down in Monterey with one of her numerous boyfriends.”

  Aunt Rosalie was Mom’s younger sister. They shared a house in Pleasant Hill, east of Oakland and Berkeley. Mom couldn’t live with Rosalie, and couldn’t live without her.

  “Good for Aunt Rosalie,” I said, bracing myself for the outburst. I heard my mother sigh deeply, and then to my surprise and relief she let it pass.

  Mom had other fish to fry.

  “How are you, sweetheart?” she asked, warming up for the pitch.

  “Fine, Mom,” I said.

  “How long has it been, Jacob?” she asked.

  “It depends on what you’re referring to, Mom,” I said.

  I knew exactly what my mother was referring to, but I also knew that she loved the game as much as I did.

  “I have a lovely roast in the refrigerator,” she said, “packed with garlic and ready for the oven.”

  “Baked potatoes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you mind if I brought Sally along?” I asked, which was like asking my mother if she would mind winning the lottery.

  “Not at all, dear,” she said, which was her way of saying she would be thrilled.

  “Seven thirty okay?”

  “Fine, Jacob. We can sit down to dinner at eight,” she said, “but you can come as early as you like.”

  “We’ll bring wine, Mom,” I said, “and we’ll be there early if we can. Thanks for the invitation.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jacob.”

  “You love it when I’m silly, Mom,” I said. “See you later.”

  I ended the connection and rang Sally’s number.

  “Are we still on for dinner?” I asked, after Sally sang hello into her end.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  “America’s most eligible bachelor.”

  “Clooney? I told you never to call me here, George.”

  “Mary would like to feed us meat and potatoes at eight,” I said. “Let’s go over early; I can be ready at six.”

  “I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’ll be driving a 1963 Impala convertible and look a lot like your ex-husband.”

  “It’s going to be tricky getting the hair right.”

  “No problem, I’ve got it figured out. I slept on it.”

  “You’re funny, Jake,” Sally said.

  “I know, but looks aren’t everything,” I said, beating her to the punch line.

  “Six sharp,” Sally said.

  “Bring a large appetite,” I said, “over and out.”

  Sally French was okay. We’d been getting along real well lately.

  Sally’s career change, from a sporting goods magnate to executive director of the San Francisco Arts Council, had done a great deal to brighten her disposition.

  Recent events had done a good job of darkening my own mood, so I was looking forward to spending time with Sally. I was hoping that some of her sunny attitude would rub off on me.

  Meanwhile, I needed to see a man about a bug.

  I phoned Tom Romano and asked if he had time to help me check the office for listening devices. Romano said he could meet me there at three.

  I ran water over my face from the bathroom sink and thought about the first time I set eyes on Sally French.

  Sally French walked into my office in North Beach, a referral from Jimmy Pigeon, to initiate a search for her birth mother. Sally had the kind of looks that belonged in a forties film, the kind of looks that would have had GIs tearing up their footlocker photo-graphs of Betty Grable.

  Not long after, Sally had a new mother and I had a mother-in-law. The marriage lasted two years, at least half of it bad. Circumstances surrounding Jimmy Pigeon’s death had brought me and Sally together again, much to her displeasure at the time.

  But one thing had led to another.

  Now we were taking it slow.

  As I towel-dried my face, I caught myself wondering if Sally and I would ever remarry. Something that I was sure my mother wondered about often. I anticipated an evening of dinner and dodging. I glanced into the bathroom mirror and decided that a haircut would not be a bad idea.

  I wondered if I could find a barber who could make me look more like George Clooney.

  Fourteen

  At two, I was sitting in Vito’s Barber Shop near my office leafing through a two-month-old Newsweek magazine. I was waiting for Vito to give me an ear lowering. I’d decided to go the safe route and get a haircut that would make me look more like Jake Diamond. Vito was busy with another customer. The guy in
the chair must have showed Vito a photograph of Rod Stewart.

  Vito’s assistant, unsympathetically known as Sammy the Butcher, was free. I made the mistake of looking up from the Science page. Sammy stood in front of his chair glaring at me.

  “Are you certain I can’t help you, Mr. Diamond?” Sammy asked.

  “Pretty sure, thank you, Sammy,” I said. “I’ll wait for Vito.”

  The Butcher turned away sullenly and I went back to my magazine.

  A team of researchers in Seville, Spain, had dug up what they believed to be the remains of Cristobal Colon, aka Christopher Columbus, aka the well-known alleged Italian for whom the avenue I sat on was fondly named.

  “I’m ready for you, Jake.”

  I looked up from the Newsweek.

  Vito stood with a clean sheet in his hand, the Rod Stewart look-alike was crossing to the door, and Sammy the Butcher was spinning in his chair.

  “Just a trim, Vito,” I said, taking a seat.

  “Did you find anything interesting in the magazine?” Vito asked as he safety-pinned the sheet around my neck.

  “Not really,” I said. “They’re trying to find out where Christopher Columbus is buried.”

  “Guess they’ve given up on Jimmy Hoffa,” Vito said, closing in with scissors clicking.

  The fruit of a thorough search of all the rooms that constitute the humble headquarters of Diamond Investigation rested in my open palm. I sat on a corner of my desk and looked down at the thing. It was approximately the size of a wristwatch battery

  “How does it work?” I asked.

  “It’s fairly rudimentary,” said Tom Romano, who had orchestrated the bug hunt. “Basically a wireless, voice-activated microphone transmitting to a tape recorder. The signal could be monitored live with an earplug, or recorded for future listening pleasure.”

  Romano had discovered the device concealed within the handset of my desk telephone. Tom suggested that the tiny microphone was capable of picking up anything spoken in my “private” office, as well as the voice of any person on the other end of the phone line.

  “What’s the range of something like this?” I asked.

  “Not much farther than just outside of the building,” Tom said. “Battle could have planted the recorder inside of the building and later come back for it, or he could have listened from the street, maybe from a car parked on the avenue.”

  “Could he be listening right now?” I asked.

  Tom walked over to me, took the device from my hand, placed it on the floor, and stomped on it with the heel of his shoe.

  “If he was, that would have rocked his world,” said Tom. “But I doubt Battle is anywhere near, what with the vigilant gang at Vallejo Street Station just a few short blocks away. But that’s not to say he’s out of your hair, Jake. I think you’re exactly right. Battle waited until you arrived because his orders included listening for any mention of Joe Clams, finding out what if anything Harry Chandler had on Max Lansdale that was concrete, and then killing both you and Chandler. Max Lansdale doesn’t like loose ends, and he counts on Battle to tie them up. And it appears Ralph Battle’s one ambition in life is to be a man who Max Lansdale can count on.”

  “The thing is, I have nothing at all on Lansdale,” I said. “I have a letter from one dead man to another about a doctor in Mexico who is probably in no better shape.”

  “True, Jake, but don’t forget that it’s also all that Chandler had, and Max Lansdale wasn’t real happy with Harry still in the world. At the risk of sounding crude, the man is one paranoid motherfucker. Max Lansdale is very, very afraid of something. And that is the chink in his armor. You need to find out what it is that frightens Lansdale, what it is that scares the shit out of him, what it is that gives him nightmares, his personal pit of snakes. And then you have to throw him right into the pit.”

  “It would be easier to just kill the fuck,” I said.

  “There is that,” said Tom. “What about Ralph Battle?”

  “If you’re correct about Battle’s raison d’etre, with Max gone, Ralph will be too busy looking for an alternative meaning of life to find time to be thinking about me.”

  “Good point, Jake, but there’s a major flaw in that scenario. You’re not a killer; it’s simply not in you.”

  “Ain’t that a bitch,” I said.

  “Hey, don’t beat yourself up, pal,” Tom Romano said. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  I sat in the living room of the house shared by my mother and Aunt Rosalie, filled to the eyes with roast beef and baked potato. I was randomly entering numbers into the TV remote control.

  Sally and my mother were in the kitchen, cleaning the dinnerware while the coffee percolated. Mom was bending Sally’s ear mercilessly. I was tempted to charge into the kitchen to rescue Sally, but I’d left my shining armor at home. I stopped playing with the remote. I found that I had landed in the middle of the court scene at the tail end of Oliver Stone’s JFK. Kevin Costner was making a strong argument against the lone-assassin theory.

  The argument failed because it was not impossible.

  “Jacob,” said my mother, carrying a plate of Italian pastries into the dining area, “coffee is ready.”

  I turned from the television. Sally followed behind my mother with the coffeepot.

  “Jacob.”

  “I heard you, Mom,” I said, struggling out of the chair.

  “Sally won’t give me a straight answer,” my mother complained.

  Since Sally was famous for giving straight answers, I had a good idea what the question was.

  “Oh?” I said, moving to the dining table.

  “All I wanted to know, dear,” said my mother, “was if it’s possible that you and Sally may someday marry again.”

  I looked past my mother. Sally gave me a wicked smile that told me what her unstraight answer had been.

  Ask Jake.

  “Anything’s possible, Mom,” I said, with all of the conviction of a Warren Commission member. “Great-looking cannolis by the way.”

  “Sorry my mother tortured you, Sal,” I said.

  We were in the Impala, crossing the Bay Bridge back into San Francisco.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she said, “although I thought I would lose it when she used the words biological clock.”

  “Jesus, she’s unbelievable. It’s not like she doesn’t have grandchildren,” I said, “and if you saw photos of my brother’s kids you’d wonder why she would want to risk it again.”

  “Jake, that’s terrible.”

  “I’m joking.”

  “To sidestep a touchy subject?” Sally asked.

  “Marriage?”

  “Children.”

  “I can’t see myself being much of a father,” I said. “Kids make me very nervous. I don’t know how to talk to them. When I do manage to choke out a few words I usually find myself saying, ‘Do you think you could maybe keep it down to a roar?’ Have you been thinking about children?”

  “I do occasionally. But then I read all about morning sickness, weight gain, labor pains, postpartum depression, diapers, child maladies, kidnappings, and adolescence, and I get over it,” Sally said.

  “There you go,” I said.

  “Are you going to spend the night?” she asked.

  “I’d love to,” I answered.

  We were on California Street heading for Sally’s house in the Presidio when I remembered Augie.

  “Damn,” I said, “I need to swing by my place for a minute to feed Mrs. Martucci’s cat.”

  I hung a left onto Divisidero and headed over to Fillmore.

  The only empty spot close to my building was at the fire hydrant, so I parked there. I thought about asking Sally to wait down in the Chevy for a minute, but then I thought about Ralph Battle.

  “Why don’t you come in with me,” I said.

  “Will it be okay leaving the car here?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Though with my luck, if Sergeant Johnson still had a patrol
car occasionally cruising past my apartment, the uniforms would probably stop just long enough to give me a parking citation.

  I casually glanced up and down the street as we walked to the building.

  I stopped in front of Mrs. Martucci’s door.

  “Why don’t you wait down here, Sal,” I said. “I’ll run up and get the keys to her apartment.”

  “I’ll come up with you, Jake,” Sally said. “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  The spare set of keys to Mrs. Martucci’s apartment was in the drawer of my bedside table. As I pulled them out, I felt Sally wrap her arms around my waist.

  “We could spend the night here, Jake,” she said. “Save some time.”

  “The bed isn’t big enough for what I have in mind,” I said. “Let’s go feed the beast and get out of here.”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Sally said, heading toward the bathroom.

  I was halfway down the flight of stairs when the phone in my apartment rang. I hesitated and took another step down. When the telephone rang a second time, I turned and started quickly back up. Then I was running up, shouting Sally’s name above the sound of the third ring. An intense flash of light blinded me, followed by the deafening sound of a massive explosion.

  Followed by darkness and silence.

  Part Three

  One to Ten

  Fifteen

  Consciousness returned without ceremony.

  I could feel my head. I could feel the pressure at each temple, pushing inward.

  Then the first sounds. The muted roar of the ocean, the incessant clanging of a distant buoy bell thrown in. As if heard from a large seashell. Heard from two large seashells, one pressed to each ear and trying to meet at the middle of my eyes.

  I thought my eyes were open but couldn’t be sure.

  I was in darkness.

  I thought that I was lying down flat but I couldn’t swear to it. I tried to move my legs, no dice. I tried my arms, the right arm responded. I moved my hand up to my face and felt the bandages wrapped tightly across my eyes and over my ears—no seashells there. I tried working on the bandages. A woman’s voice called my name. Jake. The sound of the voice was like an explosion. The clanging of the buoy became the ringing of a telephone. I tore at the bandages as the ringing continued. I cried out.