The Brimstone Murders jo-2 Page 14

  “I’ve got a theme song now, Jimmy,” he shouted above the ruckus. “Classy music, huh?”

  Nothing shocked me about Sol’s little quirks anymore. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a brass band waiting in the parking lot. And it was obvious that when Charlie played Sol’s new theme song, the next round was on him. Crazy guy. “Yeah, Sol, lot of class. But hey, what gives?”

  Sol waved his hands in time with the music. “Jimmy, my boy, I caught the double today at Santa Anita. So what the hell, I buy a few drinks. It’s only money.”

  “No, not about the drinks. Tell me about the deal with Van Hoek’s truck?”

  Sol dropped his hands and beamed. “Aw, bubele, your friend Sol is a genius. At times, I even amaze myself.”

  “Sounds like I’m driving the milk truck onto the base.”

  “That’s right, my boy.” Sol leaned into me. “He’s got all those little drive-in stores scattered around, but he also sells milk and stuff wholesale, has accounts all over San Berdoo County, where the Mojave Desert happens to be, where the Rattlesnake Lake Gun Club just happens to be. Get my drift?”

  “The gun club is one of his customers.”

  “It’s perfect,” Sol said in a loud voice, just as the music abruptly stopped. Charlie, thinking that Sol was talking to him, got up and gave us a bow. Everyone in the place raised their glasses to our table. Sol jumped up. “Play it, Charlie!” A cheer erupted again, more earsplitting than before. Elmer Fudd was on another wild dash.

  I knew better than to interrupt Sol when he was having fun. So I just sat back and laughed with the crowd. But when the laughing stopped and the music finally wound down, Sol continued talking about his plan.

  “You’ll pick up the truck at Sunnyville Farms Sunday night-”

  “And I’m going to deliver the milk order to the base. Drive right through the gate.”

  “You got it! You’ll be the new temporary driver, dressed as a Sunnyville Farms delivery man. Simple and elegant. You’ll take the milk and eggs and stuff to the commissary. While you’re unloading the truck, you make up an excuse-I dunno, maybe, something like you have to use the potty-then you get lost and wander around. What do you think?”

  “Sol, you’re a genius. It’s perfect! If they’re holding teens captive, then you can go back to the FBI.”

  “Yeah, but it’s dangerous. It’s gotta look real. You gotta physically unload the milk yourself, and the gun club wants their stuff delivered at six a.m. Monday morning, sharp. You can’t be late.”

  “Hey, I’ll be there on time.”

  “Listen, Jimmy, you’ll have backup. My technical guy will hook up a radio direction finder on the delivery truck, and me and my boys will be in a car behind you. We’ll pick you up when you get close to the base. We’ll follow, but not close enough to be obvious.” Sol searched my eyes. “Think you can handle it?”

  “Hey, I used to be a cop. One of L.A.’s finest, remember? But I got one question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If they want their milk order delivered at six o’clock Monday morning, why do I have to be at the dairy at ten Sunday night? It’s only a three-hour drive.”

  “It’s part of the deal,” Sol said. “You’ve gotta make all the dairy’s delivery stops along the route, of course.”

  “Of course.” I groaned.

  CHAPTER 25

  It was late when I left Rocco’s Restaurant, and actually, in spite of everything, I had a good time. With Sol buying the drinks and the thirsty crowd lapping them up like desert rats at an oasis. What had started out as a simple meeting with Van Hoek had turned into a bacchanal bash. Jokes I hadn’t heard in years were flying, music with a wild beat and loud shouting and louder singing reverberated. At two a.m., Joey the bartender came around the bar and had locked the doors, closing the place with all of us still inside. Sol hollered, “One more round.”

  “Hungarian Rhapsody,” the cartoon music, filled the air, and the merrymaking had continued.

  Later, Jeanine, who’d also been sipping a few, jumped up on a table next to the piano, and as Charlie pounded out a halfway decent version of David Rose’s The Stripper, she treated us to a tarty morsel of bump and grind. The party ended when Scooter, Jeanine’s boyfriend, who was there waiting for her to get off work but encouraging the impromptu act along with the rest of us, popped Judge Frisco in the nose after he made a lewd remark concerning Jeanine’s left boob, which had slipped out of her low-cut uniform during the provocative exhibition.

  It was about three a.m. when I took the last sip of my Coke, said goodbye to Sol, and left the bar. Gravel crunched beneath my feet as I walked to my Corvette, parked in Rocco’s gritty lot behind the restaurant. Nobody liked the dirty parking lot, and tonight was no exception. It was dark, dusty, and practically deserted. I spotted only two cars, mine and a sedan parked at the edge of the lot by the rear fence. Sol’s limo awaited him in front at the curb, where most of the customers parked.

  I slipped my key into the Corvette door lock, jumping a little when I heard the grinding sound of another motor starting up. My eyes swept the lot. An almost imperceptible movement of the dark sedan parked by the fence and the vapor billowing from the exhaust told me that I wasn’t alone in the lot. Someone else was heading home, but it was strange; I hadn’t seen anyone leave Rocco’s along with me.

  After cranking the Vette to life and driving out of the lot onto Florence, I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed that the dark car had waited until I’d turned onto the street before it pulled out. The sedan was now following me.

  It was too dark to make out what the people in the car looked like, but two of them sat in the front seat. I could see their heads backlit from the headlights behind. They had to be Detective Hammer’s men. It seemed like a waste of taxpayers’ money, cops following me around. What was Hammer thinking? Did he think I’d stop somewhere and check my gun just to make sure it was still snug where I supposedly hid it?

  The hell with the cops, I wasn’t going to let them get under my skin and destroy my weekend. I turned on the radio and punched in KHJ. They had a new night guy I liked, Machine Gun Kelly. I chuckled, he was a straight shooter-groan-but he played a lot of Buddy Holly and Elvis stuff. I liked that, although I frowned when Machine Gun put on the next oldie, “Jail House Rock.”

  As soon as I parked my Vette in the carport at the rear of the apartment building and climbed out, I knew it was trouble. The dark sedan had followed me to my spot and wedged in behind me.

  Two goons jumped out. These guys weren’t cops.

  The first guy out was big-King Kong in a suit. And his temperament suggested that someone had just stolen his banana.

  This was going to be trouble.

  “You O’Brien?”

  Before I could answer, he came at me and tried to take my head off with a solid right. I ducked, and he got a knee in the groin for his trouble. He doubled over. I felt something hard slam across my back. I let out a yell and spun around. The second guy had a baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger, the gangster’s choice. Autographed by Al Capone, no doubt.

  He wasn’t out to kill me. He could have done that with one blow to the head, but he wanted me to hurt-really hurt. He wanted me to remember this night.

  He swung again, aiming for my midsection, and connected. I went down, gasping for air. I rolled, skittered to my feet, the adrenalin pumping, and charged the guy before he could wind up again. I smashed my fist into his nose and watched it shatter, blood gushing. He dropped the bat and covered his face with his hands. I stood and watched him for a second… a second too long.

  The first guy, now recovered, pounded the back of my head with something hard. Lightning exploded in my brain, a whiteness that blotted out the night. I staggered, but didn’t go down. In slow motion, his fist came at me like a freight train, looming larger as it approached my face. Instantly, real time came back. The blow connected, knocking me off my feet.

  I looked up to see the guy with the broken nose stan
ding over me. He started to plant his boot into my solar plexus, hard. I tried to turn away, and as I twisted, I vaguely felt the other guy kicking my side. Through a foggy gaze, I saw one of them pick up the bat. Then it stopped. The world turned out the lights and closed up for the night.

  Sunlight flooded my eyes, but all I saw was a yellow sheet of paper. I was lying on my back, still in the carport behind my apartment. And the yellow piece of paper was covering my face. I tried to move my arm. I couldn’t-the pain. I went out again, but came back. Saturday morning, but what time was it? It must be early; no one was around, messing with their cars. Even Quinn, who went to early mass every day, hadn’t left yet. Muscles and bones hurt, everything hurt, even my hair hurt. I felt like roadkill. With great effort, I reached up and grabbed the paper off my face. The sun almost blinded me.

  I turned onto my side, tucked the paper in my pants pocket, and tried again to move. I was able to crawl. The door to my Vette was open, and it was right above me now. I pulled myself up and managed to climb into the bucket seat. I glanced down at my shirt. It was covered in blood. I rubbed my hands over my face and examined them. I wasn’t bleeding. The blood must have been from the guy I hit. I sat there for a moment, not knowing exactly what to do. The thought of negotiating the stairs to my apartment on the second floor was too much to bear. Fishing around in my pocket, I found the car keys. My hand shook, but I managed to start the Corvette. Pain ran up my spine like a jolt of electricity, a thousand-volt charge, when I turned and glanced over my shoulder as I backed out of the carport.

  I’m not sure how I did it, but I survived the short drive to Downey Memorial, all the while trying to figure out why they jumped me. My wallet was still tucked in my back pocket, empty as it was, and nothing in my car was disturbed. No, it wasn’t a mugging. Those guys were pros, professional leg-breakers. And I was their target-one guy called me by my name. I wondered if it had to do with Robbie Farris. Maybe I was getting close to something hot. Maybe I just got burned.

  I bumped the curb in front of the hospital’s main entrance trying to park, and slumped forward in the seat. I must have passed out again, but I woke with the sound of my car horn blaring. I untangled my arm from the steering wheel and the horn stopped.

  I leaned back. The next thing I knew, some guy in white was tapping on the driver’s side window.

  “Hey, buddy, the party’s over. Sober up and go home. This is a hospital district; you’re making a lot of noise.”

  I slowly turned my head his way and started to roll down the window. He gasped when he saw my face. A shudder ran through me when I realized that his look of horror was because of my appearance. I must’ve looked like a freak.

  “Oh, my God. Are you all right? Jesus.” He opened the door. “Wait here, I’ll get help.”

  “No, it’s okay. I just need a doc to check me out. I think I can walk.” I started to climb out of the car. Suddenly, a wave of dizziness swept over me, my legs gave out, and I fell back into the seat. “Go get someone,” I said to the guy in white.

  CHAPTER 26

  The bright lights, the cold antiseptic air, and the noise-lots of noise-were not calming me down at all. I thought hospitals were supposed to be quiet. Guess they make exceptions in the emergency room. The doctor who leaned over me, raising my eyelid and peering into my pupil with his little light thing, had to be about ninety. I doubted if he actually went to medical school, probably learned medicine reading by the light of a fireplace. He kept asking questions, dabbing his mouth first with a small cloth, he held then he’d hesitate and say something like, “Aw… Mr. O’Brien, do you know what day of the week this is?”

  At the same time, a middle-aged woman wearing white, clipboard in hand, stood next to me while I lay on the gurney. She asked questions as well: “Can I have your name, please?”

  I felt like saying, no, it’s mine, but I meekly answered, “O’Brien.”

  At that point the doctor, said, “Aw… not your name, the day of the week.”

  “Saturday.”

  “What kind of name is that?” The woman in white asked.

  “No, it’s not Saturday…”

  It went like that for a while, the doctor asking me stuff and the woman in white getting frustrated when I turned my head to answer him. But the question that tore it apart was when the woman in white asked: “What’s the name of your insurance provider?”

  Insurance, I thought. “I don’t have any.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the room got quiet. It was like a freeze-frame in the movies, like time itself had stopped. The air conditioner stopped humming and even the guy in the next gurney quit screaming. In fact, he raised his bleeding head and gawked at me in a silent, slack-jawed stare. It was as if I were a hardened criminal and had just committed a vicious crime-Jimmy O’Brien, the mad dog, went into a hospital, just strolled in and asked for treatment, my God, without insurance.

  “Well, Mr. O’Brien, it appears you might have a concussion and a bad cut on the top of your forehead, but I don’t see any reason to keep you here,” the old doctor said. “Go home and take-”

  “I know, two aspirins, and call in the morning,” I said, finishing his sentence.

  “No, you don’t have to call. Good day, Mr. O’Brien.” The old-timer turned his attention to the guy on the gurney.

  As much as they wanted me out of there, they wouldn’t let me leave without someone driving me home. Liability, no doubt. So, after thinking it over for a moment, I called Rita.

  I wasn’t keen to tell her about the dust-up with the goons, but I knew it’d come out sooner or later. One look at me and she’d know that I’d been in a fight.

  She picked me up, and after several oh my Gods and egads, drove me to my apartment. On the way there, I told her a white lie. Although I was now sure the beating had something to do with the Farris case, I lied when I explained that it was a simple mugging. I knew she’d worry, so why frighten her?

  Rita helped me as I hobbled to the living room couch. Then she darted out, heading to Foxy’s. She said she’d be back with chicken soup. To Rita, every malady was curable with chicken soup, even a black eye and a throbbing headache. Who was I to argue? Besides, I was hungry, and Foxy’s made good soup.

  She returned and was in the kitchenette putting the soup in a bowl when it hit me. I was watching a rerun of Dragnet, not really following the plot line, but when one of the bad guys was being fingerprinted the light bulb above my head lit up. I struggled off the couch just as Rita walked in the living room carrying a bowl of soup, the steam wafting.

  She stopped. “Jimmy, what are you doing? You should stay down.”

  “I’ve gotta get to the phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Gotta make a call.”

  “To who?”

  When I didn’t say anything, she went back into the kitchenette with the soup and returned carrying the phone, the long black cord snaking behind her.

  I pointed to my dinette sitting in the alcove next to the kitchenette. “Set it on the table.”

  She put the phone down, went to the kitchenette, and returned with the soup. I sat down, and Rita placed the bowl next to me. When she left to tidy up, I pulled a pen from my pocket. Then I dialed information, and while waiting for the operator to come on the line, I reached into my pocket again and found a piece of paper.

  “Oh, my God,” I said under my breath when I glanced at the yellow-lined paper in my hand, the sheet of paper that had covered my face when I came to after the fight. The paper was a note written in red crayon, a threatening note, just more crap. Not worth thinking about.

  “Number, please.”

  I turned the paper over and wrote the phone number I’d asked for on the back of it. Rita returned and stood next to me as I dialed the number.

  The Barstow Sun’s phone rang. I knew someone would be there, even on Saturday. Small business owners didn’t work forty-hour weeks. On the fifth ring, Tom picked up. After identifying myself, I asked if I could have
a word with his wife.

  He remembered me, of course, and at first was reluctant to bring Cathy to the telephone. He indicated she was still upset over our visit.

  I explained how important it was for me to speak with her. After all, didn’t they want to be sure about Jane? Didn’t they want to know if she was truly dead and buried, or conversely, wouldn’t they want to know that some goons weren’t holding her captive in a supposed teen drug center? I also promised that if I were on the wrong track, I wouldn’t bother them anymore. But, I told him, there was one thing I had to clarify, something Cathy had said about identifying the body.

  Tom sighed and finally relented. A moment later, Cathy was on the line.

  “I’m sorry to keep dredging up old memories, but I have a question. Was Jane ever in trouble, arrested, anything like that?”

  “No, of course not. She was a good girl, and besides, she was only a child. What is this all about?” Her tone still held a touch of hostility.

  “You said that when you identified the body, the chief of police told you that he had confirmed Jane’s fingerprints with the FBI.”

  “Yes, he said that.”

  “But why would that matter? Why would he mention fingerprints if you saw her body and was absolutely sure that it was Jane?”

  Cathy hesitated a moment. She had to know what I was getting at. “I didn’t see her face. Burt Krause-he’s the chief of police, been the chief forever, even back then. He said the shotgun blew her face away. Oh, God… Burt didn’t want me to see her in that state.”

  “So you didn’t actually see her.”

  “Oh, I saw her all right. But a sheet covered her body and her face. And then Burt told me about her fingerprints…” Her voice broke off.