Clutching at Straws Page 3

“Not at all.”

  “Then forget it,” I said, and drained the glass.

  “Mr. Diamond,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Actually I was trying not to. Cash was determined to play it out.

  “You’re thinking that it’s better if I don’t know,” he said.

  “Something like that,” I said, and then I reached for the bottle. “Do you mind?”

  “Please help yourself.”

  I poured myself a tall one.

  “Mr. Cash. Kidnapping is a serious offense, and I’m a PI, not a priest. Let’s say, for argument sake, that your son was involved. If I found out, I don’t know that I could keep it quiet.”

  “Even if no one asked?”

  “I don’t think I can help you, Mr. Cash.”

  “Mr. Diamond, I’m worried about my son. I believe that he may be in some kind of trouble. I have never denied him a thing. What concerns me most, if he were in some sort of dilemma, is his keeping it from me. I cannot understand why, if he were only in need of money, he would not simply have come to me.”

  This guy was talking about a hundred grand like it was pocket change.

  “I’m not a psychologist, either. Why don’t you just ask him if he needs help? You may be way off base. Unless you have something more than your naturally suspicious nature to go on?”

  “I need to be sure that Freddie isn’t in some kind of serious danger, and I need someone to help me find out without scaring him off. I can pay you very well, Jake, for your time and your discretion.”

  I rose from my chair; I wanted a cigarette badly. I began pacing, which brought the little gargoyle back to life. Kafka was eyeing my shoes hungrily and all I wanted to do was to say no thanks and get the hell out of there. Instead I beat the puny dog to it and stuck my foot in my mouth.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, in a voice that I sadly recognized as the stupid Jake Diamond voice.

  “Thank you,” Cash said.

  I was about to make my getaway when I was pulled up short by a glimpse of a group of stunningly painted eggs sitting in a glass-doored cabinet between the crammed bookcases. I’ll never learn.

  “Are those what I think they are?” I asked.

  “Faberge. May I show you something?”

  Some other time, I thought.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Cash walked over to the display, carefully removed one of the gilded eggs from its stand, and called Kafka over to his side. The dog looked up at Cash and then neatly rolled over onto his back with his four legs pointed straight up in the air. Cash placed the egg on the dog’s right front paw where Kafka balanced it deftly.

  “You’re going to love this, Mr. Diamond.”

  I was dubious.

  The dog began passing the priceless Russian knickknack from one paw to another, counterclockwise, and after four rotations changed direction. I stood watching, transfixed, feeling as if I had stepped into the pages of a Carlos Castaneda book. Then my cell phone went off, the dog jumped, the Faberge rose five feet into the air, and hung a U-turn toward the floor. I made a failed attempt at a lunging catch, and the egg hit the deck. It cracked open, spilling out its yolk, and Kafka quickly proceeded to lap up the yellow matter.

  “I keep the real articles in my safe, of course,” Cash said.

  “Hold that thought,” I said.

  I flipped open the phone.

  “Jake.”

  “Vinnie, I can’t talk now,” I said. “Call me back in about ten minutes.”

  I took one more look at the dog as if to etch in my mind the last time I would ever see the thing, thanked Cash for the drink, and made for the Chevy. I lit a Camel, took the far side of the circular driveway at about fifty, then headed for the bridge as if I were afraid it might vanish before I reached it. When the phone rang I pulled over to the side of the road, afraid that talking to Vinnie at the moment might cause me to drive into the sea.

  “I got a lead on Vic Vigoda.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Carlucci’s Restaurant. The bartender here seems to think that Vigoda is playing poker tonight. I’m trying to get an address on the card game.”

  “I’ll meet you in front of the office. Give me twenty minutes.” I raced to make it to the bridge before it disappeared.

  Six

  Jeremy Cash was a strange bird. From the way he drank his whiskey to the way he parted his hair. I won’t even mention his fingernails. As eccentric as the man was, and as much as I disliked little dog tricks even more than I disliked little dogs, it did seem as if Cash was seriously worried about his son. I hadn’t said that I would take the assignment. On the other hand, in spite of my reservations, I hadn’t said I wouldn’t.

  Usually when I don’t refuse a case outright I find myself tiptoeing into it, either amazed at my faultless instincts or, more often, scraping it off my shoes.

  I quickly moved the Cash question to the back burner when I spied Vinnie Strings shuffling from foot to foot in front of Molinari’s.

  “You could have met me at the restaurant, Jake. I would have bought you a drink,” said Vinnie, leaning through the passenger window.

  “I’m running late, Vin. Maybe another time,” I said.

  The odds that Vinnie Stradivarius would ever pay a bar tab would resemble the numbers in a DNA match. Moreover, I wanted to avoid being spotted by any of the Carluccis, either Mama Carlucci looking to give me a bowl of minestrone, or her maladjusted son, Tony, looking to give me grief.

  “So, what about Vigoda,” I asked. “Where and when?”

  “Fort Mason. Probably not much before ten.”

  “You said Vigoda was off to a poker game, not a modern dance performance.”

  “One of the small theater groups down there raises extra dough renting out the space on their dark nights. The card players love it; they put the table right up on the stage and revel in the scenery. They should have a real ball tonight. The Iceman Cometh is running.”

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty or so. Need a ride home?”

  “I’ll wait at the office, or maybe I’ll stop in and watch TV with Angelo.”

  Vinnie extracted himself from the window and I drove over to exchange the 1963 Impala for the 1978 Toyota Corona parked at the curb in front of Joey Russo’s house on Sixth Avenue between Clement and the park.

  When I made the turn into the driveway, I saw Joey and his son-in-law, Sonny the Chin, sitting on the front porch. I deposited the Chevy safely into the garage, then walked back out and joined them.

  “How’s the elbow, Jake?” Joey asked.

  “Good,” I said.

  I made up my mind that the next time I got a boo-boo, I wouldn’t complain about it so much.

  “Did you eat?” asked Joey.

  “I’m having dinner with Sally.”

  “That’s nice, Jake, I’m glad to hear it. Have time for a beer?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Sonny rose and glided into the house.

  “Any ideas who might have snuffed Chancellor?”

  Joey liked it when I just came out and asked.

  “Too many. Why the interest?”

  “I’m trying to help someone out of a jam.”

  “Who would that be, if you don’t mind me asking?” said Joey. Sonny reappeared and handed us each a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft.

  “Lefty Wright. Calls himself Al.”

  “Small time break-in artist?” asked Sonny.

  “That’s him. He was found in the room with the judge’s body.”

  “Lucky break,” said Sonny.

  “The cops are trying to drop the murder in his lap. Thing is, the kid is all wrong for it, and I’m pretty sure that even the SFPD detectives are hip enough to see that. But Governor Krupp is looking for the quick fix, and Keep the Governor Happy is the new state motto.”

  “So you find the real assassin and save the day?”

  “That’s the general idea, Joey,” I said.


  “Snooping into who may have killed Chancellor will be a lot like looking for a needle in a stack of needles crawling with rattlesnakes.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” I said.

  “Sounds like fun,” Joey said. “What can I do to help?”

  “I’m not quite there yet, I’ll let you know.”

  “Don’t hesitate.”

  For a long time I’d been leery of calling on Joey Russo for help. He spooked me at first; I’d probably seen too many Scorsese movies. I’d since smartened up.

  I stayed long enough to finish a beer with Joey and Sonny, talking Raiders and 49ers. I peeked at my Swatch; I needed to get home in time to freshen up for dinner. I thanked Joey again for the invite to the opener of the division series; he said he would pick me up at my office on Wednesday afternoon before the game.

  I climbed into the Corona and headed for my apartment in the Fillmore. I had inherited the Toyota from my father in the late eighties. It was the vehicle that had carried me from a fairly successful though far from lucrative Off-Off-Broadway acting career to a mediocre stint in Hollywood.

  The two questions I’m most often asked by those first learning of my profession are were you a cop before you became a PI and what kind of heat do you carry.

  The closest I ever came to being a cop was playing one in a low-budget thriller. I was killed in the first reel.

  I own a few guns, keep one at home and one in the office, but they very rarely make it out of their respective desk drawers.

  I don’t go around bragging about what I do. It’s just a job, with very flexible hours, which I enjoy and sometimes do it well. There’s nothing all that glamorous about it. It’s not what I wanted to be when I grew up. Like most kids growing up in Brooklyn, I wanted to be a baseball player.

  I picked up my mail from the box outside the front entrance and walked up to my apartment.

  I jumped into the shower, climbed into my best suit between sips of George Dickel on ice, and left to meet Sally at the restaurant.

  La Folie on Polk Street was Sally’s favorite spot. The last time we had planned dinner there was three years ago, to celebrate our second wedding anniversary. We never made it there that night, and never made it to our third anniversary.

  Sally had recently broken off her engagement to Dick Spencer, a lawyer in Los Angeles, after discovering that he was fooling around with his secretary. All things being relative, I suppose that Dick’s indiscretions had me looking more like the frying pan than the fire.

  Sally French remained one of the most attractive women I had ever set eyes on. I hoped that the second time around I would be smart enough to appreciate her other qualities as well.

  The smile she gave me as I approached the table allowed me to believe that anything was possible.

  “You look terrific, Sally,” I said, stooping to kiss her on the cheek and then seating myself across the table.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of using that line every time you see me?” she asked.

  “When I do, you’ll be the first to know,” I said.

  We spent a couple of very pleasant hours over lots of expensive food and wine. When we were done with coffee and desert it was nearly ten, and the last thing I wanted to do was to try to crash a poker game with Vinnie Strings.

  “I have to go to work,” I said.

  “Be careful on the job,” she said.

  It was the first time that I could remember Sally referring to what I did for a living as legitimate employment.

  Thirty minutes later I pulled up in front of my office in North Beach. I had called ahead on my cellular phone and Vinnie was waiting out front. Strings climbed into the Toyota and we drove out to the theater at Fort Mason.

  “Think we’ll be able to get in?” I asked.

  “Odds are against it,” Vinnie said.

  We didn’t get in.

  “Can you tell me if Vic Vigoda is in attendance?” I asked the Neanderthal at the building entrance.

  “You just missed him,” he grunted.

  “Think he was leveling with us?” I asked Vinnie on our way back to the car.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Strings.

  And Vinnie would bet on just about anything.

  We sat in the Toyota for an hour or so, but I was fading fast. “How would you like to hang here and see if Vic walks out?” I asked.

  “You want an honest answer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Sure I’ll stay, Jake. Only, could you spare twenty for a cab ride home?”

  “Did you move to Santa Rosa since the last time I checked?” I asked.

  I handed him two tens.

  “What do I do if he shows?”

  “Try to follow him somehow and give me a call.”

  I drove back to Fillmore Street, miraculously finding a parking space across from my apartment building.

  I was asleep less than five minutes after setting my head on the pillow.

  Seven

  I woke up famished, as I often did after continental fare. I thought I would give Darlene some time to settle back in. I went looking for real food.

  After a bacon and swiss omelet, home fries and onions, buttered sourdough toast, and a quart of coffee laced with half and half at the Home Plate on Lombard, I headed to Columbus Avenue and crawled up the stairs to the office.

  I walked in a few minutes after ten. Darlene took one look at my complexion and volunteered to take my blood pressure. “Way to go, Jake.”

  “You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” I said.

  “Give me some credit, Jake. I know exactly how glad you are,” Darlene said, “and do me a favor. The next time you have Vinnie sitting in, put him at your desk.”

  “What makes you think that Vinnie was here at all, let alone at your throne?”

  “Well, Watson, I first became suspicious when I found my chair readjusted into a position that could only be suited for Gumby. The piece of grilled green pepper on my Scotch tape dispenser clinched it. Here’s a present for you,” she said, handing me two fifty-yard-line tickets for the Sunday game between the Oakland Raiders and the Niners.

  “What’s this for?”

  “From Bruno, to thank you for giving me the extra day off.”

  “Why does he think that I have anything to say about when you come in and when you decide not to?”

  “Because I like him thinking it. I already made the coffee, anything else I can do for you today?”

  Darlene was in rare form. It must have been the altitude in Denver.

  “Did you hear about Judge Chancellor’s demise?”

  “As a matter of fact, Angelo Verdi was bending my ear this morning when I picked up your hard roll. I put it on your desk. Maybe it will sop up the cholesterol.”

  “Any calls?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  “The clinic, they can do your cardiogram at two,” Darlene said, not changing it.

  “Give me a break, Darlene.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Jake. Jeremy Cash called. He said that if you want to get a peek at Freddie, the kid will be at Club NV tomorrow night.”

  “Great, just what I need, a client who informs on his own son and an excuse to take in some Wednesday night disco,” I said.

  “Isn’t Freddie Cash the rich kid who was kidnapped?”

  “Yeah, his father wants to know if the kid abducted himself.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful relationship. Are we taking the case?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but we are looking into Judge Chancellor’s murder for the kid they have locked up. I need you to find out all you can about the cases that Chancellor was sitting on, going back at least a year, particularly any he didn’t have a chance to finish.”

  “I’ll give my cousin a call. Vinnie phoned. I’m not sure if he was awake,” said Darlene. “He asked me to tell you that he never spotted Vic Vigoda last night but he’ll get back on it later today.”

  I wobbled back
to my desk for the Mylanta.

  For reasons beyond economics, I prefer working on more than one case at a time. When I’m occupied exclusively with one case I tend to take it too seriously, often attributing undue urgency to its resolution.

  Then again, the more I thought about it, the more I began to lose interest in Freddie Cash. From what I had learned about the kid, in the news coverage of the kidnapping, he was basically a spoiled brat.

  Jeremy Cash’s bankroll had purchased Freddie’s acceptance to an Ivy League college. Freddie had been a poor business major with a minor in theatre arts. His college acting notices made my short stage career sound Obie Award winning.

  Freddie had recently been admitted into a top-rated law school, which probably cost his father a few Faberge eggs. If Freddie had ripped off his own father and Jeremy Cash wanted me to bust his own son, I wasn’t tripping over myself to get in the middle of such heartwarming family dynamics. To call it a can of worms would be like calling the Middle East a hot spot. I thought I might be wise to reconsider the Cash investigation.

  I walked back to Darlene’s desk just to get my blood circulating.

  Darlene said that she was going out to lunch with her cousin Edie, who clerked at the criminal courts building. Edie wasn’t very familiar with Chancellor’s caseload, but she was tight with one of the late judge’s assistants, Buzz Stanley.

  “Buzz Stanley?” I asked.

  “Valley boy, star wide receiver for UCLA before he destroyed his leg in the ninety-four Rose Bowl. Buzz is studying law part time at Berkeley and was assisting the judge between classes. Stanley probably loses his job when they replace Chancellor, but while Buzz is hanging on, Edie can do some fishing.”

  I didn’t have anything close to good news for Lefty, but I figured that just a look at a friendly mug might help him get through another day.

  “If Vinnie calls before you leave and has anything on Vic Vigoda, leave me a note,” I said. “If Vinnie happens by, throw a drop cloth over my desk and sit him back there.”

  “Doesn’t Vic Vigoda run errands for Tony Carlucci?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” I said.

  “If you’re going to visit a client, Jake, I hope you have a spare tie in your file cabinet.”