JO03 - Detour to Murder (24 page)

C H A P T E R 
40

I climbed in the Buick
and popped open the glove box, looking for a registration or anything that would help ID the owner of the car. Nothing, no documents of any kind. In fact, the Buick was spotless, no telltale signs that anyone had even been in the car. The thugs were pros and didn’t leave a clue as to who they were or whom they worked for. I put the gun inside and closed the glove box.

Winding my way through the oil field, I drove down the hill and caught the 405 Freeway, heading back to Downey. The ride was smooth and at this late hour the traffic was light. I felt invigorated, glad to be free of the nightmare I had just endured.

But by the time I made the turn onto the 605 about ten minutes later, the adrenaline effect had begun winding down. I started to feel fatigued and listless and my body started to hurt.

I lightly touched my face and it stung. Pulling my hand away I glanced at it: blood! I took a quick look at my lap, and to my shock I saw fresh blood there too. I began to feel nauseous and the pain from the cut in my arm intensified. I reached over and felt that wound, then pulled my hand away. More blood.

My vision started to blur. I blinked several times. The red taillights of the cars in front of me pulsated in and out of focus. The headlights from the cars on the other side of the freeway converged into a hazy white ball. I drove erratically and couldn’t keep the Buick between the lines. My head spun, but I kept going, not knowing if I’d make it home without killing myself.

A couple miles later my hands slipped from the wheel, and my head dropped. I fell into a black void.

An air horn blasted. I snapped up just in time, shook my head and glanced up. The Buick was out of control, moving fast, heading straight for an overpass pillar.

I jerked the car to the right, bounced back into the fast lane, and just missed the semi that had blown its horn. The driver must’ve thought I was another drunk heading home plastered out of my mind.

With difficulty, I maneuvered the car into the slow lane and drifted off the freeway at Carson St., the next ramp. I pulled into an all-night Union Oil station sitting on a corner. When I stopped under the canopy, an attendant rushed out.

“Jesus, mister, what happened to you?” the kid in a white uniform asked.

“Cut… myself shaving. Where… am I, anyway?” My words came out in labored spurts.

“Hawaiian Gardens, corner of Carson and Pioneer Blvd. Do you need help?”

“You got a… phone?”

“Yeah, in the office. Can you make it?”

I opened the door and somehow managed to stumble into the small office. “It’s a local call,” I told the kid.

“I don’t give a damn. Call anyone you want. It ain’t my phone.”

I dialed Rita’s home number. “Rita… it’s me.”

“Oh my God! Jimmy where have you been? Everyone’s frantic.”

“Come get me… I’m at the corner… Carson and Pioneer. Gas station… Hawaiian Gardens.”

“Jimmy, what’s the matter? You sound terrible. What—”

“Just… come get me… please.” I hung up.

I waited, slouching in the desk chair. The kid brought me a large glass of water, I gulped it down and he brought another. Then he went to move the Buick. While he was gone I tried not to think about the pain, the rats, or the bodies in the warehouse. I thought about still being alive.

The kid returned. “Car’s in the back. Here’s the keys, mister.”

“Thanks.” I shoved the keys in my pocket. Want… some money?”

“Nah, I’ve been in trouble before. I know what it feels like.”

“Why do they… call this town… Hawaiian Gardens? Doesn’t look… like Hawaii.” I tried making small talk in an effort not to pass out again.

He nodded toward the street. “There’s a bamboo shack down the road, sells hamburgers. Been there forever. Supposed to look like Hawaii.”

“That… explains it.”

Ten minutes later, Rita’s yellow Datsun swung into the station and slammed to a stop next to the office. She saw me through the window and jumped out of the car still wearing her bathrobe, a fuzzy pink thing that had seen better days. Without saying a word she helped me into her car and we pulled out of the lot. Screw the Buick.

We headed north on the 605. While Rita drove, I gave her the lowdown and this time I didn’t hold back. I told her about Danny and Rollo, how they took me by surprise at gunpoint, tied me to a post, worked me over. How they demanded that I turn over Mrs. Hathaway’s papers. Papers I didn’t have. I told her how I’d hung on that post in the abandoned warehouse for hours on end until I almost lost my mind.

Then I explained why I’d had to kill them. I left out the part about the rats.

She took her eyes off the road for a moment and stared at me in horror, but she didn’t say a word about what I had just told her. Still, her knuckles were white as she gripped the wheel tighter.

“Rita, I was scared, really scared. I didn’t… have a choice. They came back to kill me—”

“You’ve been gone for almost forty hours. I’m taking you to the emergency room, right now!” she snapped in a firm voice reminiscent of my grade school principal.

“No, just take me home… I’ve got to call Sol. He’s got… an envelope… I have to find out about Roberts.”

She glanced at me again. “No! Look at you. Your face is a mess. You’ll get an infection… and you’re dehydrated and exhausted.”

“Rita, if we go to the… hospital… they’ll file a police report… I’ll go to jail.”

“Okay, then we’ll go to my place. I have some penicillin pills and a first aid kit. I’ll try to patch you up, but if you get a fever or anything I’m taking you to the emergency room at Downey Memorial,” she said. “Agreed?”

I nodded as she spoke, my mind running in slow motion. Images came and went. Hazy thoughts flickered like an old movie. Christ, I needed food and sleep.

“Do you know… there’s a bamboo shack… in Hawaiian Gardens?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry about Al Roberts. He’s doing better. He’s still at the hospital and they won’t allow the police to move him for at least a few more days.”

“I’ve got to… call… Sol…”

“We’ll call him when we get to my place.”

As soon as we entered Rita’s apartment, I went to the phone and dialed Sol’s private home number. “Sol…” I said when he answered.

“Gott in Himmel!
Where are you?”

“At Rita’s—”

Rita snatched the phone away from me. “Sol, he’s not well. I know you want to see him as soon as possible. But it’ll have to wait until the morning. He’ll be staying here tonight.” She paused for a moment. “I know how important it is, but he’s been through a lot and he’s in no condition to talk to anyone.”

While I sat on the sofa, Rita brought Sol up to speed on what had happened. She was brief and concise. “Goodbye, Sol,” she finally said and hung up.

“I really need to see him, Rita…” My voice trailed off in exhaustion. It was becoming harder to speak, to stay focused, and even to breathe. I had a massive headache and my body felt like a two-hundred-pound pile of pain.

She gave me a look. “It can wait until tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As much as I wanted to talk to Sol, I couldn’t argue with Rita. I hadn’t slept in God knows how long and I was dead on my feet.

Light filtered in through Rita’s lace-covered windows. I checked the alarm clock on the night table: 10:38. I’d slept almost eleven hours and my stomach growled in hunger. New clothes were folded neatly on a wingback chair in the corner of the room. My body was stiff and sore and it hurt to move, but I managed to sit up on the edge of the bed. I lightly touched my face, felt the bandages Rita had applied the night before, and winced.

Muffled voices drifted in from the other side of the door. One of them belonged to Sol, another to Rita. I didn’t recognize the third voice. Gradually I got up, used the adjoining bathroom, took two more penicillin pills, and dressed as best I could.

Rita, Sol, and a guy I didn’t know stood when I entered the living room.

“Jimmy, you look like shit warmed over,” Sol said.

“Good morning to you, too, Sol.”

The man, in his mid-fifties, was big, broad in the shoulders, and hefty with a thick neck. Thirty years ago, he could’ve been a linebacker for the Rams. Now he was just a middle-aged guy with a paunch. He wore a rumpled brown suit with a white dress shirt, open at the collar and no tie. He had thinning blond hair and hooded, questioning eyes that shifted from me to Sol, then back to me again.

“First off, I took care of the Buick Rita told me about. The one at the gas station.”

“What do you mean?”

“The object in the glove box has been disposed of, and the car has been moved, South Central L.A. It’ll disappear a piece at a time within the next few days—Midnight Auto Supply.”

“Oh,” I said.

I knew what Sol meant. The gun in the Buick’s glove box had my fingerprints all over it and could be used by the cops to tie me into the two bodies at the warehouse. The thugs’ car in my possession could also be difficult to explain. Thieves, however, would strip the car and it would never be seen again. But there was still the question of the knife that I’d left at the scene. I’d deal with that later if it came up.

“Now, Jimmy, meet Melvin Dunn,” Sol said.

“Call me Mel.” The man offered his hand.

I shook it, wondering what this was all about. I wanted to get Sol alone, wanted to talk about my kidnappers and the stuff in the envelope.

“Excuse me, gentleman, but Jimmy must be starved,” Rita said. “I’m going to fix him breakfast. Would anyone else care for some?”

Sol and Mel politely declined Rita’s offer of food, but both said they’d love some coffee. We moved into the kitchen and Sol’s eyes lit up when he sipped his Joe. “Whoa! Good stuff, Rita.” She must’ve slipped a little something extra into his.

We continued the discussion while Rita hovered between the stove and the table.

“Jimmy,” Sol said, “Mel has agreed to come forward. But for now this conversation must remain off the record. I gave my word.”

Having no idea what this was all about, I dished out my standard line. “Mel, I’m a lawyer and everything you say is privileged under the attorney work-product doctrine.”

He took a deep breath. “I was a lawyer once. I understand.”

I turned to Sol, “Does this have anything to do with, you know… the envelope?”

“Yeah, Jimmy. It does. And we can speak freely. Mel’s on our side. Now let me explain. While you were tied up—”

“Sol!” Rita snapped.

“Oops… I mean, while you were unfortunately detained, I had a couple of my guys run down leads we picked up from photographs in the envelope.”

“You haven’t even told me about the envelope yet.”

“Interesting stuff, candid photos taken back in the forties, and documents explaining the shots. One picture shows Byron’s men, guys from the DA’s office strong-arming a public official. With a little basic detective work we were able to track down Mel. He was one of the men in the picture.”

Mel added, “I went to work for the DA right out of law school. I thought Byron was a god, committed to reform, and all that sentimental claptrap.” He picked up a spoon and slowly stirred his coffee. He didn’t drink it, just moved his spoon in measured circles. “I guess I was a patsy…”

“Go on,” Sol urged.

“It wasn’t long before Rinehart tapped me to join an internal covert group, officially known as the Gangster Squad. Unofficially they called us Byron’s Bulldogs. We worked for Byron, but took our orders from Rinehart. Did anything he told us to do: black bag jobs, shakedowns, extortion, that sort of thing. My loyalty to the boss and my size, I guess, were why they wanted me.” He looked up. “I have a little flower shop out on Rosecrans now.”

Sol reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a photo, and slid it across the table. I picked it up. “The photo shows Rinehart, Mel, and a few others going nose to nose with a member of the State Board of Equalization, a guy named Bonelli,” Sol said. “The State Board approves liquor licenses. They caught up with Bonelli late one night outside of Sherry’s Restaurant, Mickey Cohen’s old hangout. And guess what? Bonelli’s pockets were stuffed with blank license forms. Isn’t that right, Mel?”

“Yeah, he had a dozen or more on him.”

“One of Cliff Clinton’s private investigators took the picture.” Sol chuckled. “They used big old flash cameras back then and the bright light made the strong-arm guys look like a bunch of startled deer.”

“Bonelli was selling licenses. No questions asked,” Mel said. “Kind of a self-help program. He was helping himself to Cohen’s dough at the State’s expense.”

“You guys caught him?” I asked.

“Oh, we knew about it all along. He was scattering licenses like confetti, selling them to anyone who met his price. Byron wanted his share.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You mean the Gangster Squad actually extorted money from Bonelli, pressured him to cough up a portion and give it to Byron?”

“That’s the way it worked.”

“So Byron was dirty after all.”

“Byron was like Robin Hood, but not quite. He took from the rich and gave it… to himself. Bonelli wasn’t the only one; there were others, many others.”

Rita brought food to the table: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and juice. In spite of the mind-blowing revelations about Byron, I couldn’t keep my mind off the dish she set before me.

“Hope you guys don’t mind, but I’m starving,” I said, digging in.

While I ate, Mel continued to outline how Byron had used his office as a makeshift collection agency. “We didn’t just roust corrupt public officials and politicians. We also went after racketeers, bookmakers, the illegal wire services, and anyone or anything else where Byron could smell a buck.”

“How could you keep an operation like that under wraps?” Sol asked. “It still isn’t public knowledge.”

“Who was going to blow the whistle? The crooks? The greedy politicians? Everyone, it seemed, was on the pad one way or the other. Nope, no one could squeal. If they did they’d go to jail, too.”