Suicide King (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) (14 page)

“Well, let’s see. I spent the early part of the evening meeting with some local party people, but I think we broke by nine or so. I went back to my hotel and went to sleep. Why? Was someone else killed?”

“Not quite,” I said.

Rosie changed the subject to politics.

“His death gives you a better shot at the campaign, doesn’t it?”

“A better shot, but hardly a clear one. Phil Werner is the most likely candidate, at this point. Unless someone else appears from out of the blue. In any case, I’ve still got some very strong competition. It’s possible, you know, that James X. will come out on top.”

“About Werner,” I interjected. “There’s a rumor that he’ll bolt Vivo if he’s nominated. Take all his marbles and try to hand them to a major party. Joe Richmond apparently believed it.”

She gazed at me, disturbed and surprised. “I’ve not heard anything like that. I know Joe didn’t trust him, but— no. I’ve never heard that. I don’t believe it.”

“Werner and Carney,” Rosie returned to the original subject of relative standings. “Are those men as strong as Joe Richmond?”

“Probably not. But they’re men, in any case, and that makes them a little stronger than they would be otherwise.” There was no malice, no sulkiness in her voice. She was making an objective political judgment, as far as I could tell.

“What do you think your chances are?” I asked.

“I have a good chance of being endorsed— good to fair, I should say, and no chance at all of being elected.”

“What do you really want, then? I mean you as a person, you as a politician?” I was getting interested in spite of myself.

“I want us to make a strong showing. To be recognized as a viable power. To be the magnet for an ecology coalition. To qualify as a party.”

“Then what?”

“There’s some disagreement about what comes next. Most of us, I hope, want to gather enough support and enough money to win the governorship next time around. Or the time after that. I want us to run people for the legislature, and for Congress. I want us to create a strong national organization and run a presidential candidate. We want change, and we want people in office to make that change happen.”

“Well, good luck,” I said. “So maybe you could run as an independent this time and lose, and get a Vivo nomination next time and win. Maybe you could run for president in a few years. Does your husband want that, too?”

“Not enough to kill for it, if that’s what you’re driving at.”

It was, but I denied it and repeated the question.

She sighed. “Well, of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?”

I must have stared at her. She meant it. This incredibly intelligent woman apparently saw no reason why her husband might not want to be the first gentleman of California, or even of the country.

“Rebecca,” I said. “Look at history. How do you think Pat Nixon liked it?”

It was her turn to look at me as if I were out of my mind. “What in the name of God do you think I have in common with Richard Nixon?” Rosie was grinning. She found that amusing.

“Politics,” I said. “The desire for power.”

Rebecca didn’t get angry. She nodded slowly and gave me a cool but friendly look. “Sometimes,” she said, “people are more interested in what they can do with power than in the power itself.”

“That’s true,” I said. “At least that’s what they say.” I finished my beer. “We won’t keep you any longer, but I’d like it if we could talk to you again, Rebecca.”

“I’d like to see you again. Both of you. And I’d like to help if I can, although I’m not sure there’s anything to help with.” She stood. We stood. “Jake, I’m sorry you’re convinced you have to act cynical. I’m sorry you’ve been so disappointed. You must have been quite an idealist once.”

I took her hand, pretending to shake it good-bye. “I must have been. But I don’t remember.”

I don’t usually have my poker games on Thursday nights. Unless something really important intervenes, they’re on Tuesdays. But since I had been 2,000 miles from home on Tuesday, I’d put it off a couple of days.

I’d also managed to put off until Thursday the return call to Lee. Her answering machine informed me she was not available but would call me back. I told it that I would not be available after eight o’clock that night but would be around first thing in the morning.

Lee had never come to a poker game, she said because they were always on weeknights instead of the weekend when she felt more free to make the drive. I’d always thought that was too bad, since I think I cut a pretty dashing figure at the poker table. This night, however, I did not think it was too bad. I was glad I did not have to feel obligated to invite her. I needed to relax. Certainly there was something to work out between us, but everyone needs a night off, right?

Hal Winter came. Hal always comes, busy as he is. I’d met Hal in 1976, back when I first moved to the East Bay from Marin County. I met him through a friend who was having a legal battle with his landlord. Hal, a black man, got his start with civil rights and tenant’s rights cases. He was a passionate man back then, with real heroes and real enemies, a man with a sense of history. He’s still a passionate man, but true to the eighties, he has now moved on to the corporate world, where he is making very good money.

“I think it’s my duty,” he likes to say enigmatically.

The only thing I don’t like about Hal is that he eats like three pigs and stays skinny. He had already swallowed a bowl of corn chips by the time my other old pal, Artie Perrine, showed up.

Artie and I have done each other some favors, too, and we go back a few years. He’s an editor at
Probe Magazine,
in San Francisco, and it’s his letter of credentials I carry around to legitimize my illegitimate investigations whenever that becomes necessary. The letter says I do freelance work for the magazine. Artie’s idea was that he might get something out of that someday in the form of information for one of
Probe’s
articles. He has, once or twice. He also got free detecting once when his nephew was accused of killing a guy in Mill Valley, where Artie lives.

Hal, Artie and I sat around drinking beer, poking at the fire in the Franklin stove— evenings in the Bay Area are warm only in August and September, if then— and talking. Hal, of course, wanted to know what was happening with the case, and Artie was instantly interested in the possibility of a story on Vivo. I gave them both some bare bones to chew on and admitted that Rosie and I were at the running-in-circles stage. Then we sat around for another few minutes, waiting to see who else would show up. The three of us were the hard core, Rosie played from time to time, and a couple of other people showed up more or less regularly. There’d been only a few weeks when we hadn’t come up with at least four, and we usually had five.

Rosie arrived around eight-thirty, with Alice. Alice had a rawhide chewstick, which may be her version of poker. We sat down at the table and I began to count out chips, ten dollars each. We used to play for three, nickel ante. But over the years, we’ve all gotten a little more solvent, and we were up to a racy dime, quarter, half, instead of the old nickel, dime, quarter. I’ll play for more in Tahoe, of course, but this living-room stuff is just a game and a chance to see each other.

We drew for the deal and it was Artie’s. He called seven stud.

My hole cards were the two of hearts and the six of spades. First up was queen of diamonds. Hal was showing a five of hearts, Rosie the eight of clubs, and Artie the queen of hearts. I, first queen, tossed in a dime. Everyone else thought that was a good idea.

Fourth card, Hal picked up a nine of clubs, Rosie a king of clubs, I got a five of diamonds, and Artie gave himself a seven of clubs. Rosie checked. So did I; so did Artie. Hal bet a dime. I decided to stay in because what the hell, this wasn’t Tahoe, and nobody else was showing anything all that great.

Third up, Hal was showing five of hearts, nine of clubs, king of diamonds. Rosie had an eight and king of clubs and jack of hearts. I had picked up the four of clubs, which gave me four on an inside straight— whoopee— and Artie gave himself an ace of diamonds, to go with his queen of hearts and his seven of clubs. Hal checked. Rosie checked. I checked. Artie checked. Fourth up: Hal, still nothing showing; Rosie, another club, the three, for three showing on a flush; me, another four for a tiny pair; Artie, another queen. Artie bet a quarter. Hal folded. Rosie folded. I decided not to let him get away with it, and tossed in my bet. Last card, down: nothing to go with my fours. Artie had me beat on the board.

I thought about bluffing, but Artie doesn’t cave in too easily and he likes calling my bluffs.

Hal called draw, jacks or better to open. Rosie couldn’t do it. I had a pair of queens and assorted garbage and tossed in my dime. Everyone stayed in. On the draw I took three and got nothing. Rosie bet a quarter. Was she bluffing? I decided yes and stayed in. Artie folded and so did Hal. Rosie had two pairs, fours, and aces. She’d drawn the second ace. I was getting off to a slow start.

Rosie’s first deal, she called five card stud, suicide king wild. The suicide king is the king of hearts. Like all the royalty in most decks, he has a pained look on his face. But this guy has a good reason. He’s holding a sword and it looks like he’s sticking it right through his own head. I don’t think it’s an accident that the suicide king is the king of hearts. I also didn’t think it was an accident that Rosie had suicidal royalty— not to mention the king of hearts— on her mind. Neither of us had been totally convinced by Rebecca Gelber’s insistence that her peccadillo with Joe Richmond had meant nothing to her.

I, however, wanted to put the case out of my mind for a couple of hours. I called flip-flop, a really stupid game where you keep choosing one of two cards to show until you have four showing and one in your hand. The one in your hand is wild. I am the only person I know who doesn’t hate flip-flop.

The deal went around a couple more times. Then, around ten, the phone rang. I thought about letting the machine catch it. Lee didn’t expect me to be home, or answering the phone, I reasoned. Still, she could be trying. And maybe I should answer it. Maybe I was beginning to feel guilty about sidestepping this baby thing. Maybe I didn’t like my hand. It wasn’t very good. I tossed it in and went to the phone in the bedroom. My message was just about finished. I picked up the receiver and shut off the machine.

“Hello.”

“Is this Jake Samson?” The voice was a whisper.

“Yes, it is.”

“I have to tell you something.” Did the whisper sound familiar?

“And what is it you have to tell me?” I felt silly, talking to Deep Throat on a perfectly normal evening in Oakland.

“They’re planning something terrible.” The voice sounded female, but it did not have an accent. That let out Gerda, unless she was capable of affecting an American accent. Who the hell was it, anyway?

“Who is? Who’s planning something terrible?”

“They’re going to sabotage a chemical plant, make it look like a toxic accident. Right before the election.”

“Who is? And where is this plant?”

“Some of the people involved with Vivo. So they’ll get more votes. I don’t know who. Ask Werner.”

“Where? Where is the plant?”

“California.” She hung up.

It could be someone trying to lead me off in the wrong direction. It could be true. I went back to the game, thinking I would probably lose a bundle after this.

Rosie checked my face out pretty thoroughly, maybe looking for signs of impending fatherhood. My expression, I think, must have puzzled her. It was her deal. She gave up staring at me and got down to the matter at hand.

“Five draw, guts to open— in fact, let’s make it pass-out— the game of life.” Pass-out is a form of draw poker where you can’t check before the draw. That means the opener, and everyone else, has to either bet or drop out. No choice— you make a commitment, you put your money where your mouth is, you get right in and get wet or you drop out of the game. That’s why Rosie likes to call it the game of life.
She’s just full of symbolism
, I thought bitterly. I don’t like the game much because it limits my options. You can’t use a ploy that I often use: you can’t check and lay back with a strong hand, watching the action and then raising the other players after someone else has opened. And I had a damned strong hand: aces and threes. I opened for a dime, scaring no one off. We drew. I still had two pairs. I checked. Artie made it a dime. Hal and Rosie folded. I raised Artie forty cents. He stuck out his jaw and saw me. All he had was a pair of tens.

It was my deal. I called low hole follow the queen, a game full of wild cards and changes of fortune. Now that’s my idea of the game of life.

It was a good evening, despite the phone call. Maybe the surge of adrenaline helped my poker. I made twenty bucks.

It was midnight by the time Hal and Artie left. I stopped Rosie on her way out and dragged her back inside.

“Jesus,” she said, after I told her about the call. “I thought you had a funny look on your face. You were kind of gray. You think it might have been a woman but you didn’t recognize the voice?”

I shook my head. “Not for sure, not even enough to make a good guess.”

Rosie thought about it. “And she said ask Werner… that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why would Werner have anything to do with trying to win more votes for Vivo in the election if he’s planning to defect after the convention?”

“He might if he thought he was going to lose the endorsement and stick with Vivo for another four years. If he loses, he doesn’t have a lot to offer another party.”

She looked exhausted by the possibilities. I was, too. We made a breakfast date for the next morning. I left the beer cans, the chip crumbs, and the soggy two-inch remains of the chewstick where they lay and went to bed.

BEFORE getting started the next day, I put in a call to Lee at her office. She wasn’t in. She wasn’t home, either. I tried calling my father. No answer. My third productive call was to the office of Doctor Mack Frazier, Bruce Gelber’s alleged golf partner on the day of Richmond’s death. Doctor, I was told, was touring China and would not be back for a month.