Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

How would she know my name? I didn’t recognize her, except in my dreams. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“I have a message for you.”

“Yeah?”

The beauty wasn’t smiling this time. “Certain people want you to stop messing around where you don’t belong,” she said as she the convertible’s engine came to life.

There are over forty sphincter muscles in the human body, all of mine tightened. “Who are these certain people? And just exactly where is it that I don’t belong?”

She didn’t answer. She shoved the Mercedes in gear and raced away. Was it my imagination, or did she glance at the men in the Buick, nodding once, as she turned onto Grand Avenue?

Sitting at the table again, I wondered what the hell that was all about. I picked up the remains of my cheeseburger, which now didn’t seem so appetizing, and dumped it in the trash bin.

After climbing back into my Vette, I pulled out of the parking lot and turned left on Grand, in the opposite direction of the woman. I adjusted the rearview mirror. The Buick was gone.

Back on the road again,I limped along on Grand Avenue, making little progress. I finally turned at Payton and drove south. It would be a bit out of the way, but I figured I’d beat the traffic by traversing the Chino Hills via Carbon Canyon Road. Then I’d catch Imperial Highway, which in a roundabout way would take me back to Downey. Plus, I knew I’d enjoy the scenic drive with its little-known, two-lane road wandering through the pass. So as not to spoil my ride, I vowed to put the woman’s message out of my mind. Maybe it was a hoax, but I doubted it. Those guys in the Buick were real and they looked like thugs. They were part of her warning. They meant to be noticed. It wasn’t a joke, and the clowns in the car weren’t laughing.

California oaks and dry chaparral covered the hills on each side of the narrow road, and as I drove along, I couldn’t get the mystery woman out of my mind.

The intimidation was over for now, but I felt that I hadn’t seen the last of those two guys in the black Buick. Maybe I hadn’t seen the last of the beauty with the dynamite figure either.

But who the hell was she? I knew she was just a messenger. But for whom? And what was I doing that bothered someone enough to send a gorgeous babe in a skirt like that to give me a warning?

Could it be one of my cases? Didn’t have many, just a few misdemeanors. Couldn’t have been Kelley with his bounced checks-banks were ruthless, but they didn’t hire thugs to collect on bad paper. They didn’t have to; they’d send the FBI. How about Crazy Charlie and his moral turpitude charge? I had to chuckle, Charlie spitting at Mayor DiLoreto when the city council refused to let him park his trailer on his front lawn after Charlie’s wife kicked him out of the house. I doubted the mayor would send the mystery woman and the bruisers in the Buick because of a little spit.

That left the Roberts case. But how could it be about Roberts? He’d just signed the retainer agreement less than an hour ago. Whoever sent the warning wouldn’t have had enough time to set anything up. And, Christ, he’d been in prison almost thirty years. Surely no one would care about him now.

I quickly ran through my mind everyone I’d told about the case: Rita, Mabel, Sol… Millie knew about it, of course. But before I finished that thought, I realized it was ridiculous to think my friends would try to scare me off. Hey, what about the judge who assigned the case to me, or her staff, her bailiff, all the people she told? And how about all the guards at the prison that saw me with Roberts?

It was after six when I finally made it back to Downey and pulled into the parking lot at my office. No other cars were there. Rita and Mabel had left for the day. Sitting at my desk, rummaging through the day’s mail, ads and junk mostly-Mabel had already taken care of the important stuff and filed it away-I picked up an envelope, an ad for a membership in the Starlight Gym, beautiful girls without an ounce of fat, but boobs bigger than their heads, graced the glossy brochure; get your flabby butt in shape by Christmas, $19.95 per month . I dropped it in the wastebasket and thought some more about who could’ve known my plan to investigate the Roberts affair. I remembered mouthing off at the hearing-about the possibility of filing for a new trial. That would mean anyone in the room at that time could’ve known, including the board members, the prison guard, even the Deputy DA. I shook my head. Was there anyone who hadn’t heard that I’d taken on the Roberts case? Some blind monk in the mountains of Tibet, I supposed.

I massaged my temples with the knuckles of my two forefingers. What am I missing here? Wait a minute! Roberts also knew. Maybe he told his cellmate and the word got out through the prison pipeline. No, that would take too long. The dark-haired beauty had to be waiting for me at the prison. She had to have followed me to the In-N-Out from there. But what about the thugs in the Buick? They showed up at the burger joint, too. And that had to have been pre-planned. They had to know about me taking Roberts as a client even before he signed the form. These people had to be mind readers. My God, who were they?

Mabel also left a note next to the mail. I glance at it and nodded. In her hasty scrawl she had written that Schlereth’s secretary called to let us know that the board had turned down Roberts’s parole. No surprise. A formal down letter would be sent to the prison authorities within a few days. The warden would’ve received a phone call about the decision, as well. He must’ve told Roberts the bad news by now. When it came in the mail, the official letter would go in his file and be buried there with the rest of the detritus of a failed life.

I got up and started for the door, but stopped when the phone rang. I picked it up. Sol was on the line. Background noise, ice cubes rattling, and the sound of a piano told me he was at a bar, probably Rocco’s. I knew he would ask me to join him and he could be persuasive, but I was too tired and had a migraine coming on. And I’ll admit it, the mystery woman with the face of an angel and those thugs in the Buick had me bugged. I wanted to head to my apartment, take some aspirin, and soak in a hot tub for a couple of hours. I’d take a pass with Sol and see him tomorrow. Yeah, I’ll tell him that I’ll catch him tomorrow, maybe for lunch.

“Jimmy, I’m at Rocco’s. Come on over. I have news about your case.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” The guy had a certain way about him. I couldn’t turn him down.

Everyone who walked into Rocco’s was hit immediately with music coming from the bar, located two steps down and to the right of the maitre d’ station. And tonight was no exception.

The piano player, a short, spunky black guy, pounded the ivory and sang Gershwin classics, murdering them. When he sang “I’ve Got a Crush on You” it sounded like a steamroller crushing rocks.

I sat at Sol’s table and pulled my chair in close, leaning into him, so I could hear his voice above the racket.

“Isn’t the guy terrific?” he said, indicating the piano player. “When it comes to Gershwin the guy’s magic.”

The entertainer’s fingers were okay, playing George Gershwin’s music, but again, his voice pulverized brother Ira’s timeless lyrics. I wanted to say, “It ain’t necessarily so,” but in lieu of that I said, “S’wonderful. How long has this been going on?”

“Since a foggy day.”

“Fascinatin’ rhythm.”

“Nice work if you can get it.”

“But not for me,” I said.

“Well, Porgy, there’s a boat dat’s leavin’ soon.”