Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“Okay, Sol, I give.” We both laughed and the laughter chased my migraine away.

After a few more Gershwin numbers the piano player took a break and we moved into the dining room. We slipped into Sol’s private booth. Jeanine appeared, bearing two tall glasses of ice water. She whisked away the reserved sign and handed us menus. Sol ordered the rack of lamb. I ordered a hamburger.

“Chazerai ,” Sol said. “Do you live on hamburgers? Maybe I should call you Wimpy.”

“Nah, I eat pizza, too.”

“And donuts?”

“A few.”

After Sol finished his lamb and I’d eaten my hamburger, I sipped coffee while Sol worked on his dessert. Between bites of creme brulee Sol told me his news about the Roberts case. “I’ve located Frank Byron, the DA who put your guy behind bars in ’45. He’s agreed to see us.”

“Hey, that’s great. When?”

“He’s retired, has a small ranch in Santa Barbara. We’ll drive out together tomorrow morning. One thing, though.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t know what this is all about. I didn’t think he’d talk to us if I mentioned the Roberts thing. So I had to make up something, told him you were a journalist. Doing a story.”

“What kind of story?”

“Told him you’re doing a piece on L.A. in the forties and wanted to interview him about his historic role in eliminating corruption in the DA’s office back then. I’m your assistant.”

The thought of Sol Silverman as an assistant journalist almost made me choke on my coffee.

“Christ, Sol. I don’t know a damn thing about corruption in the forties. How are we going to pull off a charade like that?”

“Just wing it and you’ll do fine, my boy,” Sol said. “We’re meeting Byron at eleven. Hey, there’s something else about Byron you might want to write about.”

“Sol, I’m not gonna write anything. I’m not really a journalist.”

“You can ask him what he did after he left office.”

“Didn’t he run for governor and lose?”

“After that.”

“What did he do?”

“Why don’t you ask Byron? Maybe he’ll tell you about the work he did for the Haskell Foundation.”

We drove up the coastalong Highway 101, and just beyond the moneyed town of Santa Barbara we, turned onto Refugio Road. Heading northwest, we climbed the Santa Ynez Mountains, at the ocean’s edge, and wound around on the one-lane paved road for a number of miles until we descended into a valley of grasslands, large estates and small farms. I’d read in the Times that Governor Reagan had just bought a 600-acre ranch around here somewhere.

We hadn’t taken Sol’s limo. What kind of journalist rode around in a long black limo with a driver who looked like a sumo wrestler? So we made the two-hour trip in my Corvette with Sol in the passenger seat, hollering out directions from a map.

“Slow down, Jimmy! Ah, too late. You just passed the road where we were supposed to turn.”

“Shoulda told me earlier.”

“You weren’t paying attention. Gotta keep your eye on the ball.”

“What ball? There’s no ball out here, just miles of grass, weeds, and a few fenced-in mansions.”

“Those are farmhouses, my boy.” A grin surfaced on Sol’s face. “Ah, the small farmer, back to the soil, and all that. Makes my heart warm just to think of the tax benefits.”

I hung a U, drove back, and turned onto the gravel road. After driving about a mile farther the road ended at Frank Byron’s ranch. A sign, “Rancho de la Estrellas,” hung over the entrance of a long driveway. We pulled up in a front of an adobe-style mansion, a two-story house with rough plaster walls made to look like sun-dried brick. Red clay barrel tiles covered the roof.

A man who said he was Byron’s valet answered the door and we stepped into the entry, an open space with a rough-hewed wood-beam ceiling, Saltillo tile floor, and windows that looked out onto a rocky cactus garden. We followed along behind the slow-walking stiff as he escorted us to the library. He wore a white dinner jacket with a black tie. His outfit didn’t seem to fit with the Santa Fe decor. A sombrero would’ve helped.

“Mr. Byron had an unexpected long distance phone call. He will join you momentarily,” he said and quietly slipped away, closing the door behind him.

Built-in bookcases lined the walls next to a huge sandstone fireplace. A mahogany desk with a surface the size of Rhode Island stood at the far end of the room, and a set of enormous steer horns, mounted high on the wall opposite the fireplace, added a touch of whimsy, I thought. Were the horns a trophy? Did Byron go out and shoot a cow? At least he didn’t stick the whole damn head up there. That would’ve been a bit much.

Threadbare, probably ancient Navajo rugs covered the floor, and a bronze sculpture of a bucking bronco, about two feet tall, rested in a lighted cubicle cut into the wall. The room reminded me of a cowboy museum. I wondered if Byron had Gabby Hayes stuffed and mounted somewhere in the house.

A portrait of a beautiful woman with waves of scarlet hair, wearing skintight riding pants tucked into her high-top boots, hung above the fireplace. The jewels she wore must’ve cost more than a battleship. Her head was tilted back, her lips were slightly parted in an alluring manner and she held a riding crop in her hand. Like Rita Hayworth in Gilda, she had a look about her that suggested she’d just been crowned queen of the Bar-None. She had it all, face, figure, and money. She was the kind of cowgirl that’d cause Roy to kick Trigger out of the hayloft.

A dozen leather club chairs were scattered about and a sofa covered with horsehide rested against one wall.

“This layout looks expensive, Sol,” I said. “The retired politician business must be lucrative.”

“Why would anyone spend a million bucks or more to be elected to public office if there wasn’t a few dollars to be made?” Sol said as he sank into one of the leather club chairs. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and fired up, chucking the wrapper in the Pullman ashtray standing next to the chair. “Yep, all this crap cost money, all right.”

A second later the door banged open and a man I assumed to be Frank Byron marched in, the valet trailing in his wake. “Oliver, didn’t you offer our guests any refreshments?” Without waiting for Oliver to answer he announced, “Remain seated, gentlemen. I’m Frank Byron.” Sol stood. I was already standing. Byron came over and gave each of us a hearty pat on the back and a solid handshake. We told him our names and he said, “First names only. Call me Frank.” He then told the butler, “Oliver, get Sol and Jimmy a drink.”

“Of course, Mr. Byron,” he said in a tired voice “What can I get for you, gentlemen?”

Sol glanced at his Rolex. “It’s still morning, so I’ll only have gin and tonic. Beefeaters, if you have it.”

“Just black coffee,” I said.

“Well, if Sol is going to imbibe, I’ll have a small toddy as well,” Byron said. “Make it my usual, Oliver.”

Byron was slim, tall, and middle-aged with a full head of ash gray hair, trimmed and blow-dried. He had a rugged, long face, tanned by the sun and creased by the years, pale blue eyes, and a wide mouth with thin lips that barely moved when he spoke. He wore western garb-checkered shirt, bolero tie, and a wide leather belt with the requisite gold and silver buckle that had to weigh ten pounds. He could have been a cattle baron out of the past, but he didn’t have any cow shit sticking to his hand-tooled snakeskin boots.

“Please, be seated gentleman and we’ll get down to business.” Byron turned and stood motionless for a moment, gazing up at the woman’s portrait. He shook his head once and continued toward his desk, where he sat. “I understand, Jimmy, that you’re doing a piece about my career as the District Attorney of Los Angeles.”