Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

Dragging myself into the kitchen for a glass of water, I stopped when I heard the metallic clatter again. But this time the noise was followed by the rumble a truck makes as it shifts gears and drives away. Now I was curious. The racket seemed to be coming from the parking area behind my apartment building. I went back to the bedroom and peeked through the blinds covering the rear window. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just the shadow of the carport lean-to in the quiet darkness of night. Whatever had caused the disturbance had disappeared.

In the morning as I gulped my first cup of black coffee before heading out the door for the office I mulled over the list of phone calls Vera had made from the motel room, particularly the ones to MGM. Jerome was a contract player with Metro at the time. It was more than possible that Vera saw the photo in the movie magazine, the one taken at Ciro’s with Sue Harvey and Jerome cuddling at a cocktail table. She knew about Sue’s connection with Roberts. Maybe that’s why she made the call. Maybe she wanted to talk to Jerome, let him know Roberts was in town. Maybe she had an angle, figured it might be worth a few bucks somehow.

But then again, it could’ve have been Roberts who’d made the calls. After all, they were staying in the same bungalow.

After being caught by the security guard at the movie retirement home, I decided to ask Rita to drive out to Woodland Hills and talk with Jerome. He liked her, and she would probably get more out of him than I would, anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to have Rita ask Jerome if he remembered talking to either Vera or Roberts back in the summer of ’45. She could also ask him if he had a recent visitor. Maybe a blonde in a mini-skirt. If so, would he tell Rita the woman’s name and what she had to do with him and Roberts?

I drained the coffee, took the last bite of a leftover pizza slice and thought about my day ahead. Later in the morning, after Sol arrived at his office, I’d ask him to run the mystery woman’s license plate; that might shed some light. But most of my morning would be spent untangling the mess at the bank. I also made a mental note to call Millie. I checked my wallet. No problem, I had enough cash to take her to Burger King, hopefully making up for my no-show yesterday.

I set the cup in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes and left the apartment. When I got to the carport in the back I stood slack jawed, staring at the empty slot where my Corvette was supposed to be parked.

My car had been stolen .

I darted around to the front of the building and looked up and down the street. No car.

“Goddammit,” I shouted as I dashed back into my apartment and called the Downey Police Department.

After being transferred to burglary detail, I explained to the detective on the line what happened, giving him the make, model, and license number of my missing Vette. The cop put me on hold, but came back in about fifteen seconds.

“I got good news and bad news, Mr. O’Brien.”

“What are you talking about? Did you find my car? Was it damaged?”

“No, that’s the good news. It wasn’t stolen.”

“What do you mean, not stolen? It isn’t here. It’s gone!”

“Well, that’s the bad news. It’s been repossessed. They towed it away last night.”

“That can’t be! I made the payment. Maybe a little late, but I paid it.”

“The repo jockey dropped the docs off this morning at about three a.m. The papers indicate you broke the contract, late payments.”

Christ almighty. “Repossessed?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

My next call was to the finance company. The account rep told me my contract had been sold. Selling contracts was common practice in the industry, it seemed.

He stated that his firm had nothing to do with the repossession. He gave me the name and number of the outfit that now held my loan, Los Angeles Bank and Trust. I called them.

In order to have my car released, the bank employee explained, I’d have to pay off the loan balance completely and cough up a myriad of additional fees, the towing bill, cost of storage, substantial late charges, and so on.

Then he said, “But I think we can work something out. Give me a moment to check your file.” I heard the rustle of papers in the background. “According to my report the repossession order came directly from our corporate owners, in fact, straight from the Tower.” He paused for a moment. “Hmm… this is strange. There’s a notation. It says, ‘No compromise allowed.’ I wonder why.”

“If that’s the case I want to talk to someone at your corporate headquarters. What’s the phone number and who do I talk to?”

“Sorry, Mr. O’Brien, but they won’t discuss the matter with you.” He chuckled at the absurdity of my request.

“Why not?”

“Because our bank is owned by a private trust and they simply won’t talk to anyone. Especially someone who just had their car repossessed.”

“I’ve got to get it back! I’m a lawyer. I need my car. Just tell me who owns your bank. I’ll look up the damn number myself.”

“Have it your way, Mr. O’Brien. We’re owned by the Haskell Foundation.”

After banging my fist on the wall and feeling sorry for myself for a minute or two, I called Rita at her apartment, hoping she might still be there and would give me a lift to Rent-A-Wreck. I caught her just as she was rushing off to meet her client, the kid with the marijuana rap.

“I’d be happy to pick you up, but I’m due at a conference with Bennie, my client,” she said after I explained about my car being in the shop for repairs.

“I thought the kid’s retainer had been canceled.”

“Yes, but Bennie likes me, wants to keep me as his lawyer. He doesn’t care what his uncle thinks. It’s his decision, after all. Don’t worry about the fee, Jimmy. As soon as I get the charges dropped, he’s going to get a job and pay us on the installment plan.”

“We don’t have an installment plan.”

“Oh, Jimmy, you’re always kidding around. Of course we do. I told Bennie it would be okay. Gotta go. Call Mabel, she’ll pick you up.”

Another call, this time to the office. “The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected -”

I slammed down the phone. Goddammit! After taking several deep breaths, I called the phone company. Repair service transferred me to someone who said her hands were tied, and after being placed on hold several times and getting the runaround for an eternity, I finally got a supervisor on the line.

“We canceled the service due to reports of illegal activity associated with this number.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Frankly, Mr. O’Brien, we were informed that the line was being used to facilitate an illegal horse wagering establishment, and according to the PUC code we were obligated to terminate the service immediately.”

I was shocked. “You’re calling me a bookie?”

“I believe that’s the term.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m a lawyer with a three-person firm. My God, what the hell’s wrong with you-?”

“Sir, I don’t have to take your verbal abuse. But I will say this: if you only have three people in your office, how come you ordered the installation of thirty new phones recently?”

“I didn’t order the damn phones. The guy just showed up-”

“You got a beef, call the PUC. Goodbye.” The line went dead.

A guy with the Public Utilities Commission located in downtown L.A. explained the routine: I’d have to drive to the office and fill out a complaint form. Once the form was officially filed and approved, the commission would do a complete investigation. If they found in my favor the phone would be turned back on. The man I spoke with added that it usually didn’t take long at all to get these types of issues straightened out, a couple of months at most. Jesus!