Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

It took over an hourto get back to the office. I didn’t care; KFWB had broadcast a Beatles tribute practically the whole way. “Hey Jude,” the full version, three times in a row.

“The phone’s been ringing,” Mabel said as I came through the door.

“Clients?”

“Hardly.”

“Who?”

“Your little friend, Millie. Called several times. She’s upset.”

“Why?”

Before Mabel could respond, the phone rang. After answering it she handed the receiver to me. “Ask her yourself.”

“What’s up, Millie?”

Millie, an attractive divorced woman whom I’d taken to lunch several times, was Judge Balford’s clerk. She’d been instrumental in persuading the judge to assign cases to me when the public defender office was jammed up. The cases didn’t pay much but they provided a steady flow of income. I wondered for a moment why she was upset. Couldn’t have been the last lunch we had together. She said she loved Burger King.

“Jimmy! What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard about your grandstand play at the parole hearing this morning.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come off of it, Jimmy. You’re gonna file for a new trial? Taking Roberts on as a client? New evidence? My God, what are you thinking?”

Yeah, well, I mean… Hey, he might be innocent.”

“My judge is pissed. And she’s pissed at me for recommending you. You know the rules. Just supposed to represent Roberts at the hearing, that’s all. You’re supposed to keep cases from moving up the line. Schlereth called Judge Balford. He said that you’re an arrogant SOB.”

“He did? He’s the arrogant one. Nothing but a weasel.”

“Don’t think the County is going to cough up the money for you to engage in your fantasy and follow through with your threat. As far as Judge Balford is concerned, you don’t exist. You’ll get no more cases from her.”

“It wasn’t a threat. I merely stated a few facts.”

“You opened your big mouth and now you’re on your own with Roberts. Good luck!” Millie hung up.

I let out a deep sigh and glanced at Mabel. She shook her head slowly, looked down, and fiddled with some papers on her desk. I moved into my office, quietly closing the door behind me. I figured I’d let Millie cool off for a couple of days. Then I’d ask her out for lunch. Yeah, it’d be okay. We’d work this out over a double order of onion rings.

I don’t drink, quit a number of years ago, but later that day I met my friend, Sol Silverman at the bar in Rocco’s on Florence Avenue. The restaurant was located downstairs from Sol’s office on the top floor of the Silverman Building. Sol had made it big in the protection, security and investigation business, and now owned the ten-story building that housed his company, Silverman Investigations, Incorporated. I would’ve moved my office there but who could afford the rent?

Some say Rocco’s, with its lively bar, is the best restaurant in Downey; others say the Regency is better, classier. But Sol didn’t give a damn about that, he just liked the place, all leather and polished brass, thick steaks marbled with fat, and strong drinks made with name-brand liquor.

Sol, in his middle fifties, had a huge chest and bulging belly. He had short legs, a round face, and his salt-and-pepper hair-although styled by Maurice the barber on a weekly basis-was disheveled, giving him the look of a college professor or musical director. But he had amazing physical strength and, if need be, he could brawl with the best of them.

With an infectious sense of humor, he could be charming and jovial, and he always appeared to be unruffled. But if you crossed the line, watch out. He was also an invincible optimist and a little wacky at times, but extremely bright and shrewd. And he was my friend. I was lucky.

He’d started his business some fifteen, sixteen years ago and now owned one of the most lucrative and respected security firms in the nation. People wondered how Sol became so successful so fast. I didn’t wonder; I knew how he did it. He treated everyone fair and decent, and, of course, paid off the right people.

I could hear his laughter as I walked into the restaurant. He sat alone at a small table, the top of which sat on a large square pedestal. The table, positioned in the entryway, must’ve been new. I hadn’t seen it there before. Sol’s fingers, under the edge of the surface, were going crazy, twisting and turning knobs that jutted out from the base. He stared intently at a small black-and-white TV embedded in the tabletop. I slipped up beside him and glanced down at the screen. “What the hell is this, Sol?”

Without looking up, he said, “Pong. It’s new. Electric ping-pong-” Just then the table let out a beeping sound. “Damn, you made me miss. Got any quarters?”

Ten dollars later, we moved into the bar and sat at a real cocktail table.

“I can beat the goddamn thing. I might go broke trying, but what the hell,” Sol said, laughing. “I’m gonna get one of those gizmos for my office,” he paused for a moment. “No, better not. Wouldn’t get any work done. Pong. Hey, what are they gonna think of next?”

Jeanine, one of Rocco’s attractive barmaids, brought our drinks-a Beefeater’s martini for Sol, his usual, and a Coke for me.

“Hey, Jeanine, where’s my glass of water?” Sol asked.

I was shocked. Sol never drank water in his life, unless it came from the melting ice cubes in his drink.

“The drought, Mr. Silverman. We quit serving water unless the customer requests it. But I’d be happy to get you a glass.”

“Nah, forget it. But I know Andre. He’s just using the drought as an excuse to cut down on washing dishes. It’s all propaganda, drought my ass, just an excuse for the municipal water companies to raise rates.”

“I’ll be back with your water in a minute.”

“Water, who wants water? Just keep the Beefeaters coming.”

He picked up his drink and in a mock toast, said, “Le’Chaim … to Jimmy, my friend with the long face.” Sol lowered his glass. “I can tell something’s bugging you. Wanna tell me about it?”

“I’m frustrated, Sol.”

“Only lonely people are frustrated. Are you lonely, Jimmy? Hey, what about that little bubele? What’s her name? I could fix you up.”

“Christ, not her , Sol. Anyway, that’s not what’s on my mind.”

“What wrong with her?”

I didn’t know who Sol was referring to and I didn’t care. He continually tried to fix me up, usually one his wife’s picks. I’d taken out a few. They always turned out to be some poor girl who couldn’t get a date with a starving man if she was munching a giant turkey leg. Now that I think about it, most of them were. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with her, Sol,” I said. “She’s too old, doesn’t speak English, hates sex, and she’s about as husky as a cement truck. How’s that?”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“Shut up,” I said with a chuckle. “But let me ask you something.”

He grabbed his pack of Dunhill cigarettes off the table, flipped one out and lit up. “Shoot.”

“I got a guy who’s in prison for murder, been there for almost thirty years. He’d been railroaded by a less than forthright DA back in ’45.”

“The guy’s innocent?”

“He says he is, but I don’t know. He could’ve murdered the woman, but he didn’t kill Haskell.”

“Who’s Haskell?”

“The dead man he didn’t kill. But the DA induced him to confess to killing the woman.”

“The woman he killed?”

“Yeah, but-”

“So, what’s the problem?’ Sol said with his arms wide. “He did it. He confessed. He’s in jail. Sounds like justice has been served.”