Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

My guts were churning and Sol kept rambling on about some goddamn king and his goddamn veal.

“Sol, forget the king, I’ve got a problem here, and I need your help.”

“Not until you taste this stuff.” He jabbed the fork at me.

“I don’t want any damn veal Omar, or whatever the hell you call it.”

“Eat it!”

“All right, then we work on my problem.” I took the fork and stuck it in my mouth. “Okay, now here’s the plan… hey, this stuff’s pretty good.”

Sol, his finger whirling in the air, signaled for Janine, our waitress.

After I finished a plate of veal Oscar and Sol had his second helping, we got back to why we were there in the first place.

“So, anyway, Sol, I need your help. We gotta find the guy,” I said. “Rita and I had dinner last night and-”

“Thought you were going out with that flight instructor. What’s her name again?”

“Susie. But she got a job with an airline, a puddlejumper somewhere in the Midwest. She left a month ago. Anyway, what’s this got to do with finding Robbie?”

“You hitting on Rita now?”

“No, damn it. I work with her, for chrissakes. Anyway she’s my lawyer now.”

“What! Rita’s your lawyer?” He started to laugh.

“Yeah, but Sol, she just wants to help.”

“Yeah, but nothing, Jimmy. You need a real lawyer.” Sol said. “Cute little Rita, with her nice little tushy, Jimmy’s lawyer.” He continued laughing. “Hey, don’t worry; I’ll bring the veal Oscar on visiting days.”

“Sol, knock it off. This is serious. It’s a murder charge.”

Suddenly he became somber. “What’s for dessert?”

I should’ve known that it would do no good to discuss my case with Sol while food was on the table.

A few minutes later, I was sipping the last of my coffee while Sol peered at me with one eyebrow cocked. He sat back and put his wine glass on the table. We were now ready to discuss my tsores , his word for troubles. Now was the time to put Rita’s plan into action.

“Okay, Jimmy, just what is it you want me to do?”

“Sol, I need to use your contacts. I’ve only got a few days.”

Sol had contacts, a vast network of people on his payroll, off the books-paid in cash-informants in key places. He called them his spies. I wanted to make good use of his sources.

“My spies are your spies.”

“See if you can find out what Webster’s up to.” As I asked for Sol’s help, I wondered if there was anything in the canons of legal ethics about using paid informants to spy on the D.A. I supposed there probably was, but I was getting nervous with the deadline and all. “Can you get a copy of the guard’s statement? Find out if Webster has enough to file a complaint?”

“Of course, my boy, but you knew that. In the meantime, I suggest you turn your daily work, your caseload, over to sweet little Rita.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You don’t want her as your lawyer, but she can help. She can free you up so you can concentrate on getting out from under this mess. And, Jimmy,” he reached across the table and patted my arm, “if the time comes when you need a lawyer, don’t worry, I’ll get you Morty.”

Sol had powerful friends. I wondered if he was referring to Morton Zuckerman, the highest-priced criminal defense attorney on the coast. “Morty who?”

“Morty, my wife’s nephew.” Sol slowly shook his head. Then he looked up. “Hey, Morty’s not a nitwit. He just needs a client to show what he can do.”

So much for Zuckerman. I didn’t want him anyway. Rita was my lawyer. “Yeah, thanks, Sol.”

“Good. But what about Rita? Can she handle your caseload?”

There was no use explaining to Sol that Rita handling my clients wouldn’t be a problem. I only had one. And who knew if he’d be back-unless he liked Mabel’s coffee, that is. But Sol was right. I needed to keep my mind free until this thing was behind me, and I knew Rita could act as my lawyer and still handle my day-to-day duties without breaking a sweat.

“Yeah, good idea, Sol. I think she might be able to handle my caseload. Of course, if she gets bogged down or needs my advice, I can always help. But you’re right. I’ve got to get myself out of this mess.”

I left Rocco’s feeling optimistic. I knew with Sol’s help we’d find Robbie. In spite of all of his oddball characteristics, Sol was the best.

When I arrived back at the office, Mabel reminded me that Rita had a trial appearance in West L.A regarding her client, Geoff. She wasn’t expected to return for the remainder of the day.

I walked into my office, sipped coffee, and gazed out the window watching the line of the cars turn into Stonewood Shopping Center. Must be a big sale at the Broadway. Life goes on, I guess.

I needed to see Rita to explain the transfer of my workload, my one client. Big deal, a nothing case. The guy was charged with credit card fraud. She’d cut a deal, have the guy promise to pay back his debt, and they’d drop the charges. No sweat.

It was well after seven when I got up from my desk ready to leave the office. Rita hadn’t returned, but I hadn’t expected her to. That’s okay. I’d catch her tomorrow.

I lived close by, and at that time of night there wouldn’t be much traffic. The drive home took less than five minutes. I had a nice two-bedroom apartment on Cecilia Street. I needed a spot where I could relax and unwind at the end of the day, so I had converted the second bedroom into a study. A hardback chair stood in the center, a guitar leaning next to it. That’s all, just the guitar and the chair. I didn’t like things cluttering up my life.

Tonight, I figured I’d soak in the tub, forget about my problems, and maybe practice the guitar, a Beatles number I was working on: “Let it Be.” I wasn’t sure; I thought John Lennon had performed the song on the sixties hit record, but a beautiful girl I had met at Rocco’s one night told me the singer wasn’t Lennon but McCartney. Though convincing, she was probably wrong. I wanted to ask her out, but she was from out of state, just visiting a friend. And besides, she was engaged; at least that’s what she’d said. She may have been wrong about that too.

I made the turn onto Cecilia.

“Oh, Christ, what now?” I exclaimed. My apartment door was open. I saw the flashing lights of several squad cars parked haphazardly at the curb.

I parked, vaulted the stairway three steps at a time, and rushed to my apartment on the second floor. Cops were all over the place. Hammer and Butch Something were in the living room. Hammer directed a couple of Downey cops who were getting ready to search the living room. Butch was braced in the corner by the TV, smoking a cigarette.

“You got the warrant, I guess,” I said to Hammer.

“Yeah, want to see it?” He removed the document from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over.

I took a quick glance: a no-knock search warrant signed by Judge Frisco. This meant they didn’t need a whole lot of compelling evidence to get the warrant. Frisco, an ex-D.A., was known for being a law-and-order judge. He’d sign anything the cops set before him.

The police had the right to search my home looking for my gun and-if found-the warrant allowed them to seize it. A no-knock warrant meant they could walk right in, bust down the door if necessary, and tear the place apart. To get a no-knock warrant, the police would normally have to provide an affidavit certifying that they were afraid the evidence was in imminent danger of disappearing. I doubted they even told Frisco what they were looking for. They filled in the blanks, and he signed it. Why didn’t he just give them a rubber stamp with his signature? Maybe he did.