Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“Hey, Mr. O’Brien, he doesn’t know the guy. So I don’t see how we can be of any help to you.”

“He knows Robbie, all right.” I turned to Reverend Elroy. “And I need a little information.”

“Yes, I knew him.” The reverend’s eyes darted around the room. “But I had nothing to do with him. But I hear he’s in trouble, disappeared.” He paused and when I didn’t say anything, he added, “Hey, it was in the papers.”

“He came here for help, and you sent him away.”

“Now look here, O’Brien,” Bickerton said. “You come waltzing in here all bent out of shape about some kid. Telling us you’re a lawyer, member of the bar and all that crap. I hate lawyers, leeches. May I call you Jimmy?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, Jimmy. Now what’s your fee? What do you charge for your services?”

“Fifty dollars an hour.”

“Same price as a Vegas whore.”

“Plus another fifty for Rockin’ Robbin.”

“Who’s that?”

“My pimp.”

He let out a guffaw. “I like your attitude, young man, but, you see, we’re real busy around here. Tell him, Elroy. Tell Jimmy just how busy you are.”

“I’m putting together a TV special,” Reverend Elroy said. “Very exciting, it will teach troubled kids that Christianity can be fun, more fun than drugs and rock ’n’ roll. But the show will have the type of entertainment they can relate to. Mr. Bickerton has agreed to air the show on his network.”

“Tell him about the dance number you wrote for the show, Elroy. Don’t be modest.”

The Reverend’s eyes blinked. “It’s called ‘Get Down and Funky With Jesus.’”

“It’s a hoot, I’ll tell you that,” Bickerton added. “All those cute little Christian gals shaking their booties for the Lord. Can’t miss.”

“That’s nice, Reverend,” I said to Elroy. “But didn’t you advise Mrs. Farris that her son would be better off going to a drug treatment center?”

Bickerton jumped in again. “Are you here to cause problems for Elroy? He’s already told you he had nothing to do with the kid.”

“I don’t want any trouble. I just want information about Robbie, his connection with the church, stuff like that. Might help in my search for him.”

“It’s a sad case, yes indeed, very sad.” Reverend Elroy shook his head. “But when he came here, he was too far gone, beyond even my ability to save him. As a last resort I recommended the intervention center to his mother, Mrs. Farris.”

“Jimmy, Reverend Elroy would rather not discuss any of this, isn’t that right, Elroy?”

“Why not?” I asked.

Bickerton went on to explain that going public about Robbie, talking about his membership in the drug rehab program, would not only be embarrassing, but it might jeopardize the church’s ability to acquire corporate sponsors whose cash was desperately needed to help save wayward teens. He said the reverend’s failure with Robbie was unique. Reverend Elroy Snavley worked with hundreds of teens, and one was bound to slip through the cracks. Why jeopardize the entire program because of one incorrigible misfit?

“Yes, Robbie doing those crazy things… well, it just might make Elroy look like a failure,” he added.

While he rattled on, I wondered what a big shot like Bickerton was doing here at this nothing Van Nuys church in the first place. I’d read in the L.A. Times that his outfit, The Holy Spirit Network, was huge, with forty or more stations, and they were looking to acquire an additional broadcasting outlet or two in the lucrative Southern California market. But why was he here now with Elroy Snavley? Anyway, I was getting a little tired of him jumping in every time I had a question for the reverend.

“Reverend Elroy,” I said, “just what does Mr. Bickerton have to do with all of this stuff about Robbie? Why is he in this meeting?” I glanced at Bickerton. “No offense, sir.”

Bickerton dove in again. “Oh, I understand your concerns, Jimmy. But we’re all friends here. Nothing to hide. Isn’t that right, Elroy?” He pulled a cigar, a huge one, from his suit coat pocket. “Here, Jimmy, have a cigar.” He leaned forward and handed it to me across the table.

The cigar was the size and shape of Fat Boy, the atom bomb used in World War II, and from the looks of it, had probably cost as much. “Thanks, Billy. I’ll smoke it later.” I slipped the thing into my shirt pocket. I’ll score a few points with Sol when I hand him this baby, I thought.

“Nonsense!” Bickerton pulled out two more cigars. “We’ll smoke them now. You don’t mind do you, Elroy? Of course not. We want to loosen up and have a nice chat with Jimmy, here.” He tore the wrappers off, slid one to me, jammed the other in his mouth and talked around it while he patted his breast pockets. “Elroy, dang it, get me a match.”

Elroy jumped up, dashed to his desk, grabbed a lighter from a drawer, rushed back and torched Bickerton’s cigar. He came around to me. What the hell, I stuck the thing in my mouth. Elroy held the flame under it while I puffed. It felt good.

Bickerton and I leaned back in our chairs, gazing at the ceiling, puffing away. The room, filling with blue smoke, had the polite smell of money burning. Elroy let out a cough, which he tried without success to stifle.

After a few seconds I leaned forward, took the cigar in my hand and held it in front of my face, examining it. “Hmm,” I said, as I’d seen Edmund G. Robinson do many times in the gangster movies on the Late Show. “Hazel Farris is dead. Murdered, see.”

Elroy cried, “What!” He gawked at me, slack-jawed. “Dead?”

“Yep, murdered.” I kept my eye on Bickerton, who toked on the stogie. The news didn’t seem to faze him.

“Happens,” Bickerton finally said. “What does that have to do with Elroy here? Maybe you’re a little off base, Jimmy. He knows nothing about any murder.” Bickerton faced Elroy. “You don’t, do you, Elroy?”

“No. Why would I?”

Hazel’s death probably had nothing to do with Reverend Elroy, but he was the one who’d recommended the drug intervention center to Mrs. Farris. I needed the name and the address of the place, and I needed a knockdown to the person in charge of it. Maybe Robbie went there when he escaped, or maybe he had a friend there he’d confided in. Or maybe there was a connection between the center and the black Ford van-the van that allegedly picked him up outside the court. Or maybe it was nothing, just a lot of maybes, all smoke and maybes, like the smoke that filled the office with every puff we took.

But if people at the center were involved in Robbie’s escape, I doubted I’d get any cooperation from them. Of course, the van thing was a long-shot; a story told by a phony blind guy. A phony that I didn’t even believe. Anyway, why would people managing a drug intervention center want to help an escaped murderer? It didn’t add up. But here’s what did add up: my ass was on the line and I had to find Robbie, and the center seemed like a good place to start looking.

“Hey, Elroy,” I said, “why don’t you tell me about the drug center?”

Elroy paced the room, wringing his hands, mumbling words I couldn’t hear.

Bickerton shook his head. “No way. Can’t give any info out. Confidential.”

“What do you mean, confidential?”

“You ought to know what that means, being a lawyer.” Bickerton, it seemed to me, was becoming a little churlish.

“No offense, J. Billy, but I asked Elroy here a question. This doesn’t concern you,” I said. “Hey now, Elroy, I need the address of the center.”

Elroy instantly stopped pacing. He stood still, stiff, eyes bulging like a frozen fish.

Bickerton roared, “Damn it, O’Brien. I said the information is privileged!”