Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

He turned to me. “What is it with you? There ain’t no damn teen center out here. Where’d you come up with that notion?”

Before I could answer, Sol jumped in. “I think he’s right, Jimmy. I think the party you spoke to about the center could have said it’s in Bakersfield, not Barstow. Don’t you think?”

The sirens were getting louder. “Bakersfield?”

“Yeah, Jimmy, Bakersfield . I guess if it’s not there, then that’s the end of the line.”

Moran climbed out of his chair bit by bit. “If you folks just leave town, nice and quiet like, then there’d be no sense in pressing charges. Provided you don’t come back and bother us about this nonsense no more.”

Whoop, whoop, whoop. The sirens were blaring just outside the cafe. The police had the place surrounded.

“Come out with your hands in the air.” A bullhorn-filtered voice growled, the words bouncing off the cafe walls.

Sol’s eyes locked on Moran who stood with pursed lips, stoically, as if challenging Sol. Sol nodded once, then turned and marched outside. “Whaddya want?” he shouted into the circle of squad cars that surrounded the cafe.

The Deacon picked up his gun, tucked it away, and helped people to their feet. Their fun was over and they wouldn’t be causing any trouble. Cubby settled in at one of the tables and tried to get the waitress’s attention. He wanted a cup of coffee and a hamburger. I stood in the doorway and watched the scene in the parking lot unfold.

The bullhorn again. “Put your hands in the air.”

A half dozen of Barstow’s finest were crouched behind their black-and-whites with guns in their hands, the hands rested on the hoods of the cars, and the guns aimed directly at Sol’s chest, not a small target by any means.

Sol pranced closer to the cop cars. “Who’s in charge, goddamn it?” he shouted. It sounded as if he was getting upset again.

An angry voice flew out from behind the barricade. “Hey, fella, hold it right there-”

“It’s all right, Burt,” Ben Moran shouted through the window. “We had a difference of opinion, that’s all. And now these gentlemen are leaving.”

A swag-bellied cop, with more decorations dangling from his khaki uniform than Napoleon wore at his coronation, popped up and motioned vigorously for his troops to holster their weapons. He sauntered toward the cafe, tugging at his Sam Browne belt, which had slipped to his ass during the standoff. “What was the trouble in there?” he asked, the question directed at Sol.

“Food sucks,” Sol answered.

“Well, hell, what do you expect in a dump like this?”

“Burt, knock it off. It’s all over,” Moran hollered to the police chief. “These gentlemen are leaving.”

“Ben, we got a call. Said the old place was being held up,” the chief shouted back.

“You fool, there’s no money in here, what the hell you talking about? These guys are leaving town, won’t be back.” Moran said. “Now, do as I say and let them go.”

“Okay, Ben, you’re the boss. I ain’t gonna hold ’em. Just want to have a few words with this guy. That’s all.”

“Hey, Chief, I’m Sol Silverman. Everything is under control. We were just heading out for Bakersfield.” I heard Sol say before he lowered his voice and stepped closer to the big cop.

Sol and I huddled outsideby the limo for a few moments while Burt, the chief of police and his men pulled out. Sol told me he’d assured the chief that we were heading directly out of town and would leave posthaste without beating up on anyone else. He said it seemed easier to agree to that stipulation than to post bail and go through the rigmarole.

But we were intrigued with Ben Moran. He was obviously the kingfish in town. We speculated why he wanted us out of Barstow so badly. And how he seemed to lighten up when Sol mentioned Bakersfield.

“Bakersfield, Sol?” I asked.

“Yep, a lovely town. Don’t you think, Jimmy?”

“Sure, lovely.” I answered.

Bakersfield was an oil boom town in the 1920s, but its glory had faded when the price of oil started a steady decline in the late ’50s, and now was a struggling working class community about a hundred miles north of Los Angeles. I had nothing against Bakersfield, and in light of the Yom Kippur War, oil prices might raise yet again. But I doubted that Sol was serious when he said that the drug center could be located there.

“Bakersfield’s fine, I guess; that is, if you like the sight of rickety oil derricks on every empty lot,” Sol said, leaning against the car.

“Moran’s not that dumb, Sol. He knows we aren’t going to Bakersfield. Why didn’t he have his cop buddy, the chief, hook us up? I mean, we did mess up his joint.”

“He doesn’t want to create waves, just wants us out of town. I just said that stuff about Bakersfield to help him save face. But you’re right, Jimmy, I can feel it. Something’s going on out here, and Moran is smack-dab in the middle of it.”

“I think he’s afraid that we’ll discover something about the girl that would prove to be unsavory for him in light of his religious fervor, or at least his image of it,” I said.

“Could be, but I think he figures we’ll take off and not come back. Because if we do, he’ll have the police pick us up and hold us. What kind of snooping can we do from a jail cell?”

“He has it both ways. We’re gone and won’t be back, and there is no fuss, no need to get a judge involved.” I paused for a second. “Who is he anyway, Sol? He’s not just some old fogey who sits around the Bright Spot all day waiting for famous writers to pop in.”

Sol glanced at the white clapboard building, then he turned back and mentioned that it would be worthwhile to run an R amp; I on the old guy. I told him he sounded like Joe Friday of Dragnet. He gave me a playful tap on the shoulder. I’d have a bruise for a week.

Before climbing into the limo, I fished the waitress’s note out of my pocket. In a tiny female script was written the girl’s name, Jane Simon, and under that was what I assumed to be the name of the local newspaper, the Barstow Sun.

We kicked around a few ideas about why the waitress slipped me the note, and why the girl’s name would be associated with the newspaper. But Sol and I agreed we’d come this far, might as well check it out before leaving town. After prying directions from a different gas station guy than the one I’d talked with before-we wanted to get there sometime today-we drove east on Main Street looking for Sweetwater Road. When we came to it, we turned left and pulled up in front of a well-maintained, painted cinderblock building. An old-fashioned sign hung above the entrance, The Barstow Sun, the words cut into the wood.

Cubby and the Deacon waited in the limo with the motor running in the event it became necessary to make a fast departure. Cubby would tap the horn if he spotted any cop cars approaching.

Inside the paper’s business office, a striking woman who appeared to be about thirty-two, thirty-three, with a figure you’d bow down to, walked to the counter. Her voice was crisp and businesslike, but her eyes were dark and gleaming, suggesting a passion burning inside. Or was it my imagination? Slender women with dark eyes always have passion, I thought. And like the others, I doubted that this gorgeous woman would be an exception.

“Hi, I’m Jimmy O’Brien, and this is my friend Sol Silverman,” I said. “And you have a passion…”

“What?”

“Ah… I mean we have a passion for the truth. And that’s why we came to the Sun.”

“Wise choice,” the beauty said.

“For chrissakes, Jimmy, let’s get to the point,” Sol interrupted. “Sweetheart, we need some information. Is your boss in?”