Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

I got Sol’s attention and mouthed, “What’s up?” I didn’t want to offend Van Hoek, but I didn’t come here to discuss the tribulations of owning a dairy business. I came here to meet the guy who was going to get me onto the base. Maybe I didn’t get to Rocco’s soon enough; maybe the guy had been here and left.

With a quick shake of his head, Sol indicated that this meeting was more than just small talk. I knew how Sol operated, and I knew he was up to something.

“Peter, my friend,” he said. “They won’t do anything to you. And as far as losing the account, hell, they’re going out of business anyway. Ask Jimmy.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what they were talking about. “Yeah, Peter. Sol’s right.”

Peter slumped, a beaten man. Sol just had to add the coup de grace . “Tell you what, Peter, not only will I give you the grand, I’ll make sure you get the school contract when it comes up for bid. Now what do you say?”

“Royal Farms has a lock on the schools.” Peter stopped talking when Jeanine hurried over to take my order.

“Coke, Jimmy?” she asked.

“No, sweetheart, bring him a big glass of milk,” Sol said. “Sunnyville Farms milk. You know, the milk that I forced Andre to carry.”

Jeanine looked at me. “Coke,” I said, but Sol’s comment wasn’t lost on Van Hoek.

“All right, goddammit, Sol. You got a deal. But I don’t like it. If anything happens to my truck…”

“What?” Sol said, his arms out wide. “What could happen? The truck falls off a cliff, maybe? Lighten up, ol’ buddy boy.”

I was beginning to get the drift of the conversation. Sol was persuading Van Hoek to let us use his truck. That’s how I’d get onto the base. Smooth.

Van Hoek looked at me as he stood. “Be at my plant Sunday night at ten o’clock.” He spun on his heel and marched off.

Sol flashed a grin and popped an hors d’oeuvre, a cheese puff, into my mouth. Jeanine served my Coke. I took a sip and waited for Sol to explain his plan, but instead he twirled a finger in the air. Charlie, the piano player, caught the gesture and started hammering the keys, pounding out his rendition of Liszt’s “Hungarian Rhapsody,” the fast part, the part they played in all of those Bugs Bunny cartoons, the background music when Elmer Fudd chased the wabbit across the screen.

The barroom exploded with a rousing cheer. Immediately, the bartender lined up glasses and poured drinks as fast as the liquor would flow from the bottle. Jeanine and two other servers hustled to the bar, grabbed the drinks, and rushed to the customers’ tables. Sol had a new thing going.

“I’ve got a theme song now, Jimmy,” he shouted above the ruckus. “Classy music, huh?”

Nothing shocked me about Sol’s little quirks anymore. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a brass band waiting in the parking lot. And it was obvious that when Charlie played Sol’s new theme song, the next round was on him. Crazy guy. “Yeah, Sol, lot of class. But hey, what gives?”

Sol waved his hands in time with the music. “Jimmy, my boy, I caught the double today at Santa Anita. So what the hell, I buy a few drinks. It’s only money.”

“No, not about the drinks. Tell me about the deal with Van Hoek’s truck?”

Sol dropped his hands and beamed. “Aw, bubele , your friend Sol is a genius. At times, I even amaze myself.”

“Sounds like I’m driving the milk truck onto the base.”

“That’s right, my boy.” Sol leaned into me. “He’s got all those little drive-in stores scattered around, but he also sells milk and stuff wholesale, has accounts all over San Berdoo County, where the Mojave Desert happens to be, where the Rattlesnake Lake Gun Club just happens to be. Get my drift?”

“The gun club is one of his customers.”

“It’s perfect,” Sol said in a loud voice, just as the music abruptly stopped. Charlie, thinking that Sol was talking to him, got up and gave us a bow. Everyone in the place raised their glasses to our table. Sol jumped up. “Play it, Charlie!” A cheer erupted again, more earsplitting than before. Elmer Fudd was on another wild dash.

I knew better than to interrupt Sol when he was having fun. So I just sat back and laughed with the crowd. But when the laughing stopped and the music finally wound down, Sol continued talking about his plan.

“You’ll pick up the truck at Sunnyville Farms Sunday night-”

“And I’m going to deliver the milk order to the base. Drive right through the gate.”

“You got it! You’ll be the new temporary driver, dressed as a Sunnyville Farms delivery man. Simple and elegant. You’ll take the milk and eggs and stuff to the commissary. While you’re unloading the truck, you make up an excuse-I dunno, maybe, something like you have to use the potty-then you get lost and wander around. What do you think?”

“Sol, you’re a genius. It’s perfect! If they’re holding teens captive, then you can go back to the FBI.”

“Yeah, but it’s dangerous. It’s gotta look real. You gotta physically unload the milk yourself, and the gun club wants their stuff delivered at six a.m. Monday morning, sharp. You can’t be late.”

“Hey, I’ll be there on time.”

“Listen, Jimmy, you’ll have backup. My technical guy will hook up a radio direction finder on the delivery truck, and me and my boys will be in a car behind you. We’ll pick you up when you get close to the base. We’ll follow, but not close enough to be obvious.” Sol searched my eyes. “Think you can handle it?”

“Hey, I used to be a cop. One of L.A.’s finest, remember? But I got one question.”

“Shoot.”

“If they want their milk order delivered at six o’clock Monday morning, why do I have to be at the dairy at ten Sunday night? It’s only a three-hour drive.”

“It’s part of the deal,” Sol said. “You’ve gotta make all the dairy’s delivery stops along the route, of course.”

“Of course.” I groaned.

It was late when Ileft Rocco’s Restaurant, and actually, in spite of everything, I had a good time. With Sol buying the drinks and the thirsty crowd lapping them up like desert rats at an oasis. What had started out as a simple meeting with Van Hoek had turned into a bacchanal bash. Jokes I hadn’t heard in years were flying, music with a wild beat and loud shouting and louder singing reverberated. At two a.m., Joey the bartender came around the bar and had locked the doors, closing the place with all of us still inside. Sol hollered, “One more round.”

“Hungarian Rhapsody,” the cartoon music, filled the air, and the merrymaking had continued.

Later, Jeanine, who’d also been sipping a few, jumped up on a table next to the piano, and as Charlie pounded out a halfway decent version of David Rose’s The Stripper, she treated us to a tarty morsel of bump and grind. The party ended when Scooter, Jeanine’s boyfriend, who was there waiting for her to get off work but encouraging the impromptu act along with the rest of us, popped Judge Frisco in the nose after he made a lewd remark concerning Jeanine’s left boob, which had slipped out of her low-cut uniform during the provocative exhibition.

It was about three a.m. when I took the last sip of my Coke, said goodbye to Sol, and left the bar. Gravel crunched beneath my feet as I walked to my Corvette, parked in Rocco’s gritty lot behind the restaurant. Nobody liked the dirty parking lot, and tonight was no exception. It was dark, dusty, and practically deserted. I spotted only two cars, mine and a sedan parked at the edge of the lot by the rear fence. Sol’s limo awaited him in front at the curb, where most of the customers parked.

I slipped my key into the Corvette door lock, jumping a little when I heard the grinding sound of another motor starting up. My eyes swept the lot. An almost imperceptible movement of the dark sedan parked by the fence and the vapor billowing from the exhaust told me that I wasn’t alone in the lot. Someone else was heading home, but it was strange; I hadn’t seen anyone leave Rocco’s along with me.