Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

Cubby, Sol’s driver, barged in. “Boss, the office patched a call through to the limo. Rita wants to talk to O’Brien.” He glanced at me.

“Rita?” I asked.

“Yeah. Says it’s important. Says she has an idea.”

I bolted from the roomand raced to the black limousine. The smell of cow manure wafting from the dairy corrals hung in the warm air and black flies buzzed in lazy circles as I slid into the driver’s seat and grabbed the receiver.

“Jimmy, I heard the news-” Rita began.

“Why’d you run out on me?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t run out on you.”

“Mabel said…”

I glanced up. Sol was standing next to the open door. “Be careful what you say. Calls on a mobile phone can’t be traced, but they’re sent out over the airwaves. Anyone can listen.”

“I don’t give a damn what Mabel said.” Rita’s voice had an edge. “I wouldn’t run out on you just because you’re a jerk.”

I nodded to Sol and continued my conversation. “She said you stormed out of the office.”

“I was tired of you getting beat up and decided to do something about it. That’s why I left in a hurry. And now with the new developments-Robbie being dead-I’m glad I did.”

“Listen, Rita. I’ve got to tell you about the gun behind the file cabinet…”

“Jimmy, I know all about it. Remember, I’m the one who wanted to get rid of it in the first place. I figured you came to your senses and saw it my way. Now keep your mouth shut about that. We’re on the radiophone.”

“Okay. But, Rita-”

“Shut up and listen. I’m on to something. Can’t talk about it now, but remember you told me Carmichael was a geology professor and Moran had mines out in the desert?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, yesterday when I left the office I shot straight to the college where Carmichael taught, talked to a Mr. Grundy. When Robbie killed him, the professor was working on a story for the college TV station. Now, I’m going to follow a lead.”

“Rita, what in the hell are you talking about?”

“Uh-uh, I’m not getting into it now.”

“Rita-”

“Hang in there, Jimmy; I’m with you no matter what. You should’ve known that. Bye.”

She hung up. I sat there and stared at the phone in my hand. I wasn’t exactly sure what she had in mind. I felt a tremendous relief knowing she was on my side, but I wondered what she meant when she said that she was going to follow up on a lead. What kind of lead?

Sol interrupted my thoughts. “Get back inside, Jimmy. Cubby and I have to get going.”

“Hey, Sol, I can’t stay here while all of this is going on. I’ve gotta do something. I’ve got to go with you.”

“Go where? What’s the matter with you? If you’re spotted, no telling what could happen. Didn’t you hear what they said on TV? ‘Armed and dangerous’ means they shoot first.”

“I gotta do something.”

Sol rested his hand on my shoulder. “Look, Jimmy, I’ve clued Herman in. We don’t want him accused of harboring a fugitive, so if anything happens, he doesn’t know you’re here. You broke in, got that?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, you just go back inside and relax until you hear from me.”

“Are you nuts? Relax?”

“Bad choice of words, but listen. I’ve got an angle that I’ve been working on. Bickerton’s the key to this whole affair. That’s why you went to see him. He’s the guy who’s been recruiting the kids, sending them out to Rattlesnake Lake, telling them on his TV show that it’s a drug rehab center. Right?”

“Yeah, but so what? Things have changed. Moran or his thugs killed Robbie. That’s what I’ve got to prove. Who cares about Bickerton now?”

“Goddammit, get out of the car and go back inside. I haven’t got time for this.” He turned to Cubby. “C’mon, let’s hit the road.” Sol yanked my arm.

“Hey, ease up. Okay, I’ll go, but I’m not going to wait forever.” I climbed out of the limo and trudged back to the milk barn.

Rattling around in the suite, I paced the living room floor, moved into the kitchen, and sat at the table for a while. Then I got up and moseyed into the living room again. Before long I walked back to the table and sat some more. At one point I picked up the book I’d brought from my apartment, an old Raymond Chandler mystery, Trouble Is My Business. I stopped at a line that seemed to reflect my mood: “I felt like an amputated leg.”

I put the book down and suddenly realized what Rita was talking about. She said she was onto something. Going to follow a lead. Something about Carmichael being a geology professor. I made a beeline for the phone but stopped short of picking it up. My office phone would be tapped by now. Hammer would’ve gotten a warrant within five minutes of the cops discovering my prints on the gun that killed Robbie.

I had to get to a phone. Mabel would know what Rita was up to. She had to know; she knew everything that went on in the office. But I couldn’t call her from the dairy; the cops would trace the call.

I ran from the suite, then stopped and realized the only car available was the El Camino. Hammer had seen me in it. He didn’t take down the plates, but by now the cops would be on the lookout for anyone driving a blue ’63 El Camino. I stood there and stared at the car. Wait, maybe Hammer didn’t mention the El Camino to the brass hats after all. I’d been a cop and knew how they thought. Everyone would be pointing fingers, and Hammer would be in trouble if he told his superiors that he had me at gunpoint and then let me go.

I didn’t have any choice. I’d have to take the chance. I jumped in the El Camino and peeled out of the dairy onto Artesia. I had to get to a phone.

Slow down, Jimmy. Play it cool. Let’s not wave any red flags. Let’s not get a goddamned speeding ticket on top of everything else.

I drove three miles before I pulled into a Union Oil gas station and stopped next to a phone booth. I dug into my pocket. Damn, I had a few bills but no coins. The attendant was waiting on a car, checking the tires. It would take him forever and I didn’t have the time to wait.

Another block and I saw a bar, a drinker’s bar. The kind bikers loved-a rundown joint with a beat-up pool table in the center of the dingy room and a small-screen TV mounted in the corner. The TV was on, a soap opera, but no one was paying attention. I threw down a dollar bill. The barman gave me a withering look when I asked for change for the phone.

“Gonna buy something, a beer?” he asked.

“Nah, just change.”

A weepy-eyed stiff at the end of the counter, clutching a glass, raised his head.

The bartender tossed the coins down. “Sure you don’t want a beer?”

I made my way around the pool table, brushed by two Asian guys built like sumo wrestlers playing eight-ball, and moved to the old-fashioned wooden phone booth at the rear of the room. As I pulled open the squeaky door and stepped in, I glanced up at the TV. A choker close-up of my face flickered. The announcer was somber: “The manhunt continues, but so far the police are having no luck tracking down attorney James O’Brien, the man suspected of the killings. Anyone with information should immediately contact the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s department.”

Not looking at the bartender or his customers, I quietly closed the phone booth door and covered my mouth with a handkerchief-like I’d seen gangsters do in the movies. After dropping a dime in the slot, I dialed. Mabel picked up on the first ring. “Don’t say anything. Just tell me what you know about Rita’s hunch,” I said.

“I don’t know anything and she’s not here. I don’t know where she went.”