David Bishop - The Original Alibi

For now, the cops were working the homicide of Cory Jackson, while I was working what I saw as the Eddie Whittaker case, but in the Long Beach Police Department they had it booked as the homicide of Ileana Corrigan, cold case. My job was to find out who killed her so General Whittaker would absolutely know it wasn’t his grandson Eddie, or that it had been Eddie. That would likely kill the old man, but I would do my job.

I anticipated Fidge would drag his feet some to allow me to keep my shrinking lead on the department. But, at some point, Fidge would need to act out discovering the link of Cory Jackson to the Ileana Corrigan case, and my head start would begin to evaporate. To press my temporary advantage I headed for the address in the file for Tommy Montoya, the gas station attendant who claimed he sold Eddie gas a few minutes after someone had permanently ended Ileana Corrigan’s problems and pleasures.

The address in the file was no longer good. According to the retired lady who lived in the duplex next to where Tommy Montoya had lived, Tommy had moved about a year ago. She first shared her opinion that Tommy should be spelled Tommie, with an “ie” rather than a “y.” Then she did something useful. She dug a crumpled note from the drawer in her small kitchen desk. It had Tommy’s new address. We chatted a while longer and she didn’t ask for the scrap of paper back, so I left with it. Taking it might allow me to stay ahead of the cops for a few more hours. It wasn’t Fidge’s job to help me, not officially, but the death of Ileana Corrigan had been a case that lodged in his craw. He couldn’t work it, but he knew that case sat on top of my list.

I found Tommy’s new address with the help of a little boy with two lanes of glazed snot traveling from his nose to his upper lip, where his tongue came into play. I said Tommy Montoya and the boy pointed with his left hand, using his right hand to hold his hair above his eyes while he looked up at me.

Through the apartment window I saw a man sitting with a blonde. They were on the couch facing the TV, starting to watch a movie. The title on the screen, Debbie Does Dallas, a classic for folks who cotton to that style of entertainment. What looked to be a blank white business card attached to the screen door with a pushpin had his name printed in block letters: Tommy Montoya. The screen was unlatched; I turned on the recorder and walked in.

Tommy was tall and thin with a nose broken often enough to permanently point it toward his ear. I gave my name and extended my hand; he shook it like it wasn’t worth the effort. Offsetting these negatives, he had beautiful hair, dark and wavy, with a healthy sheen. He had bluish-green eyes that didn’t seem to belong in his face.

The bleached blonde wore a dull look that told me that her bra size exceeded her IQ, which despite her abundance left her not very smart. I said nothing, just stared at the blonde. After a couple of minutes she clearly got uncomfortable, which was my reason for staring. She got up to go, likely disappointed she wasn’t going to watch Debbie work her way through Dallas. Tommy patted her backside as she went out. Then he turned his attention to me.

“Who the fuck are you?” His voice didn’t go with his look. It went with his nose but not his hair and eyes. His diction was bad and he swore too much.

“I’m your conscience. I’m here to give you a chance to die without that load of guilt you’ve been carrying around for the past eleven years.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not telling you jack until I know just who the fuck you are.”

“Then die with a guilty conscience, your choice.” I pulled out Quirt Brown’s gun. Tommy responded by sticking both his hands in the air, like we were acting out a stagecoach robbery in a 50s B-western.

“I’ve got a few questions I need you to answer. If you don’t cooperate you have no more value to me than did Cory Jackson.” I showed him the picture still in my cell phone of Cory lying in the wet surf with a hole in his forehead. “The picture doesn’t do him justice,” I said. “You can’t see the sea water pooled in the hole.” I paused to grin. “Cory didn’t tell me shit. But then, from now on he won’t be telling anybody anything. So, which way are you going to play it, tough or smart?”

Montoya’s eyes kept flittering between my face and the hole in the end of the gun that I held pointed at his heart. It’s fun to tell the truth in a way that makes the listener feel he heard something different than what you said. Everything I told Tommy Montoya had been the truth. In listening, he added two and two together to come up with a total that to him meant I had punched Cory’s ticket. Being a PI could be so much more fun than playing under cop rules.

“Eleven years ago, you and Cory Jackson consorted to get Eddie Whittaker arrested for killing his woman.”

“I never met this Cory guy.” He flinched, ducked actually, when I crinkled my lips and angled the gun more toward his face. “Really,” he said like that was supposed to make his denial more convincing. “I mean it,” he added for even more emphasis. “I never knew him, but I’ve known the name ever since. He was the dude on the beach who claims he saw the killing.”

“Cory’s history. Let’s stay with you. You lied about Eddie buying gas. Why?”

“For money, man, you know. We all do shit for money. I sold myself as a witness against the guy.”

“Who and why?”

“I got no clue who. When I asked why, the man said, ‘I wanna fuck up the general.’”

“So, how much money?”

“Ten grand.”

“That’s what Cory got too, ten big ones. He also got a bullet, but that came eleven years later. Your bullet could arrive any time now.”

Again, I said one thing, he heard another.

“You here to kill me?”

“My job is revenge against the man who killed Ileana Corrigan. She was Eddie Whittaker’s fiancee. My job is that guy. Cory Jackson played it stupid. He didn’t help me. If you help, I might just get the guy before he gets you. If not, don’t buy any green bananas.”

“I don’t know shit. The way it happened I never saw the guy.”

“Lay it out for me. First sit down.” He did. I remained standing. He sat in a leather Barcalounger that had seen its best days. The rest of his place wasn’t worthy of description beyond tawdry and tired. That same description had fit the blonde.

He started talking without further prodding. “One night late, two or three nights before Whittaker’s broad bought it, I was closing up. Locking up, you know. I went around back and saw light around the door to the women’s can. The gals are always walking out and leaving it on. I have to turn it off every night. If I don’t the boss gives me hell. When I pulled the door open the light went off like magic. Then somebody shined a large flashlight in my eyes. I couldn’t see shit. A voice told me, ‘don’t move.’ I froze, man, couldn’t have moved if I wanted. The dude reached out and stuffed something in my shirt pocket.

“‘Here’s two grand,’ he said. Not those exact words, but something like that. Then he said, ‘there’ll be eight more if you play ball. If you don’t, you die. What’s it gonna be?’ I said I loved to play ball. He handed me a picture and told me to turn around. Then he shined the flashlight over my shoulder down onto the photograph. ‘Study it. Day after tomorrow you’ll see this guy in the papers or on TV about a woman being killed. So you’ll need to pay close attention to the news.’

“I told him I didn’t want nothin’ to do with no woman being killed. ‘You got no choice on that,’ he said. ‘She will die. The only thing that’s undecided is whether or not you die. You catch my drift?’