Robert Randisi - It Was a Very Bad Year

‘No windows,’ he said. ‘We can turn on a light.’

He found a desk lamp, switched it on, then flicked off his flashlight and put it back in his pocket. The lamp was one of those with a green glass shade, most of the light being directed to the desk top. But we were still able to see the rest of the room pretty well. The desk itself was cheap metal, with many dents and one leg shorter than the other three. The top was a mess of papers and photos. Along one wall was a mismatched collection of metal file cabinets which, I assumed, contained files collected over many years. A layer of dust covered everything, but it enabled us to see which parts of the room Irwin used the most.

‘Look here,’ Jerry said. ‘These two cabinets have got his hand prints all over ’em.’

‘And the desk,’ I said. ‘Let’s get started.’

I took the desk, and Jerry started on the cabinets. I sat in Irwin’s rickety chair and started rifling the drawers. There were two on the left, two on the right, and a smaller, center one. I started on the left, found one drawer full of papers. I leafed through them, but didn’t find anything interesting. The top left drawer had something, though — a.38 revolver. I didn’t touch it, closed the drawer and started on the right. More papers, some cheesecake photos of what looked like half a dozen pretty young girls. They were all smiling vacantly into the camera while showing lots of leg or cleavage. The top drawer yielded a half-eaten sandwich — tuna, from the smell — and some rotten fruit that had been in there for a while.

I only had the center drawer left.

‘I got lots of pictures,’ Jerry said, ‘but none of Miss Dalton.’

‘Any nudes at all?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘just cheesecake.’

‘Yeah, me, too.’

More papers, some note paper that he’d scribbled on. I was about to close the drawer when a name jumped out at me.

Sinatra.

I took the note paper out and looked at it. This was written on it:

Nov. 22.

Sinatra.

Keenan amp; Amsler.

Barry.

Johnny.

Canoga Park.

‘Anything?’ Jerry asked.

‘Not about Abby,’ I said.

‘Then what?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. I folded the sheet and put it in my pocket. ‘Maybe we can figure it out later. Let’s keep looking.’

I went through the rest of the drawer, but found nothing.

‘Still got another cabinet over there,’ Jerry said, pointing.

‘I’m on it.’

I got up and moved to the cabinet. There were half a dozen more, but the dust revealed they hadn’t been touched in a while.

I started at the bottom, closing each drawer after I finished. We didn’t want to leave any indication that we’d been there.

I found much of what Jerry was finding, and what I had found in the desk, files with girls’ names, cheesecake photos.

‘Mr G., he must be keepin’ the nudies someplace else,’ Jerry said. ‘Like at home.’

‘You’re probably right,’ I said, closing the top drawer. ‘We better get out of here. I’ll call Danny and see what he’s got for us.’

Jerry went to the desk and pulled the chain on the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Seconds later his pen light went on and pointed the way to the door.

Outside, with the door locked behind us, we got into the Caddy. Jerry asked if he should drive back to the Sands.

‘No,’ I said, ‘my place. You can spend the night. In the morning I’ll pack a bag and we’ll head over to the Sands. I need to put some fresh clothes in my locker.’

‘What about your pit?’

‘I’m not scheduled to work tonight.’

We pulled into the driveway of my little house. I opened the front door, and Jerry went directly to the kitchen, got two cans of Piels from the frig. He opened them both with an opener and then handed me one.

‘I want to show you something,’ I said. I took the piece of paper from my jacket pocket and showed it to him.

‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It was in his center drawer. Do you know any of the names, other than Frank’s?’

‘Well, Irwin, that’s the photographer’s name.’

‘Why would he write his own name like that?’ I asked. ‘I’d say it was a brother, or cousin.’

‘And these other names? Keenan and Amsler? I never heard of ’em.’

‘Neither have I.’ I took the paper back from him. ‘Could be nothing, I guess.’

Jerry finished his beer and said, ‘We gotta get somethin’ to eat.’

‘How about a pizza?’

The big guy made a face. ‘In Vegas?’

‘You’re right.’ Pizza in Vegas was terrible, especially when you grew up in Brooklyn.

‘How about Chinks?’ he suggested.

‘Sounds good. There’s a take-out place near here. Their menu is in that drawer by the sink. I’m gonna call Danny.’

I went into the living room and dialed Danny’s home number. It was too late to try his office. He didn’t answer. I went back to the kitchen.

‘No answer,’ I said. ‘He must still be watching Irwin.’

‘Why? You only wanted to know where he lived? Why’s he still watchin’?’

‘I guess we’ll find out when he calls us. You pick what you want from that?’ I pointed to the menu he was holding.

‘Yeah,’ Jerry said. ‘Here.’

‘Why don’t you call it in? I’ll eat whatever you order.’

He looked crestfallen.

‘My food?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘What was I thinking?’ I forgot that Jerry didn’t like to share his food. ‘Order me some spare ribs, and the pepper steak.’

‘Fried rice?’

‘Of course.’

‘Gotcha.’

This time he went into the living room to use the phone. I put some water in a kettle and set it on the stove for tea then sat at the kitchen table to finish my beer and give our evening’s activities some thought.

The table was covered with Chinese food cartons. Both Jerry and I were inept with chopsticks, so we each used a fork.

‘How can you manipulate lock picks, but not chopsticks?’ I asked.

‘Nothin’ beats lock picks for a lock,’ Jerry said. ‘I mean, when ya don’t have a key. And nothin’ beats a fork for eatin’.’ He paused a moment, then added, ‘Besides, chopsticks are stupid.’

As I picked up my last egg roll, I couldn’t disagree with him.

Jerry slept on the sofa. It was a large one and almost accommodated him. But he’d slept there before and knew how to maneuver it. Besides, he could sleep on a picket fence.

I lay awake for a while, wondering if the words on the list had anything to do with Abby Dalton, then decided they didn’t. It had to be something totally unconnected. I was just making things more complicated. We simply had to find those photos and negatives, and reveal Irwin to be the culprit.

I finally fell asleep, wondering why Barney hadn’t asked for any money. Or should that be. . yet?

Food was never as big a part of my life as it was when Jerry was around. The next morning I packed a small bag and we went to a diner near my house, where we had eaten breakfast a few times before. He ordered pancakes. I ordered a Spanish omelet.

‘What about French toast?’ I asked.

‘A poor substitute for pancakes.’

‘Waffles?’

He shrugged. ‘Same thing.’

I left him alone after that and let him eat his pancakes.

I had called Danny’s home number before we left my house and gotten no answer. Then I called his office, but it was too early. I was starting to worry about him, and having flashbacks to when I had asked him to go to LA with me, and he’d disappeared. We were lucky to get him back that time.