Angels in Heaven (Vic Daniel Series) Read online

  Everyone did but Elroy. I sighed and handed them over.

  "Then we go back to point A and do it all over again as a double check. All clear so far, troops, any questions?"

  "I got one, Prof," said Sara, lighting up a long, thin, nasty-looking cheroot with a kitchen match. "Why?"

  I told them why.

  Then Sara said, "How much?"

  I told them how much. Sara said I had to be joking. Willing Boy said OK by him. Elroy said as far as he was concerned, he was insulted by the question—what were friends for after all? And anyway, he ran an hour a day, so who cared where?

  "Thank you, Elroy," I said with dignity. "According to the map, the shortest way is east on Roscoe and then south on Lankershim, but keep your eyes open for anything that might save you time on the rerun—an alley, or cutting through a gas station, or whatever—as what we are after is the fastest possible time one of us can get from A to B."

  "Does that mean running the lights?" Willing Boy asked with poorly concealed eagerness.

  "It does not," I said sternly. "This isn't a case of a guy who is sitting at home suddenly deciding to kill some other guy he hates, so much so that he leaps up and tears out and burns up the macadam to get to the place where the other guy is. According to the cops, this is a case of a guy who went out in a normal way to go to a bar and meet his pals and have a beer or two, and then the trouble started. But let us not dawdle, either, Sara, let us not stop for a joint or two and a peanut butter and red currant jelly sandwich and a large Cherry Coke."

  "Ha-ha," said Sara. "Prof."

  I had them all sign blank sheets of paper, on which I would later type their statements; then I locked up and off we went. We made our way to point A, then off we went to point B, with no problems except that, because I didn't have a watch and I'd forgotten to bring the stopwatch from my desk, I had to ask a kindly lady for the time when I arrived at Tony's, since I had beaten both Elroy running and Sara on her skates, while Willing Boy had already clocked in and started back to point A. We repeated the process, again with no problems; then I forked over an exorbitant amount of money and dismissed the troops, after remembering to retrieve my watch. Elroy jogged off happily into the smog, and Willing Boy happily gave Sara a lift back where she lived with her adoptive parents, or at least that's where they told me they were going. I did entertain a slight doubt as they took off in completely the opposite direction.

  I was parked across the street from Tony's. I made sure the car was well locked up, caught a bus north, waited on Roscoe for a crosstown bus, descended at point A, then reversed the process, descended at Point B, noted the times, and then made my way back to the office. From this sort of thing you make a living? you might query. From this sort of thing and other sorts of things, I might respond. How do you make your living? Selling roach poison or meat packing, perchance?

  I retrieved my typewriter from the huge safe in the rear bathroom in which I stored everything of value when I was out, and started on the paperwork. By the time the two kids on bikes came by, I was just signing my own statement, which was identical to the three others except in means of transportation and the times involved, saying in appropriate officialese that on such and such a day, one of us did such and such a thing twice, which took us so long on the average, and that our timepieces had been checked for accuracy before and after, and that none of us had any prior knowledge of or prior commitment to the accused, and so on.

  As soon as I'd explained the mission to the two high school kids and they had zoomed off on their ten-speeds, I strolled around the corner to Fred's Deli for a late breakfast of two onion rolls liberally smeared with cream cheese and two glasses of buttermilk and also to pick up my winnings from the ball game the night before, when the Dodgers had humiliated the Giants. Tim, the house bookie, an old-timer who more or less lived in the first booth to the left as you went in, paid me my twelve bucks cheerfully.

  By the time I got back to the office, the boys were already there waiting for me. We settled up; they signed their John Hancocks; then I typed up their statements, made out an expense voucher, and took the whole lot around the corner to Mrs. Martel's stationery store for copying and notarizing. Then I divided everything into two, mailed Mel his half, and when I'd gotten back to the office, stowed away my half in the safe. I was entering the financial details into Betsy, my adorable Apple II computer, when my mystery caller knocked once on the front door and then came in, right on the dot of one-thirty. I stood up to greet him, partly out of politeness and partly to show him I was no shorty either, although he must have been at least three inches taller than my six foot seven and a quarter. At least I now knew what his sport was, and it wasn't miniature golf or riding to hounds.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My mystery caller was not what you would call handsome, but when you are his height and weigh in at about 240, you don't have to be. He was attired in what was his idea of natty (although it was far from being my idea)—a no-lapel green lightweight jacket worn over a chocolate brown shirt that was buttoned all the way up to the neck; dark, sort of forest green cuffless slacks; and either snakeskin or alligator half boots. His pockmarked face was square in design, and so was his hair, which was trimmed in that box-shaped straight-sided look that was commencing to be popular amongst the Sepia sporting set. I was attired in a sleeveless Hawaiian shirt featuring a motif of tropical birds, also cream cords and moccasins. My face was not square, and neither was what was left of my graying locks.

  He introduced himself as James Jefferson ("J. J.") Hill. I introduced myself as V. (for Victor) Daniel. We sat down; I switched off the computer.

  "You know how to use one of them things?" he said.

  I nodded modestly. I didn't bother telling him it had taken me years to get the hang of it and I was still making mistakes so basic sometimes it laughed at me.

  "J. J. Hill," I said. "Milwaukee Bucks. Power forward."

  He nodded, pleased. "Maybe the Lakers this year," he said. "It all depends."

  "On what?"

  "On what happens the next few weeks," he said. "I'm out here like on trial so Coach Riley can get a good look at me and see how I fit in before the season starts."

  "When is that, Mr. Hill?"

  "Shee-it," he said, waving one big paw. "I'm J. J. to everyone, including my kids. Not till November, but we're workin' out already, sort of like spring training, you dig?"

  I said I dug. Then I said, "Well, I hope you make it, J. J. They are one hell of a team."

  "Only the world champs," he said, "is all. I figure I got a chance if I lose a few pounds and polish up my de-fense. You ever play?" He took out a pack of Juicy Fruit and popped two sticks into his mouth.

  "A little," I said. A little is right. I played a couple of years at high school, but then I changed schools, and as the one I changed to was in the Illinois State Juvenile Correctional System and it only had one netless hoop, that was about it.

  "I'd have a better chance," J. J. said around the gum, "if I didn't have this other thing on my mind."

  He seemed disinclined to go on, so I said, "Hell, J. J., out with it. I can't help you if I don't know what it's all about."

  "Ain't that the truth," he said, taking a deep breath. "Well, here 'tis." He took a postcard out of his pocket and tossed it on the desk in front of me. "I got this last week."

  I looked it over. On one side was a stock shot of cars on an L.A. freeway at night, taken with a long exposure so all the car lights showed up as streaks of color. On the reverse it said, on one side, "Mr. J. J. Hill, c/o The Lakers, The Forum, Inglewood, L.A., Cal.," and on the other scrawled with a ballpoint, "Congrats, J. J. Hope you make the team. Yore old pal, Pete."

  "So what's the problem in some old pal wishing you well?" I said.

  "The problem is," J. J. said, "if it's the Pete I think it is, he is not an old pal, he is a fucking bookmaker I once was fool enough to do business with in my younger days."

  "What kind of business?"

  "Poi
nt shaving," said J. J. "When I was at college."

  "Ah," I said. "That kind of business. Where was this?"

  He told me. To protect the institute of higher learning involved and also my own ass, as there are such legal niceties as slander, defamation of character, and the like, I will only say that J. J.'s old university was somewhere between three-quarters of an hour and an hour from my door if you went southwest via the Golden State, Ventura, and San Diego freeways.

  "Who else was involved, J. J.?" I got out my memo pad again.

  "You gotta know? I don't want to get them involved after all this time."

  "Highly unlikely," I said. "But sooner or later I'll have to have a word or two with your old pal Pete, and the more I know about it the better."

  He told me the names of three other teammates who had also been involved. "But hell, I haven't seen any of them for years."

  "How many years?"

  "I been out of college three years. Since then."

  "Tell me about Pete," I said. "Pete who?"

  "Pete Berry," he said. "They usta call him Goose. Little guy who was always around. He ran a book and had something to do with fruit machines or something, I don't recall exactly."

  "What was your cut?"

  "Five hundred bucks a game," he said. "Shee-it. Can you believe it. But don't get me wrong—we never blew a game, just kept inside the spread."

  "Local guy obviously," I said. "The card was posted from here and you never heard from him in Milwaukee, but as soon as you show up back here, the postman comes a-calling. What do you figure he's after?"

  "B-R-E-A-D," said J. J.

  "Well of course bread," I said, "but how? Does he want you to do the same thing again, holding your past misdemeanors over your head as a threat, or does he just want a payoff or he'll write another souvenir postcard, this time to Coach Riley?"

  "Either way," he said, "who needs it? Just the thought of that jive-ass running around loose out there is startin' to get to me." His face brightened briefly. "But what if he's bluffing, man? What if he ain't got no proof and is just trying it on?"

  "Oh, he's probably got proof of some kind," I said. "He'd think he was just being clever, having a little insurance. Hell, he could even have movies. But like you say, even if he doesn't, he's a threat as long as he's running around loose."

  "Do you think you can do something to get him off my ass?"

  "Yes, I do think so," I said.

  "Like what?"

  "Like I don't know yet," I said, "because I don't know enough about the Goose. If he's a nickel-and-dimer, I'd approach him one way. If he's Al Capone, I'd approach him another way, like with extreme caution."

  J. J. smiled, revealing a lot of expensive enamel. "I hear ya talkin'," he said. "So how do you find out which he is?"

  "Oh, I have a connection or two," I said. "I'll probably start by getting someone downtown to pull his sheet and see what that tells us."

  "Talkin' of bread," he said. "What's all this gonna set me back?"

  I thought for a moment, came up with a figure, then thought for another minute of the difference in salaries between a power forward for the Milwaukee Bucks and a power private investigator in Studio City who was late again with the rent, and then doubled my original figure.

  "Whatever," J. J. said expansively, making me wish I'd tripled it.

  "How do I get in touch with you, J. J.?"

  He gave me the name of his hotel and said I could also drop him a note anytime the next few weeks, care of the Lakers. And if it all went well and he caught on and stayed in town, front row tickets at the Fabulous Forum anytime, man.

  "Thank you, J. J." I said. "I'll be in touch." We stood up, shook on it, and I ushered him out. His car, which looked like a rental, was parked down the line in front of Mr. Amoyan's shoe repair establishment. I watched him take off and merge into the traffic on the main road.

  All right, I thought. I like it. I'll get to drop in at afternoon practices and watch Magic and Kareem playing Horse, pass the time of day with Byron and Coop, and sit right behind the bench with Evonne at home games, and maybe go out for a beer and some barbecue with the boys afterward and have long talks with Kareem late into the noche about the problems of being giants in a world of Pygmies. . . .

  Yes, for once the future looked rosy. It still looked rosy after I'd partaken of lunch at Mrs. Morales' Taco-Burger stand three doors along from me. As per usual, her combination plate lacked a certain everything, but it did have an abundance of lettuce, which was Chinese cabbage.

  Back at the office, I phoned my brother Tony, who had the rank of lieutenant in the Los Angeles Police Department and who toiled downtown one desk over from a testy little shaver known to one and all as Sneezy. The cop on the switchboard told me that Tony had stepped out of the building for a moment, which was probably just as well, since Tony and I didn't see eye to eye on a great many things, including—if not heading the list—outsiders using police facilities.

  "Sneezy!" I said when the switchboard had passed me on to him. "Just the bloke I wanted a word with. It's your old pal Vic."

  "I have no old pals," Sneezy said. "I had one once. His name was Curly. He was a cocker spaniel and he was run over by a Wonder Bread truck when I was six."

  "Now I know what to get you for Christmas," I said. "A little puppy dog with a kink in its tail."

  "Well, if that's all you called to tell me," he said, "consider it told."

  "There was one other trifle," I said. "Punch up the sheet on a local called Peter Berry, aka Goose, for me, will you? It won't take but a jiffy with that electronic marvel you operate so brilliantly."

  "Anything to get rid of you, Daniel," he said. "Hang on."

  I hung on. Thirty seconds later he said, "How much do you want?"

  "How much is there?"

  "Not a lot," he said.

  "All I really want to know, is he small-time or big-time, his last known, and maybe the name and station of the arresting officer the last time he got done."

  "Is that all?" Sneezy said sarcastically. "Sure you don't want to know his jockstrap size too? Peter Melvin Berry, aka Goose, Goosie. Looks small-time to me. Some racetrack con. Destruction of property. Illegal book. Last known address, 224 East Street, that's the one in Anaheim. Arresting officer—Lt. L. Carstairs . . . hang on . . . South Station. Good-bye." He hung up.

  "Good-bye and thank you ever so," I said to the dial tone.

  It was getting on to four, almost time to close up, so I figured I'd leave Lt. Carstairs for another day, and do just that—close up.

  As soon as I got the car started, I realized that by a strange, almost eerie coincidence, Evonne got off work about then and that if I stepped on it, I might just be able to catch her before she left St. Stephen's High School, where she worked.

  I caught her in the rapidly emptying parking lot, as it happened, accepted her offer of something cooling, and followed her back to her place, which was a white frame two-story cottage not that far away. She liked it there because the ground-floor apartment (hers) included a garden out back, where she grew tomatoes, parsley, lettuces, cucumbers, and various other uninteresting rabbit foods. We went in the back way, I made us a couple of drinks while she did what women call "freshen up," whatever that means, then she plumped herself down beside me on the couch, gave me a short but satisfying kiss right on the old smacker, and said, "Let's talk."

  "A wonderful idea," I said mendaciously, not liking the sound of it at all. "Your bed or mine?"

  She pushed back a strand of blond hair behind one shell-like ear with one hand and took a sip of her gin and tonic with the other. Sometimes I thought she looked like Blondie in the movies. Sometimes I thought she looked like Marie Wilson in the movies. She was so pretty, even with hayfever she was pretty. I adored her. Mind you, she wasn't perfect, who is? Max Factor she wasn't when it came to makeup; a distaff Mario Andretti she wasn't behind the wheel (but look who's talking); she always left the skins on when she made french-fried potato
es; and I could list other faults, but why cavil?

  "I've been offered a job," she said, "and I'm thinking of taking it."

  I liked the sound of that even less—rightly, as it soon turned out.

  "A promotion, more money, less work," she said. "But it's in San Diego."

  "Oh, shit," I said.

  "Yeah," she said, giving my cheek a brisk pat. "Oh, shit."

  "Lots more money?" I said.

  "Lots."

  "A promotion?" I said.

  "Up two grades."

  "Two grades!"

  "Don't be sarcastic," she said.

  "I won't," I said. "San Diego, eh."

  "Yeah," she said. "There's the rub."

  "I'm glad to hear there is one," I said. "I was getting worried for a while."

  "I'm still worried," she said. "But that's not what I want to talk to you about."

  "Jesus," I said. "You mean that's the good news?"

  "Not exactly," she said. "I want to talk to you about Sara."

  "Sara?" That one came out of left field. "Do you mean Safety Pin Sara, the Elizabeth Browning of the punks?"

  "None other, dear," Evonne said. "I don't think you're treating her right."

  "God Almighty," I said, not knowing what else to say.

  "Do you know she looks up to you? Do you know she talks about you a lot?"

  "No, I didn't." I said. "And when have you two been doing all this getting together anyway? I didn't know you were seeing each other. Want another drink?"

  "Later," she said firmly. "You're not sneaking off to the kitchen now."

  "The very idea," I said. "I am a grown man after all. So go on, I can take it."

  "She was over here Sunday, if you must know," Evonne said. "When you were busy moving your mom. Do you know why she's a poet?"

  "I've never even thought about it," I said.

  "Well, think," she said.