“Jimmy,” Bobbi said after they left.
“Yeah?”
She walked to the window and stood looking out at my nice view, then turned. “I’m sorry that I doubted your integrity.”
“Well, it’s your job, I guess.”
She sat down again. “Fred Vogel, the jet mechanic from Long Beach, talked to Sergeant Hodges. He told him about the hidden meter. You were right. I’m really sorry.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” I said.
“You brought down a massive criminal organization!”
“Rodriguez has been exonerated. That’s all I wanted.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s about it.”
“Maybe, when you’re feeling better…Well, maybe we can take in that movie we’d talked about.”
“Saw it already.”
I waited in the uneasy silence, then Bobbi stood and dusted off her skirt. “I have to go, Jimmy. But if you want to talk, I’m available.”
I nodded. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Bobbi left. The nurse soon came around and checked my blood pressure, the doc popped his head in the door and waved, and a candy striper bought me a pasty meal. I wasn’t hungry and the food tasted like stale pabulum, but I ate most of it anyway.
A messenger walked in carrying an enormous wreath with a wide ribbon draped across it. I opened the card: I know you won’t forget our favor. It was signed, Joe Sica.
Am I now obligated to the mob? Wasn’t getting rid of Karadimos enough? I glanced again at the wreath and wondered if the resemblance to a funeral arrangement was intentional.
Friends from long ago and people I didn’t know sent cards and gifts. Later in the day, I even received a handwritten card from Judge Bob Johnson. It said, “Our little misunderstanding about the case was forgiven.” The schmuck even asked me to endorse him in the next election.
After reading the get-well cards, I put them on the nightstand next to my bed and took a nap. That night I turned on the TV mounted high on the wall. A comedian on the Dick Cavett show, a guy named Foster Brooks, was hilarious. He did a funny drunk routine.
I turned off the TV and glanced at the stack of gifts. My gaze landed on a leather-bound copy of Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.” Picking the book up, I fiddled around with it, absently flipping through the pages. I put it down and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t concentrate. I felt restless, as if I had missed an important detail. What was it?
I drifted off again, and after a half hour of restless sleep, I bolted up in bed. Thoughts and ideas came to me at a mile a minute. I shuffled through the stack on the end table and found the envelope I was looking for. Of course! The handwriting matched the envelope that I had found at the murder scene.
The pieces began to fall into place. I’d make one phone call, and it would finally be over. I couldn’t do anything until I got out of the hospital. But it could wait. I knew it could wait.
I rolled over on my side and fell sound asleep.
C H A P T E R 52
On Sunday afternoon, two days later, we gathered at Rocco’s for a luncheon that Rita had arranged in my honor. Half of Downey turned out, including Judge Bob Johnson, Joe DiLoretto, the mayor, and Richard Conway, a reporter for the L.A. Times. Rita had even invited Mabel, our answering service lady. At the last minute, I’d asked Rita to invite another guest. He hadn’t arrived yet.
I worried about Rodriguez and Bobbi being at the same lunch. However, when Bobbi arrived, she rushed over and apologized to him. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the smile on his face as he shook her hand.
When Rita invited her to the luncheon, Bobbi had called and asked if her presence would make me uncomfortable. Knowing I’d been harsh with her at the hospital, I said it would be fine.
Sol, being Sol, made sure that Rocco’s was well stocked with Dom Perignon and Beluga caviar. He even brought a few pounds of his special blend of Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee and arranged to have the restaurant’s spunky piano player entertain us. Everyone howled at the guy’s fractured song routine.
Bobbi approached me with a bewildered smile on her face. “Alone again, Ralph?” she asked.
“Could be our song,” I said.
“It would be charming,” she said, “but when are we going to have that talk?”
“Soon.”
Sol worked the room with Rodriguez under his wing. Joyce followed with a pen and notebook in hand. I asked Rita what the heck was going on. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “Sol is lining up gardening business for Mr. Rodriguez. He’s already got him the City of South Gate contract and he’s now working on Downey.”
Mabel, the answering service lady, stopped by my table. “How’s it feel to be a big shot?” she asked.
I’d never met Mabel in person. She was just a voice on the phone that nagged me from time to time. She had dyed red-orange hair and her make-up was overdone.
“Mabel, I’m not a big shot. I just do my job and try to survive like millions of people do every day.”
She turned to walk away, but then stopped. “You big shots are all the same, full of bullshit.” Her grin belied her words.
“You know, Jimmy,” Rita said a few seconds later, “Mabel came by the hospital, stuck around while you were in surgery, but she had to leave to handle her business. She’s a good person, you know.”
“Yeah, it was nice of her to be there.”
“When I pass the bar and become your associate, we should hire her.”
“What?”
“Those new answering machines are wiping out her business. And we’ll need someone to answer the phones.”
“Where’s the money going to come from?”
“It’ll work out. Someone or something is watching over you. You’ve got that little halo above your head.”
“Does it glow?”
She laughed. “Oh, Boss.”
At one-thirty, my special guest arrived. I pulled Bobbi aside, told her what was on my mind, and asked her to stick close to Mitch the cop for a while. I introduced Mitch to a few guests then I took him to meet Sol.
“Mitch, say hello to my best friend. Sol, he’s the officer who took the anonymous call that morning. Been on the force less than four months, but his career is about to skyrocket.”
“Good for you, Mitch,” Sol said, then turned to me. “How’s he going to do that?”
“You’ll see.” I glanced around the room. Judge Bob Johnson sat alone in a booth in the back of the room, his hands wrapped around a tall drink. I saw Bobbi and Mitch sit in the booth next to his. “C’mon, Sol, let’s go talk to the judge.”
“Jimmy, it’s always a pleasure to see you,” Johnson said when we slipped into his booth. “You too, Silverman.”
“Not always, Bob.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got your card, in the hospital. Wrote it yourself, very thoughtful.”
Johnson paused for half a beat. I felt that he sensed something was up. “Figured you’d like it. Now, what’s the matter? Don’t want to endorse me?”
“I don’t endorse murderers.”
“What!”
“You were having an affair with Gloria Graham. She was sleeping with a married man who was running for reelection. That’s you, Bob. You’re on the ballot in November, too. But two weeks ago, you sent her a Dear John letter. Was she going to expose you, Bob? Is that why you killed her?”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“You flew to the fundraiser with Welch and Karadimos that weekend.”
“That’s right, you dumb bastard. I was in Sacramento at the time-”
“You weren’t at the Saturday night dinner.”
“Of course I was-”
“Saw Robert Goulet and the comic, Foster Brooks? He did his famous drunk routine. Remember, you said he was hilarious. Isn’t that right, Bob?”
“Yeah, very funny, like you are right now. Are you drunk?”
“Foster Brooks wasn’t there, Bob. He canceled at the last minute. You wouldn’t know that because you were flying the jet back at the time.”