Helen interrupted my thoughts. “Are you ready to order, hon? By the way, are you still seeing the young lady?”
“No, we broke up. Anyway, bring me the burger combo with fries, thousand on the salad.”
She scribbled on her pad and without looking up, said, “Jimmy, if you took her someplace decent for dinner, instead of this joint, she might not have dumped you.”
In a few moments, my food arrived. I slipped a greasy limp fry in my mouth and took a bite of my hamburger. As I chewed, my mind drifted to the case. I set the hamburger down, pulled a pen out of my jacket pocket, and jotted a few notes on a paper napkin. I drew a diagram and connected the dots. Robbie was obviously connected to Professor Carmichael and his mother was connected to Elroy Snavley, the pastor of Divine Christ Ministry Church. Elroy Snavley was connected to J. Billy Bickerton, the owner of the Holy Spirit Network, which was buying the TV station at the college. And the professor was killed by Robbie while fighting against the sale. I sat hunched over the counter, my burger getting cold, and appraised my scribbles for a few minutes. A neat little circle, but what did it prove? Nothing.
I wadded up the napkin and tucked it in my hip pocket. The TV station being sold and the professor’s prophetic statement would actually hurt my case defending Robbie. His fight to keep the station out of the hands of a religious network could be construed by the D.A. as an excellent motive for the murder. The D.A. would reason that Robbie-religious fanatic that he was-had the notion that the professor was an atheist, or in Robbie’s words, a heathen, and that was why he’d killed him. They would argue that the crime was premeditated, thought out in advance, with laying-in-wait as a kicker. Hardly the work of an insane person. Maybe the work of a religious nut, but not someone legally insane.
But if I didn’t come up with something to clear my name, I’d be behind bars. Sol’s FBI guys had to act fast. They had to raid the base and find him there. I had to show up with Robbie before the cops finally pinned the murder on me, and barring that, before Webster took his file back and charged me with aiding and abetting, the Section 32 thing, helping Robbie flee.
Just as I was about to tuck into my burger again, Helen approached. “You have a call, Jimmy. You can take it in Ted’s office. He won’t mind, I’m sure.” She showed me the way to the manager’s office, a small cluttered cubicle off the hallway leading to the restrooms.
The phone call was from Sol.
“Ah, Jimmy, my boy. I knew you’d be there eating alone on a Friday evening. You should have a little bubele to take out to dinner.”
“Sol, what’s up?”
“Hey, I don’t wanna butt in. But you’re not getting any younger.”
“Is that why you called? You’re a yenta now?”
“It’s okay, Jimmy my friend. I guess you don’t know that yenta in Yiddish is a-”
“Aw, Sol, cut it out.”
“I got information from my source at the FBI. Information about the old military base, Rattlesnake Lake. But I can talk to you later. I don’t want to interrupt your dinner that you are having alone.”
“Sol, dammit!”
“All right already,” he said. “Here’s the story. It seems the Feds already knew about the new owners of the base.”
“When is the raid going down?” I was practically shouting. “You told them I wanted to be there when they find Robbie, didn’t you?”
“There’s not going to be any raid. Well, good night, Jimmy.”
I sprang from Ted’s desk. “Sol, hold on. Did you say no raid?”
“No raid. The FBI had already checked them out. The base isn’t what we thought. It’s not a teen center, and it’s not a training camp for a bunch of right-wing whackos playing with guns.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “We saw them, AK-47s, everything.”
“It’s a gun club.”
“What?”
“Rattlesnake Lake Sportsmen’s Rod and Gun Club, that’s what they call themselves. Sounds legit. They have a license and they’re members of the CTA,” Sol said.
“What’s the CTA?”
“I dunno. Something to do with target shooting. Some kind of trapshooting association.”
“Trapshooting? That’s a crock. What are they doing, standing there in storm trooper outfits blasting away at clay pigeons with semi-auto machine rifles, for chrissakes?”
“I said sounded legit. But that don’t make it so. Unfortunately, the Feds aren’t going to budge. It is out of their hands, they said, unless, of course, we had evidence of wrongdoing.”
“Sol, I’ve got to get onto the base. Even if I don’t find Robbie, that girl I met behind the Harvey House, Jane, works in the kitchen out there. She was going to tell me about him, until the cop showed up and scared her away.”
There was a long pause on the line. “No, Jimmy.” Sol’s voice was serious now. “It’s too dangerous for you to go in there. Remember they got guns, and they didn’t seem too friendly. If we can think of a good cover story, I’ll send a couple of my men. They’re pros.”
“No! It’s got to be me. I’m the only one who has seen both Robbie and Jane. Even if I don’t find Robbie, maybe I can get her out. She has information and I didn’t like the way she said she was going to get a beating. Your men wouldn’t recognize them. Plus, they would attract a lot of attention. We have to find a way to get me in there undercover, right away.”
“What if he’s not there? What if the FBI is right…”
“You know better than that. Help me, Sol. Help me save my neck.”
“I don’t like it, Jimmy. But, maybe you’re right. It has to be you. If Robbie’s not there, then we can start looking elsewhere. But first, we’ve gotta make sure those goons with guns aren’t holding teens out there against their will. Give me time, and I’ll come up with something.”
“There is no time. We’ve gotta come up with a plan, and fast!”
Sol hesitated for a moment. I could almost hear the gears in his head clanking into place. “Now, listen to me, Jimmy. Any kind of scheme to get you in there has to be foolproof and safe. You’ll have to have backup.” Sol became quiet again. I knew he was building a plan in his mind. A couple of seconds went by, then he said, “And the plan has to-wait a minute! I think I’ve got the perfect solution to the problem. I’m in the bar at Rocco’s. Come on over.”
I glanced at Ted’s desk: bills and invoices. “You want to see me right now? You have a plan already?”
“Yeah, right now. Yeah, I’ve got an idea.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Get over here quick, before he takes off.”
“Who?”
“Your ticket into the Rattlesnake Lake Sportsmen Bullshit Club. That’s who.”
CHAPTER 24
Charlie, the piano player, was pounding out a jazzed-up version of “Blue Moon” when I walked into Rocco’s. The guy was awesome. He had been with the Marcels, a Doo-Wop group of the fifties. Then in the early sixties, when Doo-Wop had faded from the scene, he’d moved up the line, accompanying Frank Sinatra for a while. When Andre, Rocco’s manager and maitre d’, bragged about signing the guy, I wondered. With those credentials, what was Charlie doing here at Rocco’s in Downey of all places? What could he have done that was so terrible? Whatever it was, it must have really pissed off Sinatra.
Elbowing through the crowd, I spotted Sol sitting in the center of the barroom. He sat at a table sagging under heaping plates of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Seated with him was Peter Van Hoek, the owner of Sunnyville Farms Dairy, a large milk company located in South Gate, the town just north of Downey. Sol had a drink in one hand and a rib drenched with barbecue sauce in the other. Between bites, he vigorously lectured Van Hoek, but I couldn’t make out what they were talking about with all the noise. Just the two of them sat at the table. I wondered where the mysterious stranger was, the guy who was going to get me onto the base. Sol caught my eye and waved me over, and when I moved closer, he jumped up. “Hey, Jimmy, you know my good friend, Peter, don’t you?”