Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

THE CASE OF THE HIDDEN HOMICIDE
by James L. Oddie

Part 1
Standing in the ten-by-fourteen-foot room, a young man in a tan suit clutched his attache case to his chest and had some doubts as to whether he had chosen the right profession. His nose was assaulted by the fetid odors of urine, sweat and cigarette butts. Faded paint, water stains, and cracked plaster created the effect of an abstract mural on each of the beige-colored walls. From above him came the only source of daylight—a window about two foot square. To his right, he saw a barred metal door. Someone had tacked a calendar on the wall to his left. He noticed it was two months behind, with an obscene four-letter word scrawled across the month of June. A large plastic clock, its glass face missing, hung above the calendar. It clicked the seconds, but perhaps it needed a battery—th minute hand jumped to 9:43 and fell back to 9:42 every second.

Tan suit smiled sardonically. The minute hand has the hiccups, he thought.

In the center of the room, a heavy, wooden table and two straight-backed chairs filled the void—their paint marred by cigarette burns and coffee stains. A dented pitcher, three glasses, and a small ashtray filled with cigarette butts were on the table. The vinyl-tiled floor also had been stained by the brown liquid and was littered with butts. A green metal lampshade hung by a single cord from the ceiling.

Tan suit placed his attaché case on the table and pulled out the closest chair. He was about to seat himself when a buzzer sounded. The barred door to his right opened. A uniformed guard ushered a large, hand-cuffed man into the room. The guard walked out and locked the door.

The two men stared at each other—the silence broken only by the clicking of the frustrated minute hand.

The contrast between the two men was remarkable—the slightly built young man in his tan suit and coffee oxfords— the prisoner, a mountain of a man, possibly six-foot, eight-inches tall, in stained blue jeans and a soiled tank top, which was too short to cover his prodigious beer-belly. His rugged face sported a two-day growth of beard.

Impressive as all this was, it was the exposed skin on the man’s arms, chest, and neck that surprised Tan suit. Almost every inch was covered by colorful tattoos, some more faded than others.

The prisoner squinted, chuckled, and shouted, “What the hell are you?”

Tan suit took a business card from his inside jacket pocket and offered it.

As the man pushed it aside, Tan suit curtly said, “Mr. Rigedo, my name is J. Lancelot Tiffany. Mr. Tiffany has been appointed by the court to be your lawyer in defense of the charges brought against you.”

Rigedo laughed and said, “You gotta be kiddin’. How the hell’s a squirt like you s’posed to get me out of here? Get screwed.”

Lancelot shrugged, seated himself, and, in a restrained voice, said, “Mr.Rigedo, please be seated and tell me what happened.”

Rigedo stood to his full height, spat on the floor, and laughed again. He looked to the barred door and shouted, “They don’t even tell me what they’re lockin’ me up for, then they send some punk sissy in here to defend me. I’ll bet I’m your first case, right?”

“Well, yes, that’s true. But it should be reassuring to know Mr. Tiffany graduated top of his class.”

Rigedo looked at the ceiling and said, “Well la-de-da. Where’s your gold medal?”

He again turned his face to the barred door and shouted, “They give me some unweaned pussy with an honor badge. Just my luck.”

“Come now, Mr. Rigedo, this won’t do. Please be seated. Mr. Tiffany has to hear your side of the case in order to defend you.”

Rigedo sat. He leaned forward and, through clenched teeth, asked, “How can I tell you anything? I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Rigedo replied, “That’s what I said, numb-nuts.”

Lancelot opened his case and removed a sheaf of papers. “Well, let’s see...” He flipped through to the third sheet and read, “Driving erratically...alcohol level of point one one...vehicle registered to a Rodney Johnson...and...resisting arrest.”

Rigedo sat upright, his mouth open.

Lancelot heard the clock tick seven times.

“That’s it?” Rigedo said softly. “That’s what this’s all about? That’s all they got on me?”

“Yes,” said Lancelot. “That’s why I’m not too concerned. If it weren’t for your priors...car theft, ticket scalping, etc. you’d probably get thirty days, attend some classes and lose your driver’s license for a while.”

Rigedo leaned back in his chair. His quizzical look slowly became one of smugness. He muttered, “Hmmph.”

Lancelot ran his fingers down the pleats of his pant legs. He counted twenty-three clock ticks before the prisoner smiled and asked, “Got a cigarette?”

“No,” said Lancelot. “I don’t use them.”

“Shit. Shoulda known.”

Rigedo shifted forward and asked, “Okay, what do you need to hear?”

“The DUI and resisting arrest is a done deal. Mr. Tiffany needs to know how you happened to be driving Mr. Johnson’s car. Tell Mr. Tiffany that in detail, and we’ll have you out of here.”

For the first time, Rigedo smiled. He said, “Okay, no problemo. Got really lucky lately. So, last night, I borrowed a car from a buddy, called up Toni, my squeeze, and we partied. Then, when I’m goin’ home, the man pulls me over. Nothin’ else.”

“This ‘buddy’ you borrowed the car from, would that be Rodney Johnson?”

“Who else? We’re bros. Grew up together on the South Side.”

While Lancelot reviewed his notes, Rigedo walked to the barred door and shouted, “Hey, guard, can you get a guy a cigarette?”

After hearing no response, Rigedo spat through the bars, mumbled something, and returned to his chair.

Lancelot put his notebook into his attaché case. He stood, turned to Rigedo and asked, “Can we count on Mr. Johnson to say he loaned you the car?”

“Sure. He’s gonna be pissed—his car sittin’ in lock-up and all—but he’ll come through for me.”

“Good. If he does, I think, with what I read here, you’re looking at doing three months, maybe more.”

Rigedo stiffened. “For a pissy little DUI? Man, that ain’t fair, things were goin’ too good.”

“That’s the way it is Mr.Rigedo—Lady Luck...or Mother Nature...or whoever’s behind all this, loves to knock us down just when we think we’ve reached the pinnacle.”

“That all sounds great, sonny, but you’d better break your ass tryin’ to get me less than three months or I’m gonna break your face. Hear me?”

Lancelot stuffed the papers into his case. He stood, closed the clasp, and said, “Now, now, Mr. Rigedo. That won’t do.” He called to the guard, waited for the buzzer and walked out the hall door, leaving his client standing in the room, shaking his fist.

Lancelot hurried to the parking lot, got into his cherished, silver 1996 BMW 328 convertible, and tossed his attaché case onto the passenger’s seat. He removed a thermos from the glove compartment and poured a still-chilled martini into the cap. He sat for some minutes, sipping his drink and looking up at the cloudless sky. Reaching back, he picked up his lambskin driving cap off the rear seat and put it on his head, covering his short-cropped, sandy-colored hair and the bare oasis in its center. More relaxed, he started the car, turned on the stereo, and drove onto the highway.

In his small, Ikea-furnished, apartment, he showered and slipped into a white, terrycloth robe and Bugs Bunny slippers. He plopped into a red-leather butterfly chair and switched on a pendant lamp overhead. As he gazed at his collection of old-time movie posters on the wall, his left hand went instinctively to the TV remote.

Twenty minutes later, he realized he hadn’t heard a word of the seven- o’clock news. He switched channels and caught the last half of a black-and-white movie from the fifties. It was one he’d seen before, but the cast of Orson Wells, Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer made it a favorite.

After the film ended, he realized he was exhausted. He brushed his teeth and shuffled into the bedroom.

Tucked into the eight-foot diameter, circular, faux-fur covered bed, he felt the first pangs of loneliness. Gerald, his partner, had left three days before. Gerald’s profession had often required extended absences, but this was the first time he had been called overseas. Lancelot missed his companionship and, especially tonight, not being able to discuss his present dilemma with Gerald.

At 4:30 a.m., Lancelot was awakened suddenly to the strains of “Hey, Jude”.

A screaming voice assaulted his ears. “...the hell’s goin’ on? You said I’d only be gettin’ three months. Now, these bastards are sayin’...”

Lancelot kept trying to get in a word. “Hold it!...Wait a minute!...Mr. Rigedo, I presume?”

“Presume, hell, you lyin’ little wimp! Didn’t you say I’d only be doin’ three months?”

“Yes. I felt the charges brought against you were unsubstantiated and, to a great extent, circumstantial. Any lawyer worth his salt could get—”

“Well, that’s not what they’re tellin’ me now, sonny.You best get your ass down here. I got more to tell ya. I ain’t servin’ no twenty years.”


Part 2

Lancelot entered the interrogation room. The barred door clanked open , and Rigedo came in, followed by the guard. Though handcuffed, Rigedo snarled, knocked the guard to the floor, rushed forward and pushed Lancelot against the wall. He yelled, “What the hell ya gonna do now, pussy?”

Lancelot drove the heel of his right hand into the bridge of Rigedo’s nose. His legs buckled. Holding his head in both hands, Rigedo dropped to his knees.

He looked up at Lancelot and asked, “Where in hell’d that come from? Jeez, you’re some kind of package.”

Lancelot pointed his finger in his client’s face, “Mr. Rigedo, let’s get one thing straight: Mr. Tiffany is your attorney, whether either of us likes it or not. And, no matter what you think of Mr.Tiffany, you will treat him with respect, as he will you. You may be a bully amongst your own crowd, but his stint in the Green Berets taught him many moves he didn’t think he’d ever use again. But believe it, the next time you try something like that, he will put you in the hospital. Are we clear on the subject?”

Rigedo could only shake his head and mutter, “Yeah.”

“Good. Now get up. The only sounds we want to hear from you are the truthful answers to questions.”

The guard, mouth agape, took Rigedo by the shoulders and pushed him onto a chair.

Rigedo, his demeanor restrained, said, “Now what?”

Lancelot walked to the door and pushed a button on the wall. At the sound of the buzzer, he opened the door and said, “Now, you’re going to sit there quietly until I return. We’re going to find out what the hell this ‘twenty years’ bit is all about.”

Lancelot walked down the hall, opened two doors, and found no one. In the third office he got some directions. At the fifth door, labeled, Robbery Division, he knocked, heard a muffled voice say, “Twist the knob,” and entered.

He glanced about the small, sparsely-appointed office. On the cluttered desk a sign read, Lieutenant Daniel Dreggs. Behind a desk across the room, a man with a brown driving cap on his head sat looking out the window. He held a telephone in his left hand, and was casually flipping playing cards toward a waste basket with his right. The number of cards on the floor attested to the fact he’d not played basketball. Without turning, he raised his arm and waved Lancelot in. Lancelot took three steps and stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Dreggs suddenly spun around and dropped the phone into its cradle. He stood, snuffed his partially-smoked cigarette in an ashtray adorned with a ceramic replica of Betty Boop, and walked to the coffee pot. After filling a mug with the steaming brown liquid and inhaling the aroma, he removed his cap and plopped it onto the desk—revealing the worst comb-over Lancelot had ever seen. He had a vision of Jimmy Gleason, a slim, balding actor who played police detectives in 1930s movies.

Sipping his coffee, Dreggs asked, “What can I do for ya?”

Lancelot answered, “Mr. Tiffany has not been informed as to why the charges against his client have been increased. Mr. Tiffany needs to know the reason.”

“Well,” said Dreggs, “you can tell your Mr. Tiffany we’ve found some new evidence that’s gonna get his client off the streets for quite a few years—probably to the betterment of society” He stopped. “Uh, just now you said, ‘Mr. Tiffany needs to know.’ Who is this Mr.Tiffany anyway, your boss?”

“Dreggs took a step back, spilling coffee onto the carpet. “You’re Tiffany?”

“Yes.”

“Jeez! I don’t b’lieve it.”

“Don’t believe what?”

“Uh...nuthin’,” answered Dreggs. “From what I just heard you did to your client, I was expecting—” He scratched his chin. “So you’re the counselor appointed for that guy Rigedo. Right?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t envy you, son. That’s one tough mother.”

Dreggs sat, kicked off his shoes and put his stocking-covered feet on the desk. “Okay,” he said, “what can I do for Mr. Tiffany

“You can start by telling me what new evidence you have that’s supposedly going to put my client away for years.”

“Oh, is that all?” He rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk, pulled one out, and handed it to Lancelot. “There’s the report, and all that. You’ll see that during the routine search of the vehicle Rigedo was drivin’ when apprehended, they found a semi-automatic pistol—Walther P-99, I think. Damned fine piece for such a low life to be packin’, don’t ya think?”

“Yes, I agree. But how can anyone turn a possession charge, even if it isn’t registered, into a multi-year term?”

“Read on. They’ve tied the gun to a jewelry store robbery on the twenty-second—the night before your client was picked up, and all that. Owner, a Cambodian, and his wife, said it was a tall guy. Said they couldn’t see his face ’cause he was wearin’ a ski mask. Got away with about five grand in bling. Perp fired one round into the ceiling— probably to scare the owner, and all that. But, striations on the test bullet from your client’s Walther are an exact match to the one dug out of the ceiling. They both came out of your client’s gun—and his prints are all over it! Sorry, Mr. Tiffany, but looks like you’ve gotten yourself right into the middle of a hornets nest.”

Part 3

When Lancelot returned to the interrogation room, his client was quietly pacing. Before Lancelot had closed the door, Rigedo asked, “Djou find out what the hell they’re talkin’ about?”

Lancelot asked the guard to leave. When he had gone, Lancelot leaned over the desk, his face close to Rigedo’s, and whispered, “You didn’t tell Mr. Tiffany about the gun.”

Rigedo answered in a whisper, “What gun? I didn’t have no gun. Guns ain’t my thing. A knife, swift and silent, that’s me.”

Still whispering, Lancelot said, “Well, seems they found a Walther when they searched the car you were driving. Had your prints on it. Want to tell me about it?”

Rigedo squinted his eyes, looked at the ceiling and worried his lip.

The clock ticked five times before Rigedo asked, “A P-99?”

“Yes.”

“Gave it away.”

“What do you mean, ‘Gave it away’?”

“To a buddy.”

“So it was your gun?”

“Yeah. Was, till a couple of months ago....”

He stopped, looked around the room, and asked, “Why we whispering?”

Lancelot shrugged and answered, “I don’t know.”

He sat and said, “You were saying...”

“Yeah. I was sayin’, them findin’ the gun...that don’t mean no twenty years.”

“That alone is true. The bad news is a jewelry store owned by a Cambodian family was robbed on the twenty-second, the night before you were picked up. Tests showed the striations on a bullet fired match the one from the Walther found in the car you were driving. So they think they can nail you for the robbery. That, with your priors, is going to get you about nine right there. And the fact there was a gun involved, that’s a mandatory ten in this state. Looks like, as they’re saying, you’re faced with about twenty years. So, don’t you see, if Mr. Tiffany’s going to save you, you’ve got to tell him where you were and what you were doing last Saturday night, and the names of any corroborating witnesses.”

Rigedo leaned forward. He closed his eyes and placed his head and illustrated arms on the desk. He rubbed the heel of his right hand in the palm of his left. He said, “I can’t.”

What do you mean, ‘you can’t’? You’ve got to.”

No, I don’t gotta. You don’t understand. I can’t tell you one damn thing about that night. Nothin’. Now, forget it.”

“You mean you don’t remember?”

Amid all the anger, Lancelot sensed fear. He stood, pointed at the sheaf of papers on the table and said, “Mr. Rigedo, it’s clear to Mr. Tiffany you don’t want him as your attorney. That’s your problem. Equally, Mr. Tiffany does not want you as a client. That’s his problem. But that is how fate has decreed it. So Mr. Tiffany suggests you forget our personal differences and let him try to keep you out of jail for most of the rest of your life.”

Rigedo rose to his feet and paced the room, rubbing his right hand on his stubbled beard. He stopped, looked Lancelot in the eyes, exhaled and said, “Twenty, is it? I’ll take that! Yeah, I can live with that. If that’s all it is, you can go back to your Brownie troop and stuff it.”

Rigedo looked at Lancelot. He smiled and returned to his chair. “Yeah, think so, means anything I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else. Right?”

Right. That’s your protection. Whatever you tell me, I can’t tell to anyone else—no one.”
“Not even on your death bed. Right?”

Lancelot asked, “Are you a Catholic?”

Rigedo grunted, “Yeah.”

“Well, it’s like you were in a confession booth in church. Mr.Tiffany’s like a priest, and can’t tell anyone what you say—no matter how damning.”

Rigedo inhaled, and while rubbing his beard, quietly said, “Okay. Here it is. The reason I couldn’t of been involved in that robbery on Saturday night...”

“Yes?” said Lancelot.

“Because I killed a guy.”

Lancelot said, “No. No one’s dead. A bullet was fired into the ceiling. The Cambodian wasn’t....”

“No, not the gook, another guy.”

Lancelot inhaled and exhaled. The two men sat, the only noise—the ticking of the clock.

“Okay,” said Lancelot, “go on.”

“I’d set up a drug buy with this towel-head in an old, deserted warehouse. I took a bus to the meeting place, ’cause I didn’t want Rod’s car mixed up in it. The guy showed up okay with the coke and took my money, but then he tried to scram. So I snaps out my switch blade, puts it up to his throat and makes him sit while I tested the goods. Then I see why he’s nervous—he’d diluted the stuff. He went for the door, but in one move I sliced his throat. I wrapped his dead bod in some packin’ material, stuffed him into an old crate and snuck out. Done deal. Had one problem though—couldn’t find my knife. Musta dropped it somewhere.”

The ticking of the frustrated clock filled the room. Lancelot ran his fingers up his pant-leg crease. Rigedo rubbed his hands together.

Lancelot said, “I see your dilemma. Now I understand why you’d rather go up for the robbery charge.”

Lancelot said, “But we still have to explain your possession of the gun and your prints on it.”

“Can’t we just claim I lost it? Who the hell can prove otherwise?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, it’s up to us to show beyond a doubt why it was no longer in your possession.”

“How can we do that?”

“Wait a minute, you said you gave it to someone.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“
“Same dude. His place had been broken into. TV and stuff taken— probably just some kids. So I gave him the P-99, Like I said, guns ain’t...”

“Great! All we have to do is get Johnson to admit you gave him the gun. That way we can probably get you off with the lightest sentence.”

Rigedo sighed and said, “Ain’t gonna work. He ain’t gonna say nothin’, and I can’t rat him out. You don’t know him. My life wouldn’t be worth shit.”

Lancelot scrunched his eyes behind thick lenses and asked, “Why not?”

“Cause them finding the Walther in his car... means maybe... somehow...he’s the one who robbed the gook.”

Part 4

In the solitude of his BMW, Lancelot removed his jacket and tie. With the top lowered and the driver’s seat reclined three notches, he opened his attaché case and took out the baloney sandwich he’d prepared. Then, he opened the thermos and poured a still-chilled latté into the lid. It looked like his first case as public defender was going to be a doozy.

Lunch finished, he drove to a middle class neighborhood and parked under a row of Catalpa trees. The address Rigedo had given him was a stuccoed bungalow Lancelot recognized as dating back to the 1930s. The front yard, once a lush garden, was over-grown—its chief purpose now, he thought, to offer seclusion.

Lancelot walked a curving concrete ribbon and up two steps to the front door—its once-glossy paint cracked and peeling. He heard latin music playing inside, so he pushed the doorbell and waited. With no response, he knocked. The door swung inward, revealing a slim woman with short black hair, fashioned in what Lancelot later recalled as flapper style. Lancelot had a vision of a 1920s Clara Bow in The It Girl.

This ‘it girl’ stood bathed in sunlight, wearing a too-small, purple, lace-trimmed, teddy nightie and too much mascara. In her left hand, she held an old-fashioned cocktail, complete with fruit. The fingers of her right hand clasped a long, cherry-colored cigarette holder. In the dusky voice
of a chain-smoker, she said, “Come on in, handsome.”

Lancelot held his ground. He said, “I’ve come to talk to Rodney Johnson. His friend Daryl Rigedo needs his help. Is he home.”

“Not right now, sweetie.” She opened the door wider. “Whyn’t you come on in and we’ll talk about it.?”

Lancelot held his attaché case in front of him and retreated one step. He said, “Do you know when he might be home, miss?”

“Miss, hell. I’m the no-good bastard’s wife. Name’s Cherry.” She giggled and took a sip from her glass. “But that’s not to be taken too literally, if you get my drift. Come on in, sugar. I won’t bite.” She smiled and giggled again. “Not unless you want me to.”

Lancelot handed her a business card and a pen, and said, “His friend’s in trouble. Can you give me a phone number or address where I can reach him?”

Cherry danced a few cha-cha steps while saying, “Jeez, sugar, you’re no fun at all. Sure you don’t want to come in for a few?”

Lancelot shook his head.

“Okay. Your loss.” She scribbled some words on the back of the card, and returned the card and pen.

Lancelot retreated to his car. As he pulled away from the curb, Cherry was still beckoning him into the house. Only then did he exhale.

He drove to the address Cherry had written. It was a small automobile repair business. A large sign read, Rod’s Transmissions. Inside, behind the counter, he saw a short, chunky man with a half-smoked, unlit, cigar in his mouth. Lancelot had a vision of a 1930s Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar.

Lancelot approached the counter and asked, “Mr. Johnson?”

The man continued to examine a tubular piece of metal, and, in a soprano voice that destroyed Lancelot’s earlier vision, said, “Who wants to know?”

Lancelot, while offering his business card, said, “Mr. J. Lancelot Tiffany, Counselor at Law.”

The man put down the metal piece, looked at Lancelot’s card, and said, “Whatever it is, junior, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve been out of town.”

“No. It’s not you I’m here for. You’re friend Daryl Rigedo’s in a spot of trouble, and needs your help.”

“Daryl? What’d he do now?”

“He was stopped Sunday night on a DUI and resisted arrest.”

“Sounds like Daryl, all right. How can I help him with that?”

Lancelot said, “Problem is, he was driving your car.”

“Sure. His truck’d been clobbered, so I loaned him my Chevy while I was gone. What’s the big deal in that?”

“The ‘big deal’ is...when the cops were checking out your Chevy, they found a Walther P-99 in the glove compartment. Tests proved it was the same gun used in a robbery Saturday night. And it had Mr. Rigedo’s prints, and yours, on it.”

Johnson looked puzzled. He said, “I don’t get it.”

“You don’t? It’s simple enough. They found the gun in—?
car.”

“Where should it have been?”

“In the drawer in my bedroom where I put it. Daryl insisted I take it after we had a break-in at the house. I stuck it in the drawer. I can’t think how it got into the car.”

“Well, maybe we’ll figure that out later. Now, you say you were out of town Saturday night—this past Saturday—July twenty-second.”

“Yeah. Gone.”

“Where were you?”

“Vegas.”

“Anyone see you there?”

“You betcha! About a hundred people probably. I hit triple seven. Won over three grand!”

“And that was on?”

“Like I said, last Saturday night.”

Lancelot smiled and said, “That sure clears you of the robbery. Now you have to help my client.”

“How I do that?”

“Come down to the police department with me and sign a deposition to the effect that Mr. Rigedo was driving your car with your permission.”

“Right now?” He pointed to a disassembled transmission on the counter. “I’ve got to have this tranny fixed by five.”

“Okay. But when you’ve finished, go down to homicide division—you know where that is?

Johnson nodded.

“Ask for Lieutenant Dreggs. He’ll be expecting you.”

“Sure. Will do. Anything to help a bro. Can I talk to Daryl then?”

“Ask Dreggs. Though I don’t see why not.”

Lancelot thanked Johnson and said goodbye. From his car, he phoned Lieutenant Dreggs and brought him up to date. Dreggs said he’d wait for Johnson, and he didn’t see any harm in the two conversing.

Lancelot felt things were going well for his client. But, as he drove the scenic route home, his mind was exploding with questions: How did the Walther get into the Chevy? Who used it in the robbery? If Johnson’s story held up, and he was in Vegas, it couldn’t have been him. And it wasn’t his client, but he was sworn to silence on that. It had to be someone else, but who?


Part 5

At noon, Lancelot parked outside Rod’s Transmissions. He went in. Johnson had a half-eaten tuna salad sandwich, potato chips, and a cold can of beer on the counter. Lancelot asked him if he’d been able to visit Rigedo.

“Yeah, went down first thing this morning.”

“Good. How did he seem?”

“Whatcha mean?”

“Did he seem worried? Nervous?”

“
Lancelot pursed his lips. “That’s all he told you?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you talk long?”

“Nah, they probably thought we just wanted to polish our alibis, which, of course, we don’t need to do.”

“Okay, that’s all. Just wanted to check in.”

Satisfied that Johnson was at work, Lancelot drove to a familiar neighborhood. He parked under a catalpa tree across the street and two houses down from Johnson’s bungalow. From there, he could see anyone who came or went. He reclined the seat-back, put in a pair of ear buds, turned on his mp3 player, and opened a plastic bag of dried fruit.

He’d been listening for over an hour to his favorite artists—Cocker, Beatles, Kiss and Brubeck—when he heard the hushed roar of a finely-tuned exhaust. In his side mirror he saw a red Ferrari Dino turn the corner. It roared past him and parked in front of the Johnson’s. A tall, thin man exited and walked, no, thought Lancelot, scurried up the walkway. He wore a full-length black leather coat and gloves, complemented by a black leather, wide-brimmed hat, its band studded with silver Conchos. Before he climbed the steps, the house door opened. Though his view was partially blocked by the man, Lancelot could see Cherry waiting, a margarita glass in each hand. She wasn’t wearing her purple teddy today.

Minutes later, Latin music issued from the house.

Lancelot drove away. He figured he had learned all he could for now. He spent the rest of the afternoon at his office, filling out and filing the seemingly endless number of forms required. Before leaving, he put the notes he’d taken that day into his attaché case.

He spent part of the evening going over the details of the case. Then, with his plans for tomorrow determined, he clicked on American Idol and enjoyed the performances. When he turned off the TV and went to bed, he was happy—his favorite, a black, female vocalist, had received enough votes to continue in the competition.

Part 6

Thursday morning, Lancelot visited his client. He told him he thought he knew who’d committed the jewelry-store robbery—he just had to tie up some loose ends. He reminded Rigedo even if
he was right, he would probably still be doing at least three months.

He walked down the hallway and knocked on Dreggs’ door. After he heard the familiar, “Twist the knob,” he entered.

Dreggs was standing at the cabinet, filling his mug with coffee. Seeing Lancelot, he said, “Well, it’s wonder-boy.”

He motioned Lancelot to a seat, poured some coffee into another cup, and asked, “How’s it going, and all that?”

Lancelot said, “Thanks,” and took the cup. “Things are going well. Don’t think my client’s mixed up in the jewel-heist, and Rodney Johnson’s got a solid alibi.”

Dreggs pushed his cap farther back on his head and said, “Yeah, we checked him out. Couldn’ta done it. Got anything else you can tell me? Don’t mind telling you, we’re stymied.”

“I’ve got a hunch Rodney Johnson’s wife’s got something going on. She’s doing the nighty naughties with some tall guy. Seemed to jibe with a description you told me the victims gave.”

“Sure does,” answered Dreggs.

“I spotted the two of them yesterday afternoon at Johnson’s house. Don’t think Johnson’s wise to it—at least, not yet.”

“Hmm.” said Dreggs. “Good work. We’ll put a man out there. Anything else?”

“Not that I’m at liberty to divulge. You know, attorney/client—“

Dreggs frowned and said, “I’m well aware of that crap. Hangs up more investigations than I can tell you.”

Lancelot took a deep breath and said, “I suppose you’re right, Lieutenant. But it’s one of the hazards of our job.” He thanked Dreggs for the coffee and left.


Part 7

    Friday, Lancelot took the day off. He spent the day at the beach working on his suntan, pumping iron and working out on the bars. Later in the evening, he drove to the Johnsons’ bungalow. Mr. Johnson opened the door, clad only in boxer shorts. He held a can of beer in one hand and a TV remote in the other.

Lancelot apologized for the late hour, and asked if he could come in for a few minutes.

Johnson said, “No trouble, me and the misses are just kicking back tonight anyway.” He clicked the remote, turning off the boxing match he’d been watching, and said, “Have a seat, I’ll be right back.”
    When Lancelot had entered, his nose was confronted with the odor of marijuana. A glance at the lone ashtray confirmed his suspicions. He seated himself and waited. A door opened and Cherry came into the room.

Tonight she was wearing an inexpensive, flowered, chenille robe, her hair rolled up in curlers. She approached Lancelot and whispered, “You’re back! I thought I’d scared you away for good. What you here for? Not goin’ to tell my husband about the other day are ya? Christ, I was just gamin’ with ya, we got enough trouble as it is.”
    Lancelot softly replied, “No, It’s cool. Just some questions to try to help your husband’s friend, and my client, Daryl Rigedo.”

Cherry thanked him and returned to the room she’d exited.

Johnson returned with two cans of beer, put them on the oval glass coffee table and sprawled on the couch. He asked, “What can I do for you?”

Lancelot picked up his beer and moved to a chair closer to the couch. He said, “Just a couple of things I want to get straight. Won’t take long. You said you had pictures of your winning at Vegas. Just like to see them...for the record, you know.”

“Sure,” said Johnson, but I showed ‘em to the cops yesterday. Seems to me—”

“Humor me,” Lancelot interrupted. “Just trying to get all the facts straight for your friend’s trial.”

Johnson frowned, but un-sprawled, and said, “I understand. I’ll get ‘em. They’re still out in the car.”

While he waited, Lancelot noticed Cherry hadn’t completely closed the door to the bedroom. He could see her refection in a full-length mirror. He watched as she looked inside a tan make-up case, smiled, and closed the lid. Then, she bent over and placed the case in an open suitcase on the floor. She shut the suitcase, snapped and locked the clasps, and shoved it under the bed alongside a matching one. She then walked into the bathroom. Lancelot heard the shower running as Johnson came back into the house.

Feigning interest, Lancelot looked at the photos and newspaper clipping. He reiterated a few facts, got the expected replies from Johnson, expressed his assurances, and left.

In his BMW, he punched in Lieutenant Dreggs’s number on his cell phone. He told him what he had seen, and his suspicions.

Part 8

After breakfast the next morning, as Lancelot drove to see his client, he heard the rhythmical strains of Hey Jude. He pulled over to the curb and flipped open the phone lid.

He heard Lieutenant Dreggs’s excited voice. “Congratulations, wonder boy, you were right. We nailed ’em at the airport. And you did us a big favor. His name is César Pérez-Quiñones. Local pimp. Street name: El Conquistador. Been trying to get something on him for some time. We found the stolen ice in the makeup case, like you thought—and, bless you, a good-sized stash of marijuana. He clammed up—wouldn’t say a word—but she blabbed all over the place, said it was all his idea, blah, blah, blah. So your man’s cleared of the heist. That oughta make your job a little easier.”

Finally able to get a word in, Lancelot said, “That’s marvelous news, Lieutenant. I’ll tell my client. Thanks for the call.”

Seated in the interrogation room, Lancelot told Rigedo what had happened. For the first time, Lancelot’s big, tattooed client smiled. “Man,” he said, “I sure pegged you wrong. Now we just do our little la-de-da in court and I’m out in a few months. That’s it, right? Right!?”

Hearing no immediate reply, Rigedo reached his cuffed hands across the table. He grabbed Lancelot’s hand and began to squeeze.

Under the table, Lancelot kicked him in the chin with the pointed toe of his Italian shoe.

Rigedo grimaced, released his hold, and said, “Okay, you’re tough, we know that, but I also think you’re smart. Too smart to try any funny stuff. Remember that attorney/client thing that’s saving my ass? You better not forget it. I’ve got friends.”

“I know,” answered Lancelot, “I’ve thought a lot about that.” He paused before saying, “For now you’ve got to go before the judge on the minor counts. Shouldn’t take long. Like you said, four months, and you’ll be a free man.”

In his BMW, Lancelot drove as in a trance. Deep in thought and perplexed by his situation, he searched for an answer to his dilemma. He remembered one time he and his poker-playing, Irish father were lake-fishing. Lancelot was thirteen years old, and when his dad sat next to him on a log and started the conversation by saying something about ‘the facts of life’, Lancelot thought he knew what was coming.

But his dad only said, “Son, as you get older you’re going to realize that no matter what life hands you, you’ve got to play the cards you’re dealt.”

That was it. No birds. No bees. Just ‘play the cards you’re dealt’.

As he drove on, he thought about the times during Desert Storm when, inspired by those words, he was able to think his way out of more than one seemingly impossible situation. The bronze medal on his wall at home bore testimony to that fact.

Suddenly, Lancelot was surprised to find himself in a sordid part of the city. He pulled over to the curb and called Lieutenant Dreggs on his cell phone.

He heard Dregg’s curt response, “Your nickel, what’s up?”

“That’s what I want to know,” answered Lancelot. “Just checking to see if anything new has come up on my client.”

“Nope, and I’m not expecting anything to either. Seems to me he’s gettin’ off real cheap. You got any plans?”

Lancelot paused before answering, “I think I’m going to play a little stud poker.”

“Sounds great, but I like seven card draw better—gives ya more options.”

Lancelot said, “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

As he closed his cell phone, he thought, I think I’ve run out of options.

At a mini-mart, he got change for a five-dollar bill. He put on gloves, went into a small room, relieved himself, and continued his journey.

That evening, Lancelot’s cell phone rang. It was a call from Lieutenant Dreggs. He said, “Hey, Mr. Tiffany, you can forget that court appearance for your client, Rigedo.”

Lancelot answered, “What do you mean, ‘forget’?”

“We got an anonymous phone call this morning...from a pay booth. Caller told us where we’d find a murdered man. We checked the address, an old warehouse on the South side. Caller was right. Found a stiff. Wrapped in plastic...and all that. Coroner says he’s been dead about six days.”

Lancelot said, “That’s all very interesting, Lieutenant, but what’s it got to do with my client?”

“That’s the kicker. When they unwrapped the body, a switch-blade knife fell out—dried blood all over it.”

Lancelot innocently said, “I still don’t get the connection.”

“You still don’t? In the dried blood, the lab guys found some beautiful finger prints of your Mr. Daryl Rigedo. You won’t be seeing him around for a helluva long time.”

Lancelot smiled and pumped his fist. “My God,” he said. “He sure had me fooled.”

At home, Lancelot took a bottle of Tibaut Rose Brut champagne out of the refrigerator. He’d bought two, saving them for Gerald’s return. Ensconced in his over-sized, butterfly chair, he tuned the TV to Saturday Night Live and raised a cold flute of the sparkling, golden liquid. He thought, I wish you were here tonight Gerald. But since you’re not, I’ll celebrate for both of us.

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Jim Oddie lives in the apple capitol of the world with his wife, Pat. After a career as a commercial artist and exhibit director, he has been writing short mystery stories for about a dozen years, and drawing cartoons and caricatures for many years more.