Murder on the Fly, page 20
part #2 of Riley the Exterminator Mystery Series
“Listen, doll,” I said, “You’re not going make anything better by fretting,” I said.
“Should we file a missing person report or something with the police?” she asked.
“I have an idea where Dennis and Marcia might be,” I said. “Give me the weekend to check out my suspicions, and if I come up empty, we’ll call on Monday.”
“Okay, Riley. I trust you, but I hate feeling that I need a man,” she said, tears filling her eyes.
“I get that from women,” I said pulling a tissue out of the box on the filing cabinet and handing it to her. “Look, without you this place would grind to a halt in a couple of days. I have no idea about bookkeeping, billing, and everything else you do. It’s no knock on you as a woman that I can help find our friend just like it’s no knock on me that you run this place.” She nodded and gave me a weak smile. I turned the volume back up in time to hear a pop star singing “your kiss is on my list” which made no sense whatsoever so I guessed that the lyrics were probably “your kiss is on my lips.” I preferred the angry hard rockers trying to convince the world that their music was more than caterwauling.
~||~
I was in my office, trying to catch up on ordering supplies, when the phone rang and Nina said she was sending a fax that I should keep absolutely private. I went out to the front office and stood by the machine, while Carol was patiently explaining to a customer that even though he wasn’t seeing any cockroaches in the house, he needed to pay the monthly bill because the absence of insects was the whole point of our service.
The fax came in with a cover sheet stating: “RESTRICTED MATERIAL: NOT FOR PUBLIC DISTRIBUTION” at the top along with some legalistic threat from the United States government that terrible things would happen to anyone reading the transmission other than the intended recipient. Nina had handwritten “read this and call me” at the bottom of the cover page. What followed was a single typewritten sheet plunging the Medfly case into the sort of weirdness only California can provide to the world:
Dear Federal Government and USDA lackeys,
You are being conned by a group calling itself the Breeders. These frauds are taking credit for our work. Do not be deceived. Be warned and afraid, for uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. The USDA can spray or not, it doesn’t matter. Exterminate them here and we’ll move to the San Joaquin Valley or perhaps the Sacramento Valley. Now is the season of our discontent. The federal government never asked: “If we wrong them, shall they not revenge?” The answer is evident.
With no due respect,
Reds
Nina answered on the first ring, “Cabrera. Is that you Riley?”
“It’s me. Looks like we have another live one. Nothing like competing crazies, eh?”
“Who do we believe? The extortionists or the terrorists—or neither?
“I guess this is terrorism or maybe more like the wanton destruction of anarchists. You know, something along the lines of the Weather Underground or the Black Panthers in the sixties. Radicals lashing out to get even.”
“But if the government is the enemy, why destroy California crops? The USDA isn’t growing fruits and vegetables. That’s private industry. Attacking farmers doesn’t make sense,” she said.
“Yeah, for someone trying to appear well-educated, the ‘Reds’ aren’t too smart.”
“With that name, it could be some sort of communist cell. But if this was a political attack, why not let The Breeders take the fall and just keep spreading Medflies?”
“For the moment, let’s assume the Reds are for real and the Breeders are opportunists grabbing some headlines to further their environmental agenda. Then it is understandable, to the extent that lunacy can be understood, if the Reds want the government to know the infestation is their doing because it’s payback for something.”
“I suppose that makes sense, in a crazy sort of way,” she said.
“In my experience, crazy people usually make sense to themselves. The rest of us may not get it, but I don’t think there are many acts of truly senseless violence or destruction. This could be important to keep in mind as we move ahead with the investigation.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“A few years ago, I caught some kids who’d been vandalizing my neighborhood. Turned out to be a couple of black teens from the projects with the need to spray paint round, lumpy figures on the side of houses.”
“Round lumps?”
“It’s hard to create a Black Power fist with spray paint when you’re in a hurry and you’ve never had an art class. They were angry because they lived in rat-infested apartments and needed to blame somebody. Trashing a working-class immigrant neighborhood was pretty misdirected, but what were they going to do? Put graffiti on the governor’s mansion, firebomb the housing authority, break windows in the financial district? From one perspective it looked pointless, but the vandalism made them feel better, more powerful, avenged.”
“And your point is?”
“When I was a detective, the toughest murders to crack were always the ones that seemed senseless. I used to think if I could only figure out the ‘why’, then the ‘who’ would be apparent. We had psychologists in the department who tried to think like criminals but they usually came up with pretty worthless profiles unless people would agree to walk around carrying signs like: “I hate my mother” or “My scout leader abused me.” In reality, people are too complicated and their thoughts too convoluted to work backwards from motive to suspect. Once a perp was in custody and came clean, the whole thing made sense but never in a way that you could’ve imagined before the interrogation.”
“So your point is that there’s no point in trying to figure out a crazy motive for our terrorists or extortionists or whoever’s releasing Medflies?”
“California is the land of crazies. Can you think of another state where a government official would down a glass of dilute malathion to show how safe it is?”
“You’re kidding,” she said.
“Nope, I heard it on the radio while I was waiting for your fax. This is one nutty Friday. And to add to the asylum we fondly call the Bay area, I have a half-baked, gut-level suspicion of who might be cranking out Medflies. Or least where there might be a fly factory.”
“Would you care to share your cockamamie theory?”
“Let me work out a few details, like maybe having some evidence, before I share my brilliance. Can you have Clell drop off some Medfly traps at my shop after work? If I’m right, I’ll have some confirmation by Monday.”
“If not?”
“I’ll have some empty traps and one less suspect.”
“I suppose that’s something,” she said.
“Speaking of which, last night was something.” There was long pause and I thought maybe I’d messed up. But she came back with a soft tone that bore no resemblance to her official voice.
“It was. And I liked this morning. Maybe even more.” I didn’t figure she was referring to my cooking, but I didn’t ask.
CHAPTER 27
I spent the rest of the day down at the docks—not the prettified section with steaming crab pots, screaming kids, wannabe artists producing pastel caricatures of tourists, kitsch shops featuring seashells painted with San Francisco landmarks, and jaded buskers like the poor sap who painted himself silver in an effort to mimic a robot.
My slice of the waterfront was a row of Quonset warehouses that provided space for shipments of everything from radio components to rattan furniture and Ramen noodles—all featuring wharf rats availing themselves of the low-cost housing. We were in the process of putting out a banquet of rat chow when the warehouse manager showed up to object in the most strenuous and colorful of terms. I explained that rats are naturally suspicious of any new food and if we don’t get the little bastards thinking the grub is tasty and safe, they’ll never go for the toxic bait. I told the guy you have to respect the rats for being good at what they do. He grunted agreement and observed it was more than you could say for his work crew.
I was happy to see that the rats were enjoying the spread and figured another week of providing an all-you-can-eat buffet would be about right before adding zinc phosphide to the main course for a quick kill and then following up with an anticoagulant for a prolonged dessert. But this afternoon was devoted to my feeding the hungry at Riley’s Bait-and-Switch Cafeteria while avoiding being smashed by forklift operators who had evidently been unable to read the warning label on their medication about operating heavy machinery.
At the end of the day, I headed back to the shop and caught up with Larry. I told him of my plan for a recon patrol in the form of a campout tomorrow with Tommy in the hills above The Refuge. Larry said he’d cancel his plans for an afternoon of golf with the aristocrats at the Olympic Club and an evening of dinner and dancing with Dianne Feinstein. I shook my head and went up to the front, where I found that Clell had delivered a couple dozen Medfly traps. They were piled in front of Carol’s desk. She didn’t like a messy office.
“A special delivery from your federal government,” she said nodding at the jumble of what looked like coffee-can sized UFOs. A clear plastic canopy was set atop a bright yellow base, and an inverted funnel-shaped opening in the bottom allowed the flies to enter and move upward into a chamber where they could relax in their own little solarium. “Clell dropped off some bait as well but said you should leave it sealed until you’re ready to hang the traps—which you’ll be moving out of here soon.” She handed me a box marked “Medlure.” That sounded like a concoction for attracting nurses, which might’ve been an improvement over police uniforms, although these worked reasonably well in my younger days on the force.
“You’re looking pretty worn out,” I said as she rubbed her temples in what was surely a futile effort to stave off a tension headache.
“I spent the day doing filing and billing—and trying not to think about Dennis,” she said, wincing and rolling her head around to stretch her neck.
“How’d that work out?”
“Terrible. I’m wound as tight as a drum,” she said arching her back and stretching. “And Anna’s doing inventory at the store, so she’s working late. I might as well keep pounding away here as bumping around an empty apartment trying to distract myself by making dinner.”
“Nope. You’ll be pounding away but not in the office,” I said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m taking you to Marty’s. I’ve been telling you how boxing is a far better workout than the aerobics dance class you go to,” I said. “Now grab your gym bag, which I know is under your desk. It’s time to lock up this place.”
~||~
Carol looked highly dubious but came along anyway, and we walked the six blocks to the converted warehouse filled with weight benches, heavy bags, and speed bags. We went in and the world dimmed to a halo of light illuminating the sparring ring where two guys with headgear were doing more shuffling than punching. The smell of sweat along with a whiff of Marty’s cigar complemented the rhythm of a speed bag which was outpacing the sound of jump rope ticking against the floor.
Marty saw us come in and raised one wildly overgrown eyebrow. The old codger clearly took delight in this unusual turn of events. “Finally found a sparring partner you can beat?” he teased.
“Right, Marty. After all the coaching you provided when I was a kid, I’m ready for the big time. Now, where might Carol be able to change?” Marty nodded toward his office and said, “She’ll be the nicest thing that’s gone through that door in forty years.”
By the time I changed, Carol had come out wearing a lime green leotard, pink leg warmers and sneakers. I tossed her one of my sweatshirts and said, “Put this on or one of those guys in the ring is going to get hurt when he turns his head to look at you and gets caught with a big hook.” She held the sweatshirt to her face, took a sniff, and wrinkled her nose. “You won’t notice the smell in a few minutes,” I assured her.
I taped her hands and we warmed up by shadow boxing. She was self-conscious at first, but then just mirrored my footwork and punches. We advanced to the heavy bag, where I showed her how to move around the bag while snapping punches at half-power along with the occasional knockout shot, rather than the planting-and-pounding approach of most beginners. She caught on fast and I could see Marty nod appreciatively when he glanced over from the action in the ring. Carol even got the hang of the speed bag once I told her the secret of the right-right-left-left rhythm. She was a natural at jump roping, but her favorite was hitting the sparring pads as I worked my way around her giving advice and encouragement. After an hour she was dripping with sweat and grinning like a kid. We toweled off and cooled down while watching a Mexican fighter getting thumped by a black opponent with twice the hand speed.
“If Emilio would listen to me as well as your girl listens to you, he’d have a chance,” Marty grumbled, shifting a soggy, unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “He’s too much in his head, trying to plan while the other guy’s landing punches.” Marty turned to the ring and shouted, “Stop thinking and fight, goddammit.” The bell rang and Marty’s pupil headed to his corner. Marty turned to Carol and said, “Hey, doll, you got grit. Anytime you wanna come to my gym, even without Riley’s sorry-ass coaching, nobody’ll mess with you. Add a little class to this dump and let these young bucks see what it’s like to work hard.” Then he turned to his fighter and started wiping some Vaseline on his face while explaining how he had to trust his gut and let his hands go.
On the way out, Carol asked if Marty was serious and I said that he’d never invite anyone back into his gym unless he meant it. She looked happier than I’d seen her all week, although I knew she’d be too sore to lift her arms by tomorrow. But there’s much to be said for well-earned pain.
We headed up the hill to O’Donnell’s for a pitcher of nut brown ale to wash down two plates of bangers and mash. Cynthia made the potatoes with shredded cabbage and topped them with onion gravy which was reason enough for Brian to stay married to her—let alone that she could handle their wayward boys and manage the fry cook and a waitress. The staff had become fixtures as much as the black-and-white television over the bar and the faded “Erin Go Bragh” banner they’d brought back from the 1954 St. Patrick’s parade in New York which reportedly had been the highlight of their honeymoon, although their first kid was born just before Christmas that same year, so there were evidently unreported highlights as well.
We sat down at a small table in the back room so the other patrons wouldn’t have to endure our aroma. Carol filled our glasses and asked, “So, any progress on what happened to Anna’s brother?”
“All I have are pieces that don’t fit. Which is something,” I said, dipping a hunk of sausage into the pool of gravy. “I’m really starting to think there’s more there than a suicide, but I’ll be damned if I can say what it is. I don’t have any new leads, but he shot himself in a strange way, after a strange meal while strangely harboring lice.”
“So your conclusion is?”
“It’s strange.”
“And that is,” she said, taking a long drink of her beer, “why you were so celebrated as one of San Francisco’s finest?”
“Hey, I never won any commendations. Detective work is mostly luck and sweat.”
“The perfect couple, eh?”
“Like how you and Anna have each other. Although I won’t venture who’s ‘luck’ and who’s ‘sweat’.”
“Smart move, Riley. Almost as smart as your own romantic moves,” she said with a sly grin, while using a piece of sausage to scoop up some mashed potatoes.
“I suppose you’re using your feminine intuition to make wild inference about Nina and me?”
“If by ‘feminine intuition’ you mean ‘looking out the front window of the shop,’ then yes. You know Riley, that metal screen over the window doesn’t keep a person from seeing lovers walking down the hill hand-in-hand in the morning.”
“She’s special, Carol. But I know she’s leaving once this Medfly outbreak is resolved. The other thing I know is that whatever we have doesn’t feel like my usual flings. I have her figured out about as much as Greg Mancuso. Christ, love and death are complicated.
“Love? Riley, do you know what you said?”
“Ah hell, I don’t know what I’m saying. I asked Nina to come to the opera on Saturday to meet my mother and felt like a goddamned teenager taking a girlfriend to meet my parents.” Carol laughed and refilled my glass. I scowled.
“Sorry, Riley, but in all our years together I’ve never seen you smitten. What’s so worrisome about Nina meeting your mother? Nina’s smart, pretty, and charming. Hell, if she was lesbian, she’d be perfect.”
“Lesbian might be easier,” I said. “Nina’s Indian and Spanish—and that’s a long way from Irish. But at least she’s Catholic. Sort of.”
“I love it. You used to pound other young men in the ring, but a sweet, sixty-year old lady and a gorgeous female your own age have you in the corner.”
“Sometimes I feel like an aging has-been trying to make one too many comebacks with women. I don’t want to be like Muhammad Ali.”
“You lost me,” she said mopping up the last of her gravy with a forkful of potato.
“Last October, Ali tried to win a fourth championship. He never should’ve stepped into the ring. Larry Holmes pummeled him. Ali was too old and worn down. It was awful.”
“Riley, you idiot. Love and boxing are not the same thing.”
“Both take practice, involve sweating, generate pain, and leave you wondering why the hell you keep at it,” I said. Carol shook her head, kissed me on the cheek, told me she was going home to sweat with Anna and remind herself why men made great friends and disastrous lovers.
~||~
I like the long light of June evenings, with the sky glowing over the city as the sun sinks into the Pacific. I used my walk home from O’Donnell’s to clear my head about the romantic riddle of Nina and concluded that I had it figured out about as well as I understood the Medfly mystery. My investigation had now yielded three suspects, or two, or maybe only one.
