The Lady Justice Trilogy, page 23
I had asked the professor to sit in with us. I really respect his insight and wisdom, and I know that he is an excellent judge of character.
I made the introductions and launched into my usual grilling of prospective tenants. He said all the right things.
Finally, I said, “How’s your health? Are there any physical problems we should be aware of?”
“I do pretty well for an old guy,” he replied. “When I get up each day, I get the newspaper and read the obituaries. If my name’s not there I figure the Good Lord’s given me another day, and I carry on.”
I looked at the professor, and he gave me a little nod.
“Well, Jerry,” I said as I handed him a key, “looks like we’re going to be neighbors.”
He took the key, signed the lease, wrote a check for the rent and deposit, and left whistling a jaunty tune.
“Nice man,” said the professor. “He has a good attitude and a sense of humor.”
We found out soon enough how prophetic that was.
We still had no leads in our murder and arson cases. The only tie we had to real people was Riverfront
Realty. We knew they had to be involved, but so far, the only thing we could pin on them was the blockbusting, and that wasn’t a police matter. It was a license violation.
The task force thought that by putting pressure on Riverfront Realty we might smoke out others involved in the scheme, so they asked Ox and I to pursue a complaint with the Missouri Real Estate Commission.
I met with David Richards, my old friend and broker of City Wide Realty. I shared with him what I had learned about Riverfront Realty’s activities in our target area. He agreed that this was a classic example of blockbusting.
We reviewed the Missouri statutes and printed the appropriate complaint forms from their Web site.
Then the work began.
The complaints had to come from the sellers themselves, so our job was to go back to each seller, explain the complaint process, and hope they weren’t too intimidated to follow through.
We started with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence. They were skeptical at first, but after I showed them the statistics on Riverfront Realty’s previous sales, they were incensed at the underhanded practices of the company.
We had spent an hour going over the forms, and the Lawrences were ready to sign when we heard a crash.
A brick came sailing through the front window. We all ducked for cover, but when nothing else followed we picked ourselves up and examined the brick. A note was attached that read, “Watch your step or your place will end up like Polinski’s.”
Naturally, the Lawrences were intimidated and refused to sign the complaint.
I couldn’t really blame them.
Ox and I retreated to our car and found the back tire punctured and a note under the windshield wiper.
“Back off, old man, or you’ll wind up like Doris!”
That’s the kind of note that will get your attention.
I returned home that evening exhausted, frustrated, and a little apprehensive. As I entered the foyer, I met Jerry.
“Hey, Walt. What does a seventy-five-year-old woman have between her breasts that a twenty-five-year-old doesn’t? Her navel!”
He bent over double, laughing.
Well, okay then. That was unusual.
I went upstairs to my apartment and remembered that I had forgotten to get my mail, so I trudged back to the foyer. Jerry was still there, and as he saw me, his eyes lit up.
“Hey, Walt. I was talking to a friend the other day. He said he had it all—money, a beautiful house, a big car, the love of a beautiful woman, and then bam! It was all gone.”
“Gosh, that’s awful. What happened?” I asked.
“His wife found out.”
Oh no. This can’t be good.
I got my mail, and when I returned to my apartment, Willie was waiting outside my door.
“Mr. Walt, I gotta talk to you,” he said, and he stepped inside and closed the door.
“What’s up?”
“It’s dat new guy! He’s drivin’ me crazy. Evva time I steps out of my apartment, he’s on me wif some dumb joke. What’s dat all about?”
“Well, it seems our new tenant thinks he’s a stand-up comedian. I’ve been getting the same thing.”
“Well, if he don’ quit it, I’m gonna have to bust him in de mouf and see if he tinks dat’s funny.”
“Let’s not resort to violence. Let me see what I can do.”
Willie left, and I called Oscar Evans.
“Hey, Oscar, Walt here. What’s the deal with Jerry Singer?”
“Oh, you mean Jerry the Joker,” he replied.
“So you knew all along! How could you do this to me?”
“Hey, I didn’t lie to you. Everything I said about Jerry was true. I, uh, just didn’t tell you everything I knew. Anyway, you checked him out for yourself.”
“God will get you for this, Oscar!”
“Not if he gets you first,” he replied, and I heard him snicker as he hung up.
I walked out of my apartment door, and Jerry was standing in the hall.
“Hey, Walt. I’ll bet you didn’t know that my wife and I were happy for twenty years.”
“No, Jerry, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, then we met.”
Great, I’d rented an apartment to Rodney Dangerfield.
I hustled down the stairs and was met by the professor.
“I think we may have a problem,” he said.
“No kidding?”
“Yes indeed. Jerry approached me this morning and said he had a philosophical issue he would like to discuss with me. I was delighted to have someone with whom to ponder the mysteries of life. Then he said, ‘If corn oil is made from corn and vegetable oil is made from vegetables, then what is baby oil made from?’”
“Sorry about that, Professor. I’ll see what I can do.”
I gotta get out of here, I thought and headed out the door. Jerry was waiting in the hallway.
“Hey, Walt, you were a real estate agent. I’ve got a good one for you.”
He told it as we walked out to the car.
I jumped in the car and called Maggie.
“I hope you’re home,” I said. “I’ve had a tough day. Someone’s threatened to shoot me, and I’ve rented an apartment to Rodney Dangerfield.”
Maggie greeted me with a big kiss, handed me a glass of Arbor Mist, and sat me down on the couch.
“Okay, tell me all about it,” she said.
So I did.
When I finished with my tale of woe, I said, “Oh, I’ve got a good one from Jerry you can use with your next client. Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Amaryllis.”
“Amaryllis who?”
“Amaryllis state agent. Do you want to buy a house?”
She gave me the look.
All guys know about ‘the look.’ It is a phenomenon that is exclusive to women of all ages. It is invoked when you misbehave. You get it first from your mother.
Fathers can threaten, scold, and even spank, but none of these can generate the fear of ‘the look.’ With Dad, you know what’s coming, but the look causes visions of unspeakable things in your imagination that are just too horrible to comprehend.
If words accompany the look, they are spoken sternly and with great authority. Even proper names come under its purview.
When I was a kid, the boy who lived next door was called Bobby by everyone, but when he was in trouble, first came the look and then, “Robert Lee, you come here this instant.”
And he came.
Wives and girlfriends have it too.
Do they attend some kind of class, or is it an inborn trait like the swallows flying back to Capistrano?
Of course, when wives or girlfriends give the look, there is the threat of even greater punishment than a mother could ever inflict.
You guys know what I mean.
Then the look softened, and she said, “I think I’ve got an idea.” She grabbed the newspaper.
She looked at her watch and said, “Let’s go. We’ve got to hurry.”
I didn’t argue.
We hustled back to my building, and I knocked on Jerry’s door. “Come on. Get your jacket. We’re going for a ride.”
We drove to Broadway and parked in front of a storefront building with a flashing neon sign that said, “Kansas City Comedy Club.”
I paid our entrance fees, and we took a table close to the front. Jerry was excited as he sat and listened to the comedian on stage.
When the guy had finished, there was a smattering of applause, and Jerry whispered to me, “He really wasn’t that funny for a professional.”
“He wasn’t a professional. Tonight is amateur night. And guess what? You’re on in fifteen minutes.”
His eyes got as big as saucers, and his bow tie bobbed up and down on his throat. “Me? I get to go up there?”
“You sure do. Now make the most of it.”
When Jerry’s turn came, he boldly strode to the stage and took the mike.
“As I look around the room, I see mostly young people. You really don’t know what you’re in for. We senior citizens have a whole set of problems that you can’t even imagine.
“Why, just yesterday, I went to the doctor and told him I wanted my sex drive lowered. ‘Jerry,’ he said, ‘you’re seventy-two years old. Don’t you think your sex drive is all in your head?’
“‘You’re damn right it is,’ I told him. ‘That’s why I want it lowered.’”
A roar went up from the crowd.
“I have a friend, Morris,” Jerry continued. “He went to the doctor to get a physical. A few days later the doc saw Morris walking down the street with a gorgeous young woman on his arm, and the doctor said, ‘Morris, what in the world are you doing?’
“‘Just doing what you said, Doc. “Get a hot mama and be cheerful.”’
“‘No, I didn’t say that! I said, “You’ve got a heart murmur. Be careful! And don’t you realize that hitting on a young thing like that could be dangerous?’
“‘Hey,’ Morris replied, ‘if she dies, she dies.’”
Another roar went up from the crowd. I gave Jerry a thumbs-up, and he gave me a wink.
I thought maybe we had solved our problem.
CHAPTER 5
Ox and I were patrolling the Northeast neighborhood and had just pulled onto Twelfth Street. An old black gentleman, obviously distraught, was waving to us.
Ox pulled to the curb and rolled down his window. “Calm down, old-timer. What’s going on?”
He pointed to the door of The Blue Room Jazz Club. “It’s Spats. Must be somethin’ wrong. The door’s locked and he’s always there this time of mornin’.”
“Spats? Who’s that?”
“Orville! Orville Johnson. Everybody calls him Spats. He owns The Blue Room. We all get together for coffee every mornin’.”
“Maybe he just overslept,” Ox offered. “Did you try to call him?”
“Sho did. Called his house and called the Club, but he ain’t answering. It ain’t like him. I know somethin’s wrong.”
“We’ll take a look”
Ox tried the door but it was locked. I squinted through the leaded glass in the door. Total darkness inside.
“Sir,” Ox said, “please stay right here. My partner and I will check around back.”
We circled around through the alley. An old pick-up was parked next to the building.
Ox tried the back door and found it unlocked.
We pulled our service weapons and stepped into the darkness.
“Mr. Johnson? It’s the police.”
Nothing but silence.
I felt along the wall and located the light switch.
A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling came on, casting an eerie glow on the body of an elderly man lying in a pool of blood.
“Damn!” Ox muttered. “I’m guessing that’s our missing Spats. Looks like he took one to the back of the head, just like Doris and the homeless guy.”
“I’ll call it in,” I replied. “You check the rest of the place and make sure we’re alone.”
After the scene was secure, we headed back to the front of the building.
“Sir,” Ox began. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Benny. Benny Burton. Did you find Spats? Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news, but yes, we found your friend. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
Benny slumped onto the step. “I knew it! I jus’ knew dat somethin’ bad was gonna happen. Spats was a stubborn old cuss. I told him he should sell, but he just wouldn’t listen.”
“So someone’s been trying to buy the club?”
“Yep, some woman has been around two or three times. Says she’s got an investor that will pay cash, but Spats didn’t want no part of it.”
“Why not?”
“Spats has owned this old place for over forty years. Bought it back when Kansas City Jazz was the hottest thing around. He played a mean sax. Heck, I played the drums, but I never was in Spats league. Some of the finest jazz musicians in the country played this old joint. Just too many memories here. Spats wasn’t ready to give the place up.”
Just then, the detectives from homicide and the CSI guys pulled up.
Ox and I were sent off to keep the growing crowd of looky-lous away from the crime scene.
Three hours later, the body of poor Spats was on its way to the morgue, the detectives had finished with the scene and we were sent on our merry way.
As we headed back to the precinct, I noticed a sign in the yard of one of the homes that Riverside Realty had listed. It was announcing an auction the next day. The owners apparently had found a buyer and were liquidating their personal belongings.
It occurred to me that this might be an opportunity to quiz the owners without being too obvious. I also remembered that Maggie loved to go to auctions. Since I was scheduled to be off the next day, I gave my sweetie a call.
She was thrilled.
Maggie lives in an apartment near the Country Club Plaza. I picked her up, and we headed to Mel’s Diner for breakfast.
Mel’s is my favorite place to eat. Maggie’s, not so much.
Maggie is into salads and quiches and steamed vegetables.
I’m more into sugar, grease and meat.
You can get all of that at Mel’s, but he specializes in the sugar, grease and meat. And you never go away hungry.
I was enjoying a huge platter of biscuits covered with white cream gravy and a steaming mug of coffee, and Maggie was picking at a veggie omelet and sipping green tea.
“Walt,” she said, “I know you’re not a big fan of auctions. There’s more to this visit than just rummaging around through boxes of crap.”
“You got me. These folks, the Greens, are clients of Riverside Realty. I thought I might get the inside scoop on their sale.”
“I understand, but leave me out of that part. If Connie Lorenzo sees me anywhere close to her sellers, she’ll be on me like a duck on a June bug.”
“No problem. I’ll talk to them while you’re picking through their stuff.”
We turned onto Ninth Street almost three blocks from the Green property. Cars and pickup trucks were already lined up bumper to bumper along the street. We squeezed into a parking spot and walked the three blocks to the auction.
Wall-to-wall people.
Long flatbed trailers had been parked in the yard and were covered with the smaller items, and furniture was lined along the driveway. Two trailers were billowing smoke, and the scent of grilled hot dogs and fried funnel cakes drifted our way.
Now right there are two food items that define the paradox of human consumption. They are probably filled with stuff that gives you diabetes, cancer, gout, and who knows what, but they taste so damn good!
On the other hand, you have broccoli and cauliflower, which supposedly cure all of the above, but they taste like crap.
There’s simply no justice in that.
Wouldn’t it be great if broccoli tasted like hot dogs, grilled brown and skin cracked with the fat dripping out, and cauliflower tasted like a funnel cake covered with strawberry jam and powdered sugar? And vice versa. Everyone would be much healthier.
A big, old golden retriever was busy roaming through the crowd getting pats on the head. I wondered if he belonged to the Greens and if so where he was headed. Most apartments or assisted living facilities frown on pets.
Auctions are a strange place. They remind me of the TV newscasts where they show the huge crowd at the New York Stock Exchange and everyone is frantically waving and bidding. You get caught up in the frenzy of the moment.
Same thing here, only on a smaller scale.
You get there early so that you can scout out the items you want to buy, but stuff is sold one piece at a time. You may have to stand around for hours before your item comes up for bid.
Then there’s always at least one other person who has coveted the same item, and as the bidding starts, you soon discover who your competition is. As the bid increases, you think, by golly, I didn’t stand here four hours just to let that old biddy get my toaster.
You wind up spending $28 for a used toaster that you could have bought brand-new for $19.95 at Walmart.
We’re a strange breed.
Men come to auctions for two things, tools and guns.
Make that three things—tools, guns, and because their wives said so.
Women like the cute stuff. Maggie is a woman. Therefore, you guessed it.
“Walt, come over here. You just have to see this.”
“What am I looking at?”
“This beautiful hand-quilted bedspread. It’s a wedding ring pattern.”
“So?”
“So I want it!”
“Why?”
“Why? Because it’s beautiful; that’s why. And I want to hang it on my wall.”
“On your wall? Are you nuts?”
Wrong reply.
“Walt, this isn’t just a quilt. It’s a work of art. Every stitch was made by hand. It probably took hundreds of hours to sew. Don’t you get it?”
