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FORGET ABOUT IT: The First Al Zymer Senile Detective Mystery By Dick Adler Al Zymer sat at his desk in the Writers and Artists Building on Little Santa Monica. He slumped in his worn and greasy leather chair, sound asleep. A half-smoked 60 cent Dutch cigar had fallen from his lips, narrowly missing his crotch and landing on the rug, where it had fizzled out like its owner without doing much damage. He was dreaming about one of his old cases, the one where an actress named Toots McAllister had hired him to find out who was sending her threatening letters and following her around the Paramount lot. It turned out to be her former girlfriend, a costume designer who was known to give great head. Now he was ready to collect his fee... Suddenly, a roscoe barked "Kachow!" Was this a part of Al's dream, or had it really happened? “Is that your real name?” Somebody had managed to bypass Effie and get into his inner office. He smiled to himself; there was no Effie. He must still be dreaming. “I said, is that your real name? Or are you making some kind of perverse joke?” The voice – high and somewhat squeaky – jolted Al out of his reverie. “Sure,” he muttered. “Al from Albrecht, Zymer from Zimmermann. Believe it or not, some folks in this town don't like Jews – even German Jews. What's your name?” “Haven't you ever heard of the disease?” persisted the very young, very thin, very pale man who resembled a pipe cleaner as he pointed to the sign on the door: AL ZYMER INVESTIGATIONS. “I heard about it, but I forget where,” Al said, waiting to see if the youngster got the joke. The truth was that he did have trouble remembering things these days – at least while he was awake. “Once again, who the hell are you?” “Saul Kearney. I think Arthur Secunda down the hall might have mentioned me to you?” The look on Kearney's face had doubt written all over it. “Secunda? Oh yeah, the photographer.” Al had in fact known Art and his brother Gene, sons of the great Yiddish theatre composer Sholem Secunda, for 40 years, but he was still playing with this boy. He kicked it around in his head for a while, then vaguely recalled Art saying something about a kid who wanted to work as a private dick so that he could write crime novels. “I hope you have a private income,” Al said. “As you might have noticed, business isn't exactly booming...” Exactly on cue, a loud blast from somewhere down the street rattled the building's old bones. Al creaked out of his chair and went to the window. A crowd had gathered outside the men's clothing store on the corner, the place where movie and TV stars spent $200 on shirts. “You're in luck,” Al said. “This could be your first paying job. Help me into the elevator. Let's see what's going on at Castle's.” Saul was about to complain that he hadn't signed on yet, certainly not as a nurse, but thought better of it. And once the old fart was standing up, his pronged cane in one hand, he seemed to be able to hobble out the door. The crowd outside Castle's looked like upscale looters, and several Beverly Hills cops had to hold them back. A very well-dressed man in his 60s, complete with a cream-colored Ascot around his neck to hide his wattles, spotted Al. “I was just going to call you. Did you sleep through the blast?” “My new assistant and I were getting acquainted. What the hell you been doing, Jon? Pissing off the Russian Mafia?” “The Ivans prefer the glitzy Italian stuff,” said Castle. “They think the Ivy League is a football association. So, are you still in business?” “You bet your cashmere blazer I am. You and I have dealt with heavies a lot worse than the Ivans in our time. But don't you trust the bomb squad to handle this?” “Let's say I'd rather have my own man on it,” Castle answered. “Your fee still the same?” “Sure – if you're still charging sixty bucks for shirts like you did in Clark Gable's day. But I'm certain we can agree on a figure. And don't forget I've got my new assistant to look after. What was your name again, kid?” ------- They were sitting in a little coffee shop on Rodeo into which tourists seldom wandered. Saul, who had hoped for a giant corned beef sandwich at Nate 'n' Al's when Zymer suggested lunch, silently cursed his new employer as a cheap bastard. But his turkey BLT club sandwich was fresh and crisp and not half bad. “This was Pat Brown's favorite lunch place when we worked together on a coupla cases. Let's see what we got,” Al said, pulling out a toothmarked yellow pencil as he began to scratch some notes on a paper napkin. “First question: what kind of bomb was it, and where was it placed? We know that and it should tell us if the bombers were pros. I play poker with the head of the LAPD bomb squad – maybe he can be persuaded to part with some details if I pay him the C-note I owe him. Meanwhile, you can get your computer up and searching the way you kids do, see if this matches anything on Doodle.” Saul realized that he and the fart hadn't yet discussed payment for him. No matter – he wouldn't be around long enough to bother. “I think you mean Google,” he said. “That's the one. You got a computer at home? Where is home, anyway?” “I live in Santa Monica, and I do have a Mac laptop,” Kearney answered. “I even have a car – a graduation present from my family. So, what exactly am I looking for?” “If I knew that, I wouldn't need you, would I? Okay, I'm going back to the office to use Art's phone. You drive your cute little Penis – is that what those gasless babies are called? -- out to Santa Monica and start clicking. Give me your phone number in case I get a hot idea. My phone isn't working: I owe one of Ma Bell's bastard children too much. Let's meet again at the office at noon tomorrow.” Saul watched in awe and fear as Zymer wrote down the cellphone number he'd given him on the napkin, then drop the napkin full of notes on the table as he lurched out. Kearney started to shout after him, then decided against it. “He's probably deaf, too,” he muttered as he stuck the napkin carefully into his pocket. CHAPTER TWO -- Saul I went home and “doodled” (for some reason, I just couldn't get the senile geezer's mistake out of my head) for an hour and went through half a pack of Suzie's Gauloises as I searched for the dirt on Jon Castle in the darker reaches of the Internet. Nothing much: stories of the former second-rate character actor's rise to fame as an overpriced clothier; some rumors in unmoderated chatrooms about his links to Bugsy Siegel and Mickey Cohen; occasional liasons with name actresses – Ava Gardner, Shelley Winters, Lana Turner among them. Then I did what I should have done much earlier. I typed in “Al Zymer” and waited until the search ground to a halt. The listings started with a “What Ever Happened To?” piece ten years ago in the Los Angeles Times, talking about Zymer as though he was dead. It did give me a major clue: the words “former LAPD detective” leaped from the screen. I found the details in a 1973 Herald-Examiner column by Jim Bacon: “Rumor has it that LAPD hotshot detective Al Zymer -- the man who broke the Katie Troncoso murder case two years ago -- has been forced to resign or face department charges of misconduct in that investigation. Zymer, 41, has been with the cop shop for 15 years, and everyone I know thinks he's a swell guy...” A search for “Katie Troncoso” came up blank, as did further clicks on Zymer's name. “Verrrrry interesting,” I grunted to myself. “Maybe I'll take this job after all....” CHAPTER THREE: Al “Why should I give you anything, especially for free?” Capt. Brian Rosoff asked Al when he called. “Besides, you still owe me a century from our last poker game.” “Yeah, yeah. I'll have it ready to stuff into your uniform pocket the way you cops like,” Zymer replied. “I'll take it out of my first check from Castle.” “Is he gonna pay to get your phone plugged back in? I see you're calling from some other number in that building.” That was the trouble with trying to work with the cops these days, Al thought. In his years on the force, they didn't have electronic caller i.d. gadgets or computers – just legs, muscle and the occasional payoff. And brains, of course – at least the good ones, like Rosoff. He wondered if Brian was losing any of his. Probably not yet – he was a lot younger than Zymer. “There will be money for everybody, once I show Jon I can still put things together better than your mob. So, anything you'd like to share, for old time's sake?” Al deliberately underlined “share,” to let his friend know he was having him on. “Yeah, we did have some times, back when you were hot shit. Remember when Vito Pantelli tried to get Harry Cohn to pay him ten mill not to blow up the Columbia lot?” Al shifted through some shadowy memories, but came up empty. “That was then, this is now – at least I think it is. Was Castle's a pro job?” “Too early to be sure. Some things point to that, but others are very strange – as though the blaster was using old or foreign chemicals. I'll keep you posted. And be sure to bring my hundred bucks to our next game. I got my eye on some fine ropes from the J. R. Cigars online site.” Al sat there, stewing about his own failing mental powers. Who in hell was Vito Pantelli? If Rosoff could remember that case so easily, why couldn't he? His angry reverie was jolted by the chirping of Art Secunda's phone. Should he answer it, or let it ring until what they called “verse mail” kicked in? (He had never heard any poetry on it, but what the hell). “Al, are you there? Brian just gave me this number. It's Lou. Pick up if you're there.” Zymer knew that raspy voice, had listened to it groan on and on for a dozen years. His old partner, Lou Gabriel. “Lou? Yeah, I'm here. Howya doin'?” “I'm good. Sitting out my last three months before the eagle shits. Brian told me you were okay, still working.” “Yeah, you don't get any dough for being fired. Family okay?" “Guess you didn't hear. Lorraine died on me, five years ago.” “Shit, Lou, I'm very sorry.” Lorraine, he vaguely remembered, was a pain in the ass who made a great pot roast. “Yeah, well... But my kids still call. Keith is at some art school in New York, teaching and painting stuff that looks like an accident to me, but people buy it. And Thelma lives in San Francisco, working as a traffic cop. She just married a criminal defense lawyer, believe it or not.” “That's nice,” Al said. Nice? His brain must really be shot. “Well, I gotta make a couple of calls...” “Al, you remember Tina Carone?” That name he'd never forget. His last case before the fucks dropped the hammer. She was a waitress in an expensive fish place in Malibu, and her body had been washed up on the beach below it. “What about her?” “I got a call yesterday from some weirdo in Arizona who says he knows where she's buried.” “So what? Everybody knows. You and I saw her go under at Woodlawn.” “Sure. But Al, this guy says the casket we watched had somebody else's body in it.” CHAPTER FOUR: Al and Rachel It took Zymer an hour to get to Woodland Hills, and not because of the traffic. He missed his freeway exit the first time and had to circle back, something he'd never done before. “Maybe I'd better let the kid drive,” he thought to himself. Al had driven ever since he was 12, first with his father on the back roads of the Valley, and then as one of the few teenagers at Hollywood High who had their own cars, and the thought of not being able to trust himself behind the wheel scared the shit out of him. The Motion Picture Home sat like a rich old lady on a hill at the end of a road decorated with luxuriant palm trees. Like the residents, the building and trees were paid for by the movie industry, and every service was provided free by regular donations. Al knew old cinematographers, stuntmen, makeup artists and editors who were lucky enough to get in. He had come to see Rachel Donner, a still-lovely English actress whose star had burned brightest in the days when the British Colony was a major force in the film industry. She had done Shakespeare with Olivier, horror with Karloff, drawing room comedy with the lordly C. Aubrey Smith, who occasionally took time away from his beloved cricket to make a movie. Then she played people's mothers or elderly aunts until she got the message and honorably retired. Rachel had never married, although many moguls vowed eternal devotion. She and Al had had a short fling many years before, when he was 30 and she was 40. Now they sat around her room, drinking tea and talking of the past. The last time they'd met, six months before, she had helped him out on a case by reminding him of details about a studio boss which had slipped out of his own memory. “She's a bit down today,” said the nurse who led him out to the garden, with chairs set up around a bubbling fountain. Al saw Rachel before she saw him, and the first thing he noticed was her robe – not the good one she usually wore, bright with flowers, but a grey and apparently food-stained one supplied by the home. “Can't somebody get her a clean robe?” he said to the nurse, but she was already gone. Then Rachel turned toward the sound of his voice, and Al realized that many things had changed since his last visit. Her eyes, always bright with life and ideas, were blank now. She stared at him without recognition. “Rachel, it's me. Al. Sorry I haven't been out to see you, but ....” He stopped as she turned away, looking again at the bubbling fountain. He forced himself to continue, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice. “How are you doing, my dear old girl? Are they giving you everything you want?” Rachel stared at him with eyes as empty as a dry well. “Wait till you hear about the new case I just got,” Al said. “Remember Jon Castle, the over-priced shirt peddler across from my office? Well, somebody hit his store with a bomb!” There was no reaction from Rachel, but at least she didn't turn back to the fountain. “And my poker buddy at the bomb squad thinks the bomb was made by an amateur, using old chemicals.” Saying that out loud tickled something at the back of Zymer's mind. Wasn't there an old case with the same connection? Nothing leaped out immediately, but at least he'd scratched some new ground, maybe even planted a seed... “And another thing,” he went on doggedly. “My old partner Lou said he had a tip that the body we watched being planted at Woodlawn wasn't Tina Carone at all...” Suddenly Rachel's eyes flashed and she began to babble “Tina Tina Tina Tina...” like a stuck record. What was she trying to say? “What about Tina, Rache? Did you know her?” But she continued to babble Tina's name. Then she stopped, and what could have passed for lucidity lit up her face. “Manny,” she said clearly. “Manny? Manny who? Zalheim? LaMancha?” Rachel nodded. “Manny LaMancha,” she said. Then her eyes flooded with tears, rolled back in her head and she was lost again. Al remembered Manny LaMancha, all right – a medium-grade hoodlum who decided to blow the whistle on his mob bosses in Hollywood in return for a seat on the Witness Protection bus. Where had he been relocated? Nothing came to his mind, but it sounded like a good job for his new assistant. CHAPTER FIVE: Saul I was trying to explain my job and my very weird but also oddly intriguing new employer to Suzie, who worked as a medical researcher, had legs and a bottom that stopped traffic, and shared my love for crime fiction. “I sometimes think he's putting on the senility bit to see how I react,” I told her. “Other times, I'm not so sure.” “That in itself is a symptom of early-stage Alzheimer's,” she said. “ 'Do I have it, or don't I? You decide.' " “For example,” I said, “I went back to his office to see if I could find any evidence of the shot he thinks somebody took at him. Sure enough, there was a bullet hole in the wall, behind a curtain. And he visited an old English actress, a former lover or so I gather, at the Motion Picture Home. She's helped him out before. This time, although she's almost gone to live with the fairies, she suddenly started babbling about a guy called Manny LaMancha – I kid you not – in the Witness Protection Program, and Al asked me to find out where he is. "It was a cinch; turns out this windmill-tilter is ensconced in Ventura, our neighbor to the north. He's serving as a city councilman and owner of a health club. Then, when I told the old boy about this, he said he knew just the guy to get us more info: a journalist called Ivan Davis, who lives up there. So did he know where Manny was all the time, or is he pulling my chain? How should I handle this, my wise and beautiful love?” “So Zymer had a hot relationship going with this actress? What does he look like, anyway?” “Certainly not like an ex-cop,” I said. “In fact, he looks a lot like a description I once read of one of our favorite writers, Fredric Brown -- short, fine-boned, with delicate features. Al looks more like a retired professor than a bull.” “Some women go for that type. Lucky for you, Mr. Harry Covert, I'm not one of them,” Suzy answered slyly. We spent the rest of the day proving that in bed. CHAPTER SIX: Manny, Inc. Manny LaMancha was having trouble sleeping in his Ventura hideaway. His bed was adjustable, extra long, and cost as much as a used Toyota. But its features weren't helping tonight. Thanks to a tip-off from his Witness Protection handler, Manny had indeed heard that Al was on his trail. “What the fug?” he exploded, as he did to everything these days. Ventura was a quiet, well-run small city, but his new deal with a famous local actor meant he had to raise a lot of cash for their fancy restaurant. Just gutting and redecorating the old bank on Main Street had cost him about $2 million, and they weren't done yet. The actor lent his name but rarely opened his fat wallet. He would of course accept his hefty share of the loot – especially from the illegal gambling room they planned in the secret cellar. Why was that nutty old fart Zymer after him? Could he have learned about or figured out Manny's connection with getting him disgraced and fired from the LAPD? It was worth looking into, and LaMancha still had some guys on the Los Angeles turf who could help. And the top cop who was also involved with that dead girl was still in place, and owed Manny a big one. The same goniff from the Witness Protection Program who had tipped off LaMancha about Al's sudden interest also passed the tip to LAPD Chief Byron Gates – who reacted in a similar fashion. He buzzed his secretary, telling her to bring him the Zymer file. Gates read the file through carefully, although he knew the details by heart. Two names popped out like warning flags: Tina Carone and Katie Troncoso. Two dead women whose ghosts still haunted him. Meanwhile, Al was getting ready for a date of his own. Sex was problematic these days, but Tess Tosterone – a well-muscled gun dealer – might just be the answer. She was, all things considered -- and both fell into a deep sleep. At about five a.m., he woke up with a start. “And my poker buddy at the Bomb Squad thinks the bomb was made by an amateur, using old chemicals,” he'd told Rachel, and saying that had set off a ticking clock in his addled brain. Suddenly, like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds, it came to him. A Russian – Petrov, Petrovsky? – who had tried to steal 100 million bucks from the City of Beverly Hills by threatening to blow up several big stores unless he got his money. This was when? The 1950's? Rosoff wasn't on the job yet, which was why he hadn't picked up on the old chemicals. Al scratched around to find out what else he remembered. The Russky, whatever his name was, had been caught as he tried to pick up his loot. Zymer had vague memories of his trial; he testified as the arresting officer. Where was Petrov now? Nothing came to mind. This was obviously another job for his new assistant – who certainly deserved a salary as soon as Castle's money began to flow... --- Ivan Davis, a lanky Brit who had worked for the London Express for 30 years before he got fed up with print journalism, was doing a piece for his blog when his cellphone rang. He didn't recognize the incoming number. “Ivan? It's Al Zymer. Howya doing, my old mate? Lost any marbles since we last spoke?” Davis chuckled. “You should talk. They named the disease after you. Anyway, my mind is as sharp as ever. What's up with you?” “I just got a case which involves a guy who's in the Witness Protection Program in Ventura. Does the name Manny LaMancha ring a bell?” “Absolutely!” Ivan replied. “He's a city councilman, and he owns the Primrose Racquet Club, a fancy health place near the ocean. I also know that he and Conner Kevins have turned an old bank downtown into a fancy restaurant called The Waterworks. But I never heard about any Witness Protection action. Then again, I've always thought that Ventura was prime territory for the program.” Davis was working as a part time private eye and also as an online crime book seller – his site was called Blog Me Dead. Al knew that his son Dan was running a winery in Sonoma, and that his musician daughter Rosie lived in San Francisco. “What's Rosie up to in Frisco?” he asked. “Working for a distribution company, Mordam Records. And her band, now called Cockpit, is selling lots of discs and concert seats.” The band's new name made Al smile. Rosie Davis had been the bass guitar player of the all-girl group since her days at UC Santa Barbara: it had started as PMS, even though a folk trio called Patty, Mary and Sara objected. He remembered that most of the bridesmaids at Rosie's wedding in a posh Santa Barbara hotel were PMS members – one of them, a sweet and gentle girl whose studs and tattoos startled the more conservative Japanese relatives of the groom. “Maybe you and I should have a meal at The Waterworks," Ivan said. "I hear it's pricey – are you on an expense account?” “Yeah, my client says anything goes,” Al replied. It was a lie, but he'd work it out. CHAPTER SEVEN -- Saul I had been raised in a town near Ventura called Thousand Oaks. I was a late addition, and my parents – both now retired UC professors – had wanted their only child to grow up in a quiet, safe place. Berkeley certainly had its charms (among them the world's best pizza at Zachary's), but the city itself was becoming increasingly noisy and dangerous. When a colleague recommended Thousand Oaks, we checked it out and made the move. My favorite place in the town was a bookstore called Mysteries To Die For, where my taste for crime fiction was honed. Such local writers as John Shannon, Gary Phillips, Lee Lockwood and many others read, signed and discussed their latest books on a regular basis. It was as close to heaven -- and as far from the school library -- as a budding mystery lover could get. My mother, of course, objected to my new love of mysteries: she was a historian, and a bit scornful of genre fiction. But my old man, a musician with broader tastes, loved a good thriller and encouraged me. I could have used my parents' connections to get into Berkeley, but having grown up there I decided to try a new place. UC Santa Barbara looked interesting: they even had a course on vampire literature in their catalogue. I signed up for it to give me a lull in my otherwise heavy schedule. Lucky I did. It was an interesting group -- 30-odd (some very odd) students, most of us looking for a gut course, and a few with a real interest in the subject. We were instructed with a straight face by an assistant professor who had a taste for blood. And there in the front row was an absolutely stunning woman named Suzie Charpentier. Like me, Suzie was unattached -- though not for want of trying by every other male in the class, including the instructor. Fear of failure kept me from immediately joining the line. But one day during the first week of our class, I walked into a coffee shop called Nicoletti's in Isla Vista and saw that Suzie was sitting alone at a table, reading. It was now or never. "Mind if I share your space, fellow bloodsucker?" I asked in as jaunty a manner as I could. She lifted her eyes (the color of Canadian whiskey, as one of my favorite Nanci Griffith songs said) from her book -- an old Ross Macdonald paperback, I noticed -- and then actually smiled. "Saul, isn't that your name?" I tried to hide my delight at her recognition. "And you are Suzie, no? Are you enjoying The Way Some People Die? It's one of my favorites." "Oh yes," she replied. "I've liked Macdonald best ever since I read that very rude remark about him in Chandler's letters. Do you know it?" "The one which attacks Macdonald for describing a car as 'acned with rust'? I always thought Chandler was a British public school boy trying to act tough. He was never in Hammett's league, or Macdonald's." We went on in this delicious vein for an hour, then adjourned to my room. The rest, as they say, is history... CHAPTER EIGHT -- Al and Ivan Ivan Davis pulled his ancient but gleaming Triumph Razorback, which looked like a small Bentley, into the valet parking slot at the side of Waterworks. “Hope you guys got a reservation,” the attendant said as he admired the vehicle. “We're standing room only tonight.” Ivan and Al assured him they were covered. Prepared to spend some time staring around at the amazing restoration job in spite of their reservation, they were surprised to hear the lovely young woman at the desk saying that their table was ready. “If the food is as good as the service, we're in for a treat,” Ivan said. “I hope you've got a credit card with two hundred bucks on it.” “Don't worry,” Al reassured him. “My client coughed up good.” Another lie; he might have to risk using the fake American Express card he'd paid a former client $500 for. The menu began with a bang, and got even better as they read it out loud, like Orson Welles in that old commercial: “CHILI DUSTED PRAWNS WITH ROASTED GARLIC Sautéed to perfection with extra virgin olive oil, garlic, and rosemary ~ 14 “ARTICHOKE BRUSCHETTA Marinated artichokes and fresh tomatoes with basil and lemon. Served on grilled artisan bread ~ 11 “BEEF CARPACCIO Thinly sliced Filet Mignon drizzled with a lemon dill aioli, topped with shaved Parmesan and fried capers ~ 13” And that was just the starters. Ivan and Al plunged avidly ahead into the main courses: “PAN-SEARED CHICKEN TAPENADE Crispy half chicken roasted to perfection and finished with our olive tapenade. Served with wild rice and seasonal vegetables ~ 23 “BRAISED BEEF SHORT RIBS Slow roasted for over 8 hours. Served on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes, peppers and onions then smothered in our natural pan sauce ~ 25 “LOBSTER POT PIE Tender chunks of Maine lobster and seasonal vegetables surrounded by a portobello and black truffle brandy sauce. Served in a clay pot topped by a buttery puff pastry crust (Please allow 30 minutes to prepare) ~ 45 “HERB CRUSTED RACK OF LAMB Succulent New Zealand lamb plated with a veal demi glace and mint bernaise. Served with crispy rosemary potatoes ~ 37 “NEW YORK STEAK 14-ounce New York steak dusted with Kona sea salt and paired with our red russet garlic mashed potatoes and fresh local vegetables. ~ 37” Ivan finally settled on the prawns, followed by the short ribs. After warily checking out the prices, Al said “Fuck it” and ordered the carpaccio and a New York steak adorned with cracked pepper demi glace, sauteed portabello mushrooms and shoestring onions. As they waited for their pricey grub, Al and Ivan checked out what Manny and his partners had done to the stately old bank. The style was an impressive mix of Colonial and art-deco influences: hand-stenciled ceilings, wood paneling and murals painted by various artists. “I'm sure they had a decorator,” Al said. “The Manny I knew could never have come up with this.” The food was absolutely wonderful, leaving them both smiling with delight. The tab had come in at $178; Al added a $38 tip and nervously handed over his fake AmEx card – which sailed through like a charm. Still beaming, they waited for the elevator to take them up to the top floor, which reportedly offered spectacular views. It too lived up to its reputation. Going down, they shared the ride with two guys who looked familiar to Al. He glanced over at Ivan to see if his friend shared his own vague recollection, but Davis apparently didn't. Then it dawned on Zymer: they were a couple of Manny LaMancha's crew from Los Angeles. Al and Ivan got out first; one of the other guys – the short and round one -- muttered something about leaving his wallet upstairs as he pushed the button which closed the door. On a hunch, Al watched the display which showed what floor the elevator was on. It hadn't moved. Al punched the “Up” button; the car arrived empty. Where in hell had those boys gone? “I think there's another floor under this one,” Al said. “Wanna take a look?” They got into the elevator. Al pushed the “Down” button. Nothing happened. He pushed it again. Still nothing. “I've got an idea,” Ivan said. He reached over Al and pushed “Up” and “Down” at the same time. It worked; the elevator moved slowly downward. Al reached for his .38, remembering at the last minute that his permit had been yanked last year when he hit 70. The elevator door slid open, revealing a long room that looked at first glance like a cross between a Las Vegas casino and a very stylish cowboy saloon. It was full of people playing cards, dice and roulette. The absence of slot machines gave the place a distinctly upscale aura. Although the closest he'd been to be Montecarlo was watching a James Bond movie, Al knew that this was a much classier spot than any in Vegas. CHAPTER NINE -- Manny, Ivan and Al Waiting to greet them at the door was Manny LaMancha. The only feature he shared with his namesake was a woeful countenance. The rest of him was as graceful and muscular as a ballet dancer. “Al Zymer,” Manny growled in a voice that was pure Chicago mobster. “As I live and occasionally breathe. So you figured out the elevator trick. You're not as dumb as you look.” Al swallowed the insult. “It was my pal here who did that. Ivan Davis, this is the notorious Manny LaMancha.” “Yeah, we've met,” Manny said. “And I follow your blog every day.” He gestured to the short, round guy from the elevator who stood on his left, one hand in his jacket pocket. “This is my associate, Creighton Barrel. You boys wanna play?” “Mr. LaMancha,” said Ivan, “I must say that I'm shocked – shocked! – to find illegal gambling going on in our fair city.” Manny grinned. “Casablanca, right? I love that movie. You guys sure you don't fancy some poker or a turn on the wheel? No? Okay, then. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” “You remember a woman called Tina Carone?” Al asked. LaMancha's grin disappeared. “I don't think so,” he replied carefully. “Why do you ask?” “Well, my old LAPD partner, Lou Gabriel, told me the other day that he'd just had a call from some weirdo in Arizona who says he knows where she's buried. I said, 'So what? Everybody knows. You and I saw her go under at Woodlawn.' “Sure. But Al, this guy says the casket we watched had somebody else's body in it.” "I don't understand what this has to do with me,” Manny said. “Well, I happened to mention what Lou said to a friend who's helped me in the past. She blurted out your name,” said Al. “Was this your English friend in the Motion Picture Home? She's even more addle-brained than you are. As for Gabriel, he was always just a dumb cop.” Zymer instantly regretted giving the gangster a link to his sources; he had heard stories of LaMancha's savage revenges. “Okay, let's forget that one,” Al said. “What's this I hear about you owning a racquet club? Got any swimming pools?” “Yeah, two great ones and a Jacuzzi. Why don't you drop in for a splash tomorrow? I'll leave your name at the desk.” “Sound fine,” Al said. “After that terrific meal we just had upstairs, I could use the exercise.” “You should have told me you guys were coming – I would've comped you. Hope you didn't have to pay the tab yourself.” “No, I've got a rich client,” Zymer said. “Lucky you. Anybody I might know?” “Probably not,” said Al. “He's a solid citizen.” CHAPTER TEN: Al Next morning at 11:30, Al pulled into the parking lot of the Primrose Racquet Club. Like most of Ventura, it had a clean and polished look – unlike the clogged streets of L.A., littered with garbage. Al had a great aunt, his mother's youngest. sister, who owned a lemon ranch on the east side of Ventura. Maybe he'd pay her a visit – if he could remember her name... He'd spent the night in Ivan's rambling house on Foothill Avenue, which had a fine view of the Pacific several miles below it. Davis had offered bed and breakfast, guessing that Al's rich client was a myth. “The kids are living in Sonoma and San Francisco,” he said. “I could use the company.” Al knew that Ivan's wife Shirley had died last year, and that his son Dan was running a winery in Napa. “What's Rosie up to in Frisco?” he asked. “Working for a distribution company, Mordam Records. And her band, now called Cockpit, is selling lots of discs and concert seats.” The band's new name made Al smile. Rosie Davis had been the bass guitar player of the all-girl group since her days at UC Santa Barbara: it had started as PMS, even though a folk trio called Patty, Mary and Sara objected. He remembered that most of the bridesmaids at Rosie's wedding in a posh Santa Barbara hotel were PMS members – one of them, a sweet and gentle girl whose studs and tattoos startled the more conservative Japanese relatives of the groom. CHAPTER 11 -- Al and Dana As Al slid into the Primrose's outdoor pool, he thought – as he often did in new pools – about the morning 30 years ago when he arrived at his favorite spot, the Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire, only to be stopped at the door. “Can't let you in today, Al,” said the security guard who used to be a cop. “Some lady who comes in even earlier than you was electrocuted – a broken light bulb fried her when she jumped in.” These memories filled his mind as he swam some laps, alone in the sun-warmed outdoor pool. He was doing a backstroke: he looked up behind him and his heart froze. Some vehicle – it might have been a a tractor or an earthmover – had crunched into a power pole just above the pool, and was carrying its high voltage right at him. Al scrambled and splashed his way as fast as he could to the nearest edge of the pool. But he knew he'd never be able to pull his aging bones out of the water in time. Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed his and yanked him to safety – just seconds before the pole fell and the water sizzled. He looked up and saw a short, wiry guy who he'd noticed working in the pool area. “Christ, that was close,” Al's savior said in a surprisingly high tenor voice. “I've never lost a club member that way. A couple of heart attacks, but never an electrocution.” “I've seen the results of one, and it wasn't pretty. Jeez, buddy, I really owe you one. My name's Al, by the way.” “Well, Al, I'm Dana. And it looks like you pissed somebody off.” Dana was right. Al thought about his near miss. Was it an accident or a coincidence? He didn't think so – somebody had definitely tried to kill him. It had to be LaMancha. But why? What had Al done to make himself so unpopular? Could it be anything to do with Tina Carone? As promised, Manny had left a guest pass at the club's desk. Al signed in and was directed to a clean, no-nonsense locker room. Not much good at bending these days, he'd asked for a higher locker, and found it perfect as he scrambled into his bathing suit and made his way down the corridor. On his left was the entrance to the pools and hot tub. He showered quickly, examined the pools – one indoors, the other outside, both lightly attended – and decided on a soak before his swim. There were two other old guys in the Jacuzzi, a tall white man and a smaller Japanese. Both gave Al a warm welcome and immediately launched into their respective biographies. The white guy's claim to fame was that his kid brother owned one of the largest software companies in the business. The Japanese gent, Mifune Valentine, had an Italian restaurant. Al sensed that the hot tub meetings were an important part of their social lives, so he listened, smiled and contributed a heavily-edited story of his life. CHAPTER 12: Al, Ivan, Quentin At 11 p.m. that night, Al and Ivan were sitting in the Busy Bee, a coffee shop on Main Street where Ivan's buddy Quentin O'Rourke, a Ventura County Sheriff's Deputy, preferred to conduct his business. "What, they got no Dunkin' Donuts up here?" Al asked. "Nope. No WalMarts, either. The City Council is very tough about keeping the place from turning into Los Angeles." "Is this the same City Council where Manny has a chair?" Ivan was spared from replying by the arrival of a large man in a rumpled uniform. "You must be Al Zymer," the deputy said. "Is the name real, or are you taking the piss?" The only other person Al knew, aside from Rachel, who used that expression was Ivan. "You a Brit?" he asked. "Nope. I was born in L.A. But I've picked up some of Ivan's weird lingo, plus a taste for British soccer -- which they call football. Try telling that to your average 300-pound linebacker." "So, how did you guys meet?" asked Al. "Working on a case?" "Believe it or not, this mick is a member of my synagogue," Davis answered genially. "The O'Rourke is from my father. My mother's name was Moscovitz. I feel right at home every time I walk into a temple." CHAPTER 13: Al "Is this Albrecht Zimmerman?" asked a voice that had 'lawyer' dripping from it like icicles. "Who wants to know?" Al said cautiously. "My name is Bernard Montez. I represent the late Bertha Vanation. If you are indeed Albrecht Zimmerman, I have some news for you." That was her name, Al thought. I never went to see her, and now she's dead. He vaguely remembered a thin, quiet woman, just the opposite of her sister. Al's mother was loud and insistent; his car salesman father put up with it, but Al left the house as soon as he could enroll in the Police Academy. He visited her once, after his old man died, but she was deep in senilty herself by that time. "How did you get this number?" "Your associate, Mr. Kearney, gave it to me," Montez said. "Can we get together tomorrow? Please bring as much ID as you can to prove you really are Albrecht Zimmerman." The lawyer was as smooth and cold as a glass of horchata as he told Al that his Aunt Bertha had left him a small lemon grove on the eastern end of Ventura, along Telegraph Road. The main house was gorgeous -- six rooms full of old Mexican-style furniture. The only other private building on the ranch was the modest home of the longtime manager, Pablo. The seasonal workers who picked the lemons and cared for the trees were housed in a clean but depressing bunkhouse on the edge of the grove. Al took one look and decided to move in. Ivan was amazingly generous letting him freeload at his house, but Al felt like the ranch was a kind of a homecoming. That plus the fact that Montez had told him the place was green-belted and couldn't be sold until 2020 made up his mind... CHAPTER 14: Saul I had come down to Beverly Hills to search through Al's files, which hadn't yet made the move to Ventura. I used his key to open the door, then gently closed and locked it. Where to start? Why not with Jon Castle, who had finally coughed up some cash to help us find his bomber? I hoped that Al was familiar enough with the alphabet to make searching easier. Sure enough, there was a stained and battered folder marked "Castle" right after one that seemed to say "Bezerides." Why was that name familiar? Wasn't he a famous screenwriter who specialized in film noir? No time to waste now, but I made a mental bookmark for later. I found my first clue in Al's cramped handwriting on a crumpled sheet of paper. The name PETROVSKY leaped from the page -- the same name that Al had muttered to me after some sexual encounter with a tough female arms dealer called Tess Tosterone. What in hell was going on here? Why was I trapped in a mad punster's nightmare? Castle, I quickly discovered, was the president of the Beverly Hills Merchants' Association at the time of the Petrovsky bomb threat and multi-million dollar extortion attempt. Blog me dead. Coincidence, or something more dangerous? I folded the contents of the file in half and stuffed it into my undershorts. Lucky I did. I heard a click behind me at the door. A cleaning person? Al hadn't mentioned this possibility, and the layer of dust didn't suggest it. Nope, somebody was definitely trying to break in with a credit card or other burglar's friend. I eased myself around as quietly as possible, but it was too late. A short, round, barrel-shaped type was already inside and had spotted me at the file cabinet. We both spoke at the same time: "Who the fuck are you?" But his voice was cool and mine was just scared. "I work here," was all I could manage. "What's your excuse?" He laughed, then smashed my nose with a hard, fast right. "Creighton Barrel, at your service, asshole. You must be the new assistant. This should teach you both not to fuck with Manny." Another blow crashed into my face, splashed blood all over my shirt, then sent me quickly into dreamland. CHAPTER 15: Saul I woke up slowly and painfully after about an hour, noticed that the contents of Al's filing cabinet were scattered on the floor and that my briefcase had suffered similar treatment, then used my cell phone to call not Al (who couldn't figure out how to work even a simple one like Jitterbug) but first Suzie and then Quentin O'Rourke at his office. I told them where I was and what had happened, then drifted off again. Next time I woke up, I was in a bed in the ER at Ventura's Community Memorial Hospital. I had dozed through the arrival of the paramedics and the trip from Los Angeles at what I later learned was record speed. Suzie and Al were both there, looking scared and surprised. Al had wanted to go after Manny's henchman himself, but Quentin had talked him out of it. "I've got a better idea," he'd said, and left to get it done. Al tamped down his anger and apologized. "They were after me, not you," he said. "You still want in on this?" Suzie shook her head, but I took her hand. "There are no quitters in the Kearney family," I said, but decided not to tell my parents just yet. "How long am I going to be in this nickel joint?" "They said at least a week," Suzie answered. "Saul, are you sure you're up for this? You took a pretty bad beating, my old stringbean." "She's got a point," Al growled. "You look like The Mummy with all those bandages." "Looks aren't everything. Besides, I found out something good before that shitheel started pounding me." But before I could explain, I was off again into cloud cuckoo land... PART TWO: THE KID Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania. – Dorothy Parker CHAPTER 16: Al and Al Al jerked awake so hard he almost gave himself whiplash. A voice -- an oddly familiar voice -- was saying, "No sign outside, Al? Mom said you always had one at your office in L.A., which amused the neighbors no end." It was the "Mom said" that give him the clue. Her voice on the phone a couple of weeks before -- "It's me" -- could still quicken his heart, even after twenty years of not hearing it. "Hello, me," Al had said. "How are you? I heard you became a lawyer, got married, even had a kid." "You have your sources, don't you?" "Well, I'm still a detective, for what it's worth," Al answered. "Not that it's worth much these days." "Do you ever get down to L.A.?" she asked "The old legs gave out awhile ago. I even had to give up driving. How about you? Ever get up to Ventura? I inherited a little lemon ranch up here." "No, Al – that's why I'm calling. I seem to have lost the breast cancer war.” “I'm so sorry, my love,” Al began, but she interrupted. “I'm sending up someone to meet you,” she said. “You'll recognize him – and I hope you'll understand why I had to wait to tell you. Bye, my love. See you on the other side.” "I didn't mean to scare you, old man," said the voice. Al suddenly realized who it reminded him of: a younger version of Saul Kearney, still recovering from his beating by LaMancha's muscle, Creighton Barrel. Al looked up. As the boy's mother had said, he did recognize him. The youngster was an exact replica of Al as he had looked 50 years ago. Despite himself, he gasped and said the first thing that came into his mind. "Does your dad know?" "He died two years ago," the boy replied. "And by the way, my name is Al -- Al Frankel. Mike Frankel was a great father; nobody could ever replace him." His hard look at Zymer made Al realize that there was a lot of resentment in the youngster. "So you're 20. What have you been up to?" "I gave Santa Monica College a try," the boy said. "But I didn't see anything that appealed. Then, when she knew she was dying, Mom told me about you, and what you did for a living. I figured, why not see if the PI gig was for me. And here I am -- your new assistant." "Assistant? Hold on, boy. I have trouble making a living myself. There's no dough for an assistant..." "Mom said you were the cheapest bastard in Hollywood," young Al laughed. "Don't freak out -- I'll work for room and food, at least for a while." "Okay. You got a deal." He almost added "Son," but held off until they knew each other better. "You want to get started right away? My regular assistant, Saul Kearney -- a little older than you -- unfortunately got beaten up working on a case for me, so I could use some help." "Beaten up?" the boy asked. "What kind of case?" Al searched his mind for details, but nothing came up. Maybe Saul had written them down. He looked through the box of stuff which Kearney's friend Suzie had shipped to him. There was a file in it labeled "LaMancha." Zymer skimmed Saul's notes quickly, felt a switch in his brain click on, and passed the file to the boy. "Manny LaMancha, a former L.A. mobster now in the Witness Protection Program up here. He's tried to kill me a couple of times -- once in L.A. and once up here. And I still don't know why! What does he think I know?" "His name really is Manny LaMancha?" young Al asked. "Yeah. Why?" "Guess you never read Don Quixote at Hollywood High," said his son. "Never mind. Why did Saul get the shit kicked out of him? Did he make some joke about the guy's name?" "Damned if I know. Maybe Manny thought we were getting too close for comfort. trying to link him to a couple of cold cases. Anyway, one of his muscles…" (he almost said "Creighton Barrel," but decided to skip it)… "paid Saul a visit and put him in Community Memorial Hospital." "Is he still there?" the boy asked. "Yeah, for another week." "Maybe I should drop in, see what else he's found. I'll drive over there after lunch. What have we got to eat, aside from lemons?" "There's some avocados from my own trees," his father answered. "And a new bag of onion bagels. I'll make the coffee. You do drink coffee, don't you?" "I'd rather have a beer." "You're in luck," said Al. "The old lady…" (What was her name again?)… "left a case of Dos Xs in the pantry." CHAPTER 18: Young Al, Saul, Hugh Mungess After lunch, young Al got directions and drove off in his ancient Honda. There seemed to be more questions than answers in Saul Kearney's file, but the boy had read enough crime fiction in his short life to know that eventually everything would (probably) be made clear. The largest human being young Al had ever seen was sitting in a too-small chair outside Saul's hospital room. Al blinked, then realized he'd seen him before -- a professional football player, certainly a blocker or a tackle. What in hell was his name? It suddenly leaped into his head. "Hugh Mungess! The Eagles, 2006, right?" The giant rose slowly, recognized the kid as no threat, and walked toward him. "You got it. And who are you?" "I'm Al Frankel -- Al Zymer's son. Are you guarding Saul's body?" "Better late than never. Quentin O'Rourke is a good friend, knew I could use the work. Go on in -- I think he's awake." "So this guy's real name is Manny LaMancha?" Al asked Saul as soon as they'd introduced themselves in Kearney's room. "I couldn't believe it, either," a still battered and bandaged Saul replied. "And the guy who beat me up is actually called Creighton Barrel. What are we involved in -- some punster's nightmare?" "Al didn't seem to get it when I asked if the name La Mancha was a joke. That's another thing I wanted to find out from you. Is the old fart really slipping into senility, or is he putting us on?" "I asked my friend Suzie, who does medical research, the same thing. She says that's a definite symptom of early stage Alzheimer's. 'Do I have it, or don't I? You decide.' One of his clients asked him, 'What's with this Columbo routine -- asking the same questions over and over?' And Al's face convinced me that he had no idea who Columbo was…" CHAPTER 19: Enter Misha Goss As young Al left Saul's room and exited the hospital, he noticed a big man in his 60s with a shaved head and white beard apparently watching him. The man, casually dressed in expensive jeans and a sleek leather jacket, looked foreign, but Al couldn't say why. In the hospital parking lot he saw the man again, this time making no effort to hide his interest in Al. The boy took out his cellphone and called Zymer at home. He described the watcher, but the details didn't seem to match anyone the detective knew -- or remembered. The man was standing next to a new black SUV as Al pulled out. He turned on his phone's camera on and got off two shots as he drove by. Maybe the pictures would turn out to be useful. Young Al decided to take a little tour of Ventura before heading back to the ranch. That way, he might catch a glimpse of the big man if he was indeed tailing him. As an L.A. kid, he was at first surprised -- not much traffic on the clean streets, nobody blowing their horns or shouting out nasty stuff at other drivers (except for one fat guy in an eye patch; probably a nut case) -- and then charmed by the place. Sure, there were plenty of shopping malls, but somebody had set some standards: no fast fooderies on every corner, many large green spaces to ease the urbanity. Downtown Main Street was even more of a surprise. What had been a collection of thrift shops and old magazine stores when young Al and his parents had stopped ten years ago on their way home from the Ojai Valley Inn was now a bustling, trendy area, full of boutiques and restaurants of all flavors. "I'll be back," he growled in his best Arnold imitation, "as soon as that cheap dick starts paying me." He spotted the black SUV behind him as he turned back toward the lemon grove. It was making no attempt to hide. What to do? He was unarmed, and Al Sr. had mentioned that he was, too -- thank the gun gods. But he didn't want to lead this guy to the grove. So he turned right and then left on a much quieter street. Now came the dangerous part. Young Al slowed down until the SUV was right behind him. Then he braked hard and swung left to block the road. Then he waited. "You vant to play games, young man?" The other driver had come out of his vehicle and stood next to Al's. "I tink you lose. And dat vould be a shame. All I vant is to talk to Al Zymer." "He's in the phone book, last I looked." He wasn't, but screw this goon. "I need to have -- vot is it called? -- a one on one chat vit him," the big man said. "About what, the price of lemons?" "About a mutual enemy of ours, a man vit the ridiculous name of Manny LaMancha." This caught Al's attention. "Who is this joker?" he asked. "Your fodder knows him him vell. And I can assure you dat he'll want to hear what I have to say." Young Al took out his cellphone. "Pop, it's me again. I ran into that guy, following me home. He says he wants to talk…" "Mr. Zimmerman, my name is Misha Goss," said the big man, taking the cellphone forcibly from young Al. "Am I vot? Carrying? Ah, you mean am I armed? Not at the moment. Are you? I thought not -- you lost your permit when you hit seventy, I understand." From what he could overhear, young Al thought that this gent knew an awful lot about family business. Did that make him dangerous? "He vants to talk to you," said Goss, handing the kid the cellphone. "Can he hear me?" was the first thing Zymer asked his son. "I don't think so." "Okay, bring him here -- as slowly as possible. I'll try to get Quentin and his large friend to hang around outside. And son, try not to worry. Most of us have done this before." CHAPTER 20 -- Al and Al "Why didn't you and my mom ever get married?" Al looked at his son across the kitchen table, as they ate some excellent cheese omelets the boy had made. Slightly leathery, just the way Al Sr. liked them. The meeting with Misha Goss had been interesting, to say the least. The big Russian seemed to have a serious bone to pick with Manny LaMancha, and wanted Zymer's help in bringing him down. No reasons were given, even when Al and his son tried to press him. But Saul would start his "doodling" into that as soon as he was up to it. "It wasn't for want of trying," Al finally said to his son's question. "You remember your grandmother at all?" "Some. She died when I was four." "Yeah. Well, the last thing she wanted for her Yale-educated daughter was to marry a cop. Your mom, bless her heart, argued as much as she could, but I could tell it was tearing her apart. So I broke it off. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." "So you really loved her?" the boy asked after a long pause. "It wasn't just sex with a gorgeous younger woman?" "That was part of it, I have to admit. But did I really love her? Yes, I really did. Can you live with that? From what I understand, you had a better life with Frankel than I could ever have given you, or her." Al Sr. chewed another bite of his omelet. "Of course, if I'd known about you, I probably would've done something stupid and tried to see you. Your mom probably knew that, which is why she never told me." CHAPTER 21-- Al and Al Al was dreaming again, this time about Tina Carone. In his dream, he suddenly saw the connection between her and Katie Troncoso. But when he woke up, he couldn't remember the connection. "Son, I need your help," Al said as he knocked on the kid's bedroom door. He explained what had just happened. "How can I recover a dream? Didn't Freud write something about that?" Young Al, amazed that his father even knew about dream interpretation (what else did he know, or had forgotten he knew?), said the first thing that came into his head. "To hell with Freud, he was a sick cookie anyway. Let's stick with the experts we know. Saul's out of the hospital, and his girl Suzie, besides having a great ass, does medical research for a living. I say we convene a meeting of the minds." CHAPTER 22 -- Al & Co. They met two days later in Al's large living room, with the smell of lemon blossoms drifting in through the open windows along with the noise of trees being attacked by saws. Suzie, her expertise on full display, took charge. "Al, there are a lot of things we want to try out on you, some new tests to measure memory loss. But that can wait. Right now, let's see how much of that dream we can recover. Any thoughts, guys?" Saul stepped up to the plate. "Al, remember the first day we met? You were having a dream then, which I woke you up from. You were muttering something about Effie, and Toots McAllister. Can you recall any of that?" Al thought for a minute. "Not much. Effie was my secretary… No! She was Sam Spade's secretary! And Toots, I seem to remember she had something to do with an old case… But that's all. I'm sorry." "You're doing great, Pops," his son said. "Now let's try the same thing with your new dream. Katie Troncoso was, if I remember correctly from Saul's file, a big win for you: the LAPD thought the sun shone out of your ass. But Tina Carone was the one they fired you for! Why would the two cases be connected?" Al gulped, then said it: "Would any of you mind if I lay on the couch while we do this?" His son laughed. "Whatever turns you on. Maybe Freud wasn't as limp a dick as I thought…" CHAPTER 23 -- Al, Quentin, Hugh Mungess Two days later, Al was still feeling frustrated about his forgotten dream. The youngsters had tried hard, but nothing more came out of their efforts. Al hadn't slept well since the original incident, so at about midnight he got out of bed and opened his front door to breathe in some cool night air. He felt the shot pass close over his head, then heard the rifle's sound. No dream this time, no roscoe barking "Kachow!" as he dozed in his chair. Scared shitless, he backed into the house quickly, bolted the door behind him, then called Quentin. "I'll round up Hugh and get right over," the deputy said. "And Al, this is no joke. Somebody wants to scare you." "Well, they sure did that. You don't think they were trying to shut me up for good?" "No, I don't," Quentin replied. "Whoever these guys work for, LaMancha or Goss, they can shoot better than that." O'Rourke and his big buddy arrived about twenty nervous minutes later. They had obviously been putting together a plan, which Quentin explained. "We want you to put this on," he told Al, handing him a serious-looking bulletproof vest with "Property of Ventura County Sheriff's Dept." stenciled on it. "What, you're using me for bait?" "I'm afraid so. Hugh and I would do it, but we're both too big to fool even a blind shooter. And your shrimp of a son would leap at the chance, so that's why I don't want you to tell him." "Agreed," said Al. "Luckily, he's spending the night over at Ivan's house. Okay, then what?" "Then it's my job," Hugh answered. "I do this for a living, Al. I'll be outside, and with any luck the shooter will try again when you show yourself. And then I'll handle him." "Handle? Not kill?" "We need to know who he works for," Quentin said. "He can't tell us if he's dead." CHAPTER 24: Al & Co. There were no more shots from either side during the night, and Al went back to bed -- first taking off the vest so as not to alarm the youngsters. They trooped in about ten, and Al and his son cooked up some very good French toast. "I did some doodling on our new friend Misha Goss," Saul said with a smile. "It turns out that he is indeed a paid-up member of the Russian Mafia -- based in St. Petersburg and not Moscow, for reasons still to be determined." "Any connection between him and Manny?" Al Sr. asked. "Just one hint so far -- a Russian blog said Goss had been ripped off by some California mobster, and was seeking revenge. And somebody in a bathhouse spotted him naked, and noticed a very common mob tattoo on his back. This one said MIR, which is a Russian word for world. But it's also, I've discovered, an acronym for Menya Ispravit Rastrel -- Execution will Reform Me." "I didn't know you spoke Russian, my sweet string bean," Suzie said. "I don't -- but luckily I've got a computer program that does." "Okay boys, let's get back to work," she said. "We've decided to leave the dream recovery for now, Al. Today, we're going to try out a few tests. Nothing frightening -- just some new ways to see if you really do have any signs of your namesake disease. For example, have you had any money problems recently? Any payments you might have missed?" "None that I can recall," said Al, with a late laugh as he got his own joke. "My only money problem is not having enough -- especially now that I've got this extra mouth to feed." "Tough luck, Pops," said his son. "And I was about to ask you for some pocket money." CHAPTER 25 -- Quentin and Major Crime The Sheriff of Ventura, Major Charles Crime, was a Vietnam vet who had come home from the war, gained the support of a local right wing lunatic Republican Congressman called Elvin Gagrule, and never looked back. Crime, who hated work, spotted Quentin O'Rourke as an eager young man who would do anything to shine. So he made O'Rourke his chief deputy, and then spent his time on important issues like hassling local pot dealers. Quentin was indeed eager, and also a lot smarter than he looked. He took over the Sheriff's Office and ran it well -- never letting his boss know what was going on. So, when Los Angeles Chief of Police Byron Gates sent a warrant for the arrest of "one Albrecht Zimmerman, aka Al Zymer," as a material witness in the just-reopened murder of Tina Carone, it was O'Rourke who got the document. "I'll kick it around for a while until it gets lost," Quentin told Al on the telephone. "Meanwhile, let's hope somebody tries to take another shot at you. And don't forget to wear your vest." "Is Hugh still on the case? I haven't seen him lately." "If you had seen him, he wouldn't be doing his job," Quentin said. "Now, I've gotta go screw up my boss some more." CHAPTER 26 -- Al & Co. "Okay, Al -- time for some more tests designed to make you feel stupid," his son cackled. Their attempts to recover more of his dream linking the Tina Carone and Katie Troncoso murder cases hadn't yet come up with much, but Al could feel something stirring deep inside what was left of his mind. Now, if he could just reconnect a few of those tangled wires… "Let's start out with something simple," said Suzie, who had briskly taken charge without complaint from Al Jr. or Saul. "Let's have you draw a clock. A nice, big round clock, with its hands pointing to 3:30. Can you do that?" "A.M or P.M.?" Al Sr. joked, as he made a large circle on Suzie's drawing pad, then added huge Disney hands at the 3 and 6 marks. "How did I do, teach?" "I'd call that a 10," said Charpentier. "Even with those Mickey Mouse mitts. Now, let's try something slightly different. I want you to read out the time on your wall clock." Al glanced up at the battery-operated platter of bacon and eggs hanging behind him. "Looks like 4:17 to me," he said. "Grand. Now I need some pocket change. Cough up, guys -- quarters, dimes and nickels, please." She passed Al three quarters, seven dimes and seven nickels. "Okay, Al -- make me a dollar's worth of change out of that. You've got three minutes." This one was a bit harder. He had to try three different combinations of coins in his head before he came up with the three quarters, two dimes and one nickel which he shoved across the table as Suzie's finger lifted to click her stopwatch. Saul took over. "Here comes a fun one," he said. "It uses your nose. Notice any signs of losing your sense of smell recently?" "Now that you mention it," Zymer said, "my cigars just don't smell or taste the way they used to." "Considering those stinkpots you smoke, I'm not surprised. But researchers have known for some time that loss of the sense of smell is an early warning sign of Alzheimer’s. Turns out the beta-amyloid plaques that ultimately destroy memory and other cognitive abilities accumulate first in areas of the brain that are responsible for perception of odors. Anyway, I've got ten items here which I want you to identify. Ready?" Al nodded, and Saul passed him samples to sniff it. "Strawberry?" he said to the first one, not quite sure. Saul said nothing, just handed him another sample to sniff. Menthol, perhaps? Natural gas he was certain of, also lemon -- or was that pineapple? Soap, to be sure. But the rest were blurred and could have come from a failed movie inSmell-O-Vision… His son leaped in with some more sneaky tests. "Okay, Pops, I want you to name as many fruits as you can in a minute -- try for ten if you can, but don't sweat it." Lemons, of course. Avocados -- were they a fruit? How about tomatoes? Garlic? Peaches? "Let's move on. I'm gonna say three words, and I want you to remember them and repeat them back: Ferocious, flounder, female. Before you start repeating, try multiplying seven by 489 in your head. Okay, what were those words?" "Female. Ferocious. And the third was…. Shit, I forget." "Okay, old boy. Two out of three ain't bad…" A loud ring from the telephone interrupted the tests. "Al, it's me -- Lou Gabriel." "What's up, Lou?" "Well, my pension came through, and I heard a rumor that you could use some help up there. So I'm on my way…" Help? The only person Gabriel had had ever helped was himself -- to whatever was going. There was something very odd about this offer, and Al made a mental note to check it with Quentin. CHAPTER 27: Al, Mia Kulpa The call came the next day. “Mr. Zymer?” “Who wants to know?” “This is Mia Kulpa, the registrar at the Motion Picture Home,” a crisp voice replied. “I presume you’ve heard about our problems here?” “I guess not. Is this about Rachel?” What was her last name, again? “Rachel…Donner?” “I’m afraid it is, Mr. Zymer. We’re being forced to close down because most of our financial supporters were victimized by the Bernie Madoff swindle.” A vague light began to flicker in Al’s mind. “Yeah, now that I think of it, I did hear something. What’s going to happen with your patients - with Rachel?” “That’s why I’m calling. We’re trying to find other homes for them all, but we have to close down in a few weeks. Since you are the only visitor Miss Donner has had in the last several years, and since you know about her condition, we hoped you might have some suggestions.” The thought of his lovely Rachel in one of those terrible rest homes he’d heard and read about filled Al’s heart with tears. On the other hand, Ventura did seem to have more than its share of places that looked fine from the outside. It sounded like a job for the youngsters. “I’ll get right on it,” he said. “Did you say a few weeks? And your dough - your funds - are completely gone?” “The place is up for sale, and some real estate developer is already sniffing around the grounds,” Miss Kulpa replied. “I don’t think high-cost patients like Miss Donner are going to be a top priority.” Chapter 28 — Misha Goss, Al, Quentin, Hugh, Dana Prompted by Suzie’s questions, Al thought about his mother as he lay in bed. The truth was that he had never known she had dementia until the very end of her life, twenty years ago. Before that, his visits home were sporadic — mostly to see his old man, still lively until his peaceful death at 90 a few years ago. His mother seemed to him then to be the same royal pain in the ass she’d always been — the reason he'd gone to the Police Academy as soon as they would take him. But thinking back, he began to remember feelings, incidents, concerns. Something had certainly been going on in her head. A very early memory intruded out of the darkness: a sweetly smiling woman standing over his crib, singing something definitely not a lullaby… The call from Misha Goss woke him from a deep sleep. “I hear dat your former partner Gabriel is a very hot shooter, and has been hired by our mutual enemy to knock you off,” said Goss in his usual sideways manner. FORGET ABOUT IT: The First Al Zymer Senile Detective Mystery By Dick Adler Al Zymer sat at his desk in the Writers and Artists Building on Little Santa Monica. He slumped in his worn and greasy leather chair, sound asleep. A half-smoked 60 cent Dutch cigar had fallen from his lips, narrowly missing his crotch and landing on the rug, where it had fizzled out like its owner without doing much damage. He was dreaming about one of his old cases, the one where an actress named Toots McAllister had hired him to find out who was sending her threatening letters and following her around the Paramount lot. It turned out to be her former girlfriend, a costume designer who was known to give great head. Now he was ready to collect his fee... Suddenly, a roscoe barked "Kachow!" Was this a part of Al's dream, or had it really happened? “Is that your real name?” Somebody had managed to bypass Effie and get into his inner office. He smiled to himself; there was no Effie. He must still be dreaming. “I said, is that your real name? Or are you making some kind of perverse joke?” The voice – high and somewhat squeaky – jolted Al out of his reverie. “Sure,” he muttered. “Al from Albrecht, Zymer from Zimmermann. Believe it or not, some folks in this town don't like Jews – even German Jews. What's your name?” “Haven't you ever heard of the disease?” persisted the very young, very thin, very pale man who resembled a pipe cleaner as he pointed to the sign on the door: AL ZYMER INVESTIGATIONS. “I heard about it, but I forget where,” Al said, waiting to see if the youngster got the joke. The truth was that he did have trouble remembering things these days – at least while he was awake. “Once again, who the hell are you?” “Saul Kearney. I think Arthur Secunda down the hall might have mentioned me to you?” The look on Kearney's face had doubt written all over it. “Secunda? Oh yeah, the photographer.” Al had in fact known Art and his brother Gene, sons of the great Yiddish theatre composer Sholem Secunda, for 40 years, but he was still playing with this boy. He kicked it around in his head for a while, then vaguely recalled Art saying something about a kid who wanted to work as a private dick so that he could write crime novels. “I hope you have a private income,” Al said. “As you might have noticed, business isn't exactly booming...” Exactly on cue, a loud blast from somewhere down the street rattled the building's old bones. Al creaked out of his chair and went to the window. A crowd had gathered outside the men's clothing store on the corner, the place where movie and TV stars spent $200 on shirts. “You're in luck,” Al said. “This could be your first paying job. Help me into the elevator. Let's see what's going on at Castle's.” Saul was about to complain that he hadn't signed on yet, certainly not as a nurse, but thought better of it. And once the old fart was standing up, his pronged cane in one hand, he seemed to be able to hobble out the door. The crowd outside Castle's looked like upscale looters, and several Beverly Hills cops had to hold them back. A very well-dressed man in his 60s, complete with a cream-colored Ascot around his neck to hide his wattles, spotted Al. “I was just going to call you. Did you sleep through the blast?” “My new assistant and I were getting acquainted. What the hell you been doing, Jon? Pissing off the Russian Mafia?” “The Ivans prefer the glitzy Italian stuff,” said Castle. “They think the Ivy League is a football association. So, are you still in business?” “You bet your cashmere blazer I am. You and I have dealt with heavies a lot worse than the Ivans in our time. But don't you trust the bomb squad to handle this?” “Let's say I'd rather have my own man on it,” Castle answered. “Your fee still the same?” “Sure – if you're still charging sixty bucks for shirts like you did in Clark Gable's day. But I'm certain we can agree on a figure. And don't forget I've got my new assistant to look after. What was your name again, kid?” ------- They were sitting in a little coffee shop on Rodeo into which tourists seldom wandered. Saul, who had hoped for a giant corned beef sandwich at Nate 'n' Al's when Zymer suggested lunch, silently cursed his new employer as a cheap bastard. But his turkey BLT club sandwich was fresh and crisp and not half bad. “This was Pat Brown's favorite lunch place when we worked together on a coupla cases. Let's see what we got,” Al said, pulling out a toothmarked yellow pencil as he began to scratch some notes on a paper napkin. “First question: what kind of bomb was it, and where was it placed? We know that and it should tell us if the bombers were pros. I play poker with the head of the LAPD bomb squad – maybe he can be persuaded to part with some details if I pay him the C-note I owe him. Meanwhile, you can get your computer up and searching the way you kids do, see if this matches anything on Doodle.” Saul realized that he and the fart hadn't yet discussed payment for him. No matter – he wouldn't be around long enough to bother. “I think you mean Google,” he said. “That's the one. You got a computer at home? Where is home, anyway?” “I live in Santa Monica, and I do have a Mac laptop,” Kearney answered. “I even have a car – a graduation present from my family. So, what exactly am I looking for?” “If I knew that, I wouldn't need you, would I? Okay, I'm going back to the office to use Art's phone. You drive your cute little Penis – is that what those gasless babies are called? -- out to Santa Monica and start clicking. Give me your phone number in case I get a hot idea. My phone isn't working: I owe one of Ma Bell's bastard children too much. Let's meet again at the office at noon tomorrow.” Saul watched in awe and fear as Zymer wrote down the cellphone number he'd given him on the napkin, then drop the napkin full of notes on the table as he lurched out. Kearney started to shout after him, then decided against it. “He's probably deaf, too,” he muttered as he stuck the napkin carefully into his pocket. CHAPTER TWO -- Saul I went home and “doodled” (for some reason, I just couldn't get the senile geezer's mistake out of my head) for an hour and went through half a pack of Suzie's Gauloises as I searched for the dirt on Jon Castle in the darker reaches of the Internet. Nothing much: stories of the former second-rate character actor's rise to fame as an overpriced clothier; some rumors in unmoderated chatrooms about his links to Bugsy Siegel and Mickey Cohen; occasional liasons with name actresses – Ava Gardner, Shelley Winters, Lana Turner among them. Then I did what I should have done much earlier. I typed in “Al Zymer” and waited until the search ground to a halt. The listings started with a “What Ever Happened To?” piece ten years ago in the Los Angeles Times, talking about Zymer as though he was dead. It did give me a major clue: the words “former LAPD detective” leaped from the screen. I found the details in a 1973 Herald-Examiner column by Jim Bacon: “Rumor has it that LAPD hotshot detective Al Zymer -- the man who broke the Katie Troncoso murder case two years ago -- has been forced to resign or face department charges of misconduct in that investigation. Zymer, 41, has been with the cop shop for 15 years, and everyone I know thinks he's a swell guy...” A search for “Katie Troncoso” came up blank, as did further clicks on Zymer's name. “Verrrrry interesting,” I grunted to myself. “Maybe I'll take this job after all....” CHAPTER THREE: Al “Why should I give you anything, especially for free?” Capt. Brian Rosoff asked Al when he called. “Besides, you still owe me a century from our last poker game.” “Yeah, yeah. I'll have it ready to stuff into your uniform pocket the way you cops like,” Zymer replied. “I'll take it out of my first check from Castle.” “Is he gonna pay to get your phone plugged back in? I see you're calling from some other number in that building.” That was the trouble with trying to work with the cops these days, Al thought. In his years on the force, they didn't have electronic caller i.d. gadgets or computers – just legs, muscle and the occasional payoff. And brains, of course – at least the good ones, like Rosoff. He wondered if Brian was losing any of his. Probably not yet – he was a lot younger than Zymer. “There will be money for everybody, once I show Jon I can still put things together better than your mob. So, anything you'd like to share, for old time's sake?” Al deliberately underlined “share,” to let his friend know he was having him on. “Yeah, we did have some times, back when you were hot shit. Remember when Vito Pantelli tried to get Harry Cohn to pay him ten mill not to blow up the Columbia lot?” Al shifted through some shadowy memories, but came up empty. “That was then, this is now – at least I think it is. Was Castle's a pro job?” “Too early to be sure. Some things point to that, but others are very strange – as though the blaster was using old or foreign chemicals. I'll keep you posted. And be sure to bring my hundred bucks to our next game. I got my eye on some fine ropes from the J. R. Cigars online site.” Al sat there, stewing about his own failing mental powers. Who in hell was Vito Pantelli? If Rosoff could remember that case so easily, why couldn't he? His angry reverie was jolted by the chirping of Art Secunda's phone. Should he answer it, or let it ring until what they called “verse mail” kicked in? (He had never heard any poetry on it, but what the hell). “Al, are you there? Brian just gave me this number. It's Lou. Pick up if you're there.” Zymer knew that raspy voice, had listened to it groan on and on for a dozen years. His old partner, Lou Gabriel. “Lou? Yeah, I'm here. Howya doin'?” “I'm good. Sitting out my last three months before the eagle shits. Brian told me you were okay, still working.” “Yeah, you don't get any dough for being fired. Family okay?" “Guess you didn't hear. Lorraine died on me, five years ago.” “Shit, Lou, I'm very sorry.” Lorraine, he vaguely remembered, was a pain in the ass who made a great pot roast. “Yeah, well... But my kids still call. Keith is at some art school in New York, teaching and painting stuff that looks like an accident to me, but people buy it. And Thelma lives in San Francisco, working as a traffic cop. She just married a criminal defense lawyer, believe it or not.” “That's nice,” Al said. Nice? His brain must really be shot. “Well, I gotta make a couple of calls...” “Al, you remember Tina Carone?” That name he'd never forget. His last case before the fucks dropped the hammer. She was a waitress in an expensive fish place in Malibu, and her body had been washed up on the beach below it. “What about her?” “I got a call yesterday from some weirdo in Arizona who says he knows where she's buried.” “So what? Everybody knows. You and I saw her go under at Woodlawn.” “Sure. But Al, this guy says the casket we watched had somebody else's body in it.” CHAPTER FOUR: Al and Rachel It took Zymer an hour to get to Woodland Hills, and not because of the traffic. He missed his freeway exit the first time and had to circle back, something he'd never done before. “Maybe I'd better let the kid drive,” he thought to himself. Al had driven ever since he was 12, first with his father on the back roads of the Valley, and then as one of the few teenagers at Hollywood High who had their own cars, and the thought of not being able to trust himself behind the wheel scared the shit out of him. The Motion Picture Home sat like a rich old lady on a hill at the end of a road decorated with luxuriant palm trees. Like the residents, the building and trees were paid for by the movie industry, and every service was provided free by regular donations. Al knew old cinematographers, stuntmen, makeup artists and editors who were lucky enough to get in. He had come to see Rachel Donner, a still-lovely English actress whose star had burned brightest in the days when the British Colony was a major force in the film industry. She had done Shakespeare with Olivier, horror with Karloff, drawing room comedy with the lordly C. Aubrey Smith, who occasionally took time away from his beloved cricket to make a movie. Then she played people's mothers or elderly aunts until she got the message and honorably retired. Rachel had never married, although many moguls vowed eternal devotion. She and Al had had a short fling many years before, when he was 30 and she was 40. Now they sat around her room, drinking tea and talking of the past. The last time they'd met, six months before, she had helped him out on a case by reminding him of details about a studio boss which had slipped out of his own memory. “She's a bit down today,” said the nurse who led him out to the garden, with chairs set up around a bubbling fountain. Al saw Rachel before she saw him, and the first thing he noticed was her robe – not the good one she usually wore, bright with flowers, but a grey and apparently food-stained one supplied by the home. “Can't somebody get her a clean robe?” he said to the nurse, but she was already gone. Then Rachel turned toward the sound of his voice, and Al realized that many things had changed since his last visit. Her eyes, always bright with life and ideas, were blank now. She stared at him without recognition. “Rachel, it's me. Al. Sorry I haven't been out to see you, but ....” He stopped as she turned away, looking again at the bubbling fountain. He forced himself to continue, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice. “How are you doing, my dear old girl? Are they giving you everything you want?” Rachel stared at him with eyes as empty as a dry well. “Wait till you hear about the new case I just got,” Al said. “Remember Jon Castle, the over-priced shirt peddler across from my office? Well, somebody hit his store with a bomb!” There was no reaction from Rachel, but at least she didn't turn back to the fountain. “And my poker buddy at the bomb squad thinks the bomb was made by an amateur, using old chemicals.” Saying that out loud tickled something at the back of Zymer's mind. Wasn't there an old case with the same connection? Nothing leaped out immediately, but at least he'd scratched some new ground, maybe even planted a seed... “And another thing,” he went on doggedly. “My old partner Lou said he had a tip that the body we watched being planted at Woodlawn wasn't Tina Carone at all...” Suddenly Rachel's eyes flashed and she began to babble “Tina Tina Tina Tina...” like a stuck record. What was she trying to say? “What about Tina, Rache? Did you know her?” But she continued to babble Tina's name. Then she stopped, and what could have passed for lucidity lit up her face. “Manny,” she said clearly. “Manny? Manny who? Zalheim? LaMancha?” Rachel nodded. “Manny LaMancha,” she said. Then her eyes flooded with tears, rolled back in her head and she was lost again. Al remembered Manny LaMancha, all right – a medium-grade hoodlum who decided to blow the whistle on his mob bosses in Hollywood in return for a seat on the Witness Protection bus. Where had he been relocated? Nothing came to his mind, but it sounded like a good job for his new assistant. CHAPTER FIVE: Saul I was trying to explain my job and my very weird but also oddly intriguing new employer to Suzie, who worked as a medical researcher, had legs and a bottom that stopped traffic, and shared my love for crime fiction. “I sometimes think he's putting on the senility bit to see how I react,” I told her. “Other times, I'm not so sure.” “That in itself is a symptom of early-stage Alzheimer's,” she said. “ 'Do I have it, or don't I? You decide.' " “For example,” I said, “I went back to his office to see if I could find any evidence of the shot he thinks somebody took at him. Sure enough, there was a bullet hole in the wall, behind a curtain. And he visited an old English actress, a former lover or so I gather, at the Motion Picture Home. She's helped him out before. This time, although she's almost gone to live with the fairies, she suddenly started babbling about a guy called Manny LaMancha – I kid you not – in the Witness Protection Program, and Al asked me to find out where he is. "It was a cinch; turns out this windmill-tilter is ensconced in Ventura, our neighbor to the north. He's serving as a city councilman and owner of a health club. Then, when I told the old boy about this, he said he knew just the guy to get us more info: a journalist called Ivan Davis, who lives up there. So did he know where Manny was all the time, or is he pulling my chain? How should I handle this, my wise and beautiful love?” “So Zymer had a hot relationship going with this actress? What does he look like, anyway?” “Certainly not like an ex-cop,” I said. “In fact, he looks a lot like a description I once read of one of our favorite writers, Fredric Brown -- short, fine-boned, with delicate features. Al looks more like a retired professor than a bull.” “Some women go for that type. Lucky for you, Mr. Harry Covert, I'm not one of them,” Suzy answered slyly. We spent the rest of the day proving that in bed. CHAPTER SIX: Manny, Inc. Manny LaMancha was having trouble sleeping in his Ventura hideaway. His bed was adjustable, extra long, and cost as much as a used Toyota. But its features weren't helping tonight. Thanks to a tip-off from his Witness Protection handler, Manny had indeed heard that Al was on his trail. “What the fug?” he exploded, as he did to everything these days. Ventura was a quiet, well-run small city, but his new deal with a famous local actor meant he had to raise a lot of cash for their fancy restaurant. Just gutting and redecorating the old bank on Main Street had cost him about $2 million, and they weren't done yet. The actor lent his name but rarely opened his fat wallet. He would of course accept his hefty share of the loot – especially from the illegal gambling room they planned in the secret cellar. Why was that nutty old fart Zymer after him? Could he have learned about or figured out Manny's connection with getting him disgraced and fired from the LAPD? It was worth looking into, and LaMancha still had some guys on the Los Angeles turf who could help. And the top cop who was also involved with that dead girl was still in place, and owed Manny a big one. The same goniff from the Witness Protection Program who had tipped off LaMancha about Al's sudden interest also passed the tip to LAPD Chief Byron Gates – who reacted in a similar fashion. He buzzed his secretary, telling her to bring him the Zymer file. Gates read the file through carefully, although he knew the details by heart. Two names popped out like warning flags: Tina Carone and Katie Troncoso. Two dead women whose ghosts still haunted him. Meanwhile, Al was getting ready for a date of his own. Sex was problematic these days, but Tess Tosterone – a well-muscled gun dealer – might just be the answer. She was, all things considered -- and both fell into a deep sleep. At about five a.m., he woke up with a start. “And my poker buddy at the Bomb Squad thinks the bomb was made by an amateur, using old chemicals,” he'd told Rachel, and saying that had set off a ticking clock in his addled brain. Suddenly, like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds, it came to him. A Russian – Petrov, Petrovsky? – who had tried to steal 100 million bucks from the City of Beverly Hills by threatening to blow up several big stores unless he got his money. This was when? The 1950's? Rosoff wasn't on the job yet, which was why he hadn't picked up on the old chemicals. Al scratched around to find out what else he remembered. The Russky, whatever his name was, had been caught as he tried to pick up his loot. Zymer had vague memories of his trial; he testified as the arresting officer. Where was Petrov now? Nothing came to mind. This was obviously another job for his new assistant – who certainly deserved a salary as soon as Castle's money began to flow... --- Ivan Davis, a lanky Brit who had worked for the London Express for 30 years before he got fed up with print journalism, was doing a piece for his blog when his cellphone rang. He didn't recognize the incoming number. “Ivan? It's Al Zymer. Howya doing, my old mate? Lost any marbles since we last spoke?” Davis chuckled. “You should talk. They named the disease after you. Anyway, my mind is as sharp as ever. What's up with you?” “I just got a case which involves a guy who's in the Witness Protection Program in Ventura. Does the name Manny LaMancha ring a bell?” “Absolutely!” Ivan replied. “He's a city councilman, and he owns the Primrose Racquet Club, a fancy health place near the ocean. I also know that he and Conner Kevins have turned an old bank downtown into a fancy restaurant called The Waterworks. But I never heard about any Witness Protection action. Then again, I've always thought that Ventura was prime territory for the program.” Davis was working as a part time private eye and also as an online crime book seller – his site was called Blog Me Dead. Al knew that his son Dan was running a winery in Sonoma, and that his musician daughter Rosie lived in San Francisco. “What's Rosie up to in Frisco?” he asked. “Working for a distribution company, Mordam Records. And her band, now called Cockpit, is selling lots of discs and concert seats.” The band's new name made Al smile. Rosie Davis had been the bass guitar player of the all-girl group since her days at UC Santa Barbara: it had started as PMS, even though a folk trio called Patty, Mary and Sara objected. He remembered that most of the bridesmaids at Rosie's wedding in a posh Santa Barbara hotel were PMS members – one of them, a sweet and gentle girl whose studs and tattoos startled the more conservative Japanese relatives of the groom. “Maybe you and I should have a meal at The Waterworks," Ivan said. "I hear it's pricey – are you on an expense account?” “Yeah, my client says anything goes,” Al replied. It was a lie, but he'd work it out. CHAPTER SEVEN -- Saul I had been raised in a town near Ventura called Thousand Oaks. I was a late addition, and my parents – both now retired UC professors – had wanted their only child to grow up in a quiet, safe place. Berkeley certainly had its charms (among them the world's best pizza at Zachary's), but the city itself was becoming increasingly noisy and dangerous. When a colleague recommended Thousand Oaks, we checked it out and made the move. My favorite place in the town was a bookstore called Mysteries To Die For, where my taste for crime fiction was honed. Such local writers as John Shannon, Gary Phillips, Lee Lockwood and many others read, signed and discussed their latest books on a regular basis. It was as close to heaven -- and as far from the school library -- as a budding mystery lover could get. My mother, of course, objected to my new love of mysteries: she was a historian, and a bit scornful of genre fiction. But my old man, a musician with broader tastes, loved a good thriller and encouraged me. I could have used my parents' connections to get into Berkeley, but having grown up there I decided to try a new place. UC Santa Barbara looked interesting: they even had a course on vampire literature in their catalogue. I signed up for it to give me a lull in my otherwise heavy schedule. Lucky I did. It was an interesting group -- 30-odd (some very odd) students, most of us looking for a gut course, and a few with a real interest in the subject. We were instructed with a straight face by an assistant professor who had a taste for blood. And there in the front row was an absolutely stunning woman named Suzie Charpentier. Like me, Suzie was unattached -- though not for want of trying by every other male in the class, including the instructor. Fear of failure kept me from immediately joining the line. But one day during the first week of our class, I walked into a coffee shop called Nicoletti's in Isla Vista and saw that Suzie was sitting alone at a table, reading. It was now or never. "Mind if I share your space, fellow bloodsucker?" I asked in as jaunty a manner as I could. She lifted her eyes (the color of Canadian whiskey, as one of my favorite Nanci Griffith songs said) from her book -- an old Ross Macdonald paperback, I noticed -- and then actually smiled. "Saul, isn't that your name?" I tried to hide my delight at her recognition. "And you are Suzie, no? Are you enjoying The Way Some People Die? It's one of my favorites." "Oh yes," she replied. "I've liked Macdonald best ever since I read that very rude remark about him in Chandler's letters. Do you know it?" "The one which attacks Macdonald for describing a car as 'acned with rust'? I always thought Chandler was a British public school boy trying to act tough. He was never in Hammett's league, or Macdonald's." We went on in this delicious vein for an hour, then adjourned to my room. The rest, as they say, is history... CHAPTER EIGHT -- Al and Ivan Ivan Davis pulled his ancient but gleaming Triumph Razorback, which looked like a small Bentley, into the valet parking slot at the side of Waterworks. “Hope you guys got a reservation,” the attendant said as he admired the vehicle. “We're standing room only tonight.” Ivan and Al assured him they were covered. Prepared to spend some time staring around at the amazing restoration job in spite of their reservation, they were surprised to hear the lovely young woman at the desk saying that their table was ready. “If the food is as good as the service, we're in for a treat,” Ivan said. “I hope you've got a credit card with two hundred bucks on it.” “Don't worry,” Al reassured him. “My client coughed up good.” Another lie; he might have to risk using the fake American Express card he'd paid a former client $500 for. The menu began with a bang, and got even better as they read it out loud, like Orson Welles in that old commercial: “CHILI DUSTED PRAWNS WITH ROASTED GARLIC Sautéed to perfection with extra virgin olive oil, garlic, and rosemary ~ 14 “ARTICHOKE BRUSCHETTA Marinated artichokes and fresh tomatoes with basil and lemon. Served on grilled artisan bread ~ 11 “BEEF CARPACCIO Thinly sliced Filet Mignon drizzled with a lemon dill aioli, topped with shaved Parmesan and fried capers ~ 13” And that was just the starters. Ivan and Al plunged avidly ahead into the main courses: “PAN-SEARED CHICKEN TAPENADE Crispy half chicken roasted to perfection and finished with our olive tapenade. Served with wild rice and seasonal vegetables ~ 23 “BRAISED BEEF SHORT RIBS Slow roasted for over 8 hours. Served on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes, peppers and onions then smothered in our natural pan sauce ~ 25 “LOBSTER POT PIE Tender chunks of Maine lobster and seasonal vegetables surrounded by a portobello and black truffle brandy sauce. Served in a clay pot topped by a buttery puff pastry crust (Please allow 30 minutes to prepare) ~ 45 “HERB CRUSTED RACK OF LAMB Succulent New Zealand lamb plated with a veal demi glace and mint bernaise. Served with crispy rosemary potatoes ~ 37 “NEW YORK STEAK 14-ounce New York steak dusted with Kona sea salt and paired with our red russet garlic mashed potatoes and fresh local vegetables. ~ 37” Ivan finally settled on the prawns, followed by the short ribs. After warily checking out the prices, Al said “Fuck it” and ordered the carpaccio and a New York steak adorned with cracked pepper demi glace, sauteed portabello mushrooms and shoestring onions. As they waited for their pricey grub, Al and Ivan checked out what Manny and his partners had done to the stately old bank. The style was an impressive mix of Colonial and art-deco influences: hand-stenciled ceilings, wood paneling and murals painted by various artists. “I'm sure they had a decorator,” Al said. “The Manny I knew could never have come up with this.” The food was absolutely wonderful, leaving them both smiling with delight. The tab had come in at $178; Al added a $38 tip and nervously handed over his fake AmEx card – which sailed through like a charm. Still beaming, they waited for the elevator to take them up to the top floor, which reportedly offered spectacular views. It too lived up to its reputation. Going down, they shared the ride with two guys who looked familiar to Al. He glanced over at Ivan to see if his friend shared his own vague recollection, but Davis apparently didn't. Then it dawned on Zymer: they were a couple of Manny LaMancha's crew from Los Angeles. Al and Ivan got out first; one of the other guys – the short and round one -- muttered something about leaving his wallet upstairs as he pushed the button which closed the door. On a hunch, Al watched the display which showed what floor the elevator was on. It hadn't moved. Al punched the “Up” button; the car arrived empty. Where in hell had those boys gone? “I think there's another floor under this one,” Al said. “Wanna take a look?” They got into the elevator. Al pushed the “Down” button. Nothing happened. He pushed it again. Still nothing. “I've got an idea,” Ivan said. He reached over Al and pushed “Up” and “Down” at the same time. It worked; the elevator moved slowly downward. Al reached for his .38, remembering at the last minute that his permit had been yanked last year when he hit 70. The elevator door slid open, revealing a long room that looked at first glance like a cross between a Las Vegas casino and a very stylish cowboy saloon. It was full of people playing cards, dice and roulette. The absence of slot machines gave the place a distinctly upscale aura. Although the closest he'd been to be Montecarlo was watching a James Bond movie, Al knew that this was a much classier spot than any in Vegas. CHAPTER NINE -- Manny, Ivan and Al Waiting to greet them at the door was Manny LaMancha. The only feature he shared with his namesake was a woeful countenance. The rest of him was as graceful and muscular as a ballet dancer. “Al Zymer,” Manny growled in a voice that was pure Chicago mobster. “As I live and occasionally breathe. So you figured out the elevator trick. You're not as dumb as you look.” Al swallowed the insult. “It was my pal here who did that. Ivan Davis, this is the notorious Manny LaMancha.” “Yeah, we've met,” Manny said. “And I follow your blog every day.” He gestured to the short, round guy from the elevator who stood on his left, one hand in his jacket pocket. “This is my associate, Creighton Barrel. You boys wanna play?” “Mr. LaMancha,” said Ivan, “I must say that I'm shocked – shocked! – to find illegal gambling going on in our fair city.” Manny grinned. “Casablanca, right? I love that movie. You guys sure you don't fancy some poker or a turn on the wheel? No? Okay, then. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” “You remember a woman called Tina Carone?” Al asked. LaMancha's grin disappeared. “I don't think so,” he replied carefully. “Why do you ask?” “Well, my old LAPD partner, Lou Gabriel, told me the other day that he'd just had a call from some weirdo in Arizona who says he knows where she's buried. I said, 'So what? Everybody knows. You and I saw her go under at Woodlawn.' “Sure. But Al, this guy says the casket we watched had somebody else's body in it.” "I don't understand what this has to do with me,” Manny said. “Well, I happened to mention what Lou said to a friend who's helped me in the past. She blurted out your name,” said Al. “Was this your English friend in the Motion Picture Home? She's even more addle-brained than you are. As for Gabriel, he was always just a dumb cop.” Zymer instantly regretted giving the gangster a link to his sources; he had heard stories of LaMancha's savage revenges. “Okay, let's forget that one,” Al said. “What's this I hear about you owning a racquet club? Got any swimming pools?” “Yeah, two great ones and a Jacuzzi. Why don't you drop in for a splash tomorrow? I'll leave your name at the desk.” “Sound fine,” Al said. “After that terrific meal we just had upstairs, I could use the exercise.” “You should have told me you guys were coming – I would've comped you. Hope you didn't have to pay the tab yourself.” “No, I've got a rich client,” Zymer said. “Lucky you. Anybody I might know?” “Probably not,” said Al. “He's a solid citizen.” CHAPTER TEN: Al Next morning at 11:30, Al pulled into the parking lot of the Primrose Racquet Club. Like most of Ventura, it had a clean and polished look – unlike the clogged streets of L.A., littered with garbage. Al had a great aunt, his mother's youngest. sister, who owned a lemon ranch on the east side of Ventura. Maybe he'd pay her a visit – if he could remember her name... He'd spent the night in Ivan's rambling house on Foothill Avenue, which had a fine view of the Pacific several miles below it. Davis had offered bed and breakfast, guessing that Al's rich client was a myth. “The kids are living in Sonoma and San Francisco,” he said. “I could use the company.” Al knew that Ivan's wife Shirley had died last year, and that his son Dan was running a winery in Napa. “What's Rosie up to in Frisco?” he asked. “Working for a distribution company, Mordam Records. And her band, now called Cockpit, is selling lots of discs and concert seats.” The band's new name made Al smile. Rosie Davis had been the bass guitar player of the all-girl group since her days at UC Santa Barbara: it had started as PMS, even though a folk trio called Patty, Mary and Sara objected. He remembered that most of the bridesmaids at Rosie's wedding in a posh Santa Barbara hotel were PMS members – one of them, a sweet and gentle girl whose studs and tattoos startled the more conservative Japanese relatives of the groom. CHAPTER 11 -- Al and Dana As Al slid into the Primrose's outdoor pool, he thought – as he often did in new pools – about the morning 30 years ago when he arrived at his favorite spot, the Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire, only to be stopped at the door. “Can't let you in today, Al,” said the security guard who used to be a cop. “Some lady who comes in even earlier than you was electrocuted – a broken light bulb fried her when she jumped in.” These memories filled his mind as he swam some laps, alone in the sun-warmed outdoor pool. He was doing a backstroke: he looked up behind him and his heart froze. Some vehicle – it might have been a a tractor or an earthmover – had crunched into a power pole just above the pool, and was carrying its high voltage right at him. Al scrambled and splashed his way as fast as he could to the nearest edge of the pool. But he knew he'd never be able to pull his aging bones out of the water in time. Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed his and yanked him to safety – just seconds before the pole fell and the water sizzled. He looked up and saw a short, wiry guy who he'd noticed working in the pool area. “Christ, that was close,” Al's savior said in a surprisingly high tenor voice. “I've never lost a club member that way. A couple of heart attacks, but never an electrocution.” “I've seen the results of one, and it wasn't pretty. Jeez, buddy, I really owe you one. My name's Al, by the way.” “Well, Al, I'm Dana. And it looks like you pissed somebody off.” Dana was right. Al thought about his near miss. Was it an accident or a coincidence? He didn't think so – somebody had definitely tried to kill him. It had to be LaMancha. But why? What had Al done to make himself so unpopular? Could it be anything to do with Tina Carone? As promised, Manny had left a guest pass at the club's desk. Al signed in and was directed to a clean, no-nonsense locker room. Not much good at bending these days, he'd asked for a higher locker, and found it perfect as he scrambled into his bathing suit and made his way down the corridor. On his left was the entrance to the pools and hot tub. He showered quickly, examined the pools – one indoors, the other outside, both lightly attended – and decided on a soak before his swim. There were two other old guys in the Jacuzzi, a tall white man and a smaller Japanese. Both gave Al a warm welcome and immediately launched into their respective biographies. The white guy's claim to fame was that his kid brother owned one of the largest software companies in the business. The Japanese gent, Mifune Valentine, had an Italian restaurant. Al sensed that the hot tub meetings were an important part of their social lives, so he listened, smiled and contributed a heavily-edited story of his life. CHAPTER 12: Al, Ivan, Quentin At 11 p.m. that night, Al and Ivan were sitting in the Busy Bee, a coffee shop on Main Street where Ivan's buddy Quentin O'Rourke, a Ventura County Sheriff's Deputy, preferred to conduct his business. "What, they got no Dunkin' Donuts up here?" Al asked. "Nope. No WalMarts, either. The City Council is very tough about keeping the place from turning into Los Angeles." "Is this the same City Council where Manny has a chair?" Ivan was spared from replying by the arrival of a large man in a rumpled uniform. "You must be Al Zymer," the deputy said. "Is the name real, or are you taking the piss?" The only other person Al knew, aside from Rachel, who used that expression was Ivan. "You a Brit?" he asked. "Nope. I was born in L.A. But I've picked up some of Ivan's weird lingo, plus a taste for British soccer -- which they call football. Try telling that to your average 300-pound linebacker." "So, how did you guys meet?" asked Al. "Working on a case?" "Believe it or not, this mick is a member of my synagogue," Davis answered genially. "The O'Rourke is from my father. My mother's name was Moscovitz. I feel right at home every time I walk into a temple." CHAPTER 13: Al "Is this Albrecht Zimmerman?" asked a voice that had 'lawyer' dripping from it like icicles. "Who wants to know?" Al said cautiously. "My name is Bernard Montez. I represent the late Bertha Vanation. If you are indeed Albrecht Zimmerman, I have some news for you." That was her name, Al thought. I never went to see her, and now she's dead. He vaguely remembered a thin, quiet woman, just the opposite of her sister. Al's mother was loud and insistent; his car salesman father put up with it, but Al left the house as soon as he could enroll in the Police Academy. He visited her once, after his old man died, but she was deep in senilty herself by that time. "How did you get this number?" "Your associate, Mr. Kearney, gave it to me," Montez said. "Can we get together tomorrow? Please bring as much ID as you can to prove you really are Albrecht Zimmerman." The lawyer was as smooth and cold as a glass of horchata as he told Al that his Aunt Bertha had left him a small lemon grove on the eastern end of Ventura, along Telegraph Road. The main house was gorgeous -- six rooms full of old Mexican-style furniture. The only other private building on the ranch was the modest home of the longtime manager, Pablo. The seasonal workers who picked the lemons and cared for the trees were housed in a clean but depressing bunkhouse on the edge of the grove. Al took one look and decided to move in. Ivan was amazingly generous letting him freeload at his house, but Al felt like the ranch was a kind of a homecoming. That plus the fact that Montez had told him the place was green-belted and couldn't be sold until 2020 made up his mind... CHAPTER 14: Saul I had come down to Beverly Hills to search through Al's files, which hadn't yet made the move to Ventura. I used his key to open the door, then gently closed and locked it. Where to start? Why not with Jon Castle, who had finally coughed up some cash to help us find his bomber? I hoped that Al was familiar enough with the alphabet to make searching easier. Sure enough, there was a stained and battered folder marked "Castle" right after one that seemed to say "Bezerides." Why was that name familiar? Wasn't he a famous screenwriter who specialized in film noir? No time to waste now, but I made a mental bookmark for later. I found my first clue in Al's cramped handwriting on a crumpled sheet of paper. The name PETROVSKY leaped from the page -- the same name that Al had muttered to me after some sexual encounter with a tough female arms dealer called Tess Tosterone. What in hell was going on here? Why was I trapped in a mad punster's nightmare? Castle, I quickly discovered, was the president of the Beverly Hills Merchants' Association at the time of the Petrovsky bomb threat and multi-million dollar extortion attempt. Blog me dead. Coincidence, or something more dangerous? I folded the contents of the file in half and stuffed it into my undershorts. Lucky I did. I heard a click behind me at the door. A cleaning person? Al hadn't mentioned this possibility, and the layer of dust didn't suggest it. Nope, somebody was definitely trying to break in with a credit card or other burglar's friend. I eased myself around as quietly as possible, but it was too late. A short, round, barrel-shaped type was already inside and had spotted me at the file cabinet. We both spoke at the same time: "Who the fuck are you?" But his voice was cool and mine was just scared. "I work here," was all I could manage. "What's your excuse?" He laughed, then smashed my nose with a hard, fast right. "Creighton Barrel, at your service, asshole. You must be the new assistant. This should teach you both not to fuck with Manny." Another blow crashed into my face, splashed blood all over my shirt, then sent me quickly into dreamland. CHAPTER 15: Saul I woke up slowly and painfully after about an hour, noticed that the contents of Al's filing cabinet were scattered on the floor and that my briefcase had suffered similar treatment, then used my cell phone to call not Al (who couldn't figure out how to work even a simple one like Jitterbug) but first Suzie and then Quentin O'Rourke at his office. I told them where I was and what had happened, then drifted off again. Next time I woke up, I was in a bed in the ER at Ventura's Community Memorial Hospital. I had dozed through the arrival of the paramedics and the trip from Los Angeles at what I later learned was record speed. Suzie and Al were both there, looking scared and surprised. Al had wanted to go after Manny's henchman himself, but Quentin had talked him out of it. "I've got a better idea," he'd said, and left to get it done. Al tamped down his anger and apologized. "They were after me, not you," he said. "You still want in on this?" Suzie shook her head, but I took her hand. "There are no quitters in the Kearney family," I said, but decided not to tell my parents just yet. "How long am I going to be in this nickel joint?" "They said at least a week," Suzie answered. "Saul, are you sure you're up for this? You took a pretty bad beating, my old stringbean." "She's got a point," Al growled. "You look like The Mummy with all those bandages." "Looks aren't everything. Besides, I found out something good before that shitheel started pounding me." But before I could explain, I was off again into cloud cuckoo land... PART TWO: THE KID Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania. – Dorothy Parker CHAPTER 16: Al and Al Al jerked awake so hard he almost gave himself whiplash. A voice -- an oddly familiar voice -- was saying, "No sign outside, Al? Mom said you always had one at your office in L.A., which amused the neighbors no end." It was the "Mom said" that give him the clue. Her voice on the phone a couple of weeks before -- "It's me" -- could still quicken his heart, even after twenty years of not hearing it. "Hello, me," Al had said. "How are you? I heard you became a lawyer, got married, even had a kid." "You have your sources, don't you?" "Well, I'm still a detective, for what it's worth," Al answered. "Not that it's worth much these days." "Do you ever get down to L.A.?" she asked "The old legs gave out awhile ago. I even had to give up driving. How about you? Ever get up to Ventura? I inherited a little lemon ranch up here." "No, Al – that's why I'm calling. I seem to have lost the breast cancer war.” “I'm so sorry, my love,” Al began, but she interrupted. “I'm sending up someone to meet you,” she said. “You'll recognize him – and I hope you'll understand why I had to wait to tell you. Bye, my love. See you on the other side.” "I didn't mean to scare you, old man," said the voice. Al suddenly realized who it reminded him of: a younger version of Saul Kearney, still recovering from his beating by LaMancha's muscle, Creighton Barrel. Al looked up. As the boy's mother had said, he did recognize him. The youngster was an exact replica of Al as he had looked 50 years ago. Despite himself, he gasped and said the first thing that came into his mind. "Does your dad know?" "He died two years ago," the boy replied. "And by the way, my name is Al -- Al Frankel. Mike Frankel was a great father; nobody could ever replace him." His hard look at Zymer made Al realize that there was a lot of resentment in the youngster. "So you're 20. What have you been up to?" "I gave Santa Monica College a try," the boy said. "But I didn't see anything that appealed. Then, when she knew she was dying, Mom told me about you, and what you did for a living. I figured, why not see if the PI gig was for me. And here I am -- your new assistant." "Assistant? Hold on, boy. I have trouble making a living myself. There's no dough for an assistant..." "Mom said you were the cheapest bastard in Hollywood," young Al laughed. "Don't freak out -- I'll work for room and food, at least for a while." "Okay. You got a deal." He almost added "Son," but held off until they knew each other better. "You want to get started right away? My regular assistant, Saul Kearney -- a little older than you -- unfortunately got beaten up working on a case for me, so I could use some help." "Beaten up?" the boy asked. "What kind of case?" Al searched his mind for details, but nothing came up. Maybe Saul had written them down. He looked through the box of stuff which Kearney's friend Suzie had shipped to him. There was a file in it labeled "LaMancha." Zymer skimmed Saul's notes quickly, felt a switch in his brain click on, and passed the file to the boy. "Manny LaMancha, a former L.A. mobster now in the Witness Protection Program up here. He's tried to kill me a couple of times -- once in L.A. and once up here. And I still don't know why! What does he think I know?" "His name really is Manny LaMancha?" young Al asked. "Yeah. Why?" "Guess you never read Don Quixote at Hollywood High," said his son. "Never mind. Why did Saul get the shit kicked out of him? Did he make some joke about the guy's name?" "Damned if I know. Maybe Manny thought we were getting too close for comfort. trying to link him to a couple of cold cases. Anyway, one of his muscles…" (he almost said "Creighton Barrel," but decided to skip it)… "paid Saul a visit and put him in Community Memorial Hospital." "Is he still there?" the boy asked. "Yeah, for another week." "Maybe I should drop in, see what else he's found. I'll drive over there after lunch. What have we got to eat, aside from lemons?" "There's some avocados from my own trees," his father answered. "And a new bag of onion bagels. I'll make the coffee. You do drink coffee, don't you?" "I'd rather have a beer." "You're in luck," said Al. "The old lady…" (What was her name again?)… "left a case of Dos Xs in the pantry." CHAPTER 18: Young Al, Saul, Hugh Mungess After lunch, young Al got directions and drove off in his ancient Honda. There seemed to be more questions than answers in Saul Kearney's file, but the boy had read enough crime fiction in his short life to know that eventually everything would (probably) be made clear. The largest human being young Al had ever seen was sitting in a too-small chair outside Saul's hospital room. Al blinked, then realized he'd seen him before -- a professional football player, certainly a blocker or a tackle. What in hell was his name? It suddenly leaped into his head. "Hugh Mungess! The Eagles, 2006, right?" The giant rose slowly, recognized the kid as no threat, and walked toward him. "You got it. And who are you?" "I'm Al Frankel -- Al Zymer's son. Are you guarding Saul's body?" "Better late than never. Quentin O'Rourke is a good friend, knew I could use the work. Go on in -- I think he's awake." "So this guy's real name is Manny LaMancha?" Al asked Saul as soon as they'd introduced themselves in Kearney's room. "I couldn't believe it, either," a still battered and bandaged Saul replied. "And the guy who beat me up is actually called Creighton Barrel. What are we involved in -- some punster's nightmare?" "Al didn't seem to get it when I asked if the name La Mancha was a joke. That's another thing I wanted to find out from you. Is the old fart really slipping into senility, or is he putting us on?" "I asked my friend Suzie, who does medical research, the same thing. She says that's a definite symptom of early stage Alzheimer's. 'Do I have it, or don't I? You decide.' One of his clients asked him, 'What's with this Columbo routine -- asking the same questions over and over?' And Al's face convinced me that he had no idea who Columbo was…" CHAPTER 19: Enter Misha Goss As young Al left Saul's room and exited the hospital, he noticed a big man in his 60s with a shaved head and white beard apparently watching him. The man, casually dressed in expensive jeans and a sleek leather jacket, looked foreign, but Al couldn't say why. In the hospital parking lot he saw the man again, this time making no effort to hide his interest in Al. The boy took out his cellphone and called Zymer at home. He described the watcher, but the details didn't seem to match anyone the detective knew -- or remembered. The man was standing next to a new black SUV as Al pulled out. He turned on his phone's camera on and got off two shots as he drove by. Maybe the pictures would turn out to be useful. Young Al decided to take a little tour of Ventura before heading back to the ranch. That way, he might catch a glimpse of the big man if he was indeed tailing him. As an L.A. kid, he was at first surprised -- not much traffic on the clean streets, nobody blowing their horns or shouting out nasty stuff at other drivers (except for one fat guy in an eye patch; probably a nut case) -- and then charmed by the place. Sure, there were plenty of shopping malls, but somebody had set some standards: no fast fooderies on every corner, many large green spaces to ease the urbanity. Downtown Main Street was even more of a surprise. What had been a collection of thrift shops and old magazine stores when young Al and his parents had stopped ten years ago on their way home from the Ojai Valley Inn was now a bustling, trendy area, full of boutiques and restaurants of all flavors. "I'll be back," he growled in his best Arnold imitation, "as soon as that cheap dick starts paying me." He spotted the black SUV behind him as he turned back toward the lemon grove. It was making no attempt to hide. What to do? He was unarmed, and Al Sr. had mentioned that he was, too -- thank the gun gods. But he didn't want to lead this guy to the grove. So he turned right and then left on a much quieter street. Now came the dangerous part. Young Al slowed down until the SUV was right behind him. Then he braked hard and swung left to block the road. Then he waited. "You vant to play games, young man?" The other driver had come out of his vehicle and stood next to Al's. "I tink you lose. And dat vould be a shame. All I vant is to talk to Al Zymer." "He's in the phone book, last I looked." He wasn't, but screw this goon. "I need to have -- vot is it called? -- a one on one chat vit him," the big man said. "About what, the price of lemons?" "About a mutual enemy of ours, a man vit the ridiculous name of Manny LaMancha." This caught Al's attention. "Who is this joker?" he asked. "Your fodder knows him him vell. And I can assure you dat he'll want to hear what I have to say." Young Al took out his cellphone. "Pop, it's me again. I ran into that guy, following me home. He says he wants to talk…" "Mr. Zimmerman, my name is Misha Goss," said the big man, taking the cellphone forcibly from young Al. "Am I vot? Carrying? Ah, you mean am I armed? Not at the moment. Are you? I thought not -- you lost your permit when you hit seventy, I understand." From what he could overhear, young Al thought that this gent knew an awful lot about family business. Did that make him dangerous? "He vants to talk to you," said Goss, handing the kid the cellphone. "Can he hear me?" was the first thing Zymer asked his son. "I don't think so." "Okay, bring him here -- as slowly as possible. I'll try to get Quentin and his large friend to hang around outside. And son, try not to worry. Most of us have done this before." CHAPTER 20 -- Al and Al "Why didn't you and my mom ever get married?" Al looked at his son across the kitchen table, as they ate some excellent cheese omelets the boy had made. Slightly leathery, just the way Al Sr. liked them. The meeting with Misha Goss had been interesting, to say the least. The big Russian seemed to have a serious bone to pick with Manny LaMancha, and wanted Zymer's help in bringing him down. No reasons were given, even when Al and his son tried to press him. But Saul would start his "doodling" into that as soon as he was up to it. "It wasn't for want of trying," Al finally said to his son's question. "You remember your grandmother at all?" "Some. She died when I was four." "Yeah. Well, the last thing she wanted for her Yale-educated daughter was to marry a cop. Your mom, bless her heart, argued as much as she could, but I could tell it was tearing her apart. So I broke it off. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." "So you really loved her?" the boy asked after a long pause. "It wasn't just sex with a gorgeous younger woman?" "That was part of it, I have to admit. But did I really love her? Yes, I really did. Can you live with that? From what I understand, you had a better life with Frankel than I could ever have given you, or her." Al Sr. chewed another bite of his omelet. "Of course, if I'd known about you, I probably would've done something stupid and tried to see you. Your mom probably knew that, which is why she never told me." CHAPTER 21-- Al and Al Al was dreaming again, this time about Tina Carone. In his dream, he suddenly saw the connection between her and Katie Troncoso. But when he woke up, he couldn't remember the connection. "Son, I need your help," Al said as he knocked on the kid's bedroom door. He explained what had just happened. "How can I recover a dream? Didn't Freud write something about that?" Young Al, amazed that his father even knew about dream interpretation (what else did he know, or had forgotten he knew?), said the first thing that came into his head. "To hell with Freud, he was a sick cookie anyway. Let's stick with the experts we know. Saul's out of the hospital, and his girl Suzie, besides having a great ass, does medical research for a living. I say we convene a meeting of the minds." CHAPTER 22 -- Al & Co. They met two days later in Al's large living room, with the smell of lemon blossoms drifting in through the open windows along with the noise of trees being attacked by saws. Suzie, her expertise on full display, took charge. "Al, there are a lot of things we want to try out on you, some new tests to measure memory loss. But that can wait. Right now, let's see how much of that dream we can recover. Any thoughts, guys?" Saul stepped up to the plate. "Al, remember the first day we met? You were having a dream then, which I woke you up from. You were muttering something about Effie, and Toots McAllister. Can you recall any of that?" Al thought for a minute. "Not much. Effie was my secretary… No! She was Sam Spade's secretary! And Toots, I seem to remember she had something to do with an old case… But that's all. I'm sorry." "You're doing great, Pops," his son said. "Now let's try the same thing with your new dream. Katie Troncoso was, if I remember correctly from Saul's file, a big win for you: the LAPD thought the sun shone out of your ass. But Tina Carone was the one they fired you for! Why would the two cases be connected?" Al gulped, then said it: "Would any of you mind if I lay on the couch while we do this?" His son laughed. "Whatever turns you on. Maybe Freud wasn't as limp a dick as I thought…" CHAPTER 23 -- Al, Quentin, Hugh Mungess Two days later, Al was still feeling frustrated about his forgotten dream. The youngsters had tried hard, but nothing more came out of their efforts. Al hadn't slept well since the original incident, so at about midnight he got out of bed and opened his front door to breathe in some cool night air. He felt the shot pass close over his head, then heard the rifle's sound. No dream this time, no roscoe barking "Kachow!" as he dozed in his chair. Scared shitless, he backed into the house quickly, bolted the door behind him, then called Quentin. "I'll round up Hugh and get right over," the deputy said. "And Al, this is no joke. Somebody wants to scare you." "Well, they sure did that. You don't think they were trying to shut me up for good?" "No, I don't," Quentin replied. "Whoever these guys work for, LaMancha or Goss, they can shoot better than that." O'Rourke and his big buddy arrived about twenty nervous minutes later. They had obviously been putting together a plan, which Quentin explained. "We want you to put this on," he told Al, handing him a serious-looking bulletproof vest with "Property of Ventura County Sheriff's Dept." stenciled on it. "What, you're using me for bait?" "I'm afraid so. Hugh and I would do it, but we're both too big to fool even a blind shooter. And your shrimp of a son would leap at the chance, so that's why I don't want you to tell him." "Agreed," said Al. "Luckily, he's spending the night over at Ivan's house. Okay, then what?" "Then it's my job," Hugh answered. "I do this for a living, Al. I'll be outside, and with any luck the shooter will try again when you show yourself. And then I'll handle him." "Handle? Not kill?" "We need to know who he works for," Quentin said. "He can't tell us if he's dead." CHAPTER 24: Al & Co. There were no more shots from either side during the night, and Al went back to bed -- first taking off the vest so as not to alarm the youngsters. They trooped in about ten, and Al and his son cooked up some very good French toast. "I did some doodling on our new friend Misha Goss," Saul said with a smile. "It turns out that he is indeed a paid-up member of the Russian Mafia -- based in St. Petersburg and not Moscow, for reasons still to be determined." "Any connection between him and Manny?" Al Sr. asked. "Just one hint so far -- a Russian blog said Goss had been ripped off by some California mobster, and was seeking revenge. And somebody in a bathhouse spotted him naked, and noticed a very common mob tattoo on his back. This one said MIR, which is a Russian word for world. But it's also, I've discovered, an acronym for Menya Ispravit Rastrel -- Execution will Reform Me." "I didn't know you spoke Russian, my sweet string bean," Suzie said. "I don't -- but luckily I've got a computer program that does." "Okay boys, let's get back to work," she said. "We've decided to leave the dream recovery for now, Al. Today, we're going to try out a few tests. Nothing frightening -- just some new ways to see if you really do have any signs of your namesake disease. For example, have you had any money problems recently? Any payments you might have missed?" "None that I can recall," said Al, with a late laugh as he got his own joke. "My only money problem is not having enough -- especially now that I've got this extra mouth to feed." "Tough luck, Pops," said his son. "And I was about to ask you for some pocket money." CHAPTER 25 -- Quentin and Major Crime The Sheriff of Ventura, Major Charles Crime, was a Vietnam vet who had come home from the war, gained the support of a local right wing lunatic Republican Congressman called Elvin Gagrule, and never looked back. Crime, who hated work, spotted Quentin O'Rourke as an eager young man who would do anything to shine. So he made O'Rourke his chief deputy, and then spent his time on important issues like hassling local pot dealers. Quentin was indeed eager, and also a lot smarter than he looked. He took over the Sheriff's Office and ran it well -- never letting his boss know what was going on. So, when Los Angeles Chief of Police Byron Gates sent a warrant for the arrest of "one Albrecht Zimmerman, aka Al Zymer," as a material witness in the just-reopened murder of Tina Carone, it was O'Rourke who got the document. "I'll kick it around for a while until it gets lost," Quentin told Al on the telephone. "Meanwhile, let's hope somebody tries to take another shot at you. And don't forget to wear your vest." "Is Hugh still on the case? I haven't seen him lately." "If you had seen him, he wouldn't be doing his job," Quentin said. "Now, I've gotta go screw up my boss some more." CHAPTER 26 -- Al & Co. "Okay, Al -- time for some more tests designed to make you feel stupid," his son cackled. Their attempts to recover more of his dream linking the Tina Carone and Katie Troncoso murder cases hadn't yet come up with much, but Al could feel something stirring deep inside what was left of his mind. Now, if he could just reconnect a few of those tangled wires… "Let's start out with something simple," said Suzie, who had briskly taken charge without complaint from Al Jr. or Saul. "Let's have you draw a clock. A nice, big round clock, with its hands pointing to 3:30. Can you do that?" "A.M or P.M.?" Al Sr. joked, as he made a large circle on Suzie's drawing pad, then added huge Disney hands at the 3 and 6 marks. "How did I do, teach?" "I'd call that a 10," said Charpentier. "Even with those Mickey Mouse mitts. Now, let's try something slightly different. I want you to read out the time on your wall clock." Al glanced up at the battery-operated platter of bacon and eggs hanging behind him. "Looks like 4:17 to me," he said. "Grand. Now I need some pocket change. Cough up, guys -- quarters, dimes and nickels, please." She passed Al three quarters, seven dimes and seven nickels. "Okay, Al -- make me a dollar's worth of change out of that. You've got three minutes." This one was a bit harder. He had to try three different combinations of coins in his head before he came up with the three quarters, two dimes and one nickel which he shoved across the table as Suzie's finger lifted to click her stopwatch. Saul took over. "Here comes a fun one," he said. "It uses your nose. Notice any signs of losing your sense of smell recently?" "Now that you mention it," Zymer said, "my cigars just don't smell or taste the way they used to." "Considering those stinkpots you smoke, I'm not surprised. But researchers have known for some time that loss of the sense of smell is an early warning sign of Alzheimer’s. Turns out the beta-amyloid plaques that ultimately destroy memory and other cognitive abilities accumulate first in areas of the brain that are responsible for perception of odors. Anyway, I've got ten items here which I want you to identify. Ready?" Al nodded, and Saul passed him samples to sniff it. "Strawberry?" he said to the first one, not quite sure. Saul said nothing, just handed him another sample to sniff. Menthol, perhaps? Natural gas he was certain of, also lemon -- or was that pineapple? Soap, to be sure. But the rest were blurred and could have come from a failed movie inSmell-O-Vision… His son leaped in with some more sneaky tests. "Okay, Pops, I want you to name as many fruits as you can in a minute -- try for ten if you can, but don't sweat it." Lemons, of course. Avocados -- were they a fruit? How about tomatoes? Garlic? Peaches? "Let's move on. I'm gonna say three words, and I want you to remember them and repeat them back: Ferocious, flounder, female. Before you start repeating, try multiplying seven by 489 in your head. Okay, what were those words?" "Female. Ferocious. And the third was…. Shit, I forget." "Okay, old boy. Two out of three ain't bad…" A loud ring from the telephone interrupted the tests. "Al, it's me -- Lou Gabriel." "What's up, Lou?" "Well, my pension came through, and I heard a rumor that you could use some help up there. So I'm on my way…" Help? The only person Gabriel had had ever helped was himself -- to whatever was going. There was something very odd about this offer, and Al made a mental note to check it with Quentin. CHAPTER 27: Al, Mia Kulpa The call came the next day. “Mr. Zymer?” “Who wants to know?” “This is Mia Kulpa, the registrar at the Motion Picture Home,” a crisp voice replied. “I presume you’ve heard about our problems here?” “I guess not. Is this about Rachel?” What was her last name, again? “Rachel…Donner?” “I’m afraid it is, Mr. Zymer. We’re being forced to close down because most of our financial supporters were victimized by the Bernie Madoff swindle.” A vague light began to flicker in Al’s mind. “Yeah, now that I think of it, I did hear something. What’s going to happen with your patients - with Rachel?” “That’s why I’m calling. We’re trying to find other homes for them all, but we have to close down in a few weeks. Since you are the only visitor Miss Donner has had in the last several years, and since you know about her condition, we hoped you might have some suggestions.” The thought of his lovely Rachel in one of those terrible rest homes he’d heard and read about filled Al’s heart with tears. On the other hand, Ventura did seem to have more than its share of places that looked fine from the outside. It sounded like a job for the youngsters. “I’ll get right on it,” he said. “Did you say a few weeks? And your dough - your funds - are completely gone?” “The place is up for sale, and some real estate developer is already sniffing around the grounds,” Miss Kulpa replied. “I don’t think high-cost patients like Miss Donner are going to be a top priority.” Chapter 28 — Misha Goss, Al, Quentin, Hugh, Dana Prompted by Suzie’s questions, Al thought about his mother as he lay in bed. The truth was that he had never known she had dementia until the very end of her life, twenty years ago. Before that, his visits home were sporadic — mostly to see his old man, still lively until his peaceful death at 90 a few years ago. His mother seemed to him then to be the same royal pain in the ass she’d always been — the reason he'd gone to the Police Academy as soon as they would take him. But thinking back, he began to remember feelings, incidents, concerns. Something had certainly been going on in her head. A very early memory intruded out of the darkness: a sweetly smiling woman standing over his crib, singing something definitely not a lullaby… The call from Misha Goss woke him from a deep sleep. “I hear dat your former partner Gabriel is a very hot shooter, and has been hired by our mutual enemy to knock you off,” said Goss in his usual sideways manner. Dana called right after, to confirm. “Manny still has the hates for you. I haven’t found out why yet, but I’m working on it.” Al reported the details to Quentin. “Who should we trust here?” he asked. “Well, unless he’s a much better double-bluffer than I can imagine, my instinct says we go with Goss,” the deputy replied. “Maybe he can supply a couple of hot shooters of his own. I’d rather not involve the department if I can avoid it. The Sheriff would probably go batshit if he heard about it. Meanwhile, I’ll get Hugh and you recruit Dana. Find out if he has any guns, and maybe a couple of bodies he trusts. I have a hunch we’ll need all the help we can muster. But Al — not the kids.” “Of course not. They’re away for the weekend at someplace called The Apple Farm up the coast.” He didn’t add that Al Jr. had taken along his new young lady — whose name Al had already forgotten. CHAPTER 29— The Good Guys and the Bad Guys Quentin and Hugh arrived first. “Where’s your vest?” barked the deputy. “I took it off to have a shower,” Al replied. “What is this, more bait? I hope I can go outside and play with the big boys.” “From what I’ve heard about you as a shooter, you’re much safer in here,” Quentin said. Dana drove up next, alone, but heavily armed and shelled. Quentin dug a bulletproof vest out of his car trunk for him, but didn’t have one big enough for Hugh. The three of them spread out in the lemon trees around the house. Next to arrive was LaMancha’s team: Lou Gabriel, Creighton Barrel, three other guys from the gambling club — but no Manny. Since they’d never been here before, they took a few minutes to reconnoiter. “Al, it’s Lou. Stay cool. Nobody has to get hurt here,” his old partner shouted at the darkened house. Al couldn’t resist shouting back. “You gonna kill me without hurting me, Lou? Nobody’s that good a shot.” Then Manny himself roared up with one other henchman — and they had Ivan with them. “Al, your pal here will see his blog title come true unless you come out the house with your hands in the air — and empty. That way, everybody stays alive. All we want is to take you someplace safe for a little chat.” Quentin yelled “Stay put, Al! It’s a setup!” But Al did come out with his hands in the air. Then, from under his vest, he pulled out a handgun, a match to his old police revolver — a stolen gun he’d taken from his LAPD locker on the day he was sacked. He fired a shot at Manny which missed by about ten feet and ricocheted off a car behind him. All hell broke loose. Gabriel, who had managed to get himself and his rifle up into a tall eucalyptus tree, fired down on Al and his team. Quentin, Hugh and Dana blasted back; Manny’s boys returned their fire. Ivan hit the ground and rolled under a car. Hugh grunted loudly as he took a slug and fell like a giant tree. Dana also appeared to have taken a hit. It began to look very bad for the good guys. They were definitely out-gunned. Then a tank-like SUV roared up, full of Russian and Mexican mobsters — headed up by an Ouzi-toting Misha Goss. Chapter 30 — Aftermath Dana had taken a bullet in his upper thigh; two days later, he was already hobbling around on crutches, swearing revenge. But Hugh was still in Intensive Care at Community Memorial Hospital, lapsing in and out of consciousness, suffering from a much more dangerous sniper slug to his upper body. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises, the oldies — Al and Ivan — were fine, at their homes, trying to figure out what had just happened. By the time the Ventura cops had arrived, a shaken but unhurt Quentin was gone — having left the scene to Major Crime and his other officers. Manny and his crew (minus a couple of wounded, left behind in the trees) had also disappeared. And Misha and his tankload of assorted hoodlums had roared off into the night with their own wounded -- Goss doing his best Arnold imitation, waving his Ouzi and shouting, “I’ll be bach!” CHAPTER 31 — Saul We returned from the touristy peace of the Apple Farm to find the remains of a battle zone in Al’s own orchard. Police tape yellowed the house and trees; beleaguered cops under the very loud direction of a man with a big voice and a weedy body (Quentin’s boss, the ubiquitous Major Charles Crime, as it turned out) dug bullets out anything made of wood. “You ever seen anything like this?” one asked a colleague, showing him an unusual slug. “Yeah,” the other man said, “It comes from a Russian machine pistol — one of them Ouchies.” “Al,” I said to him when we got inside, “I think it’s time we figured out just what in hell is going on. Why does LaMancha want you so dead? I know Dana is digging, but I think I’ll go back to what’s left of your files and do a more thorough search. Did our pal Mr. Barrel get hit, I hope?” “Not that I noticed. But I’ll make sure that Dana keeps an eye on him.” “Good idea, dad,” said his son. “Meanwhile, I’ll go over to Ivan’s and use his computer to see if I can find a link between Manny and the LAPD guy who fired you. We need to ask a lot more questions.” I agreed. “Al, I know how much we both hate Conan Doyle — you remember, the Sherlock Holmes guy? But I think it’s time for me to take on the role of your Dr. Watson.” CHAPTER 32 — Suzie While the boys left on their various boyish pursuits, I decided to continue my own work on Al’s mental condition, using the new research I’d learned about from recent studies. (“When a middle-aged person jokes with his longtime family doctor that he feels as if he has a ‘Teflon brain,’ the doctor may do little more than laugh. But if the same man joked about having a pea-sized bladder, the doctor would insist on checking his prostate and probably refer him to a specialist,” was one gem). On a more serious note, I’d discovered that some individuals with a very high IQ or those who are really good test takers appear “normal” on the Mini-Mental State Exam when in fact they have Alzheimer’s-induced memory slowdown. To try to get by this, I’d also found that to assess language, a doctor might ask an obviously intelligent patient to name all the four-legged animals he or she can think of as quickly as possible, or to repeat complex phrases like “Nelson Rockefeller had a Lincoln Continental.” (Al liked that one, and repeated it three times — the last time adding, “Why not a Bentley?”) It turned out that the creative leap may well be informed by subconscious cues. In a well-known experiment, psychologists challenged people to tie together two cords; the cords hung from the ceiling of a large room, too far apart to be grabbed at the same time. A small percentage of people solved it without any help, by tying something like a pair of pliers to one cord and swinging it like a pendulum so that it could be caught while they held the other cord. In some experiments researchers gave hints to those who were stumped — for instance, by bumping into one of the strings so that it swung. Many of those who then solved the problem said they had no recollection of the hint, though it very likely registered subconsciously. We had some fun fooling around with that one. By then, it was time to get Al some free samples. CHAPTER 33 — Rachel, Al, Suzie, The Evil Umpire Despite its jokey name, The Last Resort turned out to be a good choice for Rachel. It was small, clean and didn’t radiate with despair as did some of the larger, fancier, more pricey places they had checked out. Bob Churchill himself was like a good coach rather than a paper-shuffling desk jockey. “I’m so glad to see you again, Miss Donner,” he said. “Do you prefer Miss Donner, or shall we call you Rachel?” Al watched in amazement as Rachel — who hadn’t uttered a word since they’d arrived — struggled to rise to the surface and then said, in a husky voice, “Rachel, to my friends.” “I hope you’ll let me into that select group. I’ve seen and loved all your movies.” A smile seemed to come to her face. It was a sad smile, but all the same it filled Al’s heart with almost unbearable lightness. CHAPTER 34 — Saul Dana had promised to keep an eye out for Creighton Barrel in Ventura, but I decided that I needed some more backup for my visit to Al's old office in the Writers and Artists Building in Beverly Hills. So I took along my trusty aluminum baseball bat. It wasn't as effective as an Ouzi or even Barrel's fists, but it might just give me an edge. The place looked and sounded quiet as I slipped in. Al's files still lay scattered on the floor, some of them marked with my dried blood. Had it really been just two months ago that I'd found, hidden in my shorts and then lost to the hospital laundry while I was in dreamland that clue to the name Petrovsky in one of Al's files? It came back to me now: Petrovsky was a Russian-born extortionist who used homemade bombs. Al and his bomb squad buddy had caught him after a threat to reduce several plush department stores on Beverly Drive to rubble. Did Petrovsky have any connection with our new Russian friend Misha Goss? And what about the link to Jon Castle, shirtmaker to the stars and now our paying client? On that same outing, I'd discovered Castle had been the president of the Beverly Hills Merchants' Association at the time of the Petrovsky bomb threat and multi-million dollar extortion attempt. Blog me dead, as Ivan Davis would say. Coincidence, or something more dangerous? I decided to walk across the street and have a few friendly words with our client. I'd just picked up my bat to leave when I heard a sound at the door that froze my blood. Somebody -- guess who? -- was using a burglar's tool to open Al's door. I stepped back and assumed the position. Barrel saw me and what I had in my hands. He tried to back out, but I gave him the best blast from my childhood past across his beefy chest. He fell like a lump of dead meat. I was tempted to finish the job with a smash to the head, but finally decided that a murder rap might slow down our investigation. So I packed up my stuff, stepped over the inert body on the floor, and walked across the street to talk to Castle. I parked my killer bat in the trunk of the car, so as not to frighten him or his sales staff. Castle was his usual dapper, charming self as I walked in. "You're Al's assistant, right? We met right after the bombing -- Saul, if I'm not mistaken. How's the investigation going up there in Ventura?" He smiled at my obvious surprise. "I do read all your expense account reports as they come in, and noticed the change of venue. Anything else to tell me?" "I'll leave that to Al, Mr. Castle." Then I tried a little test. "We've got our eye on a guy called Manny LaMancha, a former L.A. hoodlum now in the Witness Protection Program up north. You know him, by any chance?" Castle failed the eyeball-to-eyeball test: he blinked, then said, "Yeah, I think he used to be a customer. Luckily, his account was paid in full: the Feds aren't always so efficient. Anything else I can tell you?" "Just one more thing. Does the name Petrovsky mean anything to you?" "I don't think so," Castle replied. "Should it?" "Well, he was the Russian guy who threatened to blow up Neiman Marcus and a couple of other stores unless the Beverly Hills Merchants' Association paid him fifty million bucks. Captain Brian Rosoff, Al's friend on the bomb squad, says the stuff used on your store was the same kind of homemade brew." "No shit!" "And speaking of Russians, do you know a bent Ivan called Misha Goss?" Castle went white, His mouth opened, but before he could answer an extremely high velocity sniper bullet tore off a large part of his head. CHAPTER 35 — Saul I hit the floor quickly. As I went down, I looked across the street. Was I imagining it, or did a curtain move in Al's office? Later, when I got to tell a starchy Beverly Hills detective called Drew Lebby -- a John Malkovich wannabe -- about what I thought I'd seen, he sent a man over to check it out. The place was empty and locked up tight, he reported. So who had come in, killed Castle, then rolled out Barrel's inert body? My first thought was Al's old partner, Lou Gabriel. I called Al as soon as I could. "Sounds like it could be Lou," he agreed. "I'll ask Quentin how he thinks we should proceed. Get back here as soon as you're up for driving -- and nice work with the bat, Dr. Watson. Meanwhile, I'll call in a few favors and get Brian Rosoff to lean on this Lebby stiff and maybe give us a tip on the slug in our ex-client's head." CHAPTER 36 -- Al Jr. I'd been working with Dana, trying to find a link between Manny and Chief Gates, when the news about Castle's killing came in from Pops. It turned out that Dana used to work for LaMancha in L.A., and had been badly shafted by him in some fashion -- which is why he was now on our side. The other reason, I'd noticed, was that he liked Suzie's lovely ass. I wasn't going to point this out to Saul, who was surely used to seeing it happen. The connection, from one of Al's old informants who was also a former associate of Dana's, indicated that Gates and Manny were both involved (together or separately) in the killings of Tina Carone and Lucy Troncosco. This raised more questions than it answered, but at least it gave us a place to start. CHAPTER 37-- Suzie Surrounded by blood and thunder, and worried about Saul, I decided to use my own skills and see how Rachel was getting on at The Last Resort. Churchill's welcoming smile, as wide as an outfield, gave me my first clue. It turned out that he was an early advocate of a radical Alzheimer's management group known as Beatitudes. Disregarding typical nursing-home rules and practices, Beatitudes let its patients sleep, be bathed and dine whenever they wanted, even at 2 a.m. They could eat anything, too, no matter how unhealthy -- including unlimited chocolate. Rachel seemed to be thriving. She didn't say much, but she looked at me as though I was someone she knew. "Suzie," she said. I nodded."Yes, Rachel. I'm Suzie. Al's friend." "Al's friend. I love Al. I hope he knows that." "He does, Rachel. He knows." In Churchill's office, he told me that patients at Beatitudes are allowed practically anything that brings comfort, even an alcoholic “nip at night. The state tried to cite us for having chocolate on the nursing chart. They said ‘It’s not a medication.’ I said, 'Yes, it is. It’s better than Xanax.'” Back at my computer, I discovered that Beatitudes was actually following some of the latest scientific research, which suggested that creating positive emotional experiences for Alzheimer’s patients diminishes distress and behavior problems. Studies indicate that emotion persists after cognition deteriorates. In a University of Iowa study, people with brain damage producing Alzheimer’s-like amnesia viewed film clips evoking tears and sadness or laughter and happiness. Six minutes later, participants had trouble recalling the clips. But 30 minutes later, emotion evaluations showed they still felt sad or happy, often more than participants with normal memories. The more memory-impaired patients retained stronger emotions. This suggested that behavioral problems could stem from sadness or anxiety that patients cannot explain. As one study evaluator said, "these patients appear to have virtually no sundowning,” referring to agitated, delusional behavior common with Alzheimer’s, especially during afternoon and evening. For behavior management, Beatitudes plumbed residents’ biographies, soothing one woman by dabbing on White Shoulders perfume, which her biographical survey indicated she had worn before becoming ill. Food became available constantly, a canny move because people with dementia might be “too distracted” to eat during group mealtimes, and later “be acting out when what they actually need is food.” I made a note to myself to find out from Al what Rachel's favorite perfume was. CHAPTER 38 -- Al, Blake Hirskovitz Two years ago, Al had some successful cancer surgery at UCLA, and when his ace doctor suggested he try legal marijuana to ease the affects of radiation, he swallowed a large gulp of 1960s LAPD distaste, got himself a license and paid out a hundred bucks for some good buds from a dealer in Ventura named Blake Hirskovitz. Now, Hirskovitz -- a shrewd young guy with a family background in the restaurant business and a wife who made sensational pot-laced brownies -- appeared to be under a lot of pressure from Quentin's boss, Major Crime, who obviously saw the failure of a badly-conceived state proposition as the start of his high profile war against drug growers and dealers which would become a major part of his campaign to be California's next attorney general. Crime had banned Hirskovitz's low-key ads in the Ventura County Reporter, which was quickly killing off his business. He couldn’t even pay the rent on his Camarillo farm, which he called Leaves of Grass. "Blake? It's Al Zymer -- remember me? I got something on what's left of my mind which might help us both out. You interested? Great. I'll see you over here ASAP -- whateverthefuck that means…" Hirskovitz, brisk and cheery, curly-haired and as sharp as a steak knife, was there in record time. "Junie made some kickass brownies this morning," he said, handing Al a ziplock. "Better save them for bedtime, if we're gonna talk business." "You got it. I understand you've been having some trouble with that primo putz Major Crime." "You know that creep? He wants to bury me!" "Well, the guy who really runs the Sheriff's office is a buddy of my old pal Ivan Davis, Quentin O'Rourke, who is helping us out on a big case involving a protected witness named Manny LaMancha." "Is this some kind of a joke? Did you make these names up?" "Wouldn't I have come up with something better than Blake Hirskovitz if I did? Any road, Manny has something going on -- maybe drugs, maybe more. He's tried to kill me and my young associate Saul a couple of times already." " Yeah, I did hear about a lot of shots fired out this way. And where do I come into this mishegos, if I might ask?" "Oh, do you know him, too?" "Know who? Never mind. What's my role?" "I'd like to offer you a house on this ranch, rent free, and all the space you need to grow your buds." "In return for…?" "We need your help in tying this whole thing together." "Who's the we here?" "Quentin; me; a good tough little guy called Dana; my assistant, Saul; my 20-year-old son, also named Al, who I never even knew existed until two weeks ago. And one more good guy -- a former NFL linebacker called Hugh Mungess, who is unfortunately in a coma." "Him I do remember. Eagles, right? This gets better and better. Any danger involved?" "To you? Christ, I hope not." "Not so much me -- I'm used to a some rough and tumble. But I don't want Junie getting hurt or scared. Okay?" "Absofuckinglutely." "Good. Tell me more." Al made a quick call to Quentin, who promised he'd be right over. Then he laid out the problem to Blake. "We're not sure if it's Manny or our new friend Misha Goss -- who saved our asses bigtime last week. But they hate each other, and one of them hired my old LAPD partner to kill our client. "So what we want from you is help us work some kinda sting operation here -- to find out just who the bad guys are." Quentin roared up in a swirl of gravel and road rage. "So, is he in or out?" he asked after the introductions. "I'm in -- especially if I can get in a few jabs at your erstwhile boss." Both Al and Quentin exchanged quick, sly smiles at Blake's erstwhile, but said nothing. CHAPTER 39 -- Manny, Al, Blake, Quentin LaMancha heard the first shot whiz by like a rabid bee as it missed his head by less than an inch. "What the fug!" he shouted, although he was alone in his bedroom high above Ventura. He knew instinctively that it was Gabriel somewhere out there, getting ready to shoot again. The second shot was even closer. Amazingly, Manny felt no fear -- just unadulterated rage. Who had ordered this one? The Mad Russian? Somebody else he'd screwed in a drug deal? Then, as the final bullet ended his life, he knew… Quentin's cellphone jangled. "This can't be good," he grumbled as he saw the incoming number. "Yes, boss. What's up? He was what? When? Okay, I'll get right on it." He hung up and looked at the others. "Somebody just killed Manny. Long-range sniper shot took his head apart. Sounds like your old partner." "Holy shit!" they both shouted. O'Rourke was back on the phone. "Dana? Quentin. Yeah, I just heard that from the Major. What do you hear about it? Okay, keep me posted. I'm going to call in a few favors from the LAPD, but I think we're all going to be up to our necks in it very soon." He placed another call. "Sam? Quentin O'Rourke up in Ventura. Chief Gates did what? Oh, boy -- this is happening too fast for my thin blood. I'll get back to when I know more. You do the same." Quentin turned back to Al and Blake. "Another enemy heard from. Chief Gates has issued murder warrants for you, Al -- and for Dana, Ivan Davis, even for Hugh Mungess, although the last I heard he was still in a coma." CHAPTER 40 -- Reenter Misha Goss Quentin's phone jangled again. "What now?" he grumbled. "Vot now? Now ve get serious, my friend." "Is this your work, Comrade Goss?" "No. I wanted LaMancha dead, of course, but this looks more like an LAPD dirty job, done by Zymer's old partner." "Who could have hired him to do that?" "My guess is someone at the top, probably this Chief Gates I keep hearing about. But why was he so interested in getting your Mr. Zymer framed for it? You got any ideas about that?" "Al seems to think it was some kind of sex thing," Quentin said. "He says Gates always was an ass man, and wanted to shut Al up about sex-related cases involving women on the force." "Verrry interesting," said Goss, making Quentin think of that old Laugh-In character. "So how do we handle this?" he asked. "My boss wants action, fast." "I tink ve play it very close to -- how you say? -- our vests. Don't let Zymer and any LAPD peoples get in the same car. I'll bring in a few of my Mexican associates, whom you've already met. Then ve play it by ear -- another American saying I have never understanded." They left it like that, Goss directing them to meet him in a shopping mall near downtown Los Angeles. "Let's go, Al," Quentin said. "We're back in the hands of our St. Petersburg buddy. Blake, I suggest you stay here -- it should quiet down when we move out. And I'll call Dana, have him do some back-up down south." They roared off in a scramble of gravel, hit the 101 and headed out for another adventure. Al used Quentin's phone to alert the kids, telling them as little as possible. "Just make sure Rachel's okay. She what? She talked to Suzie? That's my dear old girl. As for her favorite perfume, I remember something from Estee Lauder -- Jasmine White Moss. Give her a dab of that, from me." CHAPTER 41 -- The Good Guys As promised, Goss and his band of outlaws were waiting for them. They were in two SUVs this time, and Al got into the lead one with Goss and his Uzi. Quentin looked at his mostly Mexican car-mates with a shaky smile, then said, "Let's do it," which everybody seemed to understand and laugh at. "Hokay, let's get this started," said Goss to Al. "Remember, don't let any LAPD pippels into this wehicle." "You really think it was Gates who set this up?" "Who elz? Manny may have started it, but who elz is benefitting from killing you now?" "If Saul hadn't seen him die, I'd say Jon Castle. Who bombed his store? And why did he hire me to find out? Was that just a cover, to keep me off the real trail?" Al asked, thinking out loud. What was that other Russian's name again -- Petrov, Petrovsky? -- and what was his connection here? "You ever hear of a Russian called Petrov or Petrovsky? He was involved in a bomb extortion case I broke about 20 years ago." "That name does tingle my brain cells," Misha. "Vell, maybe we'll stay alive long enough to find out." CHAPTER 42 -- The Other Guys Chief Gates and Lou Gabriel rode together in the back seat of Gates's classic old Cadillac while his driver -- an old friend of Al's named Wambaugh -- tried hard to listen to what they were saying without being too obvious about it. "Remember," Gates warned Gabriel. "This has to work. We're running out of time. Our gover-nator friend is history, and Jerry Brown would love to have my ass in his pickle barrel. He'll probably bring in the Feds when he hears what happened." "Relax," said Lou. "Manny was easy, so will this one be. You just keep thinking of where we get rid of the bodies." As they drove south, Gates kept his cellphone to his ear, getting directions from somebody. "They're turning where? Okay, keep me posted." "Take the 19 south to Rosemead," he told Wambaugh. "Two SUVs -- one black, one silver -- are heading for some shopping mall down there." CHAPTER 43 -- Dana, Saul, Al Jr. "Okay, boys, they're headed for the Rosemead mall as planned," Dana reported to Saul and Al Jr. as he listened on his cell to what Gates was telling Wambaugh. "Remember, neither Al nor Quentin want you involved any shooting. You okay with that?" "Yep," said Saul. "But I did bring my killer bat along in case Mr. Barrel needs another grand salami." Al Jr., who had stuck his father's old .38 into his jacket pocket before they left, nodded his lie to Dana's question. "Fine, just keep the old man alive. Funny, but I'm getting used to having the senile old fart around." They drove south in Dana's old Audi, the silence broken only by a chirp as the listening device which Wambaugh was using to transmit his signal did its job. Outside was a bleak urban jungle, houses they couldn't imagine anyone choosing to live in. The sadly hopeful suburban names flashed by -- Alhambra, Arcadia, San Gabriel -- until they saw a sign directing them to Rosemead and wondered how it would all come out. CHAPTER 44: Meet Youda Best My old and still occasional lover Dana Dancer (don't tell him I told you his last name -- he thinks it makes him sound gay, which I can assure you isn't true) called and asked if I knew of any of Manny LaMancha's gang who might want to switch sides now that Manny was gone. I said I'd look into it. About six guys opted out, thinking it might still be a bit too dangerous. But two said they'd be ready to go if there was cash to be earned. Following Dana's instructions, I told them, "You bet your scrawny East L.A. ass there is!" Now I was on my way, along with my kid sister Esme -- like me carrying a nice little Glock -- to pickup Juan and Irving (what in hell kinda name was that for a mobster?) and drag them down to some shopping mall in Rosemead. Some life, no? As William Holden said in The Wild Bunch, "I wouldn't have it any other way." CHAPTER 45: Rachel and Suzie Suzie had just read a new study which showed that a section of the brain involved in memory grew in size in older people who regularly took brisk walks. The study backed up previous findings that aerobic exercise seemed to reduce brain atrophy in early-stage Alzheimer's patients, and that walking led to slight improvement on mental tests among older people with memory problems. The hippocampus, a region of the brain involved in memory, tends to shrink slightly with age and that's what happened in the group that only did stretching. But among people who took part in the walking program, the hippocampus region of the brain grew in size by roughly 2 percent. Now she was about to try it out with Rachel, in the friendly garden of The Last Resort. First, She took a bottle of Jasmine Moss from her handbag and showed it to Rachel. "Does this bring back any memories? Al thought it might." Rachel looked at the perfume and smiled. "Al," she said. "I should have married Al. Maybe we'd have a daughter like you if we did." It was the longest, most complete sentence she had spoken in Suzie's presence. Tears gleamed on both women's cheeks as Suzie rubbed perfume on Rachel's arms and shoulders. "Now, " she said. "About that walk…" CHAPTER 46: Armageddon in Rosemead Chief Gates looked up as the sound of a chopper hit him. "That better be one of our private jobs," he said to Lou and Wambaugh. "If it's an official LAPD unit, we're all in deep shit." The two men in the chopper spotted Gates's Cadillac. "Looks like the Chief is off on one of his nighttime rambles," said the co-pilot into his radio. "That man gets laid more often than Charlie Sheen. How shall we we proceed? " He listened to the female voice on his line, said "You got it," then turned to the pilot. "Boss sez to keep our eyes open and take no action until she tells us to. You okay with that?" "That's why we call her Boss." He made a sharp turn to his right, showing his bottom with the LAPD logo to the four vehicles below him. Gates was still on his phone, shouting instructions to his driver. Gabriel spotted the logo first. "Do your privates birds have an LAPD sign?" he asked as he snapped together the parts of his sniper rifle. "I hope to Christ it's something Jackman did without telling me," the Chief said with a shudder. The mall was dark and empty, with only a couple of isolated trailers which people were living in to save park rentals. Rosemead itself was just a twinkle of suburban lights. In the second SUV, Quentin checked the time. Almost midnight. Then he heard the chopper and looked up. "Keep your eyes open, hermanos," he said to his companions. "Eyes in the sky. Let's lock and load." Dana heard the bird as he and the boys tooled along in his Audi. He looked up while listening to Wambaugh on one phone and directing Youda Best on another, smiling as he talked to the love of his life. Ten years of miliary police work in Vietnam. then another couple with LaMancha when somebody he'd thought of as a friend gave him a tip about a high-paying, no-rules job. He'd hated almost every minute of it: only Youda kept him sane and decent. Maybe it was time for them to think about marriage. In the lead SUV, both Al and Misha spotted the chopper as it appeared to be herding them all like sheep into a vast, dark open space ahead. "Vot heppens, heppens," said Misha almost sadly as he set his Uzi down between them. CHAPTER 47 -- Enter Dee Nada No jokes about the name, okay? My black momma and my Mexican daddio thought it was hilariously funny. I thought seriously about changing it when my fellow trainees at the FBI Academy in Quantico began ragging me from Day One, but I was bigger and stronger than most of them, so they soon quit. Now I was on the way to a meeting with my boss -- Elvin Park , Director of Covert Operations -- and some shiny brass at the White House. Damn, I could get used to this -- a big girl from East L.A. and USC, walking up those front steps where a man of color ran the country, and had a delicious-looking wife in the bargain. INSTALLMENT 25 POSTED MONDAY, FEBRUARY 21ST
 CHAPTER 46 – The War in the Air Dee As I flew west, I talked to David Simmons and Diego Ballestario – my flyboys – on my cell. “We've been picking up lots of talk from the soon-to-be-ex Chief from our spy in his car,” said Diego. “Looks like he knows we're up here watching, and that we mean him no good. Things could start to explode at any moment. How soon will you get here, Boss Lady?” “With friendly winds and luck, about three hours. I'd love to be there when it starts, but I trust you guys to do what's necessary – including staying alive – if I'm late.” On the intercom, I joked with the presidential pilot. “Can't you make this crate go any faster?” Luckily, he got the joke and snorted. CHAPTER 47 – The War on the Ground Chief Gates, Lou Gabriel, Wambaugh The Chief looked up again at the choppers over his head. “They're not ours!” he screamed. “Must be Feebs! That fucking Jackman has screwed up again!” “Stay cool, boss,” Gabriel said quietly, putting the finishing touches on his snooper rifle. “We knew this wasn't gonna be easy. Wonder who they got in charge up there? Whoever it is knows how to run a chopper attack. They seem to guess every move we make.” Gates looked over at Wambaugh. “You're sure there are no leaks on that phone of yours?” “I'd stake my life on it,“ the driver said, swallowing some fear. “Good. You may have to.” CHAPTER 48: Al, Inc. In their lead car, Misha said to Al, “I am beginning to think that those flyboys upstairs are on our side, not working for Gates at all. But who could they be?” “Maybe a higher power, like the FBI. I'll check with Dana, see if my old buddy Wambaugh has leaked anything to him.” “Whoever it is, they're making El Jefe very nervous,” Dana said when Al called. “Gates is blaming sombody called Jackman for screwing up.” “Did you say Jackman?” Al mentally scratched the inside of his head. “There used to be a Justin Jackman on Gates's staff, but even as big an ass-licker as he was couldn't avoid doing something stupid (what was it again?) and in public, too. So Gates had to give him the sack. But I guess Jackman's been on his private payroll since then.” Al told Misha what he learned. “Verrry interesting” was his only reaction – Christ, he must have been the biggest Laugh-In fan in Russia. But he smiled broadly as both their hopes took a hop. CHAPTER 49 – Suzie, Rachel, Mia Kulpa, The Evil Umpire Suzie had heard the news about the Madoff payoff: some partner of Bernie's had died and the government had seized $90 million of his assets to return to some of his victims – including the people trying to keep the Motion Picture Home open. The call came just after Al and his team had headed south. “Miss Charpentier? This is Mia Kulpa of the Motion Picture Home. I tried to reach Mr. Zymer, but all I got was a garbled voice mail message. Is that his real name?” “I don't think so. He told me what it was before he changed it, but I've forgotten what he said.” Suzie waited for a laugh, but of course Kulpa didn't get her joke. “Oh. Well, as you might have heard, we're back in business. And we'd very much like to have Rachel Donner back as part of our family.” Suzie remembered how Al had described Rachel's family life at the Home: slovenly care, no therapy or drugs to mention, just a sad old lady sinking further into her well of despair. Now, at The Last Resort, she laughed, talked a bit, and Suzie could see the woman Al still loved. “Al is away at the moment,” she said to Kulpa. “I'll tell him about this as soon as I hear from him. In fact, I'll try to reach him right now.” Instead, she called up Bob Churchill and set up a meeting that evening with Rachel. It was Rachel who made the final decision.”That place is evil!” she said in the same voice she'd used in The Bride of Frankenstein. “Al doesn't want me to go back. No wine or chocolate or perfume. Al wants me to stay here.” (Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler INSTALLMENT 26 POSTED MONDAY, FEBRUARY 28TH (To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.) CHAPTER 50 – The Wars Continue The first shot came from the ground. Gates' sniper rolled down the driver's window and aimed directly at Al. The only reason he missed was that Goss had noticed the window opening and braked suddenly. “Close von,” said the Russian. “I suggest you crouch down and make yourself less wisible.” “The shooting has begun, Boss Lady,” said David Simmons on his phone to Dee. “What do you suggest?” “Let them have one of your lighter specials,” said Nada. “We want to scare them, but not kill them just yet. I should be at LAX in about an hour. There's a car waiting, plus a few more guns and troops.” Two high-powered slugs from above slammed into the engine of Gates' armor-plated car. It swerved all over the parking lot for a moment; then Wambaugh managed to get it straightened out. More shots aimed at the tires. They took out two, and suddenly the driver couldn't control the vehicle. He braked and then stuttered the car into a parking place. With nothing moving to shoot at, both vehicles waited for what would happen next. After about 40 minutes, an impressive Oshkosh M-ATV compact personnel carrier drove up quickly. “Cover us!” Dee shouted to her flyboys, who opened up some blistering fire. CHAPTER 51 – The Return of Hugh Mungus Out of the vehicle poured Nada and four heavily armed men. “Isn't that your huge football friend?” said a surprised Goss. “Holy shit, that's Hugh!” Al shouted. “Back from the grave!” Al Jr. and Saul both started to get out, but Dana stopped them. “It looks like things are beginning to go our way,” he told them. “But as the poet says, it ain't over till it's over..." But Al and Quentin jumped out of their vehicles and ran toward the giant man. The three embraced. “Do your doctors know you're here?” asked Quentin. “Not unless you tell them. Let's just say I used some old connections. Here's one of them now.” Dee Nada, almost as big as Hugh, walked toward them. She held out her hand – the one that wasn't holding a serious-looking handgun – to Al and give him a bone-crunching shake. “So you're Al Zymer, the man of the hour. Nice work, Al. Thanks to you and your mob, we've got Gates – alive and maybe even ready to chat.” “Was it you who broke Hugh out of the hospital?” Al asked. “Let's just say that Dee and I go back a ways. I've been a covert agent for a long time," Mungess answered. "You didn't think that the pocket change you and Quentin paid for body-guarding was enough to keep me in groceries, did you?” They all laughed. But in the back of Dee's mind was a bad smell. This had all gone down much too smoothly, with few casualties. Who in hell was so anxious for them to get Gates? She decided to call Elvin Park as soon as she could. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MARCH 7TH. Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler. INSTALLMENT 27 (To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.) CHAPTER 52 – The Ghost in the White House Shane Dickey carried his heart in a bag. The former Vice President of the United States had been given a mechanical heart pump that, most doctors said, saved his life by taking on the task of helping to push blood through his arteries. Dickey, as he did at several receptions in Washington, chatted about his new pump. At one cocktail party, he even opened his coat jacket to show it off. "I'll have to make a decision at some point whether I want to go for a transplant," he told a TV reporter. "The technology is getting better and better." He also said he has been making do with a battery-powered heart pump which makes it "awkward to walk around." Now he was wondering how long he could last, and maintain the energy he needed to keep up his campaign against that private dick with a ridiculous name. From what he'd heard, the Rosemead battle had resulted in absolutely nothing. Zymer was still alive. Maybe it was time to take up another kind of ammunition – brain control instead of bullets. CHAPTER 53: Dee Nada, Dr. Elvin Park I called Elvin on his very private cell to report on what had happened and what I'd begun to worry about. He was still in Washington. “It all went down much too easily,” I said. “What in hell is going on? Smells like someone high up in your neck of the woods.” “Could be. I just heard something about a top secret exercise that could be involved. It's time to call in a few markers.” He called back in less than an hour. "It's even weirder than we thought, and it's about to break big. Seems as though a bunch of high level troops on the ground in some very hot areas have been carrying out what they call 'psychological operations' to sway visiting members of Congress." "No shit!" was all Dee could say. "Wait, it gets worse. A Lieutenant General is about to be accused of using an Information Operations cell to influence distinguished visitors, to gather information about Congressional delegations and persuade them to endorse the allocation of more money and troops. Even Petraeus knows about it." "So what's our plan?" "Let's play it by ear, and keep a very low profile until we know more. I'll make a few more calls, maybe even see what the White House gang is up to. Meanwhile, stay cool." CHAPTER 54 – Suzie While she waited for word of Saul, Al and Al Jr., Suzie turned her energies to more Alzheimer's research. A recent study spelled it out: In a healthy brain, certain chemical processes ensure the proper functioning of neurons. One is the processing of amyloid precursor protein APP) that is attached to the outer membrane of nerve cells. An enzyme called alpha-secretase cuts off a section of the protein; then another enzyme, gamma-secretase, snips a second portion and releases APP from the cell’s membrane. These APP fragments are then broken down and removed from the brain. Another process involves the microtubules, which carry nutrients through the nerve cells to keep them functioning normally. Tau protein helps to maintain the physical structure of microtubules. But when these processes go awry, a different enzyme, beta-secretase, cuts shorter APP fragments from the nerve cell membrane. These smaller pieces are more resistant to breakdown and tend to clump together in toxic clusters called oligomers; eventually, the oligomers collect into larger beta-amyloid plaques that interfere with nerve cell functioning. Within neurons, abnormal tau strands separate from the microtubules and cause the microtubules to fall apart, crippling the transport of nutrients and destroying nerve cells. Loose tau threads join together to form knotted strands inside neurons. Called neurofibrillary tangles, they cause further neuron destruction. In the early stages of Alzheimer’s, plaques and tangles form in brain areas responsible for learning, thinking, and planning -- in particular, the hippocampus. This is why forgetfulness, disorientation, and verbal repetition are often among the earliest signs of Alzheimer’s. As nerve cell destruction spreads, more brain areas are affected, especially the cerebral cortex, responsible for language, reasoning, and judgment. Speaking skills become impaired and emotional outbursts grow more frequent. When large areas of nerve cells die off in the advanced Alzheimer’s stage, brain sections atrophy and the whole brain shrinks to as much as three quarters of its original size. The study gave Suzie a thought about Rachel and Al. She told herself it might come to nothing -- or perhaps save a life. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MARCH 14TH. Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler. INSTALLMENT 28 POSTED MONDAY, MARCH 14TH CHAPTER 55 -- Shane Dickey How had it all gone so wrong? All I had in mind was a bullet to the head of my dim-witted boss, who -- as a President and as a human being -- would be no great loss. It wouldn't be the first time in our recent history that a veep played the Richard III card But I had to pick as my shooter the guy who had been Al Zymer's LAPD partner, Lou Gabriel, and who then went on to do some dirty work for a mobster with another joke name -- Manny LaMancha. Chief Gates promised to bring Zymer down, but now he was in Federal custody, probably spilling his guts, while Gabriel seemed to be dead: killed during that insane shootout in Rosemead. What could I do about it? I had a couple of ideas, but they had to be implemented quickly -- before Zymer remembered what he and LaMancha had seen that day… CHAPTER 56 -- SUZIE It was the Ron Reagan book and the firestorm of apologies and denials that followed which gave me the strongest clue to what was going on. The younger Reagan said he never meant to suggest in his memoir that his father had dementia while in the White House. All he meant was that the amyloid plaque characteristic of Alzheimer’s can start forming years before it leads to dementia. “Given what we know about the disease,” his son told one reporter, “I don’t know how you could say that the disease wasn’t likely present in him during the presidency.” While spending a day in the Oval Office in 1987, the younger Reagan noticed that aides were providing his father with scripted index cards ― a technique he often used when giving speeches ― for phone calls lasting five minutes at most, implying signs of a failing memory. The son noticed other little things that he could not explain and to which he did not attach a name at the time. Based on knowing his father’s demeanor and cognition over a lifetime, the observations created an impression “that something was amiss. It became very difficult for him to string sentences together and eventually just words together,” the son said. I knew from talking to Al, still in Los Angeles with Saul and Al Jr., that his FBI guards were convinced that Shane Dickey was somehow involved. But why and how were still a fog -- until the light suddenly dawned. It was like coming up from a deep dive: the closer I got to the surface, the surer I was that I had discovered at least a part of what had really happened… CHAPTER 57 -- Blake Hirskovitz And His New Alligator The story, by John Asbury, was in the Riverside Press-Enterprise -- e-mailed by a fellow pot grower. "What's the the size of a cocker spaniel and might make a fine pair of boots? How about an alligator seized from a Hemet home during a Department of Justice raid of a pot house? "Department of Justice agents raided an East Hemet house and seized almost 2,300 marijuana plants valued at least $1.5 million -- and a four-foot alligator being used to help guard the stash. "Agents with Arcnet, the Allied Riverside Cities Narcotics Enforcement Team, raided the house and found what they described as a 'watchgator' named Wally in a back room, where it was living in a black cement-mixing tub full of water. Alligators are illegal to own in California." It sounded like a great idea for my new farm in the middle of Al's lemon orchard, especially now that Major Crime was putting on more pressure. What should I call it? How About Allie Gator? Mischa Goss would love it… TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MARCH 21st. Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler. INSTALLMENT 29 POSTED MONDAY, MARCH 21st (To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.) CHAPTER 58 – Ivan Davis Finally, I get to narrate a chapter of my own, and not have to stand in the shadow of my old chum Al Zymer. We were all still in Los Angeles after our battle on land and in the air, but Dana, Saul and young Al had gone off on some mad adventure of their own. So Al, Quentin and I sat down for lunch in Al's favorite coffee shop on Rexford. "Just what in hell is this all about?" I asked. "My guess is that we -- you, Al -- got involved in something big which you didn't realize, or didn't remember, at the time," Quentin said. "Big is the word," said Al. "I think those guys who saved our asses, including Hugh and his boss lady, come from somewhere really high up the ladder -- probably with a Washington address. So it wasn't Chief Gates at all; he was being used as a cover." "Okay, sounds good," I said. "But what can we do it about it? And what happened to our Russian friend, Misha Goss?" "Vot indeed? May I join you gentlemen for an onion bagel and coffee?" Misha asked as he moved from behind a staircase and sat down at our table. "I have found out some tings which might help us all. For instance, would you be as surprised as I was to learn that Manny LaMancha was not really Manny LaMancha?" "What do you mean?" Al almost shouted. "I knew him for years in L.A. before he went into the Witness Protection program and set up in Ventura!" "How old was he when you first heard of him?" Misha asked. "I'd say he was in his 40s -- about ten years younger than me." "Hokay. That was his third term in Witness Protection. For the first 35 years of his life, his name was Lawrence Zarate, a low-ranking Mafia guy who was charged with crimes that included attempted murder and extortion. But he was also listed as the target of a contract killing planned by one of the other defendants. So into the witness program for Zarate. He wound up somewhere out west, making believe he was a farmer, but he just couldn't stay away from crime. They nabbed him for robbing a bank; I guess he gave the Feds some names he had been conveniently hoarding, so they gave him another chance -- first in Los Angeles and then in Ventura." "Why did they move him?" Quentin asked. "Good question. I'm not sure, but it might be something he heard or saw that worried somebody high up in the government…" CHAPTER 59 -- Al, Inc. We were all back in Ventura, scratching our heads -- except for Misha, who was still scratching his in L.A. Dana, Saul and my son had called on Quentin's cell to say they were on to something huge -- "You're not going to believe this, Dad!" -- and Suzie had left a message saying she had some new thoughts. "Suzie, why don't you begin?" I said. "What if," she plunged right in, "what if our least favorite Vice President -- Mr. Heartbag to his pals -- discovered that his own boss was showing serious signs of Alzheimer's? Most people put down POTUS's problems to dumbness and drink, but Dickey knew better: he'd watched his own mother slide into dementia at a relatively early age." "Okay, let's say you're right," said Quentin. "What next?" "Here's how I put it together," Suzie replied. "Dickey sees his boss following the same route. What to do about it? Why not have him killed? He arranges for a sniper he's probably used before, but Al sees something with his old partner that he shouldn't have seen. Maybe LaMancha saw the same thing -- but what?" "I think we can add our discoveries to the package at this point," Dana said. "I used a few connections to find out the name of Dee Nada's boss -- Dr. Elvin Park, the CIA Director of Covert Operations -- and called him in Washington. He wouldn't say much, but didn't warn me off. Add to that is what the boys discovered on their own." "Remember that Rolling Stone article, the one where a three-star general in Afghanistan was accused by a subordinate of instructing troops to carry out 'psychological operations' to sway visiting members of Congress and persuade them to endorse the allocation of more money and troops for the training effort?" Saul asked. "Well, we found a definite link between that general and Mr. Heartbag!" "Put them all together, they spell mother," Al said. "Or, as our new Russian friend Misha might say, 'Verrry interesting,'" added his son. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MARCH 28th. Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler. FORGET ABOUT IT -- INSTALLMENT 30 POSTED WEDNESDAY, APRIL 20TH (To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.) CHAPTER 60 -- The Return of Drew Lebby Okay, I almost blew it. I had slipped so well into my cover role as a disgruntled Feeb that I seriously underestimated my opposition. Dickey warned me that Dr. Elvin Park was much sharper than he looked at first glance, and that his deputy, Dee Nada, was even sharper. But Dickey also tended toward serious paranoia the weaker his heart got, and his fears were starting to become just a tad boring. What to do about it? Clean up the mess that the demented LAPD Chief Gates had left behind, first of all. He was no doubt spilling what little he knew to the CIA and the FBI. Which is why I took a chance and called Dr. Park. "How did you get this number?" was his first question. "We're on the same team, last I looked." "Tell me again, just who in hell are you?" "Drew Lebby. Friends in common thought we might exchange some information, you know? Sharing, all like that?" "Where can I reach you?" he asked abruptly. "And who is your supervisor?" Right. I was going to say "Shane Dickey" and wait for some applause. "Why don't I have him call you directly," I answered after a pause. Then I hung up -- which was what I should have done before even thinking about calling this mystery medic. I'd heard that Park was that rarest of creatures in the spook world -- a totally honest and honorable man. Now I knew that his considerable power came from a combination of these features, plus an awesome intelligence. How much did he know, for instance, about just how involved Dickey had been in the Valerie Plame mess -- what we now laughingly called "Operation Scooter"? Even that prime putz Oliver Stone had figured it out in W. (And wasn't Richard Dreyfus terrific as our beloved boss?) But if Park knew (or guessed) that Dickey had leaked the fake news about Plame's husband finding the makings of weapons of mass destruction in darkest Niger, and then brainwashed a bunch of politicians to convince W. to push the button, did he also know about Al Zymer and Manny La Mancha seeing something they shouldn't have seen-- together or separately? Thinking about all this was giving me a headache. Maybe Dickey was slipping; maybe it was time for me to take some of the kind of drastic action I'd learned at his feet… TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, APRIL 25th. Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler. FORGET ABOUT IT: INSTALLMENT 31 POSTED MONDAY, APRIL 25TH CHAPTER 61: Al Takes A Fall -- Suzie I was still clicking away on my computer, which I'd set up in Al's large living room, trying to find more connections between Dickey's mother's senility and his own mysterious motives. It was a gorgeous day, the smell of lemons drifting in through the windows, and I must have nodded off… Al's shout woke me. "Can I get some help in here?" he called from his office. "I've fallen and I can't get up!" He was stretched out on the carpeted floor, jammed between his overturned chair and a bookcase. "Have you broken anything?" I asked. "How did it happen?" "Nothing broken, as far as I can see. What happened was that my right leg just collapsed on me. Lucky I wasn't in the bathroom!" Saul and Al Jr. were bouncing around in the backyard on a trampoline which we'd all bought used from craigslist. "Guys, I need you in here," I shouted. "Al's taken a fall and needs help getting up." He was a small guy, 150 pounds at most, but I didn't want to try to lift him on my own and cause serious damage to both of us. "Hold on there, pops," said his son in a soothing, concerned voice. "Let's make sure you're okay before we start yanking you around. How long has that leg been bothering you? And has this ever happened before?" "No -- although I do seem to have gotten shakier than I used to be. I've been meaning to ask Doc Banman about it…" "I'll call him right now," Saul said. "Should I also call the paramedics?" "Please God, no! They'll want to take me to the hospital, and that I really don't need." As we soon found out, going to the hospital wasn't the worst thing Al could imagine... INSTALLMENT 32 CHAPTER 62: Enter Adan, a Demented Physical Therapist I got the call while smoking my favorite cigar -- a Hemingway Short Story by Arturo Fuente, given to me by one of my private clients. "Got a job for you, big fella," said the voice that had become a part of my nightmares. Well, not so much the voice -- it was an ordinary, accentless American drone -- but what it asked me to do. Despite what you might believe, I get no pleasure from hurting people. I'm much happier making them feel better. But pain brings in a lot more money -- tax free cash -- and I can certainly use it. "No killing, right?" I asked. "Absolutely. We have people who can do that a lot better than you could. But it pays more -- something you might want to think about…" He rattled off the details. Some senior citizen with a silly name had taken a bad fall in Ventura, sixty miles north of where I was. Strings had been pulled or twisted to get me assigned to the case by his medical insurance company. My first appointment was tomorrow morning. "What is it you want this time?" I asked. "This old fart saw something he shouldn't have. We want him to be persuaded to forget about it. The problem is that he might not even remember what he saw. That's why we're giving this job to our top man. The first time I heard about it, I thought, 'This sounds like a job for Adan Valencia.' But we'll talk more about it tomorrow, after you get a chance to size up the situation." "Half in advance, as usual," I reminded him. "Twenty-five hundred going into your account as we speak." He hung up and I took a deep breath. Then I went out to CPK for dinner and an early night. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MAY 2ND FORGET ABOUT IT: INSTALLMENT 33 POSTED MONDAY, MAY 9TH (To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.) CHAPTER 64: Suzie Every time I snuck a look over at that big, gorgeous, coffee-colored Adan, he was looking at me. The mutual attraction in our eyes should have been obvious to anyone, but Saul and the Als were preoccupied with checking out this new leg-saver. I'd never cheated on Saul -- not my style. My old man screwed anything that could walk; it was what had finally broken up my parents' marriage, and I took it much worse than my mother did. Leon Charpentier had gone back to Canada and now made a living writing pseudonymous mystery novels which he self-published on the Internet. I never saw him. It was time to stop this nonsense. "So, Adan, do you think you can help Al get around?" I asked. "Definitely," he said. "When should we start?" I noticed that he too had stopped playing the eyes game. "What do you think, Al?" "The sooner the better," Al said. "Is tomorrow too soon?" I asked Adan. "I still have to get final permission from your insurance provider," Mr. Gorgeous answered. "Let's say the day after -- I know I have an hour open at 5 p.m." CHAPTER 65: Adan I called Drew Lebby as soon as I got out of Ventura. He was my immediate superior, even if I hated what he asked me to do. "The geezer is willing," I said. "But he has a support team -- his son and some geek he calls his assistant." I deliberately left out the girl, because I didn't want to have to hurt her. "I'll see if I can get rid of them for a couple of hours," Lebby said. "When did you arrange to start?" "I said day after tomorrow, after five. The ranch should be quiet then." "Okay. Remember, Zymer saw or knows something about us that could bring down a shitstorm of trouble. Your job is to find out what he knows, and persuade him to forget about it." "What if he lives up to his name and really can't remember?" "Again, that's why we want you on his case. Use your best judgement about how far to go," Lebby said. "But no killing, right?" "It hasn't been authorized as yet," he replied. "But it still remains an option." CHAPTER 66: Drew I called an old friend at the FBI in L.A. for help. Garry was as straight as I was bent. "Can you make a call to a CIA guy for me?" I asked. "He seems not to trust me, for some reason or other." I gave Garry Dr. Parks' number. "Just tell him that you need to talk to two people -- Saul Kearney and Al Zymer Jr. -- tomorrow afternoon, about some aspects of a case you're working on. I'll be there for the session. How would 4 p.m. suit you?" "I'm fine with that, you sneaky fuck. Then you can buy me dinner and tell me what you're really up to…" FORGET ABOUT IT: INSTALLMENT 34 POSTED MONDAY, MAY 16TH (To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.) CHAPTER 67: Adan, Al I watched Al Jr. and Saul leave for L.A. Drew had come through. I was glad to see that Suzie was nowhere in sight. I waited until the workers went home, then knocked on the door. Al opened it, on a walker. "Shall we start?" I asked. "Why not -- but try to keep the pain down, okay?" "That's up to you. The truth is I can keep it down or crank it way up -- depending on how you answer my questions." "What the hell do you mean?" "Well, the people who pay me -- not your insurance company -- want me to get some information from you. If you tell me what they want to know, I'll go easy on you. I am a trained therapist, so I can probably even give you some relief…" "And if I don't?" "Don't even think about it, old man." I reached down, grabbed Al's knee and gave it a very hard squeeze. Al screamed like a stuck pig. I squeezed hard again; he screamed even louder this time. This wasn't going to be easy, I thought. "Come on, pal" I said. "Give us both a break…" CHAPTER 68: Suzie I was sitting in the back yard with my laptop, catching some sun while I checked out a few recent Alzheimer's items. I heard Al's first scream of pain, then his second. What in hell was going on? I slipped quietly into the house, stopping in our bedroom to pick up Saul's baseball bat. In the living room, I saw Mr. Gorgeous pressing down hard on Al's injured knee. Without even thinking about it, I swung the bat hard against Adan's head. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes. I went over to Al, who was pale and shaking from pain. "Don't try to talk," I told him, then handed him a glass of water and two extra strength Tylenol. "I'm going to make a couple of calls…" CHAPTER 69: Quentin Suzie's call scared the hell out of me. We all thought the attacks on Al were over, now that Chief Gates and his gunsel were history. So who was behind this one? Who really wanted to know whatever it was Al had seen so badly that they'd use torture to find out? I called Hugh's boss, Dee Nada, who sounded as surprised as I was. "Were the youngsters all there?" she asked. "Suzie says that Saul and Al. Jr. got a call from an FBI guy who said he needed to see them in his L.A. office that evening." "I think I'd better get to Elvin about this," she said after a moment. "Sounds like we've got a high level Feeb who's gone double…" CHAPTER 70: Dr. Elvin Park What was that over-eager guy's name who had tried so hard to make nice? Drew Lebby, that was it. I checked with my FBI contacts, but all they could find out was that the L.A. meeting was run by an agent named Garry Larsson. "He's one of our best and straightest," his boss assured me." Larsson was the guy who had called me yesterday. All my instincts had shouted "No!" But maybe that was just paranoia talking. Still, I decided to call Larsson again and do a little probing… FORGET ABOUT IT: INSTALLMENT 35 POSTED MONDAY, MAY 30th CHAPTER 71: Drew Lebby The New York Times story had Shane Dickey's name all over it. "Secret Desert Force Set Up by Blackwater’s Founder," said the headline. Turns out that one of his old hunting buddies -- Erik Prince, the billionaire founder of Blackwater -- had taken $529 million from the crown prince of Abu Dhabi to put together an 800-member battalion of foreign troops for an attack on the United Arab Emirates. "The force is intended to conduct special operations missions inside and outside the country, defend oil pipelines and skyscrapers from terrorist attacks and put down internal revolts… Such troops could be deployed if the Emirates faced unrest in their crowded labor camps or were challenged by pro-democracy protests like those sweeping the Arab world this year," said the Times article. "The U.A.E.’s rulers, viewing their own military as inadequate, also hope that the troops could blunt the regional aggression of Iran, the country’s biggest foe, the former employees said. The training camp, located on a sprawling Emirati base called Zayed Military City, is hidden behind concrete walls laced with barbed wire. Photographs show rows of identical yellow temporary buildings, used for barracks and mess halls, and a motor pool, which houses Humvees and fuel trucks. The foreign troops are trained by retired American soldiers and veterans of the German and British special operations units and the French Foreign Legion." It was time to call Mr. Heartbag and find out what I could about this caper. CHAPTER 72: Shane Dickey Lebby thinks he's so cute, asking me if I had anything to do with those ragheads' latest mess. I actually chuckled as I answered him: "If I told you, I'd have to kill you -- or have some Arab mercenary do it." Lebby laughed back, although I think there was a hint of fear in his throat. Good. Let him be scared shitless. Better men than him have died because they got cute with me… CHAPTER 73: Dr. Elvin Park, Dee Nada "Our friend the Feeb just called," I told Dee on her secret cell. "He wants to meet with us ASAP." "Did he say why?" "I think it has to do with what we thought," I told her. "We know he's been working for Heartbag. Maybe he's beginning to be frightened by this latest affair in Abu Dabai. Anyway, I'll call him back and set up a meeting. How's tomorrow morning at about ten for breakfast at our favorite spot?" "Sounds good," said Dee. "Meanwhile, I'll make a couple of calls to Al's friends, to see what they've been hearing."

Monday, May 30, 2011

FORGET ABOUT IT: The First Al Zymer Senile Detective Mystery

By Dick Adler
Al Zymer sat at his desk in the Writers and Artists Building on Little Santa Monica. He slumped in his worn and greasy leather chair, sound asleep. A half-smoked 60 cent Dutch cigar had fallen from his lips, narrowly missing his crotch and landing on the rug, where it had fizzled out like its owner without doing much damage. He was dreaming about one of his old cases, the one where an actress named Toots McAllister had hired him to find out who was sending her threatening letters and following her around the Paramount lot. It turned out to be her former girlfriend, a costume designer who was known to give great head. Now he was ready to collect his fee...

Suddenly, a roscoe barked "Kachow!" Was this a part of Al's dream, or had it really happened? “Is that your real name?” Somebody had managed to bypass Effie and get into his inner office. He smiled to himself; there was no Effie. He must still be dreaming. “I said, is that your real name? Or are you making some kind of perverse joke?” The voice – high and somewhat squeaky – jolted Al out of his reverie. “Sure,” he muttered. “Al from Albrecht, Zymer from Zimmermann. Believe it or not, some folks in this town don't like Jews – even German Jews. What's your name?” “Haven't you ever heard of the disease?” persisted the very young, very thin, very pale man who resembled a pipe cleaner as he pointed to the sign on the door: AL ZYMER INVESTIGATIONS. “I heard about it, but I forget where,” Al said, waiting to see if the youngster got the joke. The truth was that he did have trouble remembering things these days – at least while he was awake. “Once again, who the hell are you?” “Saul Kearney. I think Arthur Secunda down the hall might have mentioned me to you?” The look on Kearney's face had doubt written all over it. “Secunda? Oh yeah, the photographer.” Al had in fact known Art and his brother Gene, sons of the great Yiddish theatre composer Sholem Secunda, for 40 years, but he was still playing with this boy. He kicked it around in his head for a while, then vaguely recalled Art saying something about a kid who wanted to work as a private dick so that he could write crime novels. “I hope you have a private income,” Al said. “As you might have noticed, business isn't exactly booming...” Exactly on cue, a loud blast from somewhere down the street rattled the building's old bones. Al creaked out of his chair and went to the window. A crowd had gathered outside the men's clothing store on the corner, the place where movie and TV stars spent $200 on shirts. “You're in luck,” Al said. “This could be your first paying job. Help me into the elevator. Let's see what's going on at Castle's.” Saul was about to complain that he hadn't signed on yet, certainly not as a nurse, but thought better of it. And once the old fart was standing up, his pronged cane in one hand, he seemed to be able to hobble out the door.

The crowd outside Castle's looked like upscale looters, and several Beverly Hills cops had to hold them back. A very well-dressed man in his 60s, complete with a cream-colored Ascot around his neck to hide his wattles, spotted Al. “I was just going to call you. Did you sleep through the blast?” “My new assistant and I were getting acquainted. What the hell you been doing, Jon? Pissing off the Russian Mafia?” “The Ivans prefer the glitzy Italian stuff,” said Castle. “They think the Ivy League is a football association. So, are you still in business?” “You bet your cashmere blazer I am. You and I have dealt with heavies a lot worse than the Ivans in our time. But don't you trust the bomb squad to handle this?” “Let's say I'd rather have my own man on it,” Castle answered. “Your fee still the same?” “Sure – if you're still charging sixty bucks for shirts like you did in Clark Gable's day. But I'm certain we can agree on a figure. And don't forget I've got my new assistant to look after. What was your name again, kid?”

------- They were sitting in a little coffee shop on Rodeo into which tourists seldom wandered. Saul, who had hoped for a giant corned beef sandwich at Nate 'n' Al's when Zymer suggested lunch, silently cursed his new employer as a cheap bastard. But his turkey BLT club sandwich was fresh and crisp and not half bad. “This was Pat Brown's favorite lunch place when we worked together on a coupla cases. Let's see what we got,” Al said, pulling out a toothmarked yellow pencil as he began to scratch some notes on a paper napkin. “First question: what kind of bomb was it, and where was it placed? We know that and it should tell us if the bombers were pros. I play poker with the head of the LAPD bomb squad – maybe he can be persuaded to part with some details if I pay him the C-note I owe him. Meanwhile, you can get your computer up and searching the way you kids do, see if this matches anything on Doodle.” Saul realized that he and the fart hadn't yet discussed payment for him. No matter – he wouldn't be around long enough to bother. “I think you mean Google,” he said. “That's the one. You got a computer at home? Where is home, anyway?” “I live in Santa Monica, and I do have a Mac laptop,” Kearney answered. “I even have a car – a graduation present from my family. So, what exactly am I looking for?” “If I knew that, I wouldn't need you, would I? Okay, I'm going back to the office to use Art's phone. You drive your cute little Penis – is that what those gasless babies are called? -- out to Santa Monica and start clicking. Give me your phone number in case I get a hot idea. My phone isn't working: I owe one of Ma Bell's bastard children too much. Let's meet again at the office at noon tomorrow.” Saul watched in awe and fear as Zymer wrote down the cellphone number he'd given him on the napkin, then drop the napkin full of notes on the table as he lurched out. Kearney started to shout after him, then decided against it. “He's probably deaf, too,” he muttered as he stuck the napkin carefully into his pocket.

CHAPTER TWO -- Saul I went home and “doodled” (for some reason, I just couldn't get the senile geezer's mistake out of my head) for an hour and went through half a pack of Suzie's Gauloises as I searched for the dirt on Jon Castle in the darker reaches of the Internet. Nothing much: stories of the former second-rate character actor's rise to fame as an overpriced clothier; some rumors in unmoderated chatrooms about his links to Bugsy Siegel and Mickey Cohen; occasional liasons with name actresses – Ava Gardner, Shelley Winters, Lana Turner among them. Then I did what I should have done much earlier. I typed in “Al Zymer” and waited until the search ground to a halt. The listings started with a “What Ever Happened To?” piece ten years ago in the Los Angeles Times, talking about Zymer as though he was dead. It did give me a major clue: the words “former LAPD detective” leaped from the screen. I found the details in a 1973 Herald-Examiner column by Jim Bacon: “Rumor has it that LAPD hotshot detective Al Zymer -- the man who broke the Katie Troncoso murder case two years ago -- has been forced to resign or face department charges of misconduct in that investigation. Zymer, 41, has been with the cop shop for 15 years, and everyone I know thinks he's a swell guy...” A search for “Katie Troncoso” came up blank, as did further clicks on Zymer's name. “Verrrrry interesting,” I grunted to myself. “Maybe I'll take this job after all....”

CHAPTER THREE: Al “Why should I give you anything, especially for free?” Capt. Brian Rosoff asked Al when he called. “Besides, you still owe me a century from our last poker game.” “Yeah, yeah. I'll have it ready to stuff into your uniform pocket the way you cops like,” Zymer replied. “I'll take it out of my first check from Castle.” “Is he gonna pay to get your phone plugged back in? I see you're calling from some other number in that building.” That was the trouble with trying to work with the cops these days, Al thought. In his years on the force, they didn't have electronic caller i.d. gadgets or computers – just legs, muscle and the occasional payoff. And brains, of course – at least the good ones, like Rosoff. He wondered if Brian was losing any of his. Probably not yet – he was a lot younger than Zymer. “There will be money for everybody, once I show Jon I can still put things together better than your mob. So, anything you'd like to share, for old time's sake?” Al deliberately underlined “share,” to let his friend know he was having him on. “Yeah, we did have some times, back when you were hot shit. Remember when Vito Pantelli tried to get Harry Cohn to pay him ten mill not to blow up the Columbia lot?” Al shifted through some shadowy memories, but came up empty. “That was then, this is now – at least I think it is. Was Castle's a pro job?” “Too early to be sure. Some things point to that, but others are very strange – as though the blaster was using old or foreign chemicals. I'll keep you posted. And be sure to bring my hundred bucks to our next game. I got my eye on some fine ropes from the J. R. Cigars online site.” Al sat there, stewing about his own failing mental powers. Who in hell was Vito Pantelli? If Rosoff could remember that case so easily, why couldn't he? His angry reverie was jolted by the chirping of Art Secunda's phone. Should he answer it, or let it ring until what they called “verse mail” kicked in? (He had never heard any poetry on it, but what the hell). “Al, are you there? Brian just gave me this number. It's Lou. Pick up if you're there.” Zymer knew that raspy voice, had listened to it groan on and on for a dozen years. His old partner, Lou Gabriel. “Lou? Yeah, I'm here. Howya doin'?” “I'm good. Sitting out my last three months before the eagle shits. Brian told me you were okay, still working.” “Yeah, you don't get any dough for being fired. Family okay?" “Guess you didn't hear. Lorraine died on me, five years ago.” “Shit, Lou, I'm very sorry.” Lorraine, he vaguely remembered, was a pain in the ass who made a great pot roast. “Yeah, well... But my kids still call. Keith is at some art school in New York, teaching and painting stuff that looks like an accident to me, but people buy it. And Thelma lives in San Francisco, working as a traffic cop. She just married a criminal defense lawyer, believe it or not.” “That's nice,” Al said. Nice? His brain must really be shot. “Well, I gotta make a couple of calls...” “Al, you remember Tina Carone?” That name he'd never forget. His last case before the fucks dropped the hammer. She was a waitress in an expensive fish place in Malibu, and her body had been washed up on the beach below it. “What about her?” “I got a call yesterday from some weirdo in Arizona who says he knows where she's buried.” “So what? Everybody knows. You and I saw her go under at Woodlawn.” “Sure. But Al, this guy says the casket we watched had somebody else's body in it.”

CHAPTER FOUR: Al and Rachel It took Zymer an hour to get to Woodland Hills, and not because of the traffic. He missed his freeway exit the first time and had to circle back, something he'd never done before. “Maybe I'd better let the kid drive,” he thought to himself. Al had driven ever since he was 12, first with his father on the back roads of the Valley, and then as one of the few teenagers at Hollywood High who had their own cars, and the thought of not being able to trust himself behind the wheel scared the shit out of him. The Motion Picture Home sat like a rich old lady on a hill at the end of a road decorated with luxuriant palm trees. Like the residents, the building and trees were paid for by the movie industry, and every service was provided free by regular donations. Al knew old cinematographers, stuntmen, makeup artists and editors who were lucky enough to get in. He had come to see Rachel Donner, a still-lovely English actress whose star had burned brightest in the days when the British Colony was a major force in the film industry. She had done Shakespeare with Olivier, horror with Karloff, drawing room comedy with the lordly C. Aubrey Smith, who occasionally took time away from his beloved cricket to make a movie. Then she played people's mothers or elderly aunts until she got the message and honorably retired. Rachel had never married, although many moguls vowed eternal devotion. She and Al had had a short fling many years before, when he was 30 and she was 40. Now they sat around her room, drinking tea and talking of the past. The last time they'd met, six months before, she had helped him out on a case by reminding him of details about a studio boss which had slipped out of his own memory. “She's a bit down today,” said the nurse who led him out to the garden, with chairs set up around a bubbling fountain. Al saw Rachel before she saw him, and the first thing he noticed was her robe – not the good one she usually wore, bright with flowers, but a grey and apparently food-stained one supplied by the home. “Can't somebody get her a clean robe?” he said to the nurse, but she was already gone. Then Rachel turned toward the sound of his voice, and Al realized that many things had changed since his last visit. Her eyes, always bright with life and ideas, were blank now. She stared at him without recognition. “Rachel, it's me. Al. Sorry I haven't been out to see you, but ....” He stopped as she turned away, looking again at the bubbling fountain. He forced himself to continue, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice. “How are you doing, my dear old girl? Are they giving you everything you want?” Rachel stared at him with eyes as empty as a dry well. “Wait till you hear about the new case I just got,” Al said. “Remember Jon Castle, the over-priced shirt peddler across from my office? Well, somebody hit his store with a bomb!” There was no reaction from Rachel, but at least she didn't turn back to the fountain. “And my poker buddy at the bomb squad thinks the bomb was made by an amateur, using old chemicals.” Saying that out loud tickled something at the back of Zymer's mind. Wasn't there an old case with the same connection? Nothing leaped out immediately, but at least he'd scratched some new ground, maybe even planted a seed... “And another thing,” he went on doggedly. “My old partner Lou said he had a tip that the body we watched being planted at Woodlawn wasn't Tina Carone at all...” Suddenly Rachel's eyes flashed and she began to babble “Tina Tina Tina Tina...” like a stuck record. What was she trying to say? “What about Tina, Rache? Did you know her?” But she continued to babble Tina's name. Then she stopped, and what could have passed for lucidity lit up her face. “Manny,” she said clearly. “Manny? Manny who? Zalheim? LaMancha?” Rachel nodded. “Manny LaMancha,” she said. Then her eyes flooded with tears, rolled back in her head and she was lost again. Al remembered Manny LaMancha, all right – a medium-grade hoodlum who decided to blow the whistle on his mob bosses in Hollywood in return for a seat on the Witness Protection bus. Where had he been relocated? Nothing came to his mind, but it sounded like a good job for his new assistant.

CHAPTER FIVE: Saul I was trying to explain my job and my very weird but also oddly intriguing new employer to Suzie, who worked as a medical researcher, had legs and a bottom that stopped traffic, and shared my love for crime fiction.
“I sometimes think he's putting on the senility bit to see how I react,” I told her. “Other times, I'm not so sure.”
“That in itself is a symptom of early-stage Alzheimer's,” she said. “ 'Do I have it, or don't I? You decide.' "
“For example,” I said, “I went back to his office to see if I could find any evidence of the shot he thinks somebody took at him. Sure enough, there was a bullet hole in the wall, behind a curtain. And he visited an old English actress, a former lover or so I gather, at the Motion Picture Home. She's helped him out before. This time, although she's almost gone to live with the fairies, she suddenly started babbling about a guy called Manny LaMancha – I kid you not – in the Witness Protection Program, and Al asked me to find out where he is.
"It was a cinch; turns out this windmill-tilter is ensconced in Ventura, our neighbor to the north. He's serving as a city councilman and owner of a health club. Then, when I told the old boy about this, he said he knew just the guy to get us more info: a journalist called Ivan Davis, who lives up there. So did he know where Manny was all the time, or is he pulling my chain? How should I handle this, my wise and beautiful love?”
“So Zymer had a hot relationship going with this actress? What does he look like, anyway?”
“Certainly not like an ex-cop,” I said. “In fact, he looks a lot like a description I once read of one of our favorite writers, Fredric Brown -- short, fine-boned, with delicate features. Al looks more like a retired professor than a bull.”
“Some women go for that type. Lucky for you, Mr. Harry Covert, I'm not one of them,” Suzy answered slyly.
We spent the rest of the day proving that in bed.

CHAPTER SIX: Manny, Inc.
Manny LaMancha was having trouble sleeping in his Ventura hideaway. His bed was adjustable, extra long, and cost as much as a used Toyota. But its features weren't helping tonight.
Thanks to a tip-off from his Witness Protection handler, Manny had indeed heard that Al was on his trail. “What the fug?” he exploded, as he did to everything these days. Ventura was a quiet, well-run small city, but his new deal with a famous local actor meant he had to raise a lot of cash for their fancy restaurant. Just gutting and redecorating the old bank on Main Street had cost him about $2 million, and they weren't done yet. The actor lent his name but rarely opened his fat wallet. He would of course accept his hefty share of the loot – especially from the illegal gambling room they planned in the secret cellar.
Why was that nutty old fart Zymer after him? Could he have learned about or figured out Manny's connection with getting him disgraced and fired from the LAPD? It was worth looking into, and LaMancha still had some guys on the Los Angeles turf who could help. And the top cop who was also involved with that dead girl was still in place, and owed Manny a big one.
The same goniff from the Witness Protection Program who had tipped off LaMancha about Al's sudden interest also passed the tip to LAPD Chief Byron Gates – who reacted in a similar fashion. He buzzed his secretary, telling her to bring him the Zymer file.
Gates read the file through carefully, although he knew the details by heart. Two names popped out like warning flags: Tina Carone and Katie Troncoso. Two dead women whose ghosts still haunted him.
Meanwhile, Al was getting ready for a date of his own. Sex was problematic these days, but Tess Tosterone – a well-muscled gun dealer – might just be the answer.
She was, all things considered -- and both fell into a deep sleep. At about five a.m., he woke up with a start. “And my poker buddy at the Bomb Squad thinks the bomb was made by an amateur, using old chemicals,” he'd told Rachel, and saying that had set off a ticking clock in his addled brain.
Suddenly, like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds, it came to him. A Russian – Petrov, Petrovsky? – who had tried to steal 100 million bucks from the City of Beverly Hills by threatening to blow up several big stores unless he got his money. This was when? The 1950's? Rosoff wasn't on the job yet, which was why he hadn't picked up on the old chemicals.
Al scratched around to find out what else he remembered. The Russky, whatever his name was, had been caught as he tried to pick up his loot. Zymer had vague memories of his trial; he testified as the arresting officer. Where was Petrov now? Nothing came to mind. This was obviously another job for his new assistant – who certainly deserved a salary as soon as Castle's money began to flow... --- Ivan Davis, a lanky Brit who had worked for the London Express for 30 years before he got fed up with print journalism, was doing a piece for his blog when his cellphone rang. He didn't recognize the incoming number.
“Ivan? It's Al Zymer. Howya doing, my old mate? Lost any marbles since we last spoke?”
Davis chuckled. “You should talk. They named the disease after you. Anyway, my mind is as sharp as ever. What's up with you?”
“I just got a case which involves a guy who's in the Witness Protection Program in Ventura. Does the name Manny LaMancha ring a bell?”
“Absolutely!” Ivan replied. “He's a city councilman, and he owns the Primrose Racquet Club, a fancy health place near the ocean. I also know that he and Conner Kevins have turned an old bank downtown into a fancy restaurant called The Waterworks. But I never heard about any Witness Protection action. Then again, I've always thought that Ventura was prime territory for the program.”
Davis was working as a part time private eye and also as an online crime book seller – his site was called Blog Me Dead. Al knew that his son Dan was running a winery in Sonoma, and that his musician daughter Rosie lived in San Francisco. “What's Rosie up to in Frisco?” he asked.
“Working for a distribution company, Mordam Records. And her band, now called Cockpit, is selling lots of discs and concert seats.”
The band's new name made Al smile. Rosie Davis had been the bass guitar player of the all-girl group since her days at UC Santa Barbara: it had started as PMS, even though a folk trio called Patty, Mary and Sara objected. He remembered that most of the bridesmaids at Rosie's wedding in a posh Santa Barbara hotel were PMS members – one of them, a sweet and gentle girl whose studs and tattoos startled the more conservative Japanese relatives of the groom.
“Maybe you and I should have a meal at The Waterworks," Ivan said. "I hear it's pricey – are you on an expense account?”
“Yeah, my client says anything goes,” Al replied. It was a lie, but he'd work it out.

CHAPTER SEVEN -- Saul I had been raised in a town near Ventura called Thousand Oaks. I was a late addition, and my parents – both now retired UC professors – had wanted their only child to grow up in a quiet, safe place. Berkeley certainly had its charms (among them the world's best pizza at Zachary's), but the city itself was becoming increasingly noisy and dangerous. When a colleague recommended Thousand Oaks, we checked it out and made the move. My favorite place in the town was a bookstore called Mysteries To Die For, where my taste for crime fiction was honed. Such local writers as John Shannon, Gary Phillips, Lee Lockwood and many others read, signed and discussed their latest books on a regular basis. It was as close to heaven -- and as far from the school library -- as a budding mystery lover could get. My mother, of course, objected to my new love of mysteries: she was a historian, and a bit scornful of genre fiction. But my old man, a musician with broader tastes, loved a good thriller and encouraged me. I could have used my parents' connections to get into Berkeley, but having grown up there I decided to try a new place. UC Santa Barbara looked interesting: they even had a course on vampire literature in their catalogue. I signed up for it to give me a lull in my otherwise heavy schedule. Lucky I did. It was an interesting group -- 30-odd (some very odd) students, most of us looking for a gut course, and a few with a real interest in the subject. We were instructed with a straight face by an assistant professor who had a taste for blood. And there in the front row was an absolutely stunning woman named Suzie Charpentier. Like me, Suzie was unattached -- though not for want of trying by every other male in the class, including the instructor. Fear of failure kept me from immediately joining the line. But one day during the first week of our class, I walked into a coffee shop called Nicoletti's in Isla Vista and saw that Suzie was sitting alone at a table, reading. It was now or never. "Mind if I share your space, fellow bloodsucker?" I asked in as jaunty a manner as I could. She lifted her eyes (the color of Canadian whiskey, as one of my favorite Nanci Griffith songs said) from her book -- an old Ross Macdonald paperback, I noticed -- and then actually smiled. "Saul, isn't that your name?" I tried to hide my delight at her recognition. "And you are Suzie, no? Are you enjoying The Way Some People Die? It's one of my favorites." "Oh yes," she replied. "I've liked Macdonald best ever since I read that very rude remark about him in Chandler's letters. Do you know it?" "The one which attacks Macdonald for describing a car as 'acned with rust'? I always thought Chandler was a British public school boy trying to act tough. He was never in Hammett's league, or Macdonald's."
We went on in this delicious vein for an hour, then adjourned to my room. The rest, as they say, is history...

CHAPTER EIGHT -- Al and Ivan
Ivan Davis pulled his ancient but gleaming Triumph Razorback, which looked like a small Bentley, into the valet parking slot at the side of Waterworks. “Hope you guys got a reservation,” the attendant said as he admired the vehicle. “We're standing room only tonight.”
Ivan and Al assured him they were covered. Prepared to spend some time staring around at the amazing restoration job in spite of their reservation, they were surprised to hear the lovely young woman at the desk saying that their table was ready. “If the food is as good as the service, we're in for a treat,” Ivan said. “I hope you've got a credit card with two hundred bucks on it.”
“Don't worry,” Al reassured him. “My client coughed up good.” Another lie; he might have to risk using the fake American Express card he'd paid a former client $500 for.
The menu began with a bang, and got even better as they read it out loud, like Orson Welles in that old commercial: “CHILI DUSTED PRAWNS WITH ROASTED GARLIC Sautéed to perfection with extra virgin olive oil, garlic, and rosemary ~ 14 “ARTICHOKE BRUSCHETTA Marinated artichokes and fresh tomatoes with basil and lemon. Served on grilled artisan bread ~ 11 “BEEF CARPACCIO Thinly sliced Filet Mignon drizzled with a lemon dill aioli, topped with shaved Parmesan and fried capers ~ 13” And that was just the starters. Ivan and Al plunged avidly ahead into the main courses: “PAN-SEARED CHICKEN TAPENADE Crispy half chicken roasted to perfection and finished with our olive tapenade. Served with wild rice and seasonal vegetables ~ 23 “BRAISED BEEF SHORT RIBS Slow roasted for over 8 hours. Served on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes, peppers and onions then smothered in our natural pan sauce ~ 25 “LOBSTER POT PIE Tender chunks of Maine lobster and seasonal vegetables surrounded by a portobello and black truffle brandy sauce. Served in a clay pot topped by a buttery puff pastry crust (Please allow 30 minutes to prepare) ~ 45 “HERB CRUSTED RACK OF LAMB Succulent New Zealand lamb plated with a veal demi glace and mint bernaise. Served with crispy rosemary potatoes ~ 37 “NEW YORK STEAK 14-ounce New York steak dusted with Kona sea salt and paired with our red russet garlic mashed potatoes and fresh local vegetables. ~ 37”
Ivan finally settled on the prawns, followed by the short ribs. After warily checking out the prices, Al said “Fuck it” and ordered the carpaccio and a New York steak adorned with cracked pepper demi glace, sauteed portabello mushrooms and shoestring onions.
As they waited for their pricey grub, Al and Ivan checked out what Manny and his partners had done to the stately old bank. The style was an impressive mix of Colonial and art-deco influences: hand-stenciled ceilings, wood paneling and murals painted by various artists. “I'm sure they had a decorator,” Al said. “The Manny I knew could never have come up with this.”
The food was absolutely wonderful, leaving them both smiling with delight. The tab had come in at $178; Al added a $38 tip and nervously handed over his fake AmEx card – which sailed through like a charm.
Still beaming, they waited for the elevator to take them up to the top floor, which reportedly offered spectacular views. It too lived up to its reputation.
Going down, they shared the ride with two guys who looked familiar to Al. He glanced over at Ivan to see if his friend shared his own vague recollection, but Davis apparently didn't. Then it dawned on Zymer: they were a couple of Manny LaMancha's crew from Los Angeles.
Al and Ivan got out first; one of the other guys – the short and round one -- muttered something about leaving his wallet upstairs as he pushed the button which closed the door. On a hunch, Al watched the display which showed what floor the elevator was on. It hadn't moved. Al punched the “Up” button; the car arrived empty. Where in hell had those boys gone?
“I think there's another floor under this one,” Al said. “Wanna take a look?” They got into the elevator. Al pushed the “Down” button. Nothing happened. He pushed it again. Still nothing.
“I've got an idea,” Ivan said. He reached over Al and pushed “Up” and “Down” at the same time. It worked; the elevator moved slowly downward. Al reached for his .38, remembering at the last minute that his permit had been yanked last year when he hit 70.
The elevator door slid open, revealing a long room that looked at first glance like a cross between a Las Vegas casino and a very stylish cowboy saloon. It was full of people playing cards, dice and roulette. The absence of slot machines gave the place a distinctly upscale aura. Although the closest he'd been to be Montecarlo was watching a James Bond movie, Al knew that this was a much classier spot than any in Vegas.

CHAPTER NINE -- Manny, Ivan and Al
Waiting to greet them at the door was Manny LaMancha. The only feature he shared with his namesake was a woeful countenance. The rest of him was as graceful and muscular as a ballet dancer.
“Al Zymer,” Manny growled in a voice that was pure Chicago mobster. “As I live and occasionally breathe. So you figured out the elevator trick. You're not as dumb as you look.”
Al swallowed the insult. “It was my pal here who did that. Ivan Davis, this is the notorious Manny LaMancha.”
“Yeah, we've met,” Manny said. “And I follow your blog every day.” He gestured to the short, round guy from the elevator who stood on his left, one hand in his jacket pocket. “This is my associate, Creighton Barrel. You boys wanna play?”
“Mr. LaMancha,” said Ivan, “I must say that I'm shocked – shocked! – to find illegal gambling going on in our fair city.”
Manny grinned. “Casablanca, right? I love that movie. You guys sure you don't fancy some poker or a turn on the wheel? No? Okay, then. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“You remember a woman called Tina Carone?” Al asked. LaMancha's grin disappeared. “I don't think so,” he replied carefully. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, my old LAPD partner, Lou Gabriel, told me the other day that he'd just had a call from some weirdo in Arizona who says he knows where she's buried. I said, 'So what? Everybody knows. You and I saw her go under at Woodlawn.' “Sure. But Al, this guy says the casket we watched had somebody else's body in it.”
"I don't understand what this has to do with me,” Manny said.
“Well, I happened to mention what Lou said to a friend who's helped me in the past. She blurted out your name,” said Al.
“Was this your English friend in the Motion Picture Home? She's even more addle-brained than you are. As for Gabriel, he was always just a dumb cop.”
Zymer instantly regretted giving the gangster a link to his sources; he had heard stories of LaMancha's savage revenges. “Okay, let's forget that one,” Al said. “What's this I hear about you owning a racquet club? Got any swimming pools?”
“Yeah, two great ones and a Jacuzzi. Why don't you drop in for a splash tomorrow? I'll leave your name at the desk.”
“Sound fine,” Al said. “After that terrific meal we just had upstairs, I could use the exercise.”
“You should have told me you guys were coming – I would've comped you. Hope you didn't have to pay the tab yourself.”
“No, I've got a rich client,” Zymer said.
“Lucky you. Anybody I might know?”
“Probably not,” said Al. “He's a solid citizen.”

CHAPTER TEN: Al Next morning at 11:30, Al pulled into the parking lot of the Primrose Racquet Club. Like most of Ventura, it had a clean and polished look – unlike the clogged streets of L.A., littered with garbage. Al had a great aunt, his mother's youngest. sister, who owned a lemon ranch on the east side of Ventura. Maybe he'd pay her a visit – if he could remember her name...
He'd spent the night in Ivan's rambling house on Foothill Avenue, which had a fine view of the Pacific several miles below it. Davis had offered bed and breakfast, guessing that Al's rich client was a myth. “The kids are living in Sonoma and San Francisco,” he said. “I could use the company.”
Al knew that Ivan's wife Shirley had died last year, and that his son Dan was running a winery in Napa. “What's Rosie up to in Frisco?” he asked.
“Working for a distribution company, Mordam Records. And her band, now called Cockpit, is selling lots of discs and concert seats.”
The band's new name made Al smile. Rosie Davis had been the bass guitar player of the all-girl group since her days at UC Santa Barbara: it had started as PMS, even though a folk trio called Patty, Mary and Sara objected. He remembered that most of the bridesmaids at Rosie's wedding in a posh Santa Barbara hotel were PMS members – one of them, a sweet and gentle girl whose studs and tattoos startled the more conservative Japanese relatives of the groom.

CHAPTER 11 -- Al and Dana
As Al slid into the Primrose's outdoor pool, he thought – as he often did in new pools – about the morning 30 years ago when he arrived at his favorite spot, the Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire, only to be stopped at the door. “Can't let you in today, Al,” said the security guard who used to be a cop. “Some lady who comes in even earlier than you was electrocuted – a broken light bulb fried her when she jumped in.”
These memories filled his mind as he swam some laps, alone in the sun-warmed outdoor pool. He was doing a backstroke: he looked up behind him and his heart froze. Some vehicle – it might have been a a tractor or an earthmover – had crunched into a power pole just above the pool, and was carrying its high voltage right at him.
Al scrambled and splashed his way as fast as he could to the nearest edge of the pool. But he knew he'd never be able to pull his aging bones out of the water in time.
Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed his and yanked him to safety – just seconds before the pole fell and the water sizzled. He looked up and saw a short, wiry guy who he'd noticed working in the pool area.
“Christ, that was close,” Al's savior said in a surprisingly high tenor voice. “I've never lost a club member that way. A couple of heart attacks, but never an electrocution.”
“I've seen the results of one, and it wasn't pretty. Jeez, buddy, I really owe you one. My name's Al, by the way.”
“Well, Al, I'm Dana. And it looks like you pissed somebody off.”
Dana was right. Al thought about his near miss. Was it an accident or a coincidence? He didn't think so – somebody had definitely tried to kill him. It had to be LaMancha. But why? What had Al done to make himself so unpopular? Could it be anything to do with Tina Carone?
As promised, Manny had left a guest pass at the club's desk. Al signed in and was directed to a clean, no-nonsense locker room. Not much good at bending these days, he'd asked for a higher locker, and found it perfect as he scrambled into his bathing suit and made his way down the corridor. On his left was the entrance to the pools and hot tub. He showered quickly, examined the pools – one indoors, the other outside, both lightly attended – and decided on a soak before his swim.
There were two other old guys in the Jacuzzi, a tall white man and a smaller Japanese. Both gave Al a warm welcome and immediately launched into their respective biographies. The white guy's claim to fame was that his kid brother owned one of the largest software companies in the business. The Japanese gent, Mifune Valentine, had an Italian restaurant. Al sensed that the hot tub meetings were an important part of their social lives, so he listened, smiled and contributed a heavily-edited story of his life.

CHAPTER 12: Al, Ivan, Quentin At 11 p.m. that night, Al and Ivan were sitting in the Busy Bee, a coffee shop on Main Street where Ivan's buddy Quentin O'Rourke, a Ventura County Sheriff's Deputy, preferred to conduct his business. "What, they got no Dunkin' Donuts up here?" Al asked.
"Nope. No WalMarts, either. The City Council is very tough about keeping the place from turning into Los Angeles."
"Is this the same City Council where Manny has a chair?"
Ivan was spared from replying by the arrival of a large man in a rumpled uniform. "You must be Al Zymer," the deputy said. "Is the name real, or are you taking the piss?"
The only other person Al knew, aside from Rachel, who used that expression was Ivan. "You a Brit?" he asked.
"Nope. I was born in L.A. But I've picked up some of Ivan's weird lingo, plus a taste for British soccer -- which they call football. Try telling that to your average 300-pound linebacker."
"So, how did you guys meet?" asked Al. "Working on a case?"
"Believe it or not, this mick is a member of my synagogue," Davis answered genially.
"The O'Rourke is from my father. My mother's name was Moscovitz. I feel right at home every time I walk into a temple."

CHAPTER 13: Al "Is this Albrecht Zimmerman?" asked a voice that had 'lawyer' dripping from it like icicles.
"Who wants to know?" Al said cautiously.
"My name is Bernard Montez. I represent the late Bertha Vanation. If you are indeed Albrecht Zimmerman, I have some news for you."
That was her name, Al thought. I never went to see her, and now she's dead. He vaguely remembered a thin, quiet woman, just the opposite of her sister. Al's mother was loud and insistent; his car salesman father put up with it, but Al left the house as soon as he could enroll in the Police Academy. He visited her once, after his old man died, but she was deep in senilty herself by that time.
"How did you get this number?"
"Your associate, Mr. Kearney, gave it to me," Montez said. "Can we get together tomorrow? Please bring as much ID as you can to prove you really are Albrecht Zimmerman."
The lawyer was as smooth and cold as a glass of horchata as he told Al that his Aunt Bertha had left him a small lemon grove on the eastern end of Ventura, along Telegraph Road. The main house was gorgeous -- six rooms full of old Mexican-style furniture. The only other private building on the ranch was the modest home of the longtime manager, Pablo. The seasonal workers who picked the lemons and cared for the trees were housed in a clean but depressing bunkhouse on the edge of the grove. Al took one look and decided to move in. Ivan was amazingly generous letting him freeload at his house, but Al felt like the ranch was a kind of a homecoming. That plus the fact that Montez had told him the place was green-belted and couldn't be sold until 2020 made up his mind...

CHAPTER 14: Saul I had come down to Beverly Hills to search through Al's files, which hadn't yet made the move to Ventura. I used his key to open the door, then gently closed and locked it. Where to start? Why not with Jon Castle, who had finally coughed up some cash to help us find his bomber? I hoped that Al was familiar enough with the alphabet to make searching easier. Sure enough, there was a stained and battered folder marked "Castle" right after one that seemed to say "Bezerides." Why was that name familiar? Wasn't he a famous screenwriter who specialized in film noir? No time to waste now, but I made a mental bookmark for later. I found my first clue in Al's cramped handwriting on a crumpled sheet of paper. The name PETROVSKY leaped from the page -- the same name that Al had muttered to me after some sexual encounter with a tough female arms dealer called Tess Tosterone. What in hell was going on here? Why was I trapped in a mad punster's nightmare? Castle, I quickly discovered, was the president of the Beverly Hills Merchants' Association at the time of the Petrovsky bomb threat and multi-million dollar extortion attempt. Blog me dead. Coincidence, or something more dangerous? I folded the contents of the file in half and stuffed it into my undershorts. Lucky I did. I heard a click behind me at the door. A cleaning person? Al hadn't mentioned this possibility, and the layer of dust didn't suggest it. Nope, somebody was definitely trying to break in with a credit card or other burglar's friend. I eased myself around as quietly as possible, but it was too late. A short, round, barrel-shaped type was already inside and had spotted me at the file cabinet. We both spoke at the same time: "Who the fuck are you?" But his voice was cool and mine was just scared. "I work here," was all I could manage. "What's your excuse?" He laughed, then smashed my nose with a hard, fast right. "Creighton Barrel, at your service, asshole. You must be the new assistant. This should teach you both not to fuck with Manny." Another blow crashed into my face, splashed blood all over my shirt, then sent me quickly into dreamland.

CHAPTER 15: Saul I woke up slowly and painfully after about an hour, noticed that the contents of Al's filing cabinet were scattered on the floor and that my briefcase had suffered similar treatment, then used my cell phone to call not Al (who couldn't figure out how to work even a simple one like Jitterbug) but first Suzie and then Quentin O'Rourke at his office. I told them where I was and what had happened, then drifted off again. Next time I woke up, I was in a bed in the ER at Ventura's Community Memorial Hospital. I had dozed through the arrival of the paramedics and the trip from Los Angeles at what I later learned was record speed. Suzie and Al were both there, looking scared and surprised. Al had wanted to go after Manny's henchman himself, but Quentin had talked him out of it. "I've got a better idea," he'd said, and left to get it done. Al tamped down his anger and apologized. "They were after me, not you," he said. "You still want in on this?" Suzie shook her head, but I took her hand. "There are no quitters in the Kearney family," I said, but decided not to tell my parents just yet. "How long am I going to be in this nickel joint?" "They said at least a week," Suzie answered. "Saul, are you sure you're up for this? You took a pretty bad beating, my old stringbean." "She's got a point," Al growled. "You look like The Mummy with all those bandages." "Looks aren't everything. Besides, I found out something good before that shitheel started pounding me." But before I could explain, I was off again into cloud cuckoo land...

PART TWO: THE KID Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania. – Dorothy Parker

CHAPTER 16: Al and Al Al jerked awake so hard he almost gave himself whiplash. A voice -- an oddly familiar voice -- was saying, "No sign outside, Al? Mom said you always had one at your office in L.A., which amused the neighbors no end." It was the "Mom said" that give him the clue. Her voice on the phone a couple of weeks before -- "It's me" -- could still quicken his heart, even after twenty years of not hearing it. "Hello, me," Al had said. "How are you? I heard you became a lawyer, got married, even had a kid." "You have your sources, don't you?" "Well, I'm still a detective, for what it's worth," Al answered. "Not that it's worth much these days." "Do you ever get down to L.A.?" she asked "The old legs gave out awhile ago. I even had to give up driving. How about you? Ever get up to Ventura? I inherited a little lemon ranch up here." "No, Al – that's why I'm calling. I seem to have lost the breast cancer war.” “I'm so sorry, my love,” Al began, but she interrupted. “I'm sending up someone to meet you,” she said. “You'll recognize him – and I hope you'll understand why I had to wait to tell you. Bye, my love. See you on the other side.” "I didn't mean to scare you, old man," said the voice. Al suddenly realized who it reminded him of: a younger version of Saul Kearney, still recovering from his beating by LaMancha's muscle, Creighton Barrel. Al looked up. As the boy's mother had said, he did recognize him. The youngster was an exact replica of Al as he had looked 50 years ago. Despite himself, he gasped and said the first thing that came into his mind. "Does your dad know?" "He died two years ago," the boy replied. "And by the way, my name is Al -- Al Frankel. Mike Frankel was a great father; nobody could ever replace him." His hard look at Zymer made Al realize that there was a lot of resentment in the youngster. "So you're 20. What have you been up to?" "I gave Santa Monica College a try," the boy said. "But I didn't see anything that appealed. Then, when she knew she was dying, Mom told me about you, and what you did for a living. I figured, why not see if the PI gig was for me. And here I am -- your new assistant." "Assistant? Hold on, boy. I have trouble making a living myself. There's no dough for an assistant..." "Mom said you were the cheapest bastard in Hollywood," young Al laughed. "Don't freak out -- I'll work for room and food, at least for a while." "Okay. You got a deal." He almost added "Son," but held off until they knew each other better. "You want to get started right away? My regular assistant, Saul Kearney -- a little older than you -- unfortunately got beaten up working on a case for me, so I could use some help." "Beaten up?" the boy asked. "What kind of case?" Al searched his mind for details, but nothing came up. Maybe Saul had written them down. He looked through the box of stuff which Kearney's friend Suzie had shipped to him. There was a file in it labeled "LaMancha." Zymer skimmed Saul's notes quickly, felt a switch in his brain click on, and passed the file to the boy. "Manny LaMancha, a former L.A. mobster now in the Witness Protection Program up here. He's tried to kill me a couple of times -- once in L.A. and once up here. And I still don't know why! What does he think I know?" "His name really is Manny LaMancha?" young Al asked. "Yeah. Why?" "Guess you never read Don Quixote at Hollywood High," said his son. "Never mind. Why did Saul get the shit kicked out of him? Did he make some joke about the guy's name?" "Damned if I know. Maybe Manny thought we were getting too close for comfort. trying to link him to a couple of cold cases. Anyway, one of his muscles…" (he almost said "Creighton Barrel," but decided to skip it)… "paid Saul a visit and put him in Community Memorial Hospital." "Is he still there?" the boy asked. "Yeah, for another week." "Maybe I should drop in, see what else he's found. I'll drive over there after lunch. What have we got to eat, aside from lemons?" "There's some avocados from my own trees," his father answered. "And a new bag of onion bagels. I'll make the coffee. You do drink coffee, don't you?" "I'd rather have a beer." "You're in luck," said Al. "The old lady…" (What was her name again?)… "left a case of Dos Xs in the pantry."

CHAPTER 18: Young Al, Saul, Hugh Mungess After lunch, young Al got directions and drove off in his ancient Honda. There seemed to be more questions than answers in Saul Kearney's file, but the boy had read enough crime fiction in his short life to know that eventually everything would (probably) be made clear. The largest human being young Al had ever seen was sitting in a too-small chair outside Saul's hospital room. Al blinked, then realized he'd seen him before -- a professional football player, certainly a blocker or a tackle. What in hell was his name? It suddenly leaped into his head. "Hugh Mungess! The Eagles, 2006, right?" The giant rose slowly, recognized the kid as no threat, and walked toward him. "You got it. And who are you?" "I'm Al Frankel -- Al Zymer's son. Are you guarding Saul's body?" "Better late than never. Quentin O'Rourke is a good friend, knew I could use the work. Go on in -- I think he's awake." "So this guy's real name is Manny LaMancha?" Al asked Saul as soon as they'd introduced themselves in Kearney's room. "I couldn't believe it, either," a still battered and bandaged Saul replied. "And the guy who beat me up is actually called Creighton Barrel. What are we involved in -- some punster's nightmare?" "Al didn't seem to get it when I asked if the name La Mancha was a joke. That's another thing I wanted to find out from you. Is the old fart really slipping into senility, or is he putting us on?" "I asked my friend Suzie, who does medical research, the same thing. She says that's a definite symptom of early stage Alzheimer's. 'Do I have it, or don't I? You decide.' One of his clients asked him, 'What's with this Columbo routine -- asking the same questions over and over?' And Al's face convinced me that he had no idea who Columbo was…"

CHAPTER 19: Enter Misha Goss As young Al left Saul's room and exited the hospital, he noticed a big man in his 60s with a shaved head and white beard apparently watching him. The man, casually dressed in expensive jeans and a sleek leather jacket, looked foreign, but Al couldn't say why. In the hospital parking lot he saw the man again, this time making no effort to hide his interest in Al. The boy took out his cellphone and called Zymer at home. He described the watcher, but the details didn't seem to match anyone the detective knew -- or remembered. The man was standing next to a new black SUV as Al pulled out. He turned on his phone's camera on and got off two shots as he drove by. Maybe the pictures would turn out to be useful. Young Al decided to take a little tour of Ventura before heading back to the ranch. That way, he might catch a glimpse of the big man if he was indeed tailing him. As an L.A. kid, he was at first surprised -- not much traffic on the clean streets, nobody blowing their horns or shouting out nasty stuff at other drivers (except for one fat guy in an eye patch; probably a nut case) -- and then charmed by the place. Sure, there were plenty of shopping malls, but somebody had set some standards: no fast fooderies on every corner, many large green spaces to ease the urbanity. Downtown Main Street was even more of a surprise. What had been a collection of thrift shops and old magazine stores when young Al and his parents had stopped ten years ago on their way home from the Ojai Valley Inn was now a bustling, trendy area, full of boutiques and restaurants of all flavors. "I'll be back," he growled in his best Arnold imitation, "as soon as that cheap dick starts paying me." He spotted the black SUV behind him as he turned back toward the lemon grove. It was making no attempt to hide. What to do? He was unarmed, and Al Sr. had mentioned that he was, too -- thank the gun gods. But he didn't want to lead this guy to the grove. So he turned right and then left on a much quieter street. Now came the dangerous part. Young Al slowed down until the SUV was right behind him. Then he braked hard and swung left to block the road. Then he waited. "You vant to play games, young man?" The other driver had come out of his vehicle and stood next to Al's. "I tink you lose. And dat vould be a shame. All I vant is to talk to Al Zymer." "He's in the phone book, last I looked." He wasn't, but screw this goon. "I need to have -- vot is it called? -- a one on one chat vit him," the big man said. "About what, the price of lemons?" "About a mutual enemy of ours, a man vit the ridiculous name of Manny LaMancha." This caught Al's attention. "Who is this joker?" he asked. "Your fodder knows him him vell. And I can assure you dat he'll want to hear what I have to say." Young Al took out his cellphone. "Pop, it's me again. I ran into that guy, following me home. He says he wants to talk…" "Mr. Zimmerman, my name is Misha Goss," said the big man, taking the cellphone forcibly from young Al. "Am I vot? Carrying? Ah, you mean am I armed? Not at the moment. Are you? I thought not -- you lost your permit when you hit seventy, I understand." From what he could overhear, young Al thought that this gent knew an awful lot about family business. Did that make him dangerous? "He vants to talk to you," said Goss, handing the kid the cellphone. "Can he hear me?" was the first thing Zymer asked his son. "I don't think so." "Okay, bring him here -- as slowly as possible. I'll try to get Quentin and his large friend to hang around outside. And son, try not to worry. Most of us have done this before."

CHAPTER 20 -- Al and Al "Why didn't you and my mom ever get married?" Al looked at his son across the kitchen table, as they ate some excellent cheese omelets the boy had made. Slightly leathery, just the way Al Sr. liked them. The meeting with Misha Goss had been interesting, to say the least. The big Russian seemed to have a serious bone to pick with Manny LaMancha, and wanted Zymer's help in bringing him down. No reasons were given, even when Al and his son tried to press him. But Saul would start his "doodling" into that as soon as he was up to it. "It wasn't for want of trying," Al finally said to his son's question. "You remember your grandmother at all?" "Some. She died when I was four." "Yeah. Well, the last thing she wanted for her Yale-educated daughter was to marry a cop. Your mom, bless her heart, argued as much as she could, but I could tell it was tearing her apart. So I broke it off. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." "So you really loved her?" the boy asked after a long pause. "It wasn't just sex with a gorgeous younger woman?" "That was part of it, I have to admit. But did I really love her? Yes, I really did. Can you live with that? From what I understand, you had a better life with Frankel than I could ever have given you, or her." Al Sr. chewed another bite of his omelet. "Of course, if I'd known about you, I probably would've done something stupid and tried to see you. Your mom probably knew that, which is why she never told me."

CHAPTER 21-- Al and Al Al was dreaming again, this time about Tina Carone. In his dream, he suddenly saw the connection between her and Katie Troncoso. But when he woke up, he couldn't remember the connection. "Son, I need your help," Al said as he knocked on the kid's bedroom door. He explained what had just happened. "How can I recover a dream? Didn't Freud write something about that?" Young Al, amazed that his father even knew about dream interpretation (what else did he know, or had forgotten he knew?), said the first thing that came into his head. "To hell with Freud, he was a sick cookie anyway. Let's stick with the experts we know. Saul's out of the hospital, and his girl Suzie, besides having a great ass, does medical research for a living. I say we convene a meeting of the minds."

CHAPTER 22 -- Al & Co. They met two days later in Al's large living room, with the smell of lemon blossoms drifting in through the open windows along with the noise of trees being attacked by saws. Suzie, her expertise on full display, took charge. "Al, there are a lot of things we want to try out on you, some new tests to measure memory loss. But that can wait. Right now, let's see how much of that dream we can recover. Any thoughts, guys?" Saul stepped up to the plate. "Al, remember the first day we met? You were having a dream then, which I woke you up from. You were muttering something about Effie, and Toots McAllister. Can you recall any of that?" Al thought for a minute. "Not much. Effie was my secretary… No! She was Sam Spade's secretary! And Toots, I seem to remember she had something to do with an old case… But that's all. I'm sorry." "You're doing great, Pops," his son said. "Now let's try the same thing with your new dream. Katie Troncoso was, if I remember correctly from Saul's file, a big win for you: the LAPD thought the sun shone out of your ass. But Tina Carone was the one they fired you for! Why would the two cases be connected?" Al gulped, then said it: "Would any of you mind if I lay on the couch while we do this?" His son laughed. "Whatever turns you on. Maybe Freud wasn't as limp a dick as I thought…"

CHAPTER 23 -- Al, Quentin, Hugh Mungess Two days later, Al was still feeling frustrated about his forgotten dream. The youngsters had tried hard, but nothing more came out of their efforts. Al hadn't slept well since the original incident, so at about midnight he got out of bed and opened his front door to breathe in some cool night air. He felt the shot pass close over his head, then heard the rifle's sound. No dream this time, no roscoe barking "Kachow!" as he dozed in his chair. Scared shitless, he backed into the house quickly, bolted the door behind him, then called Quentin. "I'll round up Hugh and get right over," the deputy said. "And Al, this is no joke. Somebody wants to scare you." "Well, they sure did that. You don't think they were trying to shut me up for good?" "No, I don't," Quentin replied. "Whoever these guys work for, LaMancha or Goss, they can shoot better than that." O'Rourke and his big buddy arrived about twenty nervous minutes later. They had obviously been putting together a plan, which Quentin explained. "We want you to put this on," he told Al, handing him a serious-looking bulletproof vest with "Property of Ventura County Sheriff's Dept." stenciled on it. "What, you're using me for bait?" "I'm afraid so. Hugh and I would do it, but we're both too big to fool even a blind shooter. And your shrimp of a son would leap at the chance, so that's why I don't want you to tell him." "Agreed," said Al. "Luckily, he's spending the night over at Ivan's house. Okay, then what?" "Then it's my job," Hugh answered. "I do this for a living, Al. I'll be outside, and with any luck the shooter will try again when you show yourself. And then I'll handle him." "Handle? Not kill?" "We need to know who he works for," Quentin said. "He can't tell us if he's dead."

CHAPTER 24: Al & Co. There were no more shots from either side during the night, and Al went back to bed -- first taking off the vest so as not to alarm the youngsters. They trooped in about ten, and Al and his son cooked up some very good French toast. "I did some doodling on our new friend Misha Goss," Saul said with a smile. "It turns out that he is indeed a paid-up member of the Russian Mafia -- based in St. Petersburg and not Moscow, for reasons still to be determined." "Any connection between him and Manny?" Al Sr. asked. "Just one hint so far -- a Russian blog said Goss had been ripped off by some California mobster, and was seeking revenge. And somebody in a bathhouse spotted him naked, and noticed a very common mob tattoo on his back. This one said MIR, which is a Russian word for world. But it's also, I've discovered, an acronym for Menya Ispravit Rastrel -- Execution will Reform Me." "I didn't know you spoke Russian, my sweet string bean," Suzie said. "I don't -- but luckily I've got a computer program that does." "Okay boys, let's get back to work," she said. "We've decided to leave the dream recovery for now, Al. Today, we're going to try out a few tests. Nothing frightening -- just some new ways to see if you really do have any signs of your namesake disease. For example, have you had any money problems recently? Any payments you might have missed?" "None that I can recall," said Al, with a late laugh as he got his own joke. "My only money problem is not having enough -- especially now that I've got this extra mouth to feed." "Tough luck, Pops," said his son. "And I was about to ask you for some pocket money."

CHAPTER 25 -- Quentin and Major Crime The Sheriff of Ventura, Major Charles Crime, was a Vietnam vet who had come home from the war, gained the support of a local right wing lunatic Republican Congressman called Elvin Gagrule, and never looked back. Crime, who hated work, spotted Quentin O'Rourke as an eager young man who would do anything to shine. So he made O'Rourke his chief deputy, and then spent his time on important issues like hassling local pot dealers. Quentin was indeed eager, and also a lot smarter than he looked. He took over the Sheriff's Office and ran it well -- never letting his boss know what was going on. So, when Los Angeles Chief of Police Byron Gates sent a warrant for the arrest of "one Albrecht Zimmerman, aka Al Zymer," as a material witness in the just-reopened murder of Tina Carone, it was O'Rourke who got the document. "I'll kick it around for a while until it gets lost," Quentin told Al on the telephone. "Meanwhile, let's hope somebody tries to take another shot at you. And don't forget to wear your vest." "Is Hugh still on the case? I haven't seen him lately." "If you had seen him, he wouldn't be doing his job," Quentin said. "Now, I've gotta go screw up my boss some more."

CHAPTER 26 -- Al & Co. "Okay, Al -- time for some more tests designed to make you feel stupid," his son cackled. Their attempts to recover more of his dream linking the Tina Carone and Katie Troncoso murder cases hadn't yet come up with much, but Al could feel something stirring deep inside what was left of his mind. Now, if he could just reconnect a few of those tangled wires… "Let's start out with something simple," said Suzie, who had briskly taken charge without complaint from Al Jr. or Saul. "Let's have you draw a clock. A nice, big round clock, with its hands pointing to 3:30. Can you do that?" "A.M or P.M.?" Al Sr. joked, as he made a large circle on Suzie's drawing pad, then added huge Disney hands at the 3 and 6 marks. "How did I do, teach?" "I'd call that a 10," said Charpentier. "Even with those Mickey Mouse mitts. Now, let's try something slightly different. I want you to read out the time on your wall clock." Al glanced up at the battery-operated platter of bacon and eggs hanging behind him. "Looks like 4:17 to me," he said. "Grand. Now I need some pocket change. Cough up, guys -- quarters, dimes and nickels, please." She passed Al three quarters, seven dimes and seven nickels. "Okay, Al -- make me a dollar's worth of change out of that. You've got three minutes." This one was a bit harder. He had to try three different combinations of coins in his head before he came up with the three quarters, two dimes and one nickel which he shoved across the table as Suzie's finger lifted to click her stopwatch. Saul took over. "Here comes a fun one," he said. "It uses your nose. Notice any signs of losing your sense of smell recently?" "Now that you mention it," Zymer said, "my cigars just don't smell or taste the way they used to." "Considering those stinkpots you smoke, I'm not surprised. But researchers have known for some time that loss of the sense of smell is an early warning sign of Alzheimer’s. Turns out the beta-amyloid plaques that ultimately destroy memory and other cognitive abilities accumulate first in areas of the brain that are responsible for perception of odors. Anyway, I've got ten items here which I want you to identify. Ready?" Al nodded, and Saul passed him samples to sniff it. "Strawberry?" he said to the first one, not quite sure. Saul said nothing, just handed him another sample to sniff. Menthol, perhaps? Natural gas he was certain of, also lemon -- or was that pineapple? Soap, to be sure. But the rest were blurred and could have come from a failed movie inSmell-O-Vision… His son leaped in with some more sneaky tests. "Okay, Pops, I want you to name as many fruits as you can in a minute -- try for ten if you can, but don't sweat it." Lemons, of course. Avocados -- were they a fruit? How about tomatoes? Garlic? Peaches? "Let's move on. I'm gonna say three words, and I want you to remember them and repeat them back: Ferocious, flounder, female. Before you start repeating, try multiplying seven by 489 in your head. Okay, what were those words?" "Female. Ferocious. And the third was…. Shit, I forget." "Okay, old boy. Two out of three ain't bad…" A loud ring from the telephone interrupted the tests. "Al, it's me -- Lou Gabriel." "What's up, Lou?" "Well, my pension came through, and I heard a rumor that you could use some help up there. So I'm on my way…" Help? The only person Gabriel had had ever helped was himself -- to whatever was going. There was something very odd about this offer, and Al made a mental note to check it with Quentin.

CHAPTER 27: Al, Mia Kulpa The call came the next day. “Mr. Zymer?” “Who wants to know?” “This is Mia Kulpa, the registrar at the Motion Picture Home,” a crisp voice replied. “I presume you’ve heard about our problems here?” “I guess not. Is this about Rachel?” What was her last name, again? “Rachel…Donner?” “I’m afraid it is, Mr. Zymer. We’re being forced to close down because most of our financial supporters were victimized by the Bernie Madoff swindle.” A vague light began to flicker in Al’s mind. “Yeah, now that I think of it, I did hear something. What’s going to happen with your patients - with Rachel?” “That’s why I’m calling. We’re trying to find other homes for them all, but we have to close down in a few weeks. Since you are the only visitor Miss Donner has had in the last several years, and since you know about her condition, we hoped you might have some suggestions.” The thought of his lovely Rachel in one of those terrible rest homes he’d heard and read about filled Al’s heart with tears. On the other hand, Ventura did seem to have more than its share of places that looked fine from the outside. It sounded like a job for the youngsters. “I’ll get right on it,” he said. “Did you say a few weeks? And your dough - your funds - are completely gone?” “The place is up for sale, and some real estate developer is already sniffing around the grounds,” Miss Kulpa replied. “I don’t think high-cost patients like Miss Donner are going to be a top priority.”

Chapter 28 — Misha Goss, Al, Quentin, Hugh, Dana
Prompted by Suzie’s questions, Al thought about his mother as he lay in bed. The truth was that he had never known she had dementia until the very end of her life, twenty years ago. Before that, his visits home were sporadic — mostly to see his old man, still lively until his peaceful death at 90 a few years ago.

His mother seemed to him then to be the same royal pain in the ass she’d always been — the reason he'd gone to the Police Academy as soon as they would take him. But thinking back, he began to remember feelings, incidents, concerns. Something had certainly been going on in her head.

A very early memory intruded out of the darkness: a sweetly smiling woman standing over his crib, singing something definitely not a lullaby…

The call from Misha Goss woke him from a deep sleep. “I hear dat your former partner Gabriel is a very hot shooter, and has been hired by our mutual enemy to knock you off,” said Goss in his usual sideways manner.

Dana called right after, to confirm. “Manny still has the hates for you. I haven’t found out why yet, but I’m working on it.”

Al reported the details to Quentin. “Who should we trust here?” he asked.

“Well, unless he’s a much better double-bluffer than I can imagine, my instinct says we go with Goss,” the deputy replied. “Maybe he can supply a couple of hot shooters of his own. I’d rather not involve the department if I can avoid it. The Sheriff would probably go batshit if he heard about it. Meanwhile, I’ll get Hugh and you recruit Dana. Find out if he has any guns, and maybe a couple of bodies he trusts. I have a hunch we’ll need all the help we can muster. But Al — not the kids.”

“Of course not. They’re away for the weekend at someplace called The Apple Farm up the coast.” He didn’t add that Al Jr. had taken along his new young lady — whose name Al had already forgotten.

CHAPTER 29— The Good Guys and the Bad Guys

Quentin and Hugh arrived first. “Where’s your vest?” barked the deputy.

“I took it off to have a shower,” Al replied. “What is this, more bait? I hope I can go outside and play with the big boys.”

“From what I’ve heard about you as a shooter, you’re much safer in here,” Quentin said.

Dana drove up next, alone, but heavily armed and shelled. Quentin dug a bulletproof vest out of his car trunk for him, but didn’t have one big enough for Hugh. The three of them spread out in the lemon trees around the house.

Next to arrive was LaMancha’s team: Lou Gabriel, Creighton Barrel, three other guys from the gambling club — but no Manny. Since they’d never been here before, they took a few minutes to reconnoiter.

“Al, it’s Lou. Stay cool. Nobody has to get hurt here,” his old partner shouted at the darkened house.

Al couldn’t resist shouting back. “You gonna kill me without hurting me, Lou? Nobody’s that good a shot.”

Then Manny himself roared up with one other henchman — and they had Ivan with them. “Al, your pal here will see his blog title come true unless you come out the house with your hands in the air — and empty. That way, everybody stays alive. All we want is to take you someplace safe for a little chat.”

Quentin yelled “Stay put, Al! It’s a setup!” But Al did come out with his hands in the air. Then, from under his vest, he pulled out a handgun, a match to his old police revolver — a stolen gun he’d taken from his LAPD locker on the day he was sacked.

He fired a shot at Manny which missed by about ten feet and ricocheted off a car behind him. All hell broke loose. Gabriel, who had managed to get himself and his rifle up into a tall eucalyptus tree, fired down on Al and his team.

Quentin, Hugh and Dana blasted back; Manny’s boys returned their fire. Ivan hit the ground and rolled under a car. Hugh grunted loudly as he took a slug and fell like a giant tree. Dana also appeared to have taken a hit.

It began to look very bad for the good guys. They were definitely out-gunned. Then a tank-like SUV roared up, full of Russian and Mexican mobsters — headed up by an Ouzi-toting Misha Goss.

Chapter 30 — Aftermath

Dana had taken a bullet in his upper thigh; two days later, he was already hobbling around on crutches, swearing revenge. But Hugh was still in Intensive Care at Community Memorial Hospital, lapsing in and out of consciousness, suffering from a much more dangerous sniper slug to his upper body. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises, the oldies — Al and Ivan — were fine, at their homes, trying to figure out what had just happened.

By the time the Ventura cops had arrived, a shaken but unhurt Quentin was gone — having left the scene to Major Crime and his other officers. Manny and his crew (minus a couple of wounded, left behind in the trees) had also disappeared. And Misha and his tankload of assorted hoodlums had roared off into the night with their own wounded -- Goss doing his best Arnold imitation, waving his Ouzi and shouting, “I’ll be bach!”

CHAPTER 31 — Saul

We returned from the touristy peace of the Apple Farm to find the remains of a battle zone in Al’s own orchard. Police tape yellowed the house and trees; beleaguered cops under the very loud direction of a man with a big voice and a weedy body (Quentin’s boss, the ubiquitous Major Charles Crime, as it turned out) dug bullets out anything made of wood. “You ever seen anything like this?” one asked a colleague, showing him an unusual slug.

“Yeah,” the other man said, “It comes from a Russian machine pistol — one of them Ouchies.”

“Al,” I said to him when we got inside, “I think it’s time we figured out just what in hell is going on. Why does LaMancha want you so dead? I know Dana is digging, but I think I’ll go back to what’s left of your files and do a more thorough search. Did our pal Mr. Barrel get hit, I hope?”

“Not that I noticed. But I’ll make sure that Dana keeps an eye on him.”

“Good idea, dad,” said his son. “Meanwhile, I’ll go over to Ivan’s and use his computer to see if I can find a link between Manny and the LAPD guy who fired you. We need to ask a lot more questions.”

I agreed. “Al, I know how much we both hate Conan Doyle — you remember, the Sherlock Holmes guy? But I think it’s time for me to take on the role of your Dr. Watson.”

CHAPTER 32 — Suzie

While the boys left on their various boyish pursuits, I decided to continue my own work on Al’s mental condition, using the new research I’d learned about from recent studies. (“When a middle-aged person jokes with his longtime family doctor that he feels as if he has a ‘Teflon brain,’ the doctor may do little more than laugh. But if the same man joked about having a pea-sized bladder, the doctor would insist on checking his prostate and probably refer him to a specialist,” was one gem).

On a more serious note, I’d discovered that some individuals with a very high IQ or those who are really good test takers appear “normal” on the Mini-Mental State Exam when in fact they have Alzheimer’s-induced memory slowdown.

To try to get by this, I’d also found that to assess language, a doctor might ask an obviously intelligent patient to name all the four-legged animals he or she can think of as quickly as possible, or to repeat complex phrases like “Nelson Rockefeller had a Lincoln Continental.” (Al liked that one, and repeated it three times — the last time adding, “Why not a Bentley?”)

It turned out that the creative leap may well be informed by subconscious cues. In a well-known experiment, psychologists challenged people to tie together two cords; the cords hung from the ceiling of a large room, too far apart to be grabbed at the same time. A small percentage of people solved it without any help, by tying something like a pair of pliers to one cord and swinging it like a pendulum so that it could be caught while they held the other cord. In some experiments researchers gave hints to those who were stumped — for instance, by bumping into one of the strings so that it swung. Many of those who then solved the problem said they had no recollection of the hint, though it very likely registered subconsciously.

We had some fun fooling around with that one. By then, it was time to get Al some free samples.

CHAPTER 33 — Rachel, Al, Suzie, The Evil Umpire

Despite its jokey name, The Last Resort turned out to be a good choice for Rachel. It was small, clean and didn’t radiate with despair as did some of the larger, fancier, more pricey places they had checked out.

Bob Churchill himself was like a good coach rather than a paper-shuffling desk jockey. “I’m so glad to see you again, Miss Donner,” he said. “Do you prefer Miss Donner, or shall we call you Rachel?”

Al watched in amazement as Rachel — who hadn’t uttered a word since they’d arrived — struggled to rise to the surface and then said, in a husky voice, “Rachel, to my friends.”

“I hope you’ll let me into that select group. I’ve seen and loved all your movies.”

A smile seemed to come to her face. It was a sad smile, but all the same it filled Al’s heart with almost unbearable lightness.

CHAPTER 34 — Saul

Dana had promised to keep an eye out for Creighton Barrel in Ventura, but I decided that I needed some more backup for my visit to Al's old office in the Writers and Artists Building in Beverly Hills. So I took along my trusty aluminum baseball bat. It wasn't as effective as an Ouzi or even Barrel's fists, but it might just give me an edge.

The place looked and sounded quiet as I slipped in. Al's files still lay scattered on the floor, some of them marked with my dried blood. Had it really been just two months ago that I'd found, hidden in my shorts and then lost to the hospital laundry while I was in dreamland that clue to the name Petrovsky in one of Al's files? It came back to me now: Petrovsky was a Russian-born extortionist who used homemade bombs. Al and his bomb squad buddy had caught him after a threat to reduce several plush department stores on Beverly Drive to rubble.

Did Petrovsky have any connection with our new Russian friend Misha Goss? And what about the link to Jon Castle, shirtmaker to the stars and now our paying client? On that same outing, I'd discovered Castle had been the president of the Beverly Hills Merchants' Association at the time of the Petrovsky bomb threat and multi-million dollar extortion attempt. Blog me dead, as Ivan Davis would say. Coincidence, or something more dangerous?

I decided to walk across the street and have a few friendly words with our client. I'd just picked up my bat to leave when I heard a sound at the door that froze my blood. Somebody -- guess who? -- was using a burglar's tool to open Al's door.

I stepped back and assumed the position. Barrel saw me and what I had in my hands. He tried to back out, but I gave him the best blast from my childhood past across his beefy chest. He fell like a lump of dead meat.

I was tempted to finish the job with a smash to the head, but finally decided that a murder rap might slow down our investigation. So I packed up my stuff, stepped over the inert body on the floor, and walked across the street to talk to Castle. I parked my killer bat in the trunk of the car, so as not to frighten him or his sales staff.

Castle was his usual dapper, charming self as I walked in. "You're Al's assistant, right? We met right after the bombing -- Saul, if I'm not mistaken. How's the investigation going up there in Ventura?"

He smiled at my obvious surprise. "I do read all your expense account reports as they come in, and noticed the change of venue. Anything else to tell me?"

"I'll leave that to Al, Mr. Castle." Then I tried a little test. "We've got our eye on a guy called Manny LaMancha, a former L.A. hoodlum now in the Witness Protection Program up north. You know him, by any chance?"

Castle failed the eyeball-to-eyeball test: he blinked, then said, "Yeah, I think he used to be a customer. Luckily, his account was paid in full: the Feds aren't always so efficient. Anything else I can tell you?"

"Just one more thing. Does the name Petrovsky mean anything to you?"

"I don't think so," Castle replied. "Should it?"

"Well, he was the Russian guy who threatened to blow up Neiman Marcus and a couple of other stores unless the Beverly Hills Merchants' Association paid him fifty million bucks. Captain Brian Rosoff, Al's friend on the bomb squad, says the stuff used on your store was the same kind of homemade brew."

"No shit!"

"And speaking of Russians, do you know a bent Ivan called Misha Goss?"

Castle went white, His mouth opened, but before he could answer an extremely high velocity sniper bullet tore off a large part of his head.

CHAPTER 35 — Saul

I hit the floor quickly. As I went down, I looked across the street. Was I imagining it, or did a curtain move in Al's office?

Later, when I got to tell a starchy Beverly Hills detective called Drew Lebby -- a John Malkovich wannabe -- about what I thought I'd seen, he sent a man over to check it out. The place was empty and locked up tight, he reported. So who had come in, killed Castle, then rolled out Barrel's inert body? My first thought was Al's old partner, Lou Gabriel.

I called Al as soon as I could. "Sounds like it could be Lou," he agreed. "I'll ask Quentin how he thinks we should proceed. Get back here as soon as you're up for driving -- and nice work with the bat, Dr. Watson. Meanwhile, I'll call in a few favors and get Brian Rosoff to lean on this Lebby stiff and maybe give us a tip on the slug in our ex-client's head."


CHAPTER 36 -- Al Jr.

I'd been working with Dana, trying to find a link between Manny and Chief Gates, when the news about Castle's killing came in from Pops. It turned out that Dana used to work for LaMancha in L.A., and had been badly shafted by him in some fashion -- which is why he was now on our side. The other reason, I'd noticed, was that he liked Suzie's lovely ass. I wasn't going to point this out to Saul, who was surely used to seeing it happen.

The connection, from one of Al's old informants who was also a former associate of Dana's, indicated that Gates and Manny were both involved (together or separately) in the killings of Tina Carone and Lucy Troncosco. This raised more questions than it answered, but at least it gave us a place to start.



CHAPTER 37-- Suzie

Surrounded by blood and thunder, and worried about Saul, I decided to use my own skills and see how Rachel was getting on at The Last Resort.

Churchill's welcoming smile, as wide as an outfield, gave me my first clue. It turned out that he was an early advocate of a radical Alzheimer's management group known as Beatitudes. Disregarding typical nursing-home rules and practices, Beatitudes let its patients sleep, be bathed and dine whenever they wanted, even at 2 a.m. They could eat anything, too, no matter how unhealthy -- including unlimited chocolate.

Rachel seemed to be thriving. She didn't say much, but she looked at me as though I was someone she knew.

"Suzie," she said. I nodded."Yes, Rachel. I'm Suzie. Al's friend."

"Al's friend. I love Al. I hope he knows that."

"He does, Rachel. He knows."

In Churchill's office, he told me that patients at Beatitudes are allowed practically anything that brings comfort, even an alcoholic “nip at night. The state tried to cite us for having chocolate on the nursing chart. They said ‘It’s not a medication.’ I said, 'Yes, it is. It’s better than Xanax.'”

Back at my computer, I discovered that Beatitudes was actually following some of the latest scientific research, which suggested that creating positive emotional experiences for Alzheimer’s patients diminishes distress and behavior problems. Studies indicate that emotion persists after cognition deteriorates. In a University of Iowa study, people with brain damage producing Alzheimer’s-like amnesia viewed film clips evoking tears and sadness or laughter and happiness.

Six minutes later, participants had trouble recalling the clips. But 30 minutes later, emotion evaluations showed they still felt sad or happy, often more than participants with normal memories. The more memory-impaired patients retained stronger emotions.

This suggested that behavioral problems could stem from sadness or anxiety that patients cannot explain.

As one study evaluator said, "these patients appear to have virtually no sundowning,” referring to agitated, delusional behavior common with Alzheimer’s, especially during afternoon and evening.

For behavior management, Beatitudes plumbed residents’ biographies, soothing one woman by dabbing on White Shoulders perfume, which her biographical survey indicated she had worn before becoming ill. Food became available constantly, a canny move because people with dementia might be “too distracted” to eat during group mealtimes, and later “be acting out when what they actually need is food.”

I made a note to myself to find out from Al what Rachel's favorite perfume was.

CHAPTER 38 -- Al, Blake Hirskovitz

Two years ago, Al had some successful cancer surgery at UCLA, and when his ace doctor suggested he try legal marijuana to ease the affects of radiation, he swallowed a large gulp of 1960s LAPD distaste, got himself a license and paid out a hundred bucks for some good buds from a dealer in Ventura named Blake Hirskovitz.

Now, Hirskovitz -- a shrewd young guy with a family background in the restaurant business and a wife who made sensational pot-laced brownies -- appeared to be under a lot of pressure from Quentin's boss, Major Crime, who obviously saw the failure of a badly-conceived state proposition as the start of his high profile war against drug growers and dealers which would become a major part of his campaign to be California's next attorney general. Crime had banned Hirskovitz's low-key ads in the Ventura County Reporter, which was quickly killing off his business. He couldn’t even pay the rent on his Camarillo farm, which he called Leaves of Grass.

"Blake? It's Al Zymer -- remember me? I got something on what's left of my mind which might help us both out. You interested? Great. I'll see you over here ASAP -- whateverthefuck that means…"

Hirskovitz, brisk and cheery, curly-haired and as sharp as a steak knife, was there in record time. "Junie made some kickass brownies this morning," he said, handing Al a ziplock. "Better save them for bedtime, if we're gonna talk business."

"You got it. I understand you've been having some trouble with that primo putz Major Crime."

"You know that creep? He wants to bury me!"

"Well, the guy who really runs the Sheriff's office is a buddy of my old pal Ivan Davis, Quentin O'Rourke, who is helping us out on a big case involving a protected witness named Manny LaMancha."

"Is this some kind of a joke? Did you make these names up?"

"Wouldn't I have come up with something better than Blake Hirskovitz if I did? Any road, Manny has something going on -- maybe drugs, maybe more. He's tried to kill me and my young associate Saul a couple of times already."

" Yeah, I did hear about a lot of shots fired out this way. And where do I come into this mishegos, if I might ask?"

"Oh, do you know him, too?"

"Know who? Never mind. What's my role?"

"I'd like to offer you a house on this ranch, rent free, and all the space you need to grow your buds."

"In return for…?"

"We need your help in tying this whole thing together."

"Who's the we here?"

"Quentin; me; a good tough little guy called Dana; my assistant, Saul; my 20-year-old son, also named Al, who I never even knew existed until two weeks ago. And one more good guy -- a former NFL linebacker called Hugh Mungess, who is unfortunately in a coma."

"Him I do remember. Eagles, right? This gets better and better. Any danger involved?"

"To you? Christ, I hope not."

"Not so much me -- I'm used to a some rough and tumble. But I don't want Junie getting hurt or scared. Okay?"

"Absofuckinglutely."

"Good. Tell me more."

Al made a quick call to Quentin, who promised he'd be right over. Then he laid out the problem to Blake. "We're not sure if it's Manny or our new friend Misha Goss -- who saved our asses bigtime last week. But they hate each other, and one of them hired my old LAPD partner to kill our client.

"So what we want from you is help us work some kinda sting operation here -- to find out just who the bad guys are."

Quentin roared up in a swirl of gravel and road rage. "So, is he in or out?" he asked after the introductions.

"I'm in -- especially if I can get in a few jabs at your erstwhile boss."

Both Al and Quentin exchanged quick, sly smiles at Blake's erstwhile, but said nothing.

CHAPTER 39 -- Manny, Al, Blake, Quentin

LaMancha heard the first shot whiz by like a rabid bee as it missed his head by less than an inch. "What the fug!" he shouted, although he was alone in his bedroom high above Ventura. He knew instinctively that it was Gabriel somewhere out there, getting ready to shoot again. The second shot was even closer.

Amazingly, Manny felt no fear -- just unadulterated rage. Who had ordered this one? The Mad Russian? Somebody else he'd screwed in a drug deal? Then, as the final bullet ended his life, he knew…

Quentin's cellphone jangled. "This can't be good," he grumbled as he saw the incoming number. "Yes, boss. What's up? He was what? When? Okay, I'll get right on it."

He hung up and looked at the others. "Somebody just killed Manny. Long-range sniper shot took his head apart. Sounds like your old partner."

"Holy shit!" they both shouted.

O'Rourke was back on the phone. "Dana? Quentin. Yeah, I just heard that from the Major. What do you hear about it? Okay, keep me posted. I'm going to call in a few favors from the LAPD, but I think we're all going to be up to our necks in it very soon."

He placed another call. "Sam? Quentin O'Rourke up in Ventura. Chief Gates did what? Oh, boy -- this is happening too fast for my thin blood. I'll get back to when I know more. You do the same."

Quentin turned back to Al and Blake. "Another enemy heard from. Chief Gates has issued murder warrants for you, Al -- and for Dana, Ivan Davis, even for Hugh Mungess, although the last I heard he was still in a coma."

CHAPTER 40 -- Reenter Misha Goss

Quentin's phone jangled again. "What now?" he grumbled.

"Vot now? Now ve get serious, my friend."

"Is this your work, Comrade Goss?"

"No. I wanted LaMancha dead, of course, but this looks more like an LAPD dirty job, done by Zymer's old partner."

"Who could have hired him to do that?"

"My guess is someone at the top, probably this Chief Gates I keep hearing about. But why was he so interested in getting your Mr. Zymer framed for it? You got any ideas about that?"

"Al seems to think it was some kind of sex thing," Quentin said. "He says Gates always was an ass man, and wanted to shut Al up about sex-related cases involving women on the force."

"Verrry interesting," said Goss, making Quentin think of that old Laugh-In character. "So how do we handle this?" he asked. "My boss wants action, fast."

"I tink ve play it very close to -- how you say? -- our vests. Don't let Zymer and any LAPD peoples get in the same car. I'll bring in a few of my Mexican associates, whom you've already met. Then ve play it by ear -- another American saying I have never understanded."

They left it like that, Goss directing them to meet him in a shopping mall near downtown Los Angeles. "Let's go, Al," Quentin said. "We're back in the hands of our St. Petersburg buddy. Blake, I suggest you stay here -- it should quiet down when we move out. And I'll call Dana, have him do some back-up down south."

They roared off in a scramble of gravel, hit the 101 and headed out for another adventure. Al used Quentin's phone to alert the kids, telling them as little as possible. "Just make sure Rachel's okay. She what? She talked to Suzie? That's my dear old girl. As for her favorite perfume, I remember something from Estee Lauder -- Jasmine White Moss. Give her a dab of that, from me."

CHAPTER 41 -- The Good Guys

As promised, Goss and his band of outlaws were waiting for them. They were in two SUVs this time, and Al got into the lead one with Goss and his Uzi. Quentin looked at his mostly Mexican car-mates with a shaky smile, then said, "Let's do it," which everybody seemed to understand and laugh at.

"Hokay, let's get this started," said Goss to Al. "Remember, don't let any LAPD pippels into this wehicle."

"You really think it was Gates who set this up?"

"Who elz? Manny may have started it, but who elz is benefitting from killing you now?"

"If Saul hadn't seen him die, I'd say Jon Castle. Who bombed his store? And why did he hire me to find out? Was that just a cover, to keep me off the real trail?" Al asked, thinking out loud. What was that other Russian's name again -- Petrov, Petrovsky? -- and what was his connection here? "You ever hear of a Russian called Petrov or Petrovsky? He was involved in a bomb extortion case I broke about 20 years ago."

"That name does tingle my brain cells," Misha. "Vell, maybe we'll stay alive long enough to find out."

CHAPTER 42 -- The Other Guys

Chief Gates and Lou Gabriel rode together in the back seat of Gates's classic old Cadillac while his driver -- an old friend of Al's named Wambaugh -- tried hard to listen to what they were saying without being too obvious about it. "Remember," Gates warned Gabriel. "This has to work. We're running out of time. Our gover-nator friend is history, and Jerry Brown would love to have my ass in his pickle barrel. He'll probably bring in the Feds when he hears what happened."

"Relax," said Lou. "Manny was easy, so will this one be. You just keep thinking of where we get rid of the bodies."

As they drove south, Gates kept his cellphone to his ear, getting directions from somebody. "They're turning where? Okay, keep me posted."

"Take the 19 south to Rosemead," he told Wambaugh. "Two SUVs -- one black, one silver -- are heading for some shopping mall down there."

CHAPTER 43 -- Dana, Saul, Al Jr.

"Okay, boys, they're headed for the Rosemead mall as planned," Dana reported to Saul and Al Jr. as he listened on his cell to what Gates was telling Wambaugh. "Remember, neither Al nor Quentin want you involved any shooting. You okay with that?"

"Yep," said Saul. "But I did bring my killer bat along in case Mr. Barrel needs another grand salami."

Al Jr., who had stuck his father's old .38 into his jacket pocket before they left, nodded his lie to Dana's question. "Fine, just keep the old man alive. Funny, but I'm getting used to having the senile old fart around."

They drove south in Dana's old Audi, the silence broken only by a chirp as the listening device which Wambaugh was using to transmit his signal did its job. Outside was a bleak urban jungle, houses they couldn't imagine anyone choosing to live in. The sadly hopeful suburban names flashed by -- Alhambra, Arcadia, San Gabriel -- until they saw a sign directing them to Rosemead and wondered how it would all come out.

CHAPTER 44: Meet Youda Best

My old and still occasional lover Dana Dancer (don't tell him I told you his last name -- he thinks it makes him sound gay, which I can assure you isn't true) called and asked if I knew of any of Manny LaMancha's gang who might want to switch sides now that Manny was gone. I said I'd look into it.

About six guys opted out, thinking it might still be a bit too dangerous. But two said they'd be ready to go if there was cash to be earned. Following Dana's instructions, I told them, "You bet your scrawny East L.A. ass there is!" Now I was on my way, along with my kid sister Esme -- like me carrying a nice little Glock -- to pickup Juan and Irving (what in hell kinda name was that for a mobster?) and drag them down to some shopping mall in Rosemead. Some life, no? As William Holden said in The Wild Bunch, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

CHAPTER 45: Rachel and Suzie

Suzie had just read a new study which showed that a section of the brain involved in memory grew in size in older people who regularly took brisk walks. The study backed up previous findings that aerobic exercise seemed to reduce brain atrophy in early-stage Alzheimer's patients, and that walking led to slight improvement on mental tests among older people with memory problems.

The hippocampus, a region of the brain involved in memory, tends to shrink slightly with age and that's what happened in the group that only did stretching. But among people who took part in the walking program, the hippocampus region of the brain grew in size by roughly 2 percent. Now she was about to try it out with Rachel, in the friendly garden of The Last Resort.

First, She took a bottle of Jasmine Moss from her handbag and showed it to Rachel. "Does this bring back any memories? Al thought it might."

Rachel looked at the perfume and smiled. "Al," she said. "I should have married Al. Maybe we'd have a daughter like you if we did." It was the longest, most complete sentence she had spoken in Suzie's presence.

Tears gleamed on both women's cheeks as Suzie rubbed perfume on Rachel's arms and shoulders. "Now, " she said. "About that walk…"

CHAPTER 46: Armageddon in Rosemead

Chief Gates looked up as the sound of a chopper hit him. "That better be one of our private jobs," he said to Lou and Wambaugh. "If it's an official LAPD unit, we're all in deep shit."
The two men in the chopper spotted Gates's Cadillac. "Looks like the Chief is off on one of his nighttime rambles," said the co-pilot into his radio. "That man gets laid more often than Charlie Sheen. How shall we we proceed? "
He listened to the female voice on his line, said "You got it," then turned to the pilot. "Boss sez to keep our eyes open and take no action until she tells us to. You okay with that?"
"That's why we call her Boss." He made a sharp turn to his right, showing his bottom with the LAPD logo to the four vehicles below him.
Gates was still on his phone, shouting instructions to his driver. Gabriel spotted the logo first. "Do your privates birds have an LAPD sign?" he asked as he snapped together the parts of his sniper rifle.
"I hope to Christ it's something Jackman did without telling me," the Chief said with a shudder.
The mall was dark and empty, with only a couple of isolated trailers which people were living in to save park rentals. Rosemead itself was just a twinkle of suburban lights.
In the second SUV, Quentin checked the time. Almost midnight. Then he heard the chopper and looked up. "Keep your eyes open, hermanos," he said to his companions. "Eyes in the sky. Let's lock and load."
Dana heard the bird as he and the boys tooled along in his Audi. He looked up while listening to Wambaugh on one phone and directing Youda Best on another, smiling as he talked to the love of his life. Ten years of miliary police work in Vietnam. then another couple with LaMancha when somebody he'd thought of as a friend gave him a tip about a high-paying, no-rules job. He'd hated almost every minute of it: only Youda kept him sane and decent. Maybe it was time for them to think about marriage.
In the lead SUV, both Al and Misha spotted the chopper as it appeared to be herding them all like sheep into a vast, dark open space ahead. "Vot heppens, heppens," said Misha almost sadly as he set his Uzi down between them.

CHAPTER 47 -- Enter Dee Nada

No jokes about the name, okay? My black momma and my Mexican daddio thought it was hilariously funny. I thought seriously about changing it when my fellow trainees at the FBI Academy in Quantico began ragging me from Day One, but I was bigger and stronger than most of them, so they soon quit.

Now I was on the way to a meeting with my boss -- Elvin Park , Director of Covert Operations -- and some shiny brass at the White House. Damn, I could get used to this -- a big girl from East L.A. and USC, walking up those front steps where a man of color ran the country, and had a delicious-looking wife in the bargain.





INSTALLMENT 25
POSTED MONDAY, FEBRUARY 21ST


CHAPTER 46 – The War in the Air

Dee

As I flew west, I talked to David Simmons and Diego Ballestario – my flyboys – on my cell. “We've been picking up lots of talk from the soon-to-be-ex Chief from our spy in his car,” said Diego. “Looks like he knows we're up here watching, and that we mean him no good. Things could start to explode at any moment. How soon will you get here, Boss Lady?”

“With friendly winds and luck, about three hours. I'd love to be there when it starts, but I trust you guys to do what's necessary – including staying alive – if I'm late.”

On the intercom, I joked with the presidential pilot. “Can't you make this crate go any faster?”

Luckily, he got the joke and snorted.

CHAPTER 47 – The War on the Ground

Chief Gates, Lou Gabriel, Wambaugh

The Chief looked up again at the choppers over his head. “They're not ours!” he screamed. “Must be Feebs! That fucking Jackman has screwed up again!”

“Stay cool, boss,” Gabriel said quietly, putting the finishing touches on his snooper rifle. “We knew this wasn't gonna be easy. Wonder who they got in charge up there? Whoever it is knows how to run a chopper attack. They seem to guess every move we make.”

Gates looked over at Wambaugh. “You're sure there are no leaks on that phone of yours?”

“I'd stake my life on it,“ the driver said, swallowing some fear.

“Good. You may have to.”

CHAPTER 48: Al, Inc.

In their lead car, Misha said to Al, “I am beginning to think that those flyboys upstairs are on our side, not working for Gates at all. But who could they be?”

“Maybe a higher power, like the FBI. I'll check with Dana, see if my old buddy Wambaugh has leaked anything to him.”

“Whoever it is, they're making El Jefe very nervous,” Dana said when Al called. “Gates is blaming sombody called Jackman for screwing up.”

“Did you say Jackman?” Al mentally scratched the inside of his head. “There used to be a Justin Jackman on Gates's staff, but even as big an ass-licker as he was couldn't avoid doing something stupid (what was it again?) and in public, too. So Gates had to give him the sack. But I guess Jackman's been on his private payroll since then.”

Al told Misha what he learned. “Verrry interesting” was his only reaction – Christ, he must have been the biggest Laugh-In fan in Russia. But he smiled broadly as both their hopes took a hop.

CHAPTER 49 – Suzie, Rachel, Mia Kulpa, The Evil Umpire

Suzie had heard the news about the Madoff payoff: some partner of Bernie's had died and the government had seized $90 million of his assets to return to some of his victims – including the people trying to keep the Motion Picture Home open. The call came just after Al and his team had headed south.

“Miss Charpentier? This is Mia Kulpa of the Motion Picture Home. I tried to reach Mr. Zymer, but all I got was a garbled voice mail message. Is that his real name?”

“I don't think so. He told me what it was before he changed it, but I've forgotten what he said.” Suzie waited for a laugh, but of course Kulpa didn't get her joke.

“Oh. Well, as you might have heard, we're back in business. And we'd very much like to have Rachel Donner back as part of our family.”

Suzie remembered how Al had described Rachel's family life at the Home: slovenly care, no therapy or drugs to mention, just a sad old lady sinking further into her well of despair. Now, at The Last Resort, she laughed, talked a bit, and Suzie could see the woman Al still loved.

“Al is away at the moment,” she said to Kulpa. “I'll tell him about this as soon as I hear from him. In fact, I'll try to reach him right now.”

Instead, she called up Bob Churchill and set up a meeting that evening with Rachel.

It was Rachel who made the final decision.”That place is evil!” she said in the same voice she'd used in The Bride of Frankenstein. “Al doesn't want me to go back. No wine or chocolate or perfume. Al wants me to stay here.”

(Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler

INSTALLMENT 26
POSTED MONDAY, FEBRUARY 28TH

(To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.)

CHAPTER 50 – The Wars Continue

The first shot came from the ground. Gates' sniper rolled down the driver's window and aimed directly at Al. The only reason he missed was that Goss had noticed the window opening and braked suddenly. “Close von,” said the Russian. “I suggest you crouch down and make yourself less wisible.”

“The shooting has begun, Boss Lady,” said David Simmons on his phone to Dee. “What do you suggest?”

“Let them have one of your lighter specials,” said Nada. “We want to scare them, but not kill them just yet. I should be at LAX in about an hour. There's a car waiting, plus a few more guns and troops.”

Two high-powered slugs from above slammed into the engine of Gates' armor-plated car. It swerved all over the parking lot for a moment; then Wambaugh managed to get it straightened out.

More shots aimed at the tires. They took out two, and suddenly the driver couldn't control the vehicle. He braked and then stuttered the car into a parking place.

With nothing moving to shoot at, both vehicles waited for what would happen next.

After about 40 minutes, an impressive Oshkosh M-ATV compact personnel carrier drove up quickly. “Cover us!” Dee shouted to her flyboys, who opened up some blistering fire.

CHAPTER 51 – The Return of Hugh Mungus

Out of the vehicle poured Nada and four heavily armed men. “Isn't that your huge football friend?” said a surprised Goss.

“Holy shit, that's Hugh!” Al shouted. “Back from the grave!”

Al Jr. and Saul both started to get out, but Dana stopped them. “It looks like things are beginning to go our way,” he told them. “But as the poet says, it ain't over till it's over..."

But Al and Quentin jumped out of their vehicles and ran toward the giant man. The three embraced. “Do your doctors know you're here?” asked Quentin.

“Not unless you tell them. Let's just say I used some old connections. Here's one of them now.”

Dee Nada, almost as big as Hugh, walked toward them. She held out her hand – the one that wasn't holding a serious-looking handgun – to Al and give him a bone-crunching shake.

“So you're Al Zymer, the man of the hour. Nice work, Al. Thanks to you and your mob, we've got Gates – alive and maybe even ready to chat.”

“Was it you who broke Hugh out of the hospital?” Al asked.

“Let's just say that Dee and I go back a ways. I've been a covert agent for a long time," Mungess answered. "You didn't think that the pocket change you and Quentin paid for body-guarding was enough to keep me in groceries, did you?”

They all laughed. But in the back of Dee's mind was a bad smell. This had all gone down much too smoothly, with few casualties. Who in hell was so anxious for them to get Gates?

She decided to call Elvin Park as soon as she could.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MARCH 7TH.

Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler.

INSTALLMENT 27

(To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.)

CHAPTER 52 – The Ghost in the White House

Shane Dickey carried his heart in a bag. The former Vice President of the United States had been given a mechanical heart pump that, most doctors said, saved his life by taking on the task of helping to push blood through his arteries.

Dickey, as he did at several receptions in Washington, chatted about his new pump. At one cocktail party, he even opened his coat jacket to show it off. "I'll have to make a decision at some point whether I want to go for a transplant," he told a TV reporter. "The technology is getting better and better." He also said he has been making do with a battery-powered heart pump which makes it "awkward to walk around."

Now he was wondering how long he could last, and maintain the energy he needed to keep up his campaign against that private dick with a ridiculous name. From what he'd heard, the Rosemead battle had resulted in absolutely nothing. Zymer was still alive. Maybe it was time to take up another kind of ammunition – brain control instead of bullets.

CHAPTER 53: Dee Nada, Dr. Elvin Park

I called Elvin on his very private cell to report on what had happened and what I'd begun to worry about.

He was still in Washington. “It all went down much too easily,” I said. “What in hell is going on? Smells like someone high up in your neck of the woods.”

“Could be. I just heard something about a top secret exercise that could be involved. It's time to call in a few markers.”

He called back in less than an hour. "It's even weirder than we thought, and it's about to break big. Seems as though a bunch of high level troops on the ground in some very hot areas have been carrying out what they call 'psychological operations' to sway visiting members of Congress."

"No shit!" was all Dee could say.

"Wait, it gets worse. A Lieutenant General is about to be accused of using an Information Operations cell to influence distinguished visitors, to gather information about Congressional delegations and persuade them to endorse the allocation of more money and troops. Even Petraeus knows about it."

"So what's our plan?"

"Let's play it by ear, and keep a very low profile until we know more. I'll make a few more calls, maybe even see what the White House gang is up to. Meanwhile, stay cool."

CHAPTER 54 – Suzie

While she waited for word of Saul, Al and Al Jr., Suzie turned her energies to more Alzheimer's research. A recent study spelled it out: In a healthy brain, certain chemical processes ensure the proper functioning of neurons. One is the processing of amyloid precursor protein APP) that is attached to the outer membrane of nerve cells. An enzyme called alpha-secretase cuts off a section of the protein; then another enzyme, gamma-secretase, snips a second portion and releases APP from the cell’s membrane. These APP fragments are then broken down and removed from the brain. Another process involves the microtubules, which carry nutrients through the nerve cells to keep them functioning normally. Tau protein helps to maintain the physical structure of microtubules. But when these processes go awry, a different enzyme, beta-secretase, cuts shorter APP fragments from the nerve cell membrane. These smaller pieces are more resistant to breakdown and tend to clump together in toxic clusters called oligomers; eventually, the oligomers collect into larger beta-amyloid plaques that interfere with nerve cell functioning. Within neurons, abnormal tau strands separate from the microtubules and cause the microtubules to fall apart, crippling the transport of nutrients and destroying nerve cells. Loose tau threads join together to form knotted strands inside neurons. Called neurofibrillary tangles, they cause further neuron destruction. In the early stages of Alzheimer’s, plaques and tangles form in brain areas responsible for learning, thinking, and planning -- in particular, the hippocampus. This is why forgetfulness, disorientation, and verbal repetition are often among the earliest signs of Alzheimer’s. As nerve cell destruction spreads, more brain areas are affected, especially the cerebral cortex, responsible for language, reasoning, and judgment. Speaking skills become impaired and emotional outbursts grow more frequent. When large areas of nerve cells die off in the advanced Alzheimer’s stage, brain sections atrophy and the whole brain shrinks to as much as three quarters of its original size.

The study gave Suzie a thought about Rachel and Al. She told herself it might come to nothing -- or perhaps save a life.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MARCH 14TH.

Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler.

INSTALLMENT 28
POSTED MONDAY, MARCH 14TH


CHAPTER 55 -- Shane Dickey

How had it all gone so wrong? All I had in mind was a bullet to the head of my dim-witted boss, who -- as a President and as a human being -- would be no great loss. It wouldn't be the first time in our recent history that a veep played the Richard III card

But I had to pick as my shooter the guy who had been Al Zymer's LAPD partner, Lou Gabriel, and who then went on to do some dirty work for a mobster with another joke name -- Manny LaMancha. Chief Gates promised to bring Zymer down, but now he was in Federal custody, probably spilling his guts, while Gabriel seemed to be dead: killed during that insane shootout in Rosemead.

What could I do about it? I had a couple of ideas, but they had to be implemented quickly -- before Zymer remembered what he and LaMancha had seen that day…

CHAPTER 56 -- SUZIE

It was the Ron Reagan book and the firestorm of apologies and denials that followed which gave me the strongest clue to what was going on.

The younger Reagan said he never meant to suggest in his memoir that his father had dementia while in the White House. All he meant was that the amyloid plaque characteristic of Alzheimer’s can start forming years before it leads to dementia. “Given what we know about the disease,” his son told one reporter, “I don’t know how you could say that the disease wasn’t likely present in him during the presidency.” While spending a day in the Oval Office in 1987, the younger Reagan noticed that aides were providing his father with scripted index cards ― a technique he often used when giving speeches ― for phone calls lasting five minutes at most, implying signs of a failing memory.

The son noticed other little things that he could not explain and to which he did not attach a name at the time. Based on knowing his father’s demeanor and cognition over a lifetime, the observations created an impression “that something was amiss. It became very difficult for him to string sentences together and eventually just words together,” the son said.

I knew from talking to Al, still in Los Angeles with Saul and Al Jr., that his FBI guards were convinced that Shane Dickey was somehow involved. But why and how were still a fog -- until the light suddenly dawned. It was like coming up from a deep dive: the closer I got to the surface, the surer I was that I had discovered at least a part of what had really happened…

CHAPTER 57 -- Blake Hirskovitz And His New Alligator

The story, by John Asbury, was in the Riverside Press-Enterprise -- e-mailed by a fellow pot grower.

"What's the the size of a cocker spaniel and might make a fine pair of boots? How about an alligator seized from a Hemet home during a Department of Justice raid of a pot house?

"Department of Justice agents raided an East Hemet house and seized almost 2,300 marijuana plants valued at least $1.5 million -- and a four-foot alligator being used to help guard the stash.

"Agents with Arcnet, the Allied Riverside Cities Narcotics Enforcement Team, raided the house and found what they described as a 'watchgator' named Wally in a back room, where it was living in a black cement-mixing tub full of water. Alligators are illegal to own in California."

It sounded like a great idea for my new farm in the middle of Al's lemon orchard, especially now that Major Crime was putting on more pressure.

What should I call it? How About Allie Gator? Mischa Goss would love it…

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MARCH 21st.

Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler.

INSTALLMENT 29
POSTED MONDAY, MARCH 21st

(To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.)



CHAPTER 58 – Ivan Davis

Finally, I get to narrate a chapter of my own, and not have to stand in the shadow of my old chum Al Zymer. We were all still in Los Angeles after our battle on land and in the air, but Dana, Saul and young Al had gone off on some mad adventure of their own. So Al, Quentin and I sat down for lunch in Al's favorite coffee shop on Rexford.

"Just what in hell is this all about?" I asked.

"My guess is that we -- you, Al -- got involved in something big which you didn't realize, or didn't remember, at the time," Quentin said.

"Big is the word," said Al. "I think those guys who saved our asses, including Hugh and his boss lady, come from somewhere really high up the ladder -- probably with a Washington address. So it wasn't Chief Gates at all; he was being used as a cover."

"Okay, sounds good," I said. "But what can we do it about it? And what happened to our Russian friend, Misha Goss?"

"Vot indeed? May I join you gentlemen for an onion bagel and coffee?" Misha asked as he moved from behind a staircase and sat down at our table. "I have found out some tings which might help us all. For instance, would you be as surprised as I was to learn that Manny LaMancha was not really Manny LaMancha?"

"What do you mean?" Al almost shouted. "I knew him for years in L.A. before he went into the Witness Protection program and set up in Ventura!"

"How old was he when you first heard of him?" Misha asked.

"I'd say he was in his 40s -- about ten years younger than me."

"Hokay. That was his
third term in Witness Protection. For the first 35 years of his life, his name was Lawrence Zarate, a low-ranking Mafia guy who was charged with crimes that included attempted murder and extortion. But he was also listed as the target of a contract killing planned by one of the other defendants. So into the witness program for Zarate. He wound up somewhere out west, making believe he was a farmer, but he just couldn't stay away from crime. They nabbed him for robbing a bank; I guess he gave the Feds some names he had been conveniently hoarding, so they gave him another chance -- first in Los Angeles and then in Ventura."

"Why did they move him?" Quentin asked.

"Good question. I'm not sure, but it might be something he heard or saw that worried somebody high up in the government…"

CHAPTER 59 -- Al, Inc.

We were all back in Ventura, scratching our heads -- except for Misha, who was still scratching his in L.A. Dana, Saul and my son had called on Quentin's cell to say they were on to something huge -- "You're not going to believe this, Dad!" -- and Suzie had left a message saying she had some new thoughts. "Suzie, why don't you begin?" I said.

"What if," she plunged right in, "what if our least favorite Vice President -- Mr. Heartbag to his pals -- discovered that his own boss was showing serious signs of Alzheimer's? Most people put down POTUS's problems to dumbness and drink, but Dickey knew better: he'd watched his own mother slide into dementia at a relatively early age."

"Okay, let's say you're right," said Quentin. "What next?"

"Here's how I put it together," Suzie replied. "Dickey sees his boss following the same route. What to do about it? Why not have him killed? He arranges for a sniper he's probably used before, but Al sees something with his old partner that he shouldn't have seen. Maybe LaMancha saw the same thing -- but what?"

"I think we can add our discoveries to the package at this point," Dana said. "I used a few connections to find out the name of Dee Nada's boss -- Dr. Elvin Park, the CIA Director of Covert Operations -- and called him in Washington. He wouldn't say much, but didn't warn me off. Add to that is what the boys discovered on their own."

"Remember that Rolling Stone article, the one where a three-star general in Afghanistan was accused by a subordinate of instructing troops to carry out 'psychological operations' to sway visiting members of Congress and persuade them to endorse the allocation of more money and troops for the training effort?" Saul asked. "Well, we found a definite link between that general and Mr. Heartbag!"

"Put them all together, they spell mother," Al said.

"Or, as our new Russian friend Misha might say, 'Verrry interesting,'" added his son.



TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MARCH 28th.



Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler. FORGET ABOUT IT -- INSTALLMENT 30
POSTED WEDNESDAY, APRIL 20TH (To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.)



CHAPTER 60 -- The Return of Drew Lebby

Okay, I almost blew it. I had slipped so well into my cover role as a disgruntled Feeb that I seriously underestimated my opposition.

Dickey warned me that Dr. Elvin Park was much sharper than he looked at first glance, and that his deputy, Dee Nada, was even sharper. But Dickey also tended toward serious paranoia the weaker his heart got, and his fears were starting to become just a tad boring.

What to do about it? Clean up the mess that the demented LAPD Chief Gates had left behind, first of all. He was no doubt spilling what little he knew to the CIA and the FBI. Which is why I took a chance and called Dr. Park.

"How did you get this number?" was his first question.

"We're on the same team, last I looked."

"Tell me again, just who in hell are you?"

"Drew Lebby. Friends in common thought we might exchange some information, you know? Sharing, all like that?"

"Where can I reach you?" he asked abruptly. "And who is your supervisor?"

Right. I was going to say "Shane Dickey" and wait for some applause. "Why don't I have him call you directly," I answered after a pause. Then I hung up -- which was what I should have done before even thinking about calling this mystery medic.

I'd heard that Park was that rarest of creatures in the spook world -- a totally honest and honorable man. Now I knew that his considerable power came from a combination of these features, plus an awesome intelligence.

How much did he know, for instance, about just how involved Dickey had been in the Valerie Plame mess -- what we now laughingly called "Operation Scooter"? Even that prime putz Oliver Stone had figured it out in W. (And wasn't Richard Dreyfus terrific as our beloved boss?)

But if Park knew (or guessed) that Dickey had leaked the fake news about Plame's husband finding the makings of weapons of mass destruction in darkest Niger, and then brainwashed a bunch of politicians to convince W. to push the button, did he also know about Al Zymer and Manny La Mancha seeing something they shouldn't have seen-- together or separately?

Thinking about all this was giving me a headache. Maybe Dickey was slipping; maybe it was time for me to take some of the kind of drastic action I'd learned at his feet…



TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, APRIL 25th.



Copyright © 2011 by Dick Adler.

FORGET ABOUT IT: INSTALLMENT 31
POSTED MONDAY, APRIL 25TH


CHAPTER 61: Al Takes A Fall -- Suzie

I was still clicking away on my computer, which I'd set up in Al's large living room, trying to find more connections between Dickey's mother's senility and his own mysterious motives. It was a gorgeous day, the smell of lemons drifting in through the windows, and I must have nodded off…

Al's shout woke me. "Can I get some help in here?" he called from his office. "I've fallen and I can't get up!"

He was stretched out on the carpeted floor, jammed between his overturned chair and a bookcase. "Have you broken anything?" I asked. "How did it happen?"

"Nothing broken, as far as I can see. What happened was that my right leg just collapsed on me. Lucky I wasn't in the bathroom!"

Saul and Al Jr. were bouncing around in the backyard on a trampoline which we'd all bought used from craigslist. "Guys, I need you in here," I shouted. "Al's taken a fall and needs help getting up." He was a small guy, 150 pounds at most, but I didn't want to try to lift him on my own and cause serious damage to both of us.

"Hold on there, pops," said his son in a soothing, concerned voice. "Let's make sure you're okay before we start yanking you around. How long has that leg been bothering you? And has this ever happened before?"

"No -- although I do seem to have gotten shakier than I used to be. I've been meaning to ask Doc Banman about it…"

"I'll call him right now," Saul said. "Should I also call the paramedics?"

"Please God, no! They'll want to take me to the hospital, and that I really don't need."

As we soon found out, going to the hospital wasn't the worst thing Al could imagine...

INSTALLMENT 32



CHAPTER 62: Enter Adan, a Demented Physical Therapist

I got the call while smoking my favorite cigar -- a Hemingway Short Story by Arturo Fuente, given to me by one of my private clients.

"Got a job for you, big fella," said the voice that had become a part of my nightmares. Well, not so much the voice -- it was an ordinary, accentless American drone -- but what it asked me to do.

Despite what you might believe, I get no pleasure from hurting people. I'm much happier making them feel better. But pain brings in a lot more money -- tax free cash -- and I can certainly use it.

"No killing, right?" I asked.

"Absolutely. We have people who can do that a lot better than you could. But it pays more -- something you might want to think about…"

He rattled off the details. Some senior citizen with a silly name had taken a bad fall in Ventura, sixty miles north of where I was. Strings had been pulled or twisted to get me assigned to the case by his medical insurance company. My first appointment was tomorrow morning.

"What is it you want this time?" I asked.

"This old fart saw something he shouldn't have. We want him to be persuaded to forget about it. The problem is that he might not even remember what he saw. That's why we're giving this job to our top man. The first time I heard about it, I thought, 'This sounds like a job for Adan Valencia.' But we'll talk more about it tomorrow, after you get a chance to size up the situation."

"Half in advance, as usual," I reminded him.

"Twenty-five hundred going into your account as we speak."

He hung up and I took a deep breath. Then I went out to CPK for dinner and an early night.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY, MAY 2ND

FORGET ABOUT IT: INSTALLMENT 33
POSTED MONDAY, MAY 9TH

(To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.)

CHAPTER 64: Suzie

Every time I snuck a look over at that big, gorgeous, coffee-colored Adan, he was looking at me. The mutual attraction in our eyes should have been obvious to anyone, but Saul and the Als were preoccupied with checking out this new leg-saver.

I'd never cheated on Saul -- not my style. My old man screwed anything that could walk; it was what had finally broken up my parents' marriage, and I took it much worse than my mother did. Leon Charpentier had gone back to Canada and now made a living writing pseudonymous mystery novels which he self-published on the Internet. I never saw him.

It was time to stop this nonsense. "So, Adan, do you think you can help Al get around?" I asked.

"Definitely," he said. "When should we start?"

I noticed that he too had stopped playing the eyes game. "What do you think, Al?"

"The sooner the better," Al said.

"Is tomorrow too soon?" I asked Adan.

"I still have to get final permission from your insurance provider," Mr. Gorgeous answered. "Let's say the day after -- I know I have an hour open at 5 p.m."



CHAPTER 65: Adan

I called Drew Lebby as soon as I got out of Ventura. He was my immediate superior, even if I hated what he asked me to do. "The geezer is willing," I said. "But he has a support team -- his son and some geek he calls his assistant." I deliberately left out the girl, because I didn't want to have to hurt her.

"I'll see if I can get rid of them for a couple of hours," Lebby said. "When did you arrange to start?"

"I said day after tomorrow, after five. The ranch should be quiet then."

"Okay. Remember, Zymer saw or knows something about us that could bring down a shitstorm of trouble. Your job is to find out what he knows, and persuade him to forget about it."

"What if he lives up to his name and really can't remember?"

"Again, that's why we want you on his case. Use your best judgement about how far to go," Lebby said.

"But no killing, right?"

"It hasn't been authorized as yet," he replied. "But it still remains an option."



CHAPTER 66: Drew

I called an old friend at the FBI in L.A. for help. Garry was as straight as I was bent.

"Can you make a call to a CIA guy for me?" I asked. "He seems not to trust me, for some reason or other."

I gave Garry Dr. Parks' number. "Just tell him that you need to talk to two people -- Saul Kearney and Al Zymer Jr. -- tomorrow afternoon, about some aspects of a case you're working on. I'll be there for the session. How would 4 p.m. suit you?"

"I'm fine with that, you sneaky fuck. Then you can buy me dinner and tell me what you're really up to…"

FORGET ABOUT IT: INSTALLMENT 34
POSTED MONDAY, MAY 16TH



(To catch up, all the archives are now on their own site -- in order of appearance.)



CHAPTER 67: Adan, Al

I watched Al Jr. and Saul leave for L.A. Drew had come through. I was glad to see that Suzie was nowhere in sight. I waited until the workers went home, then knocked on the door. Al opened it, on a walker.

"Shall we start?" I asked.

"Why not -- but try to keep the pain down, okay?"

"That's up to you. The truth is I can keep it down or crank it way up -- depending on how you answer my questions."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Well, the people who pay me -- not your insurance company -- want me to get some information from you. If you tell me what they want to know, I'll go easy on you. I am a trained therapist, so I can probably even give you some relief…"

"And if I don't?"

"Don't even think about it, old man." I reached down, grabbed Al's knee and gave it a very hard squeeze.

Al screamed like a stuck pig. I squeezed hard again; he screamed even louder this time. This wasn't going to be easy, I thought. "Come on, pal" I said. "Give us both a break…"



CHAPTER 68: Suzie

I was sitting in the back yard with my laptop, catching some sun while I checked out a few recent Alzheimer's items. I heard Al's first scream of pain, then his second. What in hell was going on?

I slipped quietly into the house, stopping in our bedroom to pick up Saul's baseball bat. In the living room, I saw Mr. Gorgeous pressing down hard on Al's injured knee.

Without even thinking about it, I swung the bat hard against Adan's head. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

I went over to Al, who was pale and shaking from pain. "Don't try to talk," I told him, then handed him a glass of water and two extra strength Tylenol. "I'm going to make a couple of calls…"



CHAPTER 69: Quentin

Suzie's call scared the hell out of me. We all thought the attacks on Al were over, now that Chief Gates and his gunsel were history. So who was behind this one?

Who really wanted to know whatever it was Al had seen so badly that they'd use torture to find out? I called Hugh's boss, Dee Nada, who sounded as surprised as I was.

"Were the youngsters all there?" she asked.

"Suzie says that Saul and Al. Jr. got a call from an FBI guy who said he needed to see them in his L.A. office that evening."

"I think I'd better get to Elvin about this," she said after a moment. "Sounds like we've got a high level Feeb who's gone double…"



CHAPTER 70: Dr. Elvin Park

What was that over-eager guy's name who had tried so hard to make nice? Drew Lebby, that was it. I checked with my FBI contacts, but all they could find out was that the L.A. meeting was run by an agent named Garry Larsson. "He's one of our best and straightest," his boss assured me."

Larsson was the guy who had called me yesterday. All my instincts had shouted "No!" But maybe that was just paranoia talking. Still, I decided to call Larsson again and do a little probing…


FORGET ABOUT IT: INSTALLMENT 35
POSTED MONDAY, MAY 30th

CHAPTER 71: Drew Lebby
The New York Times story had Shane Dickey's name all over it. "Secret Desert Force Set Up by Blackwater’s Founder," said the headline.
Turns out that one of his old hunting buddies -- Erik Prince, the billionaire founder of Blackwater -- had taken $529 million from the crown prince of Abu Dhabi to put together an 800-member battalion of foreign troops for an attack on the United Arab Emirates.
"The force is intended to conduct special operations missions inside and outside the country, defend oil pipelines and skyscrapers from terrorist attacks and put down internal revolts… Such troops could be deployed if the Emirates faced unrest in their crowded labor camps or were challenged by pro-democracy protests like those sweeping the Arab world this year," said the Times article.
"The U.A.E.’s rulers, viewing their own military as inadequate, also hope that the troops could blunt the regional aggression of Iran, the country’s biggest foe, the former employees said. The training camp, located on a sprawling Emirati base called Zayed Military City, is hidden behind concrete walls laced with barbed wire. Photographs show rows of identical yellow temporary buildings, used for barracks and mess halls, and a motor pool, which houses Humvees and fuel trucks. The foreign troops are trained by retired American soldiers and veterans of the German and British special operations units and the French Foreign Legion."
It was time to call Mr. Heartbag and find out what I could about this caper.

CHAPTER 72: Shane Dickey
Lebby thinks he's so cute, asking me if I had anything to do with those ragheads' latest mess.
I actually chuckled as I answered him: "If I told you, I'd have to kill you -- or have some Arab mercenary do it."
Lebby laughed back, although I think there was a hint of fear in his throat. Good. Let him be scared shitless. Better men than him have died because they got cute with me…

CHAPTER 73: Dr. Elvin Park, Dee Nada
"Our friend the Feeb just called," I told Dee on her secret cell. "He wants to meet with us ASAP."
"Did he say why?"
"I think it has to do with what we thought," I told her. "We know he's been working for Heartbag. Maybe he's beginning to be frightened by this latest affair in Abu Dabai. Anyway, I'll call him back and set up a meeting. How's tomorrow morning at about ten for breakfast at our favorite spot?"
"Sounds good," said Dee. "Meanwhile, I'll make a couple of calls to Al's friends, to see what they've been hearing."

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