Sudden Life Part 5

Sudden Life Part 5

Bill and I spent the next hour and a half reading through the contents of the brown envelope. The first item was a copy of a franchising agreement between the McGrath brothers and Romero’s organisation. It confirmed what Rachel had told me. The franchise included the Piccadilly Restaurant, the casino on its upper floor, a property insurance plan for local businesses, and an escort agency supervised by Mrs Ruby Smithers. It specified that the franchise fee as 50% of gross plus 50% of any profits above $10,000 per month net. In return, Romero would lend half the capital costs at a favourable interest rate, and train staff and security gratis as needed.

“Piccadilly Restaurant? Where did they get that name?”

Bill shrugged.

Vern Doherty would be the on-site liaison. His primary duties would be to collect the insurance premiums and the escort service’s net after expenses. There were also financial statements, receipts for monies received, cancelled cheques, and bundle of Doherty’s reports.

Doherty reported that the local businesses were happy with how promptly claims were paid, and even happier that several local amateur B & E artists had been persuaded to take up another line of work. But the financial reports showed an increasing gap between the franchise fees Doherty calculated and the fees paid to Romero.

The last item was a note to Doherty informing him that Romero was sending a team of four to discuss the McGrath’s handling of the finances.

Bill took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Looks like Romero’s team was in the car that burned,” he said.

“Yes, and Doherty for some reason was not. He was driving his Chevy instead. Which means he must have gone to Las Vegas and reported to Romero.”

“So what happened next?”

I held up an envelope addressed to me. “Maybe this has the answer”.

I read the brief note out loud. “For further details of Mr Doherty’s time in Las Vegas, please contact Mrs Bessie Collina at 214 Wellesley Boulevard in Fenton. There’s also a phone number.”

“You’ll have time to do that on your way back to Elysium City tomorrow,” said Bill. He yawned. “I’m ready for bed. Breakfast at 7:30. Elaine wants to go to Headingley’s Nursery for their sale of fall bulbs.”

Bessie Collina was a blonde with a kind face marred by anxiety. “Mr McCann? Mr Romero’s office called to say you might come by.”

She led me into her kitchen, and offered me a coffee.

“This is about Vern and Frank, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes. I don’t know what I should ask you.”

She poured a coffee for herself and lit a cigarette.

“I’ll tell you our story. We met fifteen years go, towards the end of the war. I was a nurse, they’d been sent to the clinic for battle fatigue. Frank and Vern were so much alike people thought they were twins. They told me they were doppelgangers, and said everybody has at least one. They just happened to end up in the same unit.” She paused, and looked out the window. A tear welled up and began a slow slide down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping the tear. “We had such a good time, the three of us. Frank and Vern both wanted to marry me. But Frank asked me first, so I married him. It didn’t upset their friendship, though. Neither of them had any skills that would suit a civilian job, so when Vern got a job in casino security, he told Frank about it, and they both ended up working for Romero. That was before Romero junior took over, and it was sometimes rough. But they impressed the boss. They were honest. They didn’t ask for something extra when they enforced some rule a guest had broken.” 

 She lit another cigarette.

“They both took courses courtesy of the GI Bill, and qualified as accountants. When young Romero took over, he promoted them. He was expanding into franchising, and he wanted someone around each franchise to keep an eye on things. That’s how Vern got the assignment in Elysium City. Frank was assigned to a trouble-shooter team that would visit franchises if there seemed to be some problem.” She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked.

“Ah”, I said. “I see. Frank and his team were sent to check out the McGraths. And he was in the car that was sabotaged. They both had that mermaid tattoo, right?”

“Yes, they did. I didn’t especially like it, but when they got together they were more like teenagers than grown men. Always up for some silly stunt. They would always get drunk. Once in a while I heard them talking about the war. I think getting drunk and doing crazy stuff was their way of coping with the memories.”

She lit another cigarette.

“So about three weeks ago, Vern showed up here saying there’d been an accident. Frank was dead, and so was the rest of the team. While he was here, Romero called and asked me to take in Vern and act as if he was Frankie. They looked enough alike to fool the neighbours. Vern was to lie low until Romero had dealt with whoever had killed Frankie’s team. That’s what Romero said.”

She paused again, looking out the window at the back yard and the trees screening it from the neighbours.

“So I said yes, I would. I was pretty shook up when Vern told me what had happened. He had seen it. There was another car just behind him, so he told the driver to wait while he went to call the police. Then he came to Vegas and told Romero what had happened, and Romero told him to come to me.”

She turned back to me.

“It was just brother and sister at first, but we were both lonely. I missed Frankie, and Vern was stuck in the house, and we began sleeping together.” She gave me a wan smile. “I’d have married Vern if he’d asked me before Frankie did, so it kind of felt like we were just making up for lost time. When we talked it over, we felt that Frankie wouldn’t mind, that Frankie would want us to comfort each other.”

She sighed. “And then Vern said he had to talk to his wife. He went out to make a phone call from a call box so that the call couldn’t be traced back to here. But he never came back. Last night, Romero called to tell me that Vern had been shot, and told me to tell you whatever you wanted to know.”

And then she began to weep, silent sobs wracking her frame and tears pouring down her face. She put her hands up. “I’m sorry, don’t look at me”, she said. I got up and took a handful of tissues from the box on the counter. She took them and wiped her face, and turned to me. “I miss them”, she said. “I miss them more than I know how to say. You’ll find them, won’t you? The ones who killed them?”

I said I would.

Ruth Doherty sat perfectly still and silent until I’d finished my report.

“I’ve reported all the relevant facts to Sheriff Booley,” I said. “This is the written report and my statement. My fees and expenses come to $358.20, including the fee for my associate’s work in Las Vegas.”

“I want you to find them,” she said. “Find the killers.”

“Very well,” I said. “Mr Romero wanted to engage my services as well. He wonders if you will accept him as a partner in this assignment.”

She turned to me, puzzled. “What’s that? Oh, Romero.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she a said. “It’s worse now that it’s the second time I’m told Vern was murdered. Yes, tell Mr Romero I’m grateful for his concern and his help.”

She turned away from me and walked over to the window. “Vern loved the view from this room,” she said. “You can see the whole town beyond the garden, stretching down to the river and the reservoir. At night, it looks otherworldly, like a scene from a fantasy. Vern liked fantasy fiction. He would pretend we were hero and heroine battling ogres and dragons, or commanding our troops to protect our lands. He had planned new plantings in our garden, with flower beds and an apple orchard. He always wanted an orchard, he said. He thought it would be the grandest thing to pick apples from one’s own trees.”

She stumbled to the sofa and sat down.

“Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’ll get over it. I’ll plant that orchard. And when I eat apples from it, I’ll remember Vern.”

Suddenly fierce, she said, “Find them, Mr McCann. Find the murderers.”

“I will,” I said. I was pretty sure I knew one person who was part of the crime.

Richard had some information for me when I checked in. 

“Feller arrived yesterday after you left,” he said. “Wanted to know where he could find you. Said he was a friend and wanted to surprise you. He said he was from Sacramento, but he was driving a rental car with an Illinois licence. Blue Plymouth coupe.”

Richard leaned over the counter and lowered his voice.

“He insisted on taking the room next to yours. Number 11.”

I glanced over the parking lot. The slot in front of number 11 was empty.

“I think he’s gone for dinner,” Richard said.

“What does he look like?”

“Ordinary. About five-eight, five-nine,160 pounds. Light grey suit, kinda baggy. Brown shoes. Heavy eyebrows, but otherwise nothing special. Doesn’t wear a hat. Brownish hair going grey.”

“Thanks, Richard. You notice things. You’d make a good PI.”

I parked the car, and took the gun from the glove compartment. After I got into the room, I placed the chair on the hinge side of the door. The sun was turning the sky pink. I opened the window a few inches, and drew the curtains. I put the gun in my jacket pocket. I turned on the radio, and listened to the evening news. I took a quick shower, and turned out the lights. The sun was down, a faint orange glow in the west fading into evening purple and night blue. 

I bunched up the bedclothes to look like someone sleeping, and made a darkish spot on the pillow with the sweater I carry in case of cool weather. In dim light it might pass for a head. I sat on the chair and waited. The light from parking lot turned the window into a dimly orange square.

About an hour later I heard footsteps disturbing the gravel. I stood up. The door opened slowly, and in the dim light from outside I saw a hand holding a gun aiming at the bed. I waited for the gunman to fire, then took a small step and chopped down hard. I heard a bone break. There was a yell of pain, and the gun dropped to the floor. I pushed hard on the door and heard whoever was behind it careen into the table underneath the window. Another step, and I was in position to aim a hard kick at the kidneys of the man struggling to get up. Another yell, and another kick, this time at his right knee. I knew from the crunch that he would limp for the rest of his life.

I kicked the gun under the bed, and reached for the light switch. The man groaning in pain next to the desk matched Richard’s description. I grabbed him under the shoulders and hauled him onto the armchair and walked around to face him. We looked at each other. I picked up the phone.

“Richard? I want to call Las Vegas. Can you give me an outside line? Thanks.”

I dialled the number and waited for the other end to pick up. 

“Mr Romero will not be pleased,” I said.

The man’s eyes widened. “Romero?”

“Uh-uh, Romero. He’s hired me to find out who killed his man in Vegas three days ago. That would be you, right? Oh, hello? This is McCann. Would you let Mr Romero know I have some important information about Mr Doherty’s death. Yes, I’ll hold.”