Potshot

Chapter 33

IT WAS SEPTEMBER in Boston, which normally means early fall. When I went to work the morning after I got home, the day was bright blue and 70 degrees. The first hint of color was beginning to show in the leaves of some trees. Once again pennant fever was not gripping the Hub. And there wasn't a starlet in sight.

My first assignment was to catch up. Catching up meant mostly throwing away junk mail without reading it. But there was my answering machine to listen to. Since I'd been gone there were eight new messages. One was from Frank Belson inviting me and Susan to have dinner with him and Lisa. One was from a young Chinese girl named Mei Ling who wanted to use me as a job reference. One was from Samuelson in L.A. with instructions to call him.

"Couple of sheriff's deputies found your pal, Jerome Jefferson," Samuelson said when I got him, "beside the PCH up near Topanga Canyon."

"Dead?" I said.

"Nine millimeter, once, behind his left ear."

"Think it happened there or was he dumped?"

"Coroner says he was dumped."

"Suspects?"

"None."

"Leads?"

"None."

"Clues?"

"Come on!"

"Chances of solving this?"

Samuelson laughed.

"Around zilch," he said.

"Tannenbaum?" I said.

"Probably," Samuelson said. "Wasn't satisfied with Jerome's job performance."

"There's a girlfriend on Franklin Avenue." I said. "She might know something."

"Name and address?"

I told him.

"Get there early," I said. "She should be drunk by noon."

"Wish I were."

"Cop's life is a hard one," I said. "Could you get me the record of a former cop named Dean Walker? Used to live in Santa Monica. I don't know if he was LAPD or Santa Monica."

"Glad to," Samuelson said. "If I didn't have legwork for you, I wouldn't have anything to do."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," Samuelson said.

"Call me when you know something. If I'm not here, leave it on my machine. I may be traveling."

"Pay attention while you are," Samuelson said. "Morris Tannenbaum is a genuine bad guy. The real thing."

"All the way to Boston?" I said.

"Wherever," Samuelson said. "If he thinks it's a good thing to do."

"Lot of people think it's a good thing to do," I said. "I'm still here."

"Don't let it go to your head," Samuelson said and hung up

I listened to the rest of my messages. All of them were from Potshot. Two from Lou Buckman. Two from Roscoe Land, the Potshot mayor. And one from Luther Barnes. All of them were wondering how things were going and when I might come back there with my colleagues and clean up the Dell. I didn't return the calls.