One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) (10 page)

Everyone looked relieved when the waitress interrupted Vito to give him a beer and a massive tongue-and-onion sandwich with fries. He took a melancholy bite.

Shay opened a small notebook from the breast pocket of his sports coat and returned to business without missing a beat. “The
Chronicle
reporter will be able to explain why he and Danny were so chummy.” He ripped a page from the notepad and handed it to Richie. “Here's Glickman's home address, cell phone number, plus his phone number at the newspaper.”

“Good work.” Richie folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Rebecca kept her mouth shut. She certainly would have turned up this information as well … in another week or two.

Richie continued. “A couple of other things. I always dealt with Danny one-on-one, but I heard he had a wire room—two guys, couple hours a day right before game times. I don't know about sheet holders. You guys know if he had any?”

Shay sat back; gambling and bookies were Vito's territory. “Far as I could tell,” Vito said, “Danny was too particular about his customers to use go-betweens. He'd built his clients over the years and only dealt with big boys. Guys like you, Richie. Trust was important to him. No need to branch out, rely on others. Besides, that's where a lotta slip-ups happen.”

Shay stepped in. “Even with that, his operation was plenty big. Probably two to three million gross. I wouldn't be surprised if the layoff wasn't in New York or L.A.”

“Two or three million dollars?” Rebecca could hardly get the words out. She had no idea! She might not be familiar with the terminology they were using, but she understood money.

“He was a stand-up guy,” Richie explained. “People trusted him.”

“Why would he set you up, Richie?” Vito asked.

“I don't know,” he murmured. “Maybe it wasn't him.”

“Or maybe whoever did it simply wanted to confuse everyone, especially the cops,” Rebecca suggested.

Shay leaned forward, looked at Richie, and folded his hands on the table. They were slim, smooth, and long-fingered with buffed nails. A Perrier with a lime twist sat in front of him, but he hadn't touched a sip of it. “We don't need her.”

“We don't need her working against me, either. We're out of here.” Richie slid out of the booth and dropped several twenties on the table, more than enough to cover all meals and tips. He stepped back to let Rebecca out.

Vito turned and faced him. “Where you going, boss?”

“To visit a reporter.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sherman Glickman stood at the front door of his ground-floor apartment, one hand wriggling around in his pocket searching for his key, the other holding a paper bag from McDonald's. The apartment building, in one of the city's rougher South of Market neighborhoods, was designed like a motel. Two stories tall, all of its doors opened directly onto a walkway. Rusted and chipped wrought iron fencing along the upper floors matched equally decrepit fences on the lower that provided meaningless barriers between the front doors and the sidewalk.

The smell of urine grew stronger as Richie and Rebecca approached the building. Richie hated everything about it—it reminded him of some of the places he and his mom had to live in when he was growing up after his father was killed, the kind of area filled with homeless and squatters. Rebecca didn't seem bothered. He followed her and stopped when she did.

“Sherman Glickman?” she asked.

Glickman spun around. “Who are you?” His frightened gaze jumping from one to the other. He was about five-six, wearing brown corduroy slacks and a tan cloth jacket zippered all the way up to the collar. He was chubby, with a stomach so round it looked like he had a beach ball under his jacket.

Rebecca showed her badge. “Inspector Mayfield, Homicide. We want to talk to you about Danny Pasternak.”

He turned ashen. “The guy who was murdered yesterday?”

She nodded.

“Me? Why?” He almost bolted. His eyes were gray and small, his glasses frameless, and his light brown hair long and bushy, as if he were stuck in the seventies or overly admired Bolshevik intellectuals. “I don't know anything about him.”

Richie hung back to observe and let the Inspector do her job. “Can we go inside and talk?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure. But who's he?” He pointed his chin towards Richie. “Why doesn't he show his badge?” Glickman's voice had a squeaky whining quality that made Richie want to punch his face.

“He's a … consultant,” Rebecca said, then repeated, “May we go inside?”

“Oh?” Glickman still eyed Richie, while Richie returned the stare until Glickman turned away to face Rebecca with a small, forced chuckle. “Is this sort of like
Castle
on TV? What's he, a writer?”

“Sure he is,” she said.

Glickman stepped back so they could enter the living room. Then she added, “He's also one of the murder suspects.”

Richie could have fallen over when she said that.

“
What?
My God!” Sherman backed up so fast he bumped into his coffee table and tumbled onto it. Under his weight, the legs buckled and the table collapsed like a cheap lawn chair. The furniture in the room was lightweight, blond-colored wood with yellow and green plaid-covered foam pillows on the sofa and chair. Undersized end tables matched the now destroyed coffee table.

Richie decided he needed to make nice if this little chat was going to be productive. He held out a hand to Glickman. “Don't worry,” he said. “I'm here, so I'm in custody, right? Sorry about your table.”

“Oh ...” Glickman eyed the offered hand warily and managed to get to his feet without letting Richie touch him. He glanced pleadingly from his table to Rebecca. “You sure it's safe?”

“You're a reporter. Since when do you care if it's safe or not?” Rebecca's words sounded straight-forward, but Richie had been around her long enough to see disgust at the squeamish reporter fill her eyes. Richie could all but hear the words that she didn't bother to speak,
It's a news story, shithead!

He couldn't take it anymore—not the twerp's demeanor or his not having the decency to take a hand when offered. “It's not us you should be worried about!” Richie carefully enunciated the words to make sure the idiot understood. “Do you have any idea who you're up against?”

“What do you mean?” Glickman backed up even further towards the sofa and when his calves touched, dropped onto it. He gawked up at them like a kid in the principal's office.

Rebecca looked around for a seat. There was only one chair in the room.

“Here!” Glickman said, jumping up and leaving the sofa to the two of them. “I'll move.”

He scooted into the easy chair, still tightly gripping his Macburgers. Richie's eyes met Rebecca's and rolled upward.

“All right,” Rebecca said as she and Richie sat on the sofa. “Let's start over.”

“Start over?” Glickman cried, the burgers perched on his lap like a lunch pail. “Why isn't he in jail?”

Rebecca ignored the question. “You were writing a book with Pasternak, a book that could make a lot of people unhappy.”

“Not me!” Glickman's voice rose higher and squeakier. If Richie ever had an earwax problem, it was gone now.

“Cut the bull,” he said, disgusted. “We're trying to save your life. What did Danny plan to write in that book of his? If Danny was killed to keep him quiet, you could be next.”

Glickman's eyes rounded as if about to cry. “Danny told me no one would know! It was a secret. He had me sign papers agreeing that we'd never tell. He wanted it to be his story, written by him. I was glad about the arrangement, frankly.” A bizarrely sly expression filled his face as he asked, “Uh, how did you figure out who I was and how to find me?”

Who would ever answer questions like that? Richie thought. No wonder this twerp couldn't make it as a reporter. “It's not important.”

“Sure it is! Since you found me, others could as well.”

Richie nodded and smiled. “There you go!”

Rebecca gave him a look that should have wiped away his smile, but he was too pleased with himself to let it.

Glickman dropped the burgers on the floor and buried his round  face in his hands. “I knew I shouldn't have gotten involved. Pasternak offered me some money up front, and then a big percentage of the net.” He lowered his hands, and faced Rebecca, looking simultaneously lost and petrified. “How could I pass it up? Look at this place. My job's on the line. I needed the money.”

“Tell us about the book,” Rebecca said.

He picked up the hamburger sack again. “Do you mind if I eat? I don't like them when they get cold.”

“Please,” Rebecca said. Richie marveled at her patience with the schmuck.

Glickman pulled out a small, basic cheeseburger, folded the paper wrapping exactly halfway down, and took a small, almost mouse-like bite. He seemed to chew with his front teeth, then opened the bun and removed a pickle. He leaned forward as if to drop it onto the coffee table when he saw the table on the floor. He paused, the pickle wedged between his thumb and forefinger. Finally, befuddled, he dropped it into the paper bag, then took another miniscule bite.

Richie was beside himself. He was ready to shove the stupid burger down Glickman's throat, paper and all.

“The working title was
My Life as a Bookie
,” Glickman eventually said. “He was going to tell all, how the odds-makers work, the kind of money the big fellows can and do make, and why it's usually the little guy who gets shafted.”

“Hold it. Just a damned minute!” Richie couldn't believe what he was hearing. Not his pal, Danny Pasternak. “When you say the 'big fellows,' you don't mean he was going to write about his customers, do you?”

“He wouldn't do that.” Glickman bit and chewed again.

“You're sure?” Richie asked.

“I guess.” Glickman studied his burger and slightly rotated it to the next spot he would eat.

Richie leaned back on the sofa, hoping to ease his sudden heart palpitations. He ran his hand over the back of his head as he pondered Glickman's words. Bookmaking was illegal in California, but at the same time, any winnings had to be reported to the IRS as “income.” A real Catch 22. If Pasternak had planned to name names and amounts bet and won, the IRS could go after those people for back taxes and penalties, which could be a small fortune. Most people involved in gambling should have been aware that the Feds used tax evasion to arrest, convict, and imprison Al “Scarface” Capone.

And if Rebecca could find any evidence that Danny planned to put Richie's name in the book, she might decide that gave him a motive to off Pasternak. Damn!

“Some of the players lost a lot,” Glickman continued. “But the big players get the inside track to help them win. The odds are adjusted so more of the little guys are tempted to bet on the other side since bookies need to keep the bets pretty even so they don't lose money. Anyway, with a little creative point shaving or running up scores, whatever's needed, the game ends up the way that makes the big guys happy, and keeps the bookies in business. And, as usual, the little guy gets screwed.”

Glickman peeled away the paper and plopped the last little bit of cheeseburger into his mouth.

“You and Danny,” Richie said, waggling his finger at Glickman, “you both knew that when you tell how much somebody wins, that if the IRS finds out about it, then those people get hit.”

Glickman finished chewing and swallowing before answering. “Sure.” He dug into the sack for another burger. He pulled it out and was carefully unwrapping the paper when Richie lunged across the small room and swiped it out of his hands.

Glickman froze, petrified.

“What do you mean, 'sure'?” Richie loomed over Glickman. Rebecca also stood, her hand on Richie's arm as if ready to stop him if he became violent.

“Danny knew it,” Glickman cried, hands upheld as if to deflect a punch that didn't come. “All he wanted was to write a best-selling book. It was a good plan. Good for me, as well. Now, though, we both have nothing.”

“Sorry, Sherman,” Rebecca said sarcastically. His situation hardly equated to Danny Pasternak's.

“Thanks.” Glickman just didn't get it.

Richie was momentarily speechless at the thought his pal Danny was so clueless. If word got out about the book, certain people could get the wrong impression about him and Glickman. People they wouldn't want to mess with. He shook his head then slam-dunked the cheeseburger back into the paper bag. “I suggest you give me your notes and get out of town,” Richie said. “You don't want anything that'll give anyone the impression you might rat out some of Danny's customers.”

“He didn't tell me anything about them,” Glickman whimpered.

“What names did Danny give you?” Rebecca asked.

“None! We only met a few times, and he spent it describing how bookmaking works. I knew how guys placed bets, but I didn't know what went on after that.”

“You sure you know nothing?” Richie asked, stepping closer to him.

Glickman cringed. “I'm sure.”

“Split this area, Sherman,” Richie advised, “before it's too late.”

Rebecca handed the reporter her card and told him to let her know if he thought of anything that might help in her investigation into Danny's death. Then, she and Richie left the apartment.

As Rebecca pulled Glickman’s door shut, Richie's gaze automatically perused the street. In an instant, his expression changed from stunned silence to alarm. “Watch out!” He lunged at her, and slammed her, face downward, onto the walkway. He covered her body with his, his hand over her head while his face burrowed against her ear, neck, and shoulder.

A hail of bullets flew at them, cutting a line across the front door where they had just stood.

She reached behind her back for her gun, but Richie had already pulled it from her waistband holster. He fired back, and at the same time grabbed her hand and the two of them barreled down the steps and dropped behind a parked car, using it for cover.

When there was no longer return fire, they peeked over the car's hood to watch a black Lincoln disappear down the block.

“It's gone,” Richie said, as he helped her up. “You okay?” He kept an arm around her as he rubbed away the smudge on her nose where it hit the ground. Her heart was in her throat at their close call, and he scarcely looked phased by it. Plus, he was much too close for her breathing to go back to normal.

She pushed him away. “Give me back my gun!”

He looked stunned. “Here! And you're welcome!”

“A cop could shoot you for taking his or her gun, you know!” she said as she tucked it back into her waistband, more than a little chastened at treating him so badly after he'd very likely saved her life.

“At least that'd put me out of my misery,” he growled.

Glickman's head popped out of the door. “What happened? Are you two all right?”

“We are,” Rebecca said angrily. “But I've got bad news for you. Looks like someone doesn't believe you know nothing.”

He glowered. “If that's the case, why were they shooting at the two of you?”