“I’d like to speak to Mr. Ohls, please.”
“I’ll see if he’s available. Who may I say is calling?”
“My name is Marvin Kent. I’m a private investigator, looking into the affairs of the late Aaron Carlisle.”
“Just a moment.”
I waited, doodling. I drew several lines, long, curving, soft yet with substance. I was wondering what a shrink would make of that when he came on the line. “Yes, Mr. Kent, how may I help you?”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Ohls. I’m making some inquiries on behalf of the estate of the late Aaron Carlisle. I have your signature on the death certificate, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”
“Yes, I would be happy to meet you for a drink this evening. Is Harlow’s all right? Seven-fifteen?”
“I’ll be there. Thank you.”
“Certainly. I look forward to the meeting. Good day.”
I thanked him again. New information that must be delivered after office hours is always suspicious. Reminding myself that I still had nothing, I threw away the doodle sheet, wrote down the appointment, grabbed my coat and shot out the door.
For a change, the rain was letting up a bit. I stopped at Rodney’s and bought several packs of light cigarettes and caught the next bus going east. The public transportation system is under-funded in California, because everybody’s dependent on cars. But downtown it’s not that hard to grab a ride. It gives me a chance to observe people, and to think. And I save on gas.
I recognized the driver, she recognized me, and we nodded affably as I slid my ticket into the meter. I got a transfer from the driver and went back, keeping my balance, to a seat in the middle of the bus.
The bus was about half full of the kind of people who have the time and reason to be riding a bus between rush hours: all races, all ages-- retired, unemployed, working poor. Old folks going to the doctor, mothers with young children doing business with public agencies, teenagers cutting class and looking for adventure. No yuppies—one of the nice things about sitting on a rickety old machine and gulping diesel fumes while lurching back and forth through manic traffic.
There were five or six places downtown where I could soak up gossip, innuendo, rumor, and once in awhile some good information. My favorite was Java City. I got off the bus there.
Java City was one of the town’s original Parisian-type coffee shops. Why not? We have a lot of trees just like Gay Paree. We have claims to wanting to be a center for arts and the intellect. Might as well have world-class sidewalk bistros too. Here was an ideal setting: classic red brick, single-story, situated at the edge of midtown, hard by downtown, on a forested street still lined with old Victorians, a street that used to be the main U.S. highway through town.
There was always an interesting crowd there, if you didn’t get involved personally in the soap opera lives. Besides the same crowd you’d find riding the bus, you’d see gentrified midtown yuppies, bikers, and State workers seeking local color. People soaked up coffee with exotic names, served in fancy styles, and sampled a slice of life, which was mainly, each other.
The rain had stopped. Already some of the regulars had gone outside, sitting around sodden tables, out from under the dripping narrow awnings, and were reveling in the weather change, smoking in the open air. My friend was one of them.
He had his wheelchair in a central location. Being well liked he needed to engage in several conversations at once. Stuart Franklin had been around, he kept his eyes and ears open. He didn’t gossip, but he was a great talker. He knew everybody in that particular swirl.
“Look at what the rain dropped,” he rasped loudly, with a hearty laugh despite the oxygen tube just beneath his nose. His blue eyes twinkled.
“How’s things going, Stu?” We shook hands.
“Good as they ever get,” he shrugged. “Been cooped up in that apartment too long. Had to get out. Of course, I don’t want to get overexposed.”
“Sure.” Nodding at the people around him, I said, “Say, Stu, can I talk to you alone for a minute?”
“No problem, let’s go to my office. Excuse me, folks, gotta talk some business.” He pressed a button on his wheel chair. On came a click, then a whirr, and he wheeled a few yards over, to the edge of the iron railing separating the coffee house from the sidewalk. He wheeled around facing the street, I leaned against the wet rail. We caught about a bucketful from the branches overhead, and he said, “Who’s on your shit list now?”
“You know a guy named Len Boscombe? Tall guy, dark hair, mustache.”
He grimaced. “What do I look like, a gambler?”
“So that’s his problem. He’s famous, huh?”
“So they tell me. I don’t hang with that damn looney. I know who he is. That’s all. Look, I drank like a goddam sponge for thirty-five years. Been smoking like a wet campfire for damn near fifty. Just got out of the hospital. Let a friend crash on my couch. He had a slight cold, which he forgot to tell me about. He shook it off, I picked it up. You know me. It turns into pneumonia right off the bat, and the next thing, I’m in the ambulance headed for intensive care. After I got out, I didn’t smoke for two weeks. Then the birds started to chirp and I listened. What can I say? Not too bright. But don’t make me a gambler too, okay? I have to have some virtues.” He laughed loudly, stifled a cough. “Your friend’s in some kind of trouble?”
“He could be. He works for the County, and we think he’s been screwing around with the death records.”
“He would. A guy like him gets desperate enough to do anything.”
“He come here often?”
“Nah. The action here’s not fast enough for him. He’d order a latte, then give odds it’d come back with milk. He goes where the bright lights shine.”
“You know where he lives?”
“No, and I don’t want to. Anyway, chances are he’ll be living somewhere else tomorrow.”
“I want to talk to him before he cuts out.”
“Be careful. Last time I did see him he was hanging around with some very bad boys.”
“Know them?”
“Not personally. I do know the look, though.”
“Thanks.” I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the three cigarette packs. “What’ll it be?”
“Doesn’t matter. As long as they’re lights. I gotta slow down and take care of myself, in my old age.” He laughed, until he had to stifle another cough.
I left him all three packs.
I rode the bus around downtown and midtown, stopping at three more gathering places, but my contacts weren’t there. The trail was still fuzzy. I wouldn’t be getting anywhere until I could find Boscombe. The business involves a flurry of activity, followed by a lot of waiting around.
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