Single Jeopardy (6 page)

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Deputy District Attorney Myra Scot Sharp has just returned home from a trying day at the office. On her way past the picket fence, she stops at the mailbox and removes some letters. One in particular catches her attention, because in the return address it has a fancy logo consisting of three the letters TCB, which was a gaudy ring Elvis Presley used to wear and had monogrammed on the white sequined jump suits he wore while performing. The letters stand for ‘Taking Care of Business,’ a catch phrase he was fond of. Of course Myra has heard of Elvis. Everyone has. Once inside the house, the fancy envelope is the first one she opens. It’s short and to the point, and absolutely makes her day. What she is staring down at is a wonderful opportunity to stick another pin in her favorite Peter Sharp effigy doll.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sharp:

It has come to our attention that you have become the registered owners of one 1963 forty-one-foot Chris Craft cabin cruiser, hull number CC16506156.

Our organization is desirous of obtaining that boat for a celebration to be held in Memphis in August of this year and we would like to make you an offer to purchase the vessel, if you still own it.

If the vessel floats, is seaworthy, and capable of restoration, we will pay you the sum of One Hundred Seventy-Five Thousand Dollars for it, by certified cashier’s check drawn on the Bank of Memphis. Due to the time limitations, we must have your answer in ten days.

Very truly yours,

Elvis Aron Presley Fan Club, Patty Sue Ehrstrieme, exec. Secy.

Myra puts down the letter, laughs an evil laugh out loud and calls her divorce attorney Gary Koontz. He’s out of the office, so she leaves a message on his machine: “Hello Gary, it’s Myra, and here’s what I need. Do whatever it takes to get my jerk of an ex-husband to sign that crummy boat of his over to me. If you have to, threaten him with breach of our property settlement agreement. He should have known he was going to get suspended when he signed that promise to give me half of his law practice earnings. If he wants to avoid more trouble with the State Bar and a suit for fraud, he’ll sign over the boat – and if you want to sweeten the pot a little, tell him that in exchange for the boat, I’ll give up my claim to half his future earnings, but the boat must be delivered to me at the Marina boat yard no later than five days from now. And, if you succeed in pulling this off, there’s a special bonus in it for you, and I think you know what I mean. It’s something you’ve always wanted from me.”

Defense attorneys claim that the only efficient railroad in this country is the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office. A black comedian named Richard Pryor once said “if you want to see justice in the Los Angeles Criminal Courts, go there, and that’s what you’ll see,
just us!”
Prosecutors have a special outlook on life. Right is on their side, so whatever they do is justified - no matter who gets threatened, bullied, put in jail, or forced to sign over a boat.

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The Coast route is a beautiful trip from Los Angeles to Northern California, and the Hummer is a great ride. This big yellow brute is king of the road and gets looks from absolutely everyone. I’m going to make the almost five-hundred mile trip a two-day drive each way, so at the first evening’s motel stop I check my voice mail to pick up messages. There’s one from beady-eyed Koontz. He has great news for me. I’ve heard the old warning that after you shake hands with some fast-talking operators, make sure to count your fingers. Well, the same thing applies to this slimeball attorney: when you hang up the phone after talking to him, make sure to count your ears.

By the time I return his phone call it’s after office hours, so instead of his answering machine I get his answering service and then get patched through to him at home. His pitch starts. “Listen Peter, I know we’ve had some differences over the years, but believe me, this could be a great opportunity for you.” I don’t say anything in response. A book I once read said that when someone is trying to sell you something and you clam up, they go into their ‘I’m not okay mode,’ and that’s where Koontz is now going. He breaks the silence and his speed picks up. “Now this was against my advice, but Myra insisted on it. She wants to give you an opportunity go get your life back together again without the burden of paying her half your net income once you start practicing again, so she’ll sell out that right for a paltry sum. And if you haven’t got the cash on hand to pay her the forty thousand she’d like to get, she’ll take that old boat off your hands.”

I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t
last
night. Myra wants the boat and is willing to give up future income she values at forty K to get it. Am I missing something? We both know I paid only eight thousand for it, and with the extra ten or twelve thousand put into it over the years, it’s still an old piece of crap, probably not worth more than ten thousand, even if it was running. Maybe the best thing to do is try to talk her out of it. That way she might not be able to come back at me with buyer’s remorse later on. “Listen Koontz, the boat doesn’t even have engines installed yet, and it really needs a lot more work. I don’t think she should…” He cuts me off.

“
Peter, Peter, don’t worry about it. She knows what shape it’s in, and she doesn’t care.”

I’m still a little cautious. “I don’t know, Koontz, if she’s not happy with whatever she wants it for, I don’t want her coming back to me with a lawsuit.”

“
Not to worry Peter. Tell you what I’m going to do… we’ll put it right in the agreement that she’s taking the boat on an “as-is, where-is” basis, with no intention of getting any money out of you for repairs that might be needed, no matter how serious they might be.”

Hmmmn. This sounds too good to be true, and I know what they say about things like that.

There must be something going on that I don’t know about. “Listen, I’m in a motel now on my way to Sacramento, so I’ll call you when I get back the day after tomorrow. And don’t worry; you’ll get my answer within five days.”

“
I certainly hope so, because she’s already got a towing service on stand-by waiting for instructions to tow if from your slip to the yard. I’ll fax you the agreement, for you to look over.”

“
Yeah, okay… fax it over, when I get back in town I’ll look at it and let you know whether it’s a deal or not.” I hang up, count my ears and send a message to Melvin’s office to watch out for Koontz’s fax to. I had my fax line call-forwarded to his boat’s fax line while I’m out of town.

Plenty of things are going on now and it feels good to be back into a little action. L. Martin wants to help with my petition for re-instatement, Myra wants the boat, Laverne wants me, and Robert Palmer, the mystery man from the Marina City Club, may be involved in some domestic intrigue. One item about him was quite interesting: his real name isn’t Palmer – it’s Pearlstein. I’ll never know why most people insist on changing their names.

Maybe it’s understandable if you’re a professional wrestler: Dwane Johnson became
“The Rock”
and Terry Eugene Bolea is now
“Hulk Hogan.”
Of course there’s ‘legitimate’ show business where Bernie Schwartz is
Tony Curtis
, and singer
Steve Lawrence
was Sidney Liebowitz. It seems that even authors don’t want to use their real names:
John LeCarre’
was David Cornwall and Eric Blair became
George Orwell
.
Ellery Queen
was really two people: cousins Frederic Dannay and Manfred Lee. Hardest for me to understand are the animals:
Eddie,
the dog on that popular TV show
“Frasier,”
was played by a dog named Moose, who even had his own book published. I guess anyone can get a book out nowadays. I still can’t figure out why a dog needs a stage name.
Lassie
didn’t use her real name – in fact, she was a male dog named Pal, who Rudd Weatherwax the trainer was forced to substitute in at the last minute when the original female Collie picked for the first movie balked at going into some rapidly moving water. Instead of ethnicity being something to avoid, sometimes it’s the desired result: Karen Johnson, a good enough name to use in show business changed hers to
Whoopi Goldberg
, and Dana Owens is now
Queen Latifah
.

Robert Palmer’s name change isn’t the most interesting thing about him. Searching deep enough reveals that in addition to owning the two restaurants that are next door to and across the street from the Chinese one, he also owns controlling interest in the valet car parking service that competes with the Chinese place’s valet service for parking spaces. Although the other two restaurants each have more square footage for interior eating space, the people coming for Chinese take-out orders raise their dinner total to more than both of Palmer’s restaurants combined, and because the to-go customers are usually in and out in less than ten minutes, the Chinese valet that parks their cars makes several times more than the other two services due to the high turn-around of parking spaces. A conspiracy nut could probably make a good case against this Palmer. He tries to muscle the Chinese place’s owner for a bigger portion of the parking lots, and when he can’t get his way, he has the Chinaman wacked. It’s an interesting theory. Good thing I don’t have to prove it.

If my ex-wife hadn’t turned into a super-shrew, I might consider cluing her in on my theories, because I’m sure that nailing a local big shot would be a feather in her cap and a definite career booster for her. But she’s going to have to be a little nicer to me for a gift like that.

I take my time getting back from Northern California, and after dropping off the rented Hummer and picking up my own car, I stop at the Jr. Market around the corner from the Marina to pick up some things. There are some sirens in the area, but that’s to be expected because the local fire station is less than a mile down Admiralty Way, and the trucks have to pass by here to get to this side of the Marina.

Looking around this place I finally figure out what the meaning of a ‘Jr. Market’ is… it’s a liquor store that also sells milk and bread. Never having learned to cook anything but pasta I eat all my meals out, so the Marina’s Junior Market is just fine for me. Another good point for it is that they carry Laverne’s favorite boxes of wine.

After a six-day trip involving four days of driving, it’s good to know that I can now go to my yacht, relax, have a snack, finish another Nero Wolfe mystery and unwind from my road trip. Driving down the access road that leads to the boat docks I see a huge cloud of black smoke in the air and three large red fire engines blocking my way. I park and walk over to the gangway where the action is and look out towards the end-tie to see what’s going on. A fireman is bringing up some equipment as I approach the gate. When I ask him what’s happening, he sums it up for me. “Some old wood boat burned up.”

A watched pot doesn’t boil, but an unwatched boat does burn. That wiring I never got around to fixing must have given up and started to short out. Unbeknownst to me, the boat was probably smoldering when I left town. If you love boats nothing looks worse than one that’s burned out, especially if you own it. All that’s left of mine is the hull from the waterline down. From there up, it’s gone. There’s absolutely nothing left of it but a flagpole on the rear of the boat and enough of that back end so that the name of the boat is still legible. It’s sickening for me to look at. I now have nowhere to live, my Nero Wolfe book is probably nothing but ashes, and seven years of my labor of love have been totally wasted. The Foghorn Hotel is around the corner next to the Market, so I guess I’ll just go over there and check in for the evening. Just as I’m about to go into a deep depression, I manage to do the only thing that a sane person can do at a time like this. I pick up my cell phone and dial a number. When it answers, I calmly say: “Hello Koontz, this is Peter Sharp. We’ve got a deal.”

My fax line was call-forwarded to Melvin’s boat while I was gone, so Myra’s agreement is saved. I quickly sign it and fax it back to Koontz’s office. He must have been sitting next to the fax machine, because in about fifteen minutes I see the towboat coming down the channel towards our dock. Boy, she must really want this boat. I don’t know why, but it’s probably for some sneaky reason.

The towboat guys pull up, and burned out hull or not, they don’t miss a beat. After verifying the slip number and seeing the name of the boat on what remains of its stern, they ask me to sign their release form. They then hook up the towlines and slowly pull the still smoldering hull out of its slip and down the channel towards the boat yard. From a distance, it looks like they’re dragging a huge black whale through the water.

Before leaving, the tow guys mentioned that Myra and her attorney are waiting for their prize to be brought to them at the boat yard. I wait a couple of hours and then call over to the boat yard to hear about what happened. Art, the boat yard manager, is a serious type of guy, but he and I have gotten along quite well in the past. When the boat was originally trucked over there from my back yard, he was the one who helped me select the proper bottom paint to be put on before lowering the boat into the water. I remember him telling me that the brand of bottom sealer he suggested would outlast the boat. I can’t wait to tell him how right he was.

After a few minutes of having him paged over the yard’s loudspeaker, he finally gets on the line and proceeds to tell me about the scene at the yard. Myra and her attorney arrived at the yard just as the towboat company radioed ahead that they had the cabin cruiser in tow and would be needing dock space near the yard’s crane. They both heard the radio call and then began to smile, laugh and happily high-five each other, like they had just won the World Series. Everything was fine until about five minutes later, when the towboat came into view. Their looks slowly changed from glee to horror. People have told me that they’ve never seen Art crack a smile over the past ten years, but when he tells me about ‘that lady beating the guy in the cheap suit on his head with her briefcase,’ he can barely catch his breath from laughing. It was definitely a Kodak moment, and exemplifies that old saying, “to the victor goes the spoils.”