The Gumshoe Diaries (6 page)

Judy giggled at that remark and tucked the
sandwich bag into her briefcase with her lecture notes and her sack
lunch. She got up, walked around the table and took my arm. Then
together we walked out of the office.

“You really were clueless back then weren’t
you Whitey,” she said, smiling finally.

“I guess you could say that. I mean I always
knew that Rhonda suffered from penis envy, but I never thought that
meant literally. I thought she was just mean and bossy!”

“Ha-ha, you’re funny, that’s what I like that
about you. And I have to admit, I never would have thought in a
million years that you would come to terms with Ronnie leaving you
for me? And the fact that we’re all still friends amazes me. Most
guys, especially cops, would have shot both of us the day they
found out,” Judy explained, giving my arm a gentle squeeze in the
process.

We stopped at the entrance to the Ahmanson
building and she kissed me full on the mouth, holding my face in
her hands. “What’s that for,” I asked, nearly swooning?

“That’s for being such a good sport,” she
answered. Then she curled her boney little fist and punched me hard
in the arm.

“And that’s for slipping me your tongue just
now,” she added, breaking free of me and jogging ahead before I
could react.

“HEY, you can’t blame a guy for trying,” I
shouted rubbing my arm where she hit me!

“Yes I can,” she shouted back, opening the
door to enter.

“WHAT ABOUT MY FIBERS,” I hollered after
her?

“I’ll have something in a day or two, call me
then,” she answered, as she disappeared into the building.

I smacked my lips together, still tasting her
bubblegum flavored mouthwash and fanaticized for a couple of
seconds about stealing her away from my ex. Now that would be a
hoot I thought to myself, actually considering it?

“
Nah
…”

****

(“Be on my side I’ll be on your side, baby. There is
no reason for you to hide”)…Neil Young…1969

Chapter Eight

Anthony’s Bella Terra, 6
^th
and Broadway…Tuesday, Feb 17,
2009…12:30pm

Angelo Manzano happily greeted two guests as
they entered his restaurant. He recognized them both, they were a
couple of the regulars from one of the insurance firms across the
street, Fidelity something or other he thought? It wasn’t
important, as long as they came hungry and carried paper or plastic
they were welcome at the Bella Terra. He grabbed two menus from the
small host station and ushered them into the dark ambiance of cozy
little booths with blood red upholstery and lighting so dim you
almost needed sonar to find your way to the restroom.

“Hey, look who’s here, welcome, welcome,
buono giorno
my friends,” he said shaking hands with a tall
man in a Brooks Brothers suit and smiling broadly at his female
companion.

“Please, come in,
come in
,” he
continued in his deep and rich baritone voice.

Angelo wasn’t tall but he was thick, with a
barrel chest and a neck that you’d need a chainsaw to cut through,
should the need ever arise. He and his not so little brother
Johnny, affectionately known around town as Fat Johnny, owned and
operated the Bella Terra. They were a likeable pair of true blood
Sicilian immigrants who had been serving up their momma’s recipes
for better than twenty years in the city of angels. Their place has
been my regular Friday night meal ticket since the early days when
I was with the LAPD. Fat Johnny even created a dish just for me
that he called Veal Sinatra because I am such a fan of old blue
eyes. I was actually flattered but I’m pretty sure Frank probably
wasn’t!

“So what’s good today Angelo,” the tall man
asked taking a seat.

“Everything of course,” Angelo replied as he
helped to seat the lady.

“Maybe you want I should ask Johnny to
prepare the usual for you, huh?”

“Actually I’m feeling adventurous, what’s the
special today?”

“Ah, you picked a good day for adventure my
friend, today it is Veal Sinatra,” Angelo announced beaming!

“Oooo, what’s that,” his companion asked
excitedly?

“Medallions of tender and moist veal covered
in fresh spinach,
pecorino
and
parmagano-regiano
cheese, with a white wine Marcela sauce. It is
molta bella,
you will like, I promise you,” Angelo answered proudly.

“Sounds like a winner Angelo, bring us two
specials and a couple glasses of the house Chianti,” the tall man
ordered. He handed back the unopened menus and winked at his lunch
date. Angelo smiled as he took the menus from his patron, amused by
the couple’s little
affare
.

“Excellent choice my friend, excellent, I
will send Marco with the vino right away,” Angelo replied
enthusiastically. He turned and headed for the kitchen, rolling his
eyes as he approached his head waiter Marco.

“Table 4 Marco, two glasses of the cheap red
for Senor Smooth and his tramp,” he instructed sarcastically as he
passed through the swinging doors into the busy kitchen. He spotted
his brother Johnny tasting a fresh batch of marinara with a slice
of
focaccia
bread.
Mama mia
, such an immigrant, you’d
think he’d have learned a thing or two in the twenty some years
they had been here. Angelo considered himself the sophisticate in
the Manzano family even though he still drank his wine from a jelly
jar.

“
Il mio dio!
What if I was the health
inspector
stupido
,” roared Angelo.

“HEY! My kitchen, my rules! Rule number one,
English only in my kitchen,” Fat Johnny answered nonplussed,
completely unaffected by his brother’s tirade. Let’s face it; he
heard one every stinkin day!

“This is OUR restaurant, not yours,” Angelo
replied more than a little miffed by his brother’s remark.

“No, on this side of the doors it is my
kitchen, and on the other side it is your restaurant,
capisce
,” Johnny explained, dramatically tearing another
piece of bread to dip in the pot just to piss off his snooty older
brother.

The boys were about to declare a bicker war
as was their routine at least 2 to 3 times a day, when I walked in
through the rear kitchen entrance. Fat Johnny saw me first and
acknowledged my presence with a roll of his eyes. They were the
color of black Spanish olives, buried deep in his huge round head.
I studied him for a second. His eyes reminded me of a sharks eyes,
unchanged by mood or expression, virtually unreadable. And it
occurred to me that this was quite an advantage, and it explained
why he always seemed to do well whenever he sat in at one of my
monthly poker games. Note to self, when Johnny’s in I am out!
Angelo was busy attacking his brother’s kitchen etiquette and
general slovenly appearance and Johnny was doing his best to ignore
him. But he snapped when Angelo brought their mother into the
fracas.

“ENOUGH Angelo you skinny stuffed shirt!
Leave Momma out of this or the next thing I dip into this pot will
be your pointed little head,” Johnny said icily, his cool dark eyes
focused intently on his older and much smaller brother. The air in
the room actually felt colder and if Angelo wasn’t scared, I was
suddenly scared for him! This seemed like the right time to
announce myself and save Angelo from himself.

“Hey there fellas, how about showing a little
love for your old pal Whitey,” I said as cheerfully as possible.
The room was silent for a long minute, all activity on hold waiting
to see which way the wind was going to blow. Suddenly Johnny burst
out laughing in his contagious jolly way and everyone in the room
started breathing again. He slapped his brother on the back and
brushed past him to get to me. Johnny put me into one of his famous
bear hugs, lifting me easily off of the ground, all 190 pounds of
me.

“Johnny…Johnny…
Johnny
, turn me loose
before I pass out ya big ape,” I gasped, pleading in a horsed
whisper as I was nearly out of breath. Angelo came over to join in
the fun and made me a thin slice of meat in a Manzano sandwich.
They let me go after a couple of uncomfortable minutes and I
staggered backward while my lungs filled with air.

“Hey, where were you last night,” Angelo
asked with an accusing tone?

“Yeah, where were you Whitey,” echoed Fat
Johnny?

“Just a sec, let me catch my breath,” I
replied as I gulped in a couple of deep breaths.

“You know what, forget the restaurant biz, we
can make a killing in the WWF!”

“You two wear the tights and fight and I’ll
manage the team and the cash, what do ya say,” I joked as my head
cleared. They both ignored me and waited for a real answer to their
question. Note to self, never keep two Italian brothers waiting for
long, it’ll turn dangerous sooner than later.

“Check, well the truth is I was in the pokey
last night,” I confessed.

“
Celaya,”
they asked in unison?

“Natch…Celaya,” I replied. They nodded and
moved to hug me again.

“Whoa, hold on there team Manzano, this old
body can’t take any more tag team love today, I think you guys may
have cracked a rib or two!”

That brought more laughter and scattered
smiles from the kitchen help as my two friends gently led me out
into the restaurant and seated me at their family table by the cash
register. We wedged our way into the corner booth, Whitey in the
middle again. Angelo gestured for Marco to bring some wine and gave
him the
‘and pronto’
look. We spent a few minutes catching
up, the brothers filling me in on their on again off again love
affair with the Mayor’s Office. Translation, they loved the
attention he brought the place by eating there 3 or 4 times a week,
but were tired of picking up the check, especially the bar tab!
They brought me up to date on their feud with a wanna be Hispanic
gang from the east side who called themselves
los solomente
dudes
. I chuckled at that. They sounded more like a gaggle of
homos from
WeHo
(that’s West Hollywood in Angelino speak)
than a bad ass gang from the barrio. Nevertheless, they were making
nuisances of themselves trying to shake down the Mexicans working
at Bella Terra sans a green card.

The Manzano brothers knew it was against the
law to hire illegal aliens but they were both softhearted and could
not bring themselves to turn away anyone willing to work hard.
Neither one of them had any political savvy nor were they aware of
the hoopla surrounding the hot topic being argued in print and on
the little screens across California and the rest of the Country.
As far as they were concerned it was live and let live, that was
their approach to life. And that was the message those
solomente
dudes
would receive
Italiano
style if they continued to
mess with the help. The boys never mentioned it and they never
would, but I knew for a fact that the brothers were connected, and
let’s just leave at that. So, rest in peace
solomente dudes
.
Eventually the table talk circulated around to me and my current
events.

“So why’d Celaya pop you this time Whitey,
you messing with his teenybopper wife,” asked Fat Johnny? He was
referring to the latest Mrs. Celaya, number five if my count is
accurate. Not exactly a May – December relationship, more than a
January – December one. Translation, Lt. Ass-wipe was a cradle
robber.

“It doesn’t matter, suffice to say I violated
Los Angeles Penal Code 123,
unfortunate contact with inept
official in the poor performance of his duty
,” I replied
sarcastically.

“What,” they asked together?

“I pissed him off,” I explained.

“Oh, why didn’t you just say so? You’re
always tossing around ten dollar syllables Whitey. Talk like a
person, will ya,” Johnny said scolding me.

“Noted, thanks Johnny,” I replied with a
crooked smile.

“Hey, your
gaio
friend was in here for
espresso this morning,” mentioned Angelo.

“What friend?”

“Your
gaio
friend, you know the
omosessuale.”

“Give me a break Angelo, my Italian is pretty
limited.”

“
Scusarsi,
I mean
excuse me
.
You know; the little Asian homo friend of yours. The one that owns
the Jew deli up town with the other
gaio
,” Angelo
explained.

“
Nice Angelo
, so what about him?”

“Well, he just wasn’t himself, ya know? I
mean he was out there, like sleep walking or something, does that
make sense?”

“Actually it does. Lu’s niece was murdered
the other night. Actually that’s the case I’ve been working on, the
one that Celaya popped me for yesterday,” I explained.

“I knew you were pushing his buttons,” Fat
Johnny chimed in.

“No, not Lu, the other one, the squirrely
one, you know, the
bella donna
,” corrected Angelo.

“That’s right, the chatty one with all the
fancy jewelry,” Johnny added.

“You mean Jai,” I asked puzzled?

“Yeah, Jai, that’s him,” confirmed
Angelo.

“
Really?
What was he doing on this
side of town, I mean Jai Lai wouldn’t venture this far into the
city if his hair was ablaze and the streets were lined with naked
firefighters,” I asked, wondering out loud.

“How should I know, I don’t speak Jew and I
don’t keep kosher. Whatever the reason he pretty much kept it to
himself. Now that I think about it, I don’t think he said a word to
anyone, at least not in English,” continued Angelo, rubbing his
five o’clock shadow as he spoke.

“What do you mean not in English,” I
asked?

“He made a couple of calls and talked Jew to
someone,” Angelo replied.

“How do you know he was speaking Jewish, you
just said that you weren’t Kosher? Jai is Chinese ace, maybe he was
speaking Chinese,” I said, pressing him just a little, hoping to
jog his memory and get a clearer picture.