Chapter 13
When I arrived at the office on Thursday morning I reviewed the items Jeannine highlighted from the Russian newspaper articles Uri had translated. The resolution of the kidnapping was very conspicuous by its absence. Tass had gone to great lengths to describe in detail the circumstances of the abduction, bio’s on the family, the suspicion of Mafia involvement, and daily reports on developments leading up to the rescue. It seemed incomprehensible that the largest news service in Russia would follow a case that closely and never mention the outcome. I interpreted this as an inference that Ivan Chofsky had cut a deal with the kidnappers. If the police had engineered the recovery, it’s hard to imagine that they wouldn’t celebrate their success in the paper and be hailed as heroes. But I realized that we were dealing with a very different culture. The translation gave me the name of the Odessa police lieutenant who was the primary on the case.
I called Uri. “Thank you for the translation of the newspaper articles, they were very enlightening.”
“You’re welcome, my friend.”
“I’m afraid I have one more favor to ask of you.”
“Ask away, I am still in your debt,” he said.
“The translation mentions the name of a policeman in Odessa, a Lieutenant Victor Sanchenko. It would be extremely helpful to me if you had any contacts in Odessa who could arrange a conversation with the lieutenant.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for about twenty seconds. “I have an acquaintance named Igor Shmalko who has family in Odessa. I’m not sure if they have any influence with the police. I don’t know if Igor would be willing to try to make the arrangement. And, I am skeptical that the lieutenant would be willing to tell an American what would not be allowed to be printed in the national press. For you, my friend, I will try, but don’t expect too much.”
“Thank you. Now I want to tell you about something you’ll probably hear about in the next few days.”
Over the next ten minutes I told him about what would be coming out on California Confidential. We agreed that few people took the show seriously, but that it would definitely cause a stir in the Russian community, and that it was quite possible the Mafia might seek out those responsible for the story.
“Under these circumstances, if you feel that bringing in Mr. Shmalko could endanger him or his family, then I don’t expect you to do it.”
“Igor is not an old friend and certainly not a confidant, but I know exactly how he feels about the Mafia. He would perceive helping you as a way of striking back at the Mafia. That would be the only way he would consent to providing assistance. But even if he refuses to get involved, he would respect what we are doing and wish us well in our endeavors,” Uri said.
Nigel called just before noon. “Jason, how are the songs coming?”
“They’re coming,” I replied. “Another month and I’ll definitely be ready.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I thought it would really help if we practiced our set at your friend’s club on Saturday afternoon. Do you think you can make it happen?”
“Actually, I think it’s a great idea. What I’d like to do today is meet with GI Jo-Jo at the club to decide who's bringing what equipment, and put together a plan for equipment changes before and after your set. Since Tsunami Rush is no longer a working band we don’t own a PA system anymore.”
“We have a club size PA and, if you like, you can use our amps, mics, lights and everything,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure Michael Marinangeli, our lead guitarist, will want to use his own stuff, but I think the rest of us would appreciate the upgrade. I’ll check with the guys before meeting with GI Jo-Jo.”
“I’ll ring up GI Jo-Jo and tell him to give you his full cooperation.”
“Great. Can you ask him to call me right away?”
“Done,” he said. “Also, I’m starting to talk with some new management candidates next week. When I get it down to the last two or three possibilities I’d like bios. If you’re finished working for Chelsea by then can you help us out?”
“Sure. When I finish up, I’m all yours.”
GI Jo-Jo called twenty minutes later. “Jason Duffy.”
“It’s Jo-Jo Martin from Doberman’s Stub. Nigel Choate asked me to call.”
“We met at the recording studio when I filled in on rhythm guitar.”
“I remember,” he said. “You’re the one with all the questions.”
“That’s me.”
“I don’t mind getting together to figure out the set up for Saturday night, but I’m not answering any more of your questions.”
“Believe it or not, rhythm guitar isn’t how I make my living.”
“Then I won’t bother to tell you not to quit your day job,” he said, laughing at his own joke.
“I’m a private investigator working on Terry’s murder. I’m going to need to ask you more questions if I’m going to solve the case,” I said.
“I told you I’m not answering any more questions and I don’t want you bothering Delitah anymore either,” Jo-Jo said.
“Don’t you want Terry’s murderer caught?”
“That’s a job for the police. I talked to them and we’re done. I don’t need to discuss anything with you except technical questions about our gig.”
“Nigel’s asked me to do some work for the band. He’s anxious for me to solve the case so I can get started. When I spoke with him a half hour ago he told me he was going to ask you to give me your full cooperation. Do I need to call him back and tell him that’s not happening?”
There was silence for about a minute. “This is bullshit!” he exclaimed. “You’re telling me you’re going to call my boss and tell on me if I don’t play ball with you?”
“I’ll tell you what’s bullshit,” I retorted. “The boss who gave you your job got murdered, but instead of you helping to find out who did it, you’re doing what you can to impede the investigation.”
“Fuck you!” he exclaimed.
“Then here’s how it’s going to go. If you don’t agree to meet me and answer all of my questions honestly, I call Nigel and tell him I can’t work with you. I’ll tell him your behavior has led me to believe you’re a suspect in the murder and that I feel the band should immediately put as much distance between you and them as possible. What’s it going to be?”
Again GI Jo-Jo went silent. I knew it was a risk letting him know he was a suspect, but since I was already looking over my shoulder for the Russians, what’s one more asshole who hates my guts.
“I didn’t kill Terry,” he said.
“Then step up to the plate and help find his murderer,” I said. Again more silence. After thirty seconds I added, “You can always collect unemployment.”
“I’m into Doberman’s sound and I don’t want to lose the gig, so I’ll talk to you. But when this thing is over I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“When this thing is over I’m going to be advising Nigel on personnel changes. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Fuck you. Where do you want to meet?”
“Dali Lama Yo Mama at 5:00 PM this afternoon,” I said and hung up.
After my conversation I was too hyper to review Terry’s bills and phone charges. I took a walk and thought about how to proceed. By the time I had calmed down I found myself in front of Schlotzsky’s Deli, so I stopped in for a turkey club sandwich. When I returned to the office I was surprised to see Kyle Kramer, Derek Schmidt and Michael Marinangeli, a.k.a. Tsunami Rush, in my reception room.
“We’ve come to kidnap you,” Kyle said.
It was obvious from Jeannine’s hundred-watt grin that the boys introduced themselves.
“We all took a couple of vacation days. If we spend some time in Alpine we actually might not embarrass ourselves on Saturday night,” Derek said.
“A couple of nights in Alpine sounds great, but I can’t leave until tonight,” I said.
“Just reschedule,” Kyle said enthusiastically. “We did it.”
“I have a meeting at Bernie’s at 5:00 PM today to work out what equipment we’re using. Also, how the changes for the Doberman set will go down. And, I’ve been asked by Nigel Choate to get Bernie to agree to let them practice with me on Saturday afternoon. They don’t want me to embarrass them either.”
“Fine, we’ll come with you just to make sure you don’t bail on us,” Michael said.
He’s been upset with me ever since Tsunami Rush broke up. It was his idea to form the band originally and he is the only one of us still working as a musician. He’s been through two groups over the past three years and is in the process of getting a third one off of the ground.
Over the next half hour I explained about my encounters with the Russians as well as what they did to Cory and Jeannine. I told them that as much as I needed practice in Alpine, I also needed a safe place to keep Kelly once the California Confidential story broke.
Derek called his aunt and got the OK for Kelly and Jeannine to accompany the band for a couple of spend-the-nights. When he got off of the phone he turned to Michael Marinangeli and exclaimed, “We’re going to the mattresses, Pizon!”
“Do you guys think you could give me a couple of hours to get a few things done before going to Bernie’s?” I asked.
“We have a better idea,” Derek said.
The three of them walked out of my office. Five minutes later they returned with two acoustic guitars, a practice drum pad and an acoustic bass. We used to practice with this equipment on nights when we stayed in LA motels to avoid hassles with the police.
Before we started I called Kelly and got her to agree to the Alpine overnight. At first she seemed reluctant because she was getting her classroom ready for the new school year. It was then that I told her about the pictures in Yuliya’s computer. That did the trick.
“I want to come back with you tomorrow and work on my classroom,” she said.
“I’ll make you a deal. If the California Confidential story doesn’t break tonight, I’ll bring you back tomorrow. If it does, then you stay with the guys and Jeannine in Alpine, OK?”
She agreed. I guess she saw enough chaotic violence when she lived with her family, and welcomed a safe haven.
At 5:05 PM the Tsunami gang descended on the Dali Lama Yo Mama. GI Jo-Jo had not yet arrived. I spotted Jasmine and waved her over to our table.
"Do you recognize these derelicts?” I asked her, nodding my head toward my crew.
“Are you kidding? I heard this is the headline act at what’s gonna be the hottest club in town this Saturday night,” she said with a cheerleader’s enthusiasm.
“Word isn’t leaking out, is it?”
“Bernie swore us to secrecy. But the employees have been strongly urging their friends to see this legendary club band come out of retirement for one last gig at their favorite venue,” she said.
“Do you mean it?” Kyle asked.
“Oh yeah,” she replied. “We’ve been laying the bullshit on extra thick to make sure our best friends don’t miss those Dobie dudes.”
“Dobie dudes?” Michael asked with a face that looked like he just bit into a pickle.
“But we were one of the best club bands in San Diego,” I said.
“And I’m up for cocktail waitress of the year,” she said. “You boys are sweet. Come sit in my section.” She led us to a table closer to the bar. “I’ll tell Bernie you’re here?”
Five minutes later Bernie was standing at our table. “What a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you guys until Saturday. Kyle, congratulations, I heard you got married and have a baby girl.”
Kyle beamed and looked at his fellow band mates, very impressed that Bernie had kept up. “Thanks Bernie. I’ll bring a picture on Saturday.”
“A picture. You better bring your better half on Saturday,” he said, then turned to Derek. “Mr. Schmidt, did I hear you invented a new software product?"
“Just one of the team members to make it happen,” Derek said.
“He’s being modest,” Kyle chimed in. “It was his idea and he was in charge of the team.”
“Very impressive,” Bernie said. “Promise me you’ll come by the club sometime when it’s less hectic and tell me all about it.”
“I’ll be glad to, Bernie. I didn’t realize you started opening for happy hour. I’ll stop by soon.”
“Wonderful.” Bernie turned to Michael. “Now if only I could think of something nice to say about this guy.” Bernie stroked his chin and looked at all of us. “Did you guys know that Michael has been in two bands since Tsunami Rush, but he’s never called his old friend Bernie to book a gig at the Dali Lama?”
Michael replied, “C’mon Bernie, you know I was never a band manager. I just make the music, I don’t make the deals.”
“Are you working now?”
“I’m just starting a new band,” he said. “I’ll be glad to have the manager send you a demo when we’re ready to perform.”
“I’m glad you stayed in the business, Michael. You have a lot of talent. How could San Diego do without its angel of the sea?”
“Angel of the sea?” asked Kyle.
“That’s what Marinangeli means in Italian,” replied Derek.
We were all enjoying Bernie’s company when GI Jo-Jo walked in the door. I hadn’t yet cleared the Saturday afternoon practice session.
“Bernie, Doberman’s sound guy just got here. Can I introduce you?”
“Sure, I’ll ask Jasmine to bring him over to the table,” he said.
“How about if we take a walk over and meet him at the bar? I’ll stop by your office before we leave and explain,” I said.
While we made our way through the cocktail tables Bernie gave me the go ahead for the Saturday practice session. As we approached, GI Jo-Jo was taking his first sip of a full glass of beer. He spotted us when we were about ten feet away.
“Hi Jo-Jo, this is Bernie Liebowitz, the club owner. Bernie, Jo-Jo Martin, the sound man for Doberman’s Stub.” They shook hands, but Jo-Jo made no effort to shake mine.
“Nice to meet you, young man,” Bernie said “My condolences on Terry’s passing. He used to play here with Caliber 9 a few years ago.”
“Thanks, man,” GI Jo-Jo said. “Can we check out access and electrical?”
Over the next ten minutes Bernie took us through the back-stage tour and how he wanted the cabling to run from the stage to the soundboard. Then, Bernie excused himself and I walked with Jo-Jo to the bar, which was now almost full. We ordered beers, and took them to a table away from the crowd.
“Let’s get this over with so I can get the fuck out of here,” GI Jo-Jo said.
“Fine,” I replied. “Let’s start with the day Terry died. I was told you carried his stuff in from the Ferrari while he chewed out Ian for moving the partitions. Is that correct?”
“I do almost all of the carrying, so what.”
“So that means you were the last person to be alone with his headphones before they exploded.”
“I didn’t do anything to the headphones. In fact, I didn’t even see the headphones. They were probably in one of the bags.”
“I understand you were an ordnance technician in Iraq. Did the police ask you about your qualifications to build the device that killed Terry?”
“Why don’t you ask them?”
“I’m asking you,” I said.
“A twelve year old could have built it,” he said. “Maybe that’s why the cops didn’t bother to ask.”
“What are you going to tell them when they ask about the allegation that you fragged your boss in Iraq?”
“Who the fuck told you about that?” GI Jo-Jo was stunned.
“If I know about it, you can bet the cops know, too.”
“Then why aren’t they coming after me?”
“Terry wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality. You’re just one of several suspects. But eventually they’ll get around to you. Why don’t you tell me what happened so I can stop thinking it was you?”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
“I thought we went over this on the phone. Do you need to hear it again?”
GI Jo-Jo said, “I was an ordnance tech in Iraq. My unit cleared land mines and unexploded ordnance. My C.O. was a prick and a chicken-shit. When there was dangerous duty he had no problem putting a new guy on it, even if he got blown up. But he would never go near anything dangerous himself. One day he assigned a very tricky procedure to a fresh recruit. The kid said the job was done, then went to the latrine to throw up. A bunch of us techs were standing about 40 yards away from the ordnance when this dickless captain came up to me and asked if the job was done. I told him the kid said it was. He told me to go check it out. I asked him if he left his balls in the states. We went at it a few more minutes, then he decided to show everybody he was a man. Instead, he showed everybody what an incompetent jerk he was. I never touched the ordnance. Once the brass got their facts straight I was cleared.”
“Then why did you get run out of the Middle East?”
“Because dead captains have friends with pull. I made the mistake of going on record about what a shithead this guy was and his buddies decided to teach me a lesson,” he said.
“That’s it for now, Jo-Jo. If I need anything else I’ll ask Nigel to get in touch.”
“I’ll hold my breath,” he said, then stood up and left the club.
I walked back to Bernie’s office, knocked twice, and entered. “Any luck with the homemade karaoke set-up?” I asked.
“Check this out,” Bernie said as he stood up and walked from his desk to a worktable on the far wall. “Are you definitely going to perform the songs in the order that you gave to me?”
“Yeah. I told Nigel what we were doing and he said the order they appear on the CD works fine.”
Bernie handed me a small remote control. “Just have your assistant hit On to get the first screen of the first song on the monitor. Then he just has to hit Page Down when you’re ready for the next screen. I saw you looking at the monitor when I was giving Jo-Jo the tour. What do you think?”
“I think you saved my butt again, Bernie,” I said. “Hey, I’ve got a couple of old friends coming on Saturday that you’ll be glad to see.”
“Who’s that?”
“Calvin Dawson and Justin Emerson.”
“If I ever decide to retire, Justin will be the first person I’ll call.”
“I know he thinks of you as a role model. How long has it been?”
“Too long,” he said. “I did see Calvin a few months ago. He was in town for a show and stopped by the club afterwards. I could talk to him non-stop for a week. He knows more inside information about this business than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I’ll bet we get a few old regulars out to see their favorite band, too,” I said.
“I was thinking about that yesterday. Most rock & roll fans connect with bands they enjoyed during a significant time in their lives. I’m betting you’ll bring out some people who haven’t been to a club all year. But they’ll see the ad in the paper and say, ‘hey honey, guess who’s back at the old Dali Lama?’ It’s going to be a fun night,” Bernie said.
After briefly explaining my behavior around Jo-Jo, I said, “Bernie, I gotta go. You have my cell phone number. Call me if you need anything,” and departed.
When I re-entered the club I saw Kelly sitting at a table by herself. I walked up behind her, disguised my voice and said, “Hey blondie, ya lookin’ for a good time?”
Without a glance she replied, “Hey sailor, I thought you’d never ask.” She then stood up and gave me a hug. “Do you really think it’s necessary to get out of town tonight?”
“Better to be safe than sorry,” I said. Then threw in, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”
“We’ve been going to too many ballgames. You’re starting to talk in cliché-speak,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“Let me introduce you to the band.”
I led her to the Tsunami table where intros were given and it was decided to hit the road right away. Jeannine had arrived by cab while I was meeting with Bernie, and was seated with the boys. We managed to maintain a two-vehicle caravan across Interstate 8. At her request, Jeannine rode with the band in Derek’s SUV. We reached the last exit for El Cajon by 7:15 PM and decided to look for a place to eat and watch California Confidential.
At 7:25 PM we bribed a bartender at T.G.I. Friday’s to change the channel and got a drink order in before the show opened:
“Tonight on California Confidential … Could California be in for another recall election? … Is one of California’s top pro baseball players ready to come out of the closet … And our top story – Was Doberman’s Stub front-man, Terry Tucker, killed by a Southern California branch of the Russian Mafia? You’ll find out after these messages.”
We managed to get our food orders in during the first two stories. I wasn’t sure I would want to eat after the report.
“The music industry and rock fans of Doberman’s Stub were devastated three weeks ago when singer/guitarist Terry Tucker was brutally murdered during a recording session. While the police remain baffled, California Confidential has come to learn that the band’s record company, Cerise Records, is owned by a man who has strong ties to the Russian Mafia. Here we see photos of the owner, John Koflanovich. But California Confidential has learned that John Koflanovich is really Ivan Chofsky of the Ukraine. You can change your name, Mr. Koflanovich, but you can’t hide from California Confidential.
“Less than two weeks ago the agency of San Diego detective Jason Duffy, began taking a close look at Cerise’s operations. Since then Duffy’s office has been invaded by armed thugs on two occasions. The last time, Duffy’s administrative assistant, Jeannine Joshlin, was bound and gagged while the Russians stole company computers and photos related to the case. A few days later, former National Geographic photographer Cory Pafford, who captured these photos, was assaulted and hospitalized by men Pafford recognized as employees of Cerise Records. He has identified those men as Vladimir Torhan and Boris Melsin. Torhan was a former Ukrainian amateur boxing champion.
“It is believed that Cerise Records is funded by the owners of California sweatshop, Yuliya, Inc., that has made its money on the backs of immigrants of questionable green card status, for many years. It is run by Peter Chofsky, and has been in California since the early 1900’s. They shifted their way of doing business when the Soviet Union broke up and the Mafia gained a stronghold.
“But what about California? Are we going to sit back while this world renowned, ruthless bunch of cutthroats infests our beloved state? Not if California Confidential has anything to say about it. We salute Jason Duffy and his efforts to do what Interpol has not been able to achieve. Keep up the good work, Jason. California Confidential has got your back.”
“Oh my God,” Kelly said slowly.
“What’s the big deal?” asked Kyle. “This will probably be a huge boon to your business. We should be celebrating.”
“It’s a little hard to cash those big checks from the cemetery,” said Michael. “Take it from a full-blooded Italian, the Mafia hates publicity. Nobody wants to be the point-man in a Mafia probe even if the FBI has your back,”
I said, “My big problem is that I’m not sure Cerise Records is affiliated with the Mafia. When Chofsky’s daughter was kidnapped there was no evidence that he had any ties with them. I think it’s just as possible that Chofsky is running from the Mafia as it is that he cut a deal with them to save his daughter.”
“Then why would they use all those strong-arm tactics with you and Cory?” Jeannine asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s what they think they need to do to survive. If he’s running from the Russian Mafia there will be no mistaking where he’s hiding after tonight’s broadcast,” I said.
Derek said, “I can’t believe that anybody in his right mind would actually watch that crap. I saw a teaser for it last week and they were interviewing people who said they were abducted by aliens on Mission Bay. I don’t know how they stay on the air.”
“Our new security guard once saved a child from being abducted by aliens. But I don’t think it was on Mission Bay,” Jeannine said.
“Sounds more like Ocean Beach to me,” said Kyle.
We finished our meal in relative silence. Traffic had thinned considerably, so the trip to Alpine was mercifully quick. We arrived at the country home of Derek’s Aunt Esther at about 9:00 PM. Esther has always been very cool about supporting the band. She is also a bit on the old fashioned side, so I was curious about how she would establish the rules for the girls’ sleepover. True to her image as a cool septuagenarian, Esther announced she was spending the night with her friend and would be back at 7:00 AM to cook breakfast. She also bought us a case of beer.
After a couple of beers we were ready to rock. Over the next half-hour we were absolutely terrible. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Russians and how I had put everybody I cared about in jeopardy. Derek was trying to flirt with Jeannine, and Michael was pissed that we were about to destroy his reputation. As we argued, Kelly walked out of the four-car attached garage where we practiced and into the house. Five minutes later she returned to an even louder argument wearing a skimpy pair of baby-doll pajamas. Everyone went silent.
“Jason,” she said in a sweet voice, “will you sing a song for me like you did last night?”
I immediately snapped out of my argumentative funk. Before I could decide how to respond, Michael launched into a sexy old Bush tune called Glycerine. I locked eyes with Kelly and gave a performance that came straight from the heart. It was amazing how the evening turned around. All of the emotions that were keeping us from being functional got channeled into an exciting, passionate interpretation of our favorite cover songs. If we could come anywhere near this vibe on Saturday night we would be just fine and we all knew it.
We called it a night at 1:00 AM. Kelly and I took Aunt Esther’s bed. I soon found that while I was getting a tremendous energy release playing with the band, Kelly was getting turned on to the extreme. There would be no insomnia bringing me back to the Russian dilemma tonight. By the time she finished with me I was as spent as a sailor’s paycheck on a wartime liberty.