Shangri la-la

Ian Mac Allister drove down Ojai Avenue in his black and white Crown Victoria. It was a spartan beast with one hundred and fifty something thousand miles on it. A former colleague of his liked to tell him (on a far too regular basis), ‘That car’s been to more crime scenes than you’.  Now, the Crown Vic was retired; just like Ian. And he hated it.

Ian drove, right hand on the wheel, left arm resting out the open window, finger tips within reach of the driver’s side spotlight; twenty-two miles an hour in the late summer sun as he waited for his iPod to play the next song. Ray LaMontagne’s ‘Ojai’ started and Ian quickly skipped ahead. He wanted to change his mood from how he had been feeling lately, and that song would have pulled him back into his melancholic state.

Three Dog Night’s opening bass riff of Shambala agreed with him and Ian even found himself howling with band, which surprised him because he hated the sound of his own voice. He would not sing in church (if he went to church) nor would he sing ‘Happy Birthday’, regardless of who’s birthday it was or how drunk he was; he’d just lip synch.

He came up on a 1974 VW Thing hand painted with Edvard Munch’s: ‘The Scream’ on the hood with the rest of the car a wavy mix of surreal red and orange sunset spilling over it.

On the bumper was a plethora of bumper stickers; ‘Save the Whales’, ‘COEXIST’, where each letter is represented by a religious symbol, ‘Ojai Pixies’, and the most prominent, ‘Enjoy the Ojai Valley, Slowly’.

Ian closed the gap and grinned. He laid on his horn and flashed his headlights.

Two hands went up from the steering wheel of the convertible in a quick New York style jerk, as if to say What-do-you-want!?.

Ian tilted his head out the window.

“Pull over!”

A hairy ham fist popped out the side and gave him the bird.

Ian laughed and followed the car as it turned off of Ojai Avenue and pulled to the curb.

A large barrel-chested man wearing blue cover-alls, whipped out of the car and came back to Ian’s Crown Vic.

“What the hell’s up, cop-out?”

Ian extended his left hand from his driver’s seat and gave the man a fist bump.

“What’s up, Dennis?”

Dennis was his mechanic; Dennis was everyones mechanic.

“Just giving the Scream Machine a shake-down. Rainbow was hearing noises”

“Ah,” Ian nodded his head. “Hey, I owe you money” he suddenly remembered.

“For what?” the man looked puzzled as he messaged his scruffy beard with his rough and grease stained hand.

“The radio” Ian pointed to his dash.

“Aw, don’t worry about it”

“I’m not” implicating he was still going to pay him.

“Just fix my parking tickets” Dennis smiled and began to walk back to his car.

“I can’t do that, anymore!” 

“You can’t pull people over either, but here we are” Dennis grinned, got back in and pulled away.

‘Rainbow’ Ian thought. Who came up with that?

Rainbow was really Burt. Burt Rambo. A very manly name for the most effeminate man Ian ever knew. Seriously, who wears a pink polo shirt with an argyle ascot? But it wasn’t his wardrobe that bothered Ian, it was the way he over-pronounced his S’s, and the vague homosexual innuendos he was prone to. In fact, someone actually commented to Burt about the innuendoes, and he replied “In-you-end? Oh!”

Gross.

Ian shook it off and drove to his destination, changing songs on his iPod.

The Ojai Valley was a beautiful little town filled with fruits and nuts. Yes; both kinds.

The resort town hosted many events during the year; the golf classic, the tennis tournament, Art in the Park, the film festival, the occasional movie production. And the one event Ian was most involved in; murder.

Grand Avenue was a nice alternative to Ojai Avenue. It was a residential tree lined street where the oak trees actually come out to great you; and stop your car abruptly if you don’t pay attention.

One such tree often surprised Ian, but not today. He was fully on his game and he slowed his car as he approached the giant oak standing at the side of the road. 

The tree was actually on the wrong side of the sidewalk, further out in the road than the cars that parked behind it were, and this was the sole factor that saved Ian from a quick and hazardous lane adjustment.  

This particular tree had been hit several times but was in no danger of coming down. Firstly, it was huge. Secondly, it would take and act of His High Holiness, the Dalai Lama, to fell an oak tree in this town. Ian passed the tree and shot it with his finger as he clicked his tongue.  

On the other side of the intersection was his destination; the former mayor’s house. He was a jovial old man well into his eighties. Bald. Overweight. Prone to an over indulgence of scotch-on-the-rocks.

His home was a lovely three story Victorian house with gingerbread filigree. Always freshly painted with a well manicured lawn. It was a peaceful and serene home in a peaceful and serene neighborhood; except for today.

The paramedics’ ambulance was parked on the lawn because the responding police units had taken up all usable parking. Red lights flashed from the tops of the emergency vehicles, neighbors, curious onlookers, and dog walkers who got caught up in the spectacle stood across the street and whispered in hushed tones to themselves and each other.

Ian had inside information as to what had happened; but even if he hadn’t, he could tell from the scene that there had been a murder committed.

The ambulance was still on the lawn with the paramedics lounging next to their stretcher, waiting for the ‘word’. There were several units on scene indicating a more complicated investigation than say, a res. burg. Officers were out front interviewing possible witnesses but the most telling clue of all to Ian was his former boss, Police Chief Jason Dixon standing on the porch. The chief only came out to major crimes; and then, only those that redeemed political capital. 

Ian parked his car across the street and stood leaning against the fender waiting for an invitation from a certain detective. 

A moment later he saw his contact. A man wearing a Men’s Warehouse suit, popped his head out of the wood framed screen door, said something to the patrol officer who stood there, and after seeing Ian, waved him over.

Chief Dixon rolled his gaze to where his detective waved and saw Ian. Instantly, the chief drew his phone out of its holster and put it to his ear in an obvious act of phubbing; giving the device his full attention as he stared out across the yard in complete, yet fabricated concentration.

Ian leapt up the steps toward the screen door that was being held open for him.

“Hey, chief” he casually chirped, not looking in his direction, nor waiting for a reply.

“What’s up, Ben?” Ian greeted his old friend.

Ben Collins was the lead homicide detective on the department; late thirties, with a live-in girlfriend and a cat. He had big ambitions for his career and made detective after seven years on the force.

He and Ian became close when Ian had him as a trainee; and the two grew closer after they were involved in a hostage situation that resulted in lethal force.

No officer, no good officer, wants to be involved in a shoot; even if it is righteous; it’ll affect you for the rest of your career. Life.

“Somebody whacked Whipleton”

Ben waved his hand to the body of Mayor Edgar Whipleton lying face down in the parlor. The back of his head had a massive laceration, the irregular tear-like wound was caused by some blunt trauma.

Ian knew not to approach the body and he remained just inches further from it than Ben.

“Suspects?”

“Not yet”

Ian looked over his shoulder to the front porch and failed to notice Chief Dixon. He held up his digital camera and widened his eyes to Ben.

The unasked question was unanswered as Ben stepped aside and kept an eye on the porch.

Ian worked quickly. Several photos of the body, the wound, the table with the decanter of scotch, the broken glass on the floor in front of the mayor, the blood spatter angles of impact, the surrounding room, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. And lastly, video of the scene without commentary.

Ian slipped the camera back in his pocket and removed his phone.

“Hey, Ben. Let me get a selfie of us” he said as he put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and held up his phone.

“Hey! No photos!” Chief Dixon shouted from the porch as he entered the house. “This is an active crime scene, Ian. Professional courtesy has just ended. You need to leave” he admonished.

Ian lowered his phone in feigned disappointment. 

Ben shook his head as Ian strolled passed Dixon.

Twenty minutes later, Ben found Ian at his usual seat in Sam and Ella’s Kosher Deli. Ian always chose the seat across from the register when it was available, as he liked to chat with Sam whenever he wasn’t helping ‘real’ customers.

“Did you get an ass-chewing from seven-eleven?” That was Ian’s nickname for the chief. He gave lots of people nicknames. A quirk that was appreciated by those who got it; but annoying to everyone who didn’t.

Ian wouldn’t explain what the nicknames meant, or their source. He just left it out there, and if you were worthy enough, you’d get it. To date, no one got the reference.

“Nah. He’s an ass. Can I get a Reuben, Sam?”

Sam Horowitz smiled at Ben for a greeting, then wrote his order down and proceeded to make his sandwich.

Sam was in his early nineties and still came to work every day. His daughter, Elsa, had pleaded with him to retire. He told her ‘I’d still be here all day, anyway. I might as well earn money for being here.’

He would have retired had his wife, Ella, not passed away. His daughter, his deli, and the people he served were what kept him going.

“Here you go, Ben” Sam slid the plate with his sandwich, a kosher dill spear, and ruffled potato chips in front of him.

Ben took a bite as Ian finished his pastrami sandwich.

“Who’d wanna whack Whip?” Ian blurted the alliteration.

Ben shook his head with a mouthful of sandwich.

“When you don’t know ‘who’, go to ‘how’” he finally spoke.

The two ate their lunch, occasionally offering up open-ended scenarios that led nowhere. It was a pointless engagement, if the point was to identify a killer. It was always good to have lunch with a friend though; and that’s what Ian decided to take away from the meeting.

After Ben finished his lunch (Ian was already done), paid Sam, left a large tip in the jar on the counter, turned to Ian with a slow and hardening look and said,

“And ‘why’…”

Neither one of them had even entertained ‘why’. There was no ‘why’.  Whipleton had no enemies. He had no money to speak of. If ever there was political capital to be made, it would have been while he was in office.

Ian thumbed through the roll-o-dex in his head for murder motives.

Greed. Revenge. Jealousy. Political. Mental Illness. Survival.

None of these struck a chord with him. But the fact remained, there was a ‘why’.

“Beer later?”

Ben nodded just before turning to leave.

Ian sat there for a long while staring at the other side of the empty table. The deli was busy as per usual. Egg salad and Ruebens were dispatched to regulars and tourists, as Sam stared at Ian between orders.

“You got a tough one on your hands, huh?” Sam said as he slid into the seat across from him during a slow period.

“Yeah. Edgar Whipleton was found dead this morning”

“That’s too bad. He was a good man. Mayor too”

Ian nodded to himself as he leaned on the table with his forearms supporting him.

“It’ll come” Sam assured him as he grasped the younger man’s arm with his aged hand. “It’s a small town. The truth will come out”

Ian smiled at the older man’s confidence in eventual justice. But he knew; if anyone knew about delayed justice, it was Sam Horowitz.

Ian looked up and saw an even older man in a power wheelchair attempting to come in the deli.

“Whatever he wants, it’s on me” he told Sam as he got up to leave.

The old man beat back the glass door with his cane as he hammered his power wheelchair through the threshold, swearing at it as he entered. Ian walked over in an apparent show of chivalry, but the old man won the race and made it in before Ian could help.

“Why the fuck can’t anybody help an old man!” he hollered loud enough for the young couple with their small son to hear and be offended.

“Because you’re a dick” Ian told him to his face as he walked by on his way out.

“Fuck you, cop!” the man’s voice was harsh and bitter and his jowls flapped as he barked. The glass door closed behind Ian as he left but quickly popped open again as Ian ducked his head in.

“A dick with wheels!” he sang, then quickly disappeared.

Hamilton Snodgrass wore a brown leather flat cap on his scruffy grey curls. It was tattered neglected and beat, much like the man who wore it. A gold Von Dutch pin impaled the front of his cap.  

He dressed in the stereotypical farmer denim from shirt to trousers with a belt and suspenders. On his face were a thick pair of eyeglasses that left an indelible imprint on the bridge of his nose from their weighty girth.

He drew his rosewood cane with its brass duck-headed handle and pushed a chair unnecessarily out of his way as he approached the counter.

“Good afternoon, Ham…” Sam started before he was cut off by the gaping maw of the other man.

“Gimme a Reuben…” he interjected as he stared at the menu board above Sam’s head. “No cheese, or any goddamned sauerkraut!”  

“Would you like anything to drink, Hamilton?” Sam, the perpetual diplomat asked.

“Nah, nah” he shook his head as he clumsily pawed for his wallet. “Water!” he quickly added.

Sam took the order and waited for the man to hand him his credit card.

“You’re covered” Sam said as he waved off the card.

Hamilton Snodgrass retracted the card and stared at Sam puzzled.

“Huh?”

“It’s paid for” he smiled, calm and warm.

Instead of asking ‘by whom?’, or ‘why?’, and without saying ‘thank you’, he simply turned his power wheelchair and launched himself toward the wheelchair access table near the opposite door of the deli.

Now, many questions may have deluged someone else’s psyche, such as ‘why the power wheelchair and the cane?’, or ‘why a belt with suspenders?’, or even ‘why order a reuben without Swiss cheese and sauerkraut?’, why not just a corned beef sandwich? But Sam knew enough to simply accept people for who they are. Asking too many questions could lead you to dark places you may not be prepared for. Then again, some people are just assholes.

The table where Hamilton sat he considered his own. And in a perverse sort of way, it was.  

Hamilton Snodgrass had sued Sam Horowitz over the lack of ADA compliance in his deli. The table where he now sat was just one of the many things Sam had to change to remain open.

The court awarded Mr. Snodgrass an undisclosed financial award in the settlement as well.

Sam held no grudge, as this was how Hamilton Snodgrass made his living. He had sued no less than a dozen businesses in the Ojai Valley for ‘non-compliance’, and had developed quite a reputation for himself.

Sam brought him his sandwich and glass of water, and Mr. Snodgrass ate it; by himself and alone.