Big Jake Takes a Dive

By Johnny Gunn

“There’s no alcohol, no drugs, and other than the obvious injuries from the fall, this woman was not attacked nor has she had any sexual encounter recently. This looks like an accident all the way, Sol.” The medical examiner was standing in front of the body of twenty-three year old Sammie Rivera, the wife of professional wrestler Big Jake Owens.

“I’m willing to dispute that, Doc, but on my grounds, not yours.”  Simon Sol Dorsey, one of the city’s best known private detectives towered over the ME and would have made two or more of the once lovely Sammie.  “Big Jake Owens hired me to find out if this little nymph was screwing around on him, which she was, and now, after I inform Big Jake and get paid, she turns up dead. From what?”

“She fell over the edge of their swimming pool, thirty-five feet onto rocks at the surf line. Their pool is one of those that is filled right to the rim on one side, and that side sits at the top of the cliff, above the ocean. Water often spills over the edge of the pool, Sol, and apparently, she simply went over the edge.”

“Unbelievable,” Dorsey said, staring at the naked body. “And not an angry mark on her?” He said his good-byes, grabbed the report, and headed out the door, muttering to himself about three-hundred pound wrestlers marrying eighty-five pound models. Some have found it disconcerting to be around the big man because of his continual talking to himself, but he has found it “satisfactory” and will tell anyone who will listen that it improves the mind to hold discussions with oneself regularly.

It was a half-hour drive up the coast and Sol Dorsey had the top down on his prized 1956 Cadillac, the new five-oh-two humming its song of power. “This isn’t the kind of day to be working on a murder, this is the kind of day I should be at Maglio’s eating crab enchiladas and sucking down a couple of pitchers of his private stock ale. Big Jake killed that girl, I know that, but how did he do it? She looked as fragile as a china cup, beat to hell on the rocks, but not with fists or feet.”

Dorsey tops out well over two hundred pounds, keeps himself in shape with those heavy pitchers of beer, is fearsome to most criminal types, a big teddy bear to the hookers on Franklyn Street. His large frame topped with a massive head that features flashing emerald eyes and fifties brush cut, the PI seems to swagger even when seated in his car. He should have been working in the 1930’s, not in the early 21st Century. Interestingly, he loves his computer and uses it to the max for background, but most of the time can’t make his cell phone work. “I hate phones,” is a mantra many hear often.

“Dorsey, what the hell you doing here? I already paid you. Get the hell off my place,” and Big Jake took a step toward Dorsey, who did not back up.

“Easy, Big Jake. I just came to give you some information. You take one more step toward me and I will shoot your fat ass.” He had his big forty five automatic in hand. Jake stopped dead in his tracks, but was giving Dorsey his famous scowl of death, used often on the wrestling TV show he helped make famous.

“That’s better. The ME just told me he is sure that Sammie died from an accident. I thought you’d want to know. You got an attitude, Jake. I don’t like that. You want to screw with me, I’ll shoot you dead.” He didn’t put the iron away and slowly backed down off the porch and walked to the Caddy, keeping a close eye on the huge wrestler. He smiled and waved, driving out onto the highway.

Cussing up a storm, saying as many rude things as he could about Big Jake, Sol Dorsey drove straight back to his apartment on Pacific Avenue.  “Who does that creep think he is?” he said very much out loud, opening the door. “Wish I hadn’t told him about Sammie, now. She made more money wearing some pretty nice outfits for the camera than Big Jake did with his famous swan dive on top of other wrestlers.” He stopped immediately, opened his lap top, opened up the ME’s file, found the investigator’s file on Sammie’s so-called accident and had a satisfied look on his craggy face.

“There it is,” he said, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “There it is, right in front of the cop’s nose, and the ME calls it an accident.” Dorsey fumbled with his cell phone for several minutes before getting it to actually work.

“Yeah, get me Captain of Detectives Ulysses Elmo, please.” He looked like the cat that ate the rat, waiting for Serious Elmo, one of his best friends to come on the line. “Yeah, Serious my friend. If you promise to buy me a beer and some crab enchiladas, I’ll tell you who killed little Sammie Rivera. Oh, no, chum, it definitely was not an accident. OK, ten minutes, Maglio’s. Don’t be late or I’ll give it to the press first,” and he laughed hard putting the phone away.

It was a wonderful drive down Pacific Avenue to Maglio’s and the meeting. “Never will understand, my friend, how it is a Sicilian, two generations in this country, can make better enchiladas than any Mexican alive and brew better ale than any Englishman.”

“Good genes, Sol. Eat hearty, my friend,” and he put a pitcher of ale and a platter or enchiladas on the table just as Serious Elmo came in the door. “Gonna be a good day,” he said, getting another tumbler for the captain of detectives.

All right, Dorsey, no crap. Whatcha got?”

Dorsey opened a file folder he brought with him. “First, here’s a photo of lovely Sammie on the rocks. What’s that thing hung up on a rock about five feet from her head? Hmmm, looks like a pool mattress to me.” He chuckled, took a long draught of cold ale, messed with an enchilada for just enough time to get Elmo fired up.

“Come on, come on. Knock it off. So it’s a pool toy.”

“Yeah, it sure is. And, in this picture, we have Big Jake leaping from the top rope at a wrestling match, about to belly flop on an opponent.”  Dorsey paused, long enough for it all to sink in.

“You’re saying Sammie was laid out on that mattress, near the edge of the pool, and Big Jake did a belly flop into the pool?” There was dead silence, something that even caught Maglio by surprise.

“Over three hundred pounds into that pool and that little cutie went right over the edge. It’s Big Jake’s trademark in the wrestling racket. And, yes, mein kapitan, you are welcome.”

end

Dead Man Talking

By Johnny Gunn

“Both shots right through the heart, close range, and no one heard a thing, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Malloy said as Detective Lt. Tom Cassidy arrived at the crime scene. “Probably a small caliber revolver, maybe even silenced. Neighbors said they didn’t hear anything. Pepper Graves, no longer a wanted man.” Smiling, he watched the forensics boys tuck Graves into a body bag.

Cassidy was looking around the doorway to Graves’s apartment on the third floor of the filthy flophouse apartment building. “This is a garbage pit,” he sneered. “Let’s get it dusted and see if there’s anything that might lead us to the shooter. These guys are killing each other faster than we can,” he snickered, pulling a cigar from his suit pocket. “Fourth family member this month.”

“Outside doorknob has been wiped clean, Lt., and there’s no prints on the buzzer either. Solid professional hit, I’m sure. Was Pepper associated with one of the gangs?”

“Kingsbury Avenue Fuckups, I think,” one of the officers said from inside the apartment.  The lieutenant and the sergeant chuckled.

“This isn’t your typical local gangbanger killing. This reeks of family, and Pepper Graves came here from Chicago three years ago. Was he sent here? Or was he escaping to here?

“Malloy, fan your people out and cover this bloody neighborhood. Find somebody that saw or heard something.”

Cassidy left for his office getting a radio call on the way to meet with officers at the bus station. It was a short drive through one of the nastier sections of town.

“Found a silenced .32 revolver, Lieutenant, along with a pair of gloves that indicate they recently held a weapon when it was fired. Gun was wrapped in this red wool scarf.” The officer held up an evidence bag. “Two rounds fired,” he said.

“Dust every inch of that weapon, the silencer, the rounds, and the empty casings. Pepper Graves was shot this morning with a weapon that fits that description.”

The detective walked over to the ticket clerk, a yawning young man who didn’t seem to give a damn that somebody wanted to talk to him.

“Either talk to me now, puke, or change from possible witness to person of interest. Did you see someone walk into the men’s room wearing sunglasses and red scarf, and walk out without them?”

“I see hundreds of bums every day. Why would I care if they wear sunglasses.” He turned away from Cassidy.

The detective reached across the counter, grabbed him by the back of his jacket, whirled him around, and planted a big fist square in the nose. Blood splashed down the man’s front.

“Now, tweaker, answers,” is all he said, drawing back his fist for a second shot. Cassidy’s radio saved the man’s nose from further damage. He handed the clerk over to an officer with orders to get answers, and hightailed it back to the precinct.

“Graves was working for King Talbot, the Chicago arm of Carrington’s family, setting up distributors for Ecstasy, heroin, meth, coke, the whole shebang. Coming in from Mexico, Florida, even Texas. Keeping too much for himself, I think,” Malloy said with a grin. “Chicago sent a ‘truth’ squad to find the rest of the money, from what I could decipher from Graves’s notes. No names, though, damn it.”

“I think we have the weapon, Malloy.” Cassidy sat down at his desk. “Anything else?”

“One of the residents at the complex saw a man arrive in a cab just before Graves’s body was found. We’re looking for the driver now. The old lady apparently sees everything that takes place within a block of that nasty place and said the driver waited about three minutes for the man.

“We got a fairly complete description and Jackson is bringing her down for a look through our photo albums.”

“Good, Malloy, good. Was he wearing a red scarf?”

“Yeah,” Malloy answered. “How’d you know that?”

“Keep me posted,” is all Cassidy said with a smile and picked up the phone, nodding goodbye to the sergeant.

---

“You’re sure this is the man you saw get out of that cab?” Malloy asked for the third time.

The old lady had picked out a known hit man, Izzy Schafter, and was adamant about the identity.

“Only one problem with this, Ma’am. Izzy was shot to death last year in Brooklyn.”

He had a driver take her home.

“Damn it, Lieutenant, the cab driver also picked out Izzy Schafter as the hit man. I put out a BOLO on anyone matching that description.” Malloy was more angry than confused. He walked back to his desk.

“Show Schafter’s mug shot to that tweaker at the bus station,” Cassidy said, picking up his phone and dialing out. “Captain Frakes,” he said and waited for the Brooklyn precinct boss.

“Terry, this is Cassidy, way up north. Yeah, that Tom Cassidy.” He laughed, as Frakes pretended not to know him. “Listen, we have three eyewitnesses telling us that Izzy Schafter may be involved in a gang-related shooting. We also have a report that Schafter was killed in your jurisdiction. Which is it, old friend?” He snickered at his long-time friend.

“For crying out loud, Cassidy, that report was rescinded last year. You boys in the ‘burbs need to keep up on things. Schafter is alive and well, still working for Carrington. Hard to miss that ugly mug, so your witnesses are probably right. Nice talking to you, too,” he said, chuckling to himself as he hung up.

“Malloy,” Cassidy yelled across the squad room. “Change that BOLO to ‘Wanted for Murder.’ Schafter is still alive and I want him taken down now. Where did that cabby take him?”

“To the bus station, Lieutenant!” Malloy hollered back. “The clerk said he didn’t buy a ticket, so he may still be around somewhere. The Chicago people usually hang out around the Santa Rosa Hotel. I’ll have a unit check it out.”

“My ass, Sergeant, you and I will check it out. Let’s go. You,” and he pointed at an officer, “ride with Malloy. You,” he pointed at another. “You ride with me.”

---

As the two patrol units pulled up in front of the Santa Rosa Hotel, two men leaving the building turned and ran back inside.

“Let’s get on it,” Cassidy yelled, jumping from the car, service weapon in hand, racing for the front doors of the hotel. “Malloy, get around back,” he yelled, all but breaking through the main doors and into a scene of almost chaos. Men with questionable reps trying to get out and away, and nowhere to hide.

The registration desk was one end of the bar known as the Santa Rosa Cocktail Lounge. Rumor had it that half the rooms in the hotel were set aside for Chicago visitors, and the other half for the working girls of the neighborhood.

 Cassidy recognized many of those trying to flee as wanted, and everyone was in a panic to get the hell out of the hotel. “Call for backup!” he yelled at the officer with him, and fired one shot straight up.

“Freeze!” he howled, “and you might live through this.”

He held the semi-automatic weapon, with fourteen rounds left in the magazine, aimed it back and forth, in and around, so that every man knew he might die if someone made a move to break out.

“Down,” he said, “face down on the floor, spread ‘em, and don’t even flinch. Down, now.”

The men slowly lowered themselves to the barroom floor, and spread their arms and legs. Cassidy’s backup moved through the group, relieving them of hardware.

The officer piled about seven weapons, mostly semi-autos, onto the bar and stood back behind Cassidy when a figure darted from behind the bar, revolver blazing.

The officer went down with a round through his forehead, and Cassidy put four quick rounds through Izzy Schafter’s body.

Hearing the multiple rounds fired, Malloy and his backup came through the back doors, weapons in hand.

“All clear, Malloy,” is all Cassidy said. “Call for the coroner, and we’ll need the New Year’s Eve paddy wagon to haul all these jaspers in.”