Case #7: Past Grievances
Date: May 2, 2002
Location: Logjam, CA


I always knew my past would catch up with me someday. Only thing, it turned out to be my other past.

Five years I worked for the Mob. First in Jersey, fronting a numbers racket, then I hightailed it to Miami when things got a little dicey. Sort of like the movie, Some Like It Hot, but without the dress. Then, just to save my hide, my Uncle Joey turned up the heat on me all along the Eastern Seaboard, and the next thing I knew, I was on the midnight bus to Los Angeles.

Things changed when I got to the West Coast. First my name. Then my career. I buried Johnny Cassini and gave birth to Johnny Casino. It wasn't as painful as it sounds. My new line of work: Private Detective. I used my last official criminal act to buy that new identity from a guy I knew who faked passports for actors and artists fleeing communist countries back in the Eighties.

Years of scraping like an alley cat earned me a fairly good reputation as a P.I. around town. It also got me better clients and a much better office right off the freeway in Encino.

I was close enough to middle class homes in the Valley and all those unhappy housewives who wanted to see if their no-good husbands were cheating on them with the secretary. It was also a discreet drive from pricier digs in Bel Air, Beverly Hills, and Malibu, for those well-heeled, soon-to-be ex-wives who wanted me to get incriminating info on their errant husband's next possible trophy wife. The new office was just a question of logistics. Or as they say in the real estate business: Location. Location. Location.

After fifteen years of sticking my nose in where it didn't belong, a grateful client left me big bucks in her will and I retired. That didn't last long. The money did. It was a lot of money. But the retirement ended when somebody made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Oh sure, technically, I could have refused. I enjoyed my retirement. Sitting on my butt watching old movies was becoming my hobby. But looking through other people's garbage had been my life, and I missed it. I jumped back into the business with both feet.

I had just wrapped up a case in Los Angeles and was heading back to my cabin in Logjam, a small mountain burg two and a half hours away. It was May 2nd. It must have rained overnight because everything smelled fresh and green, not like in Jersey where anything growing and green was called mold.

My stomach started growling halfway up the mountain, and the only thing I had in the glove compartment was a roll of nickels and a flashlight. I decided to stop off at my favorite restaurant on the outskirts of town for something more substantial.

Rusty's Diner was nearly empty, just a quartet of truck drivers clustered near the bar. Knotty pine paneling, checkered tablecloths, and Rudolph's head mounted on the wall were the sole nods to atmosphere at the diner. Rusty's never had a band on Thursday nights, just the jukebox regurgitating great old '60s songs.

I grabbed my usual table and looked for Bonnie. I hadn't been gone that long, but I missed the way her red hair shined and those hazel eyes sparkled. We had been sort of an item around town since I moved up here three years ago. I could always count on her to go with me to the only theater in the area when they were showing an old movie. And she helped me clean the fish I caught in the lake, if I caught any. Good Ol' Bonnie. I liked to watch her sashay across the wood floor with plates of food for the diners without dropping anything.

I got a whiff of home cooking. Thursday's special was meatloaf. But my mouth watered for a big plate of Irish Spaghetti: meat sauce over mashed potatoes. I could almost taste it. Bonnie's Irish eyes talked me into the mashed potato part a few years ago. She was pretty enough to talk me into lots of things, but my Italian upbringing and independent streak insisted on the spaghetti sauce. I licked my lips while I listened to Mel Carter belt out "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me."

I wondered why Bonnie hadn't come rushing out to greet me when I walked in. I knew she worked Thursdays. She usually had a cold glass of beer on the table thirty seconds after I sat down. If I didn't have anything better to do, I'd have most of my meals at Rusty's. I hate to cook.

While checking out the room to see if anything had changed while I was away, movement caught my eye. I saw it before I saw her coming toward me. It was sparkling on her finger. One solitary stone, but it carried a lot of weight.
"Hi, Johnny. I… I got myself engaged," Bonnie said kind of fast, looking at the ring and not me, letting the diamond do the explaining.

"Congratulations, Sweetheart… Bonnie. Who… who's the lucky guy?"

"Charlie Shaw."

"Shaw's Auto Repair?"

"Yeah. He's been fixin' that ol' junker of mine for so long, he decided he better marry me before I bought a new one."

"Good ol' Charlie. Great mechanic… and a great guy."

I stopped looking at her. It felt like I was taking advantage if I stared too long. For three years I was hooked on that hair and the way she could gut a fish. What did I miss?

"I know it was kind of sudden, Johnny, but I've known Charlie longer than I've known you. He's been a good friend and… and I wanted to settle down."

"Gee, Bonnie. I didn't know you wanted to get married."

"You never asked me, Johnny." She stopped chewing her gum and it looked like she was waiting for me to say something.

"Uh… things kept coming up. You know me, I never--"

My cell phone rang.

"Irish spaghetti?" she asked, pulling the pencil from behind her ear.

I nodded while reaching in my pocket for my phone. By the time I looked up, Bonnie had gone back to the kitchen.

"Hello?"

Whoever it was hung up. That had been happening a lot lately.



Two days later, I found myself at Charlie's Auto Repair. The hard way.


.....Continued.



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