Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

“For the Venice oil wells?” said Lizzie.

“I remember Maggie telling me once that she hated them. Right, Mag?”

“What are you after, Howard?” said Maggie, slipping her shoe back on, wobbling from dance and drink and sitting down beside Joe. “You’re always after something.”

“Look, we have to leave, but I want to talk about it some time. Eddie sold me the land for the airfield. I should have bought more at the time.”

“Since when are you in the oil business, Howard?” said Cal.

Cal was the only member of the family that Hughes had not met before. “I have always been in the oil business, son,” he said, too abruptly. “And so was my daddy.”

“Eddie Mull couldn’t have sold you more land,” said Cal, undeterred. “He didn’t own the land between the airfield and the oil wells. It is undeveloped county marshland.”

“What about my stables?” muttered Maggie. “You leave my stables alone, Howard. I’m trying to get Lizzie to go back with me. She won’t go near horses anymore.”

“Never was my thing,” said Lizzie.

“Remember Billy?” said Maggie.

Lizzie shot a glance at her sister, who was tighter than she thought.

“That land’s too good for stables,” said Hughes.

“No, it’s not,” said Cal, loud enough to be sure Howard heard him. “It’s good for horses and a hundred other species. The oil wells are an abomination. They’re coming down.”

“So I’m right,” said Hughes, standing, “you want to sell.”

“Don’t be too sure, Howard,” said Maggie.

Terry returned, leading a waiter with a tray of plates.

“We are discussing the disposition of your oil fields,” Howard said to Terry, “for I take it that they are yours, too, now, my friend and associate, as part of the common property.” He turned to Nelly. “Though perhaps I should be talking to this fine lady as well.”

“It’s the girls’ business—the girls and Cal.” She smiled at Marco. “Just leave me enough for my friends.” Marco stood as the musicians returned, announcing an Irving Berlin medley.

“Irving Berlin is my speed,” said Joe, looking at Gabriela.

“No,” said Hughes, standing, “we are leaving.”

Angie returned, and Hughes took her by the hand. “We didn’t have time to talk today, but I thought it was a fine wedding. My first time at the temple, Angie. I make movies, you know. Would you allow me to call you sometime?”

“I would love to see you again, Howard,” she said.

Annoyed, Cal watched them together, noticing the facial scars in common, which they both refused to have removed.

“Howard, you stop doing business at my wedding,” said Maggie, standing and hugging him. Terry stood as well. “But thank you for coming.” She kissed Gabriela.

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said, shaking Terry’s hand. “Terry is a fortunate man. Since Maggie accuses me of doing business, let me say that I am dead serious about that land. And I will give you a guarantee: sell to me and the wells come out and the stables stay. You won’t find another buyer to make that promise.”

Chapter 29

Chili was the name Callender heard.

He heard it in the Folsom game room, heard it during a chess game, heard it in the same sentence that he heard the name Murphy, and that’s what struck him, that the two names were used together, Chili and Murphy, two things that didn’t go together, like frijoles and Irish stew. After he thought about it a while and thought about whom Pitts had been playing chess with, he decided he might have something. That’s when he called Sammy Milstein who called Cal Mull at Pacific Electric.

The game room at Folsom is arranged in rows. The most popular games are dominoes and checkers, followed by chess and backgammon, and finally the Chinese game, Go. The prison provides lockers so the games can be put away at night if not finished. The game tables and card tables occupy half the long, rectangular room, with ping-pong tables at the opposite end. Inmates can check out games or bring their own, and most evenings all the tables are filled.

Bob Jones was Pitts’s chess partner that day, and they were playing two tables down from Callender and his partner. Most of the chess players knew each other, or at least knew of each other, which is to say knew why they found themselves at Folsom. The beauty of chess is that it doesn’t matter what you do, or did, away from the table. To have a murderer and a corrupt prosecutor playing is no stranger than to find a bank embezzler squaring off with a penny-ante grifter. Pitts and Callender would never choose to play each other, but could not avoid occasionally finding themselves at the tables at the same time. Chess players don’t talk much, but the evening in question Pitts was muttering in a low voice and Jones was listening and Callender caught those two names, Murphy and Chili, and knew they weren’t talking about food. Callender knew about Jones, an ex-LAPD cop hired by the L.A. city council and sent to jail for taking money from people he was supposed to be investigating. Callender kept up with the news and wondered why Pitts would be talking to a crooked ex-L.A. cop about Pat Murphy.

Pitts had the perfect alibi for the murder: he was in Folsom. But if he didn’t have opportunity, he had motive, and no one else did. Murphy had worked the Hall of Justice forever, but was more of a police crony than an investigative reporter. The only person Murphy ever really went after was Pitts, most likely because after all those years he’d had a bellyful. Or maybe his daughter the nun pushed him. The archdiocese had never agreed with Pitts’s high threshold of tolerance for corruption. It had the makings of the perfect crime. Pitts could not be accused unless a tie between him and the killer could be shown. Lizzie understood from the beginning that her job was to find the link, the means by which Pitts could execute the crime, which is