Green Taxi From Oakland (Part 4 - End)

*************************

I was silent. In fact, I could not speak if I wanted to. How could this simple London park ranger know Chuck, or even of Chuck.

“Did you hear me, Mr. Stollard?”

I nodded and found my voice. “I do know Chuck. He’s a friend of mine in California.”

“Oakland, California, am I right?”

I nodded again. “How do you know about him?”

“I have taken the liberty, Eric, thus far, to keep Scotland Yard out of this. A different Bobby, of course, was assigned to Colin’s murder, so no one has made the connection to our incident of a little more than a month ago. Yet.”

That was the second time he’d invoked that threatening three letter word.

“So, you obviously know something I don’t. Spill it or take your empty threats and get out.”

“On the day he was murdered. Colin received in the mail a letter from your friend Mr. Anderson. I took the liberty of opening it in lieu of what had occurred.”

I was baffled.

“You’re gonna have to fill in some blanks. For starters, like what did the letter say?”

“Au contraire, my sneaky Yankee fuck. You first. You weren’t honest with us last month. What is the damn cab story?”

He was no longer disguising his anger and I realized the stakes had gone up, way up. This was becoming a maze, I felt like the rat, and I couldn’t even smell the cheese let alone see it.

I realized he held most if not all the cards. He knew the contents of Chuck’s letter, I didn’t. It was time to come clean. Hell, I hadn’t killed anybody.

I told him about the practical joke Chuck had played with the cab. I guessed aloud that Colin was Chuck’s inside man and the letter probably had a check for payment of services rendered. But I couldn’t figure out where the bloke getting shot to death made any sense.

“His murder could have nothing at all to do with the cab, you know.”
He got up and went and refilled his pewter stein with more Watneys. From the bar, he pointed to my pint glass, which was still half full. I shook my head.

He returned and reclaimed his seat. Long pull on his second beer, placed the stein carefully on one of my cork coasters with marble bottoms and said ”Correct on the check. Lucrative little prank for Colin, not so for Mr. Anderson, I’d say. $1000 American. And that was the second payment. Apparently he sent Colin the same amount back in December to get the ball rolling, as it were.”

“Nigel, didn’t you think it had to be an inside job? I mean, there was no other explanation, logical or illogical, for that fucking cab.”

“I thought about it, but Colin was not the strongest tea bag in the tea caddy. I would have thought something this, ah, labyrinthine, would be beyond the bloke’s capabilities. Live and learn, I guess.”

“It explains that smug fucking look he had on his face the whole time he was in here last month. He knew. Pulling off the prank wasn’t enough. He enjoyed watching me sweat-out the Bobby.”

“He was harmless, mate. A simpleton. Probably why your friend chose him.”

“Whatever. Now what?”

“Well, the police will need to know all of this if they are to get to the bottom of the crime.”

“If?”

“Yes, ‘if’. On the other hand, should you and I decide to link up and have a go at it, maybe we can make some headway in an unofficial capacity.”

Both options scared the shit out of me. Murder was clearly out of my jurisdiction on every level. And I still didn’t trust Nigel, though I was starting to like him a little bit.

I needed to talk with Chuck.

I told Nigel I would see what Chuck could add to the scenario and call him. He gave me his business card.

“Call my mobile, Eric. And don’t dilly dally, chap. What we are doing, by sidestepping Scotland Yard, is a crime. One taken seriously by the Gendarmes.”

“Let’s agree that if Chuck cannot shed any light on this that we turn it over to the police.”

He stuck his hand out and we shook. “Ring me as soon as possible, Eric.”
He put his empty stein down, shrugged back into his coat and let himself out quietly.

Five minutes later my phone rang.

“What the fuck is Scotland Yard calling me about a murder?”

“Hello to you too, Chuck.”

“Eric, I just got off the phone with a real live Shamus and I need some fucking answers.”

“Well, I was under the understanding that Scotland Yard does not know about you…yet.”

“Well, you’re wrong. I guess this Colin clown got smoked, and this flatfoot who called me was very curious about the deposit of a check written on an Oakland bank in Colin’s account about a month ago.”

“A thousand bucks, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“I think you might want to stop payment on the second thousand. Colin won’t be depositing that one.”

“No shit. Have you been talking to the police?”

“They dug up enough to make me tell them about the cab prank. But that was a month ago. Haven’t heard from them since. Then today, Colin’s supervisor shows up here with news of his murder, and the knowledge that on the same day Colin was killed, your second payment had arrived in the mail. This Nigel now knows the whole story. Scotland Yard does not know about Colin’s connection with you or the prank. Oh, and this stupid dipshit bought the cab from a police auction about two weeks ago. He was shot, execution-style, while sitting in the driver’s seat.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. That is what I was told today by Nigel. He wants to see if we can avoid the cops and get to the bottom of Colin’s murder.”

“This ain’t an episode of Columbo, Eric, This is serious shit. Real life. I would not fuck with Scotland Yard.”

“So, you know nothing about this Colin getting whacked?”

“I didn’t say that.”

That sounded ominous. “Are you kidding me? You knew this was going to happen?”

“I didn’t know for sure. I’d been warned that the waste-wad had ruffled some feathers while procuring the cab and getting it painted.”

“Warned by whom?”

“My buddy over there. The guy who put me in touch with Colin. He kind of orchestrated the whole thing. With his end, this whole damn thing cost me a lot more than two grand, I might add. Anyway, he said Colin tried, unsuccessfully, to screw the guy he bought the cab from, and then did screw the guy who painted it. Apparently these guys had friends in low places, if you get my drift.”

“Well, I still don’t see how any of this spills over onto our shores. We are free and clear, right?”

“I would think so, other than you lying to Scotland Yard, Mr. Jackson.”

“Yeah, well they have bigger fish and chips to fry than that, it would seem.”

“Sorry buddy. I wanted to get you back after that gun thing in my office, but not like this. Are you still gonna pursue it unofficially with this Nigel chap?”

“I don’t know. He seems to want to try, but he also has threatened to tell all to the police regarding the prank, though I don’t see where there was any crime committed.”

“Do you trust this guy?”

“I don’t really know him. He seems legit.”

“Be careful, buddy. You’re in a foreign country. Fucking around with the power structure could be a very bad career move.”

“Duly noted.”

“Good luck.”

And that is just what Nigel and I got.

*********************

I spent the afternoon mulling over what to tell, or not tell, Nigel. Then, over morning coffee, I decided on full disclosure. Trying to keep track of lies would be too tricky, and like I said, I was beginning to like the guy.

When I told him the whole story, he went silent for a long moment.

“I’ve been going through Colin’s desk here at the office. Serendipitously, I’ve found an unpaid bill from an auto body shop near the west end. Three hundred quid. That might explain why the paint guy could be a suspect.”

“Yes, it does. Chuck did not know where Colin bought the cab. Could be a private citizen or a used car park. We have no way of knowing. Where did the cab end up?”

“Cops have it back. They will probably double dip on it and sell it again. For now it’s evidence in a capital case.”

“And if I remember correctly, they had no electronic record of it ever even existing.”

“Indeed they did not. Wouldn’t matter. We couldn’t ask them about it without raising suspicion.”

“So, should we check out the auto body shop?”

“I see no place else to start.”

He gave me the address off the bill and we agreed to meet in front of the shop at 10am the following morning. I told him to make sure to bring the bill.

During a steady drizzle the next morning, I took the W9 bus to the underground station in Southgate and caught a train on the Piccadilly Line south to Holborn station, exited and walked west to Tottenham Court Road. Nigel was waiting for me in front of Aberdeen’s Paint and Body Shop.

We were awkward for a second, then shook hands and sat at a bus stop to talk strategy.

“I can’t read the signature on the bill, so I don’t have a name. We should probably just ask for the manager.” Nigel had the bill folded into his gloved right hand.

“But what’s our angle?” I felt we were truly in over our heads.

“I think we tell him the truth. See how he reacts. If he is the kind of guy with either the access to have someone killed, or the ability to do it himself, he might show something.”

“Executing a guy is kind of a harsh reaction to getting screwed out of 300 quid though, if you ask me.”

“I think we’re going to find that it’s the car guy who had it done. Colin almost certainly would have gone to some shady character rather than a legitimate car dealer. Black market dealers are capable of anything, especially the Ukraines.”

“Ukraines? When did they come into the picture?”

“I did a little internet research last night. The Ukraines are serious players in the stealing and then selling of cars here in the west end. Most of south London, actually. In fact, just over in Kensington is the Ukrainian Institute of London, not that car thieves are pursuing a higher education.” He grinned at me.

“Okay. You’re probably right, but since we’re here, let’s talk to the paint guy and see how pissed off he is. If he no longer seems upset about it, that might be because he, ah, already exacted his payment, making Colin pay the ultimate price.” Nigel did not grin at that. It was an insensitive remark.

The manager was in his office, clad in a pair of blue overalls over a sweat-stained grey t-shirt and a black baseball cap that said simply, ‘Man You’. We were ushered in by an underling in the same garb, even the same hat. The manager had a thick eastern European accent. Nigel glanced at me and then handed the man the unpaid bill.

He read it and gave a stern look to Nigel, who explained that he was trying to find out if the bill had ever been paid.

“No, has not,” he said curtly. He had not introduced himself nor offered his name. He was gruff and distracted. A patch on his overalls near where the right shoulder strap buttoned to the front bib read BOSS on block letters.

“Do you remember the guy who ordered this work to be done?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Not a real talkative fellow.

Nigel then volunteered the news of Colin’s demise. The man simply stared back at him, emotionless.

“Do you know anything about that?” It was the first time I’d spoken. Nigel had suggested my Yankee accent would probably not help things, so I had agreed to lay low. Until now.

The man remained impervious. He shook his head slowly and then, oddly, grinned. “He was bad man. I not sorry.”

He thrust the bill back at Nigel and barked at him, “You pay?”

Nigel got up. He did not suffer fools gladly, apparently. “Not a chance. You can eat it.”

I followed him out.

Nigel walked me back to Holborn station. He’d taken the bus.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked finally. He hadn’t said anything since telling the asshole to ‘eat it’.”

“I think that prick could have had Colin killed. His accent sounded Ukrainish, if you will. Colin was just brave enough and just stupid enough to think he could get away with a short-sighted stunt like this. These guys, like I told you, don’t play around.”

I remained silent.

“How do we find where he got the cab?”

“Well,” and he looked around as if to re-orient himself. “I found no such talisman from that transaction as with the unpaid paint bill when I rummaged through his desk. He probably paid cash for it, especially if it was stolen. Car thieves don’t usually operate with receipts and such.”
He looked deep in thought. He turned back to me and said, “You go catch your train. I’m going to knock around a bit more down here, see if I can kick some vermin loose.”

I nodded and we shook hands again and I went down the escalator to the platform.

**********************

While walking Waldo the next day at Grovelands, Nigel tooled up to me in his Cushman. It was a clear day, but cold. He had his jacket on and a black knit ski cap pulled down over his ears. Our breath plumed in the air between us as we talked.

“I had a rather interesting afternoon down in the west end yesterday,” he began. “First of all, the guy at the body shop that we spoke with is the son of the actual owner. The owner is, allegedly, a Ukrainian mobster and the shop is a front for the sale of coke and heroin.”

“Don’t you think now, Nigel, that it’s time we brought the cops back into it? I mean drugs, murder, mysterious and probably violent eastern European crime syndicates. We are out of our league.”

“It does appear so. I’d like a day to think on it.”

“Fine. It’s been your baby really, anyway. I was not going to be in contact with the police. In their minds I have no connection to Colin’s murder.”

I told him Waldo and I would be there the same time the next day.

He never showed up.

*******************

When my buzzer bleated the next evening, just after sunset, I punched the button that unlocked the door and walked to the stairwell and opened the door and waited. It sounded like two sets of feet shuffling up the three flights. As they came around the final bend, the two Bobbies fell silent.

I rolled my eyes and held the door for the two men and they passed me and then waited in the hall as I lead them into my flat.

Two cops, this time.

They verified my name, age and address, and my home in California. The shorter one took notes while the tall, angular one did all the talking. Both men looked around the flat, cataloguing what they saw in the way all good cops do.

“Did you know Nigel Collingwood, Mr. Stollard?”

I did not like the past tense of the question.

“I did and do know Nigel, yes.”

“I’m afraid the past tense will have to do, sir. Mr. Collingwood was found apparently murdered at his desk in his office this morning at Grovelands Park.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Indeed. When did you last see Mr. Collingwood?”

“Yesterday, at the park while I was walking my dog.”

“And the nature of the visit”?

“To walk my dog. I do it almost every day.”

“Not to the park, sir. What was the nature of your gathering with the deceased?”

I could feel things closing in around me. Nigel had told the sinister body shop guy to ‘eat it’, and now he was dead.

I decided to be coy for as long as possible. I was wary about telling them everything.

“We discussed a possible potential mutual project we would be working on.”

The change in tone of the next question from the tall, thin cop with the two day growth on his angular chin was sudden and chilling.

“’Possible potential mutual project’? Overwrought prose aside, Mr. Stollard, what does that even mean?” His sarcasm was clearly meant to be a warning.

I realized suddenly the futility in trying to be coy. It may be too late, but it was time to come clean.

“We were looking into the murder of his friend and colleague, Colin.”

“Looking into it? In what way, sir?”

“I don’t know. Unofficially investigating.”

The short cop snorted and continued writing in his notebook.

“And what training, exactly, would qualify you to do that?”

“Neither of us had any formal training. I was helping Nigel because I was starting to like him, and he was trying to find out who killed his friend.”

“Where, exactly, does the green cab fit into this?”

“So, you know the connection between Colin and the cab and now Nigel and me with the cab.” It wasn’t a question, exactly.

“We know some of it. We’re hoping for you to fill in the blanks.”

“I have a friend in California with whom I have been exchanging practical jokes and pranks for years. He solicited Colin to plant this cab in the park, painted in the colors of my hometown baseball team, and affixed with two logos of the Oakland A’s. In all honesty, it was a pretty good and effective prank.”

The tall cop had wandered over to the bar and sat on one of the two stools. He held up his hand to stop me.

“Colin received recompense for his efforts?”

“Yes. Nigel found the second check mailed from my friend in California that arrived on the day Colin was killed. It was for $1000, which would have made it a total of $2000, American.”

“And…?”

“And what?”

“What is the connection, if any, to these two murders?” His exasperated tone was now on full display.

“I can only speculate.”

“Please, enlighten us with your insight into the matter, if you will.”

Another snort came from the short cop who’d moved to where he was standing about three feet behind me. Those were the only two sounds he’d made.

“My friend told me…”

“Wait. The name of your friend, please.”

“Charles Anderson, Oakland, California.”

I heard the scratch of pencil on note paper behind me.

“’s o n’, Mr. Stoddard?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Chuck told me he’d heard through a friend over here in London that helped him with the cab prank, that Colin had tried to screw over either the person or place where he bought the cab, and the body shop where he had it painted green. Apparently, he was unsuccessful with the car guy, but the body shop never got paid, to the tune of 300 quid.”

I told him the name of the body shop and that we’d gone there to talk with the manager. He looked disapprovingly at me when I said I did not know the name of the guy we talked with. I described him.

I took him through the brief conversation Nigel had with the guy and then my question, and then the guy’s cryptic response and grin. I heard a heavy sigh from behind me as the note taker was working overtime to keep up. Serves the little snot right.

“So, let me get this straight then, Eric. These two rather benign park employees both met and spoke with this body shop owner, and now both are found murdered?”

I nodded. “All except that the guy was not the owner. He was the son of the owner and just ran the place. Nigel said he’d found out the shop is just a front for moving drugs; heroin and coke. Nigel also said he’d researched on the internet and found out that Ukrainians ran a stolen car ring down near the west end. The guy in the body shop had a thick eastern European accent. I don’t know if it was a Ukraine accent. We were unable to figure out where Colin had bought the car, so we were basically at a dead end.”

”So to speak,” the Bobby said.

I then recounted the final exchange between Nigel and the shop manager. I heard an understated ‘hmmm’ escape the Bobby’s throat as he rose from the bar stool and walked over to me.

“Mr. Stollard, we will need you to remain available for the time being. There is even the possibility that charges may be pressed, for interfering with a police investigation.”

“I just gave you more information than you had when you walked in here. A lot more. I’m not sure that could be labeled ‘interference’.” I
loaded that last word with as much sarcasm as I could.

He pretended not to notice. “We’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Stollard now, won’t we?”

I was growing weary of the British goal to win every conversation, to have the final say, to leave with the ultimate stinging verbal caveat. It was tiresome and one had to remain constantly on-guard or simply be steamrollered.

I let the two Bobbies leave and heard the short one speak for the first time as they started down the stairs.

“That stupid sod has his head up his arse.”

I slammed my door.

*****************

Walking Waldo from that day forward became a very sobering endeavor. Grovelands Park now represented sadness and violence and a sinister evilness. The good mojo and upbeat vibe and wonderful kinesis between man, animal and nature, was gone.

I went almost six months before contacting Chuck again. I somehow blamed him for most if not all of it. Two men died. To the best of my knowledge, Scotland Yard was unable to solve either crime.

I had subsequently found out that Nigel had a wife and three little girls, all under the age of nine. I met her at his funeral, but she had never heard of me or about me.

Nigel and Colin had lived on the Hill. Both men rented, as park employees would never be paid to a level where they could own on Winchmore Hill. There had been a brief flare-up of editorials in the local newspapers and there had been serious speculation as to whether or not there was a serial killer at work. As with most stories of this nature, however, the flame died.

There was a new bloke riding around the grounds in a Cushman, wearing the bright yellow jacket with his name and title emblazoned on the front in the same flowing black script that had been on Nigel’s jacket.
I’d heard from a guy at the pub downstairs about Broomfield and Oakwood parks, which were nearby and very dog friendly, though not quite within walking distance like Grovelands was, to my flat.

It was painful to watch Waldo try to acclimate himself to an entirely new environment. He would look around longingly, missing his comforting scents and whatever visuals dogs retained.

Not at all unlike this Yank when he first got to London.

THE END