Chapter 6: It’s The Real Thing


Monday, Sept. 28, 2009
824 Lighthouse Ave., 2nd floor
Harm’s office
1000 (local)

The phones are in, the furniture (rental) has been delivered and I’m just putting away my office supplies when the phone rings.

Gotta be Mac. Or some salesperson. Who else knows this number? (That better change real fast. But the printer won’t even have my cards ready ‘til later this morning.)

“Rabb,” I answer.

“Captain Rabb. Oh, I’m so glad I found you!” The voice is a little breathless but not overtly crazy. Sounds like a guy in his mid-30’s. “Are you busy with a case right now? There’s something going on over here I think you need to look into.”

Great. A potential case and they can’t even think to identify who and where they are. I briefly wonder if Sam Spade had to put up with that often.

“No, I’m not busy on a case right now, in fact, I’ve just opened my office. Just got the phone minutes ago. How’d you get the number? And, while you’re explaining that, could you tell me who you are and where this ‘something’s’ going on?”

Now I realize it’s not generally accepted business practice to be rude to your client before you even know their name, but puleeze. This guy needs a verbal slap to bring him back to reality.

“Oh, got it from directory assistance. I’m Sgt. Lee, I met you at Fort Ord. I’m the one detailed with Army oversight of the EPA cleanup of the old firing range.”

Oh yeah, the EPA cleanup. Not just the range, a whole lot of the old Fort. But hey, who knew back in the ‘40’s that all that stuff was toxic? Just gotta clean it up now.

“And you think something’s going on?” Come on, come on, get to the good part.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Or here. Can I meet you somewhere?”

“Where and when?”

“Pacific Grove Museum, in the bird room, 1300 today. OK?”

“I’ll be there.”
Is this fate or fate having a good laugh? In the bird room??? Any falcons and I’m walking, no, running away.


Pacific Grove Museum of Natural History
1300 (local)

Guessing from the cases filled with taxidermied birds, I’m betting this is the bird room. My dream of the Maltese Eagle comes to mind. Frighteningly so. If this guy looks anything like anybody I know, I’m outta here.

He’s in uniform so it’s pretty easy to recognize him. And I do recognize him from talking to folks at Fort Ord both about housing and legal work. He seemed normal then.

Wonder what happened?

“Captain,” he clasps my hand.

“Retired,” I remind him.

“Oh you know, sir, what General MacArthur said about that.”

Yes I do, but I’m not fading away. I’m having an active second life, thank you very much.

“So,” we sit on a bench conveniently placed to view a case of hawks in full predatory pose. “What seems to be the trouble, Sgt.?”

“I think there are some foreigners trying to start a cocaine ring out at the base. Maybe the Reservation, DLI and the School, too.”

Whoa. That would be seriously bad. Compromise a big chunk of the higher command of all four branches, not to mention all the intel they could get from the DLI folks.

“What makes you think this, Sgt.?”

“Call me Mike, Captain.”

“Only if you’ll call me Harm.”

He nods his assent.

He tells me his story. These two guys, who look middle-eastern, have ‘funny accents’ and wear those hat-like things, started showing up a few weeks ago.
“By ‘hat-like’, do you mean a yarmelke?” No to that. “A turban?” Strike two. “A knit hat bigger than a yarmelke but close to the head, not a flowing cloth-like thing held in place with a rope-like headband?”

“That’s it! See, I knew you were the one to call on this case.” He’s jazzed.

I’m not sure we’re not just dealing with a little foreign-phobia gone haywire.

“What makes you think they’re dealing drugs?”

“Well, they get real quiet when they know I’m around, but I’ve heard them talking to the Super -- that’d be the EPA guy in charge -- about coke and best prices and how much money he could make.”

Hhmmm. Does sound suspicious.

“Hey, I’ve got pictures of them. Would that help?”

Would a 14-year old boy wanna get laid?

He hands me three printouts from a digital. “They don’t know I took these.”

That’s good. ‘Cause if they are big coke dealers you’d be dead.

They’re actually good pictures. Full face, full body with enough visual reference to get height, and a profile.

“These will help a lot, Mike. I’ll quietly inquire to see if they’ve been visiting the Res, the School and the DLI. Nose around a bit, see what I can find.”

Damn. I’m starting to talk like Sam Spade. I’m a lawyer; I ‘investigate’, I don’t ‘nose around’.

Well, maybe in this case I do.

“Umhhmm, Harm. About your fee....” Mike’s clearly not prepared to pay it.

“Mike, if I don’t find anything, don’t worry about it. If I find something, I’ll settle up with the brass. A Sergeant shouldn’t have to pay to uncover something like this.”

His relief is evident.

”You got the original of these pics somewhere safe?”

“Yeah, they’re in my lock box.”
Given the number of lock boxes I’ve successfully entered, I’m not thinking that’s the safest place.

“Mike, take them to a bank. Get them in a safe deposit box, get two keys and mail one to your mom (she’s still alive, right?) and one to me here at the office (he gets to be the recipient of my very first business card).”

His eyes are wide.

“Can you do that today, Mike?”

He swallows and bobs his head.

“Do it. Give me a way to reach you and I’ll let you know what I find.”

He gives me his e-mail addy and cell phone number. “These aren’t secure, Mike, so whatever we say to each other has to be in code or somehow unintelligible to whoever else might be listening.”

“So you believe me?”

“I believe you have enough reasonable suspicion to investigate.” There, I said ‘investigate’.

We part and I amble back to my office. What was once a department store is now shared art gallery space on the first floor and shared office space on the second. I have use of a receptionist (who looks nothing like Harriet) if I want a live voice to answer my phone. There’s a communal kitchen (if you’re brave enough to use it). Enough people around to give the impression of a bustling enterprise.

It’s a sublet, it’s perfect and I got it from a tip from a DLI guy who likes the way I play the blues. Who says my La Jolla delta isn’t good for something?

I spend the rest of the day coming up with a plan of attack: who to call at which places and how to ‘nose around’ without sounding like I’m ‘nosing around’.

OK. I guess I’m gonna just have to put up with that terminology. At least for the duration of this case. Which seems much more like Sam Spade detective work than Harm Rabb lawyer work. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers.


Rabb-MacKenzie temporary quarters
1720 (local)

We walk toward each other from opposite directions. Me, the parking lot. Her, the campus.

“Honey, we’re home.” We chorus to each other.
Once inside I’m fairly leaping about, telling her about my meeting with Sgt. Mike Lee.

“Harm, you do know that your eight-year old is showing right now, don’t you?”

That sobers me up, a bit. “But Mac, this could be a very important case. Think of the implications if terrorists get a bunch of Fort Ord, DLI, Naval Reservation, Naval Postgraduate School folks hooked on coke. Not to mention the FBI, CIA, DEA and INS guys.”

“And that’s precisely why you should be turning this over to the DEA.”

She’s right and I know it. But, damnit, it’s my first case and I want to work it.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll just look around (no using ‘nose around’ with her!) a bit then turn everything over to the DEA. But what if the local DEA is already compromised?”

“If you’re afraid of that, if you have any indication of that, call DC. But get help. You are not Sam Spade, no matter what you dreamt the other night.”

She just *had* to remember that, didn’t she?


Harm’s office
Friday, Oct. 2, 2009
1745 (local)

Funny how when you work for yourself you find a lot more motivation to get in early and stay late.

So far I’ve found out that the guys in question have been seen at all the military installations. And several night clubs. Plus a few golf courses. Seem to be always talking business to the supervisor or manager. A few more reported comments of overhearing “coke and profit”.

I report back to Mac all I’ve learned so far.

“But Harm, we know diamonds are the preferred currency on the terrorist hotline.”

“Not to bring up a subject I’d rather forget, but it was coke for diamonds for stingers, wasn’t it? And believe me Mac, given the age of the targets we’re talking about, coke is a much easier sell than diamonds. Besides, who gets addicted to diamonds?”

I hear her think of quite a few people, probably starting with Liz Taylor and my mother.

“Anyway, I got a great lead. They’re playing golf tomorrow and we can get the tee-time right after theirs.”

“Golf? We? Harm, have you forgotten I don’t know how to play golf?”
“It’ll be fine. Just wear a cute short skirt and a tight, low-cut top. No one will question a thing. I’ll play, you’ll drive the cart.”

“And just where will I be driving this cart?”

Damn. I knew she’d get around to asking that.

“On the golf course.”

“Which one, Harm?” I can hear the Marine creeping into her voice.

“Pebble Beach.” Maybe she won’t know how much greens fees are at Pebble Beach.

Uh oh. I hear the telltale click of computer keys.

“You’re proposing that we spend close to $1000 to follow these guys playing golf. When I can’t even play? Who in their right mind is gonna believe you’d pay $450 for me to drive your golf cart?”

“Any man with eyes in his head and breath in his lungs, Mac. Rich people do that kind of stuff all the time.”

“Might I remind you we are not in the category of ‘rich people’?” She’s starting to steam. I’m thinking it’s a good thing this conversation is taking place over the phone.

“Not yet. But Mac, if I crack this case I’m sure to get a big settlement from the government.”

“Even if I go along with this harebrained scheme, which I think is just a sneaky way to play the golf course you’ve been drooling over ever since we moved here, how would we know what they were saying? I speak Russian, Arabic, Farsi and passable Hebrew. I do not read lips.”

“Sgt. Lee’s got that all covered. Knows the guy who manages the golf carts at Pebble. Their’s will be bugged. We can listen and tape their whole conversation.”

“Whenever they’re in the cart, Harm. Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you have to actually get out of the cart to play golf?”

Full blown Mac sarcasm. Never a good sign.

“Yes, you do. But Mike’s assured me that this bug has a range of twenty feet. That ought to do us.”

“Do you have any idea how much you’re gonna owe me for this one?”
I knew she’d come around. “No, but I promise I’ll keep paying it off ‘til you tell me we’re even again.”


The Lodge at Pebble Beach
Saturday, Oct. 3, 2009
1030 (local)

The cart guy gives me a leer as he loads my single bag on the cart and Mac gets behind the wheel. Gotta admit, she went all out with the ‘arm candy plaything’ look today. If it wasn’t The Links (screw the case), we’d never’ve gotten out of the house. If she knew that I’d be dead.

The cart guy, guessing or hoping that Mac’d never driven one before, leans over oh so closely to show her the controls. And peep down her shirt. I harumph.

Hey, I may have never made Admiral but I’ve got that harumphing thing down cold.

He backs off. “Well, you two have a good round.” He waves us off as Mac jackrabbits down the cart lane.

“Mac, slow down. Really, slow down. This is not the Indy 500. They can’t get ahead of us and all you’re doing is attracting attention.”

She gives me a look that says our chances of making love tonight are slim to none...and slim just walked out the door.

We approach the first hole and see ‘Abu and Dabee’ (I haven’t been able to find out their real names and had to start calling them something), are still on the fairway.

I give Mac a short course in golf etiquette while she turns on the electronics and adjusts the speaker she has in her ear. We’ve got tape running but I can’t hear what’s being said. Not that I’d understand it anyway. We both figured they’d be speaking in their native tongue.


A couple of holes later
1130 (local)

“Well, Harm, I’ve gotta admit this is a really nice golf course.”

Yeah, and the Sistine Chapel ceiling is a nice painting.

I’m having so much fun playing this course that I’m really finding it impossible to pay attention to Abu and Dabee. Hell, Mac’s listening and we’re getting it all on tape. She has a digital camera and video recorder with her as back up. Screw the case for the next few hours, let Mac handle it (she always was great at covering my six). This course is too good to not to get my complete, utter and rapt attention.

I get back in the cart after a particularly nice second shot when Mac says. “I think a Bird Colonel is involved.”

My eyebrows go up. That’s high up indeed.

“Mostly they’re talking in Farsi but the last few holes one or the other has mentioned ‘birdie’ or ‘bird’. Might be their big connection.”

Might be that I needed to teach Mac a little more about golf terminology.

“How have they been hitting, Mac?” I’ve been so engrossed in my own game, I’m ashamed to admit I have no idea how they’re doing.

“Well, the ball stays in the fairway. They usually get what you called ‘par’.”

They’re playing ‘par’ on The Links!?! I think I’m gonna find a reason to get them busted just on general principles.


A couple of holes later
1230 (local)

“Harm,” she’s intruding on my consideration of my second shot, but since she’s doing all the work here, maybe I should be a bit more attentive.

I give her my most attentive look, given that 95% of my brain is on golf right now.

“I think they’re talking about having someone murdered.”

Whoa. That got my attention away from my second shot.

“Most the time they’re talking in Farsi. But just now they used ‘whack’; how this Mohammed could really ‘whack’.”

Another false alarm. “Are you sure they didn’t say he was ‘whacked’?” Maybe the boys had been out the night before.

“No, I’m certain they said ‘whack’.” When she’s certain, she’s certain.

“And the rest of the context....?”

“They we’re talking about how good a golfer he was. But that he could really ‘whack’, too.”
She sees she’s made another golf terminology mistake. “Like you could’ve given me a list of terms!”

How chould I know so many had double meanings?


A few holes later
1330 (local)

“Doesn’t ‘snow’ refer to cocaine?” she asks.

She has to ask this as I contemplate a 25 foot putt? “Yes.”

“Abu said ‘just like snow coming down’.” She’s certain she’s got the goods on them now.

“Mac, they’re at the tee. Had he just tossed a few blades of grass in the air?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“He was testing the wind direction and strength. It had nothing to do with cocaine.” I return to examining the putting green.

“Are you sure?”

“You remember that talk we had about golf etiquette. The one that included not talking to the golfer while he or she was lining up a shot?”

I know I shouldn’t talk to her that way. But jeez, I’m only 4 over par and this is an important putt.


A few holes later
1400 (local)

“Someone named Mulligan might be involved in this,” she says earnestly, holding the ear piece closer.

“Trust me, Mac. No one named Mulligan is involved in this.”

Abu and Dabee are taking their second shots. Dabee’s hooks bad, into the trees. They split, Abu taking a walk while Dabee hunts for his ball. Shortly we see it exit the trees, then land not 50 yards ahead of where his second shot hit.

“Wow, he really knows how to cuss in American,” Mac comments. I don’t bother to tell her that all golfers do.

After his next shot he’s at least on the green. But a long 30-plus footer away from the hole. And downhill.

Mac’s pulled out her binoculars. “Hey, I’m just bird watching,” is her rejoinder to my ‘not-a-good-idea’ look.

Dabee misses his first putt and starts jumping up and down, raising his putter over his head like you see video of insurgents pumping their AK-47s in the air.

“Harm!” Full-on alarm in Mac’s voice.

“They’ve made us. We gotta get outta here. Fast. You have any idea how much firepower they could have stowed in those golf bags?”

She’s ready to run for the trees when I grab her wrist. “Mac, calmly get into the cart. Turn around and slowly drive away. Anything else is gonna be way too attention-getting. Just do it. Suck it up.”

I put my club in my bag, she climbs in the cart and away we go. She’s breathing a little heavy. She musta heard something pretty scary.

“Can you tell me now, Mac. What’d you hear?”

“They made us, Harm. They knew we were after them.”

“They found the bug?” Mike had sworn it would be undetectable.

“Don’t know. All I know is Dabee started jumping up and down, pointing his golf club in the sky like a gun and screaming ‘double bogies’.”

Next time we do this, I have to get Mac a complete list of golf terms.




Chapt. 7: Rewinding Realty

Harm and Mac’s temporary housing
Sat., Oct. 3, 2009
1520 (local)

Mac’s pacing with a full head of Marine steam going. “You can’t take me out on a mission as your partner and leave out vital information!”

I know, I know.

“Those guys could be terrorists trying to compromise and addict some of our military’s most valuable assets and you let me blow it by not giving me a list of golf terms????”

Hey, she’s got a valid point. I feel pretty stupid right now, but I thought those words were as well known as ‘cool’ or ‘like’. Never stopped to think about birds, mulligan’s and most of all bogies.

“How was I to know we hadn’t been ‘made’?” She has every reason in the world to be mad. “‘Double bogie’ means two threats!”

I’m glad we’re not having this discussion in the backyard in Carmel where it would turn up in next week’s Pine Cone.

“It usually does. This was all my fault. I’m sorry, Mac. I just didn’t realize that golf terms weren’t part of the general language.”

“Not when we’re following guys who might be trying to infiltrate the military? Then, even if I knew them, terms like ‘birdie’ and ‘bogie’ would take on a new meaning.”

I can sense it might be a few days before I get to make love with Mac again.

Well, guess I deserve it.

“And now they’ve ‘made’ us for sure. Who would drive away from a golf course that costs $450 in the middle of the game?”

“Oh, now that one I don’t think we have to worry about. If those guys were playing par, believe me they weren’t paying any attention to us. And if they did notice we dropped out, they probably figured I was having a bad round and wanted you to cheer me up.”

“‘Cheer you up?’ Is that the latest euphemism for ‘screwing the partner that you screwed’?”

OK, it might be more than a few days.

The phone rings, miraculously. I dive for it like it’s my last lifeline.

“Harm, it’s ML.”

Guess Sgt. Lee has decided that ML is his code name.

“Heard your morning was cut short. But I have a suggestion for tonight. You might check out the Rabble Room. It’s on Cannery Row. It starts to get going around 1000.” And with that, he clicks off. Guess he knows about the 30 second to trace time thing.

Now I have to convince Mac to go out to a nightclub with me? Oh, this is gonna be a good one.

“That was Sgt. Lee.”
“Did he have their final scores?”

Clearly, this is not gonna be an easy task.

“No, but he does know where they’re gonna be tonight. We could try to get some more tape on them.”

I see her weigh the national security imperatives against her own righteous indignation. Like I knew it would, national security wins.

“Where?”

“A place called the Rabble Room on Cannery Row.”

“Good god, Harm, half the DLI goes there on Saturday nights. It’s a meat market, not to mention a Tower of Babble.”

What?

“They all speak the language they’re learning. It’s like the UN.”

“Well, we’ll just get it down on tape and get it all translated later.” Little boy grin. Not gonna cut it this time.

“We’ll do the best we can,” I weakly offer.

“Sure, but we better try to not look like the golfers from this morning.”

“Got it covered, Mac.” I rummage in an as-yet-unpacked box and pull out a long, red-haired wig. “You can wear this, some slinky dress and really high heels. You won’t look anything like the clean-cut sex-pot on the Links today.”

She looks aghast. “Harm,” said with true fear, “where did you get this wig and how long have you had it?”

“Remember when you suggested disguises when we went to the Boardwalk? Right before the Admiral busted us? Well, afterward it didn’t seem like such a bad idea, but your complexion’s wrong for blond, so I got red.”

“Harm, that was five years ago. And as I recall my suggestion had you rolling on the bed in laughter. You even made a comment about a B-movie PI. Refused to do it. And we both know what happened after that.”

Hey, Chegwidden’d have busted us kissing in the street no matter how we were dressed. That’s why he’s an Admiral.

“Yeah, well, times have changed since then, Mac.” Don’t make me tell her.

“Let’s see, it’s five years later, we’re no longer in the military, Chegwidden’s retired, we’re living in California, anything I miss?”

“We’re married.”

“Oh yeah, like that has anything to do with my wearing a long red wig,” she says. Then she gets it.

“No, Harmon Rabb Jr., do not tell me you have a ‘Ginger’ fantasy!”

“Mac, every man my age has a ‘Ginger’ fantasy.”

She’s laughing so hard she doesn’t have to try to shake out the wig. “OK, but you do realize you’re racking up the points owed real fast these days?”

I swallow and nod solemnly. Hey, I may not need to wait a couple days.

“What about you?” she asks. “How are you gonna not look like the guy who was in golf heaven today?”

Oh, she noticed?

“I figure I’ll spike up my hair, wear sunglasses and all black and put on a fake goatee.”

“You’re gonna look like Maynard G. Krebs on steroids.”

I shrug. What can I do? I’m 6’4” and that ain’t changing. My body’s my body and I’m working real hard to keep it from changing. The hair, clothes and goatee’ll have to do.

“Harm, I’m going as your fantasy ‘Ginger’, you’re going as Maynard G. Krebs after a stint with Arnold. Haven’t we been in this scene before?”

Yes we have, and no, we’re not talking about that right now.


Rabble Room
Cannery Row
Sat., Oct. 3, 2009
1030 (local)

OK, we’re not the oldest people in this crowd, but we’re right up there. I recognize a few Commanders from the DLI. Fortunately, they don’t recognize me.
Better yet, no one seems to recognize Mac in her ‘Ginger’ wig, slinky dress and high heels that make her almost six feet tall. Recognize, no. Recon, yes. Even some of the women.

I spy our guys over at the bar and nudge Mac in that direction. She sees what the play is and is ready to rumble.

Can I say again how much I love this woman?

She turns to my ear. “It’s really loud in here.”

Mac doesn’t usually dwell on the obvious. Yes, it’s like the landing deck of a carrier in here. Except some people would call it music. The rest would call it ‘screamed foreign languages’.

Mac had said they all practiced their languages here. I just didn’t know it’d be at maximum volume.

We sidle over to the bar near where our guys are having a serious talk with the bartender.

“No, we must to talk to your manager,” Abu says.

Wow, he’s so agitated that I can hear him?

“I told you, man, you need an appointment.”

“No appointment. Now,” Dabee makes a menacing move to his left armpit.

That’s all it takes for the bartender to crumble. “OK, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

After a few minutes a really big guy comes down the bar. Now, I usually think of myself as a big guy, but this is a REALLY big guy.

“You guys wanna talk to me?” he asks, most politely, considering.

Mac, god love her, has wormed her way closer to the action and placed her purse (which just happens to have the bug with the tape machine going) on the bar top.

I can’t hear much from where I’m standing. And I’m doing my best to fend off the aggressive moves of the young woman standing too close next to me.

Mac taps me. I see ‘Mr. Big’ disappear down the bar and our two guys melt into the crowd.

”We got it. Let’s get out of here before our hearing is permanently damaged.”

Fine by me; this goatee is really starting to itch and I want to see Mac in bed with that wig on. (Hey, my hormones were just kicking in big time when I started watching‘Gilligan’s Island’ reruns. I’ll always have a secret craving for ‘Ginger’.)

“What’d we get, Mac?” I’m driving back to the Presidio within the speed limits. Hey, it’s Saturday night, this is a red Corvette and you think I don’t know I have a target painted on my hood?

“I’m hoping the tape can be cleaned up better than what I could hear,” she admits. “I can tell you they were talking about coke. Abu said something like ‘the prophet will be happy’, and they bragged they were close to getting what they called ‘a lock’ on Fort Ord, The Naval Reservation and the DLI.”

She twists in her seat. “Harm, it’s time to call in help. This is way too big for us. We can’t, and shouldn’t, try to handle this ourselves.”

I know she’s right. But it’s my first case. Maybe I can figure out a way to stay involved. Right, like the DEA is gonna let that happen. Well, maybe. If I promise to play nice.

“Are you sure you heard them right? Could they have been talking about something else?”

“‘Coke, the prophet being happy’?” I don’t think so, Harm. But we’ve got the tape. Let’s just listen to it a few times.”

Tomorrow. Right now I want to listen to ‘Ginger’ sigh a few times. OK, I can’t help it. I harbor both an eight-year old and a 14-year old. Don’t tell Mac.