The next night Red Eye went out to the sports bar so I had some peace and quiet to chase down Peter Margolis. I’d never used an Internet phone directory before but after an hour or so, I’d located twelve Peter Margolises in the Bay Area. I posed as a reporter for the Oakland Tribune doing a story on boating accidents. After several voice mails, a grouchy old lady, and a Penny Margolis with screaming kids and barking dogs in the background, I found the widow.
“I’m so sorry about your loss,” I told her, “but there’s been a rash of boating accidents in Northern California over the last few months. I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.”
“There’s nothing too complicated about my husband’s death,” she said. “He ran his boat into a tree, the idiot.”
My question about foul play or possible mechanical failure brought a long derisive giggle.
“The failure was Peter. He hadn’t been sober behind the wheel of a boat since 1983. Or was it ‘73? Can’t remember which. When it came to alcohol, he didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘enough.’”
I’d prepared myself for a delicate run up to any possible points about her husband’s death that might lead us back to Jeffcoat. This Mrs. Margolis was an open book. Once in a while life deals you aces. “And that goddamned insurance guy was the icing on the cake,” she said, “trying to claim Peter hadn’t paid the premiums. What an asshole.”
“So you eventually got the money?”
“After the bastard threatened to take us to court. Then I produced all the receipts and bank statements and shut him up. I had a lawyer on his butt. Ended up costing me fifty grand.”
“And which insurance company were you dealing with?”
“We had an independent broker, some shithead out of Oakland named Albert Jeffcoat.”
“Did you suspect him of being involved in your husband’s death?”
“No. He just wasn’t putting the premiums we paid into Peter’s policy. I ended up suing. We settled out of court. The bastard belongs in jail.”
I told her how sorry I was to hear all this and that perhaps I should be doing a story on insurance fraud rather than boating accidents.
“Absolutely,” she said, “have a nice day.”
Jeffcoat’s list of sins extended well beyond humping other men’s wives. He was a certifiable scumbag with a lot to lose. That list of twenty-three with Margolis at the top must have been other people he’d cheated out of payments. Or maybe it was just people who died in boating accidents. I searched for a few of the names and none of them came up dead at sea, or dead at all for that matter. But they weren’t connected to insurance fraud either. Normal citizens, doing normal things I guess, deceived into thinking their life was secured by layers of insurance policies. Next to Jeffcoat’s, the morals of a coyote and trafficker in willing wives looked pretty upright.
I decided to phone Mrs. Margolis back, to see if she knew any of these other people on the list. She picked up on the fifth ring. I figured I woke her up.
“So it’s my reporter friend again,” she said. “How’s tricks, reporter friend?” Her voice told me that her husband wasn’t the only one in the family who liked the hooch.
“Just fine,” I said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No time like the present. You wanna talk about insurance or are you gonna talk dirty to me?”
“I’m all business, Mrs. Margolis. All business.”
“Too bad because you know what the hottest thing on the planet is?”
“No idea.”
“A horny widow.” She cackled for a couple seconds until I heard something crash to the floor in the background. I hoped it wasn’t Mrs. Margolis, but after a few seconds she was back on the line.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I’ve got a situation here. I’ll call you later.”
She never phoned back. I decided to let her sleep it off.
A few minutes later, Red Eye came in with two young Chinese guys and three pizzas. Manchester United was playing, Red Eye’s team.
“One of ‘em’s married to Posh Spice, homeboy,” Red Eye reminded me as I headed for bed. “She’s hot.”
“Whatever,” I said. I put the pieces of tissue in my ear. They drowned out the commentary but at exactly 1:47 Red Eye’s celebratory screams let me know that Manchester had scored. I pulled the blankets over my head.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Red Eye, “Fulham motherfuckers are history.”
A little while later I heard the Chinese guys leave. I pulled out one of the pieces of tissue from my ear thinking that the game was over but the English accent went back to volume 42 to let me know that Fulham was losing shape at the back. I replaced the tissue but after a few seconds Manchester struck again. Those balls of tissue were no match for Red Eye.
I imagined him standing on his feet, his fist pumping high in the air. Red was triumphing for him again. What the hell had I gotten myself into? Then I heard a shot and the shattering of glass. It sounded like my kitchen window.