Afflicted with ennui, I had seated myself under the reading lamp
in the study to see if Rex Stout might affect a cure when there was
a sharp knock on the door. The figure on the threshold was
Hollister’s Police Chief John Kennard.
”
What’s the mater with the bell?
”
I asked.
Afflicted with ennui, I had seated myself under the reading lamp in the study to see if Rex Stout might affect a cure when there was a sharp knock on the door. The figure on the threshold was Hollister’s Police Chief John Kennard.
“What’s the mater with the bell?” I asked.
“A sharp rap has more authority. Sheriff Luchetti and I have placed you under arrest and sentenced you to spend time with us at the peace officers convention in Palm Springs starting Sunday.”
Then he spun around and went into the living room where he had the audacity to tell Gerri that my going was important to local justice.
The die was cast. The lawmen picked me up Sunday at 11 a.m. Kennard was at the wheel of his Pontiac and drove it south through Coalinga to Bakersfield. Big John said he had the route etched on his brain; so we struck out for Palmdale, arriving in the late afternoon.
Needing gas, we pulled into a Union station where the sheriff’s credit card would work. An elderly gentleman with a limp approached. “Fill ‘er up. Where’s the men’s room? Check the oil and water. Don’t forget the windows.”
After obeying all the orders, the old fellow processed the bill for Luchetti to sign.
On our way through, we saw a cafe that boasted meat loaf and spaghetti. We had no lunch so we stopped for an early supper. Pretty good, too. The sheriff put it on his credit card.
At elevation 2,655 feet, we started down a long grade where we met a pitfall. Traffic was light. Twilight faded to night. Big John put on the headlights, drove about 20 miles and ran out of gas. The old gent had put the hose in the tank, but failed to turn it on.
We coasted for miles wearing down the battery. Lights appeared across the divider. T’was a Mobile station.
Leaving the sheriff on guard, John and I went crunching in the gravel. After scaring hell out of the attendant, we bought a five-gallon can of ethyl and got under way.
Near midnight was when we arrived at Palm Springs and found “Cannery” Joe Felice’s cottage for which John Luchetti had made arrangements. After we had brought in our bags, the sheriff announced his bedtime and the chief needed a tranquilizer.
Seating ourselves at a nightclub bar, a classy woman served us a pair of double scotch and sodas. The place was empty, save for a small group in front of the state. When it dispersed, a guy took a stool close to mine. He took a swig from his glass and gazed at me through the mirror. Nodding, I said, “My name’s O’Neill; guess you know yours?”
“Sure do,” he said. “George Gobel.”
The four of us conversed pleasantly until the lights dimmed and the woman said it was closing time.
By 8:30 Monday morning, more than 80 percent of the seats in the convention hall were occupied with stragglers still coming in. A heavy, undulating murmur filled the air. Technicians tested the P.A. system.
California’s Attorney General Pat Brown was scheduled to speak at 10 o’clock. Chief Kennard and I waited. The sheriff was with some cronies. By 10:30, an impatient silence pervaded the atmosphere. Suddenly, Big John slapped me on the knee and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We did and found later that trouble at the airport delayed our speaker till almost noon.
To assuage the malaise of a disappointing morning, we took the aerial tramway up 2.5 miles from the valley floor to Mountain Station. Never in so short a time have I seen anything so spectacular: the gradual change in flora from cactus to mountain blooms, the ground from dust to snow, the vast panorama of another planet. Description is beyond me. See it for yourself.
As an outsider at such a widely attended affair, I tried to appraise its value to state law enforcement. Since we all wore badges showing our names and cities, I wondered if inter-communications might be a factor. I soon had a clue.
The dining area was arranged with tables for six. I sat opposite the two Johns. In a moment, two gentle women filled in my side and a gray-haired gentleman, the other. The woman next to me said, “I’m Claire. This is Agnes. That’s Jason. We are on the LAPD vice squad. We were told who you three were and wanted to ask how you controlled crime in such a rugged, sparsely populated county.”
Sheriff Luchetti took over: “Well, Claire, us old-country boys have developed techniques, irregular patrolling is one, no pattern. The Bureau of Land Management is an ally. Our office and the game warden have mutual respect. Soledad Prison reports walk-aways. Many landowners have radios tuned to our frequency. The airport is on constant alert for police problems. Need I go on?”
“No,” Agnes said. “You have provided an interesting summary.”
Suddenly, there was an invasion of waiters and serving carts serving prime rib dinners and Napa Valley wine. T’was a splendid conclusion to the convention.
The next morning, I was the designated driver to take us home. We had, of course, to stop at the Union station in Palmdale. On our arrival, John Luchetti put on his badge, walked in and said, “I’m the sheriff of San Benito County and I’m mad as hell.”
The woman in charge said, “You’re mad as hell because you paid $18.73 for a tank full of air. My dad saw the mistake too late. I sent a letter to your Hollister address. But, now you can have a refund or a tank of gas.”
He looked at Kennard and me with a beaming smile and yelled, “Fill ‘er up.”
Gene O’Neill is a longtime Hollister resident and a regular contributor to the Free Lance.
