by Max Grant
I told her, “Yeah that makes sense to me. I bet that silly witch Ginzberg has some juicy files on the subject.”
She said, “No doubt. But her workplace is secured like a fortress. I could never get to those files. “
“Well, I think you’re on the right track. It all comes back to the unions. Those unionists are touchy bastards and they’re well covered by lawyers. My guess is some of them are real patriotic. We could ask Manny to goose some of those officials down at the harbor. He might be able to come up with a good contact. Sounds like the only way.”
* * *
Sally called late that afternoon to say that Miss Lane had recovered to the point where she could have visitors. I asked Yuki to go down there and check on her. She reported back to me around mid-morning.
“Oh, Ray! They shot her in the face! She was so beautiful…”
“If she pulls through, she’ll be beautiful again. Moe will see to that. We know who these clowns are now. I’m going to bust this gang wide open.”
“They’re absolute demons to go after Miss Lane,” Yuki moaned. “She never wanted anything to do with them, never even knew who they were.”
“Really,” I agreed. They’re just murdering sociopaths that would sooner eliminate their conscience than fight it. Remember your psychology. These guys are basically sadists. They wrap themselves in a mantra of idealism to justify any kind of barbarity undertaken to achieve their ends.”
“You’re on to something there, Boss. Lupe calls them “humanitarians with guillotines,’ I guess because their infantile idealism compels them to mass murder.”
“Yeah, our founding fathers would have hunted these people down and hung them.”
“So will my people.”
“What? Japan?”
“Sure, Japan. And Germany too. These slobs like to prey on weakness and who’s weaker now than the defeated countries. But both are homogeneous societies where people have a sense of duty and a strong work ethic. Leeches and deadbeats get no sympathy and are accorded no special rights by my people. They are easy to isolate and marginalize. The Soviets have been trying to subvert Japan since the end of the war. I don’t want my country having anything to do with Stalin and his merry band of thugs. Fortunately MacArthur came up with a brilliant Japanese solution to the problem.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“He recognized that the underworld, the Yakuza, were the only intact organization left for the Occupation to deal with. He cut deals with the Yakuza to, among other things, assist with the distribution of relief supplies. And he suggested to the Yakuza bosses that the Communists and unions were looking to step in on the action. As a result Japanese commies are routinely beaten senseless or fed to the fish. Even Sachiko told me she’d heard from some friends that the Soviets had infiltrated the big shipyard being rebuilt in Sasebo. They were agitating some major trouble until the Fukuoka gangs cleaned house all over Nishi Kyushu. “I don’t see why that can’t be done here,” she pouted.
“True, but it’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”
“Are we?”
“Oh yes we are. One by one, or in pairs or cells, Moe’s hired us to do our part to help take them out of the game. Dead or crippled, it doesn’t really matter. It’s the best we can do with the enemy already entrenched everywhere. Moe isn’t paying us to take prisoners.”
* * *
I got hold of Manny down at precinct just before noon.
“OK, Manny. I want to pick up one of these union boys and sweat him. I want to pick the turd that’s the least committed. I think I know which one I want. He didn’t look like a slogan-tosser, and he seemed a little too cynical to be a true believer, maybe also a tad too independent to toe the party line.”
“When do you want to get him?’
“Tonight.”
“Do you know where we can pick him up?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Good. I know just the place to get this done. I get off at five. Be at my place at six.”
* * *
Manny and I were on the sidewalk in front of the union hall by six-thirty and didn’t have long to wait. We trailed him up the block toward City Hall. At the alley we got up behind him and I took him down. He bawled out like a branded calf, so Manny gave him a smart rap on the skull with his sap. That shut the punk up. Manny kicked him under a bush and tried to look nonchalant. I retrieved the Merc and we tossed him in the trunk.
I could hear Lenny flopping about as Manny hot-footed my heap up O’Farrell Street away from the waterfront. The chase car picked us up as we crossed Pacific. It was a long five-window coupe of pre-war vintage, but I could hear the souped-up plant as it drew up rapidly on our rear.
“They’ve marked us, Manny,” I croaked as I turned into the approaching headlamps.
The signal was green at the Gaffey Street intersection, and Manny swung left in front of a citizen entering from the west. The citizen skidded into the intersection behind us, tires shrieking and smoking, and the big coupe lost a second getting around it. Under the lights at the intersection I thought I was eyeballing at least two gomers in the front seat of the tail car.
Manny tore south down Gaffey asking “Whadda we got?”
“A good driver and what looks like one torpedo riding shotgun. I couldn’t see any more.”
“And the rig?”
“Looks to be a hopped-up Nash or LaSalle, pre-war, probably a straight 8.”
“Heavy car, huh?” Manny turned and grinned, and suddenly backed off on the gas.
“What gives?”
“I got an idea how to fix their wagon, maybe permanently. Hang on, keep your eyes open, and tell me what you’re seeing.”
Checking the mirror, he skidded right onto 25th and took off west out of San Pedro. The tail car was still with us as we entered the county on Palos Verdes Drive. Manny scooted along through wisps of fog along the bluffs overlooking the Pacific, and I started wondering what exactly, if anything, he had in mind.
Manny gave some more ground as we approached Portuguese Bend. Before I could sound the alarm, the coupe swung out to overtake us. A pair of rapid shots rang out as the Merc’s side window exploded. Manny goosed the pedal and jumped ahead, accelerating wildly into the gloom. The coupe swung in behind again and roared up close on our tail. Flame shot from the passenger’s side, but the slug didn’t connect. It was lonely out here and I was starting to seriously question Manny’s plan.
My stomach plunged when I turned face forward and goggled the low white wooden barricade set dead in our path. Manny let out a whoop and jerked the wheel to the left, sending the heavy Merc across the oncoming lane and into the gravel before setting it straight and back into the right lane.
The lights following us abruptly disappeared and Manny coasted to a halt in the misty darkness, softly chuckling.
“What the hell was that?”
“You’ll see.”
He backed the crate across the road and returned east, approaching a smaller barricade set up in the westbound lane. Steam was rising from a dark hole behind the barrier.
“I noticed this last week when we followed some juvies up here. The thought came to me on Gaffey because we’d picked up on them there. They tried to do this to us, but their ride was a little low and Riley seen it coming. ”
He pulled up alongside and I saw the wreck of the long coupe, its tail end sticking up at a sharp angle from the sizable excavation. Two spider webs frosted the windshield on either side of the center post, and a sleeved arm hung from the open driver’s window.
“A great place to lose these clowns, ya think?”
“Works for me. Shame about that sweet automobile, though. Let’s leave those two for the Good Samaritan.”
Manny chortled some more and ran on down the road a piece to a little turnout. We turned the car around and headed back west along the coastal route. Nothing had stirred as we passed by the wreck again, but a little less steam was coming up from the ruined front end.
“Naw. This is way too close to home for me. And no roadside parks; they’re watched. Besides I’m starved. Let’s get the hell out of here and get some chow. I know the perfect place to sweat this weasel, but it’s a good ways out of town. Out near your gun club, in fact. I’m gonna pull over here shortly and put him in a bag so we can take our time over dinner.”
Manny bypassed the park and the lighthouse, taking a right beyond the point onto Hawthorne Boulevard. About a mile up the hill he stopped and backed into a dirt drive that curved around behind the local airpark. ‘Zemperelli Field’ the sign said.
I grabbed the electric torch from the glove box and got out. Manny had the trunk open and was chuckling some more. Lenny was groaning and rolling back and forth on the floor of the trunk. Manny pulled the short sap from his belt and tapped him again behind the ear. Lenny went limp, but was still breathing heavily. I worked his arms behind his back as Manny pawed around for the rope. I stood back and watched Manny hogtie the weasel until he looked like a chrysalis. Next he pulled out a roll of tape and wrapped it around Lenny’s head, covering the mouth. Satisfied that the punk wasn’t going to expire for lack of air, he shoved the package further into the trunk and slammed the lid.
“You hungry?” Manny asked.
“Not yet. I’ve had the adrenalin flowing ever since we snatched this jerk, and I think the let down is going to hurt my appetite.”
“That’s all right. We got a ways to go. You want to eat good. This might take all night.”
We found civilization again over the hill in Torrance. Manny turned at the Coast Highway and drove north through the beach communities of Redondo and Hermosa. We picked up Sepulveda Boulevard and headed north toward the International Airport.
Manny kept going all the way through West Los Angeles and the night air turned crisp as we rose through the pass. A sparse few lights twinkled below us as we snaked down the mountain into Encino, but the broad expanse of the valley before us was as dark as a mine. The air was clear though, and the lights of Burbank and Toluca Lake were visible far to the east.
Manny picked up Ventura Boulevard westbound. As we passed through the orange groves at Tarzana I was grateful I’d fueled up on the way over to get him. Manny followed the El Camino Real out of the Valley and down the long grade toward the county line. About the time I started wondering if we’d be dining with the hoi-polloi in Santa Barbara, Manny abruptly turned south at Brents Junction and rolled into the gravel lot at the Canyon Diner.
Pulling in beside the place he said, “I could eat a horse, but I’ll settle for steak long as you’re paying.”
“Yeah, well you’ve given me better than an hour to work up an appetite, so I hope you’re in no particular hurry.”
“I’m not really looking forward to this anyway. Let’s get us a few drinks and take our time. We got all night.”
I debarked and glided absently around back of the car and tapped on the trunk. No answer. We sidled into the diner and picked a corner booth overlooking the lot. The dinner hour was long passed, and the booths near ours were vacant. A dapper specimen and what looked to be his young daughter were holding down the corner booth at the far end of the joint. An elderly party was seated by himself near the middle of the counter, hunched over a turkey dinner plate.
The waitress was standing hipshot against the serving window, casting us an eyeball and snapping her gum. After some befuddled deliberations, she cast off the wall and sauntered around the end of the counter, grabbed a pair of menus, and slapped them down on our table.
Manny flashed her the big brown eyes and tossed her a line. “You look familiar. We met yet?”
“Not in this life, big boy.”
“Too bad. What’s your name?”
“Ellie.”
“Ellie, I could swear I’d seen you on the lot down at Premier Studios. We’re on our way to a late night shoot up in Ventura. Maybe we can work you in. Whaddaya say?”
“Easy there, hoss. I got someplace to be tonight. Every night. After here.”
“Suit yourself. What’s good out of the kitchen?”
“Tonight it’d be the fried fish. Y’all take your time with the menu, and I’ll be right over there when you holler.”
“Sho ‘nuff, Ellie.” Manny picked up a menu and buried his face in it to keep from laughing, but Ellie had already shoved off.
“I hope we’re not too close to the scene of the crime,” I gabbled.
“Oh, we’re close enough. But there ain’t no one gonna be following up on a complaint that don’t get filed. If ol’ Lenny gets picked up by the Sherriff’s, he’ll keep his trap shut. His only concern will be in getting clear of this state, and but fast.”
“Maybe, but spreading it thick around here doesn’t seem too smart. We don’t look like Hollywood.”
“You don’t look like Hollywood. You look like a cop. Me, I look like Hollywood. Anybody asks, I’m talent. You work in the back office reading scripts or something.”
“OK, let’s eat. To hell with the fish. I’m having a mess o’ ribs. Something that’s gonna stick to me. Lenny might not look so pleasant later on.”
“I’ll get the Porterhouse, good buddy, and a double shot of Jack. You’ll get the tab.”
“Now I know why you’ve been laughing all night. I thought you were maybe turning into a goof.”
I was on my third Beam when Ellie brought the check and told us she was locking up. She was a little late. According to the clock on the wall, it was already half past the posted closing time.
She’d been busying herself behind the counter for the last little while, looking like she was trying to make her mind up about something. I was hoping it wasn’t Manny’s bogus offer.
“Blow” I told him.
He tossed off his drink, shoved off, and shot Ellie a leer as he pushed on out the door. I took a last pull on the Beam and sauntered over to where Ellie waited behind the cash. “My job is to keep him out of trouble. Thanks for the assist.” I slapped down a sawbuck.
“He looks like a handful. And y’all’re welcome.” She eyeballed the bill and held her ground, so I turned and walked.
“Come back anytime. When you’re alone.”
I turned and tipped my hat. “Sure, kid.” I gave her my best ‘forget-about-it’ look and slid on out the door.
The lot was empty. I stood there wondering what was going to happen next when I heard the growl of the flathead V8 from around side of the building. The Merc pulled up in front and the door popped open. I got in and slammed the door, and Manny spun some gravel in the lot as he swung round and got on the road north toward the highway.
“He was kicking when I got out here, so I went around out back and had a little talk with him. He’s beginning to understand the new rules.”
Manny turned into the filling station, closed at this hour, and rolled around back with the nose poking out to where we could watch the diner. The cook had left a half hour ago, and it wasn’t a couple minutes later when the lights went out and an old jalopy wheezed out onto the road and north to the highway. We watched her head west down the highway.
The junction was now deader than Pharoah’s tomb, and twice as dark. Manny gunned it out of there heading south down Malibu Canyon toward the coast. I rolled my head back and gave up trying to figure what was up.
Down at the bottom of a long grade we turned left before a narrow bridge on to a beat up strip of macadam. Manny reported that Piuma Road led up the lee side of the last big ridge of mountains before the coast, and from the top there were at least two or three different routes to follow down into Malibu.
The road followed a seemingly endless series of broad switchbacks up the side of the mountain. Near the top of the ridge Manny pulled into a wide turnout flanked by a low-stone wall. The view out the passenger’s side window was spectacular. A nearly full moon had risen just above the horizon, and it was casting brilliant r
eflections across the uncharacteristically calm Pacific waters for as far as the eye could see. The stars were entirely obscured by the distant city lights.
Manny pulled ahead, turned the wheel, and backed the car up to the wall and set the hand brake. I got out and walked over to the wall. There was nothing beyond it, and that nothing extended downward for at least a thousand feet to some steep, rocky slopes near the canyon floor. Little wavelets in Malibu Creek shimmered where the water exited the canyon.
This was a good night for wet work, as long as we were quiet about it. A good shout from up here would carry all the way to the houses that dotted the shoreline along the coast highway far below. I looked to the south. Beyond the lights of Santa Monica and the beach communities, the Palos Verdes Peninsula from whence we’d come was obscured by a light fog.
Manny unlatched and raised the trunk lid, and there was Lenny squirming like a landed fish. This time he sported a burlap bag loosely tied around his head. At Manny’s direction, we heaved the weasel from the trunk and sat him down propped against the wall. He was shaking like an enraged Chihuahua.
Manny took a 10-foot length of thick hemp rope and tied a bowline around the punk’s chest and under both of his arms. He secured the loose end to the rear bumper of the Merc, leaving about 8 feet of slack coiled on the gravel. Manny then walked to the far end of the rock wall and rummaged around for a few seconds, returning with a stout length of steel pipe that was forked on one end. He bent over the wall and jammed the straight end of the pipe into a penetration situated about one foot down from the top.
I watched as he unbound Lenny’s lower body leaving only his feet tightly tied together. His torso remained trussed and his hands stayed bound behind his back. Manny got down close and plucked the bag from Lenny’s head. Lenny was already wide eyed, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he got around to scoping me.
“Hi Lenny. We need to talk.”
Lenny garbled something that was entirely obscured by the tape over his mouth. His eyes bugged out again when Manny reached into the trunk and pulled out a large pair of bolt cutters and a hangman’s noose fabricated of thin steel cable. He placed both on the pavement next to the coils of rope.
