Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  I nodded. “I could use a friend anywhere. I don’t seem to have the personality that attracts people.”

  He looked at me bleakly. “I’m serious, Callahan.”

  The soft lips were firm and the flat nose had never seemed more pugnacious. He glared at me with the dangerous look of the frightened man.

  “I can use a friend,” I said quietly. “I’ll keep in touch with you, Sergeant. And you can put in a word for me with your superiors.”

  He nodded and some of the hate went out of his eyes now that he had the upper hand again. He said, “Just don’t go cute on me, Callahan. I’m not bright, but I’m steady and I’ve been here for a long time. I like the job.”

  I kept annoyance out of my voice. “Okay, Sergeant, I get the picture.”

  I started to leave, and he said, “That attempted suicide, do you think that could be phony? Kid stuff? Dramatics?”

  “I think she meant to kill herself, Sergeant. She loved Johnny Quirk very much.”

  “Okay. Keep in touch.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and went out quietly.

  He was where I was — nowhere. Johnny underground and his killer still breathing the clear, free air enjoyed by our respected citizens.

  And tomorrow we played the Philadelphia Eagles. Beating the Eagles has lately been something the Rams can’t seem to manage. We can plaster teams that wallop the Eagles; the Eagles themselves don’t fear us a bit. Well, it was only an exhibition game.

  It was almost six o’clock and I was hungry. I drove out to Bess Eiler’s, in Santa Monica.

  I had a drink at the bar first, and a glance at a Mirror someone had left behind. The Mirror’s so full of columnists, there isn’t much room left for news. Johnny Quirk’s death had been demoted to page three and there was nothing there I didn’t know.

  My ribs were still sore and there was a blue-black, tender bruise between the middle knuckles of my right hand. I contemplated having a second drink, but decided against it Even a first drink of hard liquor is something I rarely permit myself.

  And where would I go after dinner? To see Jan? To Malibu and the poker game? Or over to watch the triplex that housed Jackie Held?

  A one-man office is too limited for a case that was growing as complicated as this one was. Jackie, perhaps, I could get to under certain conditions. But I didn’t have the authority to go up against men like Lenny Heffner, nor the connections to learn the real story on him. And frankly, I didn’t have the guts to go up against him without the connections or the authority.

  I had a rather fragile tie to the Beverly Hills Police Department through my client’s influence, but it wasn’t a tie that would stand much stretching.

  In the movies and on TV you will see private operatives who go charging into murder cases, sneering at officers of the law and contemptuously taking guns away from hoods. But the reality is something else. Policemen don’t like private investigators within a mile of a murder case and no man alive is bigger than a forty-five. Or even a twenty-two, for that matter.

  My two hundred and twenty pounds was no protection against a man (or woman) who had the mental equipment which would permit him (or her) to kill. Toughness is mental, not physical, and I’d never have been mentally tough enough to kill.

  And unless I was, I was no match for killers.

  The inner voice I’d heard before was now saying it again: Get out of the racket, Callahan; you’re not equipped for it.

  “Another of the same?” the bartender asked me.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll eat now.” Then I had a shrimp cocktail and a big filet and three glasses of milk. I was on a case and I like to eat good when the money’s coming in.

  Then, though the lure of Malibu was strong, I drove over to the triplex right off Pico.

  There was no answer to my ring and I went back to the car to wait. It was only a little after seven; if she was out for the evening she wouldn’t have left this early.

  A chartreuse Lincoln convertible went past me down to the next corner, and there swung in a U-turn. It came up the other side of the street slowly and parked in front of the triplex.

  It was some seconds before the girl behind the wheel got out and walked up toward Jackie Held’s unit I went across the street and waited next to the Lincoln.

  She was a slim girl, dressed in green gabardine, and her hair was a dark and lustrous red. Her eyes I hadn’t seen, but could remember as between gray and green. Moira Quirk.

  A minute at the door and she came back. She seemed to pause when she noticed me next to the car, but then came the rest of the way at the same pace.

  Her eyes didn’t avoid mine. “Well, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Good evening, Miss Quirk. Business with Miss Held?”

  “My business, if any. Certainly not yours.” Disdain dripped casually from her resonant voice.

  “Then you won’t mind if this visit of yours goes into my report to your father?”

  Her gray-green eyes considered me thoughtfully. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No, Miss Quirk. Seeking information is all.”

  Indecision flickered briefly on her thin and attractive face. Then, “That’s what I came for.”

  “Perhaps I can help. What did you want to know?”

  The indecision didn’t show this time. “I don’t think I care to tell you, Mr. Callahan. And do what you want to about your report. But remember that my father isn’t very well right now.”

  “If you’re in trouble — ” I said, but she moved past me and climbed into the Lincoln from the curb side.

  It went away and I went back to my car. I turned on the radio and waited. Maybe Moira Quirk was playing detective, but I didn’t think so. It wasn’t her kind of game. Maybe Jackie knew something about her and Moira was worried that it had been partially responsible for Johnny’s death?

  That was from left field. One fact I had — they were both trying to get a foothold in the theatrical world. Did they know each other? Or did one know something about the other that the police should know? If this last was true, it would be Jackie who knew something about Moira, putting us back in left field. But if the reverse were true, the police would have it by now.

  So that was the way, pick up the theory out of nowhere and then try to substantiate it, like the new thinkers. I waited, running out of thoughts.

  At eight-thirty, I decided I had waited long enough.

  On the way to Malibu, I went past Beverly Glen, but I didn’t turn in toward Jan’s. I wanted to learn what the boys still active had thought about Johnny Quirk.

  It was dark now, but not too cold, and the traffic was heavy along Highway 101. The lights of the Bay were clear, the breeze was soft and most of the convertibles had their tops down. Even so, a lot of the magic had gone out of this country. Too many people had moved in, bringing their dull minds with them.

  In the hills above Malibu, in the impressive home of Don (Scooter) Calvin, the boys were assembled and talking and all the talk was Quirk.

  They thought I knew things about him, which I did, and would divulge them, which I wouldn’t.

  “If you want revenge, deal,” I said. “And if you know anything tell me. I’m working on the case.”

  “Dick Tracy,” one said, and “Fearless Fosdick,” another, and Scooter said, “Lay off the Rock, you slobs, and let’s see the color of your money.”

  We played cards and talked. The talk went from Quirk to the Eagles to the rookies who were being dropped. And finally to Dom Ristucci.

  Scooter said, “The kid hasn’t found himself. And that piece about being related to Martino didn’t help him any.”

  Somebody used a foul word.

  “Dom will make out,” Scooter said. “He’s steady.” I said, “I heard rumors of dissension. Or read them, somewhere.”

  Six pairs of eyes looked at me pityingly. Nobody said a word.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve been busy. How was I to know?”

  The twelve eyes continue
d to consider me like a dozen consciences. The silent treatment, because I hadn’t made the last Ye Olde Rams’ dinner and I wouldn’t tell them what I knew.

  Just a gag, but I said with petulance, “All right, let’s deal. Whose deal, what’s the game? Let’s go.”

  They were nicer, after a while, but I still wouldn’t tell them a thing.

  nine

  IN THE locker room it was fairly quiet. Near the doorway Dean was putting on his pads with the weary air of a knight who had seen too many die.

  He smiled at me. “Not you? Things can’t be that rough.”

  “You’re a very funny man,” I said. “Where’s Ristucci?”

  “Over there, in the corner. He’s already dressed. You’d think he was in mourning.”

  The bulky figure of Les Richter loomed near. “You’re getting fat, Rock. You must be eating well.”

  “I’m six pounds under my playing weight.” I made a face at him and went over to where Dominic Peter Ristucci was staring dismally out at nothing.

  I tapped his shoulder and he looked up. His smile was brief. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. You’re Brock Callahan, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. What have you been doing, reading the papers?”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “It’s a bad town for that.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about Enrico.”

  “What have you been thinking about him?”

  The brief smile again. “I was thinking about a shotgun he gave me once. An imported gun, a beautiful gun.” He took a breath. “He’s not much of a man, is he?”

  “There are worse. He’s no murderer. He didn’t kill Johnny; that much I’ll guarantee you.”

  The brown eyes were suddenly bright with interest. “How do you know? Did they find the killer?”

  “Not yet. Enrico is going to pay me ten thousand dollars when I do, though. That is the gospel truth, Dom.”

  Some resolution in the face. “I guess there are worse than Enrico, right?”

  “Many,” I said.

  His smile stayed longer this time. “You should see that shotgun. From Holland. It must have cost a mint.”

  “Rick’s not cheap. And don’t you like our new coach?”

  “He’s it. He’s the greatest.”

  “All right, then; you’ve got your own problems and Rick’s got his. We never can seem to beat the Eagles, you know. It’s mighty important that we beat the Eagles.”

  “Sure,” he said. “But, Brock, pep talks haven’t touched me since my second year at South Bend. I’m a pro, Brock; let’s not get sentimental.”

  “That’s the way to be,” I said. “I just didn’t want you to carry any theatrical adolescent ideas around.”

  “All right, all right,” he said. “All right.”

  Edgy now, and that’s the way I left him, that’s the way I wanted him. Pros don’t get sentimental, except about winning.

  In the stands, Jan said, “You couldn’t think to bring a hot dog along, I suppose? We had to come early, I suppose?”

  “You didn’t,” I said. “I’ll go and get you the hot dog.”

  The drum majorettes were cavorting; Johnny Boudreau’s band was giving out with “Dixie.” It was early, but people were pouring in.

  “Never mind the hot dog,” Jan said. “What did you say to Dom Ristucci?”

  “I told him Rick wasn’t the killer.”

  “How could you tell him that? You don’t know …”

  “He does, now. My God, woman, these are the Eagles we’re playing today. Do you want to lose to them again?”

  And then they were coming out, the boys who’d made the grade, the boys who’d become men. From Notre Dame and Hardin Simmons, from Michigan and East Overshoe School of Mines, from Wisconsin and little Loyola. Some had been big in college and some of the colleges you’ve never heard of. And a few hadn’t gone to college at all.

  Some of them earned less here, as pros, than some of the others had earned as amateurs in college. Money wasn’t enough to make them play this game. There wasn’t that much money. They played this game because they loved it and they wanted to extend their days of glory to the ultimate.

  I knew about the braces some of them wore, and the elastic bandages. I knew the precarious rim of nausea some rode because a bad knee can kick out any time, and the contemplation is worse than the catastrophe.

  Philadelphia had won the toss and they elected to receive. Les Richter would kick off. People were still pouring in as the ball was adjusted on the tee.

  A lot of people missed the first score of the game. Because Jug Harter of the Eagles took the kickoff deep in his own end zone and decided to run it out.

  From the ten-yard line to the thirty, he dodged and twisted like a dervish, trying to keep a blocker between him and every threat. From his own thirty, it was much simpler. He simply outran everybody to the goal.

  The kick was good and, my neighbor said, “Same old story. The Eagles have our number.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Jug Harter came out as the platoons changed. He got a big hand from the stands.

  “What are they cheering him for?” Jan asked. “Because he looked so good.”

  “Lucky,” Jan said.

  Dom Ristucci wasn’t coming out for the kickoff; Boyd and Quinlan were deep. Neither of them got a chance to touch the ball as it bounced past the end line.

  Rams’ ball, first and ten on their own twenty, and Dom Ristucci came trotting out.

  “Now, we’ll see,” the man sitting next to me said.

  The Eagles had evidently decided to cover the long passes. That had been the great Ram threat for years, the long pass. Dom tossed them short. To the flat and the little buttonhooks right over the line, and he completed four out of five, and it was first and ten on the Ram forty-two when the Eagles called for a time out.

  “He’s not real flashy,” my neighbor said grudgingly. “He seems solid, though.”

  “Professional,” I said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  Time was in again, and that hoary old chestnut, the Statue of Liberty, was the next play. Quinlan took the ball from Dom’s hand on the simulated pass, and swung wide toward end. It looked like he might make some yardage.

  The defense swung that way. And the man covering Boyd looked back to see what was happening, and Boyd turned goalward and flew.

  He caught Quinlan’s pass on the twenty and romped to six points. And Jan screamed and my neighbor yowled and Boudreau’s band screamed its challenge.

  Les Richter’s point-try tied it up.

  This was the new day of the new Ram quarterback. As my neighbor had said, he wasn’t flashy. But he was a stalwart, stocky technician and behind him were the muscle-building vineyards of the San Joaquin Valley and four years of Notre Dame football tutelage. He was a cool and brainy boy, playing this game like the professional he was.

  After that first run, the Eagles never led. They were no pushovers; it was never a runaway. But Dom built the Ram advantage up to ten points and played the points and the clock like a man in command. Which he was.

  It was 38 to 28 when he came off and they gave him a standing ovation. The gun sounded two minutes later.

  My neighbor said, “Well, we finally beat the Eagles. Watch out for us this year.”

  Jan and I went down the ramp in the sunlight and there was more chatter today. Last week they had seen a miracle; today they had seen a pro.

  Ahead of us, walking laterally to our path, I saw Enrico Martino. Jackie Held was with him, hanging onto his arm. They went over toward a refreshment stand as we started across the blocked-off street.

  And then I saw Curly, the boy I’d kayoed. With him was a slim and dapper man I’d never seen before, but I could guess he’d never turned an honest dollar.

  I saw Curly nudge the little man and nod meaningly toward the refreshment stand. And I saw the trouble-seeking smile on Curly’s face.

  I said to Jan, “Wait
right here, on the curb, by this tree.”

  And I went over to the stand. I got there before Curly had said a word, though Rick had seen him and they were eyeing each other.

  I stood next to Martin and said, “Some game your cousin played. He’s a real pro.”

  He’d glanced at me briefly. Now he nodded and kept his eyes on Curly. The little man was looking doubtful, but there was no doubt in Curly’s smile.

  Without looking at me, Martin asked, “Know him, Brock?”

  Loud enough for all to hear, I said, “Not by name. I know he’s got a glass jaw.”

  The little man looked more doubtful, Curly less.

  “Pug Heffner, Lenny’s brother. I wanted you to know his name in case something happens.”

  Heffner said smilingly, “What would happen, ginzo? Don’t tremble, wop.”

  And then a voice said, “Who you calling wop, mister?”

  I turned to see Tiny DePaolo standing there. Tiny’s best days are a few seasons back, like mine, so he had put on perhaps ten pounds of fat. But a man who weighs three hundred and twelve pounds can use ten pounds of softening.

  He saw me when I turned around, and he grinned. “The Rock. Hey, what goes? This midget giving your buddy trouble?”

  Tiny stands six feet and ten inches high, which gave him a good eight inches on Pug Heffner. Though it didn’t make Heffner a midget.

  I said mildly, “I guess he doesn’t like Italians, Tiny. I’ll take the little one.”

  Rick Martin was smiling now. “I was sort of saving him for me, but if you insist. — ”

  The little man melted into the crowd. But I had to hand it to Pug Heffner. He stood where he was, facing close to seven hundred and fifty pounds of animosity.

  Tiny said genially, “You meant Italian, mister, didn’t you? The wrong words kind of slipped out, didn’t they?”

  “They weren’t meant for you,” Pug said.

  “All right then, shorty. No harm done.” Tiny waved at him with the back of his hand. “Run along, boy.”

  For perhaps five seconds Heffner stared at us, and then he turned and walked abruptly away.