Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  I was out of cornflakes and out of milk and there was only one shriveled crust of bread; I ate breakfast at the drug store.

  My fan said, “That Ristucci is going to make the grade, I think, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Those Notre Dame boys are pros in college, almost, right?”

  “Almost. Scrambled eggs with bacon and a glass of milk.”

  “Check. What’s the matter, Brock? You seem sour this morning.”

  “I had a bad night.” I smiled at him. “I don’t want to talk. Okay?”

  “Check.” He made the circle with his thumb and forefinger and went over to put in my order.

  A man could ask questions until his voice gave out, but where would that lead? People innocent and guilty answer only out of self-preservation, telling you only as much of the truth as is convenient for them. And no one is completely innocent. Nor completely guilty.

  Questions, questions, questions … I was sick of the sound of my own voice. Wasn’t there any way to seek the truth without a barrage of questions?

  In my cute little pine-paneled office it was quiet. From all the points of the compass people huffed and motors puffed, people bled, sweated, fought and made love. But in the egocentric center of the compass it was quiet, and I tried to think.

  The vision of the Ferrari came to me, and I thought of Pat Curtis, brother of the beloved of the deceased. Mail slid through the slot of my office door and plopped on the floor.

  Three ads and two bills. I made out a pair of checks for the bills and addressed and sealed a pair of envelopes to carry the checks to my benign creditors. And then, as my fingers warmed to the work, I typed the history of yesterday.

  I got all my reports out, after that, and read the story of last week as seen through the eyes of a semiskilled investigator.

  Nothing.

  Pat Curtis stayed in my mind. I told my phone-answering service I’d be gone for less than an hour and walked over to David Keene’s bookstore.

  David was reading this morning, for which he wore horn-rimmed glasses. He looked scholarly and adjusted in his small office. The book was a title I’ve forgotten by a man I didn’t know.

  “There’s a man troubling me,” I said. “A young fellow named Pat Curtis.”

  Keene smiled. “Troubling you? Pat? He’s the original All-American boy; there’s nothing wrong with Pat.”

  “He isn’t the All-American boy,” I corrected him. “Johnny was that. Pat is perhaps the envious buddy of the former All-American boy.”

  David Keene frowned. “Oh, no. No, no, no, that’s way out of character. Pat is a completely extroverted, very happy lad without a smidgin of envy. You’re reaching, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But Johnny was practically engaged to his sister and chasing around with other women. And young Pat always lived in Johnny’s shadow; he admitted that to me.”

  “He wouldn’t have admitted it if he were guilty.”

  “Maybe not. Or maybe he’s cleverer than we think. And he’s a fine rifle shot, he admitted, and the place where Johnny died is an easy rifle shot from the Curtis estate. Easy for an expert, that is.”

  Keene’s frown was deeper. “Did you talk to Pat about all this?”

  “I did. And he’s got a dozen lads from the Beverly Sports Car Club to alibi him. Do you know any of that gang?”

  “I might. I suppose I do. Could you name me a few of them?”

  I gave him the names of the boys I’d talked to.

  “Fine families,” David said. “And good, solid boys. They might lie for a friend, but not to cover a murder, I’m sure.”

  “Which leaves me where?” I said. “Somebody killed Johnny.”

  Keene nodded thoughtfully. “And I’d hate to be the man who had to investigate it. Johnny had so many facets, so many worlds.” He shook his head. “And he had a core of secretiveness in him that very few people ever penetrated, I’d bet.”

  “Maybe nobody ever penetrated it.”

  Keene nodded again. “That could be. But with some of the trash Johnny seems to have mixed with lately, I’d consider Pat Curtis a bad choice as a suspect.”

  “Name me a good choice. Rick Martin?”

  He shook his head. “The man couldn’t be that much of a fool. Some enemy of Martin’s, I’d guess.”

  “How about Moira Quirk?” I asked. “She associates with some of the trash element, possibly.”

  He shrugged. “Moira’s always been — an individual. She never cared much for the Junior League ratrace or the other artificialities. She’s a very intelligent girl, Mr. Callahan.”

  “I didn’t know intelligent girls yearned to be movie stars.”

  He smiled. “Why not? I’ve been called intelligent, but I’d trade with Tyrone Power right now. Wouldn’t you?”

  I shook my head. “Though I’d probably trade with Les Richter right now.”

  He sighed. “All right, Les Richter. We all want different things, I guess. And I’d rather be Faulkner than Power, too, I guess.”

  “And how about Johnny?” I asked him. “What do you think he wanted to be?”

  “Back in the womb. Or maybe just exactly what he was, quarterback for the Los Angeles Rams.”

  Silence.

  Then Keene said, “One thing I’d keep in mind, Johnny probably confided a lot more in women than he did in men. Most of the really manly boys do.” He looked down at his desk top. “I’ve been thinking about that phrase ‘the day of the ram.’ That would apply to our time, wouldn’t it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s a period in our history when athletic prowess gets undue admiration. A bookseller in the east who recently went out of business called this ‘the age of the boob.’ The athlete has taken over the public interest and the racketeer is moving in to get his cut.”

  “Wherever there’s money, there are going to be hoodlums,” I said. “Even in the publishing business. How about the trashy magazines and books that are flooding the market?”

  Keene smiled. “Touché. All right, a truce. Your voice was shaking.”

  I smiled back at him. “I think yours was, too. But now that I’m here, how about some ‘feelthy peectures’?” I stood up. “I’ll probably be back. You help me to think.”

  “Thank you, sir. Nine to six, any day but Sunday. And if you ever need a book or magazine subscription …”

  I waved, and left the vicarious world of David Keene for the smog-tinged haze of the sidewalk. I went back to the office.

  There wasn’t anything to do there and I wasn’t being paid by Mr. Quirk to sit there, so why did I? I had a place to go.

  But I didn’t want to go there. I’d been ordered out of the place last Friday and wouldn’t be welcomed today. Especially not since the incident of the refreshment stand. I had no weapon that could force the truth from the Heffners. Even the police had no weapons like that.

  I strapped on my own weapon, a thirty-eight Colt Police Positive, and went down to my waiting steed.

  • • •

  Manny Cardez was again behind the bar. But his denim slacks were charcoal today, and the T-shirt was dark blue. He still wore the blue suède fruit boots with the crepe soles.

  He looked at me doubtfully. “You’ve got a nerve coming here. I’d get in trouble if I served you.”

  “Don’t serve me then. Run in and tell the Heffner brothers I’m here on a social call.” Unlike me, my voice was poised and cool.

  Manny studied me. “Why don’t you leave them alone? They’re not killers, either one of them.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I assured him. “Are you afraid to take a message to them?”

  “I was thinking of you. You’re number one on Pug’s list of unfinished business.”

  “Don’t worry about me; I’m armed. I’m waiting, Manny.”

  He paused for a moment, studying me quietly. Then he went the length of the bar and over to the door with the frosted-glass panel. He opened it wi
der, this time, and I could see it led into a hallway.

  Out in front a bakery truck was stopping, and I watched the driver unload a basket of bread and deliver to the door that must have served the kitchen.

  The driver had come out and driven away before Manny returned. Manny gestured toward the open door. “At the end of the hall, the door to the right, the steel one. They’re waiting in there.”

  The steel door had a peephole at eye level and I was conscious of the eye there before it swung open. It opened into a room with one high, barred window and some long tables on which there were a number of telephones. Three men I’d never seen before were busy on three of the phones. There was a pot-bellied stove in a corner of the room.

  Lenny Heffner had opened the door and he gestured for me to follow him through another.

  I followed him into a small office equipped with a steel desk, two steel filing cabinets and three chairs. One chair was behind the desk, one in front of it and one at a corner of the desk. The one at the corner was occupied by Pug Heffner.

  Pug looked at me without expression. Lenny went around the desk to sit in that chair and indicated that I should take the third.

  When we were all seated he asked, “Now, what are you looking for?”

  “Just the warmth of a friendly voice.”

  Pug grunted. Lenny said, “C’mon, Callahan. Speak your piece. It’s a busy morning.”

  “All right then,” I said, “I’m interested in the death of Johnny Quirk.”

  “That shouldn’t bring you here.”

  “Why not? It could very well be a gambling kill and you know most of the gamblers around town.”

  Pug said, “And you think we’d squeak, if we did?”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. There’s a lot of money represented in Quirk and his friends. And a lot of influence. If this killing goes unsolved, there’ll be a lot of pressure on the department to clean up gambling.”

  Lenny’s smile was thin. “Which department? He was killed in Beverly Hills. And right now you’re sitting in Santa Monica.”

  “That’s true enough. And Johnny had a thousand-dollar bet with you on the Ram-Bear game. The local police should be interested in learning that”

  Silence. I thought I could hear Pug breathe. After a while, Lenny said, “Who told you that?”

  “An informant I’d rather not reveal.”

  Pug said, “C’mon, Callahan. We’ve only got so much patience, you know.”

  “Nuts,” I said.

  Pug came halfway out of his chair, and Lenny barked, “Watch it, Pug. Sit down.”

  Lenny’s bald head glistened in the light from overhead and there was a queer glint in his blue eyes. Pug subsided in his chair, grunting something.

  Lenny said quietly, “Who told you about the bet, Callahan?”

  “Johnny did,” I lied. “The morning after the game, when he came to see me with that note.”

  “Johnny Quirk came to see you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you working for Martino then?”

  “Not then and not now.”

  “You’re a liar,” Pug said. “Lenny, what the hell are you humoring this slob for? Leave me toss him out”

  “I came prepared for a return match,” I said. “I brought a thirty-eight along. And I’ve a license for it.”

  Lenny’s smile was cool. “He brought a gun. Into our little bar and restaurant he comes, brandishing a gun. It’s a good thing we overpowered him, isn’t it?”

  “Into your little bookie joint — ” I started to say, and something clipped me right behind the ear.

  I was still half-conscious and I started to get out of the chair. Pug was up now, and he brought an overhand right up with him, aimed at my jaw.

  I twisted clear of that, but the force of his swing brought his body into me, and I went over backward with Pug on top of me.

  I didn’t have the moxie; that first blow had drained my fine, full strength. I tried to push him off, but my muscles were rubber. I saw Lenny overhead, too, now, and saw him swing his foot and felt the weight of it in my ribs.

  I tried to pull my legs up to protect my groin and possibly use my feet as weapons. Pug drew back, away from me, taking his right fist along.

  It was a bull’s-eye. They were all over me and I guess I was out for a few minutes.

  twelve

  THE CHIEF of the Santa Monica police was certainly a dandy. A little man with an unctuous voice, looking at me across his big, expensive desk, and sadly shaking his head.

  “What else could we think, Mr. Callahan? A respected businessman in our community claims you came in brandishing a weapon. Whose story would you believe, if you were in my position?”

  One tooth was loose. My lower lip was puffed and at least one of my ribs seemed cracked. There was an egg behind my ear.

  “Since when is a bookie joint a respected business?” I asked him.

  He frowned at me, horrified. “Evidently you don’t know our little town.”

  “I read about it,” I said, “but the writer called it Bay City.”

  “There’s no gambling, not here, not while I’ve been chief.”

  “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus,” I said humbly.

  His soft, politician’s face stiffened. “Are you being insolent, Mr. Callahan?”

  “I can’t think of any other way to get through to you, Shorty. Would you like to take a walk with me over to this respected business establishment? I’d like to show you a police-proof steel door and a roomful of telephones. Even you might get the significance of that.”

  I thought for a few seconds he was going to explode. His face turned scarlet and his soft hands clenched on top of his desk and his glare was at full wattage. He took a deep breath and fought his true, base nature.

  “We can book you,” he said. “I phoned about you and you come well recommended. But we can book you, and don’t forget it.”

  “You didn’t phone all my friends,” I said. “The man I’m working for could buy this silly little town of yours.”

  His voice was controlled. “You’ve suffered a severe beating, and you’re not yourself, I’m sure, Mr. Callahan. But I won’t take one more insolent word from you. That’s fair warning now.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, and stood up. “My client is a very good friend of the Governor’s. I’m sure he’ll hear about it.”

  “And my best friend, Mr. Callahan, is the Governor’s son-in-law. So there really isn’t any reason for all this animosity, is there?”

  “It’s certainly not getting us anywhere,” I agreed. “I hope you won’t mind if I use your beach some time. I wouldn’t want to be barred from such a garden spot.”

  He smiled. “Any employee of our Governor’s friend is always welcome here. Good day, Mr. Callahan.”

  I nodded to him, and pain slashed from behind my eyes to the back of my neck. I fought nausea, walking very carefully out of his office and down the hall. I was looking for a door all the time.

  I found it and made it, made the cubicle before letting go. I rinsed out my sour mouth and bathed my face with paper towels soaked in warm water.

  In the spotted mirror I studied my puffed lip. I tried to twist around enough to see the lump behind my ear, but couldn’t manage it. I thought of Manny Cardez, standing there in his immaculate cottons, lying to the patrol officers, his open, honest face giving substance to his oral fantasies.

  I ached and throbbed and pulsated with pain but I couldn’t feel too sorry for myself. I was old enough to know you can’t beat city hall.

  I hadn’t felt this bad since the Lions had worked me over in ‘53. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the resentment in my eyes.

  Easy, Callahan, play it cool, now. You’re supposed to be a pro.

  I rearranged my face to the pattern of an adjusted citizen and went out to the Ford. One of the patrol officers had driven it over from where it had been parked and the keys were above the visor.

&nbs
p; I still had my gun and the license to use it, but the license didn’t cover murder. I resisted the urge to drive back to Heffner’s. It wasn’t too persistent an urge to resist. I wondered if Pug and I would ever have a rubber match. I’d been lucky the first time and he’d won with a sneak punch the second time. I wasn’t looking forward to a title engagement.

  Rick Martin’s home was in the recent California pattern, antiqued barn siding and heavy thatch roof, a sprawling, one-level place of about four thousand square feet.

  The Filipino who answered the door eventually ushered me into a rear living room that overlooked a blue-slate patio around a fifty-foot pool. Martin was sitting near the open glass doors that led to the patio.

  He looked at my puffed lip. “Well.” He stood up. “What happened?”

  I told him all of it, including the farce in the Chiefs office. He shook his head. “Sit down, Brock. Drink?”

  “No, thanks.” I sat down on a plastic upholstered love seat. He met my gaze fully. “You look dangerous at the moment. You’ve a lot of belligerency in you, haven’t you?”

  “Right now, you mean?”

  “Always.”

  I shrugged. “I guess. I don’t relish being manhandled by hoodlums. And I don’t see any way to get any further with them than I have. I thought you might be able to think of a way.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad you’re on my side right now.”

  “I’m not. I’m not working for you, Rick. I’ll take what help or information you can give me, but we’ll never be brothers.”

  He was silent, staring out at the pool.

  I said, “You must have some employees working for you, haven’t you?”

  He didn’t look at me. “Very few. I’m more or less retired.”

  “Do any of the few that are left carry guns?”

  He shook his head. “I was never heavy.” He turned to face me. “Do you have the idea I’m holding something out on you?”

  “I consider it a strong possibility. That’s why I came here.”

  “I know nothing,” he said, “and that’s why I wanted to hire you. Not as a gun or a muscle, but as an investigator, searching for all the truth you could find.”