Murder in the Raw

by William Campbell Gault

  Drying myself, five minutes after that, I saw me in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Brock the Rock was really a block, not at all in the mythical tradition of the wedge-shaped American athlete. My legs were heavy and I was heavy through the middle and beefy through the chest. The Ram’s medico had told me I was built for nothing else in the world but to play professional football; I had the build of a man who can take punishment. He should know; in his own playing days, he’d been the best in the business with the Bears.

  I had always dreamed of being tall and willowy as a youth. I had wound up tall and not willowy. I had dreamed of being quick and deft, an All-American end.

  I had wound up steady and ready, an All-American guard.

  And I had tried to develop a mind to go with the body, not quick, not deft or flashy, but steady and persistent. I had tried to pick up a few virtues to give the appearance of steadiness some substance in fact. Which might sound silly, but we are shaped by our bodies. The big man fights, the small man runs and attitudes are born of both acts.

  Thoughts for all occasions by B. Callahan; why all the introspection? I asked myself.

  I hadn’t been faced by any moral problems tonight. I had been offered a retainer by a wealthy client and had accepted the offer. I had tried to find Juan’s Rosa without success, but the hunt was not over. Tomorrow was another day.

  Tomorrow dawned muggy and hot with a low overcast. The Times had nothing new on the death of Roger Scott except for the information that a girl named Rosa Carmona was being sought by the police.

  The Giants were five and a half games in front of Brooklyn. And in the American League, Cleveland was four games out in front of the Yanks. The Hollywood Stars were leading the Coast League. Cal’s sensational freshman quarterback was transferring to UCLA, losing a year of eligibility in the process.

  At Gilmore Field, Martinez had thoroughly whipped our local Art Arragon. Arragon’s face looked like it had been worked over with a grater, but Golden Boy was eager for a rematch.

  I had a couple of eggs and some bacon and four slices of raisin bread toast, all prepared by my dainty hands. I had two big glasses of milk and a cup of instant coffee.

  I wondered what the police had learned, if there had been any significant fingerprints in that motel room, if they had any idea where Rosa was. Trask had made it clear that any information I might get from the police, I would have to get by reading the newspapers.

  Of course, there was still Captain Apoyan at the West Side Station, but it might be wise to save him for a time when I really needed a friend. And maybe, with a client like Glenys Christopher, I would command a little more respect from the Department. It wouldn’t figure that Juan Mira would impress them.

  And then, when I came across from the parking lot to my office, I saw that the Callahan-Department relationship was entering a new era. For Pascal and Caroline were waiting in a Department car in front of my office building.

  And they were both smiling.

  Pascal got out on the curb side and his bloodhound’s face was genial. “Lieutenant Trask was a little short with you, yesterday, I understand.”

  “That’s understating it. Did he send you two over to apologize?”

  Pascal shrugged. “Well, let’s say he realizes he was less friendly than he could have been. And you did tell him some things we didn’t know, though he wouldn’t admit it yesterday.”

  “That bit about Sue Ellen phoning Scott’s apartment?” I guessed.

  Sergeant Pascal nodded. “Who’s this Sue Ellen?”

  “She’s the Savannah Songbird,” I told him. “You boys music lovers?”

  Pascal chuckled. Behind the wheel, Caroline managed a strained smile.

  Pascal said genially, “Most private ops, I wouldn’t give you a plugged nickel for. But we’re going to get along, aren’t we, Callahan?”

  “Until you find out who Sue Ellen is,” I admitted, “I guess we are. Come on up; I’ve complete reports of all my activities upstairs.”

  Caroline came out from behind the wheel and both of them came up the stairs with me. In my office, I handed them the file copies of my two days of work.

  Pascal had his notebook out and he must have found some things of interest, for he kept his pencil busy.

  When he was finished, he said, “You don’t know this Sue Ellen’s last name?”

  I shook my head. “But they can give it to you at that bar. Her picture is in the window, there.”

  Pascal nodded. He looked at Caroline and then back at me. “As long as you make one carbon of these reports, why not make two and send one to us as long as you stay on this Carmona disappearance?”

  “And what do I get from you in return?”

  “Look, Callahan we’re the law.”

  “Not in Beverly Hills,” I reminded him. “Isn’t there anything you know about Rosa Carmona that I don’t?”

  Caroline lighted a cigarette, saying nothing, looking blank. Pascal frowned. “Well, we know she was mixed up with a hoodlum named Red Nystrom, one of Bugsy’s old boys. But we haven’t found him, though we know he’s in town.”

  “And Roger Scott?” I asked. “Who’s arranging for his funeral? Hasn’t he any family?”

  “I guess not. That partner of his, that Kramer, is taking the body. Funeral’s this afternoon, if I remember right, at Elysian Fields.”

  “You’ve really nothing on Scott, at all, then?”

  Pascal shook his head. “Hollywood type. God knows where they’re spawned, but they don’t seem to have any relatives or friends. At least, none that’ll admit it.” He folded his notebook and put it away. “Well, we’ll go and shake down this Savannah Songbird. And find out, too, if there wasn’t something else that old geezer at the apartment house forgot to tell us. We kind of overlooked him, because his wife did all the talking.”

  At the doorway, he said, “Keep in touch with us, Callahan. Keep us informed.” The smile he’d brought with him was faded and gone.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” I said.

  Rosa had originally intended to get away only from Juan. It seemed plain now that she was also trying to escape the law. Because if she was within reach of a newspaper or a news report, she would know the police wanted her.

  I wondered if perhaps I could learn something at the motel the police hadn’t learned. I’d been lucky with Scott’s landlord. Perhaps my luck would hold.

  I didn’t learn anything the police didn’t know. What I learned was what the police hadn’t told me.

  The manager of the motel was a man named Randall and I told him I was representing a friend of Roger Scott’s and that the police hadn’t been too cooperative. I’d remembered that Pascal had told Trask he was going to put the heat to this man.

  Evidently Pascal had, for Randall was an irate citizen and eager to tell the world about it.

  “ — threatened me, too, the slobs,” he told me. “Asked me what kind of a hot-pillow dive I was running. They’ve got no proof there was a girl in that room, but it’s a girl they’re looking for, according to the papers. Gives my place a fine reputation, doesn’t it? Nothing in the paper about that Red Nystrom, is there? Maybe those brave bulls are scared of him, eh?”

  “Red Nystrom — ?” I asked. “What about him? Who is he?”

  “A hoodlum who used to work for the Syndicate, and now he’s out on his own. A muscle-man. He was here, the day before, and he was threatening Scott. I heard him, and I told the law that. But they’ve got to give the papers the business about the girl, of course.”

  “That wasn’t very nice,” I agreed. “It does give you a bad rep.” And scares away the rest of that kind of trade, I thought but didn’t say.

  “Even if I knew there was a girl there,” he fumed, “what could I do about it? How many couples take their marriage certificates on trips with them?”

  “Right,” I said. “You’re no mind reader. Anything else you could tell me about Roger Scott?”

  “Well, let’s see — ” We were in
his office, and he stared past me, through the window.

  It was a thoughtful stare, at first. At least, that was my impression. But it grew to a frightened stare, and he said hoarsely, “Here he comes, now. He’s just getting out of his car. Those stinking cops probably told him I — ”

  “Who’s coming?” I asked.

  “Nystrom, Red Nystrom.” The voice was a whisper.

  I turned to look out the window but I was too late. All I saw was the shoulder of a blue flannel jacket. It looked like a big shoulder.

  And then the door slammed open, and I saw both shoulders. They were immense. Above them was a face that had been hit, in its day, but I could guess the face’s owner had hit back. Above the face was a ring of red and curly hair around a tanned bald middle. The legs were what surprised me — pipe stems.

  In that moment of his first appearance, I thought of pictures I’d seen of Bob Fitzimmons, Ruby Bob. This was that kind of build, all arms and shoulders.

  The blue eyes in that lumpy face went from Randall to me and back to Randall. Nystrom nodded toward me. “Who’s your friend?”

  Randall didn’t answer.

  Nystrom said, “Tell him to blow; I want to talk to you.”

  Randall seemed almost petrified with fright. He looked nervously at me and licked his lips. He opened his mouth, and closed it.

  I asked, “Is this Red Nystrom?”

  Randall sort of half nodded, and Nystrom gave his attention to me. “Who are you, mister? And what’s it to you who I am?”

  “Take it easy,” I told him. “I built my rep on bums like you, Red.”

  “Rep — ? You a fighter, Laddie?”

  I shook my head. “I’m a killer, Red. Killer Callahan from Beverly Hills.”

  Something approaching cognizance came to the battered face, and then he grinned. “Oh, that peeper — Yeh, I heard about you. Footballer, huh? Tough guy. Run along, footballer; my temper ain’t so good, today.”

  I stood up and saw him measure me with his eyes. I said easily, “Put me out, Red. You’re man enough, aren’t you?”

  His smile was anticipatory. “Sure, Laddie. Sure, I am.” He took a step toward me, feet well apart.

  “Gentlemen — please — !” Randall said chokingly.

  Red took another step, and I waited. He was fairly close, now, but not close enough to swing — I thought. I’d overlooked the ridiculous length of his arms.

  His open right hand came from nowhere and caught me smashingly on the left ear. I staggered sideways, and he came in, his head down.

  I am no pugilist, but I know what to do when a man comes into me with his head down. I laced my fingers and brought both hands down on the back of his neck.

  The same time that I pulled his head ever lower, I brought my knee up into the middle of his face.

  That would have stopped a lesser man, right there. But Red only grunted and reached out to wrap his arms around my legs. I chopped down savagely behind his ear, but he kept coming, crowding me into the rear wall of the narrow office.

  When you give a man your best, and he keeps coming, it is time to look for the nearest exit. I didn’t have any; I was jammed into the corner, now.

  And then, in that lost moment, I saw Randall go through a change of character and it gladdened my heart. Randall was picking up his chair, and it was a good, solid chair of Eastern maple.

  He came up behind Red and lifted the chair high — and hesitated.

  His eyes found mine, as though seeking approbation. His face was white and scared. Hitting a man with a chair is hard to do, the first time.

  “He’ll kill us both,” I shouted. “Give it to him.”

  For a beginner, Randall did a first-rate job. He swung deeply, trying to catch Red’s semibald noggin with the edge of the chair seat.

  This put the legs of the chair close to my face on the way down, but I could see it coming, and Red couldn’t. I pulled away in time and heard the satisfying “thunk” of the heaviest part of the chair connecting with Red’s skull.

  He grunted, and went down, and Randall grew drunk with power. Randall hit him again before I could get the chair away from him.

  And then the door behind us opened, and a voice of authority said, “Hold it, right there!”

  We turned to face Sergeant Pascal. He had his gun in his hand.

  5

  “YOU CAN PUT THE GUN AWAY, Sergeant,” I said. “I think he’s unconscious.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Pascal looked from Red to me and then to Randall. “Why the roughhouse?”

  “That’s Red Nystrom on the floor,” I said. “You’re looking for him, aren’t you?”

  “Never mind about that,” he said. “I asked you a question.”

  Through the screen door, now, I could see Caroline, and Caroline had his gun out, too.

  I said calmly, “Nystrom came barging in here while I was talking to Mr. Randall. He told me to beat it, but I hadn’t finished talking and wasn’t ready to leave. Red tried to throw me out.”

  Pascal’s smile was thin. “And you — resisted. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  I nodded. “Exactly. I hope it isn’t illegal.”

  “Don’t get smart, Callahan.”

  On the floor, Nystrom moaned.

  I said, “Look, Sergeant, I’m not getting smart. But a business man in your district has been threatened by a hoodlum. He not only resisted; he probably saved me from a serious beating by that hoodlum. You’re a little confused, I think, Sergeant. The hoodlum is the one on the floor.”

  “Don’t raise your voice, Callahan. My hearing’s okay.”

  “Yes, but your brains are scrambled,” I said. “I was trying to get through to them.”

  Pascal studied me quietly and ominously. Caroline came through the doorway, and the screen door slammed behind him. On the floor, Nystrom stirred.

  I still had the chair I’d taken away from Randall. I set it down in a corner.

  Randall said, “I hit Nystrom with the chair. I would have hit him some more, if Mr. Callahan hadn’t taken the chair away from me. I would have killed him, I bet. The police protection a man gets in this town, we have to — ”

  He’d been wound up, and now he suddenly unwound. He looked at the blood seeping out of Red’s bald crown and turned blindly toward the doorway, seeking air.

  Caroline stood in front of the door, his short, fat figure effectively blocking it.

  I said sharply, “Out of the way, Fatso; the man’s sick.”

  Caroline didn’t move. He glared at me.

  Then Randall put a hand to his mouth and retching sounds came from within him, and Caroline moved quickly to one side. Randall staggered out and in a moment the sound of his retching came back to us.

  I said quietly, “Don’t you think someone better phone for an ambulance? Nystrom could have a concussion, you know.”

  Nystrom might have heard and wanted to prove his toughness. In any event, he moaned again and put a hand under his chest to push himself up. He was on his knees and hands as Pascal put his gun away and came over to help him up.

  Pascal said, “Need a doctor, Nystrom?” and the red head shook stubbornly.

  Nystrom, with Pascal’s help, got to his feet, his back to Caroline and me. When he turned, I saw what my knee had done to his face. His nose was flattened and bleeding, one eye was already puffed and turning blue.

  “We’ll meet again,” he said to me. “Don’t forget that, Callahan.”

  I nodded. “I guess we will, Red. Next time, I’ll have a gun.”

  He nodded. He meant he’d have a gun, too, but it wasn’t something he’d voice in front of the law.

  Pascal said, “Put your hands behind you, Red.” He took his cuffs out.

  Nystrom’s voice was rough. “What’s the charge? A couple of mugs work me over with a chair, and I get the cuffs. How about them?”

  “They’re going along,” Pascal said quietly. “We’ll teach the three of you a little respect for the law
, down at the station.”

  Red and Randall rode in back with Pascal; I rode in front with Caroline. The Department car was hot and Caroline’s B.O. was heavy on the muggy air. I opened one of the wings to divert a breeze into the car.

  Down at the station, Randall and I were separated from Red. Red went to a cell; Randall and I went into Lieutenant Trask’s office.

  Pascal came with us and Caroline stayed with Red. Pascal hadn’t said a word to me since I’d made the remark about his scrambled brains.

  I heard that remark repeated along with the others as Pascal gave Trask the story of it. Just as Pascal finished, a reporter stuck his head through the doorway.

  “Secret session, Lieutenant?” the reporter asked, and Dave Trask nodded.

  “C’mon, Lieutenant,” the reporter persisted. “It can’t be that important.”

  Trask looked at him bleakly. “Later, Braham. Wait in the hall. And close that door.”

  The door closed and Trask looked at me. “Well, Callahan?”

  I gave it all to him, just as it had happened.

  Trask looked at Pascal. “Nystrom have a gun on him?”

  Pascal shook his head.

  Trask looked back at me. “What were you doing over at that motel?”

  “Talking to Mr. Randall.”

  “About what.”

  I braced myself. “I was soliciting his business.”

  Randall muttered something and Trask looked at him sharply. “What was that?”

  Randall didn’t look at him.

  “Don’t be afraid to speak up, Mr. Randall,” I said. “Don’t forget they’re working for us. We’re paying their salaries.”

  Pascal said sullenly, “Maybe Callahan needs time to cool off, Lieutenant? Maybe he needs a place to think things over?”

  Trask didn’t answer. I said, “Did you get anything out of that lead I gave you this morning? Did you learn anything from Sue Ellen?”

  Neither of them said a word.

  I said harshly, “Damn it, I’ve cooperated all the way. And get this hoodlum treatment.”

  Trask waved a hand. “Slow down, Brock. Take it easy. You’ve a tendency to be insolent.”

  “If I am, I apologize. But don’t forget my dad was a cop and he was killed by a hoodlum. You know what side of the fence I’m on, Dave.”