by Henry, Kane,
Immediate entrance at Club Valero was into a cubbyhole of black vestibule where a courteous sentinel with a pin-point flashlight would, after closing the door, quickly escort prospective punters into an adjacent anteroom where another beadle would inspect and verify identification. Qualifying, member and guests would pass through high portals into a charming restaurant with gourmand’s food and epicure’s prices. Not hungry, member and guests could take an elevator to the second floor which was a nightclub with a small band, a small bandstand, a small dance-floor and small but expensive drinks. Not thirsty or dance-desirous, members and guests could take the elevator to the third floor (all members and guests inevitably reached that floor) which was a fully equipped gambling emporium—craps, bird-cage, roulette, faro, chuck-a-luck, baccarat, vingt et un, even slot machines—a vast beautiful room that could easily accommodate a thousand people; a slice of Las Vegas transplanted. For those who grew hungry there was a hot-food bar running the length of one wall. For those who were thirsty there was a liquor bar running the length of the opposite wall. In between you tested your luck. And for very special clients with very special needs there was the fourth floor with various rooms for varied dalliance.
The establishment was operated, managed and half-owned by Tony Valero: the other half ownership was with a clique of smart-money gentlemen from the Far East (New York, that is).
The long black car came to a gentle halt. Benny Maxwell leaned over and presented the driver with ten dollars. “Wait,” said Benny Maxwell, “I’ll be right out.”
“Thanks for the saw,” said the driver, “but come right out. I’m not allowed to wait long.”
“Right out,” said Benny Maxwell and climbed out of the car followed by Peter Gunn and went to the door and touched a bell. The door was opened and closed and they were in the dark vestibule and then they were in the anteroom where one of the two burly-shouldered men examined Benny’s membership card on which was a picture of Benny, compared Benny to his picture, made Benny write his signature on a piece of scrap paper, compared that to Benny’s signature on the membership card, crumpled up the scrap paper and threw it into a wastebasket, returned Benny’s card, said, “Okay,” and looked at Gunn.
“I’m with him,” said Gunn.
“He’s with me,” said Benny.
“Okay,” said the burly-shouldered man and the other burly-shouldered man, after executing a fast frisk of both of them and finding them free of hardware, pushed open one of the high portals and they entered into the broad, beige-carpeted foyer of the restaurant. Benny led Gunn to the ornate gilded doors of a push-button elevator, said, “Third floor, man, I’m powdering. I’ll tell them guys I got to go pick up my girl now. Luck.”
The third floor was buzzing with activity. Eight chandeliers hung over a room of at least eight hundred people, smartly dressed, eating, drinking, but mostly gambling. All the card dealers were girls, all pretty. All the stickmen at the crap tables were men, not so pretty. Big men in tuxedos circulated about the room; big men in tuxedos stood hands behind back at the gaming tables; Gunn recognized none of the men in tuxedos as Koko, but this was only first glance. He went to the bar, paid two dollars for a Scotch and water, sipped once, set his glass down, hung an elbow on the bar, and looked—but not for long. He turned to a tap on his shoulder. Tony Valero, pale, tense, said through lips hardly moving, “Man, you got more nerve than brains, I got to say so myself.”
“I want to talk to Willie Koko.”
“How do you know he’s here?”
“I know.”
“You know too much.”
“Is that bad?”
“It ain’t healthy.”
“I take my chances.”
“You’ve taken your last chance.”
“That’s enough with the dialogue, Tony.”
“Even in my own joint, you—”
“It may not be your joint for long.”
“You want Koko?”
“Yes.”
“He’s upstairs.”
“Where?”
“I’ll take you.”
“Thank you.”
Tony Valero, in natty tuxedo, led Peter Gunn, in casual suit, to the gilt-doored elevator, entered with him, punched the button marked 4, alighted with him, trod a broad corridor to a brass-knobbed door, turned the knob and permitted Gunn to pass in. Gunn passed in and passed out. The last he remembered was the squash-sound of a strangely soft thwack upon the base of his skull.
chapter 19
When he opened his eyes he was seated but he could not get up. He was firmly affixed to a hard armchair, thongs attaching his wrists to the arms of the chair and thongs attaching his ankles to the feet of the chair but he was not gagged and instantly he spoke. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said in a strange tone of admiration. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Tony my boy, honest.”
If Valero heard him he paid him no heed: he was breathing fire on his own. He was pacing up and down the large room with small steps, almost running, slamming one hand into the other, words rattling like hail on glass. “… no more, no more, finished, this guy’s looking for it, he’s getting it, tonight I’ll take care of his ass, I’ll take care of his agates, we’ll work it out good, we’ll work it out clean, but I’ve had it. I’ve had it…” He drew a handkerchief and wiped away the spittle that was drooling down a corner of his mouth.
In the middle of the room a giant of a man stood silent, listening, feet spread wide, arms folded over a chest like a barrel.
“Tony!” called Gunn.
Valero stopped.
“Remember me?” said Gunn.
“You I’m not forgetting, you son of a bitch.”
“Honestly, Tony, I didn’t think you had it in you. Violence? Real violence? You? Shame!”
“Man, there’s plenty more you don’t know I have in me, but you’re going to find out. You belted me today in front of my girl but that I don’t give a crap about. I had a gun on you, you had a right. Man, I’m reasonable, I can be talked to, but up to a point. After that…”
“Tony, am I bleeding? I can’t raise a hand to touch.”
“You’re not bleeding. Yet.”
“What’d you hit me with?”
“It’s old-fashioned but sometimes old-fashioned is the best. A sandbag. You don’t bleed but you cave. It hardly raises a lump.”
“Thanks for the thoughtfulness, Tony.”
Tony paced, rubbed his hands, wiped his face with his handkerchief, stopped squarely in front of Gunn. “Mr. Gunn,” he said, “in this league, two strikes and you’re out. You had one strike, that was in Pasadena. Even though I did time, my friends talked me out of getting back to you. They said business is business, you’re in business, I’m in business, and I can’t get sore if a peeper puts me out of business because that’s his business and it’s nothing personal. Like you can’t get sore at the judge who passes sentence, that’s his business, it’s nothing personal.”
“Those are smart friends you have, Tony.”
“Well, no friends are going to talk me out of this trick. Like I said, I’m reasonable. Once they talked me out of it. But that was one strike on you. Two strikes, you’re out. This is two strikes. This joint you ain’t going to break up. Somebody else, I’d take it, that’s business. But you, now it’s personal. You’re not going to persecute me, man. You’re not going to live that long.”
“I’m not here for you, Tony. I came here to talk to Mr. Koko.”
“You’re full of shit. Oh, you’ll have a chance to talk to Koko but after that you’re never going to do no more talking. Maybe it’ll teach a few lessons around this town.” He backed away from Gunn, turned to the silent man. “Now I’m busy. Got a full house downstairs. About four o’clock, we’ll take this guy out, drive him down to Laguna. I got my boat there. He’ll get it on the boat. Then we’ll put enough weights on him so he’ll never come up. Then over the side. That’ll be one more shamus dead. That’s like killing a rat, for all the good it d
oes, there’s a zillion more. But this rat thinks I’m his special hunk of cheese. Well, this rat is going to find out different.”
“Tony,” said Gunn, “when I get out of here—”
“You’re never getting out!”
“When I get out of here, I shall discuss some aspects of this matter with my friend Lieutenant Jacoby. I shall tell him that if anything untoward happens to me, you’re the boy what done it, and Jacoby will catch up with you personally plus this fancy joint will be smashed to bits. Keep that in mind if any violent ideas occur to you afterward—”
“Man, my violent ideas are now.”
“I’m talking about afterward.”
“You’re not going to have an afterward, pal. All’s you got is now, and that ain’t for long.” Tony looked at his watch. “He’s your responsibility, Willie.”
“Are you Willie Koko?” asked Gunn.
The giant of a man did not answer.
“You stay with him, Willie,” said Tony. “When I come back, we’re ready to go. I figure it for four o’clock.”
“Is he Willie Koko?” said Gunn.
“He’s Willie Koko.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
“You’re welcome. For what?”
“I told you I wanted to talk with him.”
“Talk. Talk your brains out. If he gets talking too loud, Willie, you know what to do.” Tony Valero slammed out of the room.
chapter 20
Willie Koko had dark oblong eyes, a square blue-black jaw and black crew-cut hair with tinges of gray at the temples. He was very tall with wide shoulders and hands like cantaloupes, but he moved with grace and precision. He went to Gunn, tested the thongs that rendered him an immovable appurtenance to the chair, and then spoke for the first time. He had a deep husky voice and, like most big men, spoke slowly, almost kindly. “This room is sound-proof so if you yell it won’t do you no good. However, I don’t like no yelling so if you yell I put a gag on you. Tony wanted a gag in the first place but I talked him out of it. I figure you don’t have long to breathe anyway so you may as well breathe free for the time you got. The time you got is till about four o’clock and all I got to do is sit around here with you, so I’m going down for a bottle and bring it up to pass the time and if you’ll be good I’ll spill a couple of drinks into you too. I don’t have nothing against you, mister, so if you’re good we don’t figure to have no trouble. Now be good. I’ll be back in a jiff.” Willie produced a key, went out the door and Gunn heard him lock it.
Gunn swelled his muscles against his bindings but they were secure. His hands and feet were beginning to grow numb but the upper circulation seemed unimpaired because the pistons of his brain were hitting on all cylinders. He was certain the finger in the dike that could release a flood of truth belonged to that rather amiable behemoth of a hoodlum named Willie Koko. It added, so much of it added: all the little bits of information added to a pattern. Bain was a bone in the throat of the ambitious York. True, they had discovered Lockwood over Bain with a gun in his hand, but was there sufficient motive for murder on the part of Lockwood? One doesn’t kill because one is thwarted in a romance, one doesn’t kill the girl’s father, one doesn’t come to the girl’s father carrying a gun. Temper? It was admitted Lockwood had a bad temper. If he had throttled Bain, used his hands on him, yes, such murder could be the result of temper, a crime of passion. Lockwood had run upon being discovered, but running does not always signify guilt, certainly there was sufficient basis for Lockwood having run in panic, as he had explained. His reaction to the photograph of Effie had been moral: Gunn had observed him. The man was a musician not an experienced murderer. The reaction had not been one of fear, rather one of remembrance; and his strange story of Effie selling magazines could not have been concocted to tie in York: he would have had no knowledge of her relationship to Koko and Koko’s relationship to York.
What of his identification of York as the man whom he had seen rushing from Bain’s home? Could he have known of the enmity between York and Bain? That was possible, there was no secret about that, but if he had wanted to tie in York he could have tied him tighter by mentioning the Caddy—which had been Harold Smith’s excellent point. Jacoby had countered that with the fact that Lockwood may have been chary of being trapped, but Gunn countered that with the fact that Lockwood was a musician, not an experienced criminal, and he simply would not know enough to sidestep possible traps. More and more he was inclined to go along with Lockwood’s identification of York, especially since the conversation with Benny Maxwell. Possibly clean of Bain’s murder, Lockwood was not in Gunn’s mind entirely clean. Gunn was suspicious about Lockwood’s explanation for being Stan Lacey in the East and Sam Lockwood in the West, and he was puzzled about a musician’s acquisition of sufficient riches for exquisite house-furnishings that must have cost many many thousands of dollars.
Now what about York? There they were dealing with an experienced criminal, a hard, wise, cynical mind. He had shown absolutely no recognition of Lockwood, although Jacoby’s confrontation had been perfectly and purposely abrupt, but here again York’s years and years of experience would have stood him in stead. Certainly York was of the ilk whose facial expressions would not betray them. And he had made certain to keep his lawyer within reach all day—had he been expecting an accusation? His alibi, of course, was laughable, but wonderfully functional—he could have been at Effie’s apartment at ten o’clock and he could have been at Bain’s house at noon, and the laughable, functional alibi covered both. And then there were the facts elicited from Benny Maxwell. Koko and Effie had been out on a job yesterday, and yesterday Koko had to make a delivery to York, and yesterday was the day Effie had come selling magazines to Lockwood, delaying him at the front door when the back door was unlocked. Koko. So much depended upon Koko. Gunn thanked heaven that Valero had yielded to the persuasion not to gag him…
The key clicked in the lock. The door opened. Koko entered bearing a tray. The tray held a bottle, glasses and a huge glass pitcher of water with ice cubes floating. Koko deposited the tray on a table, closed the door, locked it and left the key in the lock. He undid his black bow tie, opened the collar of his dress shirt and blew a whistling sigh of relief. He said, “You want a drink? Bourbon?”
“No, thank you,” said Gunn.
“You’re not a drinking man?”
“I don’t like being bottle-fed, and I wouldn’t dare ask you to untie my hands. Your boss wouldn’t like it.”
“Boss? What boss?”
“Tony Valero.”
“Yeah, maybe he wouldn’t like it.”
Koko sat at the table, poured a drink, smacked his lips, lit a cigarette. The room was large and well-appointed. There was a wide daybed with many pillows, two couches, mirrors, tables, easy chairs, a telephone, and a partly open door to a white-tiled bathroom.
Koko poured again, drank again.
Gunn said, “You starting a new binge?”
“Now what kind of crack is that?” said Koko.
“From what I hear, you were laid out stiff last night. Slept it off all day. Didn’t get onto your feet till eight o’clock this evening.”
The black oblong eyes slitted. “What’s your name?”
“Your boss told you.”
“I didn’t listen.”
“Gunn.”
“You know a lot, Mr. Gunn. Maybe too much. Maybe Tony’s right about you.”
“Tony’s wrong about me.”
“Wrong how?”
“He thinks I’m after him. This joint. I’m not.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“I told him the truth.”
“What truth?”
“I’m here because of you, Mr. Koko.”
“Me? That’s a laugh, Mac. I don’t even know you, never even heard of you.”
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Koko. I inquired. How would I know about the binge last night, know you were laid out till eight tonight?”
�
��Yeah, how would you know?”
“I know more.”
“Like what, Mr. Gunn?”
Gunn was anxious but he spun it out softly. “Like working for Tony is part-time. Like your boss is Mr. Mike York. Like if Mike knew you were working part-time for Tony, you might get spanked, real hard.”
Koko rose from his chair, approached Gunn, stood over him peering down for a moment, then raised his cantaloupe-hand and slapped it backhand across Gunn’s face. It was a sideswipe but it was like an explosion. It took time before Gunn could hear again. What he heard was, “… Mike York working a private richard to scout out on his own talent. Man, that’s a laugh, a yak. It’ll be a pleasure assisting Tony putting you into the drink out by Laguna. So you work for Mike York, do you, buddy-boy?”
“I’m working for you, Mr. Koko.”
“Now look, Mac, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I advise you to stop playing it, because if you keep on playing it Tony’s going to have nothing but a stiff to take out to Laguna. You keep needling me, buster, and I get impatient. So who needs it?” He rumpled Gunn’s hair. “Don’t needle. Let’s just sit around and enjoy, huh? You ain’t got long to enjoy.”
“May I have a cigarette, Mr. Koko?”
Koko lit a cigarette and held it to Gunn’s lips for a few puffs. “Mac,” he said, “if you’re angling to get your hands untied, forget it. You stay like you are till it’s time to go.” He gave Gunn another puff and brought the cigarette away to an ash tray on the table. He sat heavily and poured himself another drink. “Salute,” he said and drank.
“Easy on the stuff, please, Mr. Koko,” said Gunn.
“Mac, I said we enjoy. Lectures from you I don’t need.”
“I’m going to need you sober, Mr. Koko, very sober.”
“For your needs I’m not going to have to be sober. Fact, drunk’ll be better.”
