Hire a Hangman

by Collin Wilcox

  “Back here …” The woman turned away, began walking purposefully toward an Exit sign at the end of a short back corridor with His and Hers on either side. Like her manner, the movement of Dolores Chavez’s buttocks and thighs was purposeful, straightforward, assertive. Some women walked to please men. Dolores walked to cover ground. In cadence, her thick black hair, earlobe length, swung rhythmically.

  She lifted a two-by-four that barred the metal-clad rear door, drew back two large bolts, swung open the heavy door, and walked into a small, paved areaway stacked with garbage cans and trash bags. As he pulled the door shut behind them, Hastings glimpsed a furtive, furry movement between two garbage cans. Good. If Dolores caused trouble, a call to the health department would be Hastings’s first move.

  She turned to face him, saying, “I talked to Charlie.”

  Hastings nodded. “I was there when you called.”

  “Charlie says you’re okay, don’t screw people over.” As she said it, her dark, quick eyes boldly assessed him.

  “Charlie’s right.” He let a beat pass. Then, meaningfully: “People like us—you and I—we’ve got to keep our word, keep our promises. Otherwise it all comes apart.”

  Plainly still suspicious, she nevertheless inclined her head slightly. “Yeah …” Her voice was only lightly accented. Contradicting her exterior self, there was a softness to her face, a harmony of ovals, gently joined. But her dark, vivid eyes remained hard. Legs braced wide, fists propped on her hips, her body language was still uncompromising. Plainly, butting heads with Dolores would yield nothing more than a headache.

  So, relaxing his own body, Hastings waited for her to speak.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever done this. Talked to a cop, I mean,” she said.

  Hastings nodded.

  “I’ve got a kid. A son. You understand?”

  “I understand.” Why was he tempted to say, I’ve got a son, too. And a daughter?

  “My arrangement with Charlie’s nothing, really. I used to date a guy, one of Charlie’s guys. He introduced me to Charlie. Then we broke up, this guy and me. So then, a couple of times, I hear about someone’s looking for something, I give Charlie a call, turn a couple of bucks. Mostly TVs, a couple of CD players, like that. I never held the stuff, not really. I just took a cut. A little cut.”

  Hastings nodded again.

  “Guns, though …” Mouth set firmly, eyes still hard, she shook her head. Was she about to deny that she’d done it, dealt the Llama and the .45? Charlie Ross would pay, if she backed away. Charlie would pay and pay again, everything doubled.

  “They were a mistake,” she was saying. “Those guns, they were a mistake.”

  Suppressing a grateful exhalation, Hastings nodded again. The areaway where they stood was bordered by the air shafts of two small apartment buildings, each three stories high. A narrow blind alley led from the areaway to the street. Hastings stepped a companionable foot closer and said quietly, “Tell me, Dolores. Just tell me how it went. Don’t try to second-guess yourself. Just tell me.”

  “Yeah …” She nodded. She was softening. But only a little.

  Hastings took the two folded fifties from his pocket, palmed them, passed them to her as he held her eyes with his. “Here—this is from Charlie.”

  She took the bills, slid them smoothly into the hip pocket of her designer jeans. Yes, Dolores knew her way around. All the moves were right.

  “Let’s get this over with, Dolores. Let’s cut it short.”

  She drew a deep breath. The fabric of her “San Francisco Quake of ’89” sweatshirt drew taut across her breasts. Her body, Hastings realized, was exciting—vital, expressive, compelling. Now she lowered her chin. It was a definitive mannerism, the street fighter digging in, psyching up. Then she began:

  “There was this guy came in the bar. Call him Bob. He said he had a customer looking for a gun, maybe a couple of guns. Well …” She shrugged. “That’s nothing new. Everyone’s looking for guns. But this guy—Bob—was talking about some big bucks, it sounded like. His customer was …” She shrugged again, hesitating, this time searching for a word, a phrase. “He was an uptown type, the way it sounded. I mean, it didn’t sound like he was going to rob a liquor store or anything. So I made a couple of calls, checked around, found a couple of guns. So then I got in touch with Bob. I said I had two guns, and he said okay, he’d be in touch. But then Bob started to feel some kind of heat from his probation officer. So he said he was out. Fifty dollars, and he’s out. Meaning that I’d do business directly with his customer. Which was fine with me. So then I picked up the guns. And that was it. The guy came in, had a drink, said he was a friend of Bob’s, like we’d arranged. I handed the guy a paper sack with the guns in it, and he handed me a sack with the money. No problem.”

  “You got the two guns from Charlie Ross.”

  Deliberately, she looked him over. Then, coolly: “I didn’t say that.”

  He set his jaw, hardened his gaze. Translation: this evasion he would allow. Only this one.

  “Describe the guns.”

  She frowned. “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean what I say, Dolores. I mean describe them. Were they automatics? Revolvers? Uzis? What?”

  “I …” She hesitated. “I don’t know from guns. They—” Ruefully now, she hesitated. Then, admitting: “They scare me, you want to know the truth.”

  Was it the truth? He must know.

  He turned to the narrow alleyway. “Does that lead to the street?”

  Puzzled—wary now—she nodded. “Yes. But—”

  “Is it locked?”

  “Bolted.”

  “All right. Wait here. Right here.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned, walked quickly to the access door, unbolted it, and strode to the cruiser, parked a hundred feet from The Haven. As Hastings swung the door open, Canelli started.

  “Sorry.” Hastings looked up and down the deserted sidewalk. “Give me your piece. Not your service revolver. Your backup.”

  Without comment, Canelli took a Walther semiautomatic from the holster at the base of his spine and handed it over. Yes, the hammer was on half-cock, the safety set. Still leaning into the cruiser, Hastings surreptitiously slipped the Walther into his waistband, buttoned his jacket. “Back in a minute.” He retraced his steps, walked down the strong-smelling alley to the air shaft where Dolores waited. He raised his head, scanned the windows above. Nothing. Using his left hand, he took Canelli’s Walther from his waistband, held it flat in his palm. With his right hand he drew his service revolver, a Smith & Wesson with a four-inch barrel.

  He raised the Walther. “This is an automatic. The cartridges are in the handle. So it’s flat. See?”

  Unwillingly, she studied the pistol, then nodded hesitantly.

  “And this”—he raised the Smith and Wesson—“this is a revolver. The cartridges are in a round cylinder. You can see them in there. Right?”

  She nodded again.

  “Okay. So between these two guns, which were the ones you sold this guy? This?” He raised the automatic. “Or this?” He raised the revolver.

  “That.” She pointed to the automatic.

  “Both of them. Both guns?”

  “Both of them.”

  “You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Both of these guns have what’s called a blued finish. Right?”

  She nodded.

  “The guns you sold. Were they both this blued finish?”

  “No. One of them—the big one—it was all chrome, or silver, something like that. And it had pearl handles, too. I remember that.”

  “Okay.” Concealing the surge of relief and excitement he felt, he nodded, put the two pistols away, buttoned his jacket. Then, speaking quietly, flatly, in his voice of departmental command, he said, “Okay—give me a description of the customer.”

  “A description?” As if she were puzzled, she frowned.

  “Yes, Dolores.” T
he two words were weighted acidly. “A description. You know—is he old? Young? Hair? No hair? That’s what this little talk is all about. We’re looking for this guy. We’re looking for him because we think he committed two murders. Understand?”

  “Well, yeah. But—” She broke off, shook her head. “But what’re you saying? You saying court? The witness stand? Like that?”

  “I’m saying we want to find this guy. I’m saying that we’ve got two people dead. They were killed by these two guns we’re talking about, Dolores. Do you understand that?”

  “Yeah. But—”

  “There’s no ‘buts,’ Dolores. Right now, the trail leads from a man named Crowe in L. A., to Charlie—to you. So, right now, you’re it, Dolores.” Then, softly: “That isn’t the way you want to leave it—” A moment passed. “Is it?”

  No response. Only a hard look from her dark, snapping eyes.

  “You say you’ve got a child. What’d happen to him if we had to lock you up, Dolores?”

  “Hey, what’re you trying to—”

  He silenced her with a curt gesture that cut toward The Haven. “What’s your work schedule?”

  She frowned. “Work schedule?”

  “What hours do you work?”

  “It changes. This week I come in at ten, a little before, open at noon. I work till six. Then I work nights, sometimes. We change off. Why?” It was a wary question. Her eyes were very still.

  “Because I want you to look at a couple of people. Maybe we can run them by here, maybe not. We’ll see.”

  “You mean guys who—?” She let it go apprehensively unfinished.

  “Obviously, we’ll want you to identify the guy who bought the guns. I’m not talking about a lineup, downtown. I’m talking about you probably sitting in an unmarked car, looking at someone walking by, like that. He doesn’t need to see you. That’s up to you. And we won’t bring him by The Haven, if that’s the way you want it.”

  “Hmmm …” It was an uneasy monosyllable.

  “But first I need a description, Dolores.” Feigning elaborate caution, he scanned the windows above them. “I want it now. Right now. Don’t stall, it won’t do you any good. And the longer we’re here, you know, the more chances you’re taking, being seen talking to a cop. You understand that, don’t you?”

  For a long, smoldering moment her dark Inca eyes held his. Then she muttered an obscenity. Ignoring it, Hastings waited silently. Finally she spat out, “He’s maybe forty, I’d say, around there. Maybe thirty-five, I don’t know. Almost as tall as you, but not as husky. He was dressed just ordinary—slacks, an old leather jacket. And a stocking cap, I remember that. Dark blue, pulled down around his ears, reminded me of a sailor, a little. And, yeah, sunglasses. Dark sunglasses. And it was night, you know, when he came. Dim lights in the bar. So I didn’t get much of a look at him.”

  “He was disguised, it sounds like.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, that’s the way I figured. Disguised.”

  “What about his voice?”

  She shrugged, spread her hands. “Who knows? All he said was, ‘Are you Dolores?’ Then he said maybe a couple more sentences, that was it.”

  “How’d he talk? Uptown? Latino? Tenderloin? What?”

  “Uptown, I’d say. No accent, that’s for sure.”

  “I gather he was white.”

  “Yeah—white.”

  “Dark complexion? Light?”

  She shrugged. “He wore a mustache. Dark. His hair was dark, too, what I could see of it.”

  “Was it a fake?” he asked. “The mustache—could it’ve been a fake?”

  “I guess so,” she answered indifferently. “Like I say, I wasn’t trying to memorize his face, nothing like that. I just—you know—took the money and said good-bye. Most of what I saw of him, I saw in the mirror back of the bar.”

  “How much did he pay for the two guns?”

  She hesitated momentarily, then admitted, “It was a lot. Eight hundred.”

  He nodded, studied her thoughtfully for a moment. Then, signifying that for now their business was concluded, he stepped back.

  But there was still something to say—another question to ask. “How many children do you have? Just the one?”

  Instantly her dark eyes flashed angrily, defensively. “Why’re you asking?”

  Impassively holding her gaze, he made no reply. Finally she muttered, “Yeah. Just one. A boy. Nine years old.”

  “Have you got a man? A husband?”

  Her baleful stare was the answer. Hastings studied her for a moment before he decided to ask, “How old’s your car, Dolores?”

  Surprise momentarily straightened the defiant curl of her lips. “It’s new.” Then, puzzled, she asked grudgingly, “Why you asking?”

  “I’m asking,” he said, “because I’ve got some advice for you.”

  Contemptuously, she nodded. “You going to tell me how to raise my kid, eh? You jerk me around, you and Charlie Ross. Then you’re going to start preaching. Right?”

  “You’re right, Dolores. You’re absolutely right. I’m going to start preaching. I’m going to tell you to wise up and start living within your means, without breaking the law. You’re smart, and you’re ambitious. You’re good-looking, too. Bartenders can make good money. But what I hear you saying is that you want more. You’re greedy, Dolores—going for the flash. And I’m telling you—I’m promising you—that if you keep on fencing, handling hot merchandise, you’re going to fall. You’re going to do time—and your son’s going to be on the streets, or else in an institution. Do you have any idea what can happen to a kid in juvie? Any idea at all?”

  She made no response. But, almost imperceptibly, her body was slackening, no longer drawn taut by defiance.

  “Think it over, Dolores. You’ve got brains. Use them. Meanwhile, don’t leave town. Because you’re going to be hearing from us.” He turned abruptly and walked down the foul-smelling alley to the street.

  11:45 AM

  He switched off the engine, shifted the gearshift lever to Park. The Twin Peaks observation area was populated by a dozen-odd sightseers and their cars, just as he’d calculated. Drawing a long, deep breath, he made himself focus on the vista before him: the San Francisco cityscape seen from the heights of Twin Peaks, one of the world’s premium views.

  Was it wise for them to meet so soon?

  She hadn’t wanted them to meet. From the sound of her voice, from the cautious cadence of her speech, he’d heard her reluctance. Yet, when he’d insisted, she knew she must agree.

  Meaning that murder made the difference.

  Flesh was flesh and money was money. But murder made the difference.

  Almost fourteen hours now …

  Time …

  Time could conceal.

  But time could corrode. Time could tear open the wound, make memory the barb, make the terror of night the dark secret of the day.

  Corrode … conceal … congeal. Time, ticking away, measuring the moments.

  One minute alive …

  One minute dead.

  Where was he now, this moment? The big man with the quiet eyes—Hastings. Where was he now? Which trail was he following?

  In the mirror he saw her car turning into the observation area. Swinging open the door, he stepped out of the car and walked to the low concrete parapet, pretending to fix his gaze on the view, one tourist among many.

  A minute—and another minute.

  Time …

  Then he was aware of her beside him. Like him, she kept her eyes focused forward. Two tourists. Two strangers, exchanging casual comments.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  Suddenly he laughed, a spontaneous eruption. Or was it a giggle?

  A giggle?

  “How would you expect me to be? I’ve never done this before. Never killed anyone. Ring the bell, say hello, then kill someone.

  “You shouldn’t talk like that. Please don’t talk like that.”

  “You didn’t wa
nt to come.”

  “It’s dangerous, being here.”

  “Dangerous for me?” he asked. “Or dangerous for you?”

  “For us,” she answered, her voice very low, almost inaudible. “Dangerous for us.”

  1:15 PM

  “This business is no different from atom smashing,” Friedman pronounced. “You’ve got to develop a theory, and then you’ve got to stick with it. And my theory is that these two murders are connected.”

  “I think it’s probably eighty percent,” Hastings answered. “But don’t forget, we assume they’re connected because Hanchett was shot with the Llama, and Teresa Bell was shot with a forty-five. Which is to say we’re assuming that the forty-five was the one Charlie and Dolores fenced. But that could be wrong. Teresa Bell could’ve been killed by a burglar who panicked—and who just happened to have a forty-five automatic, of which there’re hundreds in San Francisco. And not all automatics, either. It could’ve been a revolver.”

  Friedman shook his head. “Wrong. The bullet came from an automatic. Ballistics can tell that much, apparently. It’s something to do with the jacketing. But they’ll never be able to tie the gun to the bullet. It went right through, you know. It’s totally mangled.”

  “Okay—so it was an automatic. How many of those are around?”

  “Not many, in fact. Don’t forget, Colt is the only manufacturer who ever made a forty-five automatic. Most automatics are thirty-eights, or nine-millimeters, or seven-point-six-five-millimeters.”

  “I know that.” Hastings’s voice rose irritably. At this point in a homicide investigation, stalled, groping, Friedman’s imitation of a squad-room Socrates often rankled. “What I’m saying is, there’s no real basis for—”

  “I already told you,” Friedman said, “it’s theoretical. I’m assuming that the forty-five is the one Charlie fenced. Which is why I assume the two murders are connected. It’s a percentage play.”