I was a long way from L.A.
I finished my juice, threw the cup into a battered garbage pail filled with sour-smelling refuse, got in the car, and went on my way.
A mile or two on the other side of Santa Maria, I saw a forest-green sign with bright yellow letters that read san pietro 2 miles. I turned onto State Road 7. It was a narrow but well-paved road on the crest of a foothill. Pine trees shouldered up close to the road and hid the ocean from view. About a mile later, the road curved through a draw in the hillside and suddenly San Pietro lay before me. A small sign pointed south to Milltown and Mendosa. I stopped, got out, and leaned against the front fender while I took in the scene that spread out in front of and below me.
It looked as if a fist the size of a mountain had slammed into the foothill that petered out at the sea, forming a secluded bowl where the town sat as though resting in the palm of that giant hand. On three sides, the foothill sloped up for perhaps a mile. The ocean formed the other side of the village.
It was hard to imagine that the peaceful town that lay at the foot of the hill had once been one of the toughest towns in the county. I wondered how the corruption and violence had affected young Culhane, who grew up with such a spectacle representing his future. Why had he come back to a place like that after the war? Was it anger that had motivated him to go nose-to-nose with the lawless element that ran the town? Or was it greed? Was Culhane a product of under-the-table politics? Had he really cleaned up the town? Or had he merely exchanged one form of corruption for another? And was he a keeper of the law? Or was he above it?
Whatever had motivated Culhane, it had worked for the town once known as Eureka. San Pietro was now a town that might have popped off a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover. The downtown section was twelve blocks long and as many blocks wide. The storefronts were white and trimmed in grays and light blues and reds. At the south end of the town, dominating a low, flat shoulder of the foothill that ran out at the sea, was a large U-shaped hotel. The open side of the U faced the ocean. An Olympic-size swimming pool surrounded by beach umbrellas and cabanas and emerald grass was embraced by the sides of the two-story resort. On the south side of the building were four tennis courts, with canvas panels facing the sea to cut the ocean’s wind. Across the street was a large parking lot half-filled with Packards, Maxwells, Caddies, Pierce-Arrows, and a smattering of Rolls-Royces. A Ford or Chevy would have been as out of place in that lot as a three-hundred-pound girl in the Miss California contest.
Separating it from the rest of town was a large public park with a fountain at its center. On one side of the park was a large three-story building built in the Mexican style, with an orange tiled roof and pale yellow walls and a United States flag flying from the spire of the tower that dominated it. Facing it on the other side of the park was a movie house. On the ocean side of the park were the public docks.
Sailboats rocked serenely at its piers. Others were anchored nearby, captained by rugged individuals who preferred anchoring free of land. Farther out in the bay, a white Grebe yacht trimmed with teak drifted idly at anchor. It looked as big as a football field and sat low in the water. I reached in the car pocket, retrieved my binoculars, and focused on the yacht, sweeping the deck slowly from the stern. The brass fittings were buffed and spotless, the hardwood decks glittered in the bright sunlight, the portholes and windows were as immaculate as a Florentine mirror. I moved the glasses a little farther. A woman lay on the large front deck facing the sun, on a beach blanket that would have covered my living room. She was stark naked. A few feet away, a white-haired man in white ducks, canvas shoes, and a red-and-white-striped shirt was sitting with his feet on the rail, drink in hand, staring out to sea as though she didn’t exist. I suppose if you can afford a setup like that, you take everything for granted. I hoped I never got that rich.
Moving in from the sea and surrounding the village on the north and west were tree-lined streets, where I assumed the common folk lived in pleasant bungalows. Beyond the residential section, the hill rose up sharply. A wide, sweeping ridge swept around the bowl, forming a broad mesa. I was parked on one side. A golf course consumed most of the ridge to the east and north. Facing me, hidden among pines and water oaks, was where the rich obviously lived.
The roofs of mansions peeked above the foliage spotting the hillside as it rose to the crest of the foothill. A two-lane road curved up the side of the hill and vanished into the thick trees. A strip of stores a couple of blocks long wound through the trees and then, a few city blocks farther on, the ridge ended on a cliff overlooking the ocean. A three-story Victorian mansion sat as close to the edge of the cliff as was safe. From it, a narrow road tortured its way along the cliff a mile or so down into the village. It was like Olympus, where the gods of this sequestered community could look down on the common folk and dictate the mores, morals, and standard of living of mere mortals.
So this was it? A town of maybe two thousand people? A town so serene and peaceful a lizard sitting in the sun would probably die of boredom. A town which, like all small towns, probably harbored secrets darker than a pedophile’s soul. A town that had nurtured and reared the man who might become the next governor of the state.
As I was standing there, binoculars in hand, a black Pontiac came down the road on my side and slowed almost to a stop. The car drifted past me and a roughneck as big as a billboard gave me a hard stare out of his one good eye. The other eye was frozen in one position and stared straight ahead, while the serviceable one stayed on me until the car was well past. Then it picked up speed again. The license plate read sp 3 and the attitude told me they were cops. Small-town cops. Cops with muscle who wrote their own rule books and, for nothing at all, could give you more grief than a broken back.
Moriarity was right. They knew I was there before I did. It was time to move on. I rolled down my sleeves, pulled up my tie, put on my suit jacket and gray fedora, and headed down into Culhane Land.
CHAPTER 12
The road took me down the hill and into town in front of the city park. Up close, the town was just as charming and quaint as it was from afar. It was also eerie. The street gutters were spotless—no leaves, candy wrappers, or cigarette butts. A Mexican smoking a stogie was sitting on a park bench next to a wheeled refuse can with a push broom resting in it, waiting to sweep up anything alien that might hit the pavement.
Down at the city docks, to the delight of a bunch of small children, two bronze fishermen were hauling a large swordfish from the stern of a cabin cruiser. Several older citizens were holding down canvas beach chairs under red-and-white-striped umbrellas that lined the edge of the wharf; some were reading books or dozing, others were gazing out across the bay as if they expected the Queen Mary to come steaming into the harbor at any minute. A small arrow-shaped sign with private beach printed on it was at the edge of the pier pointed northward.
The black block letters on the marquee of the Ritz theater, a two-story adobe building painted bright yellow, advertised The Road to Zanzibar with Hope, Crosby, and Lamour, and selected short subjects, “Shows at 3, 7, 9”; and the windowed one-sheets across the face of the theater told me that The Ziegfeld Girl and In the Navy with Abbott and Costello were coming soon.
It was a warm day, on the muggy side, but a cool breeze wafted across the bay, stirring the eucalyptus trees that spotted the city park and bringing the heat down a couple of degrees. There was a festive air about the place. Red, white, and blue balloons bobbed in the wind from shrubs and park benches; up near the main street men were setting up grills and ice-laden chests. A couple of sandwich boards spotted through the park invited one and all to enjoy hot dogs, soft drinks, and watermelon at a noontime picnic, courtesy of the Culhane for Governor Committee. The word free in bright red capital letters adorned the top and bottom of the boards. Culhane was upstaging the Fourth of July by a month.
The spired building facing the theater across the park was the municipal building. The big clock on the facade of th
e spire told me it was 11:10. The black Pontiac was maybe three blocks behind me. I turned right on the main street, which was called Ocean Boulevard. Quaint. It was paved with cobblestones and the streetlights were old-fashioned gas lamps. After that, the town got kind of creepy, as if George Orwell had come up with the concept and Norman Rockwell had hired the architect so he could do the Saturday Evening Post cover.
I was heading north on Ocean Boulevard with the big-money hotel behind me and another park several blocks ahead. The theater and Wendy’s Diner filled the block on my left. A pleasant-looking, three-story hotel called the San Pietro Inn was on my right. It also filled the entire block. An old-fashioned bar called Rowdy’s Watering Hole held down the north corner of the hotel.
After that and for the next eleven blocks, the street on both sides was a succession of stores, all built hard against each other, varying only slightly in height, width, and color: gray with white trim, pale blue with dark blue trim, green and white, white and green, and so on. There were two basic designs: gabled roof and flat roof. And they came in three sizes: small, medium, and large. They offered everything from a tobacconist and a record store to a jeweler and a restaurant advertising delicious home cooking. In between were a haberdashery, confectionary, shoe store, bookstore, newsstand, deli, pharmacy, soda fountain, children’s shoe store; more services than 2,000 people could need or want. And just one of each kind. No competition here, except for restaurants, bars, and banks.
The exceptions to this architectural déjà vu were four banks and the library, each of which were brick and commandeered an entire block. They stood out like mausoleums stand out among tombstones.
The other park formed the northern perimeter of the town. I checked the rearview. Mutt and Jeff were a block behind me. I pulled into the tiny parking lot next to the library and stopped. They stopped. A block away, in the middle of the street. I pulled out and turned left, drove back past them and went to the municipal building, parked by the curb, and went up a half-dozen wide, deep steps into the building.
It was sturdily built, its thick walls holding the heat at bay. A long, wide hallway led straight through the interior. To the right were the D.A.’s office, the judge’s sanctuary, and the courtroom. To the left were the police department and city jail. On the second floor were the municipal offices and the council’s meeting room.
At the end of the hall on the right was Culhane’s office. I decided to play it dumb, as if I had never heard of Culhane or anything else about San Pietro county. I wanted the chance to meet the man and size him up face-to-face.
I went through a glass-paneled door and came head-on to a hefty, pleasant-looking Hispanic woman in a blue police uniform, sitting behind a counter that ran almost the full length of the big room. She had a deputy’s badge pinned over an ample breast, was smoking a thin cigarillo, and looked like she could handle herself just fine in any situation. A small nameplate told me her name was Rosalind Hernandez. Behind her in the corner was the switchboard, commandeered by a skinny little white lady in a plain cotton dress, who looked over her shoulder at me with a bored stare of mild disdain.
There was a small gate at the end of the counter and a door on the opposite wall, which I assumed led back to the squad room and jail. Also on the wall were two large, color photographs, one of FDR, the other of the governor, separated by a large American flag, which hung vertically almost to the floor. On the wall to my right a large, round Seth Thomas ticked forlornly as the second hand whiled away the time.
Hernandez looked at me and arched her eyebrows as a way of greeting me. I laid my card in front of her.
She read it, turned it over, turned it back, laid it on the counter, and tapped it with a finger.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?” she asked with authority.
“Is the sheriff available?” I asked with a smile.
“No, sir,” she said. “And he goes by captain, not sheriff. Captain Culhane.” She said it in her official tone, without a trace of an accent. She looked up at the clock. “I expect he’ll come back about five to twelve and make a pass at the gent’s before he goes out to greet the voters.”
“In that case I’ll just wait over at the picnic,” I said. “Would you give him my card? Tell him I need a word or two with him?”
She looked at a blue-covered log book, traced down the entries with a finger, and said, “No appointment?”
“Afraid not,” I said.
She gave me another once-over and nodded. “I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you. I’ll catch up with him at the picnic.”
“Good luck on that,” she said, and settled back to listen to the clock tick.
I drove back to the other end of town to the Pacific National Bank. The list Millicent’s mousy assistant had prepared for me told me that Ben Gorman was president and manager. There was a large parking lot behind the bank. A black 1933 Pierce-Arrow limousine was parked near a rear entrance, and the chauffeur was leaning against the wall beside the door, having a smoke. I got out and went around to the front door. There was a plaque beside the twin eight-foot, brass-trimmed doors that told me: founded by elijah gorman, eureka, california, 1895.
When I entered the bank, I looked down the length of the main room to what seemed to be the big shot’s office. It was on the left, a corner office about the size of Soldier’s Field. A secretary was seated at a walnut desk, talking into a cradle phone. A tall, slender-faced man in a checked jacket was framed in the half-open door behind her, talking to someone I couldn’t see. He looked at me as I came in and pushed the door shut. I walked back to the secretary’s desk and she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece.
“Can I help you?” she asked, trying to be pleasant and not doing very well at it.
“Mr. Gorman, please.”
“He’s gone for the day.”
“Really? It’s not even noon yet.”
“It’s Wednesday,” she snapped at me. “And Mr. Gorman’s business is none of yours. He can leave anytime he wishes to. As you can see, I’m on the phone. Excuse me.”
I wanted to barge past her and kick open the door like Cagney might do, but instead I nodded and went back the way I came. I went around the back to my car, got in, slumped down behind the wheel, and rolled a cigarette.
The Pierce-Arrow driver finished his smoke and ditched his cigarette in a red pail filled with sand. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Then the back door opened. The driver bounced smartly over to the sedan and opened the door for the same tall, hawk-faced man I had seen in the bank. He was over six feet, with jet-black hair streaked with gray, and was smartly dressed in a black-and-yellow-checked sports coat, dark gray pants, and what appeared to be riding boots. He jumped in. As they pulled out of the lot I checked the tag. bg1.
I left the lot by the rear driveway onto Presidio Drive, a short street between Ocean Boulevard and the waterfront. In the rearview mirror, I saw the black Pontiac ease from behind a parked car and drop in behind me. I decided to play a little game with my shadows. I drove past the rear of the First Bank and Trust of San Pietro, turned left onto Ocean, doubled back the way I had come, passed the bank, and turned down an alley next to it. I parked, went in the bank, stood inside the door, and watched the Pontiac park on the other side of the street.
According to my list, the head knocker here was Andrew McBurney. This time I showed my credentials to a small, blond woman with a toothy smile and a pleasant attitude who looked to be in her late twenties. She was chewing gum.
“My name’s Bannon,” I said, matching her smile. “I’d like a word with Mr. McBurney, please.”
“Sure,” she said. She went to the office door, stuck her nose in the door and said, “Mr. McBurney, there’s a Sergeant Bannon from the Los Angeles Police Department to see you.” I heard a muffled answer, and she turned back to me and swung the door wide.
It was a large gloomy office. All dark wood. Shades pulled halfway down. A dismal lamp on the corner of the desk in a puddle of light. T
he parquet floors, which had been beautiful once, were scarred and pitted as if someone had worked them over with a jackhammer.
McBurney was a short, almost bald, little Scotsman with a built-in scowl and ashen skin littered with liver spots. He was wearing a knit shirt open at the throat. His desk was a massive walnut antique that came up to his chest. The rest of him protruded from its top like the clown in a jack-in-the-box. I offered him my hand, which he took without standing and waved a hand toward a chair.
“Alright, what is it?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone.
I gave him the Verna Hicks Wilensky spiel, from the radio in the bathtub to the fact that she was intestate. He listened with a bored expression and about halfway through my presentation started drumming his fingers on the desk. Then I laid out the part about the cashier’s checks. Then I sat back and waited for a response.
“That’s it, that’s what you’re taking up my time about?” he said. “The woman’s a fool, dying without a will. And you know better than to ask something like that,” his voice now hissing like a snake. “Cashier’s checks are confidential. It’s the bank’s sacred trust not to share them with anyone. If I could, I wouldn’t show them to you. None of your goddamned business. But I can’t show them to you, Mr. whatever-your-name-is from the Los Angeles Police Department. It’s against the law. You should know that if you are who you say you are.”
Eureka Page 17
