Canvas Coffin

by Gault, William Campbell

  “Come again?”

  “Ruth and her little men, a glass menagerie, sort of. She wants to mother them. Or is that incestuous?”

  “I don’t know. I’m no peeping Tom. I wonder who killed Brenda. I wonder if I ever knew.”

  Sally didn’t answer. Her head was back against the cushions, her eyes were closed.

  Drifting fog and shrouded lights, the Ford perking in the damp air. Harry knew the killer, and I wondered if I did, too, if it was a mutual friend.

  Maybe it was Harry.

  Together, Harry and Noodles could have cooked up the tale about Brenda phoning, and fed it to me. But Noodles would know it wasn’t true, and Harry might wonder.

  No, not Harry; Noodles had been his friend, if Tony Scarpa was right on that.

  But Tony might be Harry’s friend, too, and —

  It wasn’t my baby. There were ten thousand cops in this town, trained in police work. I was no cop and not bright enough to make like one without the training.

  Through the fog, the windmills came tilting at me and I saw the glass eyes of Harry’s stuffed owl. That was the first time the owl had accompanied the windmills. Was there something churning in the unknown me, some message trying to get out of the void in my memory?

  Sally said quietly, “What are you thinking about?”

  “About my subconscious mind.”

  “Unconscious,” she corrected me. “Something came out of it?”

  “The owl is with the windmills now.”

  “Have another reefer,” she said, and fell silent again.

  Harry had stuck his neck out, admitting he knew I hadn’t killed Brenda. Why had he done that? To take the heat off me, to put me in mental shape to meet Giani? That was very possible, once he believed there was no fix. He must want to see Giani get beat, after what happened to Noodles.

  Damn it, I was no cop.

  But involved in mankind, Luke Pilgrim, like it says in the quote in that book you never finished reading.

  But windmills, what sense did windmills make? My head began to throb, and the Ford wandered across the double white line, and from nowhere headlights pounced at me.

  I heard the shriek of tires as I pulled sharply to the right, and a woman’s scream and a man’s shouted curses.

  “Luke, for God’s sake — ” Sally whispered.

  The Ford still perking, the double white line where it belonged, the other car safely past.

  “I must have dozed,” I said. “You’re all right? You didn’t get bumped or anything?”

  “I’ll be all right as soon as I can swallow my heart. We were never so close to whatever’s beyond, mister.”

  Bitterness in my mouth, and I slowed to a crawl, hugging the right side of the road, under the bluff.

  She chuckled. “I just thought of a gag. You’ll be the death of me yet.”

  Chapter XII

  THE NEXT DAY was the red-letter day. I got to Scarpa. I got the pattern of him, the rhythm of him, and I plastered him. I nailed him sliding in and pasted him stumbling out and caught him in a corner for the first time since we’d tangled.

  Either he was looking awful bad, or I was getting better. “Off your feed?” I asked him. “Or too much pinochle, maybe?”

  “You’re better,” he said. “Something’s off your mind, too, isn’t it? You look all business, for a change.”

  There was a small crowd there, and a few scribes. One of them said, “That’s one hell of a change since yesterday. Of course, Tony’s no Royal Lincoln, are you, Tony?”

  Tony smiled. “He’s a lot heavier.”

  Then, along the path from the garage, Royal Lincoln came moving leisurely, wearing a white robe, trimmed in scarlet, wearing his impassive, professional blandness.

  I looked over to where Max was talking to a pair of scribes and caught his eye.

  “Two rounds,” Max called over. “In a couple minutes.”

  Tony said, “Move in on him, Luke. Don’t let him use his reach.”

  “And keep your chin buried,” the writer kidded me. “It would look bad in the papers if Royal tagged you.” Royal didn’t tag me, not today. I kept an eye on that high right hand when we were apart, but we weren’t apart much. I moved under the right and hooked him silly, the first round.

  The second round he played turtle, hiding behind his elbows and forearms, moving into a half-crouch.

  He’s too tall to do that against a man my size. I brought a couple of right hands up from the floor and we went back to yesterday’s minuet.

  Twice, he started that overhand right; both times, I beat him to the punch. It would be unfair to Western Union to say he telegraphed it; it was more in the nature of a night letter.

  Royal Lincoln, as Charley had said, was a long way from his peak. But yesterday he had got to me with that prelim haymaker.

  Maybe Harry Bevilaqua had done me more good than I’d realized last night.

  Which I told Sally later.

  “Whose idea was it, going to see Harry?” she asked.

  “Yours.”

  “Well?”

  “Well enough. You know, I haven’t been this ready for years. I should taper off or I’ll go stale.”

  “Max will decide that,” she said.

  Max said, “You’re better, but not good enough. I want you nastier.”

  That seemed to be Charley’s department. Charley got cute, hard to get to, a gloved butterfly. Making me miss, in front of the crowds, clowning it, drawing the laughs. No chance to counterpunch; he offered no leads. He didn’t have to look good; no part of the gate was his.

  Thursday, I told Max, “Not today, not Charley. He knows me too well. He’s not that good and I’m not that bad. He just knows me too well.”

  “If you can’t get to him,” Max said, “what’ll you do against Patsy?”

  “Patsy has to come to me, you know that. He can’t win the title on a bicycle. I can hold it on a bike, but he can’t win it. He’s the challenger.”

  Max smiled. “Today, pretend Charley’s the champ and you’re the challenger.”

  I knew they were needling me but knowing it didn’t help enough. I don’t like to be laughed at. It’s a thing a man has to learn, I know, but I’d never learned it.

  Edgy, I got, even with Sally. She didn’t sulk about it. I wish she had. She smiled her superior smile as though she was above this adolescent nonsense. She didn’t snap back or sulk. She just smiled.

  Sergeant Sands came, bringing Nolan along. They were getting nowhere. Everything revolved around Bevilaqua like spokes around a hub, but they were getting nowhere. They couldn’t stay with it forever; this was a big town. And how was I getting along?

  “If I don’t die of my own poison, I’ll make it,” I told them.

  Sands looked sadly thoughtful. “D’Amico’s unloading bales of the green, and all on Giani,” he said. “Get some.”

  “That’s straight? I could use a newer car.”

  “Anything you lose, I’ll match. Get some of that Giani money.”

  Nolan said, “Intent won’t win it, Champ. They don’t pay off on trying.”

  “They’ll carry one of us to the stool,” I said. “I figure it will be Giani.”

  Nolan shrugged. “Giani figures it the other way. All the smart boys are figuring it his way.”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say,” I told them. “You’ll have to decide for yourselves how smart the smart boys are.”

  Sands grinned and stood up. “Okay, Champ. I shouldn’t say it, being from Homicide, but I hope you murder him.”

  All this time, I hadn’t seen Giani. Pictures of him in action I’d seen until I was dizzy and the memory of the fights I’d seen him in was with me, night and day. But Patsy, in the flesh, I hadn’t seen since we’d signed for the fight.

  I saw him for the first time at the weighing-in. He looked about eighteen years old, pink and hard and ready.

  He was a quarter pound under the limit; I was a half.

  He said, “I�
�ve been living for this day.”

  I said nothing. I saw the hitting muscles in his sloping shoulders, the easy way he moved, the poise that screamed confidence — and for the first time I wasn’t so certain I could do it.

  No pug ever realized he was past his peak until he was way past it. There wasn’t any reason why I should be different. Or any reason for me to be sure I could take this young mixer if I was at my peak.

  Tony and I went back to Hollywood to a hotel. Max and Jest went out to the arena to check over the dressing-room and the ticket sale.

  Tony wasn’t talkative for a change. I lay on the davenport; he sat near the front windows, reading a Racing Form.

  I stared at the ceiling and listened to the traffic, remembering how Giani had looked on the scales, not a soft spot in that pink hide, not a worry showing on that square face.

  “How you betting, Tony?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t bet against you, Champ. I hope you win.”

  “Because of D’Amico?”

  “That’s part of it. What a name for a son-of-a-bitch like that, ‘D’Amico.’”

  “It means something?”

  “In Italian, it means ‘friend.’ Some friend, huh?”

  “He’s a friend to Johnny. What does Scarpa mean?”

  “Shoe. That’s me, soft-shoe Tony Scarpa.”

  “And Bevilaqua?”

  He told me, and that was it. That was the link, the tie-up. That gave the windmills meaning, and all the rest of it. That’s why she was alone at the party.

  I went to the phone and called the Hoot Owl Club. Harry wasn’t there. Ruth was. I told her, “Have him phone me as soon as he comes in.” I gave her the number of the hotel.

  Sergeant Sands wasn’t at the station, either, and I left the same message.

  When I’d finished making the second call, I turned to find Tony staring at me. “What the hell goes on?”

  “I know who killed Brenda Vane now,” I said.

  “You think you know — or you know?”

  “I’m damned near sure.”

  He looked at me quietly. “Well, to hell with it. First the fight. You can’t think of anything but the fight now. You’re going to need your moxie for this one.”

  I went back to the davenport. I stretched full length. “I know, I know.” I stared at the ceiling and went back to that morning Max had been eating corn in the suite. I added up the incidents since, the things that had seemed meaningless at the time but took on meaning through the new focus.

  The phone rang, and I started to get up, but Tony said, “Got it.”

  “Hello,” he said, and “Who is this, Sally? Okay.” He smiled at me. “This one you can have.”

  Her voice was tight. “Luck, Luke. I can’t watch it, I’ve decided. Is it important to you that I watch it?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “I don’t want to reveal that side of me. Where’ll you be?”

  “The same hotel. I’ve got the suite you and Max had. That place in Malibu was too big to be alone in. Luke, how do you feel?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve a lead on the murder. Tony gave it to me. I phoned Sergeant Sands, but he wasn’t in.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m serious. I don’t want to talk about it now. I’m not in a position to.”

  From his chair Tony laughed. “Tell her I’m here. I might squeal.”

  “Luke, for heaven’s sakes, don’t talk so mysteriously. Who, what is it — Who killed her, Luke?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “and as Tony told me, it’s nothing to fret about before the fight. I’ll see you as soon as I can. I’ve got to see some people after the fight, but I’ll get to you first second I can.”

  Silence for seconds. Then: “Luke, are you in danger?”

  “Only from Giani. I’ll see you, darling.” I hung up.

  Tony was back to the Racing Form. I went back to the davenport. I said, “Don’t you want to know, Tony?”

  He looked at me and shrugged.

  “You know who killed her, don’t you?” I said. “At least you’ve got a hunch.”

  “I might have a hunch. So what? That’s not my business.”

  “Murder should be everybody’s business.”

  “Cut it out, Luke. Thousands of people are murdered every year, and you never gave any of them a second thought. This one was close to you, so we’re all supposed to be concerned. To hell with it; I’m no cop. And I don’t like most of the cops I’ve met.”

  “Met many?”

  “Dozens.”

  “I’m glad I’m not like you, Tony.”

  “Huh. Same here. If it’s who I think it is, I’m sorry you found out, if you did. What was the girl? A tramp. D’Amico’s gun kills a poor little punk, and do you worry about him? No, you’re not concerned. You’re not involved, so you’re not concerned. But you give with the platitude about murder being everybody’s business. You can get awful stuffy at times, Luke.”

  “I worry about Noodles,” I said. “And I hate D’Amico as much as you do. You do hate him, don’t you? You try to play it easy and light, but in your trade, you don’t want any D’Amicos.”

  “I guess that’s right.”

  “Would you help me with that?”

  “With D’Amico? Sure. With the other, no. But with D’Amico, sure. You got an idea, or something?”

  I had some ideas, which I told him.

  When I’d finished, he said, “Did your memory come back, or are you just guessing all this?”

  “I’m guessing. It all makes sense, though.”

  He took a deep breath. “It sure as hell is a dumb time for you to be thinking of anything but the fight.”

  “All right,” I said. “You see Harry, and you talk to Sergeant Sands. Rent a room here and have them change my calls to that room. I’ll show you how much I’m fretting; I’ll take a nap.”

  “I’ll bet you will, at that,” he said. “You’re sure disciplined.”

  Sally called it “cold” and Max “nasty” and Tony “disciplined.” A very discerning gent, this Tony.

  He said, “We don’t need to rent a room. I’ll take the phone here. I’ll tell the operator to give us a short ring. I want to see you sleep. This, I can’t miss.”

  “What’s so remarkable about being able to sleep?”

  He didn’t answer. He grinned at me, and sat down near the phone. I stretched out, seeing the windmills, which now made sense. The void was still there, and might always be to my conscious mind. But out of the unconscious, out of the chained memory cells, this pair of symbols had tried to point to a murderer.

  The windmills turned lazily. The seals stretched their necks. Max ate corn in a bright Beverly Hills suite. I dozed.

  I heard Max’s voice, later, and Tony’s, but they were pitched too low for me to make out anything they said.

  When I wakened, Max was in the room’s only big chair, watching me. Tony wasn’t in sight.

  “Everything all right?” I asked him.

  “My end’s being handled fine. And yours?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. Where’s Tony?”

  “You tell me. What are you two cooking up? What’s it all about?”

  “I’ll tell you later, Max. You’re too excitable to know anything about it before the fight.”

  He looked at me a while, then stood up and went over to the window. His back was to me now. He said nothing.

  “I’d better eat,” I said. “What time is it?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “A steak,” I said, “and a salad. That it, Max?”

  “Why ask me? What am I to you?”

  I came over to put an arm around his shoulders. “My best friend. After I draw and quarter this Patsy and take care of a few minor matters, we’ll settle down, Max. We’ll go into the used-car business. Foolish Freeman and Loony Luke, the craziest traders in town. We’ll have a neon sign thirteen stories high and two solid blocks of used Cadillacs. I’l
l marry Sally and we’ll pick up a used movie star for you and we will go Hollywood, but big. It’s going to be great.”

  “Bull. What are these ‘minor matters’ you mentioned? Is murder one of them? Is D’Amico? Luke, that kind of stuff is out of your line. You’re not tough enough for that.”

  “I was the third toughest guy in the All Saints choir,” I said. “Let’s get the steak. And maybe a small snifter for you.”

  He put an arm around me, and squeezed. “Damn you. You son-of-a-bitch. All right, let’s go. But we’re not eating here. This is no day for a crummy hotel steak. I know a place.”

  The place was on “restaurant row” otherwise known as La Cienega, and the steak was up to the Freeman standard, as was the salad and the service.

  The only thing not up to Max’s standard was Max. He was unhappy. No oral complaints, not another word about D’Amico, just the silent sadness.

  Then, as we paid the check, he said, “You haven’t seen the arena yet. We ought to go out, while it’s still light. Twenty thousand people, it will hold. Twenty thousand.”

  “Migawd,” I said, “the Garden only holds eighteen thousand.”

  “Sure. That’s why they stretched this one. C’mon, I want to show you how crazy this town is getting on sports.”

  It was some spot. Of glass brick and stainless steel, triangular in shape, the box-office apex of the triangle on the corner of Moorpark and Fulton, in Sherman Oaks. The parking-lot would hold six thousand cars.

  There were electric-eye calculators to measure the traffic flow into the parking-lot, there were replicas of the gadgets at each of the entrances to the arena. The soft drinks and hot dogs, the programs and souvenirs, the cigarettes and cigars could all be bought from machines in the lobby.

  “It gives me the shivers,” I said. “Everything’s mechanical.”

  “Right,” Max said. “Everything but the fighters. Now if we could get a robot to fight Giani — ”

  The dressing-rooms were too new to have any odor but damp plaster. They were underground, serviced by escalators, equipped with built-in infrared lamps and air-cushioned massage tables, with a medical center completely equipped for emergency surgery.

  We went from the medical rooms to the plush offices behind the Moorpark ticket office. Paneled in etched plywood, furnished in splashy colors, carpeted in sea-green nylon frieze.