Canvas Coffin

by Gault, William Campbell

  He went down three times in the eighth round, twice more in the ninth. If Dutch had been in his corner, the towel would be in the ring now. But D’Amico could hope for a miracle.

  And why didn’t Gene stop it? Maybe Gene wanted to clean up the business a little, too.

  Max said, “This Luke Pilgrim I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  “He knows what he’s doing,” Jest said. “Leave the champ alone, Max.”

  In Patsy’s corner, the doc said he was able to continue. He looked at D’Amico as he said it.

  The bell.

  “Now, now, now,” the fans chanted, and they were right.

  I hit him under the heart three times, and he stood wavering on his rubber legs.

  I threw the hardest right hand I’d ever thrown in my life and caught him dead center.

  There wasn’t any need to count. Gene picked it up at “three” and went through the arm-swinging ritual, came over to lift my hand high and make the announcement, and Patsy was still out.

  They were quiet, in the dressing-room, the reporters. They asked their questions and left. Some friends came in, the ones who may have guessed what I’d been trying to do, but even they didn’t have many words.

  Jest smiled and hummed, and Max changed his clothes.

  “Maybe it’ll be all right tomorrow,” Max said. “Maybe I’ll understand. Tonight, I’m going to get drunk.” He left.

  Tony said, “Charley and I got a couple broads lined up, Luke. See you later.”

  Only Jest was left. He asked, “You going home, Champ, or you going to celebrate?”

  “I’ve got a date with some people. Business, Jest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Right. You looked good. You looked awful good tonight.”

  “Not to Max.”

  “Max is soft. But he’ll understand.”

  “I hope. Good night, Jest.”

  “Night, Champ.”

  The door closed behind him, and I was alone. I heard his leather heels clacking on the concrete of the corridor, outside, getting dimmer and dimmer.

  I heard the thump, thump, thump of my heart and watched the drop of sweat rolling off my hand. I was showered and dressed, I was ready to go, but I stood there for seconds.

  I went over the words in my mind, the kind of words a man like D’Amico might listen to after the financial licking he must have taken.

  Then I went out into the clear, cold night, the keys to the rented car jangling in my hand. I was colder than the night should make me; I guess I was scared.

  I took Sepulveda down, the winding road through the hills, like open country, like there wasn’t a city for miles. I took it all the way to Venice Boulevard and then cut toward the ocean.

  I was still the middleweight champion of the world; no gun with any brains was going to get involved in a murder that headline-worthy. The crown was my shield. Unless D’Amico had gone off his nut. I remembered the way he’d glared at me from ringside.

  Here was Lincoln Boulevard and I turned and drove a couple blocks, and here was Harry’s Hoot Owl Club.

  There was a Caddy in the parking-lot and a Buick Special. There was a bleached and battered station wagon. Tony Scarpa sat behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette.

  “Call Sally,” I told him. “Tell her I’m all right. Tell her I won and I’m retiring. And tell her I love her.”

  “Or loved her,” Tony said nervously. “Do you know what you’re doing, Luke?” His cigarette was a small meteor, arching toward the driveway.

  “I think I do. They don’t kill guys my size.”

  “You’d like to believe. Want me along?”

  “No. It’s not your baby, Tony. Thanks a lot. I’ll look you up tomorrow.”

  The station wagon went away, and I went up the dark steps to the dark doorway. A man stood there.

  Charley Retzer.

  “You remembered, huh, Luke? Your memory came back. She talked about me, huh?”

  “I don’t remember any of it, Charley.”

  “Well, how do you know, then? How did you learn I killed her? D’Amico? He didn’t know. Noodles, but he — ”

  “Let’s go in, Charley,” I said.

  There was a Closed sign on the door, but a light showed through the Venetian blinds of the window. I turned the knob, and the door was open, and we went in.

  Harry was behind the bar; D’Amico and Johnny were on stools in front of the bar.

  Harry said, “Lock the door, Charley.”

  I heard the door click behind me. I went over and took one of the stools. I said, “Whisky, Harry. I won’t need to train any more.”

  “You quitting, Champ?”

  “I don’t know. But I won’t need to train.”

  D’Amico said, “You’ve got a lot of guts, Pilgrim.”

  “I need them in my business,” I said. “Drop much, Paul?”

  “I probably dropped more than you ever made, Pilgrim.”

  “Did I promise to dive? Did you have any reason to make that kind of an investment without preliminary planning?”

  Silence from him. Then, finally: “What’s on your mind?”

  “Murder, and using me for a stooge. Manipulating me. I’m probably not very important, but the title is, and the title-holder shouldn’t have to be anybody’s stooge.”

  “A lot of ‘em have been.”

  “Not this one.”

  Charley said, “When are you going to get to me? What about me?”

  I said, “Ask Harry.”

  He turned to Harry. “You squealed?”

  The big man shook his head. “Luke just guessed. He found out Bevilaqua means ‘drink water’ and he added it up from there. Right, Champ?”

  “Right. That was the name of the doctor who ran that small hospital. Your brother, Harry?”

  “Cousin.”

  “So what,” Charley asked. “That’s a case?”

  “I haven’t a case. I’m not a cop. But everything else adds. The doctor had to mention the time when he called us, in order to establish your alibi. He had to mention you were picked up at eleven, when Brenda had died after midnight. You were looking for me. Why? Because you were afraid of what she might have told me about you being her boy friend. You were the missing guy at Sam Wald’s party, one of the principals in the fight. Sulking, Charley? And then after the trimming I gave you, you see me leave her apartment. Is that the way it was?”

  “It’s a good guess, I suppose. It makes a good story.”

  Behind me, Harry coughed. On his stool, D’Amico watched me. Johnny stared at the floor. I downed the whisky.

  I said, “When we saw you in the hospital, even your hands were under the blankets. It was too hot a day for that. But you left some flesh from one hand on Brenda’s teeth. The cops have the scrapings, Charley.”

  “You’re still guessing.”

  “I am. There was a windmill sign near that hospital and another near Brenda’s apartment. So my unconscious mind knows and it’s trying to tell me. Some day it will cough it up. But I still won’t be a cop, Charley.”

  “Windmill signs? What kind of sense does that make?”

  “None to you, Charley.” I turned to Harry. “You worry about Noodles. You killed Noodles.”

  On his stool, Johnny stirred.

  Harry said, “Easy, Champ. I got a lot of bottles here.”

  “You didn’t poison him,” I went on, “but you killed him. You knew Charley had killed Brenda. If you’d gone to the law with it, Noodles would never have died.”

  “Charley’s my friend,” he said, “and I don’t know that he killed anybody.” His voice shook slightly.

  “You know. You’re damned sure in your own mind. Did he phone here, after he killed her? Did Noodles pick him up, too, and take him to that sanitarium or hospital, or what the hell it was?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said.

  “All right. Charley doesn’t, either.” I took a flyer. “But I already remember the maroo
n silk sheets. Maybe the rest will come.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” Charley said. “You-”

  D’Amico said, “Easy, Charley.”

  Charley turned to Harry. “Whisky.”

  “Have they had you scared since you fought Giani? Have they had you scared all that time, Charley?” I asked him.

  D’Amico said, “You’ve used a lot of words but none of them mean much to me. Scarpa said you were willing to talk business.”

  Behind me Harry said, “What the hell?”

  “Maybe I do want to talk business,” I told D’Amico. “But not as a stooge, Paul. Maybe a partner, but no stooge.”

  “A partner? What are you bringing into the partnership?”

  “The title. That’s why Max isn’t here.”

  “You mean you’re looking for new management?”

  “No. Another fight with Patsy. This time, I bet along with you. My money rides with yours. That safe enough?”

  He took a deep breath. “It would take a long time to get back the money I lost tonight. What else did you have in mind? Why all this business about Charley?”

  “Because we want a killer,” I said. “We want somebody for the law.”

  “We? Who’s Ve’?”

  “Harry and I. Tell him who we want, Harry. And pour me another drink.”

  Harry poured the drink, then looked up, and over at Johnny.

  D’Amico’s eyes followed the gaze. D’Amico looked at Johnny, back at Harry, then at me. “Are you crazy?”

  “He killed Noodles,” I said. “Noodles was Harry’s friend. He’s a killer, and you don’t need him any more, Paul. You’ve outgrown the need for a man like that.”

  Johnny was motionless, standing where he could face all of us, his eyes steady on D’Amico, like a dog’s eyes on his master.

  “Insane,” D’Amico said quietly. “You’re crazy.”

  “You’re big league, now,” I said. “A lawyer is your gun. Johnny’s a hang-over from the prohibition days. He’s as dead as the dodo. If the law doesn’t get him, I think maybe Harry will, some day. The state does it cleaner.”

  Johnny’s eyes moved from D’Amico to Harry and back to his master. I think he wanted to talk. His mouth opened and closed.

  “What have you got against him?” D’Amico said. “That business in the hotel with your girl, when you thought he was blocking the door? Is that it? Or are you nuts?”

  “Maybe I’m nuts,” I said. “I came here to do business. I don’t want him in any business of mine. I guess you do. I guess you’re still selling cut whisky to cheap night clubs, Paul.” I finished my second drink. “Well, no dice?”

  “We can do business,” he said. “Don’t rush off. I’ll never turn him over to the law, but I can pension him, if he bothers you. I like Johnny, but I don’t have to have him around.”

  Johnny’s eyes flared, and his right hand jerked.

  D’Amico caught it. He said, “Watch it, Johnny. You’re not shooting anybody here, not yet.”

  Johnny’s hand continued, and the gun came out. It wasn’t pointing at anybody, but it was out. Looked like a .38, a revolver.

  “Put it away, Johnny,” D’Amico said. Quiet, his voice, but some tremor in it.

  Johnny shook his head.

  “Damn you,” D’Amico said. “Put it away. These people aren’t punks, Johnny. Put that God-damned gun away!” Johnny shook his head.

  D’Amico stared at him. It must have been the first time in their association that Johnny had refused to obey an order.

  Then D’Amico came off the stool, his hand out. “Give me that gun, you little bastard, or I’ll — ”

  The gun turned, and now it was aimed at D’Amico, and D’Amico kept coming in on it.

  I saw the flare and heard the smash of the shot. I saw D’Amico hurtle backward, and then saw the barrel of Johnny’s gun swinging our way, and I hit the floor.

  From the washroom, from a curtained booth, from a rear window, there were other guns, and shouts. I heard wood splinter, and then a pang and looked up to see the steel bar stool whirling, teetering, toppling — my way.

  After the fight, I had to get knocked out.

  • • •

  Sally wore only shorts, no halter. “Am I brown?” she asked.

  “You’re fawn,” I said. “You’re a fawn, straight girl.”

  The sea below us, the sun above, a protected sundeck on this Malibu love nest; only I could see Sally. Only Sally and I, and she’s seen herself before.

  “Charley was jealous, then?” she asked.

  “Mmmm. I don’t know. He was battered and humiliated and half drunk, and probably saw me leave or enter his girl’s place and maybe he was still scared of me. I don’t know. He certainly wasn’t scared of her.”

  “But this Johnny, turning on D’Amico like that.”

  “Johnny knew I loathed him. I’d called him a ‘pimp.’ I’d offered to rip his spine out. And then the boss wants to talk business with me. Temporary insanity, maybe?”

  “Maybe. You couldn’t plan on that, could you?”

  “No. All I could plan on was that a whole platoon of listening cops would get something they could use. I couldn’t plan on Charley catching enough lead to make him think he was going to die, either. But that’s why he confessed, and he might beat the rap. He’s got the best lawyer in town, and he was almost out of his mind that night.”

  She turned over, giving me the front view. “And you still can’t remember whether you did — whether you and Brenda were, or — ”

  “I can’t remember a damned thing,” I said. “That’s the gospel, according to Luke.”

  She sniffed. “Maybe you can’t even remember last night, huh? How about last night?”

  “I’ll never forget it, darling,” I told her honestly. “I’ve been thinking of nothing else, all morning. Fellows always told me about it, but now I know it’s true, and I’m glad.”

  “Fellows told you what? What’s true?”

  “It’s just as much fun after you’re married,” I told her.

  If you liked The Canvas Coffin check out:

  The Hundred Dollar Girl

  chapter one

  HIS ACHIEVEMENTS IN THE RING NEVER MEASURED UP TO HIS tabloid bedroom reputation, but that didn’t make him a prelim boy. He had a lot of friends and he picked up too many tabs. He had an abundance of physical courage, and a bad manager can turn that virtue into a vice quickly enough by simply matching his boy beyond his current skill and experience.

  His name was Terry Lopez and there’s a combination for you, Mexican-Irish. A handsome bastard, a middleweight. He had a wife the local papers called a “former starlet.” In this case, it simply meant she had a five-line part in a “B” picture a few years back. Before she changed her name to Lopez, it had been Gallegher, Bridget Gallegher, so if they had had any kids, they’d have been three-quarters Irish.

  No kids. He was out for laughs and she rode with it for a while. He got into the top ten rating in Ring for a brief spell and that gave him a few big-money bouts but he had no inclination toward saving. That brought him up to the Hans Mueller bout broke and in debt.

  That brought his wife into my office.

  Bridget Gallegher Lopez had red hair that looked natural to me. Her nose was a little too blunt to be classic but it fitted the face, which was pure lace-curtain Irish. There is a class to this segment of the nationality that belies its origins, and she had that kind of class. It is not Philadelphia or Boston, understand, but only a shade under it.

  She told me I had been recommended to her by Sid Schwartz, a criminal attorney I knew.

  “And why?” I asked.

  “Because of my husband,” she answered. “Do you know who he is?”

  I nodded. “I’ve seen him fight. Twice. This next one is his biggest one to date, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?”

  She licked her lips. “Yes.” She took a breath. “It’s a — step, as Terry says. I mean, toward the championship, the first big step.�
��

  “It could easily be,” I agreed, and wondered to myself who the other woman was, the woman she had come to have me check, undoubtedly.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know I was,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “You’re thinking,” she guessed, “that I’ve come to see you about some — some floozie Terry’s mixed up with.”

  I lied with a shake of the head.

  “It’s not anything like that,” she went on. “It’s — money.” “In your husband’s trade,” I said, “it always is. I think you came to the wrong man, Mrs. Lopez.” She stared at me quizzically.

  “I’m a one-man office,” I said. “Can I fight the major mobsters?”

  “I haven’t asked you to fight anyone,” she pointed out quietly.

  “You haven’t,” I agreed. “I apologize again. I should listen more and talk less.”

  “I have all the fighter I need,” she said. “I’m looking for an investigator. Isn’t that what you are, Mr. Puma?”

  “In my limited but determined way,” I admitted.

  She met my gaze candidly. “Perhaps you’ve checked our credit and prefer not to accept me as a client.”

  I stared at her and didn’t answer. I thought her chin quivered. Her voice did. “Is that it?”

  “Is that what?”

  She lifted her chin. She had a lovely neck. “You don’t seem to be — overeager to accept my patronage.”

  “I haven’t checked your credit,” I told her. “If I believed what I read in the newspapers, it must be bad, but I don’t usually believe the newspapers. I get a lot of bad credit risks as clients in my profession and collect from most of them.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose I expected more — salesmanship from you, but then, you’re not an automobile salesman, are you?”

  “I’ve been called some despicable things,” I said, “but never that. Why don’t you tell me your problem, Mrs. Lopez? I promise to keep my big mouth shut until you’ve finished.”

  “It’s the Hans Mueller fight,” she said. “I think he’s going to throw it.” She paused. “Terry doesn’t — confide in me, but I don’t think it’s his idea. He likes to win, that boy. But his manager — do you know him?”