My vision hazed, cleared, my stomach rumbled. I saw the white slip of note paper next to the rat and forced myself to walk over to the desk.
Two words were crudely printed on the note: Who’s next?
I was staring at it, lost in a fog of near-nausea when Doctor Dale Graves said from the open doorway, “What in hell is that thing?”
I took a breath. “A — warning. Some son-of-a-bitch — ” “You’re pale,” he said. “You’d better sit down, over there, away from that thing.” He pointed at the chair in one corner of the room.
I went over to sit there and he said, “Put your head down between your knees. I’ll get you something.” I did, and heard him leave the room.
When he came back, he had a pill and a glass of cold water. He was standing between me and the desk and I didn’t realize until he moved away that the rat was gone.
I stared at the desk — and he said, “I got rid of it. I thought I’d better not touch the note, though. Fingerprints?”
“Maybe. Thanks, Dale. I just realized I forgot to eat breakfast. That’s probably the reason for my nausea.”
“And maybe not,” he said. “What was that fuss in here yesterday when the cops came?”
“They were just picking up a hoodlum who threatened me. I’ll be all right, Dale. I don’t want a lecture, now. I’d rather do what I do than look into dirty mouths all day, like you do.”
“You’re a fool,” he said, “a stubborn and arrogant fool.”
“I know. I’m feeling better. I think I’ll go out and get some breakfast.” I smiled up at him. “You didn’t notice anyone messing around my door this morning, did you?”
“No,” he said. “It could have been put there last night.”
I finished the water and thanked him again. For a few seconds after he had left, I sat where I was, wondering at my weakness. I had never thought of myself as invulnerable but not enough had happened to shake me up this much.
Breakfast helped. My weakness went away; some of my self-confidence returned. It had been purely physical, I told myself, nothing more than hunger, simply my big body crying out for fuel. I was in the wrong business, I told myself further, if a threat from a hoodlum could unravel me.
My stomach growled comfortably and the iron seeped back into my legs. My chin came up and I smiled at the waitress behind the counter.
“You’re looking better,” she said. “Hangover?”
“Withdrawal symptoms,” I told her. “I almost withdrew from the world.”
“Who can blame you?” she said. “Some world!”
She was pouring my coffee when Sergeant Marty Dugan took the stool next to me. “Dr. Graves called us,” he said. “He told me you were here. I’ve got the note.”
“He worries about me,” I said.
Dugan ordered a cup of coffee and looked at me. “We do, too, Joe. At least Captain Apoyan and I do.”
“Thanks,” I said. “The coffee’s on me.”
“Do you have to play it so heavy?” he asked gently. “Do you have to be the tough guy?”
“Yes,” I answered. “You’ve got the whole Department behind you, Marty. All I have is my size and my luck.”
“Luck or lust?”
I made no comment.
A silence, while Marty sipped his coffee. And then, tentatively, “The Captain thinks it might be a bright idea if I kind of trailed along with you on today’s adventures.”
I shook my head emphatically. “I’ll be all right. I’m armed, now.”
“Damn you!” he said. “Damn your arrogance. Do you think the citizens give a damn about you? All those trashy people who crowd Las Vegas, all those slobs spending the grocery money at Santa Anita, do you think they care if you live or die?”
“No,” I admitted.
Another silence.
“But you do,” I added. “And Captain Apoyan does. And maybe there are a few more citizens we haven’t met yet.” I put a hand on his arm. “Marty, seriously, thanks. And tell that purple-footed Captain I take back every nasty thing I ever said to him.”
He sighed. “Okay, Joe. Apoyan told me it would probably be a waste of time. But if you get into a corner, don’t call downtown. Just call us at West Side and we’ll send a platoon.”
He finished his coffee, stood up and put a hand on my shoulder. “In case nobody’s told you, lately, I’m glad you’re around.”
Jeepers! Sentiment from Sergeant Marty Dugan! Cripes!
He went out and the waitress said, “Your eyes are watering. You got a cold?”
“I’ve got a warm,” I told her. “The sun’s coming out.”
Pure allegory; the day was still overcast and the smog heavier as I walked back to the office.
Next door, Dale’s busy drill had started a new day. The mail included a check from Mrs. Lopez and my monthly gasoline bill. I was sitting there, trying to find a pattern, when Hans Mueller walked in.
“Mr. Puma?” he asked, and I nodded.
“Do you know me?” he asked, and I nodded again.
“You’re investigating the death of Gus Galbini,” he said.
“That’s right, Mr. Mueller.” I rose and indicated my customer’s chair. “Sit down.”
He sat down and stared at me stoically for a few seconds and then said quietly, “You’ve been asking people about that meeting in Delamater’s gym.”
“Correct. You were there, weren’t you?”
“I was.” His steady gaze didn’t waver. “Mr. Galbini wanted a piece of me, a share in my future. That was what the meeting was about.”
“And did he intend to pay for that piece — in money — or in services rendered?”
A pause, while the German studied me. “He half-promised us that Lopez would lose.”
“Terry was going to throw the fight?”
Mueller shrugged. “We already knew that Terry Lopez was going to lose, whether he meant to, or not. Mr. Galbini really had nothing to offer us.”
“Anyone can throw a lucky punch, Mr. Mueller.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been hit by all kinds of punches, Mr. Puma, but never by a lucky one.”
“And Galbini didn’t get a piece of you?”
“He got nothing.”
“But you didn’t report this to the Boxing Commission, did you?”
For the first time, the German’s gaze wavered. “I didn’t. And neither did my manager. I want to, now, though.”
“A good idea,” I said. “But ask them to keep it out of the papers for a while. Perhaps you’d better take this story to Captain Apoyan and have him phone somebody on the Commission first.”
He nodded agreement. Then, “Who killed Mr. Galbini?” “Nobody seems to know, yet. Why was Al Martino at the meeting?”
Mueller shook his head and stared at me candidly. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Mr. Delamater, now, I got the idea he was a partner of Galbini’s, but I can’t be sure of that, either.”
A silence while we thought our separate thoughts. Then he asked, “Anything else you want to know?”
“Only as a fan. Why didn’t you put Lopez away earlier?”
“I wanted to hurt him, to punish him. This trade has been good to me in your country, Mr. Puma. I want to destroy anyone who degrades it.”
“Mr. Mueller,” I said, “you’re more of a citizen than the citizens.”
“I’m becoming a citizen,” he said. “Why did you put Al Martino into the hospital?”
“Because I love this country,” I said, “and I want to destroy anyone who degrades it.”
He smiled, and looked less like a German. “But you’re in trouble now, aren’t you?”
“Nothing I won’t get out of.” I took a breath. “Once again, an unofficial remark. I’ve heard you called a storm trooper and a Nazi.”
“Yes. And worse. My manager gets 40 per cent of my income. We are very close friends. His name is Abraham Golde. Does that answer the question you didn’t ask?”
I stood up. “You go se
e Captain Apoyan at the West Los Angeles Station. I’ll phone him and tell him you’re coming.”
He stood up. “Thank you.” He waited.
I held out my hand, and he took it. He said, “I am strong outside of a ring, too. I learned to fight in the streets. If you need me, to help with these — these evil people, I would be proud to help.”
I thanked him. I watched him walk out, a citizen. Two men had declared themselves this morning and the first, Sergeant Dugan, had brought Apoyan’s blessing. Against my left breast, the .38 was solid and comforting.
I phoned Apoyan and told him Mueller was on the way over.
And then I sat back and thought of patterns but none came. I went to the window and looked out at the traffic, trying to think. Below, a blonde with a blank face but an impressive figure was looking in the window of a lingerie shop.
On the parking lot across the street, Hans Mueller was getting into his car.
From behind me, there was a scrape of a foot. Startled, I turned.
A dark, short, wide, and malevolent man stood just inside the doorway. He had a scar that ran from his right nostril to his right ear, just missing the eye.
With his left hand, he closed the door and locked the night latch. He used his left hand because there was a gun in his right and it was pointing at my belly. It was a big gun, a service .45.
He stared at me and I stared at him. Against my left breast, my .38 was solid but no longer comforting. I didn’t have a chance. If I made a move that .45 would make a noise and I would never move again.
He said, “You bastards never learn, do you? All you cheap peepers are cut from the same pattern. Anything for a buck, huh?”
“Not quite anything,” I assured him. “Not suicide.” My knees were weak and I kept a hand on the window frame to support me. “I don’t remember meeting you before. Are you one of the Lefkowics boys?”
He moved a step closer. “You got a gun. Don’t be dumb enough to go for it.”
I nodded my agreement.
He asked quietly, “You going to quit? You going to quit — and live?”
“Quit what?” I asked.
“Quit sticking your nose into Al Martino’s business.”
“I’m not after Al,” I assured him, “not personally. I’m investigating the death of Gus Galbini for his widow. I have police cooperation in this and police permission. What excuse could I give them and her for quitting?”
“Al didn’t kill Gus,” he said.
“If that’s true, then I’m not investigating Al.”
He took two more steps and now he was close to me. He was smiling and the scar puckered on his cheek. It took a lot of warmth out of his smile.
“You’re supposed to be a hothead,” he said. “You’re supposed to be real gutty. You look scared to me.”
“Give me the .45 and let’s see if you’ll look scared,” I suggested shakily.
In his right hand, the gun was steady. His left hand swung in an arc, backhanded, and the force of it twisted my head. He was strong for a short man. In my mind, the redness began to grow.
“You’re going to take a vacation, aren’t you?” he said. “You’re going to get out of town for a while.”
I said nothing, trying to quiet the fury growing in me. Bile spilled into my mouth.
He backhanded me again. I almost reached for him, but caution was still in command.
“Answer me,” he said.
“If you’re one of the Lefkowics boys,” I said hoarsely, “the police know all about you. You’re acting like a damned amateur.”
“Answer me,” he said again.
“Put the gun away,” I said, “and we’ll talk like men.”
For the third time, the back of his hand stung my face. I moved toward him blindly — and his gun came up to pause about two inches from my chin. His hand was perfectly steady.
“Don’t hit me again,” I said. “It’s true what you heard about my temper.” The hole in the .45 looked as big as a cave.
Another staring session, like adolescents, and I think reason was beginning to take possession of me.
But the idiotic bastard had to prove some kind of point and his hand went over to start another backhand slap.
I had planned what to do in that case.
I was going to dive for the protection of my desk at the same time as I went under my jacket for my trusty .38.
I almost got away with it. My lack of success wasn’t due to scarface; it was a misjudgment on my part, and bad footing.
My right foot slipped as I dove for the desk and instead of landing behind it, head down, I came into the corner of it, head on.
All the lights went out and not a shot had been fired.
From oblivion to the haze and the smell of expensive perfume. It was in my nostrils, wet and pungent, physically distressing and emotionally disturbing.
A blonde with revitalizing cleavage was bending over me, mopping my face with a wet and dainty handkerchief. She had a paper cup of water next to her in which she was dipping the tiny handkerchief.
“Florence Nightingale,” I murmured. “Haven’t we met?”
She shook her head. Her face would launch no ships but her figure would drive sailors mad.
“We’ve met,” I said groggily. “I know we have.”
She shook her head again. “I heard the rumpus from downstairs. Did he hit you?”
“Downstairs? I know you. You were the girl who was looking at underwear. I saw you through the window before that slob came in. Were you with him?”
She smiled gently. “Don’t talk; it’ll make your head worse. I was at the lingerie shop and I heard the noise and — ”
“You’re lying,” I said. “You know who he is, and I want to know. He’s one of the Lefkowics hoodlums, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Please don’t talk. Are you going to be all right?”
I climbed up slowly to my feet, using the desk as a ladder. She stood up and looked at me anxiously.
“You were with him,” I said again.
“What difference does it make? He wasn’t supposed to hit you. His boss will hear about that, don’t you worry. You’re going to be all right, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to be all right,” I said, “but you’d better stay right where you are until I get the police. What’s your name?”
Her bland face stiffened and there was a rasp in her voice. “Florence Nightingale,” she said. “You’ve got one hell of a short memory, haven’t you?”
She had a point. I sighed.
She smiled. “Maybe we’ll meet again, and we’ll get to know each other. Maybe we could even be friends, right?” “What’s your name?” I asked.
“You’re pale,” she said. “You’d better sit down.” She blew me a kiss. “I’m glad you’re all right, aren’t you?”
She waved, and went out. Her perfume stayed behind and her small, wet handkerchief and in my mind the image of that perfect figure, the D cup Florence Nightingale.
chapter eight
I HAD NO QUESTIONS THIS MORNING FOR MARY LOPER, BUT I wanted to see her. Not only because she was a joy to look at but because I wanted to be sure the malevolent Lefkowics cousins hadn’t disturbed her.
She was home, due for an appointment in an hour. She said, “Come in and have a cup of coffee. Where were you last night?”
“Hiding from some hoodlums. Why?”
“I — phoned you. I — was lonely.” She looked away, and back. “Are you lying? Is that a story? Were you really hiding?”
“Well, let’s say I was avoiding trouble.” I came into the kitchen and sat at the small table. “I was avoiding a pair of muscle men who might be working for Al Martino. I — had a little trouble with Al.”
She frowned and looked at me fearfully. “Why?”
“He used your name in vain and my temper got the best of me. He’s out of the hospital now, though.”
She poured me a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
“I haven’t seen him since he picked me up in front of the station that morning. Do you think he’ll be — bothering me?”
“I don’t know, Mary. Call me, if he does.”
She nibbled at a sweet roll, her eyes distant.
I asked, “Did you ever meet one of the Lefkowics boys?”
She shook her head. “Who are they?”
“Unconvicted criminals. I haven’t met them, either, officially, but I have a feeling I’m going to.”
Her hand trembled on the table. She looked at me almost belligerently. “Did you come here to frighten me?”
“Of course not, Mary. I only came over to make sure you were all right.”
“And perhaps question me about my brother?” “No.”
“He had a juvenile record,” she said. “I suppose you know that, by now.”
“I didn’t document it. I — heard he had.”
She lifted her gaze to stare at me. “You think Terry killed Galbini, don’t you?”
“No. I have no prime suspect yet.”
“But you think he could have.”
I shrugged.
“And that’s why you’re here,” she went on grimly. “To question me.”
“That’s not why I’m here, this morning. But is there something wrong in my asking you questions, if it would help to find a murderer?”
“If you think the murderer is Terry, it’s wrong to use — to use the — the approach you did to gain my confidence.”
“Approach? What in hell are you talking about? Cripes, you don’t mean — ”
“You know exactly what I mean, Joe Puma.”
“Approach,” I repeated dazedly. “What in hell kind of old maid talk is that? You can’t be serious, Mary Loper.”
“I am,” she said. “I was talking to one of your old friends this morning, another Mary, another model — Mary Pastore.”
Mary Pastore, my paisan darling. Women.
“Well?” she said.
I took a breath.
“Well?” she said again.
“Women,” I said, “and their locker room gossip. How did it happen you and Mary Pastore discussed me?” “You haven’t answered my question,” she said. “You haven’t asked it.”
She colored and that fine chin came up. “You and Mary Pastore, you were — very close, weren’t you?”
The Hundred Dollar Girl Page 7
