by Roy Chaney
“This man Zahn killed Ronnie?” McGrath said.
Hagen recalled what Zahn had said. He’d said his Legionnaires hadn’t arrived in Las Vegas until Sunday, two days after Ronnie was murdered, but it wasn’t that. Hagen wasn’t sure he believed that. It was something else Zahn had said. If we’d found your brother alive we’d have the hand now, but we don’t have it. Zahn had made some sense there. Or maybe it was only that Hagen had been thinking along those same lines. “I don’t know if Zahn and his men ever met up with Ronnie. But I know they killed Harry Needles, and I think they killed Gubbs. Pick them up. All I have to do is call Zahn and tell him I’ve got the hand. Have your men stake out the meeting and arrest them. Then you can talk to Zahn yourself. Harry Needles is dead. That should be reason enough to arrest them.”
McGrath didn’t sound convinced. “I only have your word for it that these Legionnaires—if that’s what they are—killed Harry Needles. How do I know you didn’t kill him yourself, Bodo. And Gubbs too.”
“Pick up Zahn,” Hagen said, too loud and too angry. McGrath raised his hand—back off, Bodo, calm down. “You’ve got fifty men from the French Foreign Legion on the ground in Vegas,” Hagen said, quieter now. “They’re all looking for a wooden hand that Ronnie stole from them. I’d think you’d be interested in talking to them, no matter what you believe.”
McGrath picked a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue, flicked it out the open window. “I’m interested, don’t get me wrong. But I hope there’s something to it. It’s going to be bad for you if there isn’t. You’re a pretty good suspect too. Right now you’re the best one I’ve got.”
“That’s why I’m telling you this.”
“You’re telling me something. I just wonder why.”
“I’m telling you what you’d know yourself if you’d bother to do your job.”
Silence fell. The hot ember of McGrath’s cigarette grew bright, dimmed, grew bright again. The ticking of the warm car engine sounded like a countdown to an explosion.
“Stick around,” McGrath said. “I’ll show you how I do my job.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s right. You’re not going anywhere.” McGrath gave him a severe look. “You left this wooden hand out in the desert?”
“Just south of Searchlight. Let’s go out there right now. See it for yourself.”
McGrath glanced at his watch. Four thirty in the morning. “Maybe we’ll do just that.”
Southbound on Highway 95—one more long drive into the desert. In the east the sky was lightening with morning. The sun would be up soon. On the road ahead the white lines and black skidding slashes captured in the headlights looked like old celluloid film looping around and around, slowly tearing itself to pieces. Hagen had the feeling that he’d spent all day and all night running up and down this highway.
Not getting anywhere, just running.
Hagen asked McGrath for a cigarette. McGrath handed him the crumpled pack from his shirt pocket. The lights of a long-haul truck traveling in the northbound lane washed over McGrath’s face. McGrath looked exactly like what he was, an old cop with too much on his mind. Hagen lit the filterless Pall Mall with the dashboard lighter, inhaled the strong cigarette smoke.
“Zahn said his men didn’t arrive here until Sunday,” Hagen said, thinking out loud. “It might be true.”
“Then who killed Ronnie?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve got all kinds of ideas. Let’s hear them.”
Hagen tried to sort it all out in his mind, bit by bit. He had a rough idea of what might have happened. Hagen asked McGrath if he’d heard of the murder of a man named Sidney Trunk out in Boulder City a couple of nights ago. McGrath knew of Trunk’s death, but only as an item on the police blotter.
“When Ronnie got to town he started looking for a fence,” Hagen said. “He got in touch with a man named Dallas Martinez in Vegas right off, but Martinez thought the hand was bogus and handed it off to Trunk out in Boulder. At least that’s what Martinez says. Trunk was interested and he put out some feelers in Los Angeles to see what kind of price he could get if the hand was real. Maybe he believed it was real or maybe he was thinking about working some kind of con, but he never had the hand. Someone thought he did though, and that’s why he was killed.”
“Who put you on to this fellow Martinez?”
“The Sniff.”
“You’ve dragged the Sniff into this?”
“Only to ask around, see what he could find out about the hand.”
Hagen went on, speaking slowly. Setting each small piece of the puzzle down and then adding another small piece, like a man taking small careful footsteps along the edge of a cliff. “At the same time Ronnie was shopping the hand to Martinez, he told Gubbs that he needed a fence. Gubbs told him about Winnie Wilson. Ronnie gave Gubbs some snapshots of the hand and Gubbs took one of those pictures to Wilson. Wilson must’ve told Gubbs what the hand was worth, or at least given him a good idea. Wilson told me that it was Ronnie he’d met with and not Gubbs, but I think that’s bullshit. I don’t think Ronnie ever met Wilson. It was all handled through Gubbs. It makes sense that way. Wilson is a professional. He’d want to deal with someone he knew. He didn’t know Ronnie, but he knew Gubbs.”
“Why would Wilson lie?”
“Maybe he was still hoping at that point that Gubbs could find the hand for him and he wanted to protect Gubbs from me. Maybe he was protecting Gubbs for some other reason, I don’t know. You knew Gubbs better than I did, McGrath. What do you think?”
“I never got a chance to talk to him about it. Someone put a bullet in his head.”
“Zahn’s men.”
“That’s what you keep saying. Go on.”
“Ronnie went out to Hoover Dam to meet someone. He was shot sitting in his car with the window rolled down, so whoever shot him was someone he knew and who he wasn’t smart enough to be afraid of. I think it was Gubbs. I think Gubbs gave Ronnie some kind of story to get him out there with the hand—maybe that Wilson wanted to buy the hand and they’d all meet out at Hoover Dam to discuss a deal. Nice out-of-the-way place, and yet not so out of the way as to make Ronnie too nervous. So Ronnie drives out there. Gubbs shows up and shoots Ronnie, but when he searches the car he doesn’t find the hand. Ronnie didn’t bring it.
“So now Ronnie is dead but Gubbs still doesn’t have the hand. But he knows it’s got to be around somewhere. He also knows that Ronnie had been to see Harry Needles. So Gubbs starts working on Harry. Harry goes home, searches the bags that Ronnie left with him, realizes that he has the hand. He throws in with Gubbs and they decide to sell the hand out of town rather than bring Wilson into it—because Wilson would know that Gubbs had killed Ronnie to get the hand. But neither of them knew that the Foreign Legion was in town looking for the hand. Gubbs comes back to his apartment last night and finds a couple of Legionnaires tossing the place. They put the screws to him and then kill him.”
“Who killed Trunk?”
“My guess is that it was Gubbs. I spoke to Trunk on the phone the night he was killed. He said he’d talked to Ronnie on the phone Monday night about the hand. Only it wasn’t Ronnie. But Ronnie was staying at Gubbs’s place when he first got into town. He might’ve been passing Gubbs’s phone number around. I don’t know what Trunk said to Gubbs on the phone, but it must’ve been just enough to give Gubbs the idea that maybe Trunk knew where the hand was. So Gubbs goes out to Boulder and Trunk winds up dead. Harry said that he only threw in with Gubbs yesterday—and Trunk was killed Wednesday night. So at the time Trunk was killed, Gubbs still wasn’t sure where the hand was.”
McGrath laughed to himself. “It’s convenient to pin all of this on Gubbs. He’d be hard-pressed to deny it at this point. What’s this wooden hand supposed to be worth?”
“Trunk thought it was worth thirteen million.”
“Thirteen million?” McGrath let out a low whistle.
“That’s what
I’m told.”
McGrath shook his head. “That’s quite a story, Bodo.”
“It’s a start. I think there’s some truth in it. Quite a bit. Pick up Zahn and his men. Pick up Wilson too. Once you get them sorted out I think you’ll see that it falls together just about the way I’ve said.”
“Anyone else you want me to arrest?”
“They’ll do for a start.”
“We’ll have to see about that.”
A road sign appeared—the turnoff where Highway 95 separated from Highway 93 and headed due south toward Laughlin. McGrath guided the car through the turn, hit the gas when the highway straightened out again. A mile farther on Legionnaire Tate’s cell phone buzzed. Hagen flipped it open to answer the call, then closed it slowly, a puzzled look on his face.
Hagen glanced at McGrath. “Nobody there.”
Dawn was breaking by the time they reached Searchlight. The roadhouse casinos looked closed up. The mobile homes scattered on the hillside stood at odd angles amid the sagebrush and rocks, the desert soil blown up against them in drifts.
South of the town Hagen pointed out the old utility road.
McGrath slowed, pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway. Eased the big Chevrolet sedan onto the dirt road and crept along. The car rocking side to side, a cloud of dust kicking up behind them. After a time the road curved and carried them around a hillside and then down into the narrow valley.
The wooden shack appeared up ahead. Off to the left, about fifty yards from the dirt road. And off to the right was the formation of boulders where Hagen had buried the hand.
McGrath stopped the car on the road, turned the engine off. They climbed out of the car. It wasn’t even six o’clock in the morning but already the temperature was into the nineties. Soon it would be too hot to breathe in this desert. Hagen wondered who had built a shack out here. Whoever it was, they had wanted to live at the end of the world.
While McGrath leaned against the car smoking Hagen walked over to the boulders near the road. The boulders looked narrow and angular in the daylight. He found the rocks he’d left as a marker and he prodded them aside with his foot, then bent down and dug up the blue sweatshirt bundle from the parched earth and brought it back to the car.
Hagen set the bundle on the warm hood of the car. Unrolled the sweatshirt.
McGrath flicked his cigarette onto the ground, picked up the aged wooden relic. Turned it over in his hands, his forehead wrinkled with deep furrows. A wooden hand with a broken finger, found in the ashes of a burned-out hacienda in Mexico a hundred and fifty years ago. It had traveled from the deserts of Mexico to the deserts of Algeria and now finally to this desert. It had a life of its own—but no, Hagen knew that wasn’t true. It only had the life that men had given it. And many men—Legionnaires—had given it their lives.
“Doesn’t look like much,” McGrath said.
He handed the relic to Hagen. Then McGrath turned away, surveying the sharp crags on the hill behind the crumbling shack. McGrath sighed. A long tired sigh. Hagen set the wooden hand down on the sweatshirt and began wrapping it back up. McGrath opened the car door, took his windbreaker off, threw it into the backseat.
Slammed the door shut.
Hagen looked up. McGrath was facing him. Standing with his legs braced. As though expecting a hard wind. McGrath held a .38 revolver in his hand. Snub-nosed, chrome finish—McGrath’s police special. The short barrel was pointed at Hagen.
“What the hell are you doing, McGrath?”
A look of resignation had fallen over McGrath’s face. “Set the hand down on the hood and step away from the car.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Do as I say, Bodo.” McGrath motioned with the barrel of the revolver. “Move.”
For a moment Hagen couldn’t move. Then he set the bundle on the hood of the car. He took three steps away from the car, keeping his hands out at his sides. McGrath waved the barrel of the revolver again and Hagen stepped farther away from the car. The sound of his footsteps scratching in the dirt seemed far too loud.
“By the way, Bodo, that piece under your coat—I think I’d like to watch over it for you. It occurs to me that there are far too many guns around here.” McGrath pointed to the ground at his feet with his free hand. “Toss it over here. Use two fingers.”
Hagen pulled the Beretta automatic he’d taken from the Englishman out from under his coat, using his thumb and index finger. He tossed the automatic and it landed on the ground a few feet to McGrath’s left. Hagen studied the distance between himself and McGrath. Twenty feet. McGrath eased over and bent down, slow and watchful, keeping Hagen covered with the revolver. McGrath picked up the automatic. He tucked his revolver under his arm and quickly racked the slide of the Beretta to make sure that a cartridge rested in the chamber. Then McGrath turned the Beretta on Hagen while he tucked his own police special back into his leather side holster. McGrath transferred the Beretta to his right hand.
“What are you thinking, McGrath?”
“I’m thinking you figured this out pretty good, Bodo. But you missed one or two things.”
“I didn’t count on you.”
“There’s always one more son of a bitch than you counted on, isn’t there, Bodo. That’s a good rule to live by. Too bad you had to learn it this way.”
“You shot Ronnie?”
“No, Gubbs shot Ronnie—you were right about that.”
“You were in on it.”
McGrath turned his head, spat onto the ground. The pistol in his hand was steady. “That’s right. Wilson made the mistake of telling Gubbs what the hand might be worth, and Gubbs told me. I told him to get his hands on it and we’d make a little money for ourselves. So Gubbs got Ronnie to drive out to the dam—told him he’d found a buyer and they’d all meet out there. Ronnie was supposed to bring the hand with him but he didn’t. Unfortunately Gubbs didn’t find that out until after he shot Ronnie. Gubbs wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
Hagen felt the sweat forming on his forehead, the back of his neck, the palms of his hands. “Then you killed Gubbs.”
“I let him find the hand first. He thought Harry might know where it was and Harry did, but Harry needed to be convinced that it was worth his while to do business with Gubbs. It took a few days for Gubbs to bring him around. Might’ve been sooner but Gubbs got sidetracked by Trunk. You were right about Trunk—he called Gubbs’s place the other night looking for Ronnie and talking about the hand. Gubbs got the idea that Trunk knew more than he was saying and he went out to Boulder to talk to the poor man. I guess the conversation turned sour and Gubbs started playing with matches. Like I say, Gubbs wasn’t wrapped too tight even on a good day. But Harry finally decided to play ball and that put us back on track. Harry smelled money—” McGrath didn’t bother to finish the thought. “I was going to let Gubbs string Harry along for a while and then we’d get rid of him, but things started getting a little out of control. Harry got scared. Gubbs got scared. You were running around asking difficult questions. And when these Legionnaire friends of yours beat up Gubbs night before last, I began to wonder what the hell was going on myself. Gubbs called me and told me about that, so I decided it was time to pay a visit to Gubbs. I had to get rid of him. I’ve known that for a long time but I’ve been putting it off. But the time was right.”
“Because you could set me up for it.”
“You’ve got the motive, Bodo. That’s why I had you picked up. I’ve got two detectives now who think you probably killed him too. You thought Gubbs killed Ronnie, so you killed Gubbs. The gun Gubbs used to kill Ronnie was at his apartment. The gun that killed Gubbs will be found in your hotel room. It’s going to look very simple.”
McGrath was right. It was simple. And solid. Gubbs killed Ronnie. Hagen killed Gubbs. Harry Needles’s murder and the death of Sidney Trunk in Boulder were loose ends but not ones that McGrath needed to worry about. He hadn’t been directly involved. It seemed to Hagen that the only pe
rson still alive who could tie McGrath to Gubbs’s deadly search for the Hand of Danjou was Hagen himself.
McGrath nodded at Hagen. “You’ll disappear too, of course—but in a few weeks or months someone will find your body out here. There’ll be an investigation but it won’t lead anywhere because there’s no place for it to go. These Legionnaires will be gone by then and even if they’re not, so what? They don’t know a thing about me. After a while you’ll be just another cold case. No one will think twice about it. Yes, you’ve set things up for me nicely. With Gubbs out of the way I thought I was going to have to kill Harry myself to get the hand, but you found the hand and had the good manners to give it to me. I really do have to thank you, Bodo. You’ve walked right in. Now I’m going to close the door behind you.”
Hagen saw it all clearly. McGrath and Gubbs working together—they must’ve been doing it for years. Gubbs fed information to McGrath and McGrath used it as he pleased. He had a badge and the power of the law to keep them both out of trouble. A nice little setup. No one at Metro would question it because Gubbs was a known in formant. And it stretched back for years—all the way back to Jimmy Ray’s murder. Maybe farther than that.
“Who killed Jimmy Ray, McGrath? You, or Gubbs?”
A grin spread over McGrath’s face. He cocked his head to one side as though seeing Hagen in a new light. “Very good. You’ve been giving this some thought. It was Gubbs who told me about the money Jimmy Ray took home with him. The next night I was waiting for Jimmy when he got home. Gubbs never knew for sure that I’d done it, but he had a good idea. Not that he could’ve told anyone. If Marty Ray ever found out that Gubbs was a police informant, Gubbs would’ve found himself standing on the bottom of Lake Mead with a cement toilet seat around his neck. Yes, I had a good time with Gubbs. We had an understanding. He made a little money out of it and I made quite a bit of money. He knew enough about me to cause me trouble, but I’ve always known enough about him to get him killed. Funny thing is, he never thought I’d do it myself.”
