Private Eye 4 - Nobody Dies in Chinatown

by Max Lockhart

  "Joe and I had been eating dirt behind a fallen palm tree for most of the night, shooting at anything that moved. And there was a lot that moved. Those islands were crawling with a lot of things besides the Japs. I never saw so many lizards in my life. They dropped out of trees onto the back of your neck. They crawled out of the underbrush. You could damn near find them in your canteen. I still get the creeps when I see a lizard."

  Involuntarily he shivered. He would never forget listening to the rustling of leaves, and the tight feeling in the gut while you wondered if what rustled had four feet or two. "Anyway, we were penned down, but the Japs couldn't dislodge us. Finally about daylight, we were overrun by two battalions of Nippon Rangers. Crack veterans with a suicide complex. They didn't care if they got killed as long as they could take a few of us with them. You couldn't just wound them. You had to kill the bastards. By the time we got our orders to fall back, there was a stack of bodies in front of that palm tree and Joe was already hit—his knee."

  Cleary took a deep breath, thought for a minute he could smell cordite in the air, then continued. "I don't know if he wanted to die on that island. Maybe he had some idea what he was coming back to." He wiped his mouth, tasted the sandy grit of that island again. "He wouldn't fall back, just kept firing, that wild look in his eyes like he was a suicide squad of his own. I had to knock him cold to get him out of there." Johnny licked his cone, his eyes mirroring his confusion.

  "But it sounds like he owes you. Not the other way around."

  Cleary shook his head. "You got to understand. Joe Quinlan was always a hero. In high school. Football." He watched the Good Humor truck drive slowly up the block. "He was made for the Glory Days. He should've gone out a hero like everyone expected. Instead"—he heard the bitterness in his voice—"instead he came back to this." He waved his arm at all the perfect suburban lawns. "Things had changed. There was nothing to struggle for, nothing to measure himself against except how much thicker his grass was than his neighbor's, or how much bigger his bank account was."

  Johnny stood looking at Cleary, his cone melting in the hot sun, running over his fingers, and dripping onto the ground. "Just because you save someone's life, you can't be responsible for what he does with it. You can't keep chasing after him wiping up his messes."

  Cleary let his shoulders slump. "Don't you see, kid? I took away his choices on that island. He didn't choose to come back alive. I chose for him. Now, I'm responsible," He clapped Johnny's back. "Just stick with him, huh? And get up closer to the house. Mickey Gold's whole mob could hide in that shrubbery."

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Johnny watched Cleary drive off in his black Eldorado. Jesus, that guy was nuts. The men in white coats ought to take him in and teach him how to weave baskets. Anybody with any brains at all knew that if you did a favor for somebody, he owed you. But trust Cleary to get it all screwed up. He needed a keeper, somebody to see he stayed out of trouble and away from bad company like Joe Quinlan. To get caught between two mobs just to save a war buddy was a sure sign of softening of the brain. All the same, he thought as he trudged up the sidewalk to Eileen Quinlan's house, he would rather have Cleary in his corner than the heavyweight champion of the world.

  He skipped the porch. No hood, even one as dumb as Sidney Bloom, was going to walk up to the front door for all the neighbors to see, ring the doorbell, and blast whoever answered. If anybody was going to ventilate Joe Quinlan, he would come up the alley and through the backyard. He worked his way down the front of the house, checking the bushes for hoods and noticing the roses had aphids. He had worked for a landscape artist for a couple of months until he got caught doing a little heavy petting with the guy's daughter, and if there was one thing he recognized, it was aphids.

  There was one other thing he recognized, he thought as he caught sight of Joe Quinlan and Eileen through the open living room window, and that was a man who felt as if he were a stranger in his own house. He had had some experience along those lines, too. Every time his dad want to jail.

  He felt sorry for Quinlan, standing there in the doorway, holding his gym bag and watching his wife fold clothes as if it were the most interesting thing he had ever seen. Poor guy didn't look as if he wanted to admit that she was jumping off his bandwagon. And judging from the mess the wife was making out of folding those towels, she wasn't looking forward to making him admit it, either.

  Johnny started to slip past the window. He had done all the eavesdropping he intended to do. He wasn't a pervert that stood around listening to other people's troubles. Feeling a tug on his sleeve, he looked down to remember one other fact about rosebushes: they had thorns. And ninety-five percent of all the thorns on this particular rosebush were buried in his black, genuine leather, steel-studded jacket that cost him most of what he earned spraying aphids for two months.

  As he disengaged the rose's teeth from his jacket, he heard Quinlan speak. "I know I lost a lot of myself along the way, but I always had you."

  He stopped, and Johnny saw him look toward the ceiling as if the right words to say might be printed there. "You're the only thing I have. Don't leave me, Eileen. We can work it out!"

  Eileen turned around, and Johnny saw she had been crying, probably for a long time. Her eyes had that red swollen look that spelled more than one crying jag. "I love you, Joe. I do, but I can't stay and watch you lose a little bit more of yourself every day. You're on an island in the Pacific, or up on that rooftop beating yourself over the head because you never found whoever killed your sister so you could beat them instead. You can't be a hero every day. Sometimes you have to compromise and be an ordinary man."

  She wiped her eyes, and Johnny was afraid she would start crying again. He saw Quinlan take a step toward her, but she waved him away. "I've got a ticket out of here first thing tomorrow morning."

  Quinlan looked stunned, as if he had been punched in the gut. Or as if he saw the ground drop out from under his feet, thought Johnny. "Just give me another six months to scrape up the cash," he heard Joe say. "We'll get that place we always talked about. Forty acres overlooking Seneca Lake."

  "Don't!" said Eileen violently. "Please don't. I know you really mean it. At least for now, but I've heard the same make-believe dreams for twelve years. I'm not a make-believe person. I need some real dreams even if they're not the kind we used to share."

  There was more, but Johnny couldn't stand to listen. Ripping his sleeve loose, he ran back to the Merc, piled in, and slammed his fist on the horn until he saw Joe leave the house, looking alone and desperate. He grabbed a copy of Roller Derby magazine and buried his nose in an article until Joe climbed slowly into the car.

  "You gotta cinch up tight tonight, man. These Silver Indians are on the warpath. According to this, they put three Golden Bombers in the hospital last week," said Johnny, careful not to talk too fast. He always sounded guilty when he talked too fast, and he didn't want Joe thinking he knew anything. Which he did. More than he wanted to.

  Tossing the magazine into the backseat, he switched on the motor, glancing sideways at Joe. He pushed in the clutch, shifted into first, and drove off, wondering if the other man was going to explode all over his front seat. Looking at Joe again, he changed his mind. Cleary's buddy wasn't going to explode. He was going to—what was the word—implode, collapse into himself, like an inner tube with a puncture. If he did, Johnny figured there wouldn't be much left of Joe Quinlan. The guy was empty already. Better get Joe's mind off his woman troubles and on to his game, or the Indians would wipe the track with him.

  "What's up, champ? Don't tell me you got a case of the pregame jitters? Listen, you just watch your skating, and you'll be fine," said Johnny, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and trying out a grin.

  "I need to make a phone call," said Joe, his voice and face totally expressionless. Like a wooden Indian, thought Johnny.

  "Sure, champ," he replied, swerving into the curb and stopping in front of a phone booth.

  Johnny slid out
of the Merc, opened a bottle of Coke on his belt buckle, and sat on his fender, his back to the phone booth. He lifted the Coke in a toast to a couple of greasers working on a custom '55 Chevy and shifted his body so he had an unrestricted view of the phone booth in his side mirror. Tapping his finger in time to "Rock Around the Clock," he watched Joe insert a coin and dial a number off a matchbook cover. He squinted, but couldn't see the name on the matchbook. Man, talk about a Peeping Tom, he thought. He couldn't even let the guy make a phone call without spying on him. But damn it, who would he be calling? Joe Quinlan didn't have any friends except Cleary.

  He took another sip of Coke and watched Joe pound the phone with his cast when it returned his coin. Champ sure wasn't calling out for Chinese. A guy doesn't rearrange a phone booth because he can't reach his favorite carry-out restaurant, Johnny watched Joe redial, then turn around. Man, he wished he could read lips, because Joe was banging his cast on the phone again and didn't look very happy with the conversation. He finished his Coke as Joe slammed the receiver down. It bounced off the hook and jerked at the end of its cord like a jumping Jack. That guy was weird. He wished Cleary had steered clear of him, because Joe Quinlan was trouble with a capital T.

  The Black and Tan Club was empty. Clean white cloths covered the tables, napkins were folded, silverware laid out, glasses sparkling on the bar, carpet freshly vacuumed. It was a stage, props all in place for the hipsters looking for action, the starlets looking for contacts, the lonely businessmen on the make.

  The houselights dimmed, an actor's voice echoed from the shadows. "How much cash can we lay our hands on in the next two hours?"

  A spotlight flashed on and illuminated Mickey Gold, his hand resting on the phone. Gold turned his head, and another spotlight picked up Meyer Alliance, sitting alone with his adding machine, punching numbers and making notations in a ledger.

  "We've got just over eighty-six thousand in the safe," said Meyer, his voice as dry as the paper money that is his life. "And we can scrape up another eighteen thousand and change if we pick up the West Side number's take. "

  Like a malodorous Buddha holding court in sordid splendor, Mickey Gold smiled at Meyer. It was a self-satisfied smile, a cruel smile, the smile of a man who achieved an unworthy goal. "Put it all on the Indians for tonight, Meyer. I told you everybody has their price." He patted the phone. "Quinlan's throwing the match."

  Mickey clammed up at the sound of approaching footsteps. The stagelights came up and he pasted on a look of jolly evil as the main character made his entrance, escorted by Sidney Bloom.

  Cleary stepped into the empty nightclub, glad he could feel the hard, reassuring weight of his .38 in his shoulder holster. When dealing with rats like Mickey Gold, it was a good idea for the exterminator to carry something besides traps. Particularly when the chief rat had an enormous grin on his face. That always meant bad news for someone.

  "Did you cheat a widow out of her husband's insurance policy, Mickey?" he asked. "Or is that grin for me?"

  The grin turned into a sneer that Cleary considered more becoming. "Well, well. If it isn't the Dag Hammarskjold of the underworld."

  Meyer and Sidney gave the joke a bigger laugh than Cleary thought it deserved. But if you worked for Mickey Gold, it was safer to laugh at his jokes. He shot them a look he used to reserve for axe murderers and child abusers, the look that said one more word, and I'll cut you up with a dull saw. The look still worked, he noted with satisfaction as the two thugs choked off their laughter between one giggle and the next.

  Cleary turned back to Mickey. "Don't push your luck, Gold. I'm the only thing standing between you and Frank Tucci. Make me angry, and I'll let Tucci spread you the length of Mulholland Drive." He eyed the mobster's plump form. "And he wouldn't even have to spread you very thin. You're packing enough fat to grease both lanes for five miles."

  Mickey misplaced his grin. "Did you forget our deal? Tucci for Quinlan?"

  "I haven't forgotten, but I don't like what I'm doing. Give me the least excuse, and I'll take a powder. I'll figure out another way to get Joe off your hook. Like chop your fishing pole into pieces."

  Mickey wiped the sweat oozing out of his pores. "Okay, okay. You set the meet? Right?"

  Cleary nodded, wondering what Mickey had up his sleeve besides his lumpy arm. He had given in too quickly. He should've wiggled and squealed like a trapped rat, gnashing his teeth and biting everyone in sight. "Yeah. I'm going up to Tucci's place tonight."

  "You sure he'll be there?" asked Mickey anxiously.

  Cleary frowned as he studied the mobster. "He'll be there. He wants to hear your terms."

  Mickey pulled a napkin out of his pocket and checked it. "Just tell him if he lays off my numbers in the South Bay and leaves me half the vending and pinball machines in Hollywood, I'm going to give him all of my East and Central L.A. territory."

  "Without a fight? Since when did you become Santa Claus, Gold? What are you keeping back?"

  Mickey got up, his chair creaking in appreciation of being relieved of Gold's weight. He slung his arm around Cleary's shoulders, smothering him in aftershave and the smell of evil. "You're a smart guy. I mighta known you wouldn't buy my charity act, so I'll let you in on a little secret, Cleary. We got knocked off at two of our wire services last month. We had a couple of our runners hit by one of these kid gangs springing up all over the place since the war. It's not like the old days. People are losing respect for the old order. We got anarchy in this country. Goddamn Communists are undermining society."

  "My heart bleeds, Mickey."

  "Let Tucci get the ulcers. It'll leave me more time to soak up the sun at my Palm Springs place."

  Cleary shrugged off the mobster's arm, making a mental note to decontaminate himself at the earliest opportunity. "I hope you got a high fence around your pool, Mickey. The sight of you in a swimsuit will ruin the tourist trade down there," said Cleary, but his heart wasn't in it. His head was throbbing like a bongo drum. Worse than it usually did around Gold.

  Mickey held up one hand. "Scout's honor, Cleary. I'm playing you straight."

  Cleary pressed his fingers against one temple. "You couldn't play straight if you had a ruler, Gold, so I'll ask you again. After tonight's meeting, Quinlan is off the hook?"

  "Absolutely. After tonight, my problems with Tucci will be over."

  Gold was caving in like a tin roof in a hailstorm. And Cleary couldn't remember the last time it had hailed in L.A.

  SEVEN

  Man, but these guys are big, Johnny Betts thought as he visually measured the broad back of one gladiator pulling on a size 48 jersey. He stood beside Joe at the door to the Thunderbolt locker room and watched the solemn athletes prepare themselves. Tape was wrapped around strong, scarred fists; pads were pulled onto elbows, knees, forearms, and banged into place. A player's thick forearm smashed a locker door shut, leaving a dent in the metal surface. Skates hit the floor, feet jammed inside and laced tight by thick, callused fingers. Helmets were pulled on, framing the thoughtful, distant faces of hard men about to do a violent act for a buck.

  "Hey, man, is it the Christians against the lions, or what?" asked Johnny, his voice breaking an absolute silence. "These guys are gearing themselves out like they expect to draw blood. They're doing everything but filing their teeth. Are they always this revved up?"

  Joe jerked his head at a huge Sioux wearing war beads and an eagle feather in his hair and busily taping down his forearm pad with the concentration of a brave checking his supply of arrows for an upcoming massacre. "Hey, Nicky, what's going on?"

  Nicky Whitehorse looked around at the other players as if he were taking a vote. Several nodded, and Nicky, elected spokesman, turned back to Joe. "We haven't done anything real in a long time. The guys pooled everything they got for this one. Tiny over there"—pointing to a looming giant with a size 20 neck—"put in the money he was saving for his honeymoon. We lose, and him and the bride's gonna bunk down in the backseat of his Chevy."

&
nbsp; The Thunderbolts wordlessly skated out past Johnny and Joe. Nicky stopped in front of Joe and held out his fist, all taped up and ugly as a mutant mummy's. Joe knocked down Nicky's fist with his own in what Johnny presumed must be some kind of pregame ritual like slicing your chest or wearing war paint.

  "We're gonna do it..." said Nicky in as close to a growl as Johnny figured the human voice was capable of making.

  "Till the blood flows," agreed Joe, moving past Nicky toward his locker. He tore off his shirt, revealing a torso with more scars than a twenty-year-old neighborhood tomcat, and opened his locker.

  Johnny saw him pick up an envelope and open it. "You getting fan mail, champ?"

  Joe stuffed the envelope back into the locker under his spare jersey. He glanced over his shoulder at Johnny. "Yeah, they leave me letters in the damnedest places. One dame hid an invite to her hotel room in my extra jockstrap." He laughed, but Johnny noticed it didn't reach his eyes.

  Johnny punched Quinlan on the arm, but softly. No point in stirring up the animals. "I'm going to grab me a seat right down front, champ. Crunch a few for me. I'll see you in the winner's circle."

  Joe pulled his number 43 jersey over his head, and gazed at the younger man until Johnny squirmed uncomfortably. "Sure, kid. Enjoy the game."

  Johnny tried to figure out just what kind of look Quinlan had given him. Desperate, disappointed, scared, mad, thoughtful. He discarded the last guess. Joe Quinlan didn't look like the kind of a guy who thought much. He just reacted.

  To hell with it, he thought as he squeezed into the seat next to Dottie. Maybe the guy was just upset because his wife was leaving him.

  Dottie daintily took a bite of a chili dog, chewed, swallowed, and delicately touched the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin, her eyes swiveling from side to side. "I've got to thank Cleary for these tickets. I hear you can make a lot of contacts at one of these matches."