The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels

by Charles Alverson

  It was just a few minutes’ drive across Market Street to the small blind alley a couple of blocks off Broadway where I lived. The colorless line of late Victorian houses looked down at me drably. From force of habit I leaned the Morris against a “No Parking” sign and walked into the small grocery store on the street floor.

  It was so long since I’d slept that I’d stopped being sleepy. I felt curiously alert and quite detached for a man being run out of town on two hours’ notice.

  “Lum here?” I asked the latest of a series of boyishly thin Chinese girls to work in the shop.

  “Back room,” she said, still stuffing small cans of Chinese vegetables into a string bag.

  The passage to the back of the shop was so crowded with boxes and crates that I had to crab-walk into the tiny office where Lum Kee, my landlord, sat at a wobbly card table writing in Chinese characters in a big account book. He didn’t look up. From the top he looked like a fat and glossy otter just rising from a pool of rubbish. “Lum,” I said.

  “I know,” said Lum, still not looking up from his ledger, “you’ve shot the mayor’s father and you’re on the run. It was on the radio this morning. Jon Thatcher’s show. You’d better get out of here. I can’t afford to harbor a criminal.”

  Lum Kee stretched an ink-stained, hairless hand out toward the telephone on the card table. I put a hand and about sixty pounds of pressure on the telephone receiver. “Don’t be in such a rush to stand by me, Kee,” I said. “It gets me all choked up. You’re wrong on at least two counts. It wasn’t his father, and I’m not on the run. So don’t get your hopes up. I haven’t got any time to waste, but I’m going out of town for about six months, and—”

  “You’ll be giving up the apartment?” said Lum Kee brightly. “You’ll have to lose your month’s deposit, of course, but—”

  “No,” I said firmly, “I’m not giving up the place. You know that.” Five years before, in a time of unexplained panic, Lum Kee had wanted a cop on the premises. He let me have the apartment at a ridiculously low rent and had been regretting it ever since. It had been a false panic, but the apartment was still a great bargain.

  “You’ll get your rent. But I want you to keep an eye on things, keep the mail for me, that sort of thing. And don’t try any fast ones while I’m gone. I’ll be back.”

  I turned and started to leave the tiny room overhung with cardboard boxes, when Lum Kee said: “Six months’ rent is a lot of money to pay for a place you won’t even be living in. It seems a shame.” His voice conveyed not sympathy for me but sorrow at the pure waste of it all.

  “You got a better idea?” I asked, half turning back.

  “I have a nephew,” he said. “A fine boy. From Honolulu. He’s over here taking a course at the San Francisco Bible College. Twenty-six weeks. He might be interested in subletting your place. Pay the same rent and everything, so it wouldn’t cost you a thing. I’ll write up the contract myself. Just as a favor to you.”

  “Nephew?” I asked suspiciously.

  “My sister Pansy’s youngest boy,” he said. “He’s going to be a missionary. A fine profession.”

  I didn’t care at all for the idea of some Hawaiian religious fanatic using my apartment. But the thought of several hundred dollars flowing from my malnourished bank account into Lum Kee’s fat pockets was even more distasteful.

  “Where is the Bible banger now?” I asked.

  Lum Kee shrugged. “You needn’t worry about that. I’ll take care of everything. Trust me.”

  I stiffened my defenses. “I’d rather trust Kolchik,” I said. “I’m not subletting to anybody without meeting him first.”

  “I’ll have him up at your apartment in twenty minutes,” said Kee, “with the contract.”

  “That’s better,” I said, looking at my watch. Twenty minutes of my two hours had already been eaten away. “See that you do.” Once again I turned to leave the office. As I got to the passage and turned sideways, I heard Lum Kee say, “The fat one is up at your place waiting.”

  I kept walking. I knew what he was talking about. But I was thinking of other things as I climbed the three flights of stairs over Lum Kee’s shop to my apartment. In my weakened state, the rich cooking odors from the apartment on the first floor made my legs go momentarily wobbly. But when I reached the top of the stairs I was faced with a familiar sight—a small, plump man sitting on the hall carpet with his back to my door. I reached out a hand and helped him to his feet.

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” I said, opening the door.

  “Oh, it hasn’t been too bad,” he said. “I while away the hours thinking about how much I’m being paid to haunt you.” He was plump in a pork-sausage way: sleek, tight, seemingly stretched near the bursting point. He wore a smooth sharkskin suit just a fraction too small in every dimension, and his black hair was not so much thin as uniformly and widely spaced. He was panting slightly from the exertion of getting to his feet.

  I pushed past my visitor through the rectangular living room into my long, thin bedroom and began pulling a couple of suitcases from under the bed.

  “Do you want to put some coffee on?” I called. “Make lots of it—and strong.”

  “Okay,” he called. After a short silence, I heard the cupboard door creak open and the coffee jar land on the Formica sink. The cold water tap rattled into action.

  My apartment wasn’t big. It had just one fairly good-sized bedroom and another small room, in theory a bedroom, but actually the graveyard of anything broken or not currently in use. But each of the rooms, even the closet-sized bathroom, offered a mildly spectacular view of San Francisco and the bay, for which a richer person than I would have paid much more rent. That is, if Lum Kee could have gotten me out. I looked down into a half-empty drawer of underwear and socks, wondering which to take. Finally I dumped the whole drawer into my worn canvas suitcase on the bed. Reaching into the big closet I grabbed hangered clothes at random and stuck them into the other case. With a wardrobe like mine, the choice wasn’t difficult.

  “Coffee’s ready.”

  I came out of the bedroom and found my fat friend sitting on the long couch in front of the bay window, pouring coffee. He handed me a big, brown mug.

  “Thanks,” I said, letting myself fall to one end of the couch and leaning back with my feet straight out on a cushion. I closed my eyes and took a drink of the hot, bitter coffee.

  “I understand you’re in a bit of trouble,” he said.

  “How do you understand that?”

  “The late edition of the Chronicle and—”

  “—the Jon Thatcher Show,” I finished for him.

  “—and the Thatcher Show. He’s making you into a regular feature: The Adventures of Goodey Two-Shoes: Crime Buster.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “I’m deeply flattered. Have you got the Chronicle?”

  “Here.” He offered me a neatly folded copy of the paper.

  “Forget it,” I said, pushing the paper away. “I don’t think I could take it in my condition.”

  “Why don’t you just give her the divorce, Joe?” he asked with a new, apparently sincere warmth in his voice. “With this latest trouble, you don’t need me around your neck. You’ve got enough problems.”

  I couldn’t help agreeing. For the last three months, the little man—a lawyer’s investigator from New York—had been plaguing me to give Pat a divorce. His name was Seymour Kroll, but I had preferred to call him Fatso, Fattie, Lard Ass and finally Chub, as I’d become used to him, and even fond of the little investigator in the way that a hunchback might come to accept the growth between his shoulders. He was better than no company at all.

  I wasn’t sure myself why I wouldn’t give Pat a divorce. She’d been back in New York with her family for almost a year now. I’d long ago packed everything that was hers, including the wedding photographs and an ashtray full of her cigarette butts, and shipped it—collect—to her. That was last winter, right after my flying trip to New Y
ork had been such a disaster. After I’d harangued her for days, Pat had gone into hiding. Her father, the very rich Solomon Berkowitz—who for reasons I can’t fathom likes to be called Sonny—had seen that I was put on the plane back here by two polite but very determined plainclothes cops. They didn’t want to believe that I, too, was a detective. Once I’d convinced them, they’d been very sympathetic. But they’d still put me on the plane.

  “I can’t do it, Chub,” I told him. “I’ve got too much on my mind right now to deal with such small matters. It looks as though I’m going to have a lot of time to do some heavy thinking. Maybe I’ll come to the conclusion that Pat can have her divorce and marry that jerk.” On going back to New York, Pat, who was calling herself Pat Berkowitz again, had taken a job with a big advertising agency. Now it seemed that she wanted to marry some up-and-coming vice president of the agency. The one I’d tried to punch in the mouth last January.

  “Where are you going, Joe?”

  “I don’t know exactly. South. Somebody I know recommends Mexico highly. I’ll lie on the beach and get tan.”

  “That sounds expensive,” he said. “How are you going to manage it? You’re not exactly flush these days.”

  “No,” I agreed. “How much have I got in the bank, exactly?” Chub peeked into a small black-leather notebook. “$142.76 in the checking and $760.09 in the savings account. That’s not very much to go on, and I assume you’re not going to have your police salary anymore.”

  “I’ve got a week and a half’s pay coming,” I said.

  “Okay, but that’s still only a little over a thousand dollars altogether. Look Joe, I’m sure that Mr. Berkowitz would authorize a loan—a substantial loan—if…”

  “If is right,” I said, finishing my second cup of coffee. “Sonny Berkowitz would be glad to lend me a finger if he was sure of getting an arm back. No deal. No divorce. I’ll get along somehow.” I wished I could believe that myself. “Look, I’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

  “Do you mind if I make a telephone call?” Kroll asked.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll be packing.”

  As I walked toward the bedroom, I heard him begin: “Hello, Operator, I want to make a credit-card call to New York City…”

  I was barely back in the bedroom when the doorbell gave two raspy bleats. Chub was still murmuring into the mouthpiece when I opened the door and found myself looking at a spot just over the head of a neatly dressed Chinese in his early twenties. The blue wool suit was sincere, and the white shirt front and collar were practically blinding. A black knit tie was transfixed by a tiny gold crucifix. His smooth, oval face was pleasant, even if the mouth hinted of primness.

  “You’re the nephew.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Goodey,” he said, holding out a short-fingered hand. “My name is Gabriel Fong. May I come in?”

  I gave him what I hoped passed for a welcoming handshake and stepped backward into the living room.

  “Sure. Have a look around.”

  I had a look around myself and suddenly realized just how bare and anonymous the place was without Pat’s things. It could have been a rather shabby hotel room.

  Just then Kroll stopped talking and put his hand over the receiver. “Joe,” he said, “could you spare a moment? Mr. Berkowitz would like to speak to you.”

  “No,” I said, feeling surly, “I’ve got to get packed and out of the city”—I looked at my watch—“in less than an hour. Tell Sonny I’ll write him a letter—with a bomb in it.”

  Kroll held the receiver up in front of him in an imploring gesture. His small, close-set eyes begged me to be reasonable, be kind, be human.

  “All right,” I said, “what the hell.” Walking toward the telephone, I told the nephew, “Have a good look around. I won’t be long.” Taking the receiver, slightly damp, slightly warm, I put on my most bored voice, and it didn’t take much acting.

  “Hello Sonny. Did you hear the good news?”

  “Now, Joe,” said his Lower Second Avenue voice overlaid with Harvard and thirty years of good living, “you know better than that. I wish you no ill. I’ve got nothing against you. I only want Patricia to be happy, and the only thing I know that can make her happy is for you to give her a divorce. Joe, you must understand. Pat’s in love. She wants to marry Ernest.”

  “I’m touched,” I said, “deeply touched. But the answer’s the same. If Pat wants a divorce, she’ll either have to come back here or wait out the divorce laws there. I’m not going to make it any easier. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t been to sleep for so long that I forget what it’s like, and I’ve got some fast moving to do. Goodbye, Sonny, give—”

  “Joe,” said my practically ex-father-in-law in a voice so sincere that I felt like the rat I really was, “Seymour said there was no point in mentioning it, but I know that with no paycheck coming in things are going to be a bit tight for you. Listen, with no strings attached, I could let you have a small loan, hell, a medium loan, just to keep you going until you connect with something else. No strings, Joe, no strings at all.”

  “I believe it, Sonny,” I told him, “but no thanks. I’m loaded with money, no matter what Seymour tells you. Now, I’ve got to go. I’m giving you back to Seymour.” I handed the still-talking receiver to a sorrowful Seymour and turned my attention to the Bible student, who was standing at the bay window looking out past Coit Tower at the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge sticking out of the haze. I joined him.

  “What do you think?”

  “It looks just fine to me, Mr. Goodey,” he said. “Here’s the contract my uncle drew up. I hope everything is satisfactory.”

  He handed me a long sheet of accounting paper half covered with tiny writing. I skimmed it quickly. I knew that if Lum Kee wanted to hide some joker clauses I’d never find them anyway. It all seemed fairly straightforward.

  “It looks okay,” I said, “but I don’t really like the idea of leaving my apartment to anybody.” I peered closely at Fong, bringing out my I’m-a-keen-copper-so-don’t-try-to-bullshit-me look. “I only hope you’re nowhere near as big a crook as Lum Kee. I couldn’t stand it.”

  “I’m not,” he said, apparently neither knocked over by my look nor offended. “One of the things my mother asked me to do while I am here is to try to put my uncle’s feet back on the path of righteousness.”

  “You’ve got a big job,” I told him. “I don’t think Lum’s feet were ever within taxi distance of it. But I’m wasting time. The place is yours for six months—no more. If you or your uncle double-cross me, I’ll come back and get you both. I’m a hard man. Ask Mayor Kolchik.” Having failed to impress Fong, I turned to Chub, who was just hanging up the telephone.

  “Chub, come here and witness this legal document.”

  We all three signed the contract, and Fong left, agreeing to pick up the key to my apartment at his uncle’s store. I jumped back into the bedroom and locked my packed cases. Bringing them out into the living room, I put the cases down by the door and turned to Seymour. “Well, Chub—” I held out my hand.

  His jaw dropped. On that round face the fall couldn’t have been fatal.

  “You’re not going to try to lose me, are you, Joe,” he asked. “Mr. Berkowitz’s instructions are to stick with you wherever you go. It’s my job. Besides, he’s authorized me to lend you any reasonable amount if you need it. That might come in handy, Joe. Think about it.”

  I thought for five seconds. “All right, but I’m not waiting for you a single minute. Your hotel is not far from my bank. I’ve got to draw some money, and if you’re there in exactly thirty minutes, you can come with me. It’ll save Sonny the cost of renting a car.”

  “You promise, Joe?”

  “I promise.” I tried to look sincere and probably succeeded only in looking sinister.

  “All right then,” he said still a bit doubtfully, “I’ll get going. I’ll meet you on the corner of Market and Montgomery, right in front of the Bank of America.”


  “Okay, Chub, but don’t be late or you’ll get left. I’m supposed to be out of this town by two o’clock.”

  Kroll left wearing an expression torn between hopeful trust and wistful misgiving, and I took a last look around.

  Feeling like a vagrant, I picked up my bags, went out into the hall, kicking the door shut behind me, and started down the steep stairs. On the street I threw the cases into the back of the Morris— triumphantly unticketed—and walked into Lum Kee’s.

  “He’s out,” said the skinny girl behind the counter coldly.

  “I don’t care,” I said to show that I didn’t. I separated the door key from my malnourished key ring and dropped it into the girl’s uneager hand.

  “Give this extremely valuable key to Lum Kee,” I said, “and tell him that if he crosses me I’ll cut his heart out and make him eat it.”

  This didn’t get a rise out of her either, but she took the key.

  I climbed into the battered convertible and made an illegal turn. In less than a minute, I was on Broadway heading west, almost directly away from the corner of Market and Montgomery.

  “Sorry, Chub, old buddy,” I murmured hypocritically as the car entered the Broadway tunnel.

  4

  The houses flanking Broadway were pale, cool, and slightly aloof, with just enough patchy color to ward off anonymity. At Van Ness Avenue I snaked across onto Lombard as if I were going to head north on Route 101 into Marin County. That’s what we police call misleading and evasive tactics. After a few blocks I pulled into a Shell station.

  “Fill it up and check everything,” I told a teenaged desperado who slunk out to the pumps, jamming a rolled-up underground newspaper into his hip pocket. At a telephone booth near the sidewalk, I put a dime in the slot and dialed a number in Sausalito. Three rings later, a high-pitched voice said, “Hello?”