Irma’s voice had gotten shriller and shriller, and her whole body was drawn with tenseness. Her mouth was pulled back in a smile-snarl that wasn’t pretty to see. The hand with the gun in it started to rise from the vertical again as if under its own power. She could see nothing but Fat Phil.
The object of her hatred seemed to wake up from a light trance. Phil was shaking his head and mumbling something as if he were talking to himself. In the dead silence of the room, Irma and I strained to hear what he said. Then some words came clear.
“…Christ’s sake,” Phil was saying, “to think that Tina was a dyke, a fucking bull-dagger. I…”
That was exactly the wrong thing to say at that moment. The words set me in motion, but it was a little too late.
Irma’s gun hand sprang up. Instantaneously, the gun rapped, and Phil’s right eye was gone. Except for the blood which began to gush from the eye, Phil’s face didn’t change. It was frozen in an expression of mild wonder, and it would never change again. His body didn’t so much slump as settle into itself like a big balloon under a heavy weight. Then Phil toppled forward with a heavy thud onto the bare floorboards and lay unmoving, flat on his bloody face.
Irma moved quickly across the room and emptied the rest of the .22 bullets into the back of Phil’s fat, hairy, defenseless neck. It was a waste of bullets. Then she pivoted and threw the gun at my feet.
“You can call the police now,” she said. “I’m finished.”
“I don’t think I’ll have to.” Heavy footsteps pounded up the old stairs like second-hand thunder. The door buckled at about shoulder height, clung briefly to its catch, and then crashed open, admitting a well-fed young cop who tripped to a stop with his mouth open. Johnny Maher came in after him with a gun in his hand and certain conclusions rapidly forming behind his pale eyes.
“Hi, Johnny,” I said. “We were just talking about you.” Irma said nothing. I had put my gun away by then, but I’m sure I must have looked suspicious.
“I’ll just bet you were,” Maher said.
22
Everybody was very happy.
Mayor Kolchik sat in his vast leather chair, beaming like the bride’s father at a Polish wedding. In his hand was a glass of the best whiskey the city’s money could buy. The Brother, splendid in his Bolivian admiral’s uniform, bubbled with bonhomie. He showed me more of his dentist’s artistry than I wanted to see. Ralph Lehman had that giddy, hysterical look of a man whose runaway car has just stopped, teetering on the brink of a high cliff. In his mind’s eye he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt on the dock in Sausalito, drowning live bait.
I tried to do my share of grinning, but I couldn’t help thinking about Irma Springler, just beginning to learn how to be a prisoner. Or about Phil Franks, who’d had to become a corpse without any practice at all. And I couldn’t ignore the fact that I hadn’t done much to slow down the process. If I’d been willing to shoot Irma—even just a little—he’d still be alive. But I consoled myself that I’d saved the State a tremendous amount of money for his food alone. Irma wouldn’t eat nearly as much, or for as long. I’d tried to see Irma in the cells, but she wouldn’t see me. The message she sent said that she was going to do it the hard way.
One of the reasons I’d accepted the mayor’s invitation to drop by his office was that I thought I’d do what I could to get Irma a break in court. I was biding my time until the right opportunity came up.
“Yessir, Joe,” The Brother was saying, “it’s all over now. Thanks to you. I have to admit I thought you were a dumb bastard, but you zeroed in where Maher and his jerks failed. Where we all failed,” he added, with a fairly meaningful look at Ralph. But Ralph wasn’t really there. He should have hung a big sign on his forehead: “Gone Fishing.”
“Tell me,” Bruno said, “how’d you know that the Springler broad would lead you to Tina’s murderer?”
“It’s a trade secret, Bruno,” I said, tapping the side of my nose. “We private detectives have our little tricks, you know. Just be satisfied that the murder has been solved. Neat, clean, no loose ends. It’s buried as deep as Tina D’Oro.”
“Deeper,” said Bruno with some satisfaction.
“By the way,” I said casually, directing my words to the mayor, “what are you going for in the Springler trial? You know she’s going to plead guilty.”
“Murder One,” said The Brother before His Honor could open his mouth. “Murder oh-enn-eee. I’m not settling for less than life, with a mandatory fifteen, maybe twenty. Why, she shot that fat boy down in cold blood. She flat out executed him.”
“You’re not settling, Bruno?” I said. “Since when are you running the district attorney’s office?”
Bruno got that Watch-it-boy-I’m-about-to-get-exercised look on his face. “Listen, Goodey,” he said, going cerise around the chops, “you did a damned good job, but if you think…”
“I do think, Bruno,” I said. “I think it. You’ve got what you want, but now you’re getting greedy. I’m not going to let you buy Irma a season ticket to Tehachapi just because it makes you feel like a big man and not an overblown property clerk.”
Now it was Bruno’s turn. “You’re not going to let me? How are you going to stop me, Goodey? You’ve got about as much pull in this town as a busted flush.”
“Easy, little brother, easy,” I said. “If you try out your running spikes on Irma, all I’ve got to do is whisper a few sweet nothings to my friends at the Chronicle, and you two will be lucky to get berths on the last banana boat back to Poland.”
Bruno was up and out of his chair and on his way over to wring my neck when Mayor Kolchik, who’d so far been watching us scuffle like a couple of playground desperadoes, said sharply, “Bruno!” If that was supposed to stop The Brother, it didn’t. I was looking around for something to break over his head, when Ralph stuck out a big foot, and Bruno fell like a majestic oak full length on the expensive Oriental carpet. I was up and about to try for the point-after-touchdown with his head when a mighty roar caught my attention.
“Goodey! Stop right there. Sit down!”
Sanford Kolchik was up from his baronial chair with veins like soda straws popping in his thick neck. Bruno, now on his hands and knees, seemed to have been stopped by the bellow, too, so I backed off. But I didn’t relax. Bruno thought it over several thousand times, then got up casually from the carpet as if he’d been examining the weave and stomped back to his chair. I’m glad I didn’t see the look he gave Ralph.
When we’d all gotten comfy again, the mayor sat down, made a pyramid of his fingers on his spotless blotter and looked at me. “Well, then, Joe,” he said, “what do you think would be a proper plea for the State to accept from Miss Springler? I’m assuming you’re not asking me to give her a key to the city.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I figure voluntary manslaughter would be all right, if she won’t go for a temporary insanity plea. With a recommendation for mercy, of course.”
“Mercy?” Bruno went into his geyser act again. “That fucking dyke deserves the same amount of mercy she gave Franks.”
“Shut up, Bruno,” the mayor said in a quick aside, and Bruno went back to glowering at Lehman. “I don’t know about the mercy, Joe,” he said. “That might be a bit strong. But I’ll tell you what: I think the district attorney will accept voluntary manslaughter with mitigating circumstances, and the prosecutor won’t get rabid or talk about long, lonely years in a cell. Is that all right?”
I didn’t have to think very hard about that one. It was the best offer Irma was going to get. “You’ve got a deal,” I said. I made a preliminary motion to get up.
“Another thing, Joe,” Kolchik said, and I settled down into my chair again. There had to be a catch. “We’ve got a deal,” he said, “and I’ll keep my end of it. But this has got to be the end of the Tina business. All right, I was foolish, and I had to bend a few laws to protect myself. But it’s all over now. It has to be. I don’t want you to think that knowing about me and Ti
na is your meal ticket for life. Is that understood?”
“It is,” I said, and I meant it. “I don’t know anything about Tina D’Oro. I never did.” Kolchik smiled with satisfaction, but I wasn’t finished yet. “But there’s one proviso.”
The mayor looked at me and let a hood fall over his eyes. “What is it?”
“The same has got to go for your Cousin Stanislaus. I don’t want to hear any more about the grievous harm I did to him and the possibility of criminal charges. I’m not overjoyed that I shot him; I wish I hadn’t. But it’s a closed chapter. A city cop shot him; let the city settle the rap. If I perforate any more of your relations, you’ve got a squawk coming, but you’ve had all the mileage you’re going to get out of Cousin Stan. Is that agreed?”
“Agreed,” said the mayor solemnly. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask.” Just as I got to my feet, he added: “One last thing, Joe. Have you thought about getting your job back in the department? I’m sure Bruno would have no objection,” he said without a glance at his brother. “I think we might even be able to manage a set of sergeant’s stripes in a couple of months. I don’t want you to think I’m an ungrateful man.”
Even Lehman had returned from his reverie to listen to this last bit. He was watching me calculatingly, as if trying to guess how much I weighed.
“What do you think of that idea, Ralph?” the mayor asked.
“It sounds good to me, Your Honor,” Ralph said, playing it straight. Then he looked at me. “You know, Joe, you’ve got only five years to go before you could retire. A sergeant gets a fair pension these days. You’ve already put in a pretty tough fifteen years earning one; you might as well stick around to collect it.”
All three of them were watching me. Even Bruno eyed me with fairly restrained malevolence. Maybe, like a small boy who puts a frog on a hot stone, he just wanted to see which way I would jump. So I satisfied his curiosity.
“Thanks very much,” I told Kolchik. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not going to take you up on it.” I swiveled toward Lehman. “You were right, Ralph. I don’t look like a cop. And I don’t feel like one anymore, either. No offense to your proud calling, but you can keep the stripes. In a few years, I’ll probably wish I had that pension, but right now I’ll settle for my contributions toward it.”
“But what are you going to do, Joe?” Ralph asked. I think he honestly wanted to know.
“I’ve still got that lovely private operative’s license you gave me. I think I’ll give it a bit of exercise. There are so many bad private detectives in San Francisco already that one more won’t hurt.”
“Are you sure, Goodey?” the mayor asked. “My offer closes when you walk through that door.” He thought I was being stupid. Lehman thought I was being suicidal.
“I’m sure,” I said, as if I were.
“All right, then,” Kolchik said. “That’s settled. But I’m going to give you a going-away present.” He jabbed a button on his desk and spoke into his intercom: “Will you send my other visitor in, Dorothy?”
In about fifteen seconds Johnny Maher came through the door like a man walking into a minefield. The polished effect he cultivated was looking a bit thin in spots, but his crease was sharp. Maher raked his eyes across me expressionlessly and stopped in front of the mayor’s desk. He could have been facing a firing squad.
“Sergeant Maher,” Kolchik said in a carborundum voice, “I called you in here to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Joe Goodey.”
Maher expected anything but that. His mouth opened involuntarily, but no sound came out.
“I’ve just offered Mr. Goodey a job in the police department,” the mayor went on. “Your job. And with your stripes to go with it. Luckily for you, Mr. Goodey refused. He prefers to work as a private detective. I want you to know that Mr. Goodey saved your stripes for you. I wanted to take them. Bruno wanted to put you back in uniform. Wasn’t that nice of Mr. Goodey?”
Johnny didn’t speak. He stood there stiffly. Whatever emotion he was feeling was buried deep.
“Well?” demanded the mayor. “Wasn’t it? Don’t you want to thank Mr. Goodey?”
Sure he wanted to thank me. Almost as much as he wanted to swallow his own tongue. To my surprise, I wasn’t enjoying this spectacle very much.
“That’s okay, Sandy,” I said. “The boy is tongue-tied with gratitude. He can thank me later. I’ve got to go now.”
“All right, Joe,” Kolchik said, coming around his long desk. He put a thick arm around my shoulders. “Thanks for dropping in. If you feel like sampling a bit more beer, I’ve got a new batch just coming along. Be ready any time now.”
“Thanks, Sandy,” I said, hugging him back. I never feel very comfortable hugging men. I looked at the other three, reading various shades of incredulity in their eyes. “I’ll be seeing you gentlemen around,” I said. I walked through the doorway. As the door closed, I could hear Bruno start in on Maher, and I felt sorry for him.
On the street floor, I bumped into Gabriel Fong as he was getting into the elevator. He backed out hurriedly, and we stood next to a thick marble pillar.
“Hello, Gabe,” I said. “How’s your uncle?”
“Not well, Joe,” he said mournfully. “Complications have set in, and the doctors don’t think he’ll live to stand trial.”
Fong was back in his sincere black suit with the gold cross on his tie, but there was something intangibly different about him. Recent events had rubbed some of the down off him.
“That’s too bad, Gabe,” I said, “or a good thing, depending on how you look at it. A trial would have been a pretty messy business, what with the death of Fsui-tang and the dope angle.”
“The family will be grieved at Uncle’s death,” Fong said solemnly, “but they will be much relieved if his name is not dragged through the courts and newspaper headlines. We already have much to atone for if we are to hold our heads high again.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Are you going home, or will you continue at the Bible College?”
“Neither, Joe,” he said. “My uncle is thoroughly penitent and has asked me to take over his business obligations—his legitimate activities only, of course. They will occupy me for some time.”
“What about your work with the street kids?” I asked.
“I’ll do as much as I can, naturally,” Fong said, “but family obligations must come first. There are many ways one can serve God.”
“There certainly are. I’ve got to go, Gabe. See you later.”
“Of course,” he said. “But one thing quickly while I think of it. I’ll be living in my uncle’s house, so I won’t need to share your apartment anymore, but…”
“But…” I said.
Fong swallowed laboriously, then got his nerve back. “Well, Joe, even a cursory look at my uncle’s records shows that he’s charging you much too little for that apartment of yours. With those views it should be bringing in much more money. Do you think—do you think that…”
I’m slow, but I got Fong’s drift.
“Do I think that perhaps I could move out so that you could fix it up and double the rent? Is that what you want to know?”
Fong nodded nervously.
“No, I don’t think it, Gabriel-boy,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “And don’t you think it, either. It won’t do you any good. You’ll only lose sleep.”
I smiled sincerely and headed for the parking lot. There was an old Polish gentleman in San Francisco General Hospital who was overdue for a visit.
THE END
Not Sleeping, Just Dead
Joe Goodey Mysteries (Book 2)
She was rich, young and pretty—so why did Katie Pierce jump? Unless she didn’t.
Former San Francisco detective turned private investigator Joe Goodey is broke and needs a case. When a wealthy man shows up at Goodey's local watering hole and cuts him a check on the spot to investigate his wealthy niece’s alleged suicide, Goodey immediately shuttles off to the scene of the c
rime: a mansion housing a local cult called The Institute.
To find the killer and uncover the truth about Katie Pierce's death, Goodey must infiltrate The Institute's ranks. But as the investigation twists and turns through the mansion's labyrinthine halls, Goodey finds that the murderer might not even be the most dangerous person in the group…
1
I was stretching a tall gin and tonic at Aldo’s, the only bar I knew that hadn’t yet torn up my tab, when I looked up and discovered that my elbow room to the west had been annexed by an elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit.
Before I could decide how I felt about that, my new neighbor reached over and placed a cellophane-covered card over the mouth of my glass. Even in the dim light Aldo cultivated—he claimed that it confused germs—I could see that it was a business card identifying Frederick M. Crenshaw, Chairman, Cosmopolitan Fire & Casualty Insurance Co., Los Angeles. I had to make a quick decision: say something or drink the card.
“You’re out of luck,” I said. “Even if I bought some, someone would probably bum me down before the night was out.”
He didn’t answer but just flipped the card over, revealing a colored photograph of a fresh-faced girl with a wide mouth, freckles and long, auburn hair. She was wearing a white graduation gown and a mortarboard at a slightly rakish angle.
“Very pretty,” I said, “but is she old enough to hang out in a joint like this?”
“She would have been,” he said, withdrawing the photograph, “but she’s dead now. She was my granddaughter.”
“I’m sorry,” I said automatically.
“Don’t be,” he said, slightly sharply. “It won’t help Katharine or me. But you could help me a lot, Mr. Goodey, by finding out who killed her.”
I sipped the watery dregs of my drink. “Do you want to tell me about it, Mr. Crenshaw?”
The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels Page 20
