Some Die Hard

by Stephen Mertz

  His eyes caught a glint of light. "Nope. But on TV they always hassle whoever was alone with the murdered man last. And if this was murder, in this case that whoever would be my darling spouse, Helen." He waved a hand. "Go on, Dugan. I'm busy. I thought you were all right, but I don't like people coming into my house suggesting that I'm a killer. Go where you're appreciated."

  I stood up and couldn't resist one last crack.

  "I had you pegged as an asshole last night," I said. "Susan Court stuck up for you. Told me you were all right, once someone got to know you. And Mr. Court must have thought you were all right too. He kept you on." I shook my head as I started for the door. "I guess some people are just better actors than others. Goodnight, counselor."

  And I let myself out.

  I climbed the steps to the living room. There was no sign of Helen Bishop. As I moved to the front door to let myself out I passed another short hallway at an angle that let me look for just a second into the first door on the right. It was only a glance, but it was a sight I'll carry with me for a long time.

  It was the kid's TV room, I guess, and it was dark except for the glow from the box itself. Two children, a boy and a girl of about seven or eight, twins possibly, sat immersed in the glow, and the sounds of gunfire and galloping hooves and cries of pain drifted out to me. Their heads didn't turn from the screen as I passed.

  It was as if simulated warfare and death between people out in the world was somehow much more preferable to the war raging between their parents, right there in the house.

  It wasn't very healthy, any way you looked at it, and, not being married myself, I wondered in how many other houses the same scene was being played out. And what kind of a world we'd have when these kids grew up.

  Helen Bishop was waiting for me in the front seat of the Toyota. She sat staring straight ahead and as I climbed in I saw the small overnight bag she held clutched in her lap. I got in, closed the door after me.

  "Mrs. Bishop—"

  She turned to face me. "Call me Helen... please."

  The words came out low, brittle, as if the voice that spoke them was about to break.

  "All right," I corrected. "Helen. What are you doing here, Helen?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked, not angrily. "He's played god for the last time, as far as I'm concerned. I'd like you to take me somewhere...if you would."

  I misunderstood her. I thought she had a place in mind. "I guess so. Where would you like to go?"

  "I...I don't know. A motel, I guess. Anywhere..."

  I felt like sighing. So much for staying out of the Bishops' marital troubles. I placed a hand back on the seat and turned to face her.

  "Look, maybe this isn't the way-—"

  "It's the way. Please, let's get out of here before he notices I'm gone and comes looking. He's capable of making terrible scenes. If you...had some other things you were going to do, maybe I could just tag along." She reached over, touched my arm. "Please, Rock. You're nice. You were nice to me at the party yesterday and...well, there's...no one nice left. No one I can talk to. Mr. Court is dead and...Jinx is gone, I guess. Susan told me he's just left town and vanished."

  "Helen, maybe this isn't the time, but...I've told you of my involvement in Mr. Court's death, that I'm investigating it. And there's one question...I really have to ask."

  She smiled faintly. "About Mr. Court?—"

  "Yes. You know what the question is, don't you?"

  "Yes, I know. And the answer is...he was just someone to talk to, when things got heavy. We were close, I could trust him, but...it wasn't like that; like what you might have thought."

  "How well do you know Jinx?"

  She said, "He's my brother-in-law. George's half-brother. In fact, George got Jinx his job with Mr. Court. Jinx was nice to me too...understanding." The corners of her mouth twisted. "Not like George. I was always welcomed at the Court home. And no, there was nothing between Jinx and me either, except...that kind of love." She'd begun drifting, but realized it and pulled herself back onto the track. "Please, let me tag along. I'm not...imposing, am I? I mean, I know I'm imposing a little, but—"

  I gave her a smile. I didn't see much else I could do, but I wasn't being a hypocrite. I felt sorry for her, and I liked her.

  "You're not imposing, Helen. I've got to visit a nightclub and then I'm long overdue for some dinner—all in the line of business, you understand. If you want to join the party, you're more than welcome."

  Her face lit up like a kid opening a surprise present.

  "Thanks, Rock. Thank you."

  I slipped the car into reverse, backed down in the street, and we were on our way. The next stop was Murray Zucco's club, and on the way the woman beside me lapsed back into silence, and I let her.

  Maybe I should have said something then. Maybe I should have talked her into going back. Back to her bastard husband and her catatonic kids.

  Yeah, maybe. But I didn't, and I'll never know what might have happened. I'll only know what did happen, and the part I played in it.

  Hell, how could I know that the troubled red-headed Amazon beside me was already as good as dead?

  It was late Sunday night as we drove out to Murray Zucco's.

  How could I know that Helen Bishop would never live to see Monday morning?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Zucco's club was about two miles west of town, out one of the quiet back highways. It was neighbor to what looked like a pretty ritzy country club and beyond the low, modern structure I could see the rolling and dipping smoothness of a golf course stretching out below a full moon into the darkness.

  We left the car in the crowded parking lot and started up the sidewalk to the front entrance. Helen's spirits had improved perceptibly when we'd pulled in among the bright yellow, blue and pink neon lights. I felt like I was letting a wild bird out of a cage.

  Her arm slipped through mine and she drew closer. "Thank you for taking me along, Rock."

  Like I said, I liked her. I reached over and gave the arm a squeeze. "Thank me when we leave. I told you this was business. I'm not sure how much fun it's going to be."

  "It'll be fun."

  "Have you ever been here before?"

  "No, I've never been here before. I don't know about George, on his time off..."

  The bitterness was bobbing just below the surface again and I didn't want that, so I let the matter pass.

  We reached the front steps and just as we were about to go in, an older, well-dressed couple came out, moving by us on their way to the parking lot, apparently not too happy with each other.

  "Two hundred dollars, Fred! My God, we can't afford that kind of money!"

  "Honey, look. Mr. Zucco runs a square place. It's not like we were cheated. I—"

  And then they were out of earshot.

  I looked at Helen and grinned. "Think we'll get cheated?"

  "I'm game. Let's give it a try."

  I held the door open for her and we stepped in, finding ourselves in a dimly lit room with a counter along one wall that reminded me of nothing so much as the front office of a motel. A pretty young girl stood there, greeting us with an expectant smile.

  "Good evening. Two?"

  I guess she was talking about the even more dimly lighted restaurant area through the archway to our right. At least she was holding two menus.

  I took a quick look around. There was no sign of gambling anywhere from what I could see, but then I hadn't expected there to be. Even when you own a town the way Zucco seemed to, you can't be too flagrant about breaking the state statutes.

  There was a door behind the girl marked Private. I took a shot in the dark and nodded in its direction. "I'd like to see Murray, if he's in."

  She wasn't ready for that. Her attractively dumb face clouded with mild confusion. "A-are you members?"

  "No, but he'll see me. Tell him it's Dugan."

  She put down the menus and turned toward the door, still somewhat disoriented. "Mister...Dug
an..."

  "That's right."

  "Just one moment, please. I'll see if Mr. Zucco is busy."

  She rapped gently on the door, opened it and stepped through. I looked back at Helen and, with her arm back through mine, led her toward the archway.

  "Come on," I said. "There should be a bar in here. Would you mind waiting for me for a few minutes? This shouldn't take long."

  "But, Rock...you're going to see Mr. Zucco. The Mr. Zucco. The one everyone in town talks about in whispers. Our own local gangster!"

  "Shh!"

  "Oh, come on. I'll be a good girl. I'll stay out of your way and everything!"

  I laughed. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, and she was having the time of her life, out on the town once again in god only knows how long. I was almost tempted to take her along with me, but what I like to think of as reason finally won out.

  "The bar, my dear. Business first, then dinner, just like I promised."

  "Well, okay. But that smacks of a bribe to me!"

  I'd spotted still another archway along the far wall of the restaurant and the bar was beyond that. We started for it and were halfway there when my eyes caught a familiar face sitting at one of the wall tables, wolfing down a large plate of spaghetti.

  Speaking of bribes...

  I led Helen on a slight detour and came to a stop before him, looking down.

  "Hello, Chief. I didn't know you were the nightlife type."

  Chief Medwick looked up slowly, gave the redhead only a cursory glance, and settled a pair of glacial eyes on me. He finished chewing and swallowing a meatball, wiped his mouth with a checkered napkin and took a sip of wine, and all the time his eyes stayed right where they were.

  Finally, he said, "I didn't expect to run into you, either, Dugan. I didn't expect to run into you anywhere. I thought by now you'd be all done with your investigating and seen just how much time you're wasting, pestering people like you've been."

  "It's not a waste of time, Chief."

  He gave a grunt that was supposed to be a laugh. "Okay," he said, and went back to his spaghetti.

  "You, uh, come here often?"

  "Now and then. It's a nice place. So what?"

  "Must be real convenient. A nice place, good food, and you get to see your old buddy all at the same time."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about you and Murray Zucco," I said. "I heard the two of you were real tight back east before things got hot."

  That did it. He dropped the fork from his hand with an angry flick of the wrist and it clattered loudly onto his plate. A few faces turned but Medwick didn't seem to mind.

  "I asked you what the hell you're talking about?" he repeated in a low, angry whisper, his words coming out like the hiss of a snake.

  "I'm talking about you, Medwick," I said. "You're as rotten as they come. You're a lousy cop on the take and you think you've got the clout to hush up a homicide just because you're Chief in this dinky burg."

  "You watch your mouth, Dugan."

  "You watch your step, Chief. If you're not up to your ears in murder already, I'd advise you to start playing things mighty close to the vest." I nodded back toward the entrance. "Our boy Zucco hasn't got long. He had somebody wasted in Denver yesterday morning and there's a chance he's messed up in a First Degree here. I think it's about time you start looking out for numero uno, don't you? A cheap gambling operation's one thing, but the heat can get mighty heavy when people start falling over dead." I smiled. "You ought to remember that from Philly."

  "You just about finished?"

  "I guess."

  He'd cooled down somewhat. He turned his attention back to his food, picking up the fork. "Then why don't you just go wherever it was you were going? Guys like you insult my intelligence."

  "What there is of it," I added, and started Helen back for the archway into the bar.

  But Medwick had the last cut.

  "Oh, and Dugan." I turned. "Be careful, huh, Dugan? We do our best, but this can be a pretty tough town when it wants to be. Especially around payday, which was yesterday. We're always finding guys out on the highway, beat up...or worse."

  "Thanks, Chief. I'll keep that in mind."

  We continued across the restaurant without speaking and I had Helen seated at the barely populated bar, with a drink ordered, when she said, "That was the Chief of Police?"

  "That was the Chief of Police."

  She made a face. "He seemed awful mean. That was...pretty dangerous, what you told him, wasn't it?"

  I grinned and gave her arm a squeeze. "Sometimes a little stirring up is just what the hornet's nest needs. Take it easy and try not to run up too much of a tab. I'll be right back, if I'm still walking."

  "Rock, don't joke like that. Please..."

  I just grinned again like an idiot, gave her another squeeze, and started back through the restaurant area, not feeling anywhere near as gutsy as I was supposed to.

  Medwick was gone when I passed his table, which was fine with me, and the hostess was waiting when I stepped back into the outer foyer. She still had that mildly confused look about her, poor kid.

  "Oh, Mr. Dugan. I—I thought maybe you'd left."

  "Still present and accounted for. Is Murray in?"

  She nodded and looked at the door with the Private on it. "Yes, he is. He's waiting for you. Please go right in."

  I thanked her and did just that.

  The office was plushly carpeted and well appointed, and the man I took to be Murray Zucco sat looking at me from behind an ornate oak desk. He was heavyset and horse-faced, munching an unlit cigar between thick lips. He was balding and the few strands of hair that arced across his skull were slick with grease. A suit that had set him back plenty didn't do a thing for him. It hung on him like a tent.

  As I closed the door behind me he said, "Charlie."

  There was movement from my left and I was treated to a fast, professional frisk. Charlie came out with the .44 and stepped back. He was a young, handsome, well-dressed man; smooth, but not that smooth. He had that look of just barely controlled energy about him that serves as a warning and he just stood there watching me, expressionless, my own gun pointing at the floor. I gave him a once-over, then turned to Zucco.

  His eyes were on the gun.

  "You figured you might need that out here?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "You're taking it away from me..."

  He nodded. "Only for the time being. Medwick told me you were in town. He told me why."

  "You and the Chief are pretty close, huh?"

  He gave an oily grin. "We'd have to be to keep this place going. But of course you've already figured that out."

  "Of course."

  He leaned back, took the cigar from his mouth and made an expansive motion. "Langdon Springs can be a nice town," he said, contradicting Medwick's earlier statement. "Lotsa money floating around, lotsa good-looking broads. Nice scenery. Hell, we've got an eighteen hole golf course back of this place that's one of the best in the state. There's lotsa things to do. Lotsa healthy things." He leaned forward to make his point. "So why are you pulling so much unhealthy shit, friend? Huh? Answer me that one."

  "Just stupid, I guess."

  He nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

  I added, "But I'm not as stupid as Stanley Hochman. I'm not going to fall apart when your slobs start closing in on me. I'm not going to lose my head and run in front of a taxicab and make it all nice and easy for you. You're not going to waste me, Zucco, and if you don't believe me just watch how much manpower you throw away when you start trying."

  He raised an eyebrow. It did some pretty bizarre things to his horse face. "That's pretty big talk with Charlie standing behind you with a loaded .44."

  "I'm safe," I told him. "This place isn't soundproofed." I glanced at the door opposite the one I'd come in through. "I can hear the gambling room, Murray, and they'd hear the shot. Hell, even a cop as crooked as Medwick couldn't cover a hit for you in
your own club."

  He sighed, threw away his cigar, reached into an oblong box across his desk and lit a fresh one with a gold-ornamented lighter.

  "Look, Dugan. Let's stop playing games, huh? We're not getting anywhere. We—"

  "Stanley Hochman's not getting anywhere either."

  He grunted, blew a cloud of gray smoke at the ceiling. "You really got that little weasel on your mind, don't you?"

  I nodded. "I guess I do. Why don't we talk about him for a little while, just for laughs?"

  He shrugged. "Okay. Talk."

  "You're not going to deny that you had him hit, are you?"

  His expression didn't change. "I thought he was run over by a cab."

  I grinned, without humor. "Come on, Murray. He got hold of some of Tommy Court's markers, and you weren't about to have him making waves."

  Now his expression did change, into one of annoyance.

  "Look, Dugan. There's always some punk like Hochman trying to put some screws on me, trying to get a piece of the action. It's nothing new. Hell, I don't blame them. I've got a damn good thing going here. But I can't put up with it either. So they get something on me and they think they've got me over a barrel, and I have to get some boys to maybe get a little rough with them and teach them a lesson. Otherwise it might get to be a habit with a lot of people, thinking they can push Murray Zucco around. But it ain't worth murder. Not with the pasting my boys can put out. That's always been enough. Use your head, man. Why would I—"

  "Because Hochman wasn't interested in a shakedown," I said, "and you knew it. And if I can prove that those boys were sent to Denver by you with intent to murder...Well, you get the picture, don't you, Murray? And the first piece of evidence is those markers. They were the stakes in a hell of a big game."

  "What game is that?"

  "I'm talking about Carlander Court's will. His boy Tommy owes you fifteen grand, maybe even more by now, and everyone needs money like that. I'll bet the recession's even hit the gambling business. But if Tommy's father saw copies of those markers, there wasn't a chance of the kid getting the money. And the same went for you."

  "So you think when I found out Hochman had copies of the markers, I did something about it?"