“So?” he said.
“He admits nothing.”
“So what will he admit to me? He might figure it’s a trap.”
“We’re not worried about that. All we need is the gun. I figure he’ll bring that gun over to the lot. Remember, he’s an amateur.”
“Gun?” Tackett’s voice was hoarse. “That’s what you wanted me for, to flush the gun? What the hell kind of a fool do you think I am?”
I said reasonably, “Be sensible. He wouldn’t kill you on a lot two blocks from his house. Not after he realizes I suspect him. That would be putting his neck into the noose for sure. His job is to get rid of you where you can’t be found. He’ll have to bring his car for that, and that’s why he needs the gun — to force you into the car.”
“Don’t con me, Puma. You guys don’t worry about me. I’m a patsy.”
“If he doesn’t bring a car,” I said, “you can back out and nobody will complain.”
“But if he brings the gun, who protects me?”
“About eight officers, two of them with those infra-red sights for shooting in the dark, two sharpshooters. Clyde, you’re safer tonight than you’ve been for a couple of days.”
He took a deep breath.
“Twenty per cent,” I said, “and my personal guarantee of your safety.”
“You bastard,” he said. “You conniving bastard. You big guys can fool a man. Guys your size are supposed to be dumb.”
At the lot, I dropped him off near a big realtor’s sign and then went to park around a bend in the road, out of sight. The lot was covered with high grass, and Sergeant Kafke came through that down to my car.
“All set,” he told me. “How did Deering take it?”
“Like a guilty man. He kept watching the clock. I hope nothing happens to Tackett, Sergeant.”
“Come on,” he said. “This way.”
I followed him over to the protection of some shrubbery near the realty sign. There, as we crouched, he said, “Wouldn’t Deering think five thousand is cheap blackmail for murder? That could make him suspicious.”
“I wanted a sum he could get his hands on in a hurry. I learned that he keeps between five and ten thousand in cash at the house all the time.”
Then Kafke whispered, “Boy, we played that close. There’s a car slowing down. It’s a Lincoln, isn’t it?”
It was. A black Lincoln. I whispered, “Lower, get lower.”
He crouched and something rustled in the grass near our feet and an involuntary chill tingled in my neck and back.
The curb-side door on the Lincoln opened now, and a stocky man in a dark topcoat slid out from the other side of the seat. He had a small package in his hand.
Tackett had asked for twenties and tens and I thought they would make a bigger package than that.
There was no way to work over to the car without being seen. I stayed where I was, next to Kafke.
Now, in the bright light of the three-quarter moon, we could see Tackett standing higher than the grass, and I wondered if he could see Deering. It bothered me. He was a miserable little bastard, but we had a lot in common, except for size.
I could see Deering and he could see Tackett. I nudged Kafke and whispered, “I don’t like this.”
“Relax,” Kafke whispered. “He’s not heading for you.”
He was heading for Tackett, though, and Tackett gave no sign of seeing him. My heart began to pound. Our sacrificial lamb hadn’t uttered a word. I hoped against hope he was just playing it cagey.
And then he called out, “Did you bring the money?”
Deering stopped walking through the grass. “I brought more. There’s seven thousand dollars here, every dime I had in the house. But I can get more, if you need it. How about you?”
“What about me?”
“The police are after you. You’ll need to leave the country.”
I whispered to Kafke, “Can you see his hands?”
Kafke nodded. “I can see the package of money. But there’s nothing in his other hand.” He lifted a little. “We need that gun.”
Tackett called, “The police haven’t got anything on me. Why should I leave the country?”
“They’ll railroad you,” Deering said. “Let’s go over to the car and talk this over.”
“Just toss me the money,” Tackett said. “All I want is the money. I don’t need any talk.”
Gutty little bastard. He was growing bigger by the second in my eyes.
“Be sensible,” Deering protested. “My life is at stake. I simply can’t have you in a position where you might be apprehended. I’ve got the contacts and I’ve got the money to set you up for the rest of your life where you’ll never be bothered.”
Below the ground, that would be, Clyde, I thought. Watch this bastard, little Clyde.
Little Clyde called out bravely, “Toss over the money and get the hell out of here. I’m not going to be number three on your casualty list.”
A long silence, and then Deering said calmly, “I am forced to insist on your safety. If you are too stupid to realize my position, I will have to take desperate measures. Now you come with me this second and listen to my plan.”
Kafke whispered, “Can you see anything?”
“Nothing. He’s got to be pulling a gun now. Let’s go.”
He put a hand on my arm. “Wait — ”
I waited, and Tackett said loudly, very loudly, “Put that gun away. I’m coming.”
And we all came out, our guns in our hands. I led the parade.
Captain MacDarrel said unctuously, “I’m pleased to see you and Sergeant Kafke worked so well together on this.”
I smiled and said nothing. Kafke was still with Deering. I sat in MacDarrel’s office, waiting for the Chief and Griffin to get down here.
The mayor was in Palm Springs, so he wouldn’t be available for the big publicity spread the Department’s public relations man was working on.
I said, “I guess we’re all agreed that Ned Deutscher will lose his license.”
The Captain colored. “I can assure that is the least that will happen to him.”
“Miss Deering here?” I asked.
He nodded. “She’s with the matron. Her father must have been — pathological about her.”
“She was all he had,” I said, “in the whole world.”
The door opened and Lee Judson came in. He nodded at me and told the Captain, “Same gun, sir. I wish all our killers were amateurs.”
Too many are, I thought.
Then Kafke came in. He said wearily, “He’s starting to break. His attorneys are here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pleads insanity.”
The Captain sniffed. “Insanity? Won’t Griffin’s legal eagles tear that plea to ribbons.” He smiled at me. “Would you call him insane, Mr. Puma?”
“No more than the rest of us, Captain,” I answered.
I closed my eyes and blocked out my view of them. I closed my eyes and thought of the weekend coming up in Palm Springs.
THE END
If you liked Sweet Wild Wench check out:
The Convertible Hearse
ONE
NOBODY IS PERFECT, not even Jan. Jan is vulnerable to certain idiocies of our time and one of them is television. And on television, her taste is inexcusable; she likes quiz shows, all-girl orchestras and used-car dealers.
Taste is Jan’s business, you must remember. She’s an interior decorator, and people of some discernment and background have told me she is a good one. So this incredible lapse in her standards is not easy to understand.
But then, I read somewhere that Satchmo listens to Guy Lombardo when he’s relaxing and maybe that’s the way it is with Jan. I mean, maybe she just lets down in her leisure hours. Sort of like taking off a girdle or wearing sloppy slippers.
Not that Jan needs a girdle, or wears one. Not my Jan.
Anyhow, among all the freaks in the fender-thumping end of TV, there was one who held a particular fascination for my girl. H
e went under the title of Loony Leo and he boasted nightly that he was “the craziest trader in the craziest trading town in America and nobody, but nobody, will give you the deal old Loony Leo will.”
Even if you owed more than your present car was worth, you could get a better one from Loony Leo, get some cash to boot and lower your payments. And on Saturday nights, if you called before they closed, he would throw in a set of imported stainless steel tableware.
It was imported all right. From Japan.
We were watching this weird man one Saturday night at Jan’s place, when she said, “I need a new car. Why don’t we go down there?”
“I’d rather neck,” I said. “Honey, the man’s a crook. And your car is better than anything he’s likely to have.”
Jan has a Chev Bel-Air with less than twenty thousand careful miles on it, a sweet-running and good-looking little number.
She sniffed. “Better than a ‘56 Cadillac Eldorado? Leo’s got one of those for thirty-four hundred dollars.”
“No he hasn’t,” I said.
“I just saw it. Do you think they could lie on TV? He just showed us the car. And I’ll bet for cash, I could …”
Leo was pounding another fender and pulling cards that sent the price of a ‘57 Dodge down to bedrock.
I said, “For cash, you couldn’t even buy from Leo. That Cad is thirty-four hundred base and another thirty-four hundred in interest and a few hundred more in insurance that Leo handles for you — and by the time you’re through, Leo has enough to open another branch. If you want a car, we’ll get a new one. At Santa Monica Ford or Beverly Hills Ford, or …”
“I don’t want a Ford,” she said. “You and your damned Fords. I want a Cadillac.”
“All right,” I said, “we’ll go over to Beverly Hills Cadillac Monday and …”
“I don’t want to go Monday. I want to go tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I explained to her. “The reputable dealers are all closed on Sunday.”
“Loony Leo isn’t.”
“I know. That’s what I said.”
Leo was now offering his “Suicide Seller,” the good-will offering that climaxed his Saturday night First-Run Movie presentation.
The first-run movie featured Rod LaRocque and Vilma Banky and the suicide seller was a gleaming ‘52 Ford Club Coupe.
“This car,” Leo said in his smiling way, “will go to the first customer who gets down here with a ten-dollar bill. That’s right, I repeat, a ten-dollar bill! Let some of my so-called competitors match that offer!”
Jan raised her eyebrows and smiled at me. “How do you like that, Brock Callahan?”
“If you lived next door,” I said, “and rushed right over, that car would be sold. If you got there before he finished the commercial, the car would be sold. And Leo would have a bill of sale to prove it.”
Jan sighed and sipped her beer. “You’re impossible. Well, I’ll go alone.”
“Go where? When?”
“To Leo’s. Tomorrow. Brock, if I intend to get the carriage trade, I must look like I’m getting it, don’t you see that? I mean, in Beverly Hills, nobody drives a Chevrolet.”
“You’re getting the carriage trade,” I said. “And you could pretend it’s a second car. Lots of people in Beverly Hills drive Chevrolets for third or fourth cars.”
She said nothing.
I said, “Jan, you were never phony. Why start now?”
That sweet face stiffened and those soft brown eyes hardened. “Easy, Mr. Callahan. I can afford a Cadillac. Maybe you can’t, but I’ve some business sense.”
I had been looking ahead to a pleasant evening and perhaps even a pleasant night. The lust in me struggled with my considerable pride and I was momentarily silent.
Loony Leo faded from view and Vilma Banky came back and the silence continued.
And then Jan reached over to put her hand in mine. “I can be such a bitch, can’t I? Just because you’re honest …”
“And incompetent,” I said. “You’re right. You can afford a Cadillac.”
“You’re not incompetent,” she said heatedly. “You’re brave and strong and honest and …”
“And obstinate,” I finished for her. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”
“You’re wonderful,” she said. “This isn’t a very good picture, is it?”
“It’s not the best of Vilma’s,” I admitted. “Should I turn on the Legion fights?”
“If you want to,” she said quietly. “Unless there’s something you’d rather do.”
I leaned forward to turn off the television.
And that’s how I happened to be there in the morning, when Jan decided to go down to Loony Leo’s. She had made me a fine full breakfast of waffles and eggs and little pork sausages and she had read all the drama, society and literary news. And I had read how my old buddies were figured to beat the Philadelphia Eagles and how Milwaukee had lost the big one to St. Louis and what Giardello had done to Bobby Boyd in Cleveland. My reading had been rather limited lately; the headlines scared me into the sports pages.
“I’m going down, anyway,” Jan said. “Maybe he’s a crook, as you claim, but I’m going down to see. I want a big car and I can afford to drive it. As a matter of fact, I can’t really afford to drive anything else. Not in Beverly Hills.”
“Honey, I said, “if you want a big car, that’s enough. You don’t have to make it sound noble. I’d like a Continental, myself.”
“Then buy one,” she said. “You’ve still got that ten-thousand-dollar bonus Mr. Quirk paid you.”
“Maybe I will. If Leo has a ‘56 Continental for around seven hundred dollars and he’ll throw in the silverware and promise to show us some Tom Mix pictures, I could be sold.”
I was lying, of course. I only wanted to go along to protect Jan. She thinks she’s a canny businesswoman and she is, but only in her line. Outside of that swish-infested field, she is a sucker for the hard sell.
Leo’s emporium was on Crenshaw, about a block from Daffy Dan’s and not too far from Motor Metropolis. Los Angeles is a town on wheels and the boys who supply the wheels make the old horse traders look like clergymen.
Leo had a sign not much more than two hundred feet long running the length of his lot and a number of smaller signs supplementing this which proclaimed loudly, “I will not be undersold.”
We parked the Chev in front and walked over to the shiny front row, where Leo kept his cream. This man really had them, Jags and Cads and Lincolns, Imperials and Bentleys and one silver and black Ferrari.
The second row held the medium-priced cars; the low-priced trade-ins were wholesaled, according to Leo’s ads. Jan stopped in front of a cerise Cad convertible.
And along the row, a salesman was now approaching. His suit was Italian silk and he wore a tattersall with it, and I had a feeling there should have been a toothpick in his mouth, but there wasn’t.
Evidently he assumed I was the prospective lamb, for he addressed me. “Beautiful wagon, isn’t it?”
“It’s all right,’ I said.
He smiled. “What are you driving now, sir?”
“I’ve got a 1918 Apperson,” I said, “but I been kind of hankering after something with balloon tires. Though I ain’t so crazy for those four-wheel brakes.”
His eyes narrowed a bit and he looked past me at Jan.
“My friend,” she explained, “was never told vaudeville is dead. Where is that Eldorado that was advertised for thirty-four hundred dollars on television last night?”
He smiled. “That car sold exactly seventeen minutes after you saw it on TV, miss. But we’ve got plenty more just like it.”
I said, “How about a Dort or a Stutz? You got anything clean in that line?”
“Brock,” Jan said frigidly, “shut up!”
The salesman looked out at the Chev. “Is that your car, sir?”
“It’s mine,” Jan said. “And I’m the one who’s looking for a new one. My friend just came alo
ng as an annoyance.”
He smiled. “It’s all in fun, isn’t it, sir? Was it a Cadillac you had in mind, miss?”
Jan nodded. “A convertible. That Chevrolet has only twenty thousand miles on it, but you don’t retail your small trade-ins, do you?”
“Bel-Airs we do,” he said. “Don’t worry, miss, a sweet little Chev like that will more than cover the down payment.” He looked thoughtfully off into space and back at the Chev. “Have you had any offers on it?”
“I was offered twelve hundred by a Ford dealer,” she said.
He laughed. “You’re joking.”
“No. Really. It’s in very good condition.”
“That’s what I mean,” he said. “I could put it on the lot and sell it for sixteen hundred in twenty minutes. Somebody was trying to gyp you, lady.”
“You had a duplicate of it on TV last night for nine hundred,” I said.
He nodded and his face didn’t change expression. “But it wasn’t our car. The boss sold it for a friend who wanted some money in a hurry, just as a personal favor.”
“Why didn’t the boss buy it for a thousand,” I said,” and put it on the lot and sell it for sixteen hundred in twenty minutes?”
He looked at me in hurt dignity. “The boss don’t make money off his friends.”
“I see,” I said. “I’m sorry. Well, you put this on the lot for sixteen hundred and sell it in twenty minutes and we’ll give you two hundred commission and you’ll have earned ten dollars a minute and we’ll all be happy.”
He sighed and looked at Jan. “We have a skeptic with us. All right, I’ll do better than that. I’ll allow you eighteen hundred for it on any Cad on the lot. Fair enough?”
Jan looked at me triumphantly. “I guess he topped you, smartie. Have you anything further to say?”
“Not a word,” I said. “He topped me. Now the trick is to find a ‘56 Eldorado at thirty-four hundred so we can give this man the Chev and sixteen hundred dollars and get out of here.”
Silence. Jan looked at the salesman and shook her head. He sighed and looked sadly toward the showroom. The Chev sat patiently at the curb, saying nothing, but somehow appearing dejected. She loved Jan, that Chev did.
“I guess I’ve been a spoil sport,” I said. “It was just a friendly little Sunday morning game and I didn’t enter into the spirit of it.”
Sweet Wild Wench Page 15
