Dead Pigeon

by William Campbell Gault

  He smiled. “It’s a rumor Tim circulated in Chicago, too. But it’s nonsense. One of my clients was a widow who helped to pay off my detractors, and she had Italian connections, if you get what I mean. She told me Tim’s rumor-mongering was the reason he had to leave Chicago.”

  “That makes more sense,” I said.

  He nodded. “I want to apologize for hiring those Arden people after your visit.”

  “You’re forgiven,” I said. “I think it would be wise if you steered clear of your cousin.”

  “I certainly will,” he agreed.

  I stood up and he walked to the door with me. He was still standing in the open doorway when I drove down his driveway to the street. If he had told the truth about his current relationship with his cousin, it bolstered my suspicion that Terrible Tim had been tailing me.

  But how could I be sure? Brokers and cultists and millionaire electronic preachers—it was possible that they begin to believe their own con as their audiences grow larger and their followers more fervent. Turhan Bay, as Crystal had suggested, might really believe in his own con by now. The yippies of the sixties were the yuppies of today and money was their dream. Not all of us have rich and dead uncles.

  I was relieved to see that there was no yellow Chevrolet pickup truck following me as I drove down Pico Boulevard. I turned left into Venice to learn if Denny had anything of interest to tell me.

  The only thing he had to tell me was that he had heard about my fracas with Terrible Tim at Tessie’s Tavern.

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Tessie. She’s on our bartenders’ bowling team. She said you were losing until Hovde took out his gun.

  “I was.”

  “To a fucking wrestler?” He shook his head.

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Which we did. It was still too early to pick up Lars. We talked about the Dodgers and about the upcoming finals in the NBA between our Lakers and the Bulls.

  Then, just before I left, he said, “I’ve been thinking about Mike. And I remembered he was the one who warned you about that guy who was out to get you. I don’t mean the last one. He’s dead. I mean about three years ago. What was his name?”

  “Gorman,” I said. “Tony Gorman.”

  “I remember now. If he learned that it was Mike who had alerted you, he’d have reason enough to blow Mike away, wouldn’t he?”

  “If he’s out and around. He got a six-year sentence.”

  “Which means, these days, that he probably got out three years earlier than he should have.”

  “It certainly does. Thanks, Denny.”

  “You’re welcome. If you go looking for him, you’d better take Hovde with you. If you can’t even handle wrestlers—!”

  I did not dignify his comment with a reply.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT THE STATION I told Lars what Denny had reminded me about Tony Gorman.

  “First things first,” he said. “I think I got a hot lead on Clauss this morning.”

  “I was thinking maybe you could find out if Gorman is out of jail now.”

  “Clauss first, damn it! The hell of it is I just had orders from the Chief to stay in my own jurisdiction. The stoolie who phoned me is the man I was talking with in Tessie’s Tavern. His name is Barney Luplow. I don’t have his address but Tessie probably knows it.”

  “Okay. I’ll go.”

  “Do that. But use some finesse for a change.”

  Advice on finesse from Lars? I sighed and left.

  Tessie was the only occupant of the place when I entered. “Now what?” she asked.

  “I came to ask if you have the address of Barney Luplow.”

  She studied me suspiciously. “Why? Is he in trouble?”

  “Not with me. But he might have some information that I intend to pay him for. And it might keep him out of trouble.”

  She stared at me for seconds. Then: “It’s about a block from here, that two-story rooming house next to the Mobil station. His room is on the second floor in back.”

  I left the car where it was and walked to the place, an ancient red Victorian house, narrow-windowed, with three steps leading up to a small and sagging porch.

  The door was open, the screen door closed. I went in without knocking. The stairway was on the left. There was no sound from any of the rooms as I went up the stairs. Down the narrow hall I went, past the open doorway of the bathroom to the room at the end. The door was ajar.

  “Barney?” I called. “Sergeant Hovde sent me.”

  “Come in,” a voice answered.

  I pushed the door open—and saw Luplow stretched out on the floor. I heard a sound from behind the opened door, but didn’t turn in time. Something heavy crashed into the back of my head and I joined Luplow on the floor. I heard the clatter of feet going down the uncarpeted stairs before the darkness arrived.

  The dawn came slowly, voices first. “I know the guy,” one voice said. “He’s a private eye working with Lars on the Gregory kill. You remember Lars, don’t you? He used to be with us.”

  “That was before my time,” the other voice said. “Isn’t he with the Santa Monica Department now?”

  “Yup.”

  I was no longer on the floor; somebody had laid me out on the narrow bed in the room. The image of a tall, thin man began to come into focus.

  “Relax,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. The ME assured me it was only a minor concussion.”

  I was in clear focus now. “Jerry Levy?” I asked.

  “Right. Take it easy, Brock.”

  The other man was shorter, heavier, and uglier. He asked, “What in the hell were you doing here?”

  Jerry said, “Don’t mind my partner, Brock. He’s almost as mean as Lars.” He turned toward the man. “Go down and see if the landlady has come home. If she hasn’t, wait there.”

  The man left. Jerry smiled and asked, “Now you can tell me. What in hell were you doing here?”

  I told him the what and why and asked, “What happened to Luplow?”

  “He wasn’t as lucky as you were. He really got worked over. He is now at the morgue. Do you think it was Clauss who conked him?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what Clauss looks like and İ never saw the man who conked me.”

  He smiled. “Your friend Lars is really making a crusade out of nailing Clauss, isn’t he?”

  “Not as much as I am. Mike Gregory was my roomie at Stanford. Are you going to take me to the West Side station?”

  He shook his head. “No need. Are you going to be all right?”

  I rose to a sitting position and nodded. “As soon as I can get some fresh air.”

  He smiled again. “Brock, next time you go out on the prowl, wear your old Rams helmet.”

  Or take Lars with me, I thought.

  He and his partner were gone when I came down the stairs some minutes later and into the fresh air from the ocean. I walked slowly and carefully back to the car and drove to the Santa Monica station.

  There the desk clerk told me Lars was out on a call and wouldn’t be home until later this afternoon.

  Where now? I had talked with everybody who was possibly involved, except for Arnold Gillete. That was the name I wanted to check out. I headed for Sunset Boulevard.

  On my most recent visit to Los Angeles several years ago, I had come to investigate the murder of a fellow private eye, a man named Joe Puma. Joe had been the payoff man years earlier when a Mafia big shot’s son had been kidnapped for ransom. The son was no longer a child when I talked with him. He had been very cooperative.

  His home was a two-story brick place in Pacific Palisades, on the bluff above the Riviera Country Club. The last time I had been here there had been a 1932 Duesenberg on his guest parking area. There was none there today.

  The same gray-haired, dark-skinned, middle-aged maid opened the door to my ring.

  “Is Mr. Scarlatti home?” I asked. “My name is Brock Callahan.”

 
“I remember you,” she said, “and I’m sure he’ll be home to you. But I had better ask him first.”

  A few minutes later he was at the door, a short, broad man in gray flannel slacks and a cashmere pullover.

  “My favorite Ram,” he said, and looked past me at the car. “When did you buy that?”

  “Many years ago. I was driving a rented car last time I was here. Where’s the Duesy?”

  “Getting rebored. New rings, pistons, and valves, the whole bit. Come in.”

  We walked through an immense living room and off that to a long hall that led to his office at the rear of the house. I sat on the same chair I had sat on last time and he sat on a small couch.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “A man named Arnold Gillete.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, I had a couple of tangles with his muscle man and I don’t know why. This Gillete—I wondered if he could be—you know—”

  “In the Family?”

  I nodded.

  He smiled. “You’re still skating on thin ice, aren’t you?”

  “Okay. I’ll go quietly.”

  “Arnold Gillete,” he said, “is not one of ours. Maybe if he gets a little richer and a little smarter, he might be some day. Who is this muscle man who’s been bothering you?”

  “A man named Tim Tucker, known to the video world as Terrible Tim Tucker.”

  “That freak? That wrestler?”

  I nodded.

  “He must have a death wish. Are you sure he is working for Gillete?”

  “He’s living with him in Studio City.”

  “And what do you want from me, a word of caution to Gillete?”

  “No. I don’t want him alerted. It’s possible he had a friend of mine murdered. That’s why I’m in town.” I smiled. “But I wanted to make sure I wasn’t getting into water over my head.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Brock. To use Chick Hearn’s line, you’d fight King Kong on a ladder. How are Mrs. Puma and her boy doing these days?”

  “Very well. She’s got a good job as a legal secretary and the boy is in his second year at Cal.”

  He sighed. “That Joe, what a shoddy operator he was. And you almost got yourself killed trying to find his killer. What was he to you?”

  “He was one of ours,” I said. “You should be able to understand that.”

  “Dear God!” he said. “The Sam Spade Syndrome. What was it that writer from the Times called you?”

  “A self-anointed knight in tarnished armor.” I stood up. “Thanks for what you told me.”

  “You’re welcome. And let me know if you need any help with Gillete.”

  “I will,” I lied.

  One thing I had to admit about the Mafia, they policed their own ranks. The same could not be said about all those prestigious brokerage houses now being investigated by the Feds.

  Peter Scarlatti represented the new breed in the Family tradition. The original vindictive Sicilian madmen had relied on terror. Peter’s peers took a more rational businessman approach. Money was their goal, not mayhem.

  If Gillete got rich enough he might be invited to join the Family. But not Terrible Tim Tucker: he was an anachronism that they could not afford. And he wasn’t Italian.

  I could think of no reason for Gillete to have me on his hit list. That had to be Tucker’s personal vendetta. Why? Because I had questioned his cousin? If Bay had told the truth about their current relationship, that couldn’t be the reason.

  If, if, if … Somewhere in the morass of lies I had been told there had to be some seed of truth, some contradiction that would point a finger. Patience, I told myself.

  There was a message for me at the hotel. Arnold Gillete had phoned and asked that I phone him back any time before five o’clock.

  Which I did from the room. He had just learned, he told me, about my second encounter with Tucker. He assured me it would not happen again.

  “Did you find out what his beef is with me? I never met the man until I came to your house.”

  “And refused to tell him your name. I told him, as long as he was working for me he was on my payroll. It’s possible he was trying to protect that cousin of his who runs that kooky cult in Venice. Some bartender down there told Tim that you were questioning him regarding a murder. Frankly, I didn’t think the two of them were that close.”

  “Neither did I. Who told you about the fuss we had in Tessie’s Tavern?”

  “Tim did. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Tessie and a police officer and the officer’s informant were the only other people in the place. And the informant was killed today, murdered.”

  “And the police suspect Tim?”

  “I have no idea. They don’t confide in me.”

  “Well, they can’t pin it on Tim. He’s been here all day.” He hung up.

  Another lie? I had no way of knowing. But the man had no reason that I could think of to put me on his hit list. If he hoped to move up to the majors, Tim Tucker would probably have to be dumped. He was the relic of another time.

  Half an hour later, Lars phoned. He said, “Jerry Levy dropped in to tell me what happened to you. You okay?”

  “I’ll live. Do you think the man who slugged me was Clauss?”

  “I do. Levy doesn’t. He thinks I’m on a crusade.”

  I didn’t comment.

  “About tomorrow, Brock. I got a lot of static about my piled-up paperwork when I came back to the station and a few nasty remarks about jurisdiction. I’ll call you when the paperwork is cleared up.”

  “Okay. Good luck. Keep the faith.”

  My head was aching. I took a couple of aspirins and a long, warm shower, trying to wash away the frustrations of this day. Mike was dead. Finding his killer wouldn’t bring him back. How long could I stay on the hunt?

  The combined efforts of Callahan, Hovde, Sadler, and the Santa Monica Police Department had come up with nothing. Lars was back to his paperwork; the SMPD must have decided by now that they had spent too much time on a low priority case, a dead pigeon.

  Sadler phoned before dinner to tell me that he, too, had come up with nothing of substance. And, he added, his wife had decided that not all of his vacation time should be spent in sleuthing. They were going to Palm Springs for the weekend. Was that okay with me?

  I assured him that it was and I might go home myself.

  “You’re not quitting.”

  “Not yet.”

  Lars had probably not checked out the present whereabouts of Tony Gorman. I didn’t phone him to ask if he had; Clauss was his current obsession.

  Heinie was familiar with that case. Heinie was familiar with all of the major cases I had worked down here. And it had been twenty-four hours since I had feasted on his sirloin steak and cottage fries.

  There were only four booths occupied when I entered. Jose was behind the bar. Heinie was sitting with a couple of sports writers from the local papers.

  He left them and went to get a pitcher of Einlicher to bring to my booth. “Your usual?” he asked.

  I nodded. He went to the kitchen to order it. When he came back to sit across from me, I asked him, “Do you remember Tony Gorman?”

  “I do.” He frowned. “You’re not thinking that he might be the guy who aced Mike?”

  “He could be. Do you know where he is now?”

  He shook his head. “He must still be in the slammer. Didn’t he get six years?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “I see what you mean. I’ll ask around. That was a Beverly Hills pinch, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. You’ve got an in there, haven’t you?”

  “Only with the day watch,” he said. “I’ll go there tomorrow.”

  I ate and we yacked about this and that, none of it worth recording, and then I left. The boys at the bar were already into their game of liar’s poker. By leaving now I would still be ahead from last night.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HEINIE PHO
NED IN THE morning to tell me Gorman had been released from prison two weeks ago and was now living at a halfway house in the San Fernando Valley. The name of the place was Second Chance. He gave me the address.

  There had been certain discrepancies in Gorman’s trial that had troubled me at the time. Mike had told me Gorman was a dealer. I had investigated and found out it was true. It was when Gorman was out on bail that Mike had warned me about the vendetta. But the history of the man, according to the Beverly Hills police, had never included any acts of violence.

  The day was again overcast when I left the hotel. The sun was out in the Valley. The place called Second Chance was a long, narrow, gray wooden building in Tarzana. It looked like it had once been an army barracks.

  There was no doorbell; I went in. There were several steel chairs in this small room and a desk next to the open doorway that led to the hall. A heavyset man in faded jeans and a tan T-shirt was sitting behind the desk. The man standing in front of it turned as I closed the door.

  It was Gorman. He was thinner and his hair a shade grayer. He smiled.

  “I figured you’d show up here,” he said. “It’s about Mike, isn’t it? I read about it in the paper. Were you the man who phoned?”

  I shook my head. “Could we talk?”

  “Why not?” he said. “This way.”

  He led me down a long hall past a string of closed doors to an open door at the end. There was a small bureau in this room, an army cot, two wooden kitchen chairs, and a draped area against one wall that probably served as a clothes closet.

  He sighed. “It’s a long way from Beverly Hills, isn’t it? Sit down and tell me why you’re here. If you want to know where I was the night Mike died, you can ask the man at the desk. He runs this place.”

  “That’s not the reason I’m here, Tony.” I sat down on one of the chairs, he on the cot. “I’ve been thinking about the trial.”

  “You’re thinking I might have got jobbed?”

  I nodded.

  “Callahan, I never put anybody on the stuff. I had the Beverly Hills trade and the studio trade, sniffers, all of ’em. That was enough for me; I’m not that greedy. They all paid up front. But Mike, ugh!”

  “What about him?”

  “He was into me for over two grand. And when I pressed him, he finked to you. My only charity case—and he finks!” He took a deep breath. “I liked the guy! Nobody else ever got into me for that kind of money.”