I was bending over him when Lars stuck his head through the open window. “Dead?” he said.
“Dead.”
“Give me your gun.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask dumb questions. Give me the damn gun and take mine. Go back to the car and wait for me. I’ll phone the station from here.”
I was back in the car when the ambulance and the squad car showed up. I stayed there until they left again a long time later.
When Lars came, he said, “You can take me home now. I’ll take the Department car to the station. I’ll bring your Galanti to you at the motel after I’m finished reporting at the station,”
I handed him his gun. “I’m the one who shot him, Lars.”
“We both know that. Do you want to spend a couple months in court down here claiming self-defense?”
“I don’t. But maybe I should.”
“And get me into more trouble with Slade? He hates private eyes. But he loves to see hoodlums die. He’s been getting a lot of static about the Department’s lack of interest in nailing Mike’s killer, mostly from concerned citizen’s groups. We took that load off his back.”
I said nothing.
“Brock, if he’d come out into the bar, I’d have nailed him and he’d be just as dead. Jesus, man, grow up!”
I turned on the engine and drove out onto the street. We had no further dialogue on the way to his house. I was emotionally bushed.
When I dropped him off, I said, “Keep the damned Galanti. I don’t want it.”
He grinned at me. “Thanks. I forgot to get you a permit for it. You could be in deep trouble, buddy, if you kept it.”
Some bitter words came to mind, but I didn’t voice them. I had come down here and done what I had to do. And he had been more help than hindrance. One more killer would not be back on the streets. Why should I feel guilty about that?
It was only a little after ten o’clock and I was only ninety miles from home. I checked out of the motel and headed for San Valdesto.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FOR TWO DAYS I gave a lot of thought to whether I should or should not inform the Feds about the Gillete-Clauss-Nolan connection. I didn’t want to get on to Gillete’s hit list.
On the third day, that problem was resolved for me. Nolan had lied to me about Loeb no longer being under observation by the Feds. According to the L.A. Times, Loeb had been suspected—and smart lawyer that he was, he had turned informant on himself, and on Nolan and Gillete, in exchange for a minimal sentence.
Nolan had cracked, too, under pressure. He was the one who had put the arsenic in Terrible Tim Tucker’s whiskey. He was afraid of Tucker, afraid of winding up beaten to death like Barney Luplow—that was one reason. Another was that he’d found out Gillete wanted to get rid of Tucker in order to make himself more acceptable to the mob. Nolan figured poisoning Tucker would put him in solid with Gillete. Not too smart. But what else would you expect from a crook, a liar, and an effing stockbroker?
On the fourth day, Jan came home and all was serene again in the life of Brock Callahan.
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copyright © 1992 by William Campbell Gault
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