Dead Hero

by William Campbell Gault

  I phoned the man I knew at three different numbers, catching him finally at a bar on the Strip.

  He laughed when I told him what I wanted. “ You’re looking for Joe? You and the L.A.P.D. and the Sheriff’s Department. I’m a better friend of Joe’s than I am of yours. Keep looking, Brock.”

  “I forgot you couldn’t read,” I said. “If you could, you’d know the police are looking for me, too. All I want from Joe Paretti is information and not information about him.”

  “Huh! “he said. “Try again.”

  I said patiently, “All right. I have to assume Joe is brighter than you are and that he trusts me. You phone him and tell him I’ll be at this number for the next five minutes. It’s a public phone booth. Is that fair enough?”

  He gave it some seconds of thought, no doubt through an alcoholic haze. Then, “Okay. Give me the number.”

  I gave him the number and hung up.

  It was well under five minutes when the answering call came. Paretti said guardedly, “Callahan?”

  “Yes. Are you hiding, Joe?”

  “Until that damned lawyer of mine gets back from Arrowhead, I am. I’m not turning myself in unless he’s along. I see by the papers you’re on the run, too, Brock.”

  “Temporarily. I thought we might get together and compare notes.”

  “Why not? Bring your blankets; there’s an extra bed.”

  c “Thanks, but I already have a hide-out. How do I get to you?”

  He gave me the address and described the house, one of those cliff-side cottages in the Santa Monica Canyon. He added, “Bring a broad if you want; there’s plenty of booze.”

  For a man being sought by the police, he certainly didn’t sound worried. But in his business he was probably never completely free of police surveillance and he was by nature an optimistic man and a devout hedonist

  His canyon perch was small but not cheap, buttressed into the clay cliff with concrete-anchored steel girders; seven-eighths of the building protruded fifty feet above the canyon floor.

  The name on the mailbox was Simmons; it was apparently a borrowed cottage. There were no cars in the parking area. The overhead door of the double garage was padlocked.

  I parked in front of the padlocked door. I was coming across the blacktop when the front door opened and Joe Paretti called, “Callahan — ?”

  “Right.”

  He stood where he was, a tall, heavy man with one pockmarked cheek, a man with a deceptive air of indolence. As I came closer, he said, “I’ll bet I know who gave you my name.”

  “I don’t bet with professionals, Joe.”

  “Bogaro,” he guessed aloud. “He hates my guts. He’s out to nail me, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He held the door wide. “Come in, come in.”

  I came into a long living room, completely draped along one wall, expensively furnished, smelling of Scotch and perfume. An overdeveloped blonde in apricot Capri pants and white turtle-neck sweater was curled cozily on a brocaded sofa at the far end of the room. She smiled at me as I entered.

  “Dawn Donovan,” Paretti said, “the famous Brock Callahan.”

  I nodded.

  The blonde said warmly, “A pleasure, a distinct pleasure. You been hiding this hunk of flesh from me, Joe Paretti?”

  “Hell, yes,” he said amiably. “Drink, Brock?”

  “No, thanks. What made you think of Tony Bogaro, Joe?”

  “I know he hates me.” He paused to smile cynically. “I know you did a job for him once. Right?”

  “It’s possible. Why does he hate you?”

  “We grew up together,” Paretti said, “not far from here, in the crummy section of Santa Monica, next to Venice. I guess I made a little more money than Tony did.” He sighed. “And then, Ann used to like me.”

  “Doesn’t she any more?”

  He laughed and clapped me on the back. “Who knows? I ain’t got the time to give it all to one girl.”

  “Until now,” Miss Dawn Donovan corrected him, “and you haven’t got enough for her.”

  He winked at me and asked her, “Enough what?”

  “Don’t get vulgar,” she admonished him. She looked at me again. “Didn’t you used to play with the Dodgers, Mr. Callahan?”

  Paretti laughed once more. “He sure did, blondie. He used to be their goalie.”

  “Goalie — ? “ she said blankly. Her face stiffened.

  I said gently, “I played football, Miss Donovan. I played for the Rams.”

  She brightened. “Oh? Then you must have known Don Calvin?”

  I nodded.

  “Wasn’t that terrible? “ she asked. “What happened to him? Do you know when the funeral’s going to be?”

  I shook my head.

  Paretti explained. “My innocent little friend thinks we’re hiding out because the Internal Revenue boys are on the prowl for me. That’s what I told her.”

  On the brocaded sofa the full body of Dawn Donovan tensed. Her voice was sharper. “You lied, Joe?”

  He didn’t look at her. He looked at me and shrugged.

  She asked me, “Is it about Don? “ Her gaze went between us anxiously. “Is that why we’re hiding? Do the police think that Joe had something to do with what happened to Don?”

  Paretti said coldly, “I didn’t date the man. They’re looking for you, blondie. And the only reason I have to hide out is because I’m a friend of yours.”

  “That can’t be true,” she said. “If they’re looking for me, I’ll go in right now. You lied to me, Joe. I’ll have to tell the police you lied to me, to protect myself. I’ll have to have a reason for not being available to them.”

  Paretti considered her thoughtfully. “The door isn’t locked. If you want to go in before my lawyer gets here, you can take off right now, sister. Just don’t threaten me!”

  Her chin lifted, but some of the steel was gone from her voice. “I have to think of myself, Joe. How does it look, me hiding out?”

  He chuckled. “It looks natural. It’s right out of Highway Patrol. Babes like you are always hiding out on TV. Don’t put on airs, kid; I’ve still got your old stag movies.”

  A deep and painful silence in the room. He turned his back on her as she glared at him. In a few seconds, she rose stiffly and walked through an archway to the hall. There was the sound of a sob and then a slammed door.

  Chapter 7

  “THAT WAS PRETTY raw, Joe,” I said.

  He inhaled heavily. “I guess. Hell — I’m not usually the kind of guy that bullies whores or waiters. Except when they put on airs. But I sure hate a phony.” He gestured nervously toward a chair. “Sit down, sit down. You bug me, standing there like a mountain.”

  I took a chair near the doorway.

  He sat nearby with his pockmarked cheek out of my range of vision, staring morosely at the floor.

  I said, “Miss Donovan seems to be taking Scooter’s death in stride.”

  “Why not? What was he to her? Another rung on the ladder. That broad’s got to climb the only way she knows. She’ll never make it on talent, not outside the hay.”

  “You’re cynical, Joe.”

  “Sure. That means realistic, right? In my business you want me to believe in fairy tales? That’s for my customers.” He grimaced. “Horse players, man!”

  I said nothing.

  “Get to the meat, “ he said. “ I figured when you phoned it wasn’t just a social visit.” He looked at me. “You don’t think I killed that halfback, do you?”

  “Not at the moment. But you do have a big ear. I thought you might have heard something. Or maybe Dawn might have.”

  He shook his head. “Not me. Maybe Dawn. You could ask her when she gets through crying. She ought to save it for the funeral; she’ll have a bigger audience.”

  “You’re bitter tonight,” I said. “That’s not like you. Is business bad?”

  “Not business,” he told me, “just collections. You know, the bigger the cust
omer, the slower the pay. I wish to hell I could get a wad and quit this racket. “ He stood up abruptly and went over to a cabinet to pour himself half a tumbler of Scotch over ice. “When I think of the money I’ve made — ”

  I said, “Your business should be cash only.”

  “It used to be, with those aircraft workers in Venice. Every night, I knew exactly what I’d made that day. But now I’ve got the carriage trade and I can’t always demand the cash.”

  At the far end of the room Dawn came through the archway from the hall, dabbing at her wet eyes with a handkerchief. She said with sullen dignity, “I’ve decided to wait for your attorney.”

  “Shrewd thinking,” Paretti said. “After all, you have to think of your career.”

  She apparently didn’t notice the sarcasm in his voice; she nodded thoughtfully.

  “Drink? “ Joe asked her.

  She shook her head and looked at me. “I know who you are, now. You’re a private detective, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re the one who was waiting up there at Don’s house last night”

  I nodded. “I thought you might know about some of the girls he was courting.”

  “They were in the paper,” she said. “They were nothing. Dumb young kids with round heels. The woman he really lusted for was married.”

  Paretti said sharply, “Just be damned sure you don’t tell the police that.”

  I looked at Paretti. “You knew this? You mean Dawn’s already told you this?”

  He nodded, his gaze steady on mine. “It wouldn’t be anything you didn’t know, would it? You were right, Brock, when you said I had a big ear. Right now I could make a good guess what you were doing up there last night. You had the eye on Scooter, didn’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. I looked questioningly at Dawn Donovan.

  Paretti said, “She only knows that Scooter was hot for this woman. She doesn’t know her name. And she isn’t going to tell the police the little she does know.”

  Dawn said stubbornly, “I have to tell the police what Don told me. Isn’t that right, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You do. Did you ever see the woman?”

  She shook her head. “He was a smooth operator, that Don. He kept them separate. Every girl thought she was the one. He didn’t fool me but he was a plenty smooth operator.”

  Paretti laughed. “He didn’t have to fool you, honey. You were ready.”

  She stared at her boy friend, her chin high. Her voice was cold. “Why not? He was a man, all man!”

  He grinned. “All muscle, right? Have a drink and tell us about it. It’s a dead night for TV.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said, and went back to curl up on the sofa again.

  The silence in the room was uncomfortable. Dawn was miffed, Paretti bored, and I was embarrassed. I had never learned, in Long Beach, to treat any woman with disrespect

  Paretti said, “Don’t worry about it, Brock. You’re not going to get into any trouble through us. I’ll guarantee you that.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I’m already in trouble.”

  Dawn said, “And I have to tell the police what Don told me.”

  “If you’ve got the sense of a rabbit,” Paretti told her, “you’ll let my lawyer decide what you spill to the police. Now the question is — have you got the sense of a rabbit?”

  She stared stonily into space.

  I said, “Well, luck to both of you. I hope collections pick up, Joe.”

  “If they don’t,” he said, “I’ll tie up with the big boys. They don’t have any collection problems.” He walked with me to the door. “Give my regards to Bogaro. Remember me to Ann.”

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” Dawn said from the sofa. “Good night, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Call me Brock,” I said. “I’m your friend. I hope you make a million, Dawn.”

  She smiled and waved.

  I went out into a night warmed by the Santana, dry and clear. At the far end of the Canyon, I could see the streaming traffic on the Coast Highway. People…. Life could be much simpler if people didn’t complicate it.

  On the Sunday afternoons, with the Horse and Randy Roman there alongside of me, it had been simple enough. Painful at times and always rugged and occasionally humiliating, but we knew what we were supposed to do and the scoreboard was always there to tell us if we were doing it.

  An idiot’s game? Perhaps. Randy Roman was still in it, a high school coach, and he seemed a lot happier and was certainly a hell of a lot healthier than any of the rest of us.

  I went down to join the restless traffic on the highway, moving south with them, heading for the Malones’. There was nasty work to be done, but I was in a nasty trade.

  Scooter was a man, Dawn had said, all man. On the Sunday afternoons, Scooter had been in the backfield where life is more complicated, where a man had an occasional freedom of choice (run or pass options) and was forced to make some quick decisions. From this background Scooter had gone into a complicated business. And prospered.

  I shouldn’t have hit him in the stomach.

  The brown Buick was in the driveway; Horse’s old Chev in the garage. I parked in the street and walked slowly to the front door, trying to dream up some tactful words, the right approach. I thought I could hear Horse shouting.

  Linda opened the door to my ring. Her eyes widened in surprise and then became guarded. “Come in,” she said quietly.

  The door opened into their living room. Horse was sitting on a slipcovered sofa near the fireplace; he rose as I entered.

  “What’s happened?” he asked nervously. “Are you all right?”

  “I haven’t turned myself in, if that’s what you mean. “ I paused. “Horse, I’d like to speak with Linda alone.”

  He frowned, looked at her and back at me. “ Linda and I don’t have any secrets from each other, not any more.”

  “But I do,” I said. “I want it this way. Horse.”

  He glanced at her once more. She nodded almost imperceptibly and he said gruffly, “Okay, I’ll take a walk. Ten minutes enough?”

  “Fine.”

  The door closed and Linda didn’t look at me as she said, “I’m not sure Ed and I are going to make it. Brock. Maybe it would be best if you went to the police and told them everything.”

  “Your sister’s already been crucified,” I said. “That should hold the papers for a few days.” I chose some words in my mind. “I heard, a little while ago, that among the Scooter’s girl friends there was one more important than the others, one he planned to marry. Only this woman was married. My informant didn’t know the woman’s name, luckily. Is that true — were you and Scooter planning to marry?”

  She still didn’t look at me. “No. And even if we were, what could that have to do with his murder?”

  “It could bring it closer to home,” I said.

  Now she looked at me. “You’re not suggesting that Ed — ”

  “Not exactly. I was thinking that you might have had a — a closer emotional involvement with Scooter than the others did. If that’s true, it’s possible he might have confided more in you.”

  “That isn’t what you meant at all,” she said. “You meant I might have learned about the others and gone back there, don’t you?” Her voice was shaky. “Gone back there and killed him!”

  “I was thinking you might know of someone who had reason to.”

  She shook her head stubbornly. The mist that had been in her eyes turned to tears now. “I don’t know anything! I — ”

  From the hallway end of the living room, a voice said plaintively, “Mommy, I can’t sleep. There’s too much noise.”

  We turned to face Edwin W. Malone, Jr. He stood there in pajamas too big for him, looking forlorn until he recognized me. Then he smiled. “Uncle Brock! Did you bring me something?”

  “Not this time, slugger,” I told him. “I’ve been busy.”

  Linda said sternly, “
You have to sleep, Edwin. We won’t make any more noise.”

  “Why was Daddy hollering?” he asked. “Why is he so mad?”

  “Young man, you go to bed.”

  “Why are you crying? “ he persisted.

  She went over to take him by the hand. “Say good night to Uncle Brock now and come along!”

  He waved at me. “Bring me something next time, won’t you?”

  “I promise.”

  Daddy was hollering, little boy, because Uncle Brock spied on your mommy. I stood where I was, thinking of everything and nothing, and Linda didn’t come back.

  I was still standing there alone when Horse came in.

  He looked around the room and asked, “Where’d she go?”

  “Junior woke up. She’s putting him back to sleep. He heard you hollering and came in to find her crying. You’re going to have to keep your voice down, Horse.”

  “Sure. All right!”

  “You know you’re in love. You can’t make a career out of being an outraged husband.”

  “Look,” he said hoarsely, “I don’t need a lecture. Right now that’s the last damned thing in the world I need.”

  “Okay, “ I paused. “ You stayed home last night, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. Somebody had to baby-sit. If you’re asking if I killed him, the answer is ‘no.’ But if he was alive today, I’d kill him. What did you want with Linda?”

  “Information. She didn’t have any. We only talked for a minute and then the boy came in and she took him back to bed. You’d better go see if she’s all right”

  “Maybe she’s mourning,” he said. “She can do that by herself.”

  I said nothing.

  “Oh, Christ! “ he said. “I’m sorry, Brock. You want a drink?”

  “No, thanks. Maybe I should have stayed away. I guess Linda was embarrassed. That’s probably why she didn’t come back. Horse, remember the man is dead. Whatever his sin, he was overpunished for it.”

  “His sin? “ Horse said. “How about hers?”

  It was not a time for reason and he had warned me against a sermon. I said, “I’ll hide out as long as I can. If Linda thinks of anything that might help, tell her to phone Jan.” And then I had to add: “And remember you’re a father as well as a husband. And before you were married you were an All-American blonde-chaser. Good night.”