The Santana still blew, increasing the fire hazard. On the highway far below an ambulance wailed its way toward Santa Monica. I was still following it with my eyes when I saw the little white car come from the other direction and start the climb up Avalon Lane.
It was too far away from me to identify it as the Peugeot of Ruth Hansel. I went back to my car, ready to run if I had to.
It was no Peugeot; it was a Sunbeam Alpine. I had turned the Chev around, ready to roll, and I was about to start the engine again when I recognized Dawn Donovan behind the wheel.
She parked on the other side of the street as I stepped from my car.
“You’re a hard man to catch,” she called as I came closer. “I saw you go past the Canyon light and took a chance you were coming here. “ She squirmed out of her little car and stared at the skeleton of Scooter’s house.
I said, “I see the police aren’t holding you. How about Joe?”
“He wasn’t held.” She grimaced. “To hell with Joe. I couldn’t say it last night, but it’s why I followed you here — Scooter was into Joe for seven thousand dollars.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Joe’s only mentioned it about a million times. What are you doing up here?”
“I don’t really know, Dawn. I thought I ought to keep busy. Are you leaving Joe’s bed and board?”
She sniffed. “I’ve got my own bed and board. If you’re not busy, maybe we could go over there and play gin rummy or something. “ She smiled mockingly.
“Big talk,” I chided her. “I know you professional teasers. I misspent my youth in burlesque houses.”
“I don’t tease athletes,” she said. “I like athletes. I liked Scooter. “ She looked at the house again. “He was a lot of fun.”
“He was, “I agreed. “A laugh a minute. But you can’t think of genial Joe Paretti as a killer, Dawn.”
She said nothing, still staring at the burned house.
I asked, “Was Bogaro there when you and Joe went in with Joe’s lawyer?”
Her face stiffened. “He came in later. He sure hates Joe, doesn’t he? You think it’s because they’re both Italian?”
“That could be part of it. And also the fact that they’re from the same neighborhood. And then we have Ann, of course.”
“She must be some little hot-pants, that Ann. I’ve heard about her.”
“From Scooter?”
She nodded. “And from some other people in the industry, casting directors and producers.” She sighed, still staring at the house. “You don’t think Joe killed him, do you?”
“He couldn’t collect his seven grand that way. Why would he kill him?”
“Not jealousy, you’re saying. You think I’m just another tramp to Joe?”
“I’m sure you’re not,” I lied.
“You’re not sure, “ she said. “The way he talked to me last night, don’t go by that. You think maybe he didn’t apologize plenty after you left?”
“I can guess,” I admitted, “that there are two Joe Parettis.”
“You guessed right. Big man, in front of others. When we’re alone, I’ve seen him cry. Do you believe that?”
I nodded. She seemed to be trying to make a point and not only to build up her battered ego.
“Joe’s fought over me,” she went on. “He can get real nasty about other men.”
I had been only half listening, more bored than interested, in what seemed to be a pathetic attempt to convince me (and the world) that Paretti treated her better privately than he did publicly.
But what had she said when she first came up here? “To hell with Joe,” she had said.
So now I said, “Do you want me to investigate Joe? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? And why, Dawn?”
“If he’s a killer,” she said, “I’d like to know it now, I’d like to leave him, now.”
“Have you any reason to think he is? I mean, besides the seven thousand dollars and his jealousy.”
Her lips compressed; she frowned. I was almost sure she knew something she didn’t want to voice.
I said, “If you really thought he was a killer, why didn’t you mention it to the police?”
“Because if I squealed and was wrong, I’d still lose him. We’re not honeymooners, Joe and me, but we’ve been together six years and there’s times when we need each other.”
I said quietly, “Tell me all of it, Dawn. I’m a private investigator.”
She stared out at the blackened hills. “I didn’t mean it when I said ‘to hell with Joe.’ We’ve had some good times together. But lately — ”
“Collections have been bad,” I guessed, “and Joe’s gone heavy?”
She looked at me doubtfully. “What does that mean — heavy?”
“He’s hired some muscle. Or a gun?”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody,” I said patiently. “But if you don’t tell me, I have to guess.”
Her lips were still compressed, her eyes thoughtful.
“He tied up with the big boys? “ I persisted.
She shook her head. “No. They want too much of the action, Joe says. But — there’s a fighter he knows, a man named Turk Kostic. Sometimes he — collects for Joe.”
“An ex-fighter,” I corrected her. “A prelim heavyweight. Did Joe sic him onto Scooter?”
“He talked about it,” she admitted, “but I didn’t think he would. Joe didn’t use Turk for — important people.”
“Scooter was important,” I agreed, “but he had a nasty tongue. Maybe Joe got fed up with him.”
She looked around again at the ruined house and then said in a near whisper, “Maybe.”
“Do you know where I can reach this Kostic?”
“Joe usually met him in a bar,” she said, “the Rusty Anchor in Venice. Do you know where that is?”
I nodded. I said, “According to the paper, Joe was with you at the time Scooter was killed.”
“That’s right.”
“Then how could he be the killer?”
“If he had it done, it’s the same thing, isn’t it? That still makes Joe a killer.”
“Okay, Dawn,” I said. “Thank you. Good luck.”
“You, too,” she said. “If you get something, will you tell me? My number’s in the phone book and my address. I live on the Strip.”
I promised her I would and she went back to her little Alpine.
Questioning an undoubtedly punchy ex-pug was not my idea of the pleasant way to spend a sunny morning, but I wasn’t learning anything up here. I drove down the long, winding road again, heading for Venice.
Up until its beatnik era, Venice had been the swamp where Los Angeles dumped its minority groups. The beatniks were leaving now for sunnier intellectual climates and the old hands were again taking over. It was a bad place to visit where nobody wanted to live.
The Rusty Anchor was on Tide Lane, a short street that dead-ended at the beach. Next to the entrance and below a neon sign that read: Sandwiches — Cocktails, a rusty, five-foot anchor leaned against a wrought iron brace.
I went through the ancient swinging doors into a long, damp, and narrow room. The bar ran halfway along one wall, leaving only space for bar stools. There were four tables at the wider end of the room beyond the bar.
A tall, thin Negro in a tan shirt and maroon bow tie was behind the bar. There were no customers in the place.
“Yes, sir? “he said.
I ordered a bottle of eastern beer and asked, “Do you know how I can find Turk Kostic?”
The bartender smiled. “He’s a hard man to find, days. He comes in here nights, sometimes. “ He set a bottle of beer and a clean glass in front of me.
“Does he live in the neighborhood?”
The bartender paused and frowned. Finally, “Mister, no offense, but how do I know you’re a friend of Mr. Kostic’s?”
“I’ve never met him,” I said. “I’m a friend of Joe Paretti’s.”
“You
ask Mr. Paretti, then,” he said softly. “Maybe he knows where Mr. Kostic is.” He went down to the far end of the bar and began to fold paper napkins.
“All right,” I blurted, “my name is Brock Callahan and the police are looking for me.”
He continued to fold napkins. “I knew that when you walked in. And in this town, Mr. Brock Callahan, if your skin is black you don’t mess with anybody wanted by the police.”
“Mess with — ?” I asked. “Does that mean help?”
“You ask Mr. Paretti,” he repeated. “I just tend bar here and mind my own business.”
“I’ll wait,” I said. “Maybe Turk will drop in.”
“Maybe the police will, too,” he reminded me.
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” I said. “A friend of mine has been murdered, Mr. Bartender, and I’m a stubborn man.”
“I heard you were,” he agreed. “Lenny told me that, Lenny Toll.”
“You know Lenny?”
“He’s my cousin.”
I sipped my beer. “Lenny was probably the second greatest fullback who ever lived. Isn’t his word good enough for you?”
He continued to fold napkins. I sipped my beer. He put the folded napkins on a shelf under the bar and began to wash ash trays in a galvanized sink. I sipped my beer.
The phone on the wall rang. He dried his hands and answered it.
He said, “Yes. “ In a few seconds he added, “No calls. “ Then, hesitantly, “You know a Mr. Brock Callahan?”
A long silence, while I strained an ear. Then, “That’s right, he’s that. “ Another pause and the bartender whispered, “Still here.” He listened a few more seconds and hung up.
“My lucky day,” I commented. “That had to be Turk. Is this his message center?”
He didn’t answer, back to washing ash trays. Above the cash register I could see the restaurant license for the place, issued to one Joseph Paretti. A front for Joe, a tax refuge. I wondered if Dawn had ever noticed that license.
The bartender began to dry the ash trays. I finished the bottle of beer and considered ordering another. Behind me, the swinging door creaked and I turned quickly.
Except for the one cauliflower ear, there wasn’t much to distinguish that face. It was the washed-out face of a malevolent loser. He glanced at the bartender, who didn’t even look up, and then came over to where I sat on the stool.
“You looking for me?”
“I think so. You’re Turk Kostic, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “Who told you to look here for me?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? I’m here; you’re here. I’d like to talk with you privately, Turk.”
He started to answer and then something approximating thought briefly lighted his brown eyes. He said to the bartender, “Get lost for a couple minutes, Sam.”
The bartender went noiselessly through a narrow door a few feet from the wall phone.
Kostic said, “All right, start talking privately.”
“It’s about Don Calvin,” I said. “I was a friend of his. He told me once he owed Joe Paretti a lot of money. I wondered if he still owed Joe the money when he died.”
“Why didn’t you ask Joe when you saw him last night?”
I tried not to show surprise. “It didn’t seem like a tactful question to ask last night.”
“Who told you I worked for him?”
“I don’t remember now. I’ve known it for quite a while. It’s not exactly a secret among horse players.”
“You a horse player?”
“Occasionally. When I can scratch up the two dollars.”
“You’re a liar,” he said.
“Easy, now,” I cautioned him. “You can’t — ”
I never got the next word out. His hooking left hand came smashing into my belly, jackknifing me off the stool, taking two-thirds of my strength in one blow.
The stool clattered to the floor as I reached out sickly to keep him at a distance. He moved inside my groping arm and hit me once more, a roundhouse right that was on target, flush on the button.
I don’t even remember hitting the floor….
Chapter 10
THE SAD, BROWN face of the bartender looked down at me solicitously. He was bathing my face with a clean, wet towel, his touch gentle and deft.
“How long was I out? “ I asked.
“A couple minutes. You going to be all right, Mr. Callahan?”
“Soon. Did you call the police?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“You needed help,” he answered. “I’ll call them now, if you want, Mr. Callahan. Okay?”
“Sam,” I said sternly, “don’t play poker with me.”
He continued to bathe my face. “We can’t play. You got no cards; I got no cards. You expect me to rat on Mr. Paretti? Never! Ain’t many men in this town will hire a black bartender, Mr. Callahan, and I got four kids. What you want from me?”
“Nothing,” I said. I climbed weakly to my feet. “But you tell Turk Kostic he made it personal, now. I’ll be ready for him next time.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
I stared at him; he looked blandly back at me. I asked quietly, “Did your cousin Lenny ever tell you we were roommates on the road?”
“Yes, sir, he did. I been a fan of yours a long time, Mr. Callahan. But it still ain’t easy bringing up four black kids in a white man’s world.”
“Lenny’s got a kid, too, “ I said, “ but it didn’t make him gutless. He’s a real first-class ornery bastard, that Lenny.”
“He sure is. I hope he makes it. You going to be all right, Mr. Callahan? “ He bent to set the overturned stool up on its legs again.
I put a half dollar on the bar and went out into the sunlight. My stomach muscles ached all the way to the groin, my legs were weak, my jaw and neck muscles sore. Two punches from a prelim has-been had taken all my starch. I was a long way down from my peak.
It wasn’t much solace for me to realize the cyclical pattern had run its inevitable course. The undeserved punch I had thrown into Scooter’s belly had been returned to me with interest.
From a public phone I called the Malibu Sheriff’s Station and Bogaro was there. I told him about my encounter with Turk Kostic and the reason for my visit, the seven thousand dollars Scooter had owed Joe Paretti.
“You sure about that seven grand?” he asked me. “Who told you about it?”
“I can’t and won’t tell you that, so don’t ask again. Did you talk with Jones, from Planetary, today?”
“Yes. About an hour ago. He’s checking out a lead in Oxnard this morning but he should be back this afternoon.” His voice lowered. “You took a chance, calling me here.”
“Nobody there but you knows my voice,” I explained. “Anything new on your end?”
“Nothing. I’ll get that Paretti back and sweat him. This Kostic got an address?”
“I don’t have it. Paretti might know where he lives. Some nights, Kostic drops into a bar, the Rusty Anchor in Venice. Know where that is?”
D
“Hell, yes. It’s Paretti’s. That blonde, that stripper give you all this, Brock?”
“No,” I lied. “He doesn’t tell her much, from what I’ve been able to learn. He doesn’t tell anybody much.”
“Then where — ? “ he began.
I hung up.
This was a western section phone book; I leafed through it to Donovan, Dawn, on Sunset Boulevard.
I could have phoned her first but there was a possibility an unannounced visit could prove more fruitful. I climbed wearily into my rented Chev and headed for the Strip.
Around and around we go, around the circle of deceit, through the repetitious Q and A, hoping for a dropped truth, a finger-pointing redundant remark, a thin chance that somebody might talk too much or not enough, trying to gather lines of action that could be woven into a net.
I was a sort of reverse mailman, receiving messages instead of delivering t
hem. But only a fraction of what I received was message; the rest was superfluous and often depressing. So I became a recipient of this dross, too, a circulating garbage can.
The thought occurred to me that I hadn’t asked anyone about The World in the Evening since learning of that doubtful clue. I had seen the book’s author a few times on Oscar Levant’s television show and he hadn’t seemed to be the kind of writer who would fashion a book likely to be enjoyed by:
A.Joe Paretti
B.Dawn Donovan
C.Turk Kostic.
Horse Malone read only the newspaper sport pages, the Reader’s Digest, and Time; Horse was even more illiterate than I was. Linda read the women’s magazines and The Book of the Month. The books in Ruth Hansel’s bookcase had been nonfiction, mostly concerned with homemaking; she was getting READY, it seemed.
The tall white building looked modern and clean and expensive. In the lobby, a thin, middle-aged woman in a flowered dress was typing behind a low counter. I told her I was Mr. Goalie from the Dodgers.
She rang Dawn’s apartment and announced me and smiled knowingly and nostalgically as she informed me I was expected and the number was 634.
I went up in the self-service elevator, rubbing my still-sore jaw, too depleted from last night to be stirred by the cliché announcement of Dawn Donovan that she had been expecting me.
It was a fairly large apartment on the sixth floor, with miles of the city viewable from its living room windows. It was furnished in a taste which must have been hired.
Dawn was wearing her own taste, black velvet capris and a gold sequin jacket. Her feet were bare, the toenails gilded.
“I knew you’d come,” she said. “Drink?”
“I rarely drink,” I told her. I stopped at the picture on the wall, a reproduction, circles and curves, without meaning to me.
“Kandinsky,” she explained. “You ever hear of him?”
“Never. What’s his first name?”
“He’s dead,” she said. “Eighteen sixty-six to nineteen forty-four, that was old Kandinsky.”
“What way his first name?”
She frowned like a dull student at a spelldown. “Now wait — Scooter told me how to remember. It’s like a bowl, a wine bowl, only it wasn’t wine, it was — ” Her frown deepened.
Dead Hero Page 8
