Dead Hero

by William Campbell Gault

  “I think you ought to go. That’s where you went on your honeymoon, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” A pause. “God damn it!”

  “Grow up,” I said. “And, Horse — get a suite. Live high! I don’t like to say it, but you’ve never been a real fast man to pick up a tab.”

  “What a dumb thing to say!”

  I thought of his slip-covered furniture and the fabulous house of Scooter Calvin. I said, “It’s important, Horse, or I wouldn’t have said it. Don’t be cheap. I’ll be holding my thumbs.”

  I thought of Sam Judson again and his cousin, Lenny Toll. Lenny lived somewhere on the west side of town. I reached for the phone book.

  His house wasn’t more than two blocks from the colored district in Santa Monica, but it was out of it. Lenny was waiting for me in front, talking to his white neighbor, who was clipping his hedge.

  If I hadn’t been hiding from the police, I was sure Lenny would have introduced me to his neighbor and mentioned the fact that we had been roommates when we were both with the Rams. Lenny never overlooked a chance to make his point.

  He came over as I stepped from the car. He said, “I phoned Sam. He should be here soon. You’re getting fat, Brock.”

  “I’ll get rid of it. I’ve been sitting around the office too much.”

  He smiled. “And eating as you always did.” The smile went away. “That was sad news about Scooter. He wasn’t a bad guy, for a Texan.”

  “A little lippy,” I said. “A little arrogant. But a good guy.”

  The smile came back. “Like me, huh?”

  “Like you,” I agreed. “How is Martha? How’s the boy?”

  “Fine,” he said. “They’re at a PTA meeting right now. Come on in. I’ve got some Einlicher waiting in the refrigerator for you.”

  His house was tastefully if not expensively furnished. He told me to sit down in the living room and went out to the kitchen to get our beer.

  We were halfway through the beer when Sam Judson arrived.

  He stared at me and looked accusingly at Lenny. “You didn’t tell me he’d be here. You tricked me.”

  “I’m trying to make a man out of you, any way I can, “ Lenny said. “You wouldn’t have come if you knew Brock would be here.”

  “That’s right. And I’m not staying. Trouble, that’s all he is. The law’s looking for him right this minute.”

  Lenny said, “There’s the phone. Call the law, if you’re such a big, noble citizen.”

  Sam muttered something, glaring at his cousin.

  I said, “It’s the newspapers I’m hiding from, Sam, not the law. You won’t get into any trouble talking to me.

  “And I won’t get into any trouble not talking to you,” he said. “Good night to you both.” He turned toward the door.

  “Just a minute,” Lenny said quietly.

  Sam stopped walking but he didn’t turn around.

  Lenny talked to his back. “You walk out, it’s the last time. I’ve lent you money; I’ve saved you a lot of lumps. You think about you and me for a couple minutes. And then if you want to walk out, you remember it’s the last time.”

  Sam turned and his voice trembled. “I’m not big. I’m not tough. I’m just trying to stay alive. That’s dirty pool, Lenny, reminding me what I owe you.”

  “I’m trying to make a man out of you, “ Lenny repeated.

  “Your kind of a man, you mean. Troublemaker. Pushy nigger!”

  Lenny stared at him quietly. Even I was frightened now.

  But Lenny’s voice was controlled. “In my house we don’t use that word. Nobody uses that word.”

  Sam stared at the carpeting; Lenny stared at Sam.

  Sam said softly, “Negro — nigger, what does it matter what the white man says? We know what he thinks.”

  “You’re not a white man,” Lenny answered. “Maybe they’re like us; maybe they don’t all think the same. With the Rams, Brock asked to be my roomie.”

  “That don’t make him black.”

  “Is Paretti black? Turk Kostic, he’s black?”

  “Mr. Paretti pays me, every week. He feeds me and my wife and my kids. Maybe I owe him something, too, huh, Lenny?”

  I said, “Joe Paretti is in the clear. He was with the police when his girl friend was murdered. What did Dawn really tell you when she phoned the bar, Sam?”

  Sam Judson stared at his cousin for a long time and then he considered the carpeting on the floor once more. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper: “She said she thought she had a lead to who killed that Don Calvin.”

  “And you told Paretti that?”

  “Not right away. He was out in Malibu. I told him about an hour ago.”

  I said, “But Kostic phoned to check in after Dawn called?”

  Sam nodded, still not looking at me.

  “And you gave him the message you had for Mr. Paretti?”

  Sam looked up. “Why not? He works for Mr. Paretti. Maybe he could get through to him where I couldn’t. It would take Mr. Paretti off the hook, wouldn’t it?”

  “Kostic probably killed the girl,” I said. “You shouldn’t have given him that message.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “ You’re talking foolish. You’re trying to trick me.”

  “The police are looking for Kostic now. But do you realize who Kostic’s looking for? You.”

  “No. He knows where I live. He knows where I work. What I told him, I already told Mr. Paretti. If Kostic killed her, he’s in trouble. Mr. Paretti didn’t fool me; he thought a lot of Miss Donovan.”

  “Joe Paretti,” I said, “is a gambling man. He’s not a gun or a muscle; he’s not anything he doesn’t get paid to be. Lock your door tonight, Sam.”

  “Where I live,” he said, “I lock it every night. I told you what I know. You tell the police that, I’ll say you lied.”

  “Your name won’t be mentioned,” I promised, “no matter what I tell the police. Thanks for your help, Sam.”

  Lenny smiled. “You’ll maybe make it yet, cousin.”

  “You won’t,” Sam said. “Good night.”

  He went out quietly.

  Lenny asked, “Well, Brock, what do you think?”

  “I think it’s rough being a black man in a white man’s world.”

  “It’s not a white man’s world,” Lenny reminded me. “You just never stopped to count, Brock.”

  Chapter 12

  IT WAS GETTING dark when I left Lenny’s house, half an hour later. The man next door was no longer clipping his hedge; he was on the other side of the yard, pulling weeds from the cracks in his asphalt driveway.

  There was a gray Cad convertible parked behind my rented Chev and a man sitting behind the wheel.

  Kostic? I stopped walking, staring at the convertible.

  Its lights flashed on and off and then the driver stepped from the car on the street side and I saw it was Joe Paretti.

  As I came closer, he said, “Sam phoned me and told me you were here. I’m looking for Kostic, too, Brock.”

  “And Bogaro’s probably got a tail on you,” I pointed out, “a tail who doesn’t know I’m working with Bogaro.”

  “He had one,” Joe admitted. “I shook him two hours ago. Who told you that Turk worked for me?”

  “One of my horse-playing friends. Did you send Turk up to collect from Scooter?”

  “Maybe. It isn’t something I’ll admit to a friend of Bogaro’s. And it doesn’t figure that Turk would need to use a fireplace poker, does it?”

  “If Scooter got the jump on him, he might. If you sent Turk up there, you’re involved in Scooter’s death, Joe.”

  “Am I? My lawyer doesn’t think so. And Bogaro’s only a cop; he’s not a judge. Who’s paying you, Brock?”

  “Nobody. How much did Scooter owe you?”

  He paused, studying me doubtfully. Finally, “Seven grand.” He paused once more. “Is my money clean enough for you?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I want
you to stay on this case. What do you charge?”

  “A hundred a day. I’m going to stay on it, anyway.”

  He took six bills from his wallet. They were fifties. He held them out and said, “Two hundred for the past two days and one hundred in advance.”

  I didn’t want to take it, but I was getting sick of having Jan call me an economic idiot. I took the six bills and asked, “What if you’re the killer, Joe?”

  “If you can prove that,” he said, “I’ll give you another grand and this Cad. You meant Scooter’s killer, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Don’t ever tell Bogaro I took money from you.”

  “I wouldn’t tell that son-of-a-bitch anything. Do you think there could have been two killers, Brock?”

  “I think it’s possible.” I took a breath. “Are you sorry now that you didn’t treat her better, Joe?”

  “Lay off,” he said. “I treated her a damned sight better than any other man she ever knew.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “I’m looking for Turk,” he said. “I’m not big enough to look for him bare-handed.”

  “I hope you’ve got a license for the gun. I guess it’s no secret Bogaro would love to nail you any way he could.”

  “I’ve got a license,” he said. “And you?”

  “I’m sleeping with my.38. How do we hunt this has-been, together or separately?”

  “Separately,” he said. “We can be damned sure he won’t be going home. I gave the police that address.” He put a hand on his front fender and asked casually, “Why were you up at Dawn’s place, Brock?”

  “I was checking out two stories I’d heard. One that Kostic was your muscle and the other that Scooter owed you money. Dawn wasn’t very cooperative. Then I mentioned something I’m not at liberty to tell you, a clue in the case. It must have meant something to her and that’s why she phoned your bar after I had left.”

  “You ‘were checking me?”

  “I was. That’s the way I work; I check everybody. I’ll continue to check you, Joe.”

  “Okay, okay. And this clue — could you tie it to Turk?”

  “I don’t see how. That’s why I think there might be two killers.”

  “Maybe,” he said slowly, “your original charity client is the original killer.”

  I met his gaze. “Maybe. Do you want your money back?”

  He smiled bleakly. “Touchy, aren’t you? You can call the Anchor if you want to leave me a message.” He climbed into the Cad and drove away.

  I climbed into the Chev and sat there. Lenny’s neighbor stopped pulling weeds out of his driveway and went into the house. The street grew darker; the street lights came on.

  I sat there, trying to shape a pattern from the new information, trying to tie Turk Kostic to two murders and a fire. Deputy Anthony Bogaro would probably manage it if he thought he could destroy Paretti in the process. Tony’s vision of this case could be limited by what he wanted to believe.

  My own vision of the case might have been impaired because I couldn’t go to the office to type up my usual minutely detailed daily report. I have a fair ten- or twelve-hour memory and managed to get dialogues almost verbatim when I did them every day. I had a feeling some lies had been told to me; daily reports might have uncovered them.

  I started the engine and headed for a better section of Santa Monica, for the canary yellow apartment building that housed the hope chest of Ruth Hansel.

  Her little white car was on the lot in the rear; I parked there and went up the back steps.

  From the other side of the door she asked cautiously, “Who’s there?”

  “Callahan,” I told her, “the roving innocent.”

  She opened the door and said, “Keep your voice down. My nephew’s here, and sleeping.”

  She was wearing a dressing gown that matched the blue of her eyes. She was wearing a towel around her short, dark hair. I came in. She closed the door and made sure it was locked.

  “The Malones have already taken off for La Jolla, then? “ I said.

  She nodded. “I hope it works. Ed’s so damned — ” She shrugged.

  “Middle class,” I supplied. “And what a chaser he was before he was married! He’s a stuffy, single-standard bullhead. And how has it been with you?”

  “No worse, some better. I haven’t seen a reporter for almost eight hours. “ She nodded toward the lighted dinette. “Coffee?”

  She had evidently been sitting there, drinking coffee and reading.

  I said, “Not right away. I’ve just had a bottle of beer. What are you reading? “ I went over to sit in a chair at the opposite end of the table.

  “A western,” she said. “I like westerns.” She sat downl and filled her coffee cup again.

  “You subscribe to two book clubs and read paperback westerns?”

  She frowned. “Now who told you I belong to two book clubs? Linda? Is she trying her hand at matchmaking again?”

  “Not Linda,” I said. “Deputy Anthony Bogaro told me you belong to two book clubs. And he told me at the same time that he now knows who your brother-in-law is.”

  Her mouth opened slightly. “What — ? How — ?” She shook her head impatiently. “You’re not making sense. Will you please explain what you’re talking about?”

  I said, “When Dawn Donovan died, I wanted to come out of hiding so I phoned Bogaro. I learned that he must know about the Malones, now, or at least guess that they’re involved. He also thought it would be best if I stayed under cover.”

  “And the book clubs — ?” she asked.

  “When Scooter died,” I explained, “it seems he was reaching for a book. The police think it might be a clue.”

  “Why? What was the book?”

  “A novel — The World in the Evening. It was written by a man named Christopher Isherwood.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” she said, “but not the book. Didn’t he write I Am a Camera?”

  “That could be. Dawn Donovan said something to that effect.”

  “Dawn Donovan? She could read?”

  “It was Scooter’s idea,” I explained. “As he phrased it to her, he was trying to change her public image.”

  She sighed and said nothing.

  I said, “I always thought Scooter’s literary limit was Variety and the Hollywood Reporter. He might have ha outside advice.”

  “Not from me. Is that why you’re here — because I happen to belong to two book clubs?”

  “In a way. If Scooter talked about books, it was with his lady friends. His male friends didn’t read. But when I saw Linda she didn’t want to talk about Scooter at all.”

  Ruth Hansel said dryly, “We didn’t discuss books on our dates. Did the same person kill Dawn Donovan, do you think?”

  “It’s possible. Bogaro is sure he knows who killed her and he believes the same man killed Scooter — a man named Turk Kostic, an ex-fighter.”

  “Was he one of Miss Donovan’s boy friends?”

  I shook my head. “He was — ”

  At that second, Edwin W. Malone, Jr. let out a wail that rattled the windows. Ruth rose quickly and hurried toward the bedroom.

  I heard her make soothing sounds and heard Junior’s querulous questions. I decided a cup of coffee might be comforting and went over to get a cup from her kitchen.

  The percolator was on the dinette table and still warm. I poured a cup of coffee as I noticed she was reading Treasure of the Brasada by Les Savage, Jr. I admired her taste. He had always been one of my favorites.

  From the direction of the bedroom I could hear her explaining, “It was only a shadow, Edwin. See? The lights from the cars outside shine through this window here and make this lamp look as big as a man. But only you and I are here and tomorrow, early, we’re going to the beach. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Edwin W. Malone, Jr.

  The door closed quietly and Ruth came back to the dinette. “He saw some shadows. Who doesn’t?” She sat down and sipped her coffee. “Where were we?”<
br />
  “I’ve forgotten.”

  She smiled at me sadly. “Horse told me about that crack you made, about his being penurious. It was about time somebody told him.”

  I made no comment.

  “You’re depressed,” she said. “Is it hopeless?”

  “Not exactly. There’s a man named Turk Kostic somewhere out there in the dark and — ”

  “That’s what we were talking about before,” she interrupted. “Is he — ?”

  There was a knock at her door.

  She gestured that I was to stay seated. She walked quietly over to the door and asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Deputy Bogaro,” a voice answered.

  The voice was muffled. It hadn’t sounded like Bogaro’s voice to me.

  I started to warn Ruth, but it was too late. She threw the night latch clear and opened the door.

  Turk Kostic stepped into the room.

  Turk had a gun in his hand and it swung to point at me. He said, “Put your hands on the table.”

  I followed orders as he closed the door with his free hand. Ruth murmured something hoarsely and started to waver on her feet.

  I said, “Steady, Ruth. He’s after me. He has no reason to bother you.”

  She started to sway and Kostic reached out a hand to hold her upright “Don’t panic, lady. Just keep your mouth shut and nothing’ll happen to you.”

  From the bedroom came the sound of a whimper.

  Kostic’s face hardened. “Who’s that?”

  Ruth was too terrified to speak. I said, “It’s her nephew. She’s baby-sitting. What do you want with me, Turk?”

  “Some answers,” he said.

  Junior started to cry.

  Ruth stood where she was, petrified. I said gently, “Go quiet him. We don’t want any neighbors coming up to complain.”

  Kostic gave her a little push. “Get to it. Or I’ll have to shut him up the hard way.”

  She half ran, half stumbled from the room.

  I asked, “How did you find me here?”

  “She’s your friend, isn’t she? She lied to the law for you, didn’t she?”

  “And now what? “ I asked. “What answers were you looking for?”

  “The answers you got from that Donovan dame.”

  “She wouldn’t tell me anything. She told me she couldn’t afford to get into trouble with the police or the newspapers and she sent me away. That’s the gospel.”