The Way Some People Die

by Ross Macdonald

  “Relax. It’s not you I want. Though I’ll turn you in for extortion if I have to.”

  “If I don’t talk, you mean?”

  “I’m getting impatient.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. I—”

  “You worked for Speed. You don’t any more. Why not?”

  “Speed isn’t in business any more.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Myself. Tarantine doesn’t like me.”

  “I can’t understand that,” I said. “You’ve got looks, brains, integrity, everything. What more could Tarantine ask?”

  That nicked his vanity and he showed a little shame. Only a little. “I was a runner for Speed, so Tarantine doesn’t like me.”

  “He worked for Speed himself.”

  “Yeah, but he double-crossed him. When the corporation moved in, he changed sides. He saw an independent like Speed couldn’t hold out against them.”

  “So he shot Speed and took over the business for the corporation.”

  “Not exactly. Tarantine’s too smart to do any shooting himself. Maybe he fingered Speed. I heard he did.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I wasn’t there, I only know what I heard.” He did some more of his motionless squirming. Under the single eyebrow his eyes looked very small and close together. Transparent pimples of sweat dotted his forehead. “I shouldn’t be talking like this, mister. It could get me blasted. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You’ll have to take the chance.”

  “You couldn’t use me for witness, I only know what I heard.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you the best I can, mister. Speed was driving up from Tijuana that night. He had some packages of white in his tires; his system was pockets vulcanized on the inside of the tubes. Tarantine was riding with him and I guess he tipped off the mob. They hijacked Speed on the highway this side of Delmar, blocked him off the road with an old truck or something. Speed objected so they shot him down, drove his car away and left him for dead. Tarantine brought him in, he was Speed’s palsy-walsy. That’s what Speed thought. When Speed got out of the hospital, he left town. He almost died, I guess that scared him off. He couldn’t stand a shooting war, he was a gentleman.”

  “I can see that. Where’s the gentleman now?”

  “I wouldn’t know. He blew, that’s all. He sold the Arena lease to Tarantine and blew.”

  “Describe the gentleman, Ronnie.”

  “Speed? He’s a sharp dresser. Two-hundred-dollar suits and custom shirts and ties with his own monogram. A big stout guy, but sharp. He talks like a college graduate, the genuine class.”

  “Does he have a face?”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty good-looking for an older guy. He’s still got most of his hair—light brown hair. A little fair mustache.” He drew a finger across his upper lip. “Pretty good features, except for his nose. He has a bump on his nose where he had it broken.”

  “About how old?”

  “Middle-aged, forty or so. About your age, maybe a little older. Speed hasn’t got your looks, though, mister.” He tried to look earnest and appealing.

  He was the kind of puppy who would lick any hand that he was afraid to bite. It was depressing not to be able to hit him again because he was younger and softer and too easy. If I really hurt him, he’d pass it on to somebody weaker, like Ruth. There was really nothing to be done about Ronnie, at least that I could do. He would go on turning a dollar in one way or another until he ended up in Folsom or a mortuary or a house with a swimming pool on top of a hill. There were thousands like him in my ten-thousand-square-mile beat: boys who had lost their futures, their parents and themselves in the shallow jerry-built streets of the coastal cities; boys with hot-rod bowels, comic-book imaginations, daring that grew up too late for one war, too early for another.

  He said: “What’s the matter, mister? I told you the truth so far as I know the truth.” His cheek twitched, and I realized that I had been gazing down sightlessly into his empty hazel eyes.

  “Maybe you have at that. You didn’t make it all up, you haven’t the brains. What was Tarantine’s system?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.” He ran his uneasy fingers through his short black hair again.

  “Sorry, I forgot. You’re a respectable citizen. You don’t have truck with crooks like Tarantine.”

  “Him and his brother bought this boat,” he said. “The boat that got wrecked today. How would I know what they used it for? They went on a couple of fishing trips, maybe they went to Mexico. That’s where Speed got the stuff when he was here, from a guy in Mexico City that manufactured it out of opium.” He leaned forward toward me, without leaving the security of the chair. “Mister, let me go out to the office now, I told you all I know. What do you say?”

  “Don’t be such an eager beaver, Ronnie. There’s another friend of yours I want to hear about. Where do I get in touch with Mosquito, in case I ever have the urge?”

  “Mosquito?”

  “He’s selling in San Francisco now, Ruth says. He used to sell for Speed here.”

  “I don’t know any Mosquito,” he said without conviction, “only the ones that bite me.”

  I clenched my fist and held it for him to look at, telling myself that I was a great hand at frightening boys.

  The hazel eyes crossed slightly looking at it. “I’ll tell you, mister, promise you won’t use my name. They wouldn’t appreciate me talking around. He wrote me I might get a job up there this summer—”

  “I’m not making any promises, Ronnie. I’m getting impatient again.”

  “You want to know where to find him, is that it?”

  “That will do.”

  “I contacted him through a musician plays the piano in a basement bar, a place called The Den. It’s right off Union Square, it’s easy enough to find.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a month ago. I flew up for a week-end last month. I get a buzz out of Frisco. It suits my personality, not like this one-horse town—”

  “Yeah. Did you see Mosquito to talk to?”

  “Sure, he’s a big shot now, but he’s a good friend of mine. I knew him in high school.” Ronnie expanded in the thought. He knew Mosquito when.

  “What’s his real name?”

  “You won’t tell him I told you, mister, will you? Gilbert Moreno.”

  “And the musician?”

  “I don’t know his name. You’ll find him in The Den, he plays piano every night in The Den. He’s a snowbird, you can’t miss him.”

  “Does Mosquito know where Speed is?”

  “He said Speed was up there Christmas trying to raise a stake. Then he went to Reno, I think he said Reno. Can I go now, mister?”

  The pattern was starting to form on the map at the back of my mind. It was an abstract pattern, a high thin triangle drawn in red. Its base was the short straight line between Palm Springs and Pacific Point. Its apex was San Francisco. Another, shadowier triangle on the same base pointed its apex at Reno. But when I tried to merge the two into a single picture, the entire pattern blurred.

  I said: “All right, get.”

  When we went out, the girl had disappeared. I felt relieved. She was a bigger responsibility than I wanted.

  CHAPTER 23: The lighted clock on the tower of the county courthouse said that it was only five minutes after eleven. I didn’t believe it. I had a post-midnight feeling. My tongue was already furred with the dregs of a long bad evening. A criminal catechism ran on like a screechy record in my head. What? Blood. Where? There. When? Then. Why? Who knows. Who? Him. They. She. It. Us. Especially us.

  I parked in front of the wing of the courthouse that held the county jail. The windows on the second and third floors were barred with ornamental ironwork, to appeal to the æsthetic sense of the thieves and muggers and prostitutes behind them. Part of the first floor of this wing was occupied by the sheriff’s office, whose windows showed the only
lights in the building below the tower clock.

  The tall black oak door stood open, and I walked in under white fluorescent light. Behind the counter that divided the anteroom in two, a fat young man was talking into a telephone. No, he said, the chief wasn’t there. He couldn’t give out his private number. Anyway, he was probably in bed. Is that right, he was very sorry to hear it. He’d bring it to the chief deputy’s attention in the morning.

  He set the receiver down and sighed with relief. “A nut,” he said to me. “We hear from her every day or two. She thinks she can receive radio waves, and foreign agents are bombarding her nervous system with propaganda. Next time I’m going to tell her to get her tubes adjusted so she can receive television.”

  He left his desk and lumbered to the counter: “What can I do for you, sir?” He had the friendly manner of a corner grocer, dispensing justice instead of bread and potatoes.

  “I don’t suppose the chief is here?”

  “Not since supper. Anything I can do?”

  “One of the deputies is working on a disappearance case: Joe Tarantine.”

  “One of the deputies, hell. There’s three or four working on it.” He buried his eyes in a smile.

  “Let me talk to one of them.”

  “They’re pretty busy. You a reporter?”

  I showed him my photostat. “The one I was talking to is a big man in a ten-gallon hat, or do they all wear ten-gallon hats?”

  “Just Callahan. He’s in there with Mrs. Tarantine just now.” He jerked his thumb towards an inner door. “You want to wait?”

  “Which Mrs. Tarantine, mother or wife?”

  “The young one. If I was Tarantine, I wouldn’t run out on a bundle of goodies like that one.” A leer started in his eyes and moved across his face in sluggish ripples.

  I swallowed my irritation. “Is that the official view, that Tarantine ran out? Maybe you’ve got some inside dope that he can walk on water, or maybe a Russian sub was waiting to pick him up.”

  “Maybe.” He fanned his face with his hand. “You and the old lady should get together. She says the voices in her head talk with a Russian accent. Matter of fact, there ain’t no official view, won’t be until we complete our investigation.”

  “Did they get aboard the Aztec Queen?”

  “Yeah, it’s all broken up on the rocks. Nobody in the cabin. What’s your interest, if I may ask, Mister—?”

  “Archer. I have some information for Callahan.”

  “He should be out any minute. They been in there nearly an hour.” Casting an envious glance at the inner door, he meandered back to his desk and inserted his hips between the arms of the swivel chair.

  I had time to smoke a cigarette, almost my first of the day. I sat on a hard bench against the wall. The minute hand of the electric clock on the opposite wall inched round in little nervous jumps to eleven thirty. The deputy on duty was yawning over a news magazine.

  The latch of the inner door clicked finally, and Callahan appeared in the doorway. His big hat was in his hand, exposing a sun-freckled pate to the inclement light. He stood back awkwardly to let Galley precede him, smiling down at her as if he owned her.

  She looked as trim and vital as she had in the afternoon. She was wearing a dark brown suit and a dark hat, their suggestion of widow’s weeds denied by a lime-green blouse under her jacket. Only the bluish crescents under her eyes gave me an idea of what she had been through.

  I stood up and she paused, one knee forward and bent in an uncompleted step. “Why, Mr. Archer! I didn’t expect to run into you tonight.” She completed the step and gave me her gloved hand. Even through the leather, it felt cold.

  “I thought I might run into you. If you don’t mind waiting a minute, I want to see Callahan.”

  “Of course I’ll wait.”

  She sat down on the bench. Callahan hung over her and thanked her profusely for her aid. Her smile was a little strained. The fat young man leaned across the counter, his fleshbound eyes regarding her hungrily.

  The big man put on his hat as he turned to me. “What’s the story, mac? Let’s see, you were with Mario down on the waterfront. You a friend of his?”

  “A private detective, looking for Joe Tarantine. The name is Archer.”

  “For her?” He cocked his head towards Galley.

  “Her mother.” I walked him to the other end of the counter. “A girl I’ve been talking to saw something this morning that ought to interest you. She was lying behind a wind-shelter on Mackerel Beach at dawn, all by herself.”

  “All by herself?” Perplexity or amusement corrugated the skin around his eyes.

  “She says all by herself. A man swam in to shore with a bundle around his neck, probably clothes because he had nothing on. She saw him cross the beach and then she heard a car start up in the grove of trees behind the barbecue pits.”

  “So that’s what happened to Tarantine,” he drawled.

  “It wasn’t Joe, according to her, and it wasn’t Mario either. She knows both of them—”

  “Who is this girl? Where is she?”

  “I met her at the wrestling match. I tried to bring her in but she ran out on me.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Blonde and thin.”

  “Hell, half the girls in town are blondies nowadays. When did you say she saw this guy?”

  “Shortly before dawn. It was still too dark to see him very clearly.”

  “She wouldn’t be having delusions?” he muttered. “Any girl that was lying on the beach by herself at that time.”

  “I don’t think so.” But perhaps he had something. There were better witnesses than Ruth, a hundred and fifty million of them, roughly.

  He turned to Galley, removing his hat again. Even his voice changed when he spoke to her, as if he had a separate personality for each sex: “Oh, Mrs. Tarantine. What time did you say you drove your husband down here?”

  She rose and came toward us, walking with precision. “I don’t know the time exactly. About four a.m., I think it was.”

  “Before dawn, though?”

  “At least an hour before dawn. It wasn’t fully daylight when I got back to Santa Monica.”

  “That’s what I thought you told me.”

  “Is it important?”

  He answered her with solemnity: “Everything is important in a murder case.”

  “You think he was murdered?” I said.

  “Tarantine? No telling what happened to him. We’ll start dragging operations in the morning.”

  “But you mentioned murder.”

  “Tarantine is wanted for murder,” he said. “L.A. has an all-points out for him. Didn’t you hear about the Dalling killing?”

  I glanced at Galley. Her head moved in a barely perceptible negative. I said: “Oh, that.”

  “I’m horribly tired,” she said. “I’m going to ask Mr. Archer to drive me home.”

  I said I’d be glad to.

  CHAPTER 24: She took my arm on the courthouse steps, her fingers gripping me hard but not unpleasantly. “I’m grateful you showed up, Archer. I’ve been answering policemen’s questions for hours and hours, and I feel quite unreal, like a character in a movie. You’re something solid to hold on to, aren’t you?”

  “Solid enough. I weigh a hundred and eighty-five.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. All those official faces are like death masks. You have a human face, you’re made of flesh and blood.”

  “Flesh and blood and all things nice,” I said. “I used to be a policeman. And I think you’re walking on eggs.”

  Her grip on my arm tightened. “Walking on eggs?”

  “You heard me. I can’t understand why the L.A. cops haven’t locked you up as a material witness.”

  “Why should they put me in jail? I’m perfectly innocent.”

  “Maybe you are in deed. Not in the mind. You’re much too smart to be taken in by Tarantine. You couldn’t live with him for over two months without k
nowing what he was up to.”

  She dropped my arm, and hung back when I opened the door of the car for her.

  “Get in, Mrs. Tarantine. You asked me to drive you home. Where’s your own car, by the way?”

  “I didn’t trust myself to drive tonight. I had a terrible day, and now you’re cross-questioning me.” Her voice broke, whether artificially or naturally I couldn’t tell.

  “Get in. I want to hear the story you told the cops.”

  “You’ve got no right to speak to me like this. A woman can’t be forced to accuse her husband.” But she got in.

  I said: “She can if she’s accessory.” And slammed the door to punctuate the sentence.

  She stayed in the far corner of the seat while I started the engine. “I didn’t even know that Joe was wanted for murder until Mr. Callahan told me. Actually there is no warrant for him. He’s simply wanted for questioning. They found his fingerprints in Keith’s apartment.” Her voice was thin.

  “You must have known.” I turned left towards the main street. “As soon as they told you Dalling had been shot, you must have thought about Joe’s visit to Dalling this morning. What did you give Homicide on that?”

  “Nothing. I left it out entirely. I said I drove him straight to Pacific Point.”

  “And you don’t know what I mean by walking on eggs?”

  “I couldn’t tell them,” she whispered. “They’d use it to put him in the gas chamber, if they ever find him.”

  I stopped for a flashing red light, and crossed the main street in the direction of the highway. “This afternoon you were strongly anti-Tarantine. What transformed you into the loyal wife?”

  “You can save your sarcasm, Archer.” Her spirit was flickering up again. “Joe isn’t a very nice person, but he’s incapable of killing anyone. Besides, I’m married to him.”

  “I know it. It didn’t make him incapable of peddling heroin.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “The hard way. The point is that I didn’t find out from you.”

  “I only knew the last few weeks. I hated it. I’d have left him if I hadn’t been afraid to. Does that make me a criminal?”