I could see it wasn’t quite the reaction he had wanted, but he was willing to settle for it.
“I had an interior decorator come in and do the place over. Not one of those swishy kind, you understand, but a real man. I mean he hunts and everything. Anyway, he came in, looked around and said he knew the perfect environment for my personality. At first I thought he was kidding me. I mean, hell, I was born and raised in Detroit. Never even saw the woods until I was drafted. Of course that was different, that was the war.
“Anyway, then he goes out and even gets clothes for me. To tell you the truth, I thought that was a little too much. I mean, if there’s one thing I learned in law school, it’s that you can’t do business without a proper suit, because in the business world the clothes reflect the brains. But then I figured what the hell, I’m president of this company. Sure I’ve got bosses to answer to, but they only look at results; if the results are good, they wouldn’t care if I sat around stark naked. Besides, I don’t go out much anymore now that I’ve got Walker here as my right-hand man.”
He looked fondly around the room before continuing.
“I’m still planning on getting rid of those tacky tennis courts, but things have been so hectic lately . . .” he trailed off as if suddenly remembering something. When he resumed, his former relaxed “down home” way of speaking was replaced by an intent businesslike manner that more accurately reflected his position. “I’m sorry for going on like that, Mr. Gould, but I’m sure you understand a man’s pride in his home. But you are probably more interested in why we brought you here.”
“Well, I am a little curious.”
“It concerns your murdering Eugene Bartlett . . .”
“Now just a minute, Mr. De Young,” I protested. “I had nothing to do with what happened. I was almost killed myself.”
“That was the beautiful part,” he smiled, his face creasing into a mask of amused wrinkles. “You provided your own alibi. I admire your ingenuity, not to mention your courage at taking such a chance.”
“Look, Mr. De Young . . .”
“Relax, boy, relax. We didn’t bring you here to prosecute you. Hell, if we’d wanted that, I’d have left you with those FBI agents. We already know you did it; that’s why we decided to spring you.”
“How did you know where I was?”
He smiled again, his eyes almost disappearing behind his cheeks like a sunset. “Simple, Mr. Gould, I own the house next door to their interrogation hideout.”
“You mean the old man raking leaves . . .”
He nodded. “One of my men. Of course he’s semi-retired now.”
“Of course. But that doesn’t answer why I’m here, Mr. De Young.”
“Let me ask you a question first, Mr. Gould,” he demanded more than requested. “Who hired you to kill Eugene Bartlett?”
I sensed that he would no longer be amused by my denials; in fact, it was his belief in my guilt that seemed to be my protection. Yet, if I named any of the big names I was familiar with, he would know I was lying. After all, they were just names to me. I was just a credit-card-and-car thief. I didn’t know which organization was friendly with which other organization or any of that.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” I said cryptically.
Mr. De Young stared at me with cool calculation while Mr. Walker stared at me with pulsating intensity. I stared at the stuffed pheasant with increasing empathy.
“You’re quite right, Mr. Gould. You have your professional ethics to consider. Hell, what business is it of ours anyway?”
I laughed politely. “Now back to my question, Mr. De Young. Why was I brought here?”
“Simply out of gratitude, Mr. Gould. As you and your employers probably know, Eugene Bartlett was a constant pain in the assets to our company. He was always undercutting our investments, sometimes placing our whole existence in jeopardy. There’s no taking away from the man that he was smart, even a genius when it came to financial maneuvers. But he kept stepping on a lot of toes. Very sensitive toes. And things aren’t the way they used to be. Used to be a guy pushed you like he was doing, we’d send a few boys over to explain things to him.” The twinkle in his eyes clarified what “explain things” meant. “But today you’ve got to go through prescribed channels—like the government. Somebody’s got to see what our diplomatic policy is with his organization, what the possible repercussions might be. The whole thing. In the meantime we’re losing hundreds of thousands of dollars a day every time he buys away our investments. Investments that sometimes take months to set up.
“And just when we finally get the okay to straighten things out, you step in and save us the trouble and expense. So I figure we owe you a little something for that. That’s why I had my boys pick you up from those agents.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s not all, Mr. Gould,” he smiled, removing his wallet and handing me a few bills. “Here’s $500 to help you avoid the FBI until you can get in touch with your own people. May I suggest you invest part of it in some new clothes,” he added with a wink.
“I’ll do that,” I promised, rising as they did.
“Good. I’ll have a couple of my boys drop you off at the airport. They’ll make sure you’re not followed. They’re new recruits and could use the experience. You can imagine how difficult it is to get experienced men like you anymore.”
“I can imagine,” I agreed.
Chapter Thirteen
We were already well on our way to the airport when I discovered two interesting facts. First, I learned that the two “new recruits” who were now practicing evasion tactics while escorting me were both nephews to Henry De Young, and cousins to each other. The sandy-haired nephew did most of the talking, with his older cousin interrupting only when he himself became the topic.
“Michael has already been promised a position in the business office downtown,” the sandy-haired reported.
“What about you?” I asked. For some reason I was sincerely interested.
“Well, Uncle Hank doesn’t think I’m ready for that yet. He thinks I need more time in the field.”
“It’s just that you don’t have an aptitude for finance,” Michael chirped, more to gloat than to comfort.
“I don’t mind so much, it’s just that this is such a boring job, no offense to you.”
“No, of course not,” I assured him. “You sure handled yourself well back there when you rescued me from those two FBI agents.”
“Yeah,” he said with a reflective grin. “But that’s the only fun part.”
The second thing I discovered was that my wallet was missing. I stared hazily at the $500 in my hand which I had intended to stash in the wallet, and tried to determine when and where it could have been lost. I couldn’t have had it at the time I was picked up by Bob and Jerry or they would have taken it when they frisked me, though I had been too dazed at the time to realize that. It could have fallen out when I went tumbling out of the alley, but then I remembered feeling its thin presence in my back pocket as I leaned against the car when that man helped me up . . .
My palm flew to my forehead with a slap that caused the sandy-haired nephew to jerk around in alarm.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I mumbled sourly. “I just forgot my mother’s birthday.”
He smiled sympathetically, facing forward again while Michael snorted contemptuously.
What’s wrong, he wanted to know. What wasn’t wrong. I felt like hitting myself again and again to accent each syllable. For the past two days it seemed that everybody in town had been spinning me around as if there was some great joke that everybody but me was in on. Whenever someone wanted me, an order would go out and there would be two more bozos stretching my armpits and scuffing my shoes. Or someone would shoot at me and I’d be rolling through mud puddles. Or a bomb would go off and I’d be learning to fly.
But it all had to stop somewhere, and having my wallet lifted by an ordinary hook was the bottom line. I mean I�
��d been around long enough to know that when you get the look of a mark, sooner or later every grifter and flim-flam man in town will sniff you out and fleece you until all you’ve got left is a deed to Grant’s Tomb and the feeling you just made a terrific bargain.
And I had the look.
I’d been so concerned with running away, with getting out, I never paid attention to what was really going on. I was so sure that I was taking advantage of everyone else, I never felt the blinders being slipped into place. I began to feel a weary exhilaration, as if I were in a marathon dance contest, but I was the only one dancing. Everyone else was watching—watching and waiting for me to drop.
Images of faces and fragments of past conversations flickered through my mind. I tried to slow them down so I could figure out why they suddenly seemed so important.
“We’re here, Mr. Gould,” the sandy-haired boy announced.
I slid out of the car, thanked them and watched them drive out of sight before I doubled back into the parking lot, hot-wired a blue ’71 Chevy and drove anxiously back to downtown Los Angeles.
Chapter Fourteen
“Wait here,” he instructed, ushering me into one of the rooms. I did so without hesitation, seating myself in the cushioned office chair across the desk as if in preparation for a business interview. “He’ll be here in a minute,” he said as he closed the door and walked off down the hallway.
Having fired myself up with the kind of prideful indignation that has been known to change otherwise peaceful citizens into merciless avenging angels, going against immeasurable odds, armed with nothing but a sharpened stick and a broken penknife, I had sped toward Los Angeles for fifteen minutes before discovering I was lost. As a result I had driven on and off various ramps at random, looking for a familiar name, until twenty minutes later I had finally found myself registering at the downtown Hilton Hotel.
“Room 805, Mr. MacArthur,” the clerk smiled widely, as if daring me to compare my teeth with his. I took the key, but did not proceed to my room immediately. Instead I wandered into a men’s clothing shop in the hotel and purchased a new bundle of clothes, a decided improvement in those I had been wearing, not only in style, but smell.
Following a long hot bath and even longer hot shower, I dressed in my new clothes, sat on the couch and reran the entire last two days through my mind. It was during that process that there was a knock on my door followed by the uninvited entrance of two plainclothes policemen. Which is how I found myself sitting in front of a desk with a nameplate that read: Lt. Rex Bower, and recalling my long-standing conviction that Rex was a name that should be restricted to large dogs and psychological disorders.
I was admiring the way my new clothes encouraged my resemblance to a college professor when suddenly the door blew open as if backed by a passing tornado. Instead, a hulking mass in a wrinkled suit paused in the doorway, his hand still clutching the doorknob and his shoulders threatening to break off part of the wall as he entered.
“I’m Lt. Bower,” he announced to no one in particular, though I was the only other person in the room. For some reason, his sudden presence seemed to have forced much of the air out of the room—or he was breathing more than his share—for I was beginning to have trouble catching my breath.
A stuffy thick silence followed as Lt. Bower went about the business of sitting down, which involved not only pulling the chair out but pushing the desk away as he lowered himself into position. His large square face and broad muscular build were the kind that usually go with names like Ben Steeley or Mike Granite. Yet, there was sympathetic softness to his features that offered reassuring counterpoint to his threatening size. But there was also an uncertainty in his eyes as if, though aware of that softness, he hadn’t yet decided whether it was a liability or an asset. Still, he was a cop, and as such, our best interests rarely coincided.
“You’re in big trouble, Mr. Gould,” he said by way of breaking the ice.
“Just what kind of trouble am I in, Lieutenant?”
He glanced up from the papers he’d been consulting for the first time and looked me straight in the eye with unnerving intensity, displaying none of the softness I’d thought I’d spotted a minute ago.
“Shall we start with the murder of Eugene Bartlett? And how about the murders of the three other bodies we’ve found. And the attempted murder of those injured. Not to mention . . .”
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to deny it all.”
“It might.”
“All right, I deny it. I had absolutely nothing to do with that explosion.”
“You’re lying.”
I said nothing.
“Two of my men saw you being dropped off at the airport by two of De Young’s men, so we know it was De Young you were working for.”
“Then why did I come back to town?” I asked defiantly. “If I’d already done the job and was already at the airport, then why didn’t I just take off?”
“Two reasons,” he said, holding up two fingers the size of bananas. “First, you decided to return to get the other guy you were hired to knock off; and second, you spotted my men at the airport and knew you couldn’t get out. They already told me how you tried to lose them on the freeways, going on and off every ramp. Now what we want to know is who the second man is. Who else are you supposed to kill?”
His eyes were searing into mine and it took every bit of strength and will power to keep from lowering my eyes into my lap. But goddamn it, it was my turn to be aggressive, it was my turn to push back. Of course, I reminded myself, there was such a thing as going too far . . .
“Look Lieutenant,” I said, focusing my eyes on the bridge of his nose, “you’re going to feel really ridiculous when the truth all comes out and you find that I’m innocent after all.”
“I’m afraid that’s a chance I’m going to have to take, Mr. Gould. But I think I’m going to have to book you anyway.”
“On what charge?” I demanded.
“Well, car theft, for the time being. That ought to hold you over until we can get all the paperwork on those murders completed. Yup, I hope you’re getting a lot of enjoyment out of those new clothes, ’cause by the time you get out of jail, fashions are likely to have changed considerably.” He looked down at his desk and began to shuffle papers in an effort to hide his smile. What did I expect from the kind of guy who laughs at his own jokes?
He began scribbling something on a note pad which gave me a chance to reset my eyes. Perhaps I wasn’t being firm enough with him. Maybe I needed to be more outraged, jumping up and down, sputtering and demanding my rights. For inspiration I ran my tongue along the gap in my teeth and thought about the events that led to their premature departure. Within seconds I was foaming indignation as I leaped up and shouted, “I demand to see my dentist!”
He looked up in confusion.
“I mean lawyer,” I corrected myself, somewhat quieter.
He stared at me again, his teeth apparently gnashing behind his tight blue lips. “You what!” he growled as he erupted from his chair, which slammed into the wall with such force that a photograph fell.
“I’d like to see my lawyer,” I mumbled firmly.
“You guys really get me,” he began, leaning heavily on the desk. “You know that Gould. Do ya? I mean you really get me. Four people are already dead, a bunch more injured and you’re in here screaming for your lawyer. Do you know what it means to kill a person, Gould? I’m not just talking numbers now, I mean do you know what is involved even after they’re dead? Have you ever had to tell someone their wife or husband or son or daughter is dead? Have you ever watched their faces when they suddenly and finally realize and accept what you say is true, even though they’re crying that it can’t be? No, I can see you haven’t. What makes a guy like you do it, Gould? Weren’t you making enough with those stolen cars and credit cards? Did you kill them so you could buy a color television with remote control?”
He stopped talking but continued to look at me—not st
are like before, but look, as if trying to find an answer to those questions somewhere in my eyes. Finally, he sat down and pretended to read some of the papers on his desk as he composed himself.
I was not mad nor outraged at what he’d said; in fact, I agreed with him, maybe even grudgingly liked him. They were questions I had often wondered about, but not for too long and never ever aloud. But I felt ashamed and angry, ashamed that he thought I was a part of all that, and angry at the person who put me in that position.
“You know, Gould, it would serve you right if I did let you go. You may as well know now that Farrow sneaked out of his hospital room this afternoon after asking quite a few questions about you. The nurse in charge said he didn’t appear to like the answers much.
“Then there’s Mrs. Arnold Tryon, the widow of the man who was killed in the room next to the explosion. But I wouldn’t worry about her too much; you’re probably a real whiz at taking care of irate widows.
“Then there’s Mr. Jonathan Mercer, husband to the woman who was killed with Mr. Tryon. Unfortunately we haven’t yet been able to find him to tell him about her, since he hasn’t been to his home or business yet, but let’s hope that when he finds out he won’t do anything rash.
“However, you’re probably safe when it comes to Bartlett’s daughter; she hardly batted a lash when she found out her old man was dead. But even without her, there seems to be a formidable line forming for a part in your demise. You should thank us for offering to lock you up. It just might save you a bullet in the back.”
“Please! Stop it, Lieutenant! You’re scaring me to death. Why, I wouldn’t be able to go to the toilet now if I drank a quart of prune juice.”
“One more time now, Gould. Who was your other target?”
“I’m not answering any more questions without a lawyer.”
“All right, call him,” he said, offering me the telephone receiver.
“I don’t have one. I’ll use a p.d.”
He grimaced. “All right, I’ll get you a public defender, Gould. We’re going to make this absolutely legal. Airtight.” He rose quickly, rocking the desk, and exited through the door. I could hear his angry footsteps slapping along the hallway.
The Goulden Fleece Page 9
