I replied with another crooked smile. "A promise that you’ll never see my stiff ass around here again."
"Hey, you got the wrong idea, Joe. It's not that I don't
like to see you. But you always insult my women and you make me feel bad. I want you to fuck one of my women, man."
"You want to watch, Cholly?"
He laughed, and then the telephone receiver rattled some more. He rattled back, looking at me all the while, then said to me, "He don't handle much powder over there, like I said. No big guys. But he's been delivering a bag a night for the past few weeks to the same place."
"What place is that?"
Another exchange across the telephone, then: "You know that stage show at that hotel out there?"
"Dinner theater," I said tightly.
"Sure, that's the one."
"Stage door delivery?"
Cholly put the question to the telephone then relayed the answer to me. "Just outside. She meets him in the parking lot."
"She?"
"Classy looking Anglo woman." Cholly laughed. "Probably the kind you'd fuck while I watched. But she's got a hundred dollar a night nose just the same."
"Blonde or brunette?"
Another telephone rattle, then: "He don't know, man. She always has this, uh, whattaya call shawl thing wrapped around her head."
"Spanish shawl."
"Yeah, yeah, like that."
Yeah, sure, like the women of La Mancha wear.
I thanked the druglord of the east side and went away from there.
Hundred dollar a night nose, maybe.
Then again, maybe it was just another weave in the web that had been building since at least two weeks earlier when someone walked into my gym with a Polaroid camera and snapped me in the buff. Maybe the hundred dollar a night buy was no more than a cautious stockpiling of stage props being assembled for a one night stand starring none other than the Copp for Hire.
How had Susan Baker put it? I wouldn't follow the script?
I knew what I had to do. I had to find that script.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I had not forgotten the Minnesota connection either and I was resolved to explore that side of the web at the first opportunity. That is partly why I went on to the theater that evening, but also I wanted words with the judge's daughter and we sort of had a date anyway for after the show.
I had not expected to run into Art Lahey there, though. I guess he must have been sitting outside waiting for me to show because he came in almost on my heels and joined me at the darkened back wall of the theater. I'd arrived near the end of Act II in the middle of Lunceford's "Impossible Dream" number. I thought the guy was damned good. In fact, I think he was better than the guy he'd been understudying, more fire in the eyes or something and a bit more feeling in the voice, but what do I know.
I said as much to Lahey when he came alongside and he jumped me immediately. "Thought you hadn't seen Craig Maan in the role. You told me he cut out before the curtain went up."
"That time, yeah," I agreed. "But I saw the show awhile back."
"You didn't tell me that."
"Didn't think it would be important to tell you that."
"I guess there are a lot of things not important enough to tell me," he gibed.
The curtain came down for intermission at that point. The applause from the audience was enthusiastic but many of the oldsters were already out of their chairs and moving toward the rest rooms. Lahey took my elbow and steered me outside.
He lit a cigarette so I did one too and we strolled on across the patio for another thirty feet or so before Lahey spoke again. "Just so you’ll know where we stand," he told me in a quietly sober voice, "I'm off the case."
I said, "Congratulations. But why?"
"I'm on suspension," he growled.
"For what?"
"Insubordination, threatening a superior, how many more do you want?"
"That'll do," I told him. "Welcome to the club. One of those too many is what drove me into the private sector. So what are you looking for now?—absolution?"
Lahey took a seat on a bench and grinned up at me as he said, "To tell the truth, I came down here with half the intention of kicking your teeth in. But that would be like kicking the whipped dog, wouldn't it. I watched you walk in there awhile ago and all the anger melted. You're as fucked up as I am, aren't you."
I sat down beside him, took a deep breath and let it all out, told him with no wind at all behind it, "I was set up coming into this thing, Art. You were not. So maybe you Should tell me what has been going down here."
He said, "All I know for sure is that your friends Dobbs
and Harney were all ready to be nailed to the wall and I had the hammer. My boss took the hammer out of my hand . . . and I guess I took too much exception to that. Anyway, there is no case now. Your feds were released on a habeas corpus handed down by the Central District Court of California and so was a locker full of evidence."
I coughed on my cigarette, gave him a long hard scrutiny, then asked, "What evidence?"
"The clothing that Craig Maan wore out of here last night, bloodstained, and a video cassette that shows Dobbs and Harney busting into the second apartment."
I dropped the cigarette and ground it into the flagstones under my foot. I was very surprised at how calm I felt. "Where'd you find the clothing?"
"In their room here at the hotel."
"Who's room?"
"Larry Dobbs and Jack Harney. They've been registered here for the past two weeks. You didn't know that?"
I shook my head. "Guess I thought—I've been flat on my ass, Art. These people have had me chasing my own shadow. I'm ashamed to say that but it's true. What's that about a video tape? The one that was ... ?"
"Yeah. It was a new tape, had only about twenty minutes recording time on it. Shows all the victims except the first one and shows them all alive and well and having fun. Then the camera pans to show your feds breaking through the door, this Elaine Suzanne in tow, and an abrupt end to the recording."
"That was supposed to be me," I declared in a hollow voice.
"What do you mean?"
"The way it was scripted. Elaine was supposed to have
taken me there. Instead, she took me to the other apartment. I don't know why unless she just got confused and blew it. And it knocked her out to see Craig sitting there with his throat slashed. That wasn't in the script.''
"What's this script?"
"I talked to Susan Baker today at the hospital, after they moved her from the security ward. She let something slip but then caught herself and clammed up. Said enough though to give me the idea that some big plan came to fruition up there last night. I think it was some kind of a scam, but it backfired on them." I gave the cop a long, hard look. "Hate to tell you this, pal, but I think you went down for nothing. I don't think Dobbs and Harney did that to those kids."
"Yeah, so you said already," Lahey replied sourly. "But I didn't go down for nothing. I went down for a principle. Five people were viciously murdered in my jurisdiction last night. Whether those two did it or not—and I was only about fifty-one percent convinced that they did—I think those guys know who did it. If I could have kept the pressure on them, the truth would have come out sooner or later. Now I have the feeling that well never know."
I asked, "That the same reason you came after me?"
"Something like that, yeah," he replied soberly.
"At fifty-one percent?"
Lahey sighed. "It would've been worth it at ten percent."
"For you, maybe," I growled. "How the hell am I supposed to make a living if you guys keep coming at me on a ten percent hunch?"
He said, "It was more than a hunch, Joe. I had the snapshot. I had your prior involvement with the victim right out in public. I had the most ridiculous God damned
story any P.I. ever told and not a shadow of a client. I had-"
"I explained that."
“That's what I mean
by ridiculous. Do you have a client?"
"Two," I said. "It turns out that Susan Baker was my client. I returned her retainer today. Then there's a guy in Minnesota, this Johansen. Did I tell you that he's a judge?"
Lahey showed me a spooky look and replied, "Did I tell you that Craig Maan's real name is Johansen?"
Well, that stopped me, but only for half a breath. "No, I thought so too at first because I had this photo . . . but there was a switch, see, and I don't have that worked out yet. Something in the script, maybe, but Johnny Lunceford is the real Johansen."
Lahey said, "No, that's not right. Lunceford's real name is Lunceford. Maan's real name is Johansen. I've got fingerprint identification to prove it. Also, Johansen has worked as a paid informer for the FBI. I've got that too, it's in the paperwork served by the District Court."
I said, "Now wait a minute, dammit..."
I'd suddenly become aware that a sweet little lady of about eighty was listening to our conversation with rapt attention. I don't know how long she'd been there but she gave me a smile of pure joy and said, "That is positively fascinating! Is it the next play?"
I looked at Lahey, looked back at the sweet little lady and told her, "Gosh, ma'am, I hope not."
But maybe it was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Maybe I should remind you that at this point I was less than seventy-two hours into this case. I know that seems ridiculous because so much had happened but that is the way it went. So if you think I was being very stupid about some of the developments, you're probably right, I was stupid, but let's be fair about it: someone had gone to a lot of pains to make me that way and I had not had a lot of time to work through it. The thing had begun for me on a Wednesday morning at three a.m. and we were now into the Friday evening performance of La Mancha.
You might remember that on the very first day, Wednesday—when I really did not consider myself on the case—I'd been shot at and then set up for a false rap and thrown into jail. So we should not even count that day. I actually began working it as a case on Thursday morning and the whole thing blew up in my face that night. It had been gangbusters ever since, except for the idyllic interlude with Judith White on Friday morning, and even that was more dizzying than refreshing, so why the hell shouldn't I be stupid?
So okay, I was stupid. But at least I knew at the time that I was stupid and I was struggling like hell to smarten up.
Lahey did not go back inside with me for the final act that night. Suspended or not, he still had a very active interest in the case and he had a lead that he wanted to follow. Didn't want to tell me what it was but he did promise to keep me informed of developments. I promised him the same, although I had not told him everything I'd learned that day—but that's okay, because he had not told me everything either.
I went on back inside and Lahey went toward his car.
I have to say that the makeshift cast put on an inspired performance that evening. The final curtain brought the house down and it took three curtain calls to quiet the crowd. Lunceford had been spectacular in the tide role and all the players had seemed to reach into their depths to really pull the thing together. It was essentially the same cast that had performed on Thursday, but this was the first performance after they'd learned of the deaths of their five fellow players—and they made it memorable.
I spoke to Lunceford backstage for the first time a few minutes following the final curtain call but he already knew who I was. Everyone was milling around and congratulating one another but it was a subdued group, not a joyous one. I tried to respect that mood, told Lunceford that it was very important that I talk with him before he went home that evening.
He seemed like a nice kid, very direct and cooperative, told me that he had to go straight to the hotel lounge as soon as he could get out of the makeup and stage clothes. "I sit in with the band over there every Friday and
Saturday," he explained, "but I only do a couple of numbers. If you'd like to meet me over there.. "
I told him I would like to do that, then I went looking for Judith, found her standing outside the women's dressing room. She gave me a pretty smile and asked, "How'd we do?"
"Knocked 'em dead, like you said," I replied. "How'd you know I was out there?"
"Saw you and Sergeant Lahey during intermission," she said. "You seemed very engrossed with each other so I..."
"No, we weren't all that..."
"Well I didn't want to ..."
"No, you should have ..."
She laughed suddenly and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. "Are we embarrassed or what? When a man and woman can't speak in complete sentences to each other, what does that mean? Are we ... ?"
"I think maybe we ..."
"But we've only known each other for..."
"Well sure, but ..." I caught myself doing it again, chuckled and told her, "This could get dangerous. I'm meeting Johnny Lunceford in the lounge. Could you come over?"
"Daddy said he talked to you."
I said, "Yes. We had a good talk."
"So you're not worried about..."
"Well I don't know, Judy. Things are still a bit..."
"I mean, you wouldn't have to ..."
"Oh no, I want to ..."
She gave me a dazzling smile and said, "Stop that."
"You first," I said.
"In the lounge?"
I said, "Yes."
"Ill be there in about ten minutes. I have to ..."
I don't know. What does it mean when a man and woman can't talk together coherently? Maybe all it means is that one or both of them are stupid.
But I didn't think so.
This hotel is one of those sprawling, Spanish hacienda types with many buildings scattered about, none more than two stories high, connected by flagstone pathways and buried in exotic trees and plants. There are several pools and I don't know how many restaurants, tennis courts and other recreational facilities, shops and offices that serve not only guests of the hotel but the general public as well.
The theater occupied one of those buildings near the outside of the complex. About a hundred yards away and connected by covered walkways and patios stood the building that housed a large restaurant and banquet facility serving fine, and expensive, continental cuisine. The hotel lounge, also, was in that building, separated from the restaurant by a foyer and heavy double doors.
It was a small lounge, as hotel lounges go. Room for maybe twenty at the bar and perhaps twenty tables in an intimate atmosphere grouped about a small stage and dance floor. The "band" was actually a duo—a big, goodlooking darkhaired guy at the keyboards and a pretty little blonde vocalist with Doris Day innocence and a seductive Streisand voice, very handsome couple. I thought it actually was a big band in there before I rounded the corner at the foyer and stepped inside. The guy was
seated at one of these huge keyboard consoles and making bigband music complete with brass, string, and rhythm sections while the two of them were vocalizing a big production number from Les Miserables. They were sensational. I learned later that they called themselves The Show Band and all of their music was taken from hit Broadway musicals of the past and present.
It was nearly midnight and the place was still jammed. I stood by the bar while the band concluded their "I Have A Dream" number from Miserables, then I got a quick understanding of what Lunceford had meant by "sitting in." I guess he'd timed his entrance because he stepped through the doors at that moment. The little blonde announced through her microphone: "Oh good! Here's Johnny, everybody!" The guy did a fanfare with his keyboard. "Johnny, will you come up and do a number with us? Let's hear it for Johnny Lunceford, everybody— from the dinner theater next door, Johnny Lunceford."
The guy at the keyboards did a comical take-off on Ed McMahon as he shifted from fanfare to drumroll: "Heeeeeeeeer's Johnny!" You could tell, this was a fun place with a more or less steady patronage by the surrounding community. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and they all loved their entertainers.
Lunceford leaped onto the stage to enthusiastic applause, cheers and whistling, hugged the blonde and wrung the keyboardist's hand, and the three went into a little huddle on stage while various patrons shouted out requests. I heard several different tides shouted out but "Impossible Dream" seemed to be the favorite, it seemed to be a standard for this guy. He was making a comically rueful face as the blonde dug out the music and placed it on the music stand for the keyboardist, there was a lot of goodnatured jawing back and forth between bandstand and audience while the musician set up his instrument, then a hush of anticipation fell with the downbeat.
This is one of those songs that starts sort of low-keyed and builds dramatically. The blonde was off the bandstand and moving toward the door as soon as the music began. Our eyes met as she brushed past me. Guess she thought she knew me. "Isn't he great?" she whispered. "Mind if I stand here? I appreciate it better from a distance."
I didn't mind, no. Beautiful gal, and I got an insight there. Talented people dig other talented people. I was watching her more than Lunceford as the number progressed and I liked what I saw there. It should be that way for everyone, I decided. A good carpenter should really dig another good carpenter, same for bookkeepers and bank tellers and corporate executives, same for cops. We should all dig excellence in others who do what we have chosen to do with our lives and not feel threatened by it. We should feel reassured by it.
The blonde glanced at me during a musical interlude and whispered, "Boy! Such power!"
I said, "Yeah. That's exactly what I was thinking about you and your partner. You should be in musical theater."
She wrinkled her nose and replied, "Can't afford it," then turned back to the stage as Lunceford began his fortissimo conclusion.
That was another insight, brought home to roost. Craig Maan had hinted at it during our conversation the day he died when he told me, "We work for carfare, not for limousines." Apparently lounge singers do better than that.
The number ended and the place went wild.
To "sit in" is to do it for free.
Copp In The Dark, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 12
