I wasn't so sure of that. The three toughs in the car had looked like they knew any game Arnie might have in mind. Tomorrow should be interesting. Not fun, just interesting.
* * * *
It turned out I didn't get to see the fiasco. Eight strong-arm hoods, Arnie's regular boys and four more he called in for the job, left for the mine at ten in the morning in two cars, the familiar Hudson and a late model LaSalle sedan. A dumb move in my book, so I wasn't sorry when Scarno took me by the arm before I could get in the second car. “You stay here with me. We've got other fish to fry."
We went back inside the roadhouse. Deserted at that time of day with chairs stacked on tables and a cleanup crew at work, the place looked tawdry and smelled of stale cigarette and cigar smoke. Scarno ordered a flunky to bring coffee and get the chairs off his usual table. When we were seated he said, “I'm having trouble with my partner at the mine. He's a pussycat, thinks we should let the union move in. If those organizers don't get the message this morning and are still hanging around, the guy's got to go."
"You're going to buy him out?"
He spewed coffee all over the table. “Hey, that's a good one. But it's not exactly what I have in mind. You're going to pay him a little visit, know what I mean?"
You didn't need much up in your head to know exactly what he meant. In Chicago a fellow named Hymie Weiss had coined a phrase that expressed it more clearly: Take him for a ride. A one-way ride.
That might have fit the job description Scarno had for me, but it didn't fit mine. I didn't bother to say so at the time.
The wrecking crew got back from the mine an hour later. Five of them got back, the other three had been dropped off at the hospital. Curly was one of the latter group. The two part-timers still able to walk had gone home to nurse their wounds. Stan, Ollie and Moe looked like they should do the same.
Scarno was livid as he listened to the story of how his thugs had walked into an ambush and came out on the short end of what followed. A few shots had been fired but most of the action involved tire chains, ball bats, and clubs. Curly had taken a bullet in his left leg.
When the story ended and the trio had gone somewhere to lick their wounds, Scarno said, “Come on.” I followed him into his private office. He knelt down and worked the combination on a small safe. When he straightened up he had a box in his hand. He opened it and took out a snub-nose revolver, a .38. From a carton in a desk drawer he took six rounds and slipped them into the chambers, then handed the gun to me. “Brand new. Can't be traced. Get rid of it after the job. I want it done tonight, understand? I'll fill you in on where and when later. Now scram out of here, I've got some thinking to do."
So did I. I drove into town and checked the hotel. I didn't expect Mary Dawkins to be there and she wasn't, but I found her name in the phone book. I was starting to get concerned because she didn't answer until the seventh ring. “Listen, I know you told me not to call you but this is urgent. I need to talk to you in private without anyone knowing and not on the telephone. Can you slip in the back door of the hotel and take the service stairs up to my room without being seen?"
"Your room? Exactly what do you have in mind?"
"Not what you're thinking. Look, this is serious. Big time serious."
"Okay, but it'll be half an hour. I just got out of the tub so I have to get dressed and fix my hair."
"Don't spend time on your hair, just get down here.” I caught myself before making a crack about not bothering to get dressed. That could have scared her off altogether.
I left the door unlocked, so twenty minutes later she knocked a single time and then stepped inside. Every hair was in place. I laid Scarno's plan out in detail. “Are you on speaking terms with your ex?"
"I suppose so."
"Then you'd better tell him to get out of town. Now, before dark."
"It won't do any good. Even if he listens to me, it will only postpone the inevitable, that's all."
"That's enough for now."
"And if he doesn't, are you going to do what Scarno says?"
"I'm no angel, we both know that, but I'm not anybody's hired killer."
She turned when she reached the door. “Good luck when Scarno finds that out."
I followed a few minutes later in need of the strongest cup of coffee I could find. That meant returning to the diner where I'd first met Arnie Scarno. I got what I wanted, and it came in the same cracked mug, or maybe its twin brother.
I arrived back at the roadhouse a little after four o'clock. Arnie was alone at his table. He got up and motioned with his head for me to follow him to the office. He went behind his desk, then faced me and said, “Ready to do that job?"
"I'm here, aren't I? That means I'm ready."
"That's not the way I heard it."
"Oh yeah? From who?"
He raised his voice a couple of notches. “Come on out, kid."
A side door opened and Mary Dawkins walked in. I admit I was stunned. When I found my voice I said, “You told him? When did you switch over to his side?"
"When you said you weren't going to go through with the job."
"You go along with killing your husband? Ex-husband?"
"You can drop the ex. We're separated, not divorced. I go along because he's got a twenty-five thousand dollar life insurance policy and I'm the beneficiary."
"For that you're willing to see him murdered?"
"I won't see it. I'll be working at the hotel."
"You may not be there, but you'll see it all the same. And you'll be an accessory."
I'd been watching Scarno from the corner of my eye. His hand moved toward a desk drawer, but before he reached it the revolver was in my hand. “You slipped up, Arnie. You should have asked for the gun back before we started talking."
He knew I was right. That didn't mean he wouldn't try to bluff his way through. “Why should I have asked for it back? All you have to do is go ahead with the job, and all is forgiven."
"Like a rattlesnake forgives the guy who stomps on it. This is all you wanted me for right from the start, isn't it? You had it all figured out but needed a recruit, a sucker to do the dirty work so your four flunkies would stay clean. Then you'd turn me over to the cops on your payroll, but feet first so I couldn't tell an honest prosecutor or judge about your role in it. Make it seem like a freelance job, was that how you had it planned?"
"I've been square with you from the start. You're not some jerkwater punk who thought I was hiring somebody to keep the books."
He had me there. I backed out of the room. Before shutting the door behind me I said, “Don't try following me, Arnie.” I waved the gun a little. “I'm pretty good with one of these things."
I drove off in a hurry, pulled into a lot halfway back to town, and parked between a derelict building and an abandoned panel truck. I hadn't even had time to turn off the engine before Mary Dawkins passed on her way to town. A few quiet minutes went by and then the puke I called Moe drove by headed toward the roadhouse. A short time later he went back the other way. As soon as he was out of sight I followed behind. A filling station on the outskirts of town had a phone booth off to one side, so I found John Dawkins's number in the book and dialed it.
Just as I figured when I hadn't tried to call him earlier, he didn't buy the story coming from a stranger. Telling him his wife knew about the plan made him even more skeptical. I kept trying until he said, “Hold on, there's somebody at the door."
"Don't answer it!” I yelled, but he was already gone. A long minute dragged by, then the sound of a shot came over the wire. A short silence, then several more in rapid succession. It seemed that Moe wasn't sure of his first shot or just enjoyed pumping slugs into a victim.
I dropped the phone on its hook and walked back to my car. Scarno's revised plan was clear in my mind. He figured he was killing two birds with a single shot. His partnership was ended, and I was still set up to take the fall just as he had figured from the beginning. Half a dozen people would swear I
was a hothead who went wild after taking a beating at the mine that morning and went on my own to settle up with the man on the side of the union. He thought I'd be well on my way out of town, so he'd supply the state police with the information, complete with the license number of my car. I'd be pulled over within an hour, never suspecting I was about to face a murder rap.
There was nothing for it but to go back to the roadhouse. I hadn't a clue as to what I'd do when I got there.
Scarno was alone at his table. That was the first of several surprises; I had expected the full crew to be there aside from Moe and Curly. Moe'd be arriving close on my heels. Scarno motioned toward a chair. “Sit down. I've been expecting you."
"No you haven't, Arnie. You thought I'd be long gone by now."
"Not for a minute, I didn't. You may not be the man I had you sized up to be, but you're no common thief. You wouldn't take off without giving me back the gun. Look, let's forget the whole thing. Maybe you're not a shooter, but there's room here for a man like you. Those other mugs are okay for what they do, nothing more. I need a guy with something more above his neck than just a place to hang his hat."
I didn't believe a word he said but decided to play along. “You mean a second in command, a right-hand man. How do you think your boys would feel about that? They haven't exactly laid out the welcome mat the past few weeks."
"What they think don't matter. I run the show. They're just two for a nickel hoodlums, that's all."
"So what's the pay for this job?"
"You name it. Say two-fifty a week, how does that sound?"
Before I had time to digest that malarkey, a state police captain came in the door. Four troopers followed close behind. The captain walked to the table, stopping so he was facing Scarno. “Hello, Arnie. Before we get down to business, I'd feel more comfortable if you laid your hands on top of the table."
Scarno complied. “What's this all about? Why the tough cop act all of a sudden?"
"You're getting careless, Arnie. You should've checked a little closer. You'd have known we had a man covering Dawkins since that business out at the mine this morning."
"Why would that interest me?"
"Playing coy doesn't become you, Arnie. Our man was upstairs using the john so he was too late to spoil the play. The boy you sent down was quick on the trigger, did a good job so your partnership was dissolved an hour ago. That's the good news, Arnie. The bad is the punk took a couple of slugs himself and then turned canary. The worst news of all from your point of view is he'll live and be the star witness for the state."
Scarno seemed to blanch a little but was too tough and too fast a thinker to show yellow. It would be his word against that of a small-time hood, and that put the odds in his favor. “You're wasting your time and mine, Cap. I haven't a clue what you're talking about."
"Grab your hat, Arnie, we're taking a ride downtown."
So it seemed the state police weren't on Scarno's payroll. The second they walked in the door I ditched the gun he had given me. There was one of those shelves for holding purses about eight inches under the tabletop so I slid the .38 over in front of Scarno. It clinked against metal and you didn't need a college degree to know what it had bumped up against.
They patted me down, naturally, then ignored me, at least for the time being, after finding I was clean. All five were grinning when one of them checked the purse shelf where Scarno had been sitting and came up with two guns.
"Expecting a war, Arnie?” said the captain.
Scarno may not have heard because he was telling the bartender to take charge while he was gone. “Call that shyster lawyer of mine. I'll be back in an hour, maybe two."
When they were gone I went over to the bar and ordered a beer. Would Scarno be convicted of anything? Not likely. Moe would have a sudden lapse of memory, and if that didn't work a juror, maybe two, would find themselves a little richer before a trial even began. Guys like Scarno didn't get convicted, at least not in a place like Dealtown. To make it look good he'd probably have to let the union into the mine. He'd just jack up the price on everything at the roadhouse to make up the difference.
The phone rang just as I was finishing my beer. After hanging up, the bartender was busy at the cash register for a minute and then came over and handed me five one-hundred dollar bills. “It was Arnie on the line. He said for you to head out of town. Pronto, and don't leave no forwarding address."
* * * *
So I would chalk up my stay in Dealtown to experience. Not a bad experience, all things considered. I had a new suit and about nine hundred more dollars in my pocket than had been there when I arrived. Aside from meals, gasoline, and fifteen a week for the hotel room, I hadn't spent a cent. Even the drinks and the cigars had been on Arnie.
At the hotel I packed up my belongings and took the stairs to the lobby. Mary Dawkins was checking in a new arrival, all smiles and charm. She was coming out of the sordid business fragrant as a spring breeze. Richer, too, by twenty-five grand.
It no longer was my concern. I went on out the door to my car and headed back along the road that had brought me to Dealtown. Deathtown—how right the newly widowed Mary had been about that.
On impulse I stopped at the roadside diner and had a cup of bitter tasting coffee in the familiar cracked mug. It just seemed like the thing to do, the proper way to say so long to a town I didn't expect to see again.
Copyright © 2009 Dick Stodghill
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Novelette: DEATH OF A GOOD MAN by Eve Fisher
Connor blew into Laskin like an ancient prophet in a chariot of fire: a ‘72 Chevy Nova billowing black smoke. He managed to scramble out of the car right before it burst into flames. I saw the whole thing—I was at the Quikstop getting a pop—and I called it in and then rushed over.
"You okay?” I asked. He nodded. “You got any idea what set it burning?” He shook his head. I tried again. “Maybe it was overheated?” He shrugged. “What's your name?"
He looked at me for the first time. He had blond hair, large, clear blue eyes, and his head was slightly oversized. He looked like a puzzled five year old. “Connor. Connor Ashe."
"Where'd you come from?"
He shrugged. Now we don't get a lot of drifters in Laskin—we're not on any highway, and it's a small town—but when we do we usually try to get them to move on. And I'd already thought of all the things I could write him up for: reckless endangerment, public nuisance, hazardous driving. But somehow I found myself taking him over to Mellette's Lounge and buying him a cup of coffee. Paul Wilson joined us and ended up giving him a ride down to Job Service, where Marjorie Swenson took over and got him hired at Inveig Construction. And out there someone got him a trailer rental at the Koz-E Campground. Something about Connor made everybody want to help him.
He ended up staying over a year, which was longer than I would have expected. He changed jobs a couple of times, and he hung out a lot at the Norseman's Bar, but he spent just as much time at the library, or down at Mellette's, playing euchre with the old guys. He became part of the community. And then one day he blew out of town with no warning, and everyone figured that was that. Everybody missed him, but no one was surprised. Not until his body was found a year later under a stack of composting Christmas trees down by the creek. Someone had caved his head in.
* * * *
The day after his body was found, I came in from patrol and found the station hopping.
"Grant!” Detective Jonasson barked at me. “You got a minute, run over to the meatpacking plant. Chuck's got some paperwork on that Connor guy for me."
"He also worked at Inveig Construction for a while. Want me to stop by there too?"
"No.” He looked up at me. “You go down to the Norseman's Bar.” It wasn't a question.
"Sometimes."
"He spent a lot of time down there, didn't he?"
"I don't know about a lot. He came in and had a red beer after work. Friendly but...” “Elusive” was the w
ord that came to mind. “Mostly he talked with the old timers."
"No girls?"
I could see Connor sitting at a table with a young blonde girl whose blue eyes almost matched his. “Susan Nelson."
Jonasson nodded. “Paula mentioned her. Said she'd be real upset.” Paula is Jonasson's wife. I had no idea how she knew Susan, but here in Laskin almost everyone's connected one way or another. “You know her?"
"Just to speak to."
"Okay. Get on to Veblen's."
* * * *
Chuck Veblen was waiting for me outside his office. “I knew as soon as I heard about his body being found that someone would be out here.” I followed him inside. “I had Pat dig out all the paperwork.” He handed me a stack of old time sheets and a W-2 carbon. “He was a good worker, no problems that I remember. Everyone liked him. I wasn't happy when he took off—when I thought he took off. But I wasn't surprised. Boy was a freeze-dried hippie."
"Drugs?"
"Not hardly. He didn't smoke, didn't cuss, didn't like dirty jokes. Worst he ever did was have a beer or two at the Norseman's on the weekend.” Veblen shook his head at the waste.
"We were all a bit crude for him, weren't we?"
"Yeah. But he wasn't obnoxious about it. I can't think of anyone who'd want to kill him."
"Neither can I. Anybody he hung out with around here?"
Chuck shook his head. “Nah. Not that I remember.” He chuckled. “You might ask Matt Stark."
"Matt!” Matt's real name was Martha Stark. In her sixties, she looked, acted, and talked about as feminine as an old boot.
"He hung out with her more than anybody, I think. They used to go hunting together."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. Ask her."
"Thanks. I might have to,” I said, without any eagerness at all.
* * * *
I took the papers back to the office, clocked out, and went home. Barry was sitting on my back steps, smoking a cigarette.
"Hi, Grant."
AHMM, November 2009 Page 2
