“It’s no excuse. There was a murder at his house. The police are questioning him about it.”
Alida sat up straighter. Selena looked up from the bracelet. There was a heavy silence. Then Alida asked, “Who was killed?”
“The man we were supposed to meet at the Oasis. He was shot in Willie’s garage.”
“When?”
“Sometime while we were in the bar, I assume.”
“Who was he?”
Odd, I thought, that she didn’t bother to ask if Willie was all right. “The man who had been watching Willie’s stall at the flea market.”
Selena sucked in her breath. She was very pale. “The evil one with the little eyes.”
“What was he doing in Willie’s garage?” Alida asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How’d he get in there?”
“I don’t know that either.”
There was another silence. Then Selena said, “Evil begets evil.”
Alida flashed her an irritated glance. “We can do without your Latin American philosophy thank you.” To me she said, “What was the dead guy’s name?”
“Jerry Levin.”
“And you say he was shot?”
“Yes.”
“With what kind of gun?”
“Again, I don’t know. I didn’t see a gun near the body.” I wondered if the police had found the weapon. McFate hadn’t said.
“God,” Alida said, “That’s what they get for not passing the gun control ordinance. If people weren’t free to walk around with the things—”
“Nonsense.” Selena shook her head. “It is the outlaws who use them to kill. Outlaws always know how to get guns.”
“That’s an overworked and illogical argument.” Alida turned to me. “Isn’t that so?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a detective. Do you carry—”
Selena interrupted her. “A what?” she asked.
“A detective,” Alida said.
The Mexican woman put a hand to her throat. “Police…?”
I realized why she was so anxious. “No, private.”
“Willie hired her to find out about the man who was killed,” Alida added.
“Oh.” Selena fell silent, her finger tracing the coils of her new bracelet.
“Do you carry a gun?” Alida asked me. It was what she’d started to ask before.
“Very seldom. I own two, and I know how to use them. But no, I don’t carry one unless I’m going into a very dangerous situation.”
“You’re like me,” she said. “My daddy taught me to shoot straight when I was just a kid – they do things that way in Texas. But I wouldn’t have a gun in the house. Unlike some people.” She cast a baleful glance at Selena.
“I live alone over there in a ground-floor apartment.” Selena jerked a thumb at the wall behind her. “I feel unsafe, so I have a gun I bought from Fat Herman.”
“Fat Herman?” I asked.
“The man who sells the knives at the flea market.”
“The one who wears the beach-umbrella hat.”
“Yes. He has a gun shop on Mission Street. He was kind enough to advise—”
“Did he also advise you that your gun is likely to be taken away from you and used against you?” Alida said.
Selena frowned. “Let us not argue.” She turned to me. “Have you ever shot anyone?”
“Yes.”
“What was it like?”
“Very unpleasant.”
“Did the person die?”
“Yes.” I got up to go.
“Who was it you shot?” Selena asked.
“Christ, don’t you see she doesn’t want to talk about it?
“Was it, as they say, in the line of duty?”
“Selena…”
I sighed. “It was in connection with a case, yes. He was a murderer, and he was trying to kill one of my friends. It’s nothing I’m proud of. It was just something I had to do.” Then I went down the hall to the front door.
Alida followed me. “I love Selena dearly, but she doesn’t know when to stop.”
“That’s okay. Probably I should just have said no when she first asked about it.”
Alida paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Look, do you think the cops will arrest Willie?”
“Why should they?”
“Well, the guy was killed in his house. And cops don’t really take to Willie.”
“You mean, because he’s a fence?”
Alida’s mouth went tight and prim. “Willie’s a businessman. But sometimes the way he does business looks funny.”
How could she believe it? I wondered. But if she wanted to fool herself it was all right with me. “His lawyer’s there with him. I think the cops will give him a rough time, but they don’t have anything to hold him on.”
She nodded, looking relieved.
I went outside and walked up the street past the responsible people’s clubhouse to my car. It was time to go to All Souls and see if Hank had returned. As I put my key in the ignition, however, a sudden though came to me.
Selena Gonzalez was an illegal alien. Under state law, no weapons dealer could sell a gun to her. No reputable dealer would. That made Fat Herman as much on the far side of the law as Willie.
The office windows of All Souls’ big brown Victorian were lit up, in spite of it being after eleven o’clock. As I went down the central hall, I could hear several men yelling at the tops of their lungs in the law library. I stopped to listen, but couldn’t make out the words.
Anne Marie Altman, a stunning blond tax lawyer whose demeanor was as calm and restrained as her legal specialty, emerged from the kitchen. She wore a terrycloth bathrobe and was munching on a piece of toast.
“What’s happening in there?” I asked. “Who’s about to kill whom?”
She grinned and licked peanut butter off one finger. “Oh, that’s just Harold and that idiot client of his who’s running for supervisor. And the client’s campaign manager and a couple of aides, I guess.”
“But what are they yelling about?”
“Didn’t you see today’s paper?”
“Not all of it.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Well, apparently our candidate didn’t either – not until about an hour ago. And now he’s in quite a state. It seems that that investigative reporter – J.D. Smith – did an expose of his indiscretions while serving on the Planning Commission. Pretty juicy stuff. Our candidate came over here with the idea of suing, but from what I’ve heard, he’s now in favor of tearing J.D. Smith apart, limb from limb. The others are trying to persuade him it’s not a good idea. I, personally, think a strait jacket is in order.”
“Not bad for a Sunday night, huh?”
“No.” Momentarily Anne Marie looked mournful. “I wanted to watch an old movie on the TV in the living room – Godzilla Versus King Kong. But I can’t hear a thing over that ruckus. Guess I’ll go upstairs and catch up on my reading.” She wandered off toward the stairway to the second floor, where several of the attorneys lived in free rooms that were partial compensation for the co-op’s dismally low salaries.
I went to Hank’s office and looked in. The lights were off; the stacks of newspapers, magazines, and miscellaneous periodicals that my boss stockpiled hulked in the darkness. McFate must still be questioning Willie.
Rather than go to the converted closet that was my office, I sat down behind Hank’s desk and pulled an old issue of National Geographic off one of the stacks. I was partway through an article on coyotes when Hank arrived.
He motioned for me to keep his chair, then slumped in the one reserved for clients. His face was weary and he ran his hand through his tight curls like a cranky child. The shouting was still going on down the hall, but he didn’t appear to notice.
“What happened with Willie?” I asked.
“They booked him on suspicion.”
“But why? We were together at the Oasis when Levin was shot. A lot of people saw us—”
/> “You’re making a false assumption. According to the medical examiner, Levin was killed no later than five-thirty, long before you and Willie met at the bar.”
“Well, doesn’t he have an alibi for that time?”
“No. Or if he does, he won’t say. He claims he was riding around alone in his truck.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
Hank shrugged.
“Why not?”
“Something about the way he said it. I suspect he may have been doing something illegal at the time. That’s the trouble with having a client in Willie’s line of work.”
We were silent for a moment. At least, I thought, this turn of events had driven my disgraceful behavior with McFate from Hank’s mind. “Hank,” I finally said, “why do you represent Willie anyway?”
“He’s a friend, an old friend. And, anyway, I owe him something.”
“What?”
“My life.”
“You mean, in Vietnam—”
“Yes. Look, Shar, I don’t really want to talk about it now.”
“So that’s why you didn’t warn me he was a fence when you sent me to see him. You wanted me to take the job, but you knew I’d have reservations. So you sent me to the flea market, hoping my curiosity and Willie’s charm would do the trick.”
“It worked, didn’t it? Let’s just say I owe Willie a debt that will never be repaid. And because of that I’ll continue to represent him, even if he did actually kill Levin.”
“You can’t believe he did it.”
“It’s late, and I’m tired, and I don’t know what to believe.”
“Do you want me to stay on the case?”
“Yes. If they can make this charge stick, I’m going to have to build a defense, and I’m afraid, from his behavior tonight, that I won’t get much help from Willie.”
“Okay. Tell me one thing: Did the police find the weapon?”
“Yes. It was to one side of Levin’s body, under some shelves.”
“What kind of gun was it?”
“A twenty-two. When McFate showed it to Willie, he commented that it was the ‘classic Saturday Night Special.’”
That, I thought, would probably mean it was an RG-14, a gun assembled of imported parts by R.G. Industries, a Florida firm. The parts do not meet the U.S. specifications for size and metal, and the gun costs under a hundred dollars – a fact that greatly adds to its appeal. “What was Willie’s reaction to the gun?”
Hank shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “He seemed surprised.”
“You mean, he may have recognized it?”
“I thought so.”
“Was there anything distinctive about it?”
“A triangular chip out of the grip. McFate also commented on that.”
“All right.” I stood up. “In the morning I’ll start with a man who sells weapons at the flea market. He might be able to tell me if Willie is the owner of that twenty-two.”
“The police will check that out with state firearms registration.”
“I doubt they’ll learn anything. Even knowing Willie for as short a time as I have, I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t bother to buy a weapon legally. And, if it’s the kind of gun I think it is, it’s a type that is commonly traded under the counter.”
“And this weapons dealer is the one Willie would have gone to?”
“Probably.”
Hank took off his glasses and began polishing them on the hem of his trenchcoat. His head drooped dispiritedly. He always took his clients’ problems to heart – often too much to heart – and Willie’s would upset him even more than usual.
“Also,” I went on, “I’ll talk to Rabbi Halpert and see if I can’t get him to put me in touch with the Torah Recovery Committee. We need to know more about Jerry Levin.”
“Okay. I’ll expect you to check in with me tomorrow afternoon.”
I looked at my watch. “This afternoon; it’s past midnight.” Past midnight, and Don would be wondering what had happened to me.
I stepped out into the hall. The yelling in the law library had stopped. When I said good night to Hank, he was holding his glasses, staring at their polished lenses.
9.
The next morning I went down to the Hall of Justice and gave a formal statement. McFate was mercifully absent, and the inspector I talked to, a man called Gallagher whose first name I could never remember, was someone I’d known and liked for years. When I’d first met him, Gallagher had been an earnest and idealistic young man who admired me extravagantly. He still admired me, but every time I saw him he looked less earnest and idealistic and more and more tired. When I was done at the Hall, I looked up the address of Herman’s Gun Shop in the phone book and drove over there.
The shop was on a seedy block on Mission not far from the Twenty-fourth Street BART station. About ten years ago an attempt had been made at beautifying upper Mission; the city had planted trees and laid ceramic tiles in bright colors that were supposed to embody the area’s Spanish character. But the palm trees had died and the tiles were now cracked and dirty. If anything, the district had slid deeper into poverty and hopelessness.
When I entered the small store, two youthful urban cowboys who might have been enlisted men on leave were standing in front of a case that housed a .44 Magnum.
“Quite a weapon,” one said, nodding approvingly.
“Could tear a hell of a hole in someone,” the other agreed.
I shuddered and kept going toward the back of the store, where the cash register was. A fat man with grizzled hair sat there, a genial smile on his fleshy face. Without his beach-umbrella hat, I almost didn’t recognize Fat Herman.
He recognized me, though, because the smile grew wider, exposing gapped teeth. “Hey, you’re Willie Whelan’s new runner. Somebody pointed you out to me at the market yesterday.”
“Yes, I am.” I’d debated what approach to use with Fat Herman in the small hours of the morning while I stared at the bedroom ceiling and Don slept the sleep of the just beside me. He’d barely woken when I’d crawled into bed, except to mumble something unintelligible to me, and I hadn’t known whether to feel relieved or insulted. But his deep sleep and my wakefulness had given me plenty of time to plot strategy, and in the end I’d decided it was best to maintain my role as Willie’s runner. This was made all the more possible by the fact that, while the morning newspaper account of Levin’s slaying had mentioned my name, it had neglected to give my occupation. Or, more likely, McFate had neglected to mention it. I had a hunch the inspector didn’t approve of women being private investigators; in his mind, therefore, I wasn’t one.
Herman said, “There was some trouble at Willie’s place last night, huh?”
“I guess you saw the paper.”
“First thing. Did they really arrest him?”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t do it.”
“No.” I only wished Hank had Fat Herman’s confidence in Willie. Or mine, for that matter. I didn’t know why, but a gut-level instinct told me the fence hadn’t killed Levin.
“Fucking cops.” Herman glanced at the two young men, whose heads turned. They frowned in disapproval. The gun dealer glared at them, and they looked away. “So what can I do for you? Willie send you?”
“No, I came because…well, after what happened last night, I’m afraid. I live alone in a ground-floor flat, and I’ve decided I need a gun for protection. Selena Gonzalez told me you had helped her choose one, and I hoped you might be able to help me too.”
“Sure. What I sold Selena is a High Standard Sentinel Deluxe. Twenty-two caliber nine-shot. You know anything about guns?”
“No,” I lied.
“Well, it’s not much of a weapon. Just a plinker, good for shooting at tin cans. But Selena’s a little bitty woman. She talks big, but she’s never going to pull that gun on anybody. So I let her have it for a hundred and a quarter and she feels safe.”
Herman stood up and surveyed me, his little eyes moving
up and down my body in a way that made me feel crawly. “Now, you’re a substantial lady. You could handle more of a gun, if you’re serious about protecting yourself.”
“I am.”
“I got an older gun you might be interested in.” Again Herman glanced at the young men, who were now examining a case full of rifles. “British, Smith and Wesson, World War Two service revolver. Military people like it for self-defense.”
And, I thought, dealers like you favor it because usually a gun that old can’t be traced. “How much would it run?”
“For a friend of Willie’s, a hundred and a half.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“This gun is practically a collector’s item. You decide you don’t want it around, you can sell it at a tidy profit. Or I’d take it back, refund most of your money.”
And resell it at a tidy profit, I thought. “I see.” I paused. “What about the waiting period?”
“The what?”
“I heard there a fifteen-day waiting period, so the cops can check the buyer’s record. I wouldn’t want to wait – I’m scared now.”
Herman grinned broadly. “For a friend of Willie’s? You want the gun, you take it home with you.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure, but first I better take care of these customers.” Herman lumbered around the counter, his paunch hanging over the belt of his khaki pants. “You fellas want anything?” he asked the two young men.
They looked at each other and shrugged.
“’Cause if you don’t,” Herman went on, “you’d better be moving on. This is a gun shop, not a museum.”
They made grumbling noises, but headed for the door.
“Soldiers. You can tell them a mile away, even now that the military’s relaxed the regs about hair.” Herman went back around the counter and through a curtained archway. “Soldiers,” his voice went on, “they never have any money, but they’re always looking.” He returned in a moment and placed a gun in my hands.
It was snub-nosed, with a top break – a gun that would do a lot of damage at close range. I turned it over, handling it awkwardly, as if I had never touched one before.
“What do you think?” Herman said.
“It’s…ugly, isn’t it?” I didn’t have to fake my distaste. I’m good with guns, a crack shot at the range. I take a certain pleasure in target practice, the way I would in any professional skill. But I took no pleasure in handling this .38. It’s true that all guns are made to kill, but to a person who’s familiar with them, some guns are more deadly than others.
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