I know he killed a man, but he did it with his hands. Just gave the man a little tap with his fist and it kind of exploded his brains.
He didn’t look gentle. Or weak.
Used to be strong man in a circus — not one of the fakes. Still works out with weights, the way I get it. We’ve had him in here a time or two, but couldn’t hold him.
These two self-employed, or in business for somebody else?
Don’t know. Now that you mention it, I’d kind of like to know.
We went down to the second floor, into the Records and Identification Division, where Samson got the packages on both men. We sat at a small table, and after looking over the packages, he handed them to me, with two small mug shots on top.
One was a picture of Pot, named Vince Potter. The other was Jake Luther, a thin, mean-looking cat with narrow whiskers. The license number I’d noted earlier was the number of Luther’s Buick. Both men had long write-ups, but only Luther had done big time. His local make sheet showed he’d pulled an ADW rap at San Quentin and done a bit at Folsom for second-degree murder. Pot had never fallen from L.A., but the FBI kickback on him listed arrests, without conviction, in Peoria, Dallas, and Las Vegas. A couple of constipated characters.
Samson signed the packages, returned them, and we went back up to his office.
No narcotics raps in there, I said.
Should there be?
Just a thought. This Dan Spring I’m hunting is on the hard stuff. It’s not in the sister’s report, by the way.
He grunted. Junk, huh? If you get any more on that angle, give it to Feeney. I’d be interested, too.
Feeney is the captain in charge of the Narcotics Division. I’ve been mixed up in a few narcotics cases and, consequently, know Feeney pretty well; but even if I’d never heard of junk, I would have had contact with him. The work of the men in Narcotics is involved, directly or indirectly, with the work of almost every other division and bureau of the L.A. Police Department. The craving for junk pushes the addict into virtually every other crime in the books. Shoplifting, robbery, burglary, prostitution, muggings, murder — you name it. In their hunt for peace, the hypes go to war — against all the rest of us.
I said, Feeney losing sleep again?
Who sleeps? But you know how it is with junk in this town. Up for a while, then we get it pushed down, up again. Now it’s way up.
Any ideas?
Somebody new, maybe. Or our friend Cherry. Or maybe a dozen other reasons. But there’s a lot of the stuff around. Sam got out a new cigar. Feeney might have something recent if you’re interested. He’s pulled in a few known users and pushers. All little punks, so far as I know.
Cherry is a guy named Giannomo Ciari, called Joe Cherry, a local businessman who’s lived near L.A. for ten or twelve years now. I’ve seen him around town, usually with some beautiful young gal — always a blonde — and have even spoken to him a time or two. That was about the size of it. We’d never had trouble; but we weren’t friendly. He owned a restaurant, a textile manufacturing concern, a couple of office buildings in Hollywood, was a regular churchgoer and contributed heavily to numerous charities. As far as the local law knew, he hadn’t committed any overt criminal acts — none they could prove, anyway. They’d checked him out, found he had no local record, no record with the F.B.I. But they were still interested in him, and had been for seven years.
You can talk to officials in any big-city police department and make up a list of a dozen or so names, men suspected of being — or even known to be — big-time racketeers, members of the Syndicate, or the Mafia, or both, involved in blackmail, narcotics, union coercion, conspiracy, but on whom there is no evidence of criminal activity. No evidence, that is, which would be worth a nickel in court. And even when there is evidence, it has to be pretty damned conclusive, since these days many of our laws — and judges — seem designed primarily to protect the civil rights of the guilty rather than the innocent. Anyway, in L.A., Joe Cherry would have been among the top two or three on such a list of outstanding bums.
Cherry had long been suspected of being a narcotics wholesaler, but as far as the law was concerned, he was clean. Either he was clean, or else he was an extremely careful and clever hood. The only thing known for sure about the guy was that he’d met Don Salvatore Lucania — Charlie Lucky Luciano — in Italy twice in the last four years. On both occasions they had lunched together at the Hotel Excelsior in Naples. You can’t put a man in jail for that, but it sure makes him stink.
I said to Samson, It’s just an idea so far. I’ll see if it crops up again.
He nodded and picked up some papers in front of him. I went into Room 323, the Missing Persons Detail, and from the desk sergeant, got all the reports filed since May fourteenth, a total of eleven days. Often, in a single day, a dozen or more missing persons are reported to L.A. Homicide, so it was a sizable stack. I thumbed through them, found the one on Dan Spring and put it aside. But I kept looking, playing a hunch.
Nobody I’d talked to today had seen Danny Spring since the thirteenth; but none of them had seen his buddy, Frank, either. It was at least possible, then, that Frank was also among the missing. In which case, if he had any relatives in town, one of them might have filed a missing person report on Frank. So I went through the stack of reports looking for an Ives, or Ivor, or something similar.
While I riffled through the pages, two officers were talking behind the counter. The one who had brought the reports to me still held one of them in his hand, studying it.
He was saying to the other policeman, Yeah, I got a good look at her when she made out the report. Kept her here as long as I could, pal. Them hot blue eyes like to melted me — not to mention what the rest of her did.
The other officer chuckled. You can bet hubby didn’t run away from that babe. Unless he lost his mind.
Maybe she drove him out of it. Wouldn’t mind going a little crazy that way myself.
He tossed the report onto the counter by me and continued talking to the other man. Right then I found a report dated May twentieth, filed by a widow named Mrs. Martha Eiverson. I grinned. Close enough. Especially since the missing person was her son, Frank, whom she hadn’t seen since Sunday, May fourteenth.
I put that form aside, too, and restacked the rest, putting the report the two officers had been looking at on top. The name on it caught my eye. Two days ago, on Monday, May twenty-second, a Mrs. McCune had reported her husband missing. She hadn’t seen hubby since he left for work — an automobile agency he owned — on the previous Monday, the fifteenth.
Which meant nothing at all to me, except the husband’s name was James Randall McCune. James. The familiar is Jim. That probably meant nothing, either; but something about the report bothered me. Something about the name. I couldn’t pin it down, so I noted the information on the report, including the address, then reviewed the reports on Danny Spring and Frank Eiverson. The only new item that gave me was Mrs. Eiverson’s address. I jotted it down.
Then I checked out the name Frank Eiverson with the Records and Identification Division and another piece fell into what was becoming a pattern. Three years back Eiverson had been sent to San Quentin — on a narcotics conviction. He’d done a year there.
I called on Samson again, told him what I’d found.
He couldn’t add much. Yeah, fell for possession.
He a user?
Samson nodded. And a pusher. But we never proved it. Got him for possession, that’s all. He worked the black cigar from one side of his wide mouth to the other, then reached for the phone. He got Feeney in Narcotics, talked to him for a minute, hung up. That’s about the size of it, Shell. We picked up Eiverson early in fifty-seven. He was working at the Rand Brothers Mortuary. Living with his mother. Gives the same address now. Nothing on his current employment.
He was working where? A mortuary?
Yeah. Not
hing there — we checked it out. Worked in the cemetery across the street, mowed lawns, dug holes, manual labor. Only held the job a couple of months. Only held any job a couple of months. Feeney says there’s nothing recent on him. Samson paused. But if he’s the Frank you’re interested in —
Yeah. And ten to one he is.
Samson bit into this cigar. Maybe it’s starting to look like something.
Maybe, I said, thanked him, and went out.
Chapter Four
The Eiverson house looked as if it was held up by the paint, and the paint itself was cracking and peeling. I got the same impression from Mrs. Eiverson when she answered my knock. Knock — the bell didn’t ring.
There is a name, beat generation, which has been applied to a gang of unkempt and uncouth cats who strike blows at conformity by conforming absolutely, dressing and talking and thinking alike, and who are seldom much prettier than the crumbs in their beards. There should be a name, bat generation, for unkempt and uncouth and crumby old bats. Like Mrs. Eiverson.
She peered past the door at me, hostile eyes squinting from a caked mass of powder and rouge and mascara. Mrs. Eiverson looked about sixty, made up to look a hundred. She wore a mold-green skirt, below which her slip was showing, a once-white blouse, darkened a tattle-tale black, a man’s sweater, and leather slippers which looked as if they were on the wrong feet. What I could see of the legs also looked as if they were on the wrong feet.
Whadda you want? she asked me.
Mrs. Eiverson?
Yeh.
I’d like to talk to you for a minute. May I come in?
Hell, no. You a cop?
No, I’m a private detective.
Whadda you want?
It’s about Frank.
Oh. That calmed her down a little. You find him?
No. May I come in?
She bit at a piece of lipstick, or skin, or dinner, then started to pull the door open. It hit something on the floor and she gave the door a yank. I went in. The room contained a threadbare rug, sagging couch, two over-stuffed chairs, from one of which some stuff like shredded wheat was spilling, a table and a floor lamp.
Mrs. Eiverson slumped on the couch and I sat in the understaffed chair. A minute’s conversation wasn’t much help. Frank lived here, but the last time Mrs. Eiverson had seen her son was Sunday morning, ten days ago. He was supposed to return that night, and he just hadn’t come home since.
When I asked Mrs. Eiverson if she had any idea what had happened to him, she said, How in hell would I know? A dear old lady.
Do you know Danny Spring?
Yeah, the bum. Frank hangs around with the bum. I don’t know anything about him, one of Frank’s friends. A bum.
Have you seen Danny in the last week or so?
Aint seen him in a month or more.
I’m anxious to locate Danny, Mrs. Eiverson. I’ll leave my card, and I’d appreciate a call from you if you hear from him or Frank.
She opened her mouth, closed it. She was thinking. You’re a detective, you say?
That’s right.
You’re gettin paid for this, huh?
I am.
Well, supposing I call you — if I hear something. You pay me?
She didn’t hint, she came right smack out with it. I said, Well, if that’s the way you want it.
It’s only fair. You’re getting paid. If I help you, I oughta get something out of it. Five dollars.
Inaudibly, I sighed. Five dollars.
It’s only fair, she said. Besides, my old-age money hasn’t come yet. The bum post office. Can’t get anything done on time. Bums. How’s a body supposed to live? Body can’t live on the measly check they give you anyhow.
About Frank, Mrs. Eiverson, can you give me the names of any of Frank’s other friends? Or a girl friend, maybe? I paused, then added, For free?
She didn’t know his friends, but she’d heard him mention a girl named Ruth Stanley. Ruthie, Frank called her. Mrs. Eiverson didn’t know where she lived, but Ruthie worked at the Regal Theater on Main Street. I’d walked right by it earlier today.
I said, Did you ever hear Frank mention anybody named Jake? Or Pot?
She shook her head.
While at the police building, I’d picked up a picture of Frank, and also copies of the mug shots of Jake and Pot. I fished the two mug shots from my pocket and showed them to her.
She shook her head again. Who are they?
A couple of men with police records. I wondered if Frank might have gotten mixed up with them.
Frank wouldn’t have nothing to do with them bums.
I smiled, a bit stiffly. Frank has a record himself, you know, Mrs. Eiverson. It’s just possible he met —
He was framed! Frank’s a good boy. It was them crumby cops.
Ma’am, they caught him with —
Framed! That’s the only way them crumby cops can solve anything. Never catch nobody, just frame somebody for it. The bums. Frankie never done nothing crooked in his life. Them cops framed him.
They didn’t frame him, Mrs. Eiverson. He was pushing narcotics — the rottenest crime on the books — only they couldn’t prove it. They did prove he was in possession of narcotics. So it’s not unreasonable to assume he might know a couple of hoods named Jake and Pot.
If those eyes had been hostile at the door, their glance had been loving compared to the one she was gunning me with now. I went on, not expecting real cooperation.
Where does Frank work, Mrs. Eiverson?
He don’t have no job. Not right at the moment.
He has to live some way. Where does he get his money?
He don’t need no money. I got the pension.
You said yourself that it was measly. Frank must get drinking money somewhere. Is he pushing dope?
That jarred an answer out of her. He’s got his unemployment insurance, you bum! And quit talking like that about Frankie.
Yeah, I know. He’s a good boy. I got up. Thanks for your help, Mrs. Eiverson.
Go on, get outa here.
I got outa there. From my car, I looked back at the house, wondering how in hell Frank got unemployment insurance. No job open in the Syndicate?
I sighed. Insurance — pensions — social security. Ah, I thought, that’s why they tax us, and tax us. For the wonderful welfare state. To help the needy. . . .
For fifty cents you can see a double feature at the Regal, plus the pièce de résistance, the stage show which includes singers, chorus girls, a tap dancer, and four strippers. Tonight the sign outside declared that the double bill was Inferno of Passion and Motorcycle Girls. Headlined in the stage show was Rosie Budd. So help me. I went in anyway.
A pale young guy with greasy hair took my ticket and told me where I could find the manager. The cigar-smoking manager didn’t know Danny Spring or Frank Eiverson, but Ruth Stanley worked in the stage show. The tap dancer. The stage show was on now; I’d have to wait till after Ruth’s act before I could go backstage and talk to her. She wasn’t a peeler, the guy leered, but there was a spot for her any time she wanted a raise.
As I found a seat, a tall, scantily-clad redhead was alone at stage left, doing something frenzied with the curtain. Then a blue spotlight fell on her and she made wretched movements to all points of the compass, ran off stage, ran back in response to applause and whistles, ran off again.
Then the chorus girls came on. Friends, it was frightening. They came on like buffaloes fleeing from the Indians. Chorus girls — hah. They looked like boys. They went this way and that way, and reeled about, hacking at the floor like blunt instruments attacking invisible corpses. Somehow, each one of the gals in that thundering crowd managed to give the impression that she was alone up there, and lost. After more than enough of that routine, they all went one-two-three kick, one-two-three kick, except one gal who we
nt one-two-three-four kick, and off into the wings. They didn’t come back.
Then, Ruth Stanley. Ruthie. She wasn’t bad. After the chorus, she seemed stupendous. And, from where I sat, halfway back, she didn’t look at all unattractive. She wore tight shorts and a long-sleeved billowy blouse, was fairly slim and her legs were good. She did Tea for Two and Tiptoe Through the Tulips, then rat-tat-tatted off.
I got up, walked down the aisle and beneath the Exit sign at stage right, found the dressing rooms.
Ruth called, Come in, when I knocked.
Up close, she was a cute little gal, young and fresh-looking, about twenty-one or twenty-two. She had short brown hair and smoky brown eyes and was easy to talk to. She told me to call her Ruthie. I straddled a wooden chair and she sat at the dressing table while we chatted.
She sure was Frank Eiverson’s girl, she said. They were going steady, engaged really; but she hadn’t seen him in over a week. She couldn’t understand it. And why was a detective asking about him?
I said, I’m really trying to find a friend of his, Ruthie. Fellow named Danny Spring. You know him?
I’ve seen him with Frank a few times, but I don’t really know him. Just to say hello to.
It looks to me as if they’ve both left town in a hurry for some reason, or something’s happened to them both.
She slowly put a hand to her throat and her face suddenly got pale.
Wait a minute, Ruthie. I’m just guessing. Maybe I’m way off the beam. But they were reported missing about the same time, and I can’t find anybody who’s seen either of them since. So I hope you’ll tell me all you can about Frank, anything that might help me locate him — or his friends.
Color slowly came back into her face, and she started talking. It took a while, but finally she got to something interesting. I had asked her when she’d seen Frank last, and she said, Monday. Not a couple of days ago, the week before. He left that night. Or it might even have been Tuesday morning.
Left?
Well, he’d — we were at my place, my apartment. Drinking and talking. I fell asleep, and — well, when I woke up he was gone.
Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 3
