by Bill Moody
From a glass case on the wall he surveys what must be hundreds of miniature dolls. He selects one of a woman in an evening dress and takes it to the dollhouse. He lays it aside for a moment, then, using some kind of device that looks like a long thin tube with pincers on one end, reaches into the living room scene and extracts the pianist. He carefully pulls it out through the window, takes it off the tube, and attaches the woman in its place. Back through the window, he seats the woman at the piano, removes the tube, and only then relaxes.
He holds the tuxedo-clad pianist doll carefully in his hand for a moment, staring at it. His fingers tighten around it. There’s a light snapping sound, and one of the arms breaks off.
Gallio looks up at me and smiles. “You see,” he says, “I can change the scene to suit my mood, but no matter how careful you are, accidents do happen.” He tosses the doll aside into a small box of other damaged miniatures. I get the point.
“Okay. I know who you are, and I’m sufficiently scared. What I don’t know is what you want with me. I’d just like to go home.”
Gallio studies me for a moment. “You’re either a very reckless or a very stupid, foolish young man, or perhaps both. I haven’t decided which yet, but your responses to my request will no doubt determine my choice.
“You are being treated so graciously because I know of your association with Louise Cody. Otherwise, well, let’s not go into unpleasant matters. I’ve known Louise for many years, as I’m sure you know, and I’ve helped her considerably in the past, which I’m also sure you know. Now you are going to help me.”
I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. We stare at each other for a few moments before Gallio’s impatience gets the better of him. “Do I have to spell it out for you, Horne? When we met at Spago, I alluded to some business propositions I have pending with the Moulin Rouge property, did I not?”
“Yeah, I guess you did.”
“Well then, those propositions are nearing completion, but there are a couple of details that need attending to. I don’t want the past encroaching on the present.” Gallio pauses for a moment, measuring his words. “There’s a certain journal Louise kept when she was at the Moulin Rouge. There are things in that journal that would be embarrassing to me and certain colleagues in other cities should they become public. I want that journal, Horne, and you’re going to help me get it.”
Now it was starting to make sense. Gallio, now displaying a legitimate front, wants to buy the Moulin Rouge property. His background would not sit well with licensing agencies, and his “colleagues in other cities” definitely wouldn’t like the media spotlight focused on one of their own.
“Why should I help you, and what makes you think I can?”
“Because,” Gallio says, leaning in closer, “you know where the journal is, and I can help your friend.”
“My friend?” Is he talking about Louise again?
“That’s right, your friend Elgin Dean.” Gallia smiles when he sees my surprised expression. “There’s someone else I want you to meet. When you do, your confusion will be allayed considerably.”
Gallio presses a button in his workbench. In a minute he looks over my shoulder and nods. Tony has come back into the room. “Let’s go, Horne.”
“When you come back, we’ll talk some more,” Gallio says.
We go down another hallway off the living room. At the end of the hall Tony stops at a door and knocks lightly. “Uncle Carlo, got a visitor for you.” Tony opens the door and motions me inside, then shuts the door behind me. I feel like I’ve stepped into a dream.
My first impression is one of coldness. This room is much cooler than the rest of the house. The air conditioning hums; it must be set on fifty degrees. Except for the metallic glow of a big-screen television, the room is dark. Directly in front of the television is a large recliner chair. I walk toward it, vaguely aware of the shapes of other furniture, a wall of bookcases, tables, and unlit lamps.
“Come in, please.” A strange voice comes from the recliner and startles me. It’s an eerie, mechanical sound, a droning monotone that gives me further chills. I move closer and glance at the television. A black-and-white film fills the screen. A man sits in an easy chair, staring at a painting of a beautiful woman on the wall. I know the scene, but I can’t place it.
“Over here,” the mechanical voice says. An arm appears from the recliner and points at an easy chair nearby.
I walk over to the chair and sit down. In the bright glow of the television screen I can see the slight resemblance of this man to Anthony Gallio. The glasses are thicker, like prisms when they’re struck by the television light, but the features are similar. He’s dressed in slacks, sports coat, and shirt and wears a scarf around his neck.
“Forgive me for not getting up, Mr. Horne. I am Carlo Gallio, Anthony’s brother.”
Now I understand the mechanical voice. He holds something like a small microphone to his throat when he speaks—a mechanical voice box to replace his own. The music on the television swells to a crescendo. I turn my head when I recognize the song. The man in the film has dozed off while staring at the painting.
“‘Laura’,” Gallio says. “You play this tune?”
“Sometimes.” Now I remember the film. I must have seen parts of it on late-night television.
“It’s my favorite film. Dana Andrews is the detective. Gene Tierney is Laura. Watch now. Here she comes.”
I turn to the screen. The door to the apartment opens, and Gene Tierney enters the apartment. She looks at the sleeping Andrews, the painting of herself, then back at Andrews. He opens his eyes, comes awake, sees her, then jumps to his feet, staring at her with an expression of utter disbelief and confusion.
“You see,” Gallio’s voice box says, “nothing is as it seems. Do you know this film?”
“I think I may have seen it.”
“There’s been a murder. Andrews, the detective, thinks it’s Laura, the woman in the painting. By now, he’s fallen in love with the painting, but it’s not Laura who was killed. It was her roommate. A romantic twist to the plot, don’t you think?” Gallio picks up the remote control and presses the mute button. I continue to watch Andrews and Tierney mime dialogue.
“My own life has been somewhat similar, Mr. Horne,” Gallio’s voice box says. “Many people thought I had been killed, but as you can see, I was not. It’s true I nearly died. My voice did die. A shame, perhaps. I had a rather good singing voice when I was young. And now I have this.”
He holds up the voice box microphone, looks at it, then returns it to his throat. “There are, of course, other, more advanced procedures available now, but my health won’t permit them, and I’ve grown used to this. It’s a rather frightening sound, don’t you agree? Most people are made uncomfortable by it.”
“What happened?”
“I was young, full of bravado, as we are prone to be in our youth. In a rather stupid display of machismo, I mistakenly underestimated my opponent’s skill with a knife. My vocal cords were severed.”
I lean back in the chair and take a deep breath. The shiver I feel comes not from the room temperature but from what I understand now. No wonder nobody came looking for Pappy Dean. No wonder there was no murder reported. There wasn’t any murder, and I’m sitting in a freezing room staring at the man Pappy thinks he killed—Anthony Gallio’s brother Carlo.
“Enough about me,” Gallio’s voice says. “I’m not sure why my brother wanted me to see you. He’s been very tense lately, worried over some business deal to do with the Moulin Rouge property. Strange how the past comes back to haunt us. There were many voices at the Moulin Rouge. Mine was lost there.
“Anthony told me you are investigating the death of one of the Moulin Rouge musicians. He wants your help in some way, Mr. Horne. I’m not aware of the details, but I can tell you this much. My brother is a determined man. I suggest you honor his request for help. As for your suspicions that I or my brother had something to do with that musician’s de
ath, they are unnecessary. His name again, please.”
“Wardell Gray.”
“Yes, that’s it. Those were exciting times, Mr. Horne. I was opposed to the decision made about the Moulin Rouge, but I had no say really. I assure you, this Wardell Gray was not important enough to be a problem. It’s my understanding that he died by his own hand, the result of drug abuse. If he was taken to the desert, he was already dead.”
I listen to Gallio’s mechanical voice recite the past in such calm terms and try to reconcile this man with the one who fought with Pappy Dean in the Moulin Rouge parking lot. Could he have changed that much in thirty-five-plus years? Both Gallios had to be in their late sixties now. For the first time I entertain the thought that maybe Wardell Gray died like Teddy Hale said—simply falling out of bed and breaking his neck.
Gallio takes my silence for acceptance. He presses the remote button again, and we hear Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews talking, the music, a variation of Laura’s theme, playing softly in the background.
“This is an excellent film, Mr. Horne. You should make it a point to see it in its entirety. I’m sure you would enjoy it.” Gallio sets his microphone aside. His eyes close. The interview is over.
I get up and walk out of the freezing room. I feel another shiver pass up my spine as I shut the door behind me.
Anthony Gallio waits for me in the living room with Tony and Karl.
I stand for a moment looking at Gallio. He’s enjoying this. “Does your brother know Pappy Dean is the one who—?”
“Stabbed him, ruined his life? No, of course not, nobody even knew who Dean was, or your friend wouldn’t be alive now. If he was, he’d have suffered some very serious accident.”
“And Wardell Gray?”
“You’ve made more out of that than there is. Nobody had to kill him. He was already dead. You prove different. Teddy Hale was hysterical, so we took Gray out to the desert and coached Hale on his story, persuaded him that was the best way to handle things. The show had just opened, and we didn’t need any bad publicity. We had the cops in our pocket.”
I bet they did, and I wonder if Buddy Herman was their man. Maybe Wardell would have died anyway, but that kind of death changes the future. With Wardell, it was promise never fulfilled. “Why is this diary of Louise’s so important?”
“Horne, do you know who you’re dealing with? All you need to know is that I want that diary. You’ve got twenty-four hours to get it.”
“Or what?”
“You don’t want to know, Horne. You don’t want to know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
It’s not like old gangster movies. I don’t exactly get pushed out of a rolling car, but Tony and Karl don’t provide door-to-door service either. They pull up near an open lot at Torrey Pines and Desert Inn.
“Don’t forget, Horne,” Tony says. “Twenty-four hours.” They drive off, and I stand for a moment watching their taillights merge with the traffic on Desert Inn, wondering how I got here. I walk the two blocks back to Ace’s house feeling stiff and sore and tired of being stepped on, beat up, and dragged around Las Vegas.
In the driveway there’s a car I don’t recognize, with an Avis sticker on the window, alongside Ace’s Jeep and the VW. I stand for a couple of minutes just in the shadows of the house to see if Tony and Karl are following, but there’s no one.
I unlock the Bug and pull the diary from under the front seat, lock it again, and walk around to the back of the house. Coop spots me first when I come around the corner.
“Here he is,” Coop says. Natalie and Ace are standing with him by the pool. Coop takes in my disheveled clothes, the scratches on my face from the shrubs and looks to see if I’m favoring my hand. No damage there this time. “Taking up night jogging?” Coop says.
“I’ve been at Anthony Gallio’s,” I say, before anybody can ask me the obvious question.
Coop nods. “Let’s talk.”
We go inside. Natalie takes my arm. “Are you okay? I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t come back. I’ll make some coffee,” she says, and begins busying herself in the kitchen. Ace just looks bewildered. His academic world has been turned upside down, and for some reason he can’t meet my eyes. Coop must have filled him in somewhat. He nervously paces around, looks at his watch, then goes into the living room and switches on the TV.
Coop and I sit down at the kitchen table. I feel his eyes on me, checking me out, assessing my attitude, and I know he doesn’t like what he sees. He doesn’t even mention the diary I lay on the table in front of us.
Before we can start, Ace interrupts. “Hey, look at this,” he says, turning up the volume on the television. “Come in here.”
We gather around the television and watch a blow-dried blond anchor stare intently at the camera.
“...and on a story you’re going to see only on ‘Inside Las Vegas’,” she reminds us, “we go now to our own Tiffany Walker at Lake Mead. Tiffany, what can you tell us?”
A graphic at the bottom of the screen says “Live at Lake Mead.” There’s a shot of a body partially covered in a blanket. Two feet in black canvas shoes stick out from under it. The camera pans away from the reporter to the shore, where a tow truck is pulling a small boat out of the water. I get only a brief glimpse of the name lettered on the stern. “Buddy Herman,” I say.
Everyone turns to me. Natalie puts her hand over her mouth. Ace stares. “Who?” Coop wants to know.
Another shot of the reporter, standing near the water. She squints in the glare of the television lights. Several men in warm-up jackets with Police on the back move about in the background while Buddy Herman is zipped up in a body bag and loaded into the coroner’s van.
“We don’t have many details yet,” the reporter says. “The victim has been identified as”—she glances down at a notebook, then back to the camera—”retired Las Vegas Metro Policeman Charles Buddy Herman, apparently the victim of a drowning. Lieutenant John Trask of Metro Homicide isn’t talking yet. We’ll have more details later in this newscast. Back to you in the studio.”
“You know him?” Coop asks.
“I was talking with him this afternoon. It’s the guy Trask put me onto when we met at the Sands.” It seems like weeks rather than days ago.
Coop nods. “Trask will want to talk to you, since you may be one of the last people to see him alive.” Ace is still staring at the television. Natalie hands me and Coop a mug of coffee. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”
We settle at the patio table. So many things are running through my mind, beginning with Wardell Gray in 1955, Sonny Wells, and now Buddy Herman tonight. Coop lets me get a cigarette going and gather my thoughts.
“Any ideas? You pick up anything from Herman?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t have much to say, but I had the feeling he was almost reading lines from a script. I think there was a file on Wardell Gray. Remember Trask telling me there was no file? He also said Metro’s computer records only go back to the’60s. Anything before that is in manila folders in storage boxes.”
“And?”
“I think Herman took the file, maybe years ago, maybe even at the time of Gray’s death. Nobody’s going to remember after all this time. Thirty-some years, and nobody ever asks anything. Then when they do go looking, there’s no file. Everybody just assumes there never was one.”
“Except you,” Coop says.
“Look, Coop.” I lean forward on the table. “Nobody cared about Wardell Gray. He was black, not very well known outside the jazz community, and it was 1955 in Las Vegas. Every account of Wardell Gray’s death—newspapers, jazz history books, stories passed on by musicians—all say the same thing: death under mysterious circumstances. There’s never been a reasonable, plausible explanation.”
“There often isn’t with murder,” Coop says.
“You think that’s what it was?”
“I’m not saying that. The point is, someone did care about his death, enough so that two more people have be
en killed. Gallio or someone connected to him isn’t taking any chances.”
“Right, Gallio. He as much as admitted that he and somebody else took Gray to the desert and coached Teddy Hale, who was the only witness, but he claims Gray was already dead. He said they had the cops in their pocket.”
Coop bristles slightly at that. “Is that why Gallio pulled you in tonight?”
“Partially. He wanted to scare me, and he did. But what he really wants is this.” I tap my hand on Louise Cody’s diary. I feel a sudden chill, remembering Gallio’s brother Carlo. “I also met his brother, the guy Pappy Dean thinks he killed.”
“The bass player you were talking about?” Coop takes a sip of his coffee. “Let’s back up here, sport. Start at the beginning.”
I recount the whole thing then, turning it over in my mind as I talk. At one point, I’m aware of Natalie silently joining us, listening, watching me, and occasionally glancing at Coop to see his reaction. When I finish, Coop looks into his empty coffee mug for several moments. I have one question for him.
“Why Buddy Herman?”
“Like you said, if Herman took the file and Gallio knew you talked to him, except for you, he was the last link in the chain. Now it’s your word against Gallio’s in a thirty-seven-year-old crime that’s not on the books. And that’s only if there was one. They may have intended to take Gray out, but it may be just as they said. He could have simply overdosed and been dumped in the desert.”
“We both know different, Coop.”
“Maybe about Sonny Wells and Buddy Herman, but not about Wardell Gray. Gallio’s not stupid. He’s covered his tracks well. I’d be willing to bet you can’t put Tony and Karl at either Wells’s or Herman’s killing.”
“No, but I think I can tie Gallio up with the Moulin Rouge. That’s why he wants the diary. He wants to buy the property, apply for licenses to do whatever he’s planning. If this stuff came out, his entire application would be in question, enough to delay it at least because of the publicity.”
