Cana Diversion

by William Campbell Gault

  Then Jan added, “Nickel limit, though. And only one raise a round.” The light in Bernie’s eyes went out.

  Lois was the big winner. She bet every hand and then laid out her cards at the end so we could tell her if she had won or lost. Because the predominant choice of most dealers was seven-card stud, there would not be enough cards for all if everybody stayed. So we added four aces from another deck. Seven-card stud with eight aces and the black cards wild can eliminate the skill element in the game. I was the second-biggest winner.

  Judge Vaughan had given me the name of a young attorney who had told him this morning that he was looking for a secretary he could afford. Ellen Puma had once told me she was an addict of the late movies on TV. When our guests left before midnight, I phoned her.

  “His name is Park Livett,” I said. “I called tonight so that you can get him at home before he leaves for the office. That should be an edge. Judge Vaughan said you could mention his name. That could be another edge.”

  “You are a saint,” she said. “A damned saint!”

  I had started the day as a lamebrain in Bernie’s office and ended it as a saint. Not a bad day, all in all.

  Mrs. Casey had gone to bed. Jan was emptying ashtrays and stacking glasses in the dishwasher. “It went off well, didn’t it?” she said.

  “I thought so.”

  “I was wrong about Stu Engelke. He’s no mouse.”

  Nothing from me.

  “And Monday I go back to work,” she said. “I never thought I’d look forward to going back to work. When it’s work you enjoy, it’s different, isn’t it?”

  “And the most fun,” I added, “when you don’t have to do it for a living.”

  “That’s another thing I thought would never happen.”

  “What?”

  “Agreeing with you,” she said.

  It was drizzling outside when we went to bed.

  It was pouring in the morning when we got up. Rain in May is rare in our town. It came down in sheets all morning, setting a new weather-bureau record for the month.

  Last winter’s fire had destroyed the watershed on the hills above our house. I was out with the neighbors before lunch, digging trenches and filling sandbags as the mud started sliding down the hills toward us.

  Jan was out there, too. Most of the wives were working with us and most of the kids. We were back to the pioneer days, working shoulder to shoulder to save our homes.

  The rain began to taper off, but the mud kept coming down the road, spilling over the curbs and onto the lawns, oozing toward our front doors.

  It was touch and go—and a bad time for Mr. X to come splashing through the puddles toward me.

  “I have to talk with you,” he said.

  “Later!”

  “Now,” he said.

  I took a step toward him, my trenching spade raised. “Mister,” I said, “grab a shovel and start filling sandbags or get the hell out of here!”

  He stared at me and then at the spade.

  From behind him, our appointed neighborhood leader, Art Lucie, said, “Here you are, skinny. You can spell me. I’m going for coffee.”

  Mr. X took the shovel and started to fill sandbags.

  Around two o’clock, Jan said, “I think we’ve got it under control. I’ll go to the house and tell Mrs. Casey. Will there be three for lunch?”

  “Hungry, Mr. X?” I asked.

  “My name is David Delamater,” he said, “and I’m hungry.”

  “Okay, Dave. We’ll have a drink first.”

  “You’re beginning to sound human,” he said.

  He hung his wet clothes in the laundry room. I gave him a shirt and a pair of jeans to put on. In the den, I asked, “Scotch, bourbon, vodka, gin, wine—what’s your pleasure?”

  “Bourbon and ice. Not too much ice.”

  I made it and handed it to him. “Where’s that little yellow Pinto? I didn’t see it out there.”

  “I rented a more inconspicuous car,” he explained. “I—we are going into a different phase of this case. I used the Pinto when I wanted to be seen. You could call that the intimidation phase. Now, we’re in the investigative phase.”

  “That probably makes sense,” I said. “But not to me.”

  “I can’t tell you any more. Do you have some reason to distrust your government, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Not when government officers identify themselves,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be fair to say that neither of us has acted properly in this case?”

  He lifted his glass. “Touché! I grew up with two black-sheep cousins. One of them became a private investigator and the other one an attorney for the mob. I may be biased. This is good whiskey.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You probably think of me as overly secretive,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I distrust you. I wouldn’t tell Rosalynn Carter why I’m in your town, or why we have so much interest in the death of your friend.”

  “He wasn’t that close a friend. I hadn’t seen him for years until the day he posted bond for my wife.”

  “Then why are you spending so much time on his murder?”

  “Because I hate killers,” I said. “Don’t you?”

  “Mr. Callahan, it has to be more than that.”

  “Probably. Joe was in the same business I was. It’s not a business that gets any respect from the police or you Washington boys. I don’t want his killer to bank on that.”

  “Did you know him when he was involved in that Scarlatti kidnapping?”

  “I knew him. But as I said, I was never his close friend. I have an idea Scarlatti pulled Joe’s name at random out of the phone book.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “and maybe not. Is there any more of this bourbon?”

  Lunch was big steaming bowls of New England clam chowder, plus grilled Jack cheese and bacon sandwiches on sourdough bread. The sun was out and the day hot when I walked with Delamater to the dark blue Chev he had rented.

  At the car, he said “If you learn anything—”

  “You and Vogel will be the first to know,” I lied.

  Their interest in me probably had been based on the belief that I was carrying on for Joe the investigation that troubled them. Bernie probably had assured them that wasn’t true. Delamater had braved the storm to decide for himself.

  There were other federal agents in town but I hadn’t spotted any of them. If the Pinto was their symbol of the intimidation stage, Romolo and I seemed to be the major targets of it. That would mean Joe had been. If Romolo’s stooges had found Joe already murdered when they got there. …

  Don’t pursue that thought, Callahan. The Feds may entrap politicians, harass social dissidents, install legally doubtful wiretaps, keep secret files on all citizens who are not registered Republicans. But murder?

  No! Not yet. Well, maybe the C.I.A

  Intimidation—What could that mean? That they were trying to frighten Tony Romolo? Harass him? Drive him out of town? Why? Everybody has to be somewhere. Tony was no more of a menace to San Valdesto than he would be to any other place he lived.

  The police had their files and their informers. The government men had those and more. They had sophisticated electronic detection and observation systems, lawyers who could make deals and accountants who could ferret out phony financial statements. They had the manpower. They had clout.

  What I had was a dead-end alley. I also had an aching back from my morning’s labor in the rain. I went out and soaked in the Jacuzzi.

  I was just starting to enjoy it when Jan came out to tell me Vogel was on the phone.

  “The chief just phoned me,” he said. “What’s this cock-and-bull story about Calvin’s brother-in-law being a big wheel in the mob?”

  “It sounds like a cock-and-bull story to me. Where did the chief hear that one?”

  “From our Washington friends. I suppose they have a tap on Romolo’s phone. When he said the man was driving a Mustang—”

  “Whoa!” I said. “Back up and go s
lower. Who said?”

  “Tony Romolo,” he explained, “has been phoning Miami about some threat he got from down there. Today he phoned again and said some local bill collector in a Mustang had informed him that Calvin’s brother-in-law was a hotshot in the Miami mob. When Romolo phoned the collector’s number he got the police department, he told the Miami people.”

  “A bill collector from the police department driving a Mustang? That’s really weird.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Okay. I meant to tell you last night, but I forgot.” I told him about my dialogue with the stooges, and added, “I wanted them to think Calvin was out of town.”

  “I see. And what made you pick Miami? Did you know about this threat to Romolo from there?”

  “How could I? I simply picked the first hoodlum town that came to mind.”

  “You’d better stay out of sight, buddy. And keep that car out Of sight, too. They play for keeps.”

  “Look who’s talking—the man who called Tony Romolo a crook to his face.”

  “I’m a cop, you yo-yo. They don’t kill cops.”

  “Bernie, we both know they’d kill the pope if the price was right. By the way, your Mr. X paid me a visit this morning.”

  “I know,” he said. “You lay low, mister. Not that I give a damn about your hide, but Jan would suffer.”

  I know—he had said. He had known that Delamater was coming to see me. He might have alerted me. Who was working with whom? Drink my good Scotch, you bum, eat Mrs. Casey’s fine food. But don’t confide in me. I went back to the Jacuzzi, two hundred and eighteen pounds of petulance.

  I really had forgotten last night to tell him about my Arroyo Road theatrical performance. As for lying about the phone call from Miami, the reason for that was embarrassment. I didn’t want Bernie to learn how adolescent I could be. I wanted him to believe I was a professional, too.

  From the rim of the Jacuzzi above me, Jan said, “Could you move that hulking body over a little? There’s room for two in there.”

  I moved over and she slid in next to me. “What were you muttering about?” she asked.

  “Bernie. He knew Delamater was coming over this morning. He could have warned me.”

  “Warned you? What do you mean? Mr. Delamater wasn’t coming over to hit you again, was he?”

  “Of course not! He came to question me. Shouldn’t Bernie have warned me about that?”

  “Why? He’s a police officer. He doesn’t work for you.”

  “He has been working with me. Doesn’t friendship count for anything?”

  She sighed. “Bernie was a cop long before he met you and he’ll probably be a cop until he dies. His first and only duty is to the public he’s paid to protect. If he lets a friendship interfere with that, he’s a bad cop—and that he’ll never be. Grow up, Brock!”

  “I’ll try,” I promised.

  15

  WE WERE BACK IN the house playing gin rummy and I was almost two dollars ahead when Stu Engelke phoned. “Nadia told me you confirmed my suspicion that Joseph Puma was employed by the Trinity Investment Company. I have some things I’d like to talk over with you. Are you busy tonight?”

  I asked Jan, “Are we doing anything tonight? Stu Engelke has some things he wants to tell me.”

  “Tell him to bring Nadia,” she said. “We have a lot of food left over from last night. Cocktails at six-thirty, potluck to follow.”

  My guess had been that he wanted to talk about Trinity. When he came, we went out onto the patio with our drinks; the women stayed inside.

  He opened with Trinity. “Did you know,” he asked, “that the Mead Land Company is a heavy investor?”

  I nodded.

  “Some of our Hawkshaw accountants have been investigating them. Do you know who runs Mead Land?”

  “Tony Romolo,” I said.

  “Well, you have been busy!” He sipped his drink. I had the feeling he was doubtful about telling me what was on his mind. Finally: “What I planned to tell you next would be great ammunition for CANA. It could also cost me my job.”

  I said, “I think I could sacrifice CANA if I thought Tony Romolo was going to be a big investor in this town.”

  “It might not work out to the advantage of either of us. But it might give you a lead into why your friend was murdered.”

  “That’s my number one project.”

  “I thought so. If this leaks, I’m not your source. Have you ever heard of Livorno Investments?”

  I shook my head.

  “They recently bought a big block of stock in South Coast. I had them checked out. It’s a front for Vince Scarlatti.”

  “Does your board of directors know this?”

  He nodded. “I told the chairman.”

  “What do they plan to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt if there is anything they can do about it without damaging our public image. And I doubt if they have cause. It’s a free market and Livorno is legally incorporated. But I remembered that Puma once worked for Scarlatti. If he was investigating Trinity. …”

  “Romolo might have him bumped?”

  “That was the thought I had.”

  “I had the same thought. If it’s true, the Feds can handle it. I sure don’t want to go up against the mob.”

  He smiled. “Like hell you don’t!”

  “Oh, want, sure. What citizen wouldn’t want to? But do?” I shook my head. “I enjoy living too much.”

  He finished his drink. “The way you played, it’s hard for me to believe anything would scare you.”

  “I was hungrier then. Another drink?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  After the potluck, Jan suggested some bridge. “And Nadia will be my partner,” I said. “I understand you play my kind of game.”

  Nadia frowned. “What kind of game is that?”

  “He’s insulting you,” Jan said. “He plays a cheating game.”

  “I meant aggressive,” I explained. “I meant nonsissy.”

  “That’s my game,” Nadia admitted. “We’ll go down with a bang, not a whimper.”

  Bridge conventions are for conventional people. Nadia followed my sports theory that the best defense is a confusing offense. It had rarely worked for me at the card table. It did tonight. We had some lucky finesses and Nadia had a sharp talent for the squeeze play. But what made us the eventual winner was more basic—we held the good cards.

  Which Jan, the poor loser, pointed out after they had left. “And,” she added, “you finally found somebody who understood your bidding.”

  “That helped,” I admitted.

  “You like her, don’t you?”

  “I like all feisty people. That’s one of the reasons I married you.”

  “Never forget that. You are married to me.”

  The rain woke me around one o’clock. I went to the window and saw the outside lights go on in front of the houses on our block. The rain was only a drizzle. It stopped before two and the lights went out again.

  If you don’t mind floods, fires, earthquakes, crazy cults, hoodlums and real-estate agents, California is a nice place to live.

  Jan made our breakfast. That was one condition of employment Mrs. Casey had demanded. She did windows but she didn’t make breakfasts.

  I drove her to ten o’clock Mass at St. Jude’s. “You’ve left the church, Mr. Callahan?” she asked on the way.

  “The building,” I said. “Not the teaching. I try to follow the teaching of the sisters who educated me.”

  “And that’s enough for you?”

  I didn’t want to lose this woman. “Not always,” I lied.

  “My late husband,” she said, “hadn’t been to Mass for fifteen years before he died. But he asked for a priest on his deathbed.”

  “I knew two thirty-second-degree Masons who did that.”

  She sniffed. “Masons? You’re not a Mason?”

  “No way!”

  She sighed. “Well, that’s someth
ing—”

  When I dropped her off, I handed her a twenty. “Put this in the poor box for me.”

  “Bless you! And I’ll pray for your soul, Mr. Callahan.”

  Twenty dollars was a small price to pay for Irish stew. As for the prayer, I would know if it had gone through when I got there. If He hadn’t forgiven Lenny, I’d just as soon go somewhere else. If He wasn’t tolerant enough to accept Lenny, He wasn’t The Man for me.

  Thinking of Lenny made me think of Calvin for some reason. If he was due to get cabin fever, yesterday’s storm could have precipitated it, up on that isolated perch. I phoned Sloan Hartford when I got home.

  “Is he getting restless?” I asked.

  “Not yet. He’s a hundred and twelve dollars ahead and I have a feeling he’s ready for higher stakes.”

  “If you notice any strange cars around there, you phone the police. If you spot a black Chrysler Cordoba, lock the doors before you phone.”

  “Brock, I have seventeen assorted firearms up here, including two elephant guns. I’m sure with that arsenal Cal and I can hold off anything smaller than an infantry division.”

  “But before you start shooting, you phone the police.”

  “I will.”

  He was a sportsman and probably still cherished the naive code that the adversary would play fair. If the Mafia had played fair they would have wound up booking two-lira bets in Sicily.

  The Lakers were playing the Celtics in Boston that morning and it would be on the tube. I had been looking forward to that showdown all week.

  But Jan had other plans for our viewing pleasure, a PBS program from the same Boston area.

  The Union of Concerned Scientists was telecasting a program from Cambridge. Robert Pollard, the nuclear safety engineer who had called for the shutdown of the nuclear power plant at Three Mile Island two months before the terrifying accident there, had some things to tell us.

  At the Indian Point nuclear power station near New York City, he told us, there were major defects in the plant’s emergency cooling system. The mammoth Zion nuclear plant north of Chicago lacked a safe electrical-control system. In California and other earthquake-prone parts of the country several nuclear power plants with inadequate defenses against earthquakes were running at full power.