by L. A. Morse
Her last remark to me was to watch out. “The word is that there’ve been a few guys who crossed Tony New—”
“Yeah?”
“And they’re now fertilizing truck farms around Fresno.”
“I didn’t realize the kid was into recycling.”
“It’s not funny, Jake.”
“Yeah, I know, but don’t worry. It’s all taken care of.”
She snorted, told me to be careful, then hung up.
I stared at the phone, trying not to think of central California lettuce fields. It was all taken care of, I told myself, and got out the Yellow Pages.
In a way, the question of the limousine was less straightforward than that of the hired thug. There were four pages’ of rental agencies in the phone book, but that was only a nuisance. The real problem was that in order to get the information I wanted, I figured I needed more than just a description of Sal and the date the limo was hired. To sound sufficiently plausible, I should also have a name.
I only had one name—Harry Winchester, the person unaccounted for in the rooming-house fire. No question; it was a tremendous long shot. On the other hand, Sal would’ve needed a new identity when he disappeared. And since Winchester’s remains were found in Sal’s room, it was not completely unreasonable to assume Sal knew that that identity was available. Whether he kept using it or not was another matter. In any event, however thin it was, asking after a Mr. Winchester was better than my other option, which was picking a name at random and trying to talk around it.
I started calling, attempting to sound like I was looking for a haystack rather than a needle. With every call I said that on such-and-such a date, a Mr. Harry Winchester had hired a chauffeur-driven car from their agency, and that I was trying to locate him. I then proceeded with a story about a lost wallet, or that Mr. Winchester had witnessed an accident, or that I had business dealings with the gentleman but had stupidly misplaced his address—whichever line felt best at the moment. Everyone was sorry, but they thought I must have made a mistake. I asked if they were sure, and described Mr. Winchester, but they again regretted they could be of no service. All very courteous. All dead ends.
I was beginning to have my doubts about pursuing this line, when the eighteenth call paid off. Yes, the Royal Livery Service told me, Mr. Winchester had hired a car on the day in question. Only considerable restraint kept me from hooting victoriously. Oh, Spanner, this is your day; you are on one hell of a roll. But, the cultured voice went on, company policy prohibited releasing any information about their clients without prior consent.
We talked about it for a while but I got nowhere. Then I said I’d come down so we could discuss it in person. I was welcome to, but I was told it would make no difference.
Don’t be too sure of that, I thought as I thanked him and hung up.
I paced through the house a couple of times, convincing myself that I was not abusing a friendship, then called O’Brien. I wasn’t surprised that he was pissed off at me when I told him about my adventures, but I was struck by the vehemence of his reaction. He sounded genuinely hurt that I had excluded him, especially after I had promised he’d be in all the way.
“Look,” I finally said, “be reasonable. Don’t be upset because you were left out of a very messy situation.”
“I didn’t ask to be.”
“I know that. Anyway, as it turned out, I had no control over it. It just happened.”
“Don’t shit me, Jake. Even if you’d had the choice, you would’ve kept me out.”
I sighed. “Yeah, okay. I would’ve.”
“Yeah, you would’ve. ‘Cause you’re selfish.”
Selfish. What the hell was he thinking about? That it was so much fun playing with Tony New that I wanted to keep it all to myself? Shit. O’Bee was acting very strange.
“Listen, just because I don’t think anyone else’s neck should go on the block with mine is no reason to—”
“No. It’s because I—” He broke off. “Aw, forget it.”
There was silence for a long thirty seconds before spoke. “You want to do something, I got something for you to do. That’s why I’m calling.”
There was another long pause, then he said, “You bastard,” and started cursing me. I felt better. Everything was back to normal.
When he stopped for a breath, I told him to put on his most disreputable-looking clothes, and that I’d pick him up in about half an hour. He was well launched into another assault as I hung up.
I put on a starched white shirt, knit tie, and the dark blue suit that I saved for funerals. I hadn’t worn it for quite a while. Not because friends had stopped dying but because a few years before, I had realized that the dominant activity in my life had become watching people get buried, and I had decided that I’d go to only one more funeral.
I was almost out the door when the phone rang and I found out that I might not have that long to wait.
“Jesus, Spanner, I thought you’d never get off the phone. I was just about to send someone over.” It was Nicholson.
“What’s up, Sergeant?”
My number, apparently. Luck was still running with me, but it had turned rotten. The national debt had been paid off. In short, Tony New had made bail.
“I thought it was all taken care of,” I said. Yeah, and Mrs. Bernstein enrolled in a cordon bleu class.
Nicholson, to be fair, was genuinely embarrassed and apologetic and angry. He was also pretty worried. “Novallo’s still acting real weird. I think he’s gone around the bend so many times he’s running circles. I tell you, it’s kind of scary. When he was checked out, there was an old guy sitting on the bench, just sitting there, not doing anything. Tony spotted him and ran over and started screaming ‘Fucking old men! Fucking old men!’ His lawyer had to literally pull him away.”
I made some kind of sound in acknowledgment.
I heard Nicholson sigh. “I think he’s liable to come after you. There’s a lot of talk about what he’s done to guys that crossed him.”
“So I’ve heard. What do you suggest?”
“We’ll give you protection. Twenty-four hours. He wont get near you.”
I thought about it, then thanked Nicholson but refused. If the kid wanted me and was really crazy, the cops wouldn’t deter him a second. If the kid wanted me and wasn’t so crazy, he’d wait until the guard was lifted, which it would be before very long. Either way, the result was the same. That’s what I told Nicholson. What I didn’t tell him was that full-time protection would kind of get in the way of my search for Sal.
Nicholson tried to get me to change my mind. I wouldn’t. After I agreed several times that I was a damn stubborn old fool, he gave it up. “Okay, Spanner. I’ll save my breath. It’s your funeral. I just don’t want to go to it.” It sounded like he really meant it. Hell, he wasn’t so tough.
I left the house, not quite as chipper as I’d been. Outside, my innocent little neighborhood suddenly seemed sinister, oppressive, an assassin in every shadow, a sniper behind every bush.
I went back inside. I got my old Browning out of the closet, checked the load, then went to my car and put it in the glove compartment.
Funny. It didn’t help my uneasy feeling.
As I drove away, I remembered it never had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
On the ride out to Sunset Grove, the Chevy seemed to be acting up more than usual, spitting, missing, nearly stalling when I accelerated. It sounded like it was ready for a complete overhaul.
Weren’t we all.
I found O’Brien sitting in his usual spot, staring at the brick wall. He looked about the same as the last time I’d seen him, maybe a little paler, more sallow. Freckles, usually not especially noticeable, stood out on his forehead like some strange skin disease. Two bright-red circles decorated his cheekbones.
He had on a pair of dark-green stained polyester pants, an old striped pajama top, and mismatched canvas shoes. I’d asked for disreputable, and he’d sure delivered.<
br />
O’Bee nodded a greeting, then squinted up at me. “What’s the matter? Somebody die?”
I shrugged and told him about Nicholson’s phone call.
He shook his head. “As I’ve said before, Jake Spanner, for an old fella, you lead one hell of an interesting life.” I made a face. “Now I suppose you’re going to tell me that you think you’re too hot a potato, and that it might not be real healthy associating with you.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, you know what you can do with your potato. I’m coming along.” The voice was gruff but his eyes were almost pleading.
I looked hard at him, shrugged. “Then let’s go.”
He slapped his hands, flashed a smile, and stood up. He pivoted in a circle. “How do I look?”
I made a show of studying him. I pulled out part of the pajama shirt so it hung over his pants in the rear, and opened the two bottom buttons, exposing his white belly. He looked like an ad for a Salvation Army soup kitchen. “Perfect,” I said.
In the car, going over the freeway to West L.A., O’Brien questioned me in detail about the previous evening. I couldn’t tell which gave him more vicarious pleasure, what I did to the two goons or what was nearly done to me.
“You know what your problem was, Jake Spanner? You didn’t have me along to look out for you.” He punched me in the arm, almost causing me to slip into the next lane of traffic.
* * *
The Royal Livery Service was in a street-level store front in a small office building that housed mostly lawyers, accountants, and management services, whatever they are. I cruised slowly by so we could look in. Then I parked and we discussed how we’d play it.
“Give me about three minutes,” I said as I got out.
I went into the office. It was small and decorated to look like a manor-house study or library, rather than a place of business. Sheets of some synthetic board designed to resemble oak paneling covered two of the walls, and the third was floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with hooks purchased by the yard. A simulated wood desk and two leatherette armchairs that might’ve come from a hotel lobby took care of the furniture. I couldn’t figure out what kind of impression they thought they were making. Unassuming shoddiness?
Whatever it was, the guy behind the desk fit right in. He wore tweeds, had longish straw-colored hair, and was undoubtedly a good decade older than he tried to appear. He looked oddly familiar, and it took me a few seconds to realize I’d seen him in a TV commercial. That happened a lot in this town.
He greeted me and inquired how he could be of service. In person, I detected a twinge of something underneath his carefully cultivated mid-Atlantic accent. New Jersey, I thought.
I told him I was the one who’d called about Mr. Winchester, and he got a lot less friendly. As I talked to him, he fingered a five-by-eight card on his desk, glancing at it every once in a while, and I was sure that was the rental application for old Winchester.
In another ten minutes he might have told me what I wanted, simply to get rid of me, but it wasn’t necessary. The door flew open and O’Bee staggered in. He was growling and cursing at nothing in particular, acting like one of those poor harmless loonies who’ve been deprived of their Thorazine and spent their time raging at phantom antagonists. In a paper bag was a bottle of cheap wine that we’d picked up on the way, and O’Bee proceeded to pour it down his front and onto the floor in an attempt to get some into his mouth. It was a great performance, and it worked like a charm.
The mere presence of old people is usually enough to generate discomfort—if not hostility—but the appearance of a demented old drunk is something else again, especially when he’s making a scene and messing up the office.
The blond guy leaped to his feet, shouting at O’Brien, telling him to get the fuck out of there. His cultured accent disappeared, and he sounded remarkably like a Newark longshoreman. O’Bee shouted back, held his ground, and it wasn’t long before the guy came around the desk to shove O’Brien out onto the sidewalk.
I grinned at O’Bee, then reached across the desk and grabbed the card. I saw “Winchester” written at the top, and signaled to O’Brien. If necessary, he’d been prepared to roll around on the sidewalk with the guy, in order to give me sufficient time to locate it. I was glad he wouldn’t have to.
I looked at the card.
Shit.
As they say, the operation was a success, but the patient died. The address was that of the house in Beverly Hills where I’d dropped Sal. The phone number was for the answering service.
Another goddamn dead end. For a second I’d thought my luck had swung back, but I’d forgotten the law that says if things go according to plan, there’s a reason.
Shit, shit, shit.
I passed the rental agent in the doorway. He gave me a funny look, but I had nothing bright to say to him.
Back at the car O’Brien was chuckling to himself, but one look at me and he stopped. “No good?”
“Nothing.”
“Damn. What are you going to do now?”
I shook my head.
“If you’ll take some good advice, you should clear out for a while, give this Tony New a chance to settle down.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got one more possibility going. If that doesn’t pan out soon, I’ll probably do it. Not that I can afford to.”
“You can always stay with me.”
“Thanks a lot. I’ve always wanted a roommate who smelled like he used muscatel after-shave. Open the window, would you.”
He laughed and fingered his wine-soaked pajama top. “I guess I am a bit aromatic.”
“You were also great. Thanks, O’Bee... for everything.”
He smiled, then punched my leg.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When we got back to the Valley, neither of us felt much like going to our respective places, so I kept driving. The car was making protesting noises, but I told it to shut up.
It was one of those wonderfully clear days that were now pretty rare, days when you could see all the hills and mountains that ringed the San Fernando Valley. Nearly every day had been like this when I first came here, the hills in their summer colors of a hundred shades of brown, seemingly so close, you could make out every boulder and dried bit of chaparral. But even then it was changing. I could remember when they first started talking about smog, back in the early forties. That had been news in those days. Now there was something called the Pollution Standard Index, and a rating under a hundred made the front page, kind of in the man-bites-dog category.
Today, though, was one of the exceptions, and it was pretty enough to make me momentarily forget my disappointment with the limo agency, and Tony New, and Sal, and all the other shit. The hills—those that hadn’t yet been graded and flattened and subdivided—still looked like they must’ve when the Gabrielino Indians lived in the Valley, and when the Spanish missionaries and Mexican rancheros arrived, and when the first American traders came from the East, six months around Cape Horn.
I headed into the low range of hills that straddled the county line between L.A. and Ventura, I didn’t know if the hills even had a name, but they’d been used as the setting for a lot of westerns over the years. They still could be, for they seemed to have changed very little, one of the last reminders that the Valley had once been nothing but little farms and ranches and open land. The road was old, winding and narrow, but there was no traffic. Indeed, the only signs of life were the rough white fence posts and strands of barbed wire that ran along either side of the road.
O’Brien clicked his tongue. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“It really is. It’s easy to forget that it was all like this once.”
“Yeah. Up here, you hardly know any of that even exists.” He waved his hand through his open window, where, down below and in the distance, straight lines of streets and rows of houses stretched as far as the next range of hills, twenty-something miles to the east.
“Of course,” I said, “w
e’d both go crazy up here.”
“That’s true, too.” He laughed.
I was driving slowly, enjoying the scene and not wanting to push it too hard around the curves, when a big wide maroon car came up behind me. At a clear stretch, I slowed even further, moved to the right, and gestured with my hand that the car should go by. It stayed behind me. I honked the horn and waved again, but the car didn’t pass. I shrugged and sped up a little. Suddenly, my car was jolted, bumped from behind.
“What the hell!”
I looked in the rear-view mirror and O’Bee turned around, but we couldn’t see anything except glare reflecting off the tinted windshield.
I started going faster and was hit again; harder, this time.
O’Brien put a hand on the dashboard to brace himself. “That son of a bitch is fucking crazy.”
“I think you hit it right on the head.”
I held my speed steady, prepared for another bump, but this time the car pulled out from behind and steadily, easily, drew even with mine. I quickly glanced to my left, knowing beforehand what I was going to see. With his head barely clearing the top of the steering wheel, looking like a twelve-year-old who’d taken Dad’s car for a joy ride, was my favorite psychopath, little Anthony Novallo. He was bouncing excitedly on the seat, grinning across at me.
“Is that who I think it is?” O’Bee said.
“Yeah.”
“You still got the knack, Jake Spanner.”
Didn’t I, though. I didn’t have a clue how the kid got there, whether he somehow picked me up in town, or had someone tailing me, or had himself been with me since I left my house, just waiting for a good opportunity. It hardly mattered. All of a sudden Nicholson’s police protection looked awfully good.
