Chasing Sam Spade

by Brian Lawson

  He realized he was sitting on the small, hard lump of the cellular. He pulled it out gingerly, using his left hand to flip it open and thumb directory information. He got the number for his motel, called and asked it there was an older man, Johnny Larkin, there in the lobby; not yet, and he left word to stay there and he disconnected. Next he called information again and got the phone number for the Library’s Newspaper and Magazine Center.

  “Hello, perhaps you can help me?” he croaked, hoping his voice would hold out. “My father is there, John Larkin? Older man, wind breaker, dark dress slacks, white shirt? We have a family emergency, and I was wondering if you could call him to the phone?”

  He listened to the woman explain how busy she was, how they had policies about this, and he nodded at the unseen city worker, trying not to scream into the phone. Finally she paused and he could here noise in the background and suddenly Johnny was on the line.

  “Shut up, Johnny, just listen. I’ve been hurt. Yeah, that’s right, a mugging,” he said, gasping suddenly at the pain that shot up from his side. “No, listen, don’t call anybody. I’m up on Larkin, an empty store or something, your side of the street. No, the six hundred block I think. No, no, I don’t know the name. Just come up here, look for a store with whited out windows, hurry,” he said, clicking off as another hot flash of pain shot through his side.

  Holding his right arm tightly across his chest, he leaned forward on his left hand, pushing up, gritting his teeth at the pain, and managed to stand upright. He walked over to his coat and the broken recorder, poked around in the mess with his foot and tried to lean over and pick up the jacket; the pain snapped him upright before he could reach it.

  “Think I’ll just wait and let him handle that,” he said. Looking around he spotted an empty plastic milk crate; it was in such bad shape it wasn’t even worth stealing, he guessed as he staggered over and gratefully eased himself down. It swayed a bit under his weight, but held. And so he waited, taking short, quick breaths to avoid the pain in his side. Now that it was passed, he could feel the close, stuffy heat in the small store. Sweat began soaking into the back of his collar, a cold clammy feeling that matched the stiffening damp vomit streaked shirtfront. At least his pants were dark and didn’t show where he’d pissed on himself.

  A familiar shadow filled the doorway.

  “Jesus H. Christ, what the hell?”

  “Grab my coat, over there,” he said, pointing with his left hand, right arm still tight across his chest, hand tucked securely into his left armpit. “And that stuff.”

  Larkin walked over, bent with difficulty that reminded Danny again how old this man really was, and picked up the jacket, then the notebook, keys and wallet. “What’s this junk?”

  “Tape recorder,” he croaked, his throat suddenly hurting worse than anything else. He needed a glass of water and a hot shower. “Leave it. Nothing left.”

  “You ain’t just whistling Dixie about that,” he said, walking over. “My God, son, you’re a mess. What the hell happened?”

  “A message from Skelley. Delivered by a guy who looked like a refugee from Land’s End but talked like a stevedore. Some town you got here,” he said, steadying himself on Johnny’s good arm as he unbent and stood up, slowly, holding himself as tightly as he could.

  “The other tapes are back at the motel. This okay?” he said, leaning with his left arm on Johnny’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Okay, let’s get out of here,” he said, shuffling along, left arm draped on Johnny’s shoulder, right arm tight to his side, grimacing with each step that drove a sharp, quick pain up into his right armpit. “It anybody asks, I took a fall, you’re helping me, that’s all.”

  “Nobody’s going to ask around here,” Larkin said. “You can make it? Another couple of blocks?”

  He nodded, yeah, he’d make it. “Thanks for helping, Johnny. I owe you one.”

  “You don’t owe me nothing,” he growled, shrugging his shoulder to adjust Danny’s weight and curling his arm loosely around Danny’s waist to steer him into the brittle sunlight.

  * * *

  “I’ll have to get out of here.”

  “And go where?”

  He shook his head; he had no idea but he was sure if they found him once they could find him again if he didn’t start covering his tracks a little better. And he assumed “they” were Skelley people.

  “Skelley’s behind this.”

  “Sure enough, must be,” Johnny said, “but you know, something just doesn’t jibe.”

  “Like what?”

  “If he’s behind your father’s death, why just rough you up? If he’s killed one man because of something as stupid as what crime was or wasn’t in some book seventy years ago, why not just kill you too? Why leave anything to chance?”

  Danny looked at him. He hurt everywhere, but it suddenly didn’t matter. The nagging feeling all along that there was no good reason for Chuck to die over this was switched into high relief by Johnny Larkin’s simple question.

  “Goddamnit, Johnny, why not kill me? You’re right, it doesn’t make any sense. Nothing makes any sense except a guy who looks like he would stop at nothing suddenly stops for no reason.”

  “Exactly. Something’s fishy.”

  Danny shook his head. “No, I can’t worry about that right now. Whatever he wants, or doesn’t want, I have to get him off my back. And I have to keep him away from you.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  In fact, Johnny seemed capable of almost anything. He had half carried, half dragged Danny the last two blocks to the hotel, keeping strangers away with a growl and holding his arm while he leaned against the wall only a few doors away from Days Inn and vomited out whatever was left in his guts.

  Seen worse in the cancer ward, he’d said, wiping Danny’s forehead and mouth with a blindingly white handkerchief he produced from his back pocket; then shouldering the burden, had led him into the lobby elevator, waving away inquiries from the front desk, propped him against the wall while he unlocked the door and steered him to the bed.

  Larkin had peeled off Danny’s shirt, poked and prodded with stiff, blunt fingers that made him wince, and pronounced him bruised and maybe a bit broken but, all things considered, in good enough shape. A lump on the side of the head, some bruises going to show up soon and a pulpy nose, but not too bad. Danny had needed help pulling off his shoes and socks and jeans, then staggered into the bathroom, peeling off his shorts and dropping them in the waste paper basket before stepping under the blisteringly hot water. He stood without moving, letting the water pour down, washing the dirt and grime off. Finally, with not a little pain, he began attending to the rest of the business of getting the filth off him, using half a bottle of hair shampoo and the rough side of a washcloth to handle most of the things within reach. There were two levels of pain, now, the ache in his face and the sharp, stabbing shots from his right side ribs. He moved slowly, scrubbing where he could, blotting at his face; the washcloth he dropped on the white tile leaked slow pink down the drain.

  He toweled off, managed to slip into the chinos and clean shirt Johnny had left on the bathroom vanity, took four aspirins with two glasses of water and padded back into life.

  There was a new bottle of vodka and a pint of orange juice, a bag of taco chips and a can of bean dip and a couple of Hershey bars on the small Formica topped table by the window. And two large Ace elastic bandages, a roll of two-inch tape and a smaller roll of paper tape.

  “Thought you might need something to eat, later,” he said, nodding at the table. “Hope you don’t mind, took a couple of twenties out of your wallet for that stuff? Come over here and let me tape up those ribs and that eye for you. It opened up again.”

  Danny nodded, sure, and hobbled over to the table and sat down while Larkin dabbed some antibiotic ointment into the eyebrow cut and fussed around with the paper tape. Then he reached inside Danny’s shirt in a gentle hug and began snubbing the Ace
bandages around Danny’s ribs, ignoring the twitches and hisses through Danny’s clenched teeth he quickly ran a layer of adhesive tape over the top. When he was through the ribs felt better but Danny was now so swaddled in a thick girdle that it made it hard to take a deep breath.

  “Just take it easy. You can’t go running no marathon right now. Let them ribs cool off for a few days and get set,” Larkin said, leaning back and squinting with one bloodshot eye. “Pretty good job.”

  “You’ve done this before, sailor.”

  “Taped up a couple of guys in my time, sure did. Fights down on the docks, this and that. You think this was Skelley?”

  Danny nodded, then shook his head.

  “Which is it, yeah it was Skelley, or no it wasn’t?”

  “It had to be, Johnny, but something just doesn’t figure. If he really is behind all this, and had Chuck killed, why not kill me too?”

  “I don’t know, but I see what you mean.”

  “Yeah, it just doesn’t fit,” he said, shrugging and wincing. “Goddamnit that hurts.”

  “It should. It’ll remind you some people aren’t as quaint and colorful as me.”

  With the taping done, Danny gulped down a stiff vodka straight up that he half gargled to take the rotten taste out of his mouth before swallowing, then poured a second drink mixed with juice, sat down on the bed and propped himself up against the headboard, pillows supporting his right side that had suffered most of the damage.

  “Don’t forget, I ain’t no doctor. That lump on your head ain’t too bad, but you never know, getting a hit on the noggin like that. And you should get an x-ray for those ribs. You don’t want them to pop on you,” Johnny said. “Saw that happen to a guy, right through the lung. Nothing we could do. He just sat there on the deck, coughing up blood. Too late when they finally got an ambulance all the way out to the dock we were working.”

  “Thanks, I feel better,” he croaked.

  “This guy hit you in the throat?”

  Danny shook his had. “No, just throwing up and everything.”

  “Yeah, that’ll do it. Another drink? All righty, I’ll just put this soldier out of his misery,” he said, tipping the vodka into his glass and taking a long, slow swallow. “Oh boy, that’s raw.”

  “Nothing but the best,” Danny said, shifting around for a more comfortable position. The aspirins and vodka were starting to mute the pain, but he could feel his stomach rumbling as the booze and acid dug in. “Listen, Johnny, you’re going to have to get out of this.”

  “Why? Nobody knows me, nobody’s seen me,” he said, gesturing with his nearly empty glass. “I can probably get more done than you and nobody’s the wiser about it. They know you now. Maybe you should get out.”

  He’d considered it. He shook his head, “No, not yet. I want to see this through.”

  “All righty, but I don’t see no profit in it,” he said. “I’m doing it on a lark. What else have I got to do? And who’s going to doing anything to an old stick like me? I got nothing to lose. But you, you must have a job, maybe a girl back home? You got things to lose so I don’t see a payoff for you.”

  “He was my dad,” he said. “I owe it to him.”

  Danny watched the old man’s face, looking for some sign that he understood, accepted the simple, clear explanation. All the time he’d spent explaining it to Ben, Mom, those nine words summed it, it was a debt he owed Chuck.

  He added, “It’s like Bogey says at the end of the movie. Remember, just before Sam turns Brigid in? He says, ‘ When a man’s partner is killed he’s supposed to do something about it...it doesn’t make any difference what you thought of him.’ That’s this. Chuck was my dad. He was a drunk and he ruined my mom’s life and didn’t do much better to me, but still, he was my dad. And then he wrote me the letter and said somebody’s ruined him and asked for my help.”

  Johnny sat forward, forearms resting on his knees, cradling the drink glass in both hands; Danny couldn’t see his face but the old man’s tangle of gray hair was nodding slowly. Finally he looked up and his eyes were wet.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’d given up on hearing talk like that any more,” he said, his voice thick in his throat. “It’s the way men used to talk about things. You did what you had to do. You stood by what was right and did it. That’s mostly gone. Thanks for reminding me.”

  Danny could feel the tears of the day, and the anger and pain and frustration burning in his eyes. He took a deep drink and let that carry him for a moment. Finally he took a deep breath, gong past the pain in his side and pulling the thick air as far down as he could and letting it out in a rush.

  “Okay, I’m staying and you’re staying. Now what do we do?”

  “All righty. I guess you got to do what you got to do,” Johnny said, chuckling. “And I got to do it with you. So, let’s make some plans.”

  “First things first. I’m paid up here. I’m going to pack up and get out find another place to stay. No forwarding address, unless somebody followed me here.”

  “So why not with me? I got a couch,” Johnny said. “It ain’t much, but it’ll do.”

  Danny shook his head. “No, if anybody’s watching that just ties us together and we’re both at risk. I really don’t want to do that. No, the best thing is to keep moving. Let’s put together a list. I’ll just hop around, one night here, next there. I can access the Internet from anywhere with the cellular phone now.”

  “Okay to that. Don’t you know anybody in town but me?”

  He did and there was no way Skelley or anyone else would find him if he took Doris up on her offer. He said, “Hand me my wallet, will you? In the inside jacket pocket.”

  Larkin fished around in the much-abused coat and came back with the wallet; Danny fished the folded receipt out and let it rest in his hand, unfolded.

  “What’s that?”

  “A phone number.”

  “Where? Or is it who?”

  “It’s a who. Waitress I met. We kind of hit it off,” he said, pausing. He wanted to see her again, to listen to her gentle accent. He wanted to be cared for and held and he knew it would be easy to make her part of all this. “No, maybe I better forget about it.”

  “Why not? You like her, she likes you, right? Or she wouldn’t have given you the number.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “What’s not right? You get kicked in the head too?”

  He shook his head, no, maybe to prove he could. “No, it’s just, she was a nice kid. Too young. You get to the point teaching them you either are always sniffing around or you leave them all alone.”

  Larkin looked at him and shrugged. “This ain’t college, son. And any waitress around here who gives you her phone number ain’t too young.”

  “Maybe not,” he said, dropping the small folded receipt on the table where it lay like a small accusation, then stood up, wincing. “Okay, I’ll call her.

  Then he stood up, holding his ribs tightly and went over to the table. He grabbed the chips and poured another double vodka, this time straight up and hobbled back to the bed. He eased himself against the headboard, took a swallow, disconnected the cellular from the laptop and dialed the number. “Doris. This is Danny Boyle. From the restaurant? I remember you said this was your day off. Oh, good, I hoped you’d remember,” he said, pausing, waiting for the answer, trying to read the tone, the message behind the words. He suddenly realized he could do this. He didn’t like it, but he could do it. “Yeah. I need a bit of a favor. I’ve had a bit of an accident…no, sort of a mugging, guy roughed me up and took some stuff…no, I’m okay, I just kind of need to talk to somebody, a friendly face, you know… I was wondering if I could drop by and talk, for a minute?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  Danny Finds a Safe Harbor

  “Oh my, oh my, you do look a sight,” Doris said, staring at him through the chained doorway with those wonderful, soft blue eyes that seemed somehow childlike and very old at the same time. “Well, come on in.”
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  “I’m sorry to just show up like this, but, I guess I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, moving carefully around her and into the small, warm room. “I hope I’m not imposing?”

  “No such thing, I’m glad you called,” she said, her thin face breaking into a bright, sudden smile. “I was just sitting around reading and the next thing, I get a call from just about the only author I ever met and a college professor to boot. I’d say it was kismet, or some such thing. Pardon the way I’m dressed, but it’s just a lay about kind of a day.”

  She was dressed in a pair of gray sweats, with thick rag socks on her feet and her ash blond hair tied back in the same casual ponytail style she’d worn in the restaurant; the thin pale hair framed her high cheek bones and made her look very young and fragile. She wasn’t wearing any makeup he could see; her skin was a wonderful soft cream white with a bit of color on her cheeks.

  “You look fine. Different.”

  “From that terrible uniform, you mean? Well, pink certainly isn’t my color and that’s a fact,” she said.

  He followed her into the small, tidy studio apartment; it felt close and warm, and he thought of a puppy nest; it was the first time he’d felt safe all day. He took a deep shuddering breath and let it out in a long slow way that had Doris staring at him with that pale blue-eyed appraisal of hers he’d noticed in the restaurant.

  “So, you got yourself in a bit of a scrape, first week in the big bad city, huh? Tourists, I tell you. Where you staying?”

  He told her and she nodded. “What in the world ever made you want to hang around in the Tenderloin? That isn’t no place for somebody who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “You work there,” he said. “It can’t be all that bad.”

  “Sure enough, and there’s some really nice folks just trying to get by down there and I won’t say nothing against them. But I get in and get out and I do it in the daytime,” she said. “This ain’t so much better out here, but at least there’s normal folks and kids and things. That down there, well, it’s just hardly not fit for dogs some times.”