by Lou Cameron
“That’s a five-hundred-dollar typewriter,” said Bert. “I don’t see why they didn’t hock it along with all the other junk they bought on credit.”
“IBM stuff’s hard to fence,” I explained. “They’re the only people who can service it, and they keep a list of the serial numbers from stolen machines. Take an out-of-order IBM machine in for repairs and you’re liable to wind up in the clink.”
“He’d know that, of course?” asked Crawford.
“Maybe he wouldn’t,” I said, “but she would.”
I opened the drawers of the desk. Nothing but a couple of paper clips and that fuzzy crud you find in empty drawers.
Bert said, “Nothing in the wastebasket. Ashtrays are clean. They probably didn’t have many people in here smoking.”
“They didn’t have anyone in,” said the landlord from where he lounged in the relative coolth of the doorway. “I thought it was kind of odd the way they only stayed open a few hours a day and never seemed to have any customers. But Miss May said they did most of their business by phone. She said they took orders here for gravel, and that the stuff was shipped direct from their pits out in the desert.”
“Real little bullshit artist, wasn’t she?” Crawford smiled, then asked me, “What happens to her when we catch up with MacDonald, Frank?”
It was a good question.
I said, “She’ll be open for all sorts of civil actions. Maybe a couple of larceny and fraud raps, too. But she’ll be alive. That’s more than the last broad who ran around with the creep can say.”
“Guess she’d be better off in the can at that,” said Bert as he stuck his head inside the narrow doorway leading to the back of the store. He said, “Nothing back here except a lot of dust and what looks like a john off the back door. Want me to check the alley?”
“May as well,” I said, picking up one of the magazines that had been lying by the typewriter. I leafed through it, noting that one of the pages had been folded at one corner as if to mark the place. I opened the magazine to a double-page spread on the latest swimsuits.
I picked up another. This magazine had three different pages crimped. All three were bathing-suit ads. The remaining copy of Vogue was marked the same way. Somebody was interested in bathing suits. Either Kathy Gorm was shopping for a new bathing suit or Duncan MacDonald was shopping for a new woman.
Crawford came back in with a handful of crumpled paper. He spread it out on the coffee table near the window, took a seat on a nearby Swedish modern bench and said, “Found these in a trash barrel out back. Looks like invoices and a mess of check stubs.”
He picked up the remains of a checkbook, threw it aside with a disgusted look, and commented, “Nothing written on the stubs. Guess you don’t have to balance your checking account if you don’t have one, eh?”
He tossed another aside and marveled, “Two whole books of rubber checks! I wonder where he swiped them.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “It’s too bad, in a way, because he’d have committed a federal rap if he’d stolen them. But I checked with the bank. He opened an account, under the name Cunningham, with a deposit of twenty dollars. The bum checks are all overdrafts.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning a local misdemeanor, with maybe a charge of fraud thrown in unless he can convince a jury he had a good reason, other than to clip people, for changing his name.”
I picked up a few invoices to leaf through as I added, “I imagine he will have. He’s got expert legal advice.”
“What about the murder rap?”
“He doesn’t know we want him for that,” I said. “And I doubt very much Kathy Gorm knows anything about the death of the Dipple woman. She’s working pretty hard to keep her boy out of trouble.”
“Are you kidding?” Crawford laughed. “He’s stolen half of Las Vegas!”
“Bought on time,” I corrected. “There’s a difference. So far, Bert, they haven’t actually stolen anything!”
“Tell that to this poor slob,” said Crawford, holding up an invoice. He read, “‘Admiral portable television set, one Truetone radio with twin speakers.’ Also, leave us not forget one Sony tape recorder. All from one sucker!”
“Bought on time,” I insisted. “The store won’t even recover the stuff as stolen goods when and if we find out where they hocked them.”
“But they’re not paid for,” objected Crawford.
“So they can recover their money in a civil action, when and if they find out where MacDonald is, and get him to stand still long enough to issue a summons. Then, if they win, the guy can still plead poverty and tell them all to go fly a kite.”
From the doorway, the landlord exclaimed, “Are you trying to tell me, Lieutenant, that a guy can buy all the stuff he wants on time, sell it for whatever he can get, and not go to jail?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s why they sort of like to check your credit before they let you lug anything out of the store.”
“Water skis,” muttered Crawford, staring at an invoice in his hand. He shook his head and added, “Where in the hell would you use water skis in Vegas, for Chrissake?”
“Lake Mead,” I said. “How much are they worth?”
“Thirty bucks,” said Crawford. “Figure ten percent of the value when they fenced them… It looks like they bought them for themselves.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Things are looking up. Kathy Gorm marked a mess of bathing-suit ads in those fashion magazines over there on her desk. I think I’ll just drive down to Boulder City and see how many redheaded water skiers have moved into the neighborhood.”
“Did you say redheaded?” asked the landlord.
“Yeah,” I said. “Didn’t your Miss May have red hair?”
“Black,” the landlord replied, “black as a crow. Now that you mention it, I remember thinking it looked dyed.”
Things were really looking up!
“One thing bothers me, Frank,” said Crawford as I started out to the cruiser. I turned and asked him what it was. He said, “Suppose they’re not at Mead?”
“We’ll check the other lakes.” I shrugged. “After all, how many lakes do you think we have in Nevada?”
• • • There was a slight interruption on my way to Lake Mead. I was pulling into Henderson, northwest of Boulder City, when a car whipped past me like I was standing still. It was a spanking new, cream-colored ’Vette, and since I was going well above the speed limit, it interested me. I floored the accelerator as I flipped my radio to the local wavelength and said, “This is Lieutenant Talbot, Vegas troop, outside Henderson on Route Ninety-five. I’m chasing a speeder. Cream Corvette. License number—”
“Trooper Meadows, Highway Patrol Car seventy-nine, Lieutenant,” cut in a voice from the set. “We’re about a mile and a half ahead of you, near a light. Want us to set it on red and wait for him?”
“Roger,” I said, easing off the throttle now that I knew the nut in the ’Vette was boxed in. “I’m in an unmarked cruiser. I’ll have my blinker flashing as I near the intersection. If he runs the light, you’ll see a black Olds running it a couple of seconds later.”
I hoped, sincerely, that neither of us would run the light. We were coming into the built-up industrial section of Henderson, and I hated to think what would happen, at the speed we were both going, if another car, a kid, or a ball, came from either side.
“Car eighty-three calling Lieutenant Talbot,” came a different voice from the set. I answered, and it said, “That ’Vette’s running from us, Lieutenant. We’re about a mile behind you.”
“Roger,” I said. “You think he’s drunk?”
“Driving a hot one,” explained the trooper at the radio of car eighty-three. “We spotted the plates on our list. Tried to pull him over, but he sideswiped us and cut out like a singed cat. That’s a sudden automobile he’s driving, even if it’s not his.”
“You pick that up, Meadows?” I asked the set.
“Roger,” the man in car seventy-nine replied
. “You want us to shoot his tires out if he runs the light? Nothing on the other side of the road but some oil storage tanks. Too far for a Police Positive slug to more than dent.”
I thought about that as I peered through the windshield for a glimpse of the speeding ’Vette. At the speed he was going, he’d be almost certain to pile up if they shot his tires out. Nobody in our business wants to kill anybody if he can help it.
On the other hand, he was heading right into a town full of men, women, and children at over a hundred and twenty miles an hour. Somebody was going to get killed anyway, unless we slowed him down. It might as well be him.
“Aim for the front wheels,” I cautioned. “Give the guy a sporting chance to hold her on the road when he loses his rubber.”
“Roger,” said Meadows. “Here he comes now.”
Up ahead, I could see the oil storage tanks he’d mentioned. They were on the left side of the road, growing bigger, fast, as I switched on blinker and siren.
I bored on down the highway, cars pulling out of my lane as I closed the distance between myself and the fugitive ’Vette.
“He’s stopped, Lieutenant,” called Meadows. In the distance, barely audible on the radio, another voice was shouting, “Come out of that car with your hands up, mister!”
I could see them now. The black-and-white patrol cruiser had pulled out into the intersection, blocking it, as the ’Vette had slowed for the light. The stolen car was parked in the middle of the passing lane, traffic piling up in back of it. I cursed and pulled over onto the shoulder, bullying my way to the traffic light with my blinker and siren. I almost made it. But I had to get out and walk the last few yards.
“Get that goddamn car out of the road!” I shouted at the two troopers standing near a disconsolate-looking individual in a red paisley sports shirt and yellow slacks.
One of the troopers frowned, recognized me, and shot a salute before running out into the traffic to clear the intersection.
They’d had a reason—not a good reason, but a reason—for acting like a couple of recruits. I knew that as soon as I took a good look at the man we’d trapped.
“Weeping Willie Wagner, Lieutenant!” the trooper guarding him chortled. “He’s on the ten-most-wanted list!”
“Hello, Willie.” I smiled, walking over. “Long time no see.”
Weeping Willie Wagner, a lean and hungry type with watery blue eyes and hair the color of frayed manila rope, shot me a disgusted look and said, “Ain’t this a bitch, Lieutenant? Me, of all people, nailed on a hot car rap!”
“How have the mighty fallen!” I agreed. “I thought your game was shooting people, Willie.”
“Nobody’s ever proven it in court.”
“Kind of hard to prove anything in court when a guy jumps bail, Willie.” I smiled. “Guess you know the FBI has a fugitive warrant out on you?”
“So they’ve been telling me.” He sighed. “You mind if I put my hands down, Lieutenant? I told this kid I ain’t no karate expert or nothing.”
I looked at the trooper and nodded. Weeping Willie smiled wanly and lowered his arms to his sides. He said, “Your move, Lieutenant. Shall we go to my place or yours?”
“I’m dropping you off with the FBI in Boulder City,” I said, “as soon as the car that was chasing you gets here so they can share in the credits. What possessed you to steal a car, Willie? A cream-colored ’Vette, yet. That’s kid stuff.”
“I didn’t know the car was hot, dammit!” he snapped.
“Somebody fix you up with wheels in Vegas?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Why’d you come to Nevada?” I asked. “You know your face is known on the Strip.”
“Just passing through, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah. Not figuring to stay long enough for word to get around, eh?”
“Something like that.”
The trooper I’d sent to clear the intersection had pulled the ’Vette over on the shoulder and gotten out. He came over holding something in his hand. It was a Walther’s P-38. He said he’d found it in the glove compartment. I took it from him, looked it over, and said, “How about this, Willy?”
“No law says a guy can’t carry a gun in his car in this state. I’m like afraid of hitchhikers.”
“The end of the barrel’s been tapped for a silencer,” I said.
He looked at me innocently and asked, “What’s a silencer?”
“A federal rap.” I smiled. “You’ll have tossed it out someplace between here and where that other cruiser jumped you. It’ll be along the right-hand side of the road. We’ll find it. It’ll be a long, dusty job, but we’ll find it.”
The nearest trooper asked, with professional interest, “Why didn’t he toss the gun out, Lieutenant?”
“Because guns are noticeable,” I replied. “He’s right about it being legal to have a gun in your car, if it’s your car. And very few people would pay much attention to what looks like a length of one-inch gas pipe lying beside a desert road.”
By this time, the other cruiser had arrived, and the crew of car eighty-three joined our mutual admiration society. I waited until they’d logged their report, told them they’d been good lads, and took Weeping Willie Wagner over to my cruiser.
I said, “Do you think we need the cuffs, Willie?”
“I’ll behave, Lieutenant.” He sighed. “No place to run in this goddamn state, anyways. Jesus, you people build your towns far apart out here!”
I waited until he’d gotten in, locked the door on the outside, and went around to sit behind the wheel. He waited until we’d pulled back onto the highway before he licked his lips and said, “I been thinking. Lieutenant.”
“About the way they set you up with a stolen car?”
“I wasn’t set up,” he objected. “Somebody got cute with the plates. Switched the plates from a hot car to the ’Vette I was driving while I was having chow at the Silver Slipper. They serve a pretty good steak there, you know? Anyhow, I figure some bozo driving a hot ’Vette seen mine parked out in the lot, switched plates with me, and the rest is history. If I hadn’t blown my cool when that Highway Patrol car jumped me, I’d have been okay.”
“They’d have still recognized you from the FBI fliers.”
“Yeah, but I’d have been able to con them kids about the silencer, and once they found out I’d really rented the car I was driving from a legit agency in Vegas, I’d have had nothing to worry about but that old murder rap.”
“That’s nothing to worry about?”
“Who’re we kidding, Lieutenant? The case is two years old. The DA never had but a couple of witnesses, and the last I heard they’d—ah—left town.”
“So you figure to beat the rap?”
“In a walk. Only reason I’ve been sort of shy to meet any cops lately is because I figure the longer you let a case gather dust, the harder it gets to reopen it.”
“That sounds reasonable.” I nodded, waiting.
We drove in silence for a time, Weeping Willie staring out morosely at the passing factory chimneys of Henderson. Then he shook his head wearily and said, “You’re a smart cop, Lieutenant. They say you’re a straight one, too.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we might make a deal.”
“What kind of a deal? You know I can’t let you go, Willie.”
“You could forget about that silencer,” he suggested, “or maybe not be able to find it. Like, there’s a lot of sand it could have got buried in. You read me?”
“Loud and clear,” I said. “What are you selling, Willie?”
“Maybe answer some questions?”
“What kind of questions?”
“Dunno. What kind of questions you got in mind?”
I chose my words carefully before I asked, “You came to Vegas for a hit?”
“Yeah,” he replied calmly. “Guy stole from a certain place on the Strip. Place with Mob money backing it. They wanted I should make an example out of him.”
“You wouldn’t know where he is right now, would you?”
“No,” he said, “they told me he wasn’t in Vegas now. I was supposed to hang around until they set him up for me. Guy who knows him was set to finger him. I was set to do the job, split, and pick up my fee on the Coast.”
“Then why were you headed for Lake Mead?”
“I told you,” he protested innocently, “I had to hang around until they had it set up. You know a lot of people know my face on the Strip, Lieutenant. I figured I’d go down to Boulder Beach and maybe catch some crappies.”
“With a gun?”
“Shit, Lieutenant, you know they rent fishing poles.”
“Water skis, too,” I observed, shooting him a sidelong glance to see how that one zinged him.
It didn’t. Either Weeping Willie was a very good actor, or he really didn’t know MacDonald might be on the lake. He said, “I never tried water skis, Lieutenant. Looks like a frantic way to drown, if you ask me.”
“Who hired you?” I asked.
“Aw, come on!” he laughed.
“Okay,” I said. “So far, Willie, you haven’t told me anything I couldn’t have figured for myself. Let’s try it from another angle. You hear about that bomb wired under the hood of a state police cruiser?”
“I heard,” he replied. “Heard some dumb sonovabitch killed a cop.”
“The cop was a friend of mine, Willie,” I said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I might just stop at the next bus stop and forget I ever saw you, if you could finger the guy who did it.”
“It wasn’t the people I worked for,” he said.
“You know who the guy did work for?”
“Wasn’t anybody in the Mob,” he said. “You know we don’t like to hit cops, Lieutenant. Sometimes it’s tempting as hell. Sometimes you guys make it hard for us guys to make a living. But you knock off a cop and the shit hits the fan.”
“You’re stalling, Willie,” I said.
