Private Eye 3 - Flip Side

by T. N. Robb

  Cleary suddenly lost his patience and slammed Pettys against the wall. "I'm asking you again, Calvin. What did they want?"

  Pettys was sweating, hyperventilating. He held up his hands as Cleary stepped toward him. "They were looking for someone," he said, catching his breath. "That kid of yours. Betts."

  He stared at him. "What did you tell them? Speak, Pettys."

  "Hey, look at what my choices were, Cleary. Take all this money they were throwing at me and cooperate, or die. One helluva choice,"

  Cleary grabbed him by the throat. "What did you tell them?"

  Pettys choked. "I can't talk." he managed to say. He coughed as Cleary let go of his grip.

  "I just gave them the kid's telephone number. That's all I had. He'd given it to me so I could get in touch with him when Billy Ray was going out."

  "When did you give it to them?"

  "Yesterday morning, early. They broke in, woke me up. They kept asking for the address. They didn't believe me. That's why they did this to me." He held up his hand in front of Cleary's face.

  "Why'd you go to the cops about Betts?"

  Pettys shuffled his cowboy boots. "I saw Betts yesterday at the record store where the boys were playing. I was too frightened to even warn him. But later, I started feeling guilty about the kid. I realized that the only way I could help him was to turn him into the cops and then get out of town. Believe me, he's safer in jail than on the streets right now, and like I said, he'd get off because i wouldn't be around to testify."

  Cleary backed away from Pettys, the anger seeping out of him. He looked around. "You got a phone here?"

  Pettys pointed to the kitchenette.

  Cleary dialed Betts's number. For the sixth time in as many hours, he heard the endless ringing.

  TWENTY

  Unexpected Visitors

  The volume was turned all the way up on the little record player on the floor, which was playing the last few highly amplified chords of Billy Ray's "Heart to Nowhere," As the song finished, the chords were replaced with a crackling noise as the needle glided toward the center of the 45. Then the arm raised and returned to the edge of the record, and the song began over again.

  Darkness had fallen and the colored neon lights from a nearby juke joint flashed through the window of Betts's trailer. They Illuminated a Robert Mitchum poster from Thunder Road, a felled table, a broken lamp, and a leather jacket. On the floor next to the bed lay a telephone. It was ringing, but no one was answering.

  Suddenly the sound of a woman's screams rose above the music. Jesse's bare body was slammed against the wall, and next to her a clock fell to the floor. Rivulets of sweat ran down her body; her hair was a wild tangle. Again she was slammed against the wall. Her eyes were closed; her mouth was open. The screams rose to a frenzy.

  Jesse's legs were wrapped around Betts's waist, her back was pressed hard against the trailer wall. Their bodies glistened, and with each hot lunge of their violent lovemaking, she shrieked in pain and ecstasy. Betts drove her between the wall and the television set as their passions peaked. She let out one final cry, and the television tumbled noisily to the floor.

  They slid down the wall to the carpet, their bodies relaxing, the sexual tension relieved. Betts's heart was still beating wildly, and he was gasping for air. Awkwardly he rose to his feet, lifted Jesse, and carried her over to the couch. They both collapsed on it and broke up laughing. Jesse rolled over on top of him, pounded a fist against his chest. "You wild man, you."

  "Oh, Jesus, Jesse," he gasped, catching his breath. "What a ride."

  Jesse grinned, then her features turned into a frown as she tried to remember something. "So what did you say your name was?"

  Betts eyed her, a startled look on his face, then both of them cracked up again in wild laughter. He patted the floor until he found his jeans, and pulled out a pack of Luckys. He lit one, then pulled her to him. He ran a finger down from her throat, between her breasts. "You know, you should have kept that necklace Billy Ray gave you. It looked really good on you."

  She pursed her lips as if she were pouting. "I told you, Johnny, I buried it with him. Dropped it into his coffin. Didn't want the memory."

  "Yeah, maybe that was best."

  "Billy Ray will live on in his music. We're going to make sure of that."

  He brushed the hair from her face, smiled. "I know he will. He won't be forgotten."

  They both laid back on the couch and stared at the neon lights flashing on the ceiling. "Have you thought about what I said?" Jesse asked softly.

  A moment passed as Betts thought about what to say. "I just don't know, Jesse. If we run, they might think we started the fire."

  "How would they know that? Anyway, so what? We'll be long gone."

  The song ran out on the record player again, and Betts walked over and turned it off. He laid back down on the couch and listened to the stillness of the night.

  Suddenly the silence was broken by the peal of the telephone. Betts started to rise up. "Let it go, Johnny. That phone doesn't control you."

  He laid back down, wondering if it was Cleary, and what he had in mind. Once again, Jesse was dividing his allegiances. He hadn't talked to Cleary since this morning, when he had told Betts he might need him later on. After they had left the warehouse fire, they had spent the afternoon in a bar drinking beers and shooting pool.

  Jesse had wanted to cruise back by the warehouse to see the ruins, but he had told her to forget about it. There'd be cops around, and they might be questioned. It would be like walking into a trap. Instead they had played a couple more racks of nine ball, then had come back to the trailer about an hour ago.

  He counted eight rings before the phone fell quiet. When it stopped ringing, Jesse spoke. "It was just a year ago today, you know," she began.

  He frowned at her as she stared at the ceiling. "What was?"

  "James Dean checked out, I mean." She turned over on her side to face Betts. "This place is death for people like us, Johnny. The road's where we belong."

  "The road to where?"

  Jesse was quiet a moment. "What do you mean?" she asked, giving him a funny look.

  It was almost as if she thought the road itself was the destination, he thought, and once they were moving everything would be okay.

  "I mean where do you wanna go, Texas?"

  She shook her head. "I don't think so, not anymore. There'd be too many memories for me in Texas."

  She suddenly sat up and reached for his hand "But, Johnny, that's only one place. We could go south. There's this outlaw radio station south of the border in Nogales that plays rock and roll twenty-four hours a day at twenty million kilowatts or something. When the weather's right you can hear it all the way to Bangor, Maine, they say. Maybe even up to Canada."

  "Yeah, I heard about it."

  Reaching over, she picked up one of the master tapes from under her jacket and looked at it. "That's where Billy Ray's music belongs: south of the border and in the air. Free, loud, and all night long."

  "Yeah, maybe so." He smiled at her. "It would be a helluva trip, wouldn't it?"

  He was considering the idea as his eyes caught a set of approaching headlights shining through the window, momentarily illuminating the room. The sudden brightness reminded him of his father and the cruel myth about the train light playing into the prison cell.

  Then an eerie feeling rose along his spine. He sensed something wasn't right, stood up, and peered through the blinds. A blistering hot desert wind swept across the trailer court, carrying with it a couple of tumbleweeds and the dying refrains of a love song from the juke joint Then he noticed the black Lincoln Continental parked in the lot. It didn't belong here. He knew that.

  He watched a moment longer as two figures stepped out and glanced toward the trailer. They looked like blue shadows in a flash of neon from the juke joint Betts saw they were armed, and quickly ran to the closet "Jesus. Get down low and don't move."

  "What is it?" Jesse asked, quickl
y pulling on her clothes.

  "Get down, I said, and don't move."

  There was a noise by the door. Then suddenly a foot crashed against it. The trailer walls shuddered and the door sprang open. The two men rushed in and were greeted by silence and darkness. An instant later, the quiet was shattered by the sudden explosion of gunfire: two twelve-gauge blasts, followed by the rapid volley of a machine gun, and one final discharge from a twelve gauge.

  Just as abruptly the silence returned.

  A terrible, breathless eternity passed while the man with the machine gun stood in the doorway. He took four steps forward toward the Lincoln, then suddenly collapsed face first onto the ground.

  Betts, still naked, splattered with blood and nearly numb with shock, stumbled over to the door and looked at the other gunman. He was lying face up, staring at the ceiling. Blood oozed from the fatal wound to his chest.

  "Get dressed, Johnny. We've gotta go fast. Right now," Jesse whispered.

  Betts pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt, gathered up the two sawed-off twelve gauges and the Browning automatic, and carried them to the car. Jesse brought along Billy Ray's master tapes.

  They piled into the Mercury, not bothering to waste time taking anything else. Betts noticed a couple of bikers stepping out from the juke joint. The Merc's engine roared to life, and they sped off into the night

  * * *

  Cleary stared through the windshield, a determined look on his face as he drove toward Betts's trailer. His curiosity and concern about Betts finally had gotten the better of him. He was taking the chance that he might be followed, but maybe it didn't matter. Maybe Pettys had a good point. Betts might be safer locked up.

  Betts didn't understand the danger he faced. He was going to try to convince him to turn himself in before it was too late. But he had to get to him before the counterfeiter's thugs found him. His worry was that it might already be too late.

  He pulled into the parking lot of the trailer court. Right away he didn't like the looks of the black Lincoln outside Betts's place. Then he saw two hulking figures standing in the shadows in front of Betts's door. He slammed on his brakes in the middle of the lot, reached for his .45, and clicked off the safety.

  He stepped out of the Eldorado and cautiously headed toward the trailer. He noticed the two men were scraggly biker types, wearing denim. One of them held a beer in his hand, and both were looking down at something. He would bet a Ben Franklin they hadn't arrived in the Lincoln.

  Then he saw what had captured their attention. At their feet was a body. Neither one seemed too concerned, either about the guy on the ground or by his approach. He glanced at the body, quickly determining it wasn't Betts. It was a pocked-faced man in a suit. There was a cold killer look on his face, and he was dead, lying in a puddle of blood.

  Cleary noticed there was no weapon near him, and wondered if the bikers had taken it.

  "What happened?" he casually asked, trying to sound alarmed.

  "This idiot got blown away. What's it look like?" the guy with the beer said. "Another one inside."

  Cleary saw the open door and walked over to the trailer. He stepped carefully inside and found the second body. He was relieved it wasn't Betts. Again, he noticed there was no weapon near the man.

  He walked outside, and for the first time since his arrival looked around for Betts's car. "You guys see anything?" he asked.

  "Heard the shooting from next door."

  "How long ago?"

  "Maybe five minutes. Don't know."

  "Where're the guns?"

  "What are you, a cop? Why didn't ya say so?" one said, and took a swallow from his beer.

  Cleary just stared at them. "Where're the guns, fellows?"

  "There weren't none," the guy with the beer said, and laughed.

  The other guy held up his hands. "Search me, man. Buy ya a drink for every gun you find. You gotta buy me one if I'm clean, though."

  "See a black '49 Mercury around here?"

  One of the bikers looked up at him, surprised. "Yeah, that Merc lit outta here like a bat outta hell," he said, pointing his beer bottle toward the direction the car had taken. "By the time the squad cars get here they'll be long gone. You can count on that."

  "You call the cops yet?"

  The bikers looked at Cleary as if he were nuts. "You kidding, man," the guy with the beer said. "I never call them if I can help it. They seem to find me on their own."

  Cleary nodded. "I'll handle it."

  He walked over to a phone booth, called the Seventh Precinct, and gave the address to the dispatcher. "Looks like a double homicide, and you better get hold of Charlie Fontana. He'll be real interested."

  He hung up, then slugged another nickel into the phone and dialed his office.

  "Still there?"

  "Yeah, I was gonna be leaving pretty soon. No word from Betts. I tried calling him myself a little while ago, and didn't get any answer."

  "I'm at Betts's place," he began, and quickly told Dottie what happened.

  "God, Johnny's really got himself into a fix. Can I do anything, you think?"

  "Stay there. Camp out. I'm sure he'll be calling for me."

  "You got it, Cleary."

  TWENTY-ONE

  Clean-up Time

  A drowsy precinct photographer was flash-popping photos, moving among several uniformed cops and plainclothesmen in the crime scene that extended from Betts's trailer to the parking lot. Lights were rigged up, and the place was as bright as day. Beyond the roped-off area were several squad cars, an ambulance, and a small crowd of bikers, Okies, and assorted transients who called the rundown trailer court their home. En masse, they stepped forward toward the rope and looked on curiously as several paramedics wrestled with the two sheet-covered bodies, carrying them toward the nearby meat wagon.

  Cleary stood beside the black Lincoln with Fontana, who was looking grim and edgy with fatigue. "I'll accept your story that you were coming over to get Betts, and bring him in. I'll give you that much. It's just that your timing raises questions."

  "I'll say," Hogan said, walking up to them with Walczak.

  "I told you, Charlie," Cleary said, ignoring Hogan and at the same time raising his protective shield around him. "When Pettys finally laid out the true story, I got over here as soon as I could."

  Fontana nodded, watching the bodies being slid into the meat wagon. "Don't start thinking that Betts is any better off than the last time I talked to you."

  "What are the charges?"

  "Where do I start? Until we come up with another suspect, he's still top on the list in the murder of the singer."

  "Like I said, Pettys was lying."

  "Bullshit," Hogan snapped. "What kind of interrogation techniques did you use to get him to change his story? You give him your hot bath treatment?"

  Cleary stared at him, concentrating on his shield. When he didn't answer him, Fontana spoke up. "We'll have to talk with Mr. Pettys again, real soon."

  "What else you got on Betts?"

  "On top of the Billy Ray murder, I'm tacking on arson," Fontana said, "We got a DWP worker who made his car leaving a warehouse fire this afternoon." He looked Cleary squarely in the eye. "Some black market record-pressing operation. In addition—" he thumbed the meat wagon "—a possible two counts of homicide."

  "For chrissakes, Charlie, those guys have hired gun written all over 'em."

  "It would help if they were armed, Cleary," Hogan said, smiling at him.

  "Knock it off, Hogan. The trailer looks like a sieve it's so full of holes."

  "Maybe they came with the place."

  "For chrissakes. You saw all the shells."

  Fontana turned to Hogan and Walczak. "I want the entire trailer dusted, ballistics, forensics by noon, and have Wheeler comb the motor court and juke joint for witnesses."

  He nodded toward the meat truck. "Any I.D. on the stiffs?"

  Hogan, who held a bag of personal effects, shook his head in disgust. "Pack of cigarette
s, a grand cash, and a Hollywood motel key." He glanced at Cleary with an accusatory look. "Course you might say I got sloppy seconds."

  "Hogan, I wasn't the first one here and you know it, so get that idea out of your head."

  "How do we know you weren't here with the kid, and took off, and came back after the bikers got over here?"

  "Just what are you accusing me of?" Cleary said, stepping forward and forgetting all about his protective shield.

  Fontana stepped between them, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Obstruction of justice for starters, Cleary, for hiding the kid," Hogan yelled, his face turning beet red, his eyes bulging.

  "Cut the crap, Hogan. We got work to do. Check on that motel and get back to me within the hour."

  When Hogan and Walczak had walked off, Fontana looked down at the ground a moment, then back up to Cleary. "Sorry about that. Tell you the truth, I'm surprised you haven't punched him out yet."

  "So am I. Look, I think I can still get to Betts, and bring him in."

  Fontana looked stonily at him. "I don't know. If he's with that girl, I've got my doubts. I ran a make on her. Regular Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, that one. Father's in prison, mother's institutionalized." He tapped his finger to his temple. "Did most of her growing up in juvenile halls down in Texas, around Lubbock."

  Cleary considered what Fontana had told him. He looked around the trailer court, which was emptying of cops and spectators. "You shelve the parole violation and I think he'll cooperate."

  "I'm not promising anything, Jack. I can't bargain with you over the kid's wrap sheet."

  Cleary's only answer was a shrug. He leaned casually back against the Lincoln.

  Fontana shook his head. "You know, you remind me of this bullheaded son of a bitch I used to have as a partner for a lot of years."

  "With one difference... I don't work for the city anymore, Charlie."

  Fontana watched the meat wagon pull out of the lot and onto the highway. "And look what you got for a new partner. I got to question your selection there." He turned, gave Cleary a hard look. "I want some answers real fast, Jack. Pronto."