by Parnell Hall
I looked at them accusingly. “You guys weren’t following me.”
“What?”
“When you let me go the second time. You didn’t have me followed.”
“Of course not. Why?”
“You almost got me killed.”
“What?”
“I was counting on you guys following me. I figured you’d be there, backing me up. See, I couldn’t think of any reason why you would have let me go unless you were gonna have me followed.”
Barnes and Preston looked at each other and shook their heads.
“That’s because you have such an exaggerated sense of your own importance,” Barnes said. “And, if I may say so, because you have such a low opinion of police intelligence. You want me to tell you why we let you go? We let you go because you were innocent. Bizarre concept? You were innocent. You’re a meddling, interfering private eye, but you didn’t kill those guys. I knew it. Preston knew it. But you didn’t give us credit for that, see. You think you’re the only one with any smarts. Why don’t you tell him how it was, Preston?”
Preston shrugged. “Sure. As soon as Minton I.D.‘d you as the guy who hired Steerwell, we knew he was the perp. Just like you did. See, the way we figured it, there was no way you and your estimable asshole attorney could be so stupid as to claim that Minton would confirm your story if you knew, in fact, that he would not. So, when he failed to confirm your story, we knew he was lying and knew he was guilty. It was an incredibly stupid thing for Minton to do by the way. In fact, all of the principals in this affair were incredibly stupid. They had to be. Otherwise, you would never have figured it out.”
Just what MacAullif had said. Any more and I might begin to believe it.
“But leave that,” Preston went on. “The fact is, we knew Minton was guilty. So why should we bother about you? We put in the past few days working on him. We dug into his background, and it’s amazing what we’ve established. We can link him to Tallman. We can link him to Nubar. We also got a line on the pilot who flew him back from Vegas, and when we get ahold of him I’m sure he’s gonna sing.”
“So, you see,” Barnes said, “in another twenty-four hours we’d have cracked this case ourselves.”
“Not that we don’t appreciate the help,” Preston said. “Though it would have been better if you’d let Minton shoot you. His murder of you would have been the ultimate admission of guilt.”
“But you did help in your own way,” Barnes said, “and we will certainly give you credit in the press.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I told him. “I’m sort of a low-profile type myself and the less need said about me, the better.”
“Suit yourself,” Barnes said, “but if that’s the way you want to play it, the fact is we probably won’t need you at all. Or your tape recording. We’ll pick up Tallman tonight, shake him down, get these guys ratting on each other. That should do it right there.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.
“But there is one small matter,” Barnes said.
“Oh?”
“The pictures.”
“Ah, yes, the pictures,” I said.
“Yes,” Preston said. “We were wondering if those pictures might form some important link in this case.”
“I don’t know. They certainly might,” I said.
“And there is that felony count of grand larceny,” Barnes said.
“There is indeed,” I said. “Well, gentlemen, I was just wondering. If I were to, quote, find those pictures, unquote, and drop ’em by major crimes tomorrow morning, do you suppose that felony count might just disappear?”
“It’s entirely likely,” Barnes said. “In fact, I’m sure the whole thing could be dismissed in absentia, without the defendant ever having to come back and appear in court.”
“That would be right nice,” I told him. “Now look, if you boys have everything all wrapped up here, personally I’ve had a hell of a day and I’d like to get some sleep.”
“No problem,” Barnes said. “But—”
“What?”
“See you tomorrow?”
“First thing in the morning,” I told him.
“Fine,” Barnes said.
I turned to go.
“Just one thing,” Barnes called after me.
I turned back. “What?”
“It’s none of my business,” Barnes said. “But if you wouldn’t mind a little constructive criticism.”
What could I say? Who doesn’t mind a little constructive criticism?
“What’s that?” I asked.
Barnes shrugged. “I think you probably read too much detective fiction.”
40.
I DIDN’T STOP BY Major Crimes first thing the next morning. I had some other business to take care of first. Eight o’clock in the morning I was stationed in front of Johnson’s Tree Surgeons when the young stud with the curly blond hair drove up in a beat-up Ford, unlocked the door, and hopped into one of the trucks. He gunned the motor and drove out. I tagged along behind.
He drove about four blocks, stopped for coffee and doughnuts to go and then headed out of town.
From about a half a block back, I could see him munching the doughnuts as he drove along. I wished I had some myself, but I’d skipped coffee and doughnuts that morning, having learned my lesson about drinking coffee on stakeout with no available bathroom in sight.
The guy drove about five miles out in the county and stopped under—guess what?—a tree. The tree looked healthy enough to me, but it was probably infested with something or other and was about to lose some of its limbs.
Well, the ace private detective to the rescue. Here I come to save a tree.
I parked my car about a half a block behind so he wouldn’t see it, got out and walked down the street. I found out there wasn’t any particular need for me to rush to save this particular tree, ’cause when I got there the guy had not yet begun to unload his chainsaws, ropes or what-have-you. Instead he was sitting on the running board of the truck, finishing the coffee and doughnuts.
I strode up to him, stopped and in my best tough-guy manner, talking out of the side of my mouth, said, “Stand up.”
He looked at me. “What?”
“I said, stand up. I want to talk to you.”
He put down the cup of coffee and stood, muscles rippling. He was my height and weight, only really in shape, and I suddenly realized this guy could easily tear me apart. I couldn’t let it phase me though. I stood my ground.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Harold Dunleavy,” I said. “That mean anything to you?”
It did. His eyes flicked.
I had no way of knowing if this guy knew who Harold Dunleavy was and knew I wasn’t him, but it didn’t really matter. He could think I was Harold Dunleavy, or he could think I was some guy sent by Harold Dunleavy. Either way was just fine.
The kid cocked his head. “Oh, yeah?” he said, arrogantly.
The kid wasn’t happy to see me, but he’d come to the realization that he could take me, and now he was actually gonna have some fun lording it over me for having taken my wife.
“Now, there’s no reason for you and me to be at odds,” I told him. “I just thought you and I should have a little talk.”
“Yeah? And why is that?”
“It’s my job,” I told him.
That stopped him. He hadn’t expected that line at all.
“What?”
“Yeah. Because of my job. You know what I do? Well, let me tell you. I’m a stockbroker. But you see, a stockbroker’s salary ain’t for shit. Just like a tree surgeon’s. There’s never enough money to go around, you know what I mean?”
I’d hit a chord anyone would respond to.
“Damn right,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “So that’s why I do this other job. And that’s the one I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” he said, suspicious again.
“Yeah,” I
said. “I don’t normally talk about it, but in your case I make an exception. You see how it is, this is a gambling town. I happen to have connections. You know what it means to have connections?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I’m connected to some people. Big people. And sometimes I do a job for ’em, you understand? I’m an independent contractor. I do contract work. You know what that means, contract work?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t want you to. But here’s the thing. The guys I’m working with. The guys I’m connected with. They judge me. They always judge me. See, because I’m supposed to be tough. That’s part of my job, you know. Being tough.”
The guy was looking at me as if I were from another planet. It was clear that he had no idea what I was talking about. It was also clear that he was slightly afraid that he was going to find out.
“The thing is,” I said, “I can’t afford to appear foolish.”
He was staring at me now. “What?”
“Yeah. Foolish. And there’s nothing that makes a guy look quite so foolish as to have some punk kid screwing his wife.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said again, but it wasn’t quite as arrogant as when he said it before.
“Yeah,” I said. “See, if the word got around to the guys that I deal with, they would think it made me look foolish. And then the next time a contract came along, they’d think twice before they gave it to me. See what I mean?”
“No. I don’t see what you mean. What are you talking about, contract?”
I laughed. “You’re dumber than you look. Either you know what I’m talking about, or you don’t. If you don’t, I don’t particularly care. You ever see the film Prizzi’s Honor?”
He gulped. “Yeah. I saw it.”
“Good. Funny movie,” I said. “Now, here’s the thing.”
I gave him my best tough guy leer. I reached under my jacket and pulled the gun out of my belt. Fortunately, MacAullif had taken the bullets out of it as I’d requested, so I didn’t blow my dick off, which might have damaged my tough-guy image some.
His eyes were round as saucers. I didn’t aim the gun at him. I just held it and patted it softly a couple of times into my other hand.
I smiled at him and said it quite casually.
“If you ever come near my wife again, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
41.
“THERE’S TWELVE ROLLS of film here.”
Barnes was right. I’d burned the thirteenth roll just as soon as I’d picked them up at the post office. I’d burned the roll with the pictures of MacAullif’s daughter on it, just as I should have done to begin with.
It wasn’t easy to do. I didn’t want to go back to the hotel, because I was afraid Barnes might have sent a reception committee for me, seeing as how I was late getting to Major Crimes, what with having to deal with the tree surgeon and all. So I drove around till I found a roadside rest area, and I burned them one at a time with a book of matches into a garbage drum. I was paranoid as all hell that some cop would drive by and see me doing it, but none did. But I sure confused the hell out of a family of tourists having an early picnic lunch.
I looked at Barnes. “That’s right,” I said. “Twelve rolls.”
“The girl from the Photomat said there were thirteen.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but she also claims I’m the guy who picked them up to begin with. And if she’s as unreliable a witness as all that, she’s probably wrong about the number, too.”
“The guy does have a sense of humor,” Preston said.
“He does, indeed,” Barnes said. “The guy likes funny things. And you know, it’s a funny thing about these pictures.”
“What’s that?” I said.
“Well, our theory,” Barnes said, “Preston’s and mine, has always been that you had some client that you were protecting and that’s why you were a clam. And wouldn’t it be a funny thing if that client that you were protecting happened to be on that thirteenth roll of film that Steerwell shot?”
“Highly funny,” I said. “And also highly unlikely, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, I wouldn’t say,” Barnes said. “But I would say this. You’re very lucky. Don’t you think so, Preston?”
“Yeah,” Preston said. “I would say that he is very lucky.”
“Very lucky. You’re very lucky in that we don’t give a shit. Seeing as how the pictures on the twelve rolls that you did give us—the pictures of Tallman and Nubar—happen to be exactly what we want, the number of rolls doesn’t really matter that much.
“And the other thing is that the case is all wrapped up.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Barnes said. “We rousted Tallman out of bed at three in the morning, gave him the works and he caved in just like that. He admits his connection with Nubar. He admits his connection with Minton. Claims he knew nothing about the murders—it was a shock to him. Blames it all on Minton.”
“On the other hand,” Preston said, “Minton’s a clam. Just like you. Minton ain’t saying a word.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Minton denied everything, then clammed and called a lawyer. Minton’s not talking, but the lawyer’s talking plenty. Claims it’s all a frame-up. Claims Tallman’s the actual perp and is trying to put it all off on Minton. Claims Tallman was the guy who was involved with Nubar. Tallman was the guy who had everything to lose. Claims if Steerwell took pictures of Tallman, then Steerwell was a threat to Tallman, not to Minton. If Minton was in that alley, he was there as a reputable private detective investigating a murder, and the person that he was meeting was probably a hit man sent by Tallman. And that hit man was the man who had the murder gun. Minton was there in his official capacity, attempting to recover pictures which were the rightful property of his agency. In other words, Minton is squeaky clean and being framed.”
Barnes shrugged. “The guy had a lot of points.”
“So what did you do?” I said.
“Hell,” Preston said. “We just let the guy talk. We don’t give a shit.”
“Yeah,” Barnes said. “In a couple of days, when things have cooled down, we’ll get this attorney in here and we’ll play him your tape recording. Then we’ll explain to him how things are. Then, after we’ve shown him that we have Minton’s balls in a vise, we will offer to let him make a deal. The deal, of course, is to cop a plea and turn state’s evidence against Tallman.”
“But don’t think that means Minton’s gonna walk,” Preston said. “The best deal this guy’s gonna cut, the way things stand, is the difference between twenty-five to life and ten to twenty-five.”
“That’s the best he’s gonna get,” Barnes said. “And that’s only if we nail Tallman for the identical rap. And you see, if that happens—and I can almost assure you it will—we’re not gonna need you or your recording at all.”
“So you’re lucky,” Preston said. “You’re lucky all the way up and down the line.”
“That’s right, Barnes said. “Particularly seeing as how we had such a good case against you for the murder, if we really wanted to press it. I mean, we had all that eyewitness identification, plus we found out a cop nailed you for speeding on Ventnor Avenue. The citation indicates you were hot-footing it away from Steerwell’s just as fast as you could go not ten minutes after the time the witness says you ran in and out of the house.”
“Yeah,” Preston said. “Put that all together and throw in your fingerprints on Nubar’s wallet, and see how lucky you are to be out here walking around.”
“Yeah,” Barnes said. “If you want to believe all that detective fiction, it’s a wonder some dumb cop didn’t look any further than you for the murder suspect.”
I couldn’t really think of anything to say, so I didn’t.
“Now,” Barnes said, “it’s certainly been fun having you around here, but I’m just wondering when your business for this Mr. Richard Rosenberg might be finished and you might be heading back for New York.”
“I was thinking of checking out tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll be sorry to see you go,” Preston said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I don’t think we’ll have any problem handling Major Crimes and all that, but this certainly was an amusing break from our usual routine.”
I looked from one to the other. I felt, as usual, pretty stupid. “That’s nice to hear,” I said. “I don’t suppose you boys fix speeding tickets?”
“Certainly not,” Barnes said. “We’re not corrupt.”
“I’m certainly glad to hear it,” I said. “Well boys, it’s been nice talking to you, but I guess I’ll be shoving off now.”
“You staying one more night?” Barnes said.
“That’s right,” I told him.
“Well then, you mind if I give you a little advice?”
Jesus. Again with the advice.
“Would it matter if I did?” I said.
“Just trying to be helpful,” Barnes said.
I shrugged. “Yeah, sure. What’s your advice?”
“Well,” Barnes said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t gamble.”
Strange advice in Atlantic City. I looked at him. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Barnes looked at Preston and then grinned at me. “I would say you’ve probably used up your allotment of luck.”
42.
I FELT LIKE THE fucking Lone Ranger.
Harold and Barbara were sitting on their living room couch. I was standing in front of them.
I’d rung the front doorbell, and when Harold had come to the door, I’d said brusquely, “It’s about the murders,” and pushed by him into the house. He’d followed me into the living room in a daze, at which point I’d curtly ordered him to get his wife. I don’t know if they can nail you for impersonating an officer just by being rude, but it occurred to me at the time it would be interesting to hear someone argue the point. At any rate, it sure as hell worked, and there they were, America’s favorite fun couple, sitting on the couch, gaping up at me as if I were the whole fucking FBI.
“Now,” I said, “I’d like to relieve your minds. You’re not charged with anything, and you’re not gonna be. We’re winding up these murder cases now, and we need to clear the air. Now I have to tell you some things. Some of it’s gonna be news to one of you, some it’s gonna be news to the other. Some of it will be stuff one of you knows, some of it will be stuff the other of you knows, and some of it will be stuff neither of you heard before. It doesn’t matter. Just sit there and listen, don’t interrupt, and let me get through it. You’re gonna hear it all, but what I wanna impress upon you is, nothing I say goes any further than this room. Is that understood?”
