Night Lady

by William Campbell Gault

  “I didn’t. What were you doing at Miss Gallegan’s, here?”

  I nodded toward her and made a face.

  She said, “He was questioning me about the murder.”

  Macrae was silent for seconds. Then he asked me, “Do you need a doctor?”

  I shrugged and put a finger to the lump over my ear. “Concussion?”

  “It’s possible. I’ll call a doctor.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Maybe I won’t need one. Let me rest for a few minutes.”

  He nodded and sat down on a pull-up chair near the bed. “Who do you think sent those slobs after you?”

  “I don’t know. One man you could question is Mike Petalious. Not that he’d tell you anything.”

  “The man they call the ‘policeman’?” I nodded.

  He chewed his lip. “Miss Gallegan told me you saw those men out there before you went down the steps. Why didn’t you call the police first?”

  I whispered, “I explained that to Miss Gallegan and I’m sure you had her explain it to you.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I just wanted you to confirm it. What makes you think I gave you permission to work outside the law?”

  “Be reasonable, Sergeant. All your informants work outside the law. If you didn’t have them, there’d be no law, only chaos.”

  He stared at me for seconds and then stood up and went to the phone. Sheila Gallegan went to get me a glass of water.

  On the phone, Macrae said, “Pick up Mike Petalious. Bring him in and hold him. That’s right, over in Brentwood; you know where he lives.”

  The water felt good, going down my sore throat. I put my hands beneath me and rose to a sitting position. The pain in my stomach muscles brought sweat to my forehead.

  Macrae asked anxiously, “How about internal injuries? You’re bone-white, man.”

  “They must have kicked me in the belly,” I said. My voice was better.

  Macrae said, “You wouldn’t happen to remember that license number, would you?”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my notebook and the number was still there. I handed it to him. He went to the phone again.

  Sheila Gallegan said, “You damned idiot! Why did you do what you did?”

  “Every once in a while,” I told her gently, “I feel the need for a test. You see, I’m one of those dopes more physical than mental and there’s no other way I can be sure I’m alive.”

  She shook her head vexedly. “Sarcastic, too. Idiotic, sarcastic, arrogant and — ” She expelled her breath angrily.

  “And attractive to women,” I added coyly. “Don’t bleed for me, honey.”

  She glared at me.

  Macrae came from the phone to ask, “What’d they say to you? Did they say anything about Miss Gallegan here?”

  I hesitated.

  His stare was hard. “The truth, now.”

  I answered, “All they said was that maybe they’d be luckier if they came up here and slapped some answers out of her.”

  “And that’s why you started to swing?”

  I shrugged. “Partly.”

  Sheila Gallegan colored. She rose and went into the kitchen.

  Macrae winked at me. “Score me for an assist, Romeo.” He shook his head. “You’re a hard man to hate.”

  “Why try, Sergeant?” I asked him. “I’ve got my freedom but you’ve got your pension. We’re both doing the Lord’s work.”

  “That’s sacrilege,” he said. “Watch your tongue.”

  I took a deep breath. I could see Sheila Gallegan in the kitchen. She was drinking a glass of water. I ached all over. I itched to meet the brown-eyed bastards again. But one at a time, I warned myself; you’re not Superman, Puma. Discretion and favorable odds are the same ingredients in valor.

  “Who are you hating now?” Macrae asked. “I wish I had a mirror for you.”

  “Who would you hate, Sergeant, if you were sitting here now?”

  “You take it easy,” he warned me. “When we drag ‘em in, maybe we can trip ‘em a few times, but I don’t want your wop … Italian temper getting the best of you.”

  “You can say wop,’ “ I told him. “You’re my friend.”

  “You want to be my friend, you got to earn it, Puma. I’m the law and don’t you forget it. You’re not the law.”

  “You’re badly educated, Sergeant. I’m the law. Any righteous citizen is the law.”

  His voice was rough. “Righteous! You? Start over.”

  “I’m righteous in my way. You don’t have to worry about me, Sergeant.”

  “Your voice is back,” he said sourly. “Why didn’t I leave while you were still whispering?”

  I didn’t answer him. Sheila Gallegan came from the kitchen with two aspirin tablets and a glass of water. I took them like a lamb.

  She asked softly, “Do you think those men will come back?”

  Macrae said, “We’ll keep a close watch on your place, Miss Gallegan.”

  Sure they would. With what? They didn’t have enough men now to half cover the town. I said, “I guess I won’t need a doctor. My head doesn’t ache much any more.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got plenty to do. You’ll be all right, Miss Gallegan. Don’t you worry about it.”

  He went out. I heard him talk to some reporters at the door. In less than a minute, there was complete silence.

  Sheila Gallegan studied me vexedly. “Why did you have to be insolent with him, too? He was very nice.”

  “Because,” I explained, “he was about to tell me to get the hell out of the case. And I learned early in life that the best defense is a fast and angry offense. Offensive, you see, is a word that is supposed to have two meanings, but both meanings are really the same.”

  “You have a lot of answers, don’t you?” she said quietly. “You’ve always got an answer.”

  “Because I’m rational.” I swung my legs around and sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you think I like arguments? Do you think I enjoy violence?”

  “Yes,” she said clearly.

  “Jesus,” I said wearily, “nobody understands me. Nobody!”

  “Except for Miss Huntington?” she suggested.

  I glared at her. “Get off that kick, will you? Get off that envious, adolescent, idiotic, obsessive resentment against Deborah Huntington. It’s like a cancer in you.”

  She stared at me, her chin trembling, her blue eyes misting.

  “Cry,” I said. “You’ve held it too long.”

  She began to cry. I went to the window and looked out at the traffic on the street. I went to the other window and looked out at the empty lot next door. Not a cop in sight.

  She was sitting in the pull-up chair now, with her head forward on the bed and crying whole-heartedly. I went into the kitchen and mixed myself a drink. I went into the bathroom and took a couple tissues from her Kleenex box.

  The crying had diminished some when I came back into the living room. I tapped her shoulder and she looked up. I handed her the tissues.

  She stared for a few seconds and then blew her nose. She said, “You could have mixed me a drink, too, you big dago.”

  I smiled. “That’s better. Now you’re talking like the Irish should. Take this one.”

  She took my drink and I went back to get another one. When I returned to the living room, she was sitting erectly in the pull-up chair.

  “One question,” she said. “What has that Huntington girl got that I haven’t got?”

  “For men?”

  She nodded.

  “An obvious availability,” I explained. “Her sex shows. You are a highly attractive girl in your scrubbed, tanned, beach-girl way. But she appeals more to the lovers of the indoor sport.”

  “You mean she’s — more brazen, more obviously vulgar?”

  “That isn’t what I meant and you know it. Was it because of this pukey Duncan Guest? Is that what started your resentment?”

  She inhaled and looked at the bed. “I — suppose. No girl
has ever before taken a man away from me, not a man I wanted.”

  “Well, it will probably happen again, so grow up. You’re out of high school, Red. You’re all alone in the crummiest section of a real crummy town. And don’t let Sergeant Macrae’s promise lower your guard. You tell your friend in the Santa Monica Department what happened today. They’ve got lots of extra cops.”

  “But no jurisdiction here.”

  “You tell him. Let him worry about jurisdiction.” She sipped her drink and saia nothing. I sipped mine and said the same. It was quiet, peaceful and the air was delicately fragrant with her perfume. Perhaps it came from the open bed.

  “You think I’m a damned baby,” she said suddenly.

  “I think maybe you were before you met Duncan Guest. That should bring a woman to maturity fast.”

  Her chin quivered. We went back to silence. I had a doubtful hope that some revelation might be born of the recent violence and our current empathy. I sat and waited, looking benign.

  She said finally, “It’s four-thirty. I’ve a dinner date at six.”

  “I’ll go,” I told her, “as soon as I finish this drink.”

  “I — didn’t mean that.”

  “I’ll go anyway. Is there anything you want to tell me now that you had reason to withhold before?”

  She looked at me candidly and shook her head.

  “I’ll check with you from time to time. Okay?”

  “I’d appreciate it,” she said. “You’re — all right, Mr. Puma.”

  I stood up and finished my drink. “Thank you. Is the dinner date with Einar Hansen?”

  She frowned. “No. What made you ask that?”

  “Nothing. It was a throwaway line. Keep your chin up, Red.”

  “Check with me from time to time, like you promised.

  I went over and kissed her on the forehead. I said, “Natch.” I left her smiling.

  I drove over to the Venice Station. Petalious was on the way in but they had had no luck with my adversaries. The license plates on the Lincoln had been stolen plates.

  I was going past the hamburger stand when I saw the sign was off the door. I parked next to the Tennis Club and walked over.

  Einar was at one end of the counter, reading a Mirror-News.

  “How was the funeral?” I asked.

  “Jammed. He sure had a lot of friends, that guy.”

  And at least one enemy, I thought. I asked, “Got anything besides hamburgers and hot dogs?”

  He folded the paper. “I could fix you some shrimp.”

  “Got beer?”

  He nodded. “In bottles. That’s what you want, shrimp and beer.” He went to the refrigerator. “Ever see those hoodlums again?”

  “About an hour ago. They worked me over.”

  He turned to stare at me. “No kidding?”

  I didn’t answer. I reached for the Mirror-News.

  “They were just stooges,” he said. “Who do you think sicked ‘em on you?”

  “My best guess would be Mike Petalious.”

  He turned on the deep fryer and went over to get me a glass of water. He put it in front of me and stood looking out at the ocean.

  I said, “What kind of girl is that Sheila Gallegan?”

  He shrugged. “She’s okay. Kind of — argumentative. I get a feeling she’s fighting herself all the time. She had a case on Dunk for a while.”

  “So did Deborah Huntington — for a while.”

  “Huh!” he said. “And still. You should have seen her at the funeral.”

  “Did she cry?”

  “No, it was worse than that. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. She looked like she was going to break into little pieces.”

  “You sound like a gossip columnist,” I said. “How could you guess what she was feeling?”

  He shook his head. “You should have seen her. Man, she was like a babe walking a tight wire. That Dunk-he hooked ‘em. They were thinking about marriage, man.”

  “Come off it,” I said. “Maybe he was, because of the money, but she’s over him already.”

  “Huh!” he said again. “You didn’t know Duncan Guest, mister.”

  “My name,” I told him, “isn’t ‘man’ or ‘mister.’ It’s Joe Puma. You can remember a little thing like that, can’t you?”

  He turned to stare at me. “What are you hot about?”

  “I’m sick of hearing about Duncan Guest and his conquests. I’m fed up with the man. He’s shaping up as scum in my mind.”

  Einar Hansen looked at me pityingly. “He’s dead, dead, dead. Who can hate the dead?”

  “I can. Isn’t that fryer hot enough yet?”

  “Not yet. There are other restaurants.”

  “I like this one,” I said, “because of the courteous service.” I began to read the Mirror-News, ignoring him.

  The shrimp was excellent and the beer was cold. I finished both and ordered another bottle of beer. With the whiskey I’d had, the beer was getting to me a little, but that was all right. I wanted some edges blurred.

  Two muscle men in swimming trunks came in and sat at the far end of the counter. They ordered hamburgers and malts. They ate and talked about Duncan Guest. Hansen went down to their end of the counter.

  I checked the menu for prices and had the exact amount without any need for change. I put it on the counter and went out without saying good-bye.

  I was at a temporary dead end. Until I heard from Curt Huntington or there was a move from the other side, I-had no new avenues to investigate. I drove carefully to the office. My vision was hazy and I felt weak; I was getting a reaction finally from the violence and the whiskey, beer and shrimp.

  In the washroom down the hall, I bathed my face in cool water and washed my hands. It was six o’clock and the traffic in the street below was continuous and murderous. I sat and thought and nothing bright came to me.

  I called my phone-answering service and was informed that a Miss Huntington had phoned at three-thirty and was expecting a return call.

  I didn’t want to phone her, but she was my client.

  “I’m lonely,” she said. “I’m blue.”

  “So am I. Did your brother find out what I asked him to?”

  “I’ve no idea. What’d you ask him to find out?”

  “The name of a man. I saw Miss Gallegan this afternoon. She told me you were the one who took Duncan Guest away from her.”

  “I’m surprised she’d admit it.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t tell me the same thing. All these things are important, Deborah. I can’t work in the dark.”

  “The hell you can’t. Let’s not fight!”

  “All right. I’m sorry that you’re lonely and blue. Couldn’t Gregory Harvest do something about that?”

  “Greg? That square? Have you been talking to him?”

  “He’s been threatening me. He told me he was very fond of you and I should watch my step. I certainly wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of a big-shot lawyer like that.”

  She chuckled. “Aren’t you the humble one? I could make him a small-shot lawyer with a flick of the wrist. My God, you’re not impressed by Greg Harvest, are you?”

  “Because of my background,” I assured her, “money has always impressed me. And because of my trade, I’ve learned to stay on the right side of City Hall. Which is just another name for money.”

  “Aren’t we depressed today?” she said jeeringly. “What you need is a good dose of Alden Poltice. He’s at The Elms.”

  “He’s a very funny man,” I agreed, “but I can’t afford The Elms.”

  “I can.”

  “Lucky you,” I said. “Well, tell your brother to phone me the minute he gets that name.”

  “Wait — ” she said. “Joe, I need a friend. Tonight, just tonight. I’m not going to crowd you, but I need somebody strong and arrogant around tonight.”

  “I’m not feeling so well,” I told her. “I was worked over this afternoon in that lot below Sheila Galle
gan’s apartment. It should make the late papers. You can read about it there.”

  A silence. “Joe — ”

  “That’s right. I was sapped and then kicked around. Miss Gallegan nursed me back, to health.”

  A longer silence. “I want to hear about it. It’s important that I do. As your client, I order you to take me to The Elms tonight on the expense account and tell me all about your day. That’s where I want to get your report, at The Elms.”

  Why fight it? It was her money. I said, “I’ll go home and shower and get on the old blue suit. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

  “I thought we could have dinner there.”

  “I’ve already had dinner at Einar Hansen’s hamburger stand. I’ll pick you up at nine. You’d better phone for the reservation; my name doesn’t really send them at The Elms.”

  “Yes, dear,” she said softly. “Yes, lover.”

  She was a dandy. I would hate to be her psychiatrist. I went home and showered. I put on a heavy robe and set the alarm for eight-fifteen. It was now a little after seven and an hour’s nap might help. I flopped on the bed.

  They all went around in my mind and made me dizzy, all of them from Adonis to Sheila Gallegan. I thought about the funeral and for some reason that led me to thinking about Mike Petalious’ woman, but I couldn’t see any connection.

  Finally I dozed off.

  SEVEN

  THE MAITRE D’ at The Elms smiled warmly at Deborah, glanced casually at me and said pointedly, “This way, Miss Huntington.”

  I went along. I’d brung her. I resisted the impulse to backhand the suave son-of-a-bitch and walked quietly in their wake, trying to look like I was at home here.

  Einar’s, that was my kind of joint. But even Einar hadn’t been as courteous to me as I’d expected this afternoon.

  Our present host held Deborah’s chair as a waiter sidled in to handle mine, and we were seated efficiently and quietly in a nook that afforded a fine view of the floor but also managed a medium of privacy.

  The maitre d’ smiled at me bleakly. “Is this satisfactory, sir?”

  “Dandy,” I said. “Your toupee’s on crooked.” A momentary horror came to his face and he started to reach a hand toward his hair. “April fool,” I said.