I had no focus in this search, no theory to be substantiated beyond the persistent intuition that Duncan Guest’s death had been connected with his trade. And then the thought came to me that I was overlooking something at the Dune Street place.
It didn’t seem likely that the police had overlooked it but they didn’t always confide in me completely. I headed the Plymouth that way.
How could Sheila Gallegan know the color of the stole? I hadn’t remembered any light over that runway. Any reflected light from a window would pick up the white sheath dress, but the subdued color of fur would require more illumination.
Her old Chev was parked on the lot and I pulled up next to it. I went up and walked the runway from end to end. Not a light anywhere. I went back to knock on the door of Miss Gallegan’s apartment.
No answer. Her Chev was below, but she was probably at the beach. And then I remembered I still had Hansen’s key to Guest’s hide-out. And I had never looked at the scene of the crime, as the newspapers love to call it.
I went down the runway and started to put the key in the door when someone from within called, “It’s not locked. Come in.”
I went in to find Greg Harvest piling clothes on the bed.
“Ghoul,” I said. “They aren’t even your size, are they?”
He looked at me annoyedly. “I’m his attorney. I’m in charge of his estate.”
“You’ll wind up with some well-dressed relatives, won’t you?”
He straightened. “Puma, get out of my hair. A man can take only so much of your kind of lip.”
I looked around the place. The furniture was about the same as Sheila’s and was probably included in the rent. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. From there, I said, “I didn’t notice your car down below.”
“It’s on a parking lot, a block away, an attended parking lot. I didn’t think I should take a chance on it below. Those wire wheels cost money, you know.”
I looked into the refrigerator and saw a quarter pound of rancid butter and some soured milk. Somebody had disconnected the refrigerator.
Greg came out to pour himself a glass of water.
I said, “Talked to Giampolo this morning. He wanted to know who gave me his name.”
“Ah?”
“I told him Duncan Guest had, before he died. He said that was probably a lie.”
“Don’t get too rough with him, Puma.”
“I don’t intend to.’ I turned to face him. “Do you want to give me the name of that girl who was with you at The Elms Saturday night?”
“Why? You’re reaching, Joe.”
“Maybe. Are you in with Giampolo, Greg? Do you have a piece of management in that racket, too?”
“For Christ’s sake,” he said, “if I was in with him, would I hand you his name?”
“Maybe. I don’t know how you complicated guys operate. Maybe it’s the right time to cross your partner. Maybe he’d be a good man to throw to a grand jury if wrestling is ever investigated.”
He filled another glass of water and sipped it. “Man, you are way out in left field, aren’t you? I suppose Guest was the third partner and I killed him?”
“Very interesting theory,” I said. “Do you want to give me the name of the blonde, now?”
He sipped the water for a few seconds and then set it on the drainboard. He took a notebook from his pocket, riffed through it, and finally tore out a page.
“I’ll not only give you her name; I’ll give you the blonde. Very dull girl.” He nodded toward the other room. “I don’t suppose you’d want to help me carry some of that stuff to the car.”
“Gee, I’d like to, Greg,” I apologized, “but I’m so damned busy.”
He muttered something and went out. He took an armful and went out to the runway and I went to the phone. There was a dial tone; it was still operating.
I phoned Macrae and he was at the station. I gave him the girl’s name and address and the circumstances of my seeing her and told him Harvest was here now, and did he Know it?
“Yes, he checked in here first. This girl looks like a waste of time to me, Joe.”
“If you’ve got something hotter, ignore her. According to what I read in the papers, you’re where I am — nowhere.”
“All right, all right. What have you been doing this morning?”
“Nothing much. I got up late. Guest had a lot of clothes here, didn’t he, considering it wasn’t his real home?”
“He had four times as much in his real home. The way I understand it, he’d quite often stay there for a few days at a time.”
“Adonis didn’t tell me that. Why was Adonis worried, then?”
“Yes. And wouldn’t that be a good line of investigation? Did you know Adonis had gone through a long siege of psychiatric treatment?”
“Of course, Sergeant. Everybody knows that.”
“And he was your first client. Maybe we don’t know more than you do, Joe, but we know more than you want us to.”
“Right, Sergeant. I look silly in sheath dresses, though. I haven’t the hips for them. Harvest — there’s a guy you could give some time to. You boys are inclined to underestimate the chicanery of lawyers.”
From the doorway, Harvest said, “Who the hell are you talking to?”
“See you later, doctor,” I said to Macrae. “I’ll take them every two hours, then. Both of them? Okay.” I hung up. I looked at Greg’s shoes and said, “Crepe soles, eh? Quiet, aren’t they?”
“I asked you a question,” he said.
“I was talking to my doctor. Those hoodlums kind of upset my stomach, kicking me there.”
He stood quietly, staring at me. I felt an unreasonable chill. He said, “You were talking about lawyers.”
“We always do. His brother-in-law is a lawyer. He makes more money than Doc and it burns him. His wife rags him about it.”
“You’re lying,” he said, “as usual.” He went over to the bed. “You put the police on Arnold Giampolo and you are going to be in very serious trouble. You’ll need more than a lawyer to get you out of it.”
“Couldn’t you have sent one of your lackeys to pick up those clothes?” I asked. “It looks chintzy for a man of your stature to be walking up this cheap street with an armfull of second-hand clothes.”
He stood quietly, studying me. He was breathing hard and his eyes locked mine. “I think,” he said finally, “the time has come.” He started to take off his jacket.
“Don’t be hasty, Greg,” I said. “Let’s shake hands. Why get all marked up, just because you don’t like my lip?”
He paused, his coat half off. “Chicken?” he asked softly.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I just want to show you my grip.”
He shrugged back into his coat. I held out a hand. He stared at it for seconds and then reached out to grip it.
The stadium is empty,” I said, “and the boys with the whistles are on sick leave. The pom-pom girls have lost their pom-poms and the boys in the band all have dates, some of them with each other. The time has come, All-American, for you to stop being a halfback. Go ahead, squeeze!”
I let him get high on my hand; I gave him every advantage. And then I tensed my forearm and his knees shook. I gave it a little more and his face went white and he reached out for my face with his left hand, reached out like a woman would, fingernails first.
I squeezed harder and he went to his knees and a harsh, half-choked sob came from him and his eyes were wet. I felt something crack in his hand, probably one of the small bones, and I released him.
He was on his knees, head forward, whimpering. He was a long way from the Notre Dame game at the moment, back with his mother. I went out quickly, ashamed of myself, sick of myself.
He was smarter than I was and had achieved more. He dressed better, thought better and smelled better. There was no point in my trying to rationalize it. He hadn’t deserved that; I had goaded him into it. Because I resented his clear superiority.
But it wasn’t the right time to apologize and I couldn’t go back now.
NINE
FROM A DRUGSTORE, I phoned my phone-answering service and was informed that a Mr. Snip Caster had called and would await a return call. He could be reached at the number the girl gave me.
The number wasn’t Aggie’s but I had a hunch whose it was, and I looked up Fat Emil’s Bar and Grill and sure enough it was Fat Emil’s. It was only a few blocks from where I was.
It was an old stucco building wedged between an Armenian grocery and a Mexican restaurant. It smelled of Lysol and wine, of stale beer and unwashed bodies. A thin man in dirt-glazed overalls was at the bar. Two other men sat at a table near the entrance to the washroom. The bartender looked at me and nodded toward a door in the back of the room.
In this smaller room, Snip Caster was drunkenly asleep and snoring on a canvas army cot. There was a piece of paper in one clenched hand and I took it. I read:
One of the men who beat you up, Jake Koski, lives at 3116 Selwin. He was bragging about it last night.
I didn’t put any money into his still clenched hand; it would be stolen for sure. I could always bring it around later. I drove over to Selwin, which is in Playa del Rey.
I passed Harvest, in his Jaguar, on the way over. We were both stopped for a light, facing each other, and I kept my eyes on the light. If I had wanted an excuse to expend some of the animosity bubbling in me, Snip had given me a target. But I had wasted it on Greg, and Koski would he spared. There would be no physical violence; I was armed.
Number 3116 Selwin was a four-unit building, hidden from the water by the cliff behind it and there was a blue Lincoln convertible parked in front. I didn’t remember all of the old number, but I remembered there had been a “Z” in it. There was no “Z” in this number.
They could be another pair of stolen plates, but I doubted it. It’s a fool’s play, except for short stretches when necessary for a job. I wrote the new number into my notebook and went up the walk to the apartment house.
Three of the mailboxes had names on, but none of the names was Koski. Like Duncan Guest, these gentlemen weren’t advertising their residence. The unnamed apartment was #2, to the right on the first floor.
I heard the two-tone chime ring and then a woman’s voice and wondered if I had made a mistake. But it was Light-brown who opened the door.
He looked at me and smiled. Without turning around, he said to someone behind him, “It’s the wop. What do I do?”
“Bring him in,” a voice said. “I want to see the bandages.”
Light-brown smiled some more. “Afraid to come in?”
I shook my head. “I talked with Giampolo this morning. He offered me you two for the law, but I turned him down.”
The light-brown eyes were suddenly alert and his face momentarily slack in surprise. From behind him, the voice said, “For Christ’s sake, bring him in. Let’s see what’s cooking. Get him out of the hall.”
I came into a room of mail-order furniture, of cotton wall-to-wall carpeting and sleazy drapes on traverse rods. Dark-brown sat on a new maple davenport. A chalk-faced blonde with stocky legs and an impressive bust stood in the archway to the dinette.
Dark-brown said to her, “Now would be a good time for you to go to the store. Take the car if you want.”
“No rough-house in here,” she warned quietly. “I got the place the way I want it, finally, and I won’t take no rough-house.”
Dark-brown turned to look at her, saying nothing.
“God damn it,” she said, “it ain’t even paid for yet.”
He continued to look at her silently and she went away, toward the kitchen. He looked at me, “What was that name you used outside?”
“Giampolo. Hasn’t he called you?”
He shook his head. “Did he call you? Where’d you hear about him?”
“It doesn’t matter. Call him; ask him if I didn’t talk to him.”
He shook his head again. “You said something else out there, about him offering you us.”
“That’s correct. If I’d lay off the investigation, or at least steer clear of wrestling.”
Light-brown came around me to go over and sit next to his partner. The kitchen door slammed.
Dark-brown said, “You sure ain’t short on guts.”
“Nor muscle,” I said. “I’d have taken you both, if you hadn’t pulled the sap.”
Light-brown muttered something and Dark-brown said, “Shut up, Jake.” He continued to stare at me.
I said, “I told Giampolo I couldn’t make the deal. I told him I wasn’t interested in the crookedness of wrestling, only in the death of Duncan Guest.”
“And he gave you this address?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” I said. “Here I am.”
Dark-brown turned to look at his partner. “You and your big mouth. I wish your brain was as big as your mouth.”
“I’m looking for the murderer of Duncan Guest,” I said. “Are you?”
He nodded toward a maple chair, upholstered in chintz. “Sit down. You want a beer?”
“I guess.” I sat down.
Dark-brown said to his partner, “Get three cans.”
Light-brown went to the kitchen and Dark-brown said, “Mr. Giampolo didn’t call the play on you; that was our idea. We was to watch you, try to scare you but not lay a hand on you. Mr. Giampolo don’t play it heavy.”
“That’s why he’s rich,” I said, “and your wife has to settle for mail-order furniture.”
He shook his head vexedly. “Boy, you really hunt trouble. You sick or something?” He tapped his temple questioningly.
“Look who’s talking. Did I start the fight?”
“Okay, okay. So that was just business. We played it wrong, but it was business. And that broad ain’t my wife.”
Light-brown came in with three punched cans of beer and handed them around. I lifted mine. “To better understanding.”
We all drank.
Dark-brown said, “So what have you got?”
“Practically nothing. How about you?”
He looked at his can of beer. “The guy we’re watching now is Einar. But we lost him. He ain’t at the stand and he ain’t home and we don’t know where the hell he is.”
A silence, and he asked, “Do you?”
“No. What makes Einar Hansen so interesting?”
“Sorting ‘em all over, he was Guest’s best friend. He was a guy Guest told things he didn’t tell his other friends. This Einar knows plenty about a lot of things, but he never opens his mouth foolish, only when he thinks it’s smart.”
“The way to get to a man like that,” I explained, “is with money.”
“If nothing else works, yeah. But first you try the cheaper angles, to keep the operation cost down. That’s smart, too, ain’t it?”
I nodded and sipped my beer. Light-brown muttered something again and I looked at him. He held my stare. I transferred it to Dark-brown. “Are you going to try Einar with money, now?”
“If we find him. That Gallegan girl, she’s an angle, too. Hansen was over there to see her last night. Would you know why?”
“He’s a man; she’s an attractive girl. Why not?”
“It could be more than that, too. He dated her before and then she put the freeze on him. Last night he’s back and stays two hours. Why? Trying to get her real story, I’d say.”
“You boys have been busy, haven’t you?” I said admiringly. “How’d you learn all that?”
“From friends.”
“Wrestlers?”
Again, Koski muttered something. Dark-brown said, “Why not? They saw Hansen every day. They know him. That don’t make the kill a wrestling kill, does it?”
“No,” I admitted, “but if it isn’t a wrestling kill, would you mind telling me why you’re interested in it?”
“To find out,” Dark-brown said reasonably. “If it
is, to protect who we got to protect, and if it isn’t, to be sure the police find that out before they go nosing into wrestling. Now, does that make sense to you?”
“Yes,” I said. I finished my beer and stood up. “Take it easy around that Gallegan girl. I know I said that before but it’s important enough to repeat.”
Dark-brown didn’t answer. Koski said, “Don’t tell us what to do.”
I looked at him. “I’m telling you. Do you want to go out in the back yard with me and without your buddy and we’ll thresh it out?”
“Any time,” he said.
I nodded toward the back of the apartment. “Let’s go.”
“Relax,” Dark-brown said. “You shut up, Jake. He’d eat you, stupid. And Mr. Giampolo would dump you. And you could go back to picking up towels in the locker room.”
Koski stood rigidly quiet, looking at nobody.
I said, “I know his name, but I never did catch yours.”
“Just call me trouble,” Dark-brown said. “That’s what my ma always called me.”
“Okay, Trouble. See you around, I suppose.” I went to the doorway, conscious of their eyes on my back. I went out without looking around.
It was after lunchtime and I was hungry. I went to Smoky Joe’s in Santa Monica and ordered a plate of ribs. I phoned Sergeant Macrae from there. He wasn’t in, but his partner was.
I told him, “One of the men who beat me up is named Jake Koski and he and his partner are right now in Apartment #2 at 3116 Selwin in Playa del Rey. There’s a woman with them.”
“Thanks, Puma. I’m surprised you didn’t go over there with a baseball bat.”
“I’m not physical,” I told him. “I’m mental.”
“In the worst way,” he added. “Keep your nose clean.”
I sat down to my ribs feeling more like a citizen. Not giving them Giampolo had bothered me and I had partially repaid my conscience by giving them the hoodlums. Giampolo was too rich for me to toy with; unless he became more involved than he presently was, perhaps I would never need to reveal him.
Night Lady Page 10
