Deadly Weapon
Page 11
“I trust you, darling. It was Tuesday night last week. Wednesday night the week before that — and — and Friday before that. That’s all the farther back I go.”
“Thanks, redhead. That’ll be enough. I probably won’t get a chance to even use it.”
They crawled out of the car and walked arm in arm to the Devil’s Bar. The cocktail lounge was circular, plainly edged with square dark booths. From behind the oval bar in the center of the room, the two relaxed bartenders could keep an eye on the needs of every table. The cycloramic walls of the room were raw adobe muraled with an American artist’s idea of a Mexican Hades. Virile devils roasted half-stripped senoritas over strangely frozen flames. Other, more functional, devils wrestled with other, more fortunate, senoritas. There was one voluptuous female devil pursuing a wildly fleeing peon boy.
“You and me,” Kevin giggled, as they took seats at the bar.
“I wonder if you have to be a Mexican citizen to die and go there?” Walter James murmured.
There were four other people at the bar. Two roundfaced sailors and a young girl, whose fresh expressions contrasted with the sly leers of the mural, and a tired-looking brunette behind a half-empty Manhattan. The sailors and the girl were huddled in a low-laugh conversation. The brunette contemplated puddles around her glass, stirring them idly with a crimson nail. Walter James noted that the painted devils had identical faces — the same tip-tilted brows, the same hairline mustaches, the same pointed chins. He was about to comment to Kevin when one swarthy bartender stirred and glided toward them.
“Two tequila stingers,” he said instead.
“Are the pictures supposed to increase the body temperature so we’ll buy more drinks?” Kevin whispered wickedly.
“Maybe the owner doesn’t realize it, but he has the makings of a fine Chamber of Commerce here,” he answered. The waiter was back already. “They must have this stuff ready-mixed.”
Walter James laid the money on the counter and flattened his hand over it. “My name is Walter James. I want to see Steve,” he said.
The bartender regarded him steadily. “Big or Little?”
“Big.”
The swarthy man turned to his lounging partner. “Walter James. Senor Luz.” The other bartender disappeared to the rear. The swarthy man took the bills and stood flapping them against the edge of the bar until the other man returned. They murmured together for a moment. Kevin sucked in her breath.
Walter James muttered in her ear, “In the car — twenty minutes,” then the swarthy man said, “Come with me.” He slid obediently off his stool and followed the man to a velour curtain at the rear. In the small corridor behind it, the bartender ran light fingers up and down his sides.
“Never use them,” Walter James said. The bartender grunted and motioned him toward a door. He walked through it unattended.
It was a long office of more raw adobe, hung here and there with small Spanish tapestries. Two men sat in straight-backed chairs along the wall — a beefy American and a dapper, florid Mexican youth. Behind a carved desk at the other end of the room, an older man toyed with a salad in a wooden bowl. The older man rose.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Walter James. I have been expecting you.”
Walter James advanced to the desk and put his forefingers on it. It seemed as though he had seen this man before. The mural in the bar. The man before him had the same features as all the identical devils: tip-tilted brows, hairline mustache, pointed chin. His complexion was satiny tan and he lacked horns — that was the only difference.
“You have the advantage,” said Walter James.
“I am sorry,” said Big Steve, inclining his head. “My name is Esteban Luz.” Slender fingers gripped the proffered olive hand. “The young gentleman is Esteban Luz, my son. This is Mr. Darmer, my executive manager.”
The men traded nods.
“Will you sit down, Mr. James? If you will excuse me, I will continue with my luncheon.”
Walter James stayed on his feet. “I suppose Dr. Boone told you I was coming?”
“Hardly.” Luz sucked in a strand of lettuce. “I had heard you had come to San Diego and were working with the police there.”
“Shall we say involved instead of working?”
“Very well. Involved.”
Darmer spoke weightily. “I’m sorry to hear that, James, It’s safer to stay on the right side of the law.”
“I’ve been trying,” smiled Walter James.
“Did you think we could help you with your trouble?” asked the young Luz softly.
“My son means that in my years in Tijuana I have acquired a slight reputation as a local philanthropist. Many people come to me with their needs.” Luz added white teeth to his satanic features. The slim man smiled back.
“I’m hardly a charity case,” he said. “But the man in Atlanta recommended you highly. He said you were an excellent source.”
“Atlanta?” Luz lifted an eyebrow. “I was not aware I had any friends in Atlanta.”
“It was one of my friends. And Dr. Boone has passed through Atlanta a great many times.”
“Dr. Boone,” considered Luz. He pushed the salad bowl aside and placed the fork in it. “It has been quite some time since we have had the pleasure of Dr. Boone’s company. How long was it, John?”
Darmer said, “Quite some time.”
“Yes. It must have been at least six weeks since he was last here. I hope nothing has happened to him. I doubt that anything could, however — he was such a large, healthy man.”
“But so hurried to do business with,” said Little Steve. “That was his one and only fault.”
“Perhaps his mind was uneasy,” suggested Walter James.
“Not from a disturbed conscience,” smiled Luz.
“It will be hard on business for a while. The Filipino’s dead.”
“So I have heard. So many odd bits float across the border and my foolish mind insists on retaining some of the most unrelated. The Filipino is dead. However, he is not alone. There are many dead people, Mr. James.”
“They’ve been stockpiling for years,” Darmer added dryly.
Luz raised a hand. “And I should note here that I cannot see the connection between the Filipino and your visit.”
“I thought perhaps I could help you,” said Walter James courteously. “My own woes are many and my burden is heavy, but Allah be willing, I might furnish a new contact. A less fallible contact. The mail must go through, Luz.”
“I still fail to see — ” began the elder man.
Walter James picked up the telephone receiver. “Let me make a connection,” he said flatly. He placed a call to XEGC and hummed as he waited. “Advertising, please,” he asked and hummed some more. A voice crackled in the earpiece.
“This is Walter James of Southwest Advertising. I’m interested in finding which three days of the past three weeks the Devil’s Bar plugs have been run. It’s an all-day run, I believe, on a specified day each week. No, that’s all right. You may call me back anytime on Senor Luz’s private phone. Thank you.”
The receiver clicked down in a deep stillness. Young Esteban Luz rose slowly. Darmer stroked the cleft in his chin.
Luz’s chest moved, the only indication that he was laughing. “Very interesting,” he said. “And how much further can you follow that connection?”
Walter James spread his fingers modestly. “No further — yet. I haven’t been in town a week.”
“I don’t think you should stay in town a full week, Mr. James. Let me point out a few facts. I see no reason for my co-operating with you — no possible advantage. Again, I am on my side of the border; the San Diego police are on theirs. It would require virtually an act of your Congress for them to take issue with me.”
“I may take issue with you.” The slender man’s eyes began to fade. Luz held up one finger.
“That is my point. You are not in Atlanta where you should be.”
“He’s right,” said Darmer. “This i
s Tijuana, this year. This is not Atlanta in 1942, ‘44 or ‘45.”
Walter James turned. “I’m glad to see the Atlanta report has arrived.”
Luz revealed his teeth. “John is outspoken but that is our argument. We have knowledge of your brutality, Mr. James. Should it come to such an uncivilized result as open warfare — ” He shook his devil’s head sadly. “I am in my country surrounded by business associates. You are alone, unsupported. I am afraid the contrast in firepower would prove too much — even for a man with your record.”
“You may be right.”
“I have never been more positive. You may return to San Diego now.”
“And pack your suitcase,” added Darmer.
“There are two things you must not do, Mr. James. One is to pay another call on Lieutenant Clapp. Another is to visit a private residence in San Diego — your discretion will tell you which one. Now I must ask you to leave by the patio gate. I hope you will absorb today’s lesson. Una lección de silencio.”
Somehow, the native phrase seemed odd on the elder man’s tongue. Walter James nodded without speaking and moved toward the indicated door. He could sense Darmer and Little Steve coming up behind him. He opened the door and stepped into the vibrating heat of the patio.
A flash of reflected sunlight bit the corner of his eye and he twisted. The haft of the knife clipped the side of his neck instead of the back. He threw a fist into young Luz’s soft belt line and the Mexican staggered against the door jamb.
Walter James turned to run toward the gate in the high stucco wall, but Darmer’s foot caught him in the small of the back. He fell, rolled over a stubby bush and staggered to his feet. His forearm stopped two of the beefy man’s short jabs. The third blow got through — a long right that grazed metal knuckles across his cheek. The left side of his face went numb.
“Little different without a gun?” grunted Darmer. The Mexican was coming up again. He had left his knife in the doorway. Walter James ducked and pistoned both fists against Darmer’s heart. The beefy American gasped. In the pause, the slight detective broke and whirled. The narrow edge of his hand sliced into Little Steve’s throat and the Mexican sank to his knees. He put both palms on the grass and began to vomit.
The metal knucks pounded mercilessly against his head. He drove a pointed toe into Darmer’s kneecap, but he couldn’t move his arms or his head fast enough to avoid the blunt metal rings. Walter James felt himself sinking; the sun had gotten inside his head somehow and was trying to burn its way out. Blood was bright on his powder blue lapels.
He lay down. It was the easiest way and the grass was cool. Darmer was wearing heavy, high-laced shoes. He could see one of them swinging back and forth methodically. There was no feeling except in the hot ends of his fingers and inside his skull. From the way his body was jumping, he realized he was being kicked. He remembered Clapp’s objection to a finger in the kidneys and he wanted to laugh. How was it you laughed, now?
A voice murmured, “Enough, John.” Then he was being dragged across grass and over near rows of round stones and by low bushes. For a while it was pleasant being suspended in space, then there was beige dust all around him.
Walter James cushioned his face in the dust and stared at it. It was adobe-colored and alive with prancing red devils. He said aloud, “This is the alley.”
After a long time he managed to balance himself on his elbows and his knees. The red devils resolved themselves into dark, dusty globules of red. He spread his fingers among them and shoved up. The ground spun around and he nearly fell over. His side was beginning to ache now, in low rhythmic throbs.
He crawled and hoped it was in the right direction. He concentrated on moving his hands. From the hips down there was no feeling. When he ducked his head, he could see his knees moving, so he knew he was crawling.
His dust-covered hands reminded him of Kevin. Their hands were almost the same size. “Kevin,” he called. That was useless — there were still twenty-five thousand one hundred and forty miles to go. That was the circumference of the earth.
His head rammed something and he felt it. Adobe. Was everything adobe in this damn town? He put his shoulder against the rough surface and forced his body up.
It was pleasant up here without the dust. His nostrils began to clear. Looking back to see how far he had come, he saw the patio gate a yard away; he had crawled in a short semicircle into the wall.
Walter James felt for a cigarette but the pack was empty. He said, “Hell!” and threw it down. Probably walking wouldn’t be so bad now. He still couldn’t feel his legs and that might make it easy.
It did. He stopped at the end of the alley and straightened his coat. It was impossible to brush much of the dark red mud off it. He drew in his breath and stepped into the street.
Kevin looked at him without recognition. Then she let out a short scream. “Walter!” She scrambled out of the Buick and ran toward him.
“It’s your turn to drive,” he said.
She was crying. “Walter, Walter!” she choked. “I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them!”
He held onto her shoulder with one dirty hand. “Later. Let’s get back to town.”
She helped him into the car and tried to wipe some of the caked blood off his face. “Don’t,” he said. “You’ll just open them up again. The police surgeon can fix me up. For God’s sake, start driving!”
His voice was out of control. Sobbing, she jammed at the starter and rumbled the car away from the curb. He fumbled in her purse for a cigarette with trembling fingers. Somehow he lit it and dragged deeply.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m always like this afterwards. I’m all right while it’s going on but afterwards I get the shakes like hell.”
Kevin’s fingers gripped his leg above the knee. He could see her hand making furrows in the cloth but he couldn’t feel anything. “But they’ve hurt you, darling,” she said. “I can’t stand to see you like this. I love you so, Walter. I can’t stand to see you hurt.”
“I’m not so bad off,” Walter James insisted. “They won’t like me at the border, but I’m still in fair shape.” He ran cautious fingertips over himself. “Let’s see. Three cuts in the head. Most of them are above the hairline so they won’t show much. This cheek’s a little beat up. And I’ll need some tape on these ribs.”
He put his hand under his coat and felt his back. “I’ll be glad when my spine comes to life. That son of a bitch kicked me square in this.” He pulled out his hand; in it was a snub-barreled pistol.
“You had a gun?” Kevin said. “Why didn’t you use it?”
He considered. “I guess I would have if they’d really gotten rough.”
16. Tuesday, September 26, 3:45 P.M.
“CAN HE TALK now, Doc?” asked Clapp.
“Sure,” said Stein. “All the stitches are in. Can’t have him moving his mouth while I’m putting stitches in. Come back tomorrow, James, and I’ll check them. We won’t bandage it. Stitches’ll come out in about a week.”
“Thanks, Stein,” said Walter James, sitting erect on the operating table. He had no clothes on.
“Okay,” said Clapp, “what’s the story?”
“Spine’s all right,” murmured Stein. “Can’t do anything about the bruise. Little tape on this rib and I think we’re done.”
Felix came in with the powder blue suit. “I got some of it off with cold water. It’ll do to go home in.”
“Got a cigarette?” asked the slender man. “Used mine up on the way to Tijuana.”
“Sure.”
“Come on, James — let loose. What took you across the border?” insisted Clapp heavily.
Walter James swung his bare feet idly while the police medic worked deftly at his side. He sucked in smoke.
“You know damn well what took me down there,” he said. “That phone call Gilbert made to Luz last night. Which brings up thing one. Don’t mention Gilbert’s tie-in with this mess in front of Kevin.”
“Oh?”
“When you’re in the department, James, you’ll have something to say about how it’s run.”
The private detective winced as Stein pressed at the wide tape. “I just don’t want you bungling around the girl’s feelings if you can avoid it. And you can avoid it.”
“Okay, okay. Get dressed and let’s go down to the office. We’ve got lots to go over.”
Walter James began drawing his clothes on painfully. “I just got this suit,” he noted sadly. “Another point. That daytime tail isn’t as bright as the night man. He had his car parked the wrong way when I brought Kevin out of the college and he never did catch us.”
Clapp grinned. “That’s one on you. I told him that as long as the girl was with you to stand clear. He didn’t try to follow you. Right now he’s waiting around her house to pick her up there. You see, the Atlanta report came in this morning.”
“I know,” said Walter James.
“The Atlanta outfit gave you a damn good reference. They said you were a little bloody but ran the squarest private agency they’d ever seen.” The big man squinted. “What do you mean, you knew the report was in?”
“Luz quoted it to me,” he said flatly. “Figure that one out.”
“But it’s never left homicide!” said Felix.
“Then check your wire office. You’ve sprung a leak somewhere.”
Clapp said slowly, “There isn’t a crooked cop in San Diego.”
Walter James slipped his coat on and shrugged. “I’m not telling you how to run your department. I’m just telling you what I know.”
“I’ll look into it,” said Clapp, frowning. “I won’t find that answer, but I’ll look into it.”
Walter James said, “Thanks again, Stein,” and the three men went out into the hall. Kevin got up from the bench.
“Did it hurt, Walter?” She took his hands.
“No, redhead. Stein’s a good man — handy with a needle. I told you it wouldn’t show.”