by T. N. Robb
"You said you'd keep me up to speed."
"This is not my case. Homicide's pissed off at me for leaning on 'em as much as I have. Now for your information I found out Castellano was cut loose fifteen minutes ago, and the next time you check with your secretary you'll find a message I called."
"Yeah, and the next time you see Donnie Castellano, it's gonna be in a canvas bag."
"I can't worry about that." Fontana's expression changed again, curious now. "What were you doing at that record party last night?"
Cleary gazed out the office window at the familiar faces in the squad room, and saw Dibble glance in his direction; Dibble with his pink Irish cheeks. He turned back to Fontana, wondering where he came into his information. "Maybe I was doing your work for you, Charlie."
"You mean you were screwing up my work," he shot back. "Damn it all, I've been working on that situation for the last six weeks, and I don't need you in there stirring up the friggin' bottom."
He stared at Fontana, a frown knitting on his brow. "Tell me what's going on. What investigation?"
"It's not for public consumption." He pointed a finger at Cleary. "You're just gonna have to trust me."
"I got a long way doing that on the city council case, didn't I?"
Cleary saw how the words struck Fontana like a fist, wounding him. There was a moment of silence as the invisible barrier between them took on form, shape, a label. Then Fontana marched across the room and slammed the door to his office. The sound reverberated through Cleary's bones.
"I did everything I could to keep you on the force. I took the stand, I vouched for you. I told 'em I thought the money was planted, that those mob boys set you up. They made it work. What in hell else was I supposed to do?"
Cleary looked at him glumly. "I don't know, Charlie. You tell me."
Fontana moved over to the window, hands in his pockets again as he gazed out. His shoulders were hunched, as if a Santa Ana was pushing at his back. "You know, I'm sick to hell of carrying this around with me. Everything's black and white to you."
Cleary said nothing.
Fontana looked over his shoulder. "So you got a bad break. You still had friends in the department. With the right attitude you know damn well you could've gotten the review board to go easier."
He turned to face him. " 'Stead of that you walked in there and spit in their eyes, came out and turned your back on everyone—you blew your marriage, shacked up with a bottle of bourbon and whoever else was alone at closing. I don't blame Ellen for what she did. What're you going to do if you're indicted, Jack? Piss on the jurors? That'll go over big."
"I can look at myself mornings, Charlie. Sounds to me like you're having problems in that department. I wouldn't doubt you set up that cowboy actor with Ellen. Is that it, you playin' matchmaker with your old partner's wife?" He laughed; it was a sharp, ugly sound that sliced through the air.
Some part of Cleary regretted the words as soon as they were out, but both had said too much for either to recant, and Fontana wasn't through yet. He spoke fast, his words aimed at Cleary's weak spots. And he knew just where to hit. That was how it was, Cleary thought dimly, when you worked the streets with a man. You learned where he was vulnerable, where he was strong.
"I've talked twice to Ellen since you broke up with her. Once at the funeral, and the other time after she kicked you out. I tried to talk her into taking you back. And believe me, doing something like that isn't easy for me."
He gazed at Cleary a moment. "She waited for you to come back and apologize, but you were too damn stubborn. She wasn't going to wait forever."
"Tough luck for me," Cleary snapped, stepping back. "At least I've still got my pride."
"Well, I hope your pride's enough for you, Jack. Maybe you can look at yourself mornings, but I'll tell you something. The other morning when I saw you, it wasn't very easy to look at you. That's a fact."
"If you can't tell by now, I'm through with the booze." His eyes met Fontana's. "I'm gonna find this guy, Castellano. I'm gonna get him."
SIXTEEN
Betts's Deal
The television in Johnny Betts's room at the Rocket Motel was tuned to an early morning Sunday show on which Horace Carter, a stony-faced, dark-suited brimstoner was railing at his audience.
".... the obscenity and vulgarity of the rock and roll music is obviously a means by which the white men and his children can be driven to the level of the Negras. It is obviously Negra music. We considered it being the plot of the ideologists of the one-world race, the one-world economy, the one-world government. We used to call that the Communist ideology and I think we hit it on the head...."
The phone rang in the corner, where Betts was lying on a sofa bed. He sat up groggily, stared at the phone resting next to his black leather jacket on the top of a disemboweled Mercury transmission. He stepped carefully across the floor, which was strewn with Carl Perkins albums, the remains of two six-packs, and a take-out pizza. He picked up the receiver on the third ring.
"Yeah?"
"Johnny."
"Rhonda. Watcha doin'?"
"Thinkin' about you."
"You naked or something?"
She let out a soft, coy laugh, and Betts's insides did a funny number. "Johnny, God, if my mother heard you say that. You should have heard her after you patched out last night. She thinks you're a bad influence."
"I am."
There was a pause as Johnny heard Rhonda telling her little brother to get out of the room. "That little brat gets worse every day."
"Did your ol' man find out we used his reel-to-reel?"
"Who cares? That stuff was so boring."
"It had its moments. If I got time, I'd like to find another recorder and use your ol' man's again to make copies for Cleary. You know anyone else with a reel-to-reel?"
"No."
"Neither do I."
"Johnny, you'd get in trouble if you made copies. Those creeps play for keeps.... Benny! Get out!"
Betts waited until the shouting was finished, then said, "I hate to let Cleary down. Besides, I'll be long gone, and as soon as I get settled, I'll come get you, babe."
"Promise?"
"Definitely."
A soft giggle, then, "I'm ready to lay this city to rest. I'll be eighteen in twelve days. You won't forget me, will ya?"
"Hell no."
"Listen, I gotta get off the phone. This kid's drivin' me nuts. I'll call you right back as soon as I beat the crap out of him."
"Later."
Betts laid back in bed, stared at the ceiling. On the television, Carter was still ranting. "... is nothing more than an insidious tom-tom thumping designed to incite animalism, vulgarity, and sexual integration in our young..
Betts walked over, stared at the screen a moment. "Up yours." He shut it off.
The phone rang again. "Hi, babe. Hope you didn't kill him."
There was silence at the other end of the line, then a deep, masculine voice. "Ready to move those tapes, kid?"
Betts rubbed his face. "You got ten thousand bucks to deal with me?"
He reached for a cigarette, lighting it from a pack of matches lying beside Cleary's lighter.
"We got ten thousand. We also got you made working for Jack Cleary, all right Johnny? You hear me?"
"I'm listening."
"I think we've met once before, Johnny. You remember?"
"Where would that be?"
"Up on Mulholland Drive. You called me a name, as I was talking with Nick Cleary."
"What of it? You killed him."
"Lemme tell you something. I know Nick was a friend of yours, but that's finished business, kid. You gotta ask yourself what's next on the agenda for Johnny Betts. Now you can play square with us on these tapes and get yourself a start in life, or you can dick around with his brother looking for payback and pocket money. If that's the way you're going, Johnny, save everybody a trip, all right? All you're gonna get is dead. Trust me on that one."
Betts stared a
t the metal suitcase beside the table. "Where and when?"
"The Hollywood sign. At noon."
"Let's make it tomorrow at noon."
"You got the tapes or not?"
"Ah—I got 'em."
"Noon, today."
"All right."
"You're doing the smart thing, kid."
Betts hung up the receiver and dropped the cigarette into a beer bottle. In a sudden burst of despair and self-revulsion, he picked up the phone, and threw it at the wall.
He pulled on his jacket, picked up the suitcase of tapes, put the receiver back on the phone, and walked out, slamming the door.
In the parking lot of the motor court, he blinked at the bright sun, perched against the blue of the sky like a huge yellow grapefruit. Then he strode over to the Mercury, which was parked next to a couple of full-dress Harleys and a Chevy step-side. The latter was new in the lot, and normally he would've looked it over. Not today.
Even the new paint job on the Merc didn't catch his eye as he unlocked the door, slipped behind the wheel, and laid the suitcase on the other front seat. He lit a cigarette, staring straight ahead as he smoked. Then he gunned the engine, backed up, and screeched out, leaving a twenty-foot patch.
Cleary stopped at a pay phone outside police headquarters, and dialed. "KGFJ, can I help you?" a woman answered.
"Hi, there. I'm wondering if the Gator is doing his show today."
"Eleven to three, every Sunday. Monday through Thursday, he's—"
"Thanks," Cleary said, and hung up. He quickly dialed the number Baytor had given him. He told him what he needed, listened to the expected argument, then laid out the threat again, promising to personally deliver the ledger sheet to the DA. "All right, Cleary. Meet me at ten-thirty in the parking lot of the station."
"I thought you'd see it my way."
"Just be there on time, or you'll miss me. I got a show to do."
Cleary pressed the button disconnecting the call, dropped another nickel in the phone, and made another call. This one promised to be more pleasing. "Lana."
"Hi, Jack."
He imagined her lying on the terrace of the beachhouse, sunning herself, gorgeous in her one-piece swimsuit. He thought momentarily of what had happened—and not happened—and felt a quick tightening in his gut. "Just wanted to make sure you lived through my coffee."
"Never felt better. Thanks for being so nice last night, Jack."
"Let's try it again sometime."
"I think I'd like that."
"Listen, I may have a line on one of the guys the police have been questioning about your husband's death." He glanced at his watch.
"Oh?"
"If you're home later, I'll call and let you know what I turned up."
"I'll be home. Jack, be careful."
Cleary's insides stirred at the soft, sensual tone of her voice. He was surprised by how long it had been since he had felt so warmed by a disembodied voice. The taste of her skin suddenly seemed to fill his mouth. He could barely spit out an "Okay."
He hung up, his hand lingering on the receiver, as though it connected him somehow to Lana. Later, he told himself. Later there'll be time for Lana. Then he dug into his pocket for another nickel.
He dialed again—Betts's number this time. The phone rang, continued ringing. Cleary replaced the receiver, glanced at his watch again, and hurried away.
At the instant the phone was ringing in Betts's motel room, he was looking up to the Hollywood sign stretching across the hill in the distance. He was about to collect an easy ten grand. Freedom money. Enough money to blow this town for good. To start over. Once he picked up the dough, all he had to do was swing by the motel, clean house, and he would be gone. Good-bye L.A.
Despite the sweet seduction of the fantasy, Betts didn't feel too good about it. In fact, he felt pretty damn bad about it, as if buried inside the fantasy was a dark and spreading doom that was going to leap out at him and smother him once he accepted the money.
But hey, a guy had to look out for himself, didn't he? Wasn't that the way it worked?
Cleary beat Bobby Baytor to the KGFJ parking lot by five minutes. The Gator, decked out in a lime-green Don Loper suit, drove up in his '55 white-with-coral-and-black Packard Caribbean convertible. The cool, smooth upsweep of the chrome vines on his car was a total contrast to the Gator's manner as Cleary came around to his door.
"I don't suppose you give a rat's ass that meeting me here is taking a hell of a chance."
"I'm your cousin, remember?"
"Not everyone's gonna fall for that. You're getting pretty well known lately."
"That come with a volume control, Gator?" he said, gesturing toward Baytor's suit.
"Your problem, Cleary, is that you got no class. You know that?"
"And I'm supposed to take lessons from you? Yeah. Sure. So where's Castellano?"
Baytor gave him a disgusted look, then handed him a slip of paper. "Finito, Cleary—no more names, no more addresses, no more telephone numbers. And if you want some good advice I'd take that ten grand and blow town. Your ass has been parked overtime in this town for a week now."
"What ten grand? What are you talking about?" Baytor stepped out of his car. "I just heard someone's collecting on those tapes today for ten large ones. I figured it was you."
"Well, figure again."
SEVENTEEN
Hot Tub Interrogation
The motel was a sorry-looking dump that reminded him of a beached whale in the hot light. Cleary drove by it once and pulled into the alley behind it. He noticed the windows looking out on the lot, and drove on. He parked the Eldorado halfway down the next block, close to a wall, where it was out of sight. He checked his .45, made sure he had extra ammo, then got out and closed the door softly.
Heat radiated from the black asphalt, soaking his shirt in seconds as he walked back to the building. He barely noticed the heat. His jaw was set with grim determination as he moved around the side of the building toward the front. Toward Donnie Castellano's room.
There were cars in the front lot, their hoods gleaming with sunlight, but no one was around. It was like everyone had fled, leaving behind their wheels, clothes, their belongings. Cleary found Room 10 at the end of the hall. The door was closed, but a suitcase rested in the hallway just outside it. It looked like Castellano was leaving in a big hurry.
Cleary quietly moved the suitcase aside. He flattened his back against the wall, touched the knob of the door lightly, testing to see if it was locked.
It wasn't.
He smiled. Careless, very careless, Castellano, he thought. He turned the knob slowly until it was unlatched, and pushed it open an inch or so.
He gripped his .45 in both hands, swallowed hard, and then leaped forward and delivered a swift, powerful kick to the door. It burst open, startling Castellano, who was packing his bags. He spun around from the shelf he was emptying, and reached under his arm for his piece. But Cleary was already on him. The butt of the gun smashed into Castellano's jaw, and he crumpled to the floor.
It was one of the most satisfying acts of Cleary's life.
Before Castellano could recover, Cleary disarmed him, ripped an electrical cord out of the lamp, and tied his feet together. He cuffed his hands behind his back and began dragging him toward the bathroom. Just as he pulled him to the doorway, Castellano came awake and struggled to sit up.
"What the hell are you doing? Just who the..."
"Watch your language," Cleary said, and stuffed one of Castellano's rolled-up socks into the man's mouth. He stepped into the bathroom, turned on the hot water. It drummed into the tub as Cleary grabbed Castellano by the feet, and lugged him into the bathroom.
Cleary lit a cigarette, flipped down the lid of the toilet and sat on it, watching Castellano sprawled next to the tub. Castellano grunted. He bucked. He tried to free his bound feet. His face turned lobster red.
"I'm gonna make it real simple for you," Cleary said, leaning toward him. "Who hired you for
the hit on Mulholland Drive?"
Castellano shouted into the sock; it sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles.
"Care to repeat that?" Cleary asked, and jerked the sock from his mouth.
Castellano sucked at the air, then snapped his head to the left, toward the steam billowing from the tub. He looked back at Cleary. "I'll make it simple for you. You got no shot: whatever you could do is not half what they'd do to me if I told you."
"I'm glad we both want to keep this nice and simple." Cleary flicked his butt into the tub and, without another word, hoisted Castellano like a bag of potatoes and dumped him into the tub.
Castellano winced as the steaming water soaked through his clothes and began searing his flesh. Still, he seemed capable of bearing the pain. "Save us both some time, pal. I've got five grand in my suitcase. Take that and split, 'cause I'm not gonna tell you."
Cleary ignored him. He reached up to a shelf over the sink and plugged in a radio. Castellano's eyes widened with astonishment—and then fear—as he realized that the steaming water was just the beginning. Cleary balanced the radio on the flat rim of the tub and slowly nudged it toward the edge, his smile growing as he did so, his eyes now a polished sheen.
"Simple, right?" Cleary said. "We want to keep it simple. So I'm gonna ask you once more. Who hired you for the hit on Mulholland?"
"Aw, hey, wait a second," Castellano said. "Just hold on there."
Cleary leaned over, turned off the water. "I didn't hear you, Donnie. Who hired you?" Cleary asked in the same calm voice, a voice that whispered with death. He saw panic coiled in Castellano's eyes. The radio wobbled on the edge of the tub.
"Hey, man. What are you? Warped?" Castellano shouted. "Now c'mon, man, you can't do this."
"That was my brother up there on Mulholland, Donnie boy."
"Okay. Eddie Rosen. Rosen hired me!" Castellano yelled, his eyes fixed on the radio, his bound feet kicking.
The radio began a slow dip toward the water. Castellano's eyes bulged with terror. Then Cleary jerked the cord just as the radio slipped over the edge. It dangled just inches above the water. "I wouldn't kick so much if I were you."
