by P. J. Conn
"So do I," Hal responded. Mitch moved away to serve the others at the bar, and once he'd finished his beer, he was ready to go.
He hadn't taken more than two steps out the door when two men as huge and broad shouldered as Bobby Mund grabbed his arms and lifted him right off his feet. Certain this wouldn't end well, he saved his strength rather than struggle, and they shoved him into the back seat of a Cadillac parked at the curb. He was surprised when they remained outside the car, but then sensed he wasn't alone. The man beside him sat veiled in dark shadows, and Hal didn't recognize his deep voice when he spoke.
"You're a difficult man to see, Mr. Marten."
"You should have called my office. My secretary books my appointments."
The man's laughter rolled around the inside of the car. He slapped Hal on the thigh. "I admire a sense of humor in a man."
He leaned forward into the light thrown by the streetlamp, and Hal saw the deep lines at his nose and mouth giving him the droppy jowls of a bloodhound. He wore thick black-rimmed glasses, and his hair was a silvery gray. Hal was afraid he had to be Jack Dragna, but he hadn't been shot, so things didn't look too bad for him, as yet.
"Was there something in particular you wished to say?" Hal asked.
"Yes, that's why I sent Bobby to bring you to me, but somehow you misinterpreted his intentions."
"Perhaps."
Jack opened a manila folder holding the sketch Hal had given Crystal. "Do you mind if I keep this? I met Pearl a couple of years ago at a party, I've forgotten whose it may have been. She had a way of passing through a crowd, glancing around as though searching for a friend, and then she'd disappear. I saw her only a few times when I was with other women. When I wanted to find her, I had no luck." He signed softly. "She was the kind of woman a man wants to be seen with, and now she's gone. I'm sorry we missed the chance to become better acquainted."
Joe Ezell had the other copy of the sketch, and Hal thought it would be wise to be generous. "Keep it. Do you know who killed her?"
"No, or he wouldn't still be breathing. You and your detective friend have been asking too many questions, nosing around in the wrong places, and should look elsewhere. No one I know would have hurt Pearl, and if you'd been part of it, you wouldn't have come looking for me. That would have just been plain stupid, and you don't strike me as a stupid man."
"Thank you. I hope nothing untoward has happened to Crystal."
"No, I like her a lot. She'd asked around about Pearl, and we had a conversation about it. A man ought to take good care of a beautiful woman. They're national treasures, and there are far too few of them. Your attorney is sure a looker."
Uncertain how to respond, Hal swallowed hard. "She's a fine attorney, and that's what I need."
"You want the DA to look elsewhere for suspects? You got it," Jack offered. "It's the least I can do for a friend of Pearl's."
Corruption in the Los Angeles city government and law enforcement was well-known, but Hal doubted he'd benefit from encouraging it. "I just want to find out who killed Pearl, and to see that he's punished."
"You'll find him a lot sooner if you'll stop looking in my direction. You need a ride home?"
"No, I have my car." He had one last question. "Did one of your men put the bow on my cat?"
Jack's rolling laugh again echoed in the car. "That was a good one, wasn't it? Take my card, and if you find out who offed Pearl, call me, and I'll take care of him."
Hal took the business card. He wanted the photo of Faye and him taken in the restaurant returned, but wouldn't push his luck. He got out at the curb and held his breath until the two thugs who'd picked him up like a stuffed bunny got into the Cadillac and drove away. He pocketed Dragna's card, walked to his car, but didn't turn the key. He remembered Gladys's suggestion he keep careful notes, and just as soon as his hands stopped shaking, he'd drive home, and do just that.
Chapter 19
Joe broke out in a sweat just hearing about how Hal had met Jack Dragna. "You knocked out one of his thugs?"
Hal rubbed his sore hand. "He was a clumsy sort, and I can't take full credit."
"Still, the police arrested him."
"They did. Lynch called me this morning, and the man's gun wasn't the murder weapon. I didn't think it would be after Dragna insisted he'd had nothing to do with Pearl's death. He'd know who'd killed her if it had been someone in his circle. I don't know where to look now."
CC came to the door, rapped lightly, and looked in. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but something Mrs. Marten said keeps worrying me."
Joe gestured for him to come in. "I thought you'd only exchanged a few words with her."
The janitor stood just inside the door. "That's right, we did, but she asked where to find a hit man, and...."
"What?" Hal nearly shouted. "Why didn't you tell us this sooner?"
CC shrugged. "She was crying, and I didn't think she really meant it. You know how when you're mad at someone you might say you'd like to kill them, but it's just talk. But if Mrs. Marten and Pearl LaFosse were the same woman, hiring a hit man doesn't make any sense at all. That's the thought I can't shake."
"Thanks for telling us," Hal said. "If you remember anything else she said, please don't keep it to yourself."
"There's nothing more," CC promised. "I'm sorry you lost your wife. She was a sweet lady."
"Yes, she was." Hal felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He waited until CC had closed the door behind him to speak. "Every time I think things can't get any worse, they do. Where could Faye have found a hit man around here? I assume they don't run a storefront operation."
A single idea rolled around in Joe's mind. "There's only one dive I can think of, the Square Deal Café. Do you suppose someone hanging around there could have offered to kill Pearl?"
Hal stood. "I'll go and see. I have the small photo of Faye and maybe someone will recognize her."
Joe rose from his chair. "You realize it's a crime to solicit murder, don't you?"
"I should hope so. I'm not looking to hire anyone, just to get some information. You don't have to come with me. I'll just go in and have a beer and see what the bartender knows. I doubt many women go in there, and he'd remember Faye."
"Sure he would. She was upset when I reported on my investigation, but hiring a hit man is a damn odd way to commit suicide."
"We all thought Faye and Pearl were two different women, maybe she did too."
"How could anyone be that confused?" Joe asked.
"Damned if I know." Hal stepped to the window overlooking the street. "I didn't really know my wife, Joe. If she'd screamed and thrown pots at me, this all would have ended differently, but she kept the fact that she'd hired you a secret."
"Look, maybe Faye didn't find a hit man. CC might be right, and it was all talk."
Hal shook his head. "No, it's just strange enough to be true about Faye. I'll talk to you later." He hadn't shown Joe Jack Dragna's card, but it had only his name and a telephone number. If the man had a legitimate business of some sort, other than simply extortion, he'd not given it.
* * *
Hal stopped next at the mortuary. The white building had a stately columned front and soft organ music blended perfectly with the dim lighting to create a sacred mood. An attractive brunette in a simple black dress approached him as soon as he'd come through the door. Her nametag read Mrs. Adele Anderson in delicate italic script.
"I'm Hal Marten, and I've come to pick-up my wife's ashes."
The woman introduced herself and nodded thoughtfully. "Please step into our parlor while you wait. You'll need to arrange for payment for our services and to sign for the remains. Then I'll bring your wife's ashes," she promised in a hushed whisper.
The parlor was located on the left, and from what he could see, a nice sized chapel took up the building's right wing. The carpet was thick, the well-cushioned sofa and chairs inviting, and he took the wing chair she indicated. She produced a long printed form attached to a clipboard
and gave him time to review it. Gladys had called the mortuary when they'd discovered Pearl was Faye, and he'd not cared about the details or cost. It wasn't unreasonable, and he signed and wrote a check. He again blessed California West for keeping him on the payroll.
"Thank you, Mr. Marten. I'll bring you a receipt." She nearly floated out of the parlor with soft, light steps.
A book of floral displays suitable for a funeral sat on the coffee table. He flipped through the pages, and again thought Faye deserved far more than the brief memorial service he'd given her. He was badly embarrassed by how Detective Lynch had ruined even that small tribute.
Mrs. Anderson returned carrying Faye's ashes in a box enclosed in a green velvet bag. She handed him his receipt in an envelope. "The box is sealed so you'll not lose any of the precious ashes before you wish to scatter them, but we have a beautiful selection of urns should you wish to select one."
He took the bag from her, and it proved to be heavier than he'd anticipated. Still, for the lovely young woman Faye had been, it didn't seem nearly heavy enough. "No, this is fine."
"Thank you for allowing us to serve you at this sad time. We are so sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." Hal appreciated the thought even if she said it to everyone who came through the door. He drove home with the box of ashes on the passenger seat, and once there, he placed them on the upper shelf in the bedroom closet and closed the door.
* * *
Not knowing quite what to expect, Hal waited until late in the afternoon to stop by the Square Deal Café. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the jukebox blared a raucous tune at an ear-numbing rumble. Four men were playing poker at a table in the rear, and three more were strung out along the bar, each protecting his space with widely placed elbows. He took the stool closest to the door and ordered a beer. He'd worn a dress shirt and slacks rather than a suit and tie and fit in.
The bartender was a tall, thin red-haired man with pale pink skin and bright blue eyes. "Haven't seen you in here before."
"No, I haven't had the time, but I'm out of work and nobody cares what I do." Hal had made that up on the walk over. He didn't have to act to appear miserable, when it was already too close to the surface. He pulled Faye's photo from his pocket.
"I think my wife may have come in here."
The bartender leaned over to look at it and shook his head. "Maybe, but it might have been on my day off."
The wiry little man seated the closest got up to check the photo himself. "Sure I remember her. She came in all sad and crying, and Mothball bought her a drink."
"Mothball?" Hall asked. He couldn't help but visualize a man battling a giant moth, and he quickly shrugged off the goofy image.
The bartender laughed. "We don't call him that to his face, but he works for a tailor, and sometimes he smells like the mothballs they use to protect their bolts of wool. Which is a better aroma than some of the guys coming in here have."
"Do you know his real name?" Hal asked.
"Jerry something," the bartender answered. "Our patrons don't usually exchange formal introductions."
"My name's Fred," the wiry man offered his hand, and Hal shook it.
"Hal." He took a long swallow of his beer. "When does Mothball usually come in?"
Fred frowned slightly. "It's Mondays I think. The tailor shop is closed that day, and he likes to play cards, but I didn't see him this week."
"I'm off every other Monday," the bartender said. "But I was here this Monday, and he didn't come in."
"Mothball's name isn't Jerry, it's Roger Yates," one of the men playing cards offered in a voice loud enough to carry over the music to the front of the bar.
"No, it's Mathew or Mark, one of the apostles," one of his buddies argued. "But you're right, his last name was Yates. I heard him say it a time or two."
"How old a man is he?" Hal asked.
"Maybe thirty," Fred responded, "but he could be a few years younger, or older, give a few."
Hal nodded thoughtfully. A thirty-year-old tailor's apprentice nicknamed Mothball didn't sound like a hit man, but he'd let Detective Lynch worry about the improbability of that. First, he wanted to see him. "Where's the tailor shop?"
"It's right around the corner," the bartender answered. He looked up at the clock over the bar. "Might be closed by now though. Mothball just bought your wife a drink, that's no crime."
"No, it certainly isn't." Hal smiled, and there was nothing threatening in his manner. He had already paid for his beer, and left as soon as he'd finished. He found Pierce Custom Tailoring had closed at five o'clock, so he was too late to meet Mothball today. He'd go in tomorrow and ask about having a suit made. It would get him in the door without looking like a fool, as he feared he did too often now.
His telephone rang when he came through his front door, and he made a quick grab for it. "Hal Marten."
"It's Gladys, and..."
"I'm sorry about last night," he apologized quickly.
"So am I, but that's not why I needed to speak with you. My contact in the DA's office just called to tell me that you're no longer a suspect in your wife's murder. Detective Lynch is probably spitting bullets, but you're in the clear. Why do you suppose the DA's office lost interest in you so suddenly?"
The way she'd asked the question made him suspect she already knew. "I might have an idea, but let's not talk about it on the phone. Let's meet in China Town, you pick your favorite place for dinner."
"The Lotus Garden is near the East Gate on Broadway. Meet me there at seven."
"I'll be there," Hal replied. Now all he had to do was add to his notes and hope they made sense before he spoke with her.
* * *
Bright green neon piping gave the East Gate to China Town an eerie glow. The roof-line had an Oriental upward lift, and the structure looked ready to take flight. Hal arrived early and strolled around the center courtyard. An organ grinder with a monkey drew a small crowd, and a little boy handed the monkey a coin. The monkey doffed his cap and slipped the coin into his purse, much to everyone's delight.
Hal tossed a dime into the wishing pond, and hoped he'd soon return to a life he'd recognize as his own. He saw Gladys approaching the gate in a black suit she must have worn for court. He met her at the door of the Lotus Garden, one of the more elegant restaurants in China Town. They were greeted by a smiling host, and shown to a red leather booth bathed in a golden light. Hal ignored the seductive setting and shoved all thought of romance from his mind.
Gladys surveyed the menu. "I didn't have a chance to eat lunch, and I'm starved. Do you want to begin with the fried prawns, or the barbecued ribs?"
"Let's order both. How's the chicken with toasted walnuts?"
"Everything's good here. Let's order that and the lobster with fried rice. Will that be enough for you?"
Hal thought he'd had breakfast, but he didn't remember lunch. "Sure, it's fine." He gave the order to their waiter, and while he'd worried about how this conversation might go, he dove right in.
"As I understand it," he began, "an attorney has to report a crime if she knows of one, doesn't she?"
She picked up the white porcelain teapot and poured freshly brewed tea into their little cups. "Dare I ask what you've done now?"
"Not a thing," he swore. "I may know who directed the DA's attention elsewhere, but LA is so rife with bribery and criminal interference, I could be completely wrong. Let's just accept it as good luck and let it go."
"All right, if you insist. I'd rather think it was my spirited defense that influenced the DA."
"Of course, that had to be the major factor. I haven't received a single bill from you as yet, and I must owe you more than a few dinners."
"It hasn't even been three weeks, Hal, and my firm bills monthly. Besides, I've only gone to the police station with you a couple of times, and we weren't there but a few minutes on either occasion."
"Your advice has been worth a great deal, and I expect to pay for it."
> "I'll note it on the bill," she replied. Their waiter brought their appetizers, and they both reached for the same rib. "Go on, you take it."
He laughed, and was surprised that he could. "No, it's yours." He took a fried prawn and chewed it slowly. He liked her enormously, but limited his focus to murder. "Faye asked the janitor in my detective's building where she might find a hit man."
She stared at him, replaced the rib bone on the plate, and wiped her hands on her napkin. "Before we draw any conclusions about how crazy that sounds, we need to speak with the psychiatrist who treated her. Faye seemed normal to you, didn't she?"
"Yes, completely. If anything, she might have been too agreeably sweet."
"Then it's unlikely she could suddenly have become so depressed she'd plan her own death."
"Highly unlikely." He reached for another pawn. "However, if she did convince someone to shoot Pearl, I may have a line on who he is."
"Tell Detective Lynch please. I'll warn you again not to go after the culprit yourself."
Now that he'd come to the tricky part, he chose his words with care. "Let's say I discovered who killed Faye. It won't be easy to convince Lynch, but I may have met someone who'd handle the situation without the bother of a trial."
"Stop right there, Hal," she cautioned. "I assume this is the same person who might have influenced the DA in your favor. If you've actually met such a person, forget you know them. I'd rather not defend you on a charge of conspiracy to murder."
He admired her fierce determination, and yanked his mind away from what he'd like to see from her in a dimly lit bedroom. "Would it still be a conspiracy if the man is guilty?"
"Yes! If you become entangled with the baser element of this town, they'll soon come demanding favors you won't want to grant. Don't think of what might be convenient now, when you'd have a lifetime of regret."
He already carried a heavy burden of regret, but he could deal with it. "I understand. I sell insurance, and know how to convince people that being prepared is the best way to protect themselves from unexpected problems. Unfortunately, no one foresees the real catastrophes until they smack them in the face." He paused to eat a rib, and found the spicy sauce incredibly good.
