by Peter Rabe
One of Those Days …
He stopped walking about three feet from me as I stood next to my car.
He said raspingly, “You son-of-a-bitch!”
“Slow down,” I warned him. “It’s been a bad day. What’s your beef, Ritter?”
“You,” he said. “Put up your hands, you bastard.”
“Come inside and talk quietly,” I said, “or I’ll send for the police.”
“You’ll send for the police? You haven’t got any friends in this town, Callahan. Now put up your hands or crawl into your hole.”
I turned and started for the manager’s office and he moved quickly to put a hand on my shoulder and turn me around.
He had me turned with his left hand and his right arm was cocked for delivery. I suppose I could have moved inside of it and wrestled him to some kind of sanity, but the day had held too many frustrations.
I moved inside of his wild right, pushed him back, and threw a right of my own, a punch that carried the added weight of the day’s humiliations.
COUNTY KILL
William Campbell Gault
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
Don’t Cry for Me
Also Available
Copyright
For John V. Pollitt
Ardent and incurable
READER
ONE
IT WAS A hot October afternoon when the kid walked into my office. I had finished a case that morning and had seventeen hundred dollars in the bank. That isn’t a lot of money, but it’s a lot of money for me.
So I was solvent and not employed, and I guess that could be a reason for my misguided charity. Because there were two things wrong with this Lund business right from the start. Nobody was paying me and the kid lived in San Valdesto.
I was not a popular man in San Valdesto; very few outsiders were.
Of course, when he first walked in, I didn’t know he was from San Valdesto. He was a stocky kid with bright brown eyes and a very dirty face.
“Brock Callahan, right?” he said. “You look just like your pictures.”
I nodded. “And you — ”
“Warren Temple Lund the Third,” he answered. “Most people call me Bud.”
In my mind a small bell tolled. Where had I heard or read that name? And only recently, too….
I asked, “What did you want, Bud — an autograph?”
He nodded, staring at me anxiously. “That — and — ” he took a breath — ”I thought you could phone my mom for me.”
I sat up straighter. “Oh? And who is your mom?” I raised a hand quickly. “Don’t answer. Any detective would know she is Mrs. Warren Temple Lund the Second.”
He nodded.
The bell was ringing louder. Lund, Lund, Lund. … A subheadline came to mind — one I had glanced at on my way to breakfast this morning. I closed my eyes, trying to remember.
With my eyes still closed, I said, “You’re not from around here, are you, Bud? You don’t live in Beverly Hills.”
“Not any more,” he admitted. “We used to. I thought maybe my dad had come down to the old house. But there’s nobody there. The furniture is there but — ”
“And the police are looking for you,” I interrupted, and opened my eyes.
We stared at each other. He took another deep and shuddering breath. And for your father, I thought, but didn’t say.
He said again, “I thought you could call my mom.” There was a quick glint of tears in his eyes.
“Steady, soldier,” I said gently. “It’s no time for tears. Just have a chair and we’ll talk this out. Are you hungry?”
He sat down and nodded. “I had a hamburger yesterday noon. I only had enough money for bus fare. I thought my dad would be here and — ” He stared at the floor.
“I’ll get us some food,” I said, and picked up the phone.
The drugstore where I usually ate lunch had a food-delivery service, and I called it. I ordered three hamburgers and two double malts and told the man to hurry. My own light lunch was two hours behind me and I didn’t want the boy to eat alone.
As I put down the phone, I asked, “How old are you, Bud?”
“I’ll be twelve in a couple months,” he said.
“And yesterday noon,” I said, “you left school at the lunch hour and your mom hasn’t seen you since, has she?”
He stared at the floor in embarrassment.
“You came here all the way from San Valdesto,” I said. “That’s ninety miles, Warren Temple Lund the Third.”
“Eighty-seven,” he corrected me, “and all freeway. It’s not much of a trip.”
“In this morning’s paper,” I went on gravely, “you’re a headline.”
He continued to look at the floor. “I didn’t see it.”
Silence.
He looked up and his bright brown eyes were still wet. “I wanted to find my dad. Is there something wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” I agreed. “Why didn’t you tell your mother you wanted to see your dad?”
“I did. A million times. He doesn’t live with us, you know. He hasn’t lived with us for three months. But he’d come to see me and take me out on the boat. But not lately. Mom said he was on a trip. He could write, couldn’t he?”
I kept my voice quiet. “So you skipped school yesterday and took a bus down here without telling anybody. And now all the police in this end of the state are looking for you. By now, perhaps even the FBI has been called in.”
“The FBI?” He stared fearfully. “Why?”
“How does your mother know you weren’t kidnaped? The FBI moves in on kidnapings, Warren.”
“Kidnaping,” he said bleakly. “Who’d want me?”
My throat was tight and my voice too shrill. “Don’t talk like that. Anybody with any sense would want you. What kind of silly remark was that?”
“You don’t have to holler,” he said glumly. He stared at the top of my desk. “Do we have to call the police now?”
“No,” I told him. “If we call the police, the newspapers will hear about it. And once you get the reporters into something like this it gets all messed up. We’ll just call your mother on the quiet. After we eat.”
The food came soon after that, and while we ate he told me he had slept in the garage of his former home last night and tried to break into the house without success.
“Why didn’t you look me up last night?”
“I thought maybe my dad would come to the house. I wanted to be there if he did.”
“Didn’t you believe your mother when she said he was on a trip?”
He didn’t answer, giving a lot of attention to his food.
“Has she lied to you before?”
He shrugged.
We ate in silence for a few seconds. Then, in a tight voice, he said, “Wouldn’t he write to me if he was on a trip?”
I said nothing, there being nothing to say.
“Wouldn’t he? Damn it, wouldn’t he?”
“Don’t swear,” I said softly. “Simmer down, Warren. I never met your father. I don’t know what he’d do.”
His hand holding the malted trembled. “Would you write to me if you were my father and you were on a trip?”
“Eat that second hamburger,” I said sternly. “It’s too much
for me. C’mon, eat it!”
He sighed and began to eat again.
I asked, “What brought you to my office?”
“I knew you were a detective now. I knew I could trust you. My dad used to take me to the Coliseum when we lived here. I saw you play seven times your last year with the Rams. My dad said you’re the greatest guard that ever lived. Anywhere, he said.”
Oh, boy…. All that blarney and me with seventeen hundred in the bank. I was hooked.
A silence, while he studied me. Then, shyly, “How much do you charge?”
I told him sternly, “A hundred dollars a day and expenses. But I’m not going to charge you that just for phoning your mother.”
He looked at his half-eaten hamburger and his voice was even quieter. “I didn’t mean that. I meant, if you went looking for my dad how much would you charge a kid under twelve?”
Didn’t he know the police were looking for his father right now? Evidently not. I said, “Don’t con me, Warren Lund.” I wiped my hands on a paper napkin and reached for the phone. “What’s your number in San Valdesto?”
He gave it to me and I called person to person for Mrs. Warren Lund in San Valdesto.
I could hear a man’s gruff voice answer the phone. The operator asked for Mrs. Lund and the man said, “She’s not available right now. I’ll take the call.”
I told the operator that would be O.K.
“Hello, hello,” he said irritably. “James Ritter here.”
I ignored the phone for a second and asked Bud quietly, “Who’s James Ritter?”
“A friend of my mother’s,” he said. “A creep.”
To the man on the phone, I said, “Is there no way I could speak with Mrs. Lund? It’s very important. I have some news about her son.”
“News? You mean he’s there?”
“That’s right, Mr. Ritter. He’s here, safe and sound. Will you put Mrs. Lund on, please?”
“She’s under sedation,” he said hoarsely. “Now Mr. Who-ever-you-are, I’ve had about enough nonsense. You put Warren on the phone and I’ll talk with him.”
“Slow down, Ritter,” I said. “I’m a friend of Bud’s and he’s O.K. He wasn’t kidnaped; he ran away and wound up here. I’ll see if he wants to speak with you.”
I turned to look at Bud and he was shaking his head no, no, no. He left his chair and went to a far corner of the room, his face set, his hands shaking.
I said soothingly, “Mr. Ritter, you’ll have to trust me. I don’t think any of us want any publicity about this. So I’ll just pile Bud into my car and drive up there. If we let the police in on it, the papers will be alerted. None of us want that, do we?”
“Mister,” he said harshly, “I don’t know who the hell you are, but unless you want more trouble than you can handle, you put Bud on the phone right now.”
“We’ll play it my way,” I said calmly. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. We should be there in an hour and a half to two hours. Please don’t call in the police. This boy has had too damned much publicity already.” I hung up.
Warren Temple Lund the Third sighed and said gratefully, “I knew I could trust you. My dad said they call you The Rock because you are. He said you’re — ”
“A sucker,” I finished for him. “I was going to take my girl along on the trip, but I guess I’d better not.”
He looked at me quizzically.
“The police,” I explained. “I told that Ritter not to call them, but he doesn’t sound like a man who’d take outside advice. It could be sticky going up there for an hour or two.”
He opened his mouth and closed it. Then, “Why didn’t Mom come to the phone?”
“She had to take something so she could rest. You worried her, Bud. She’s under sedation.”
“Huh!” he said. “She’s probably drunk. That’s all she does since Dad left — drink, drink, drink.”
Another of our silences. We stared at each other, and finally I asked, “Do you live right in San Valdesto or outside of town?”
“In Montevista,” he said. “That’s on this side.”
And Slope Ranch on the other, I thought. Between them lived the plain people, the light drinkers.
I phoned Jan at her shop and she was in. I told her, “I’ll have to break that date for dinner. I’m going out of town.”
“Alone?” she asked suspiciously.
“Not alone. With a young friend of mine. We’re going up to San Valdesto.”
A silence, a long silence, and then, very softly, “Brock, you don’t mean Glenys Christopher’s nephew? June’s boy?”
“If he is, I didn’t know it,” I said. “Jan, silence is very important now. Please don’t say a word to anybody.”
Another pause. “All right. Has his mother been notified?”
“Yup. Maybe I’ll be back tonight. If you have a light on, I’ll stop in.”
“It’ll be on all night,” she said. “And Brock — watch your temper, won’t you? Those police in San Valdesto — ”
“I’ll be careful.” I hung up.
Glenys Christopher was a client of Jan’s and she had been a client of mine, some years back, on my first case.
I asked Bud, “Don’t you have an aunt in this town?”
He nodded. “Aunt Glenys. I don’t like her. You’re not going to call her, are you?”
“Not if you don’t want me to. Isn’t she married?”
“She was married,” he said dully. “But not for long, and she got her own name back. It was like a divorce, only it wasn’t.”
“An annulment?”
“That’s what they called it.” His face tightened. “Mom says she can’t get one of those; she’d have to get a divorce. Brock, why don’t people stay married?”
“A lot of people do. San Valdesto and Beverly Hills just seem to have more people who don’t. Is your mother thinking of getting a …”
I couldn’t finish. He nodded, his eyes on the floor.
I said, “Let’s go. Your mother will be worried.”
We went down to my ancient flivver and drove over to the filling station. I filled the tank to the brim; gasoline was much more expensive in San Valdesto.
We took the Valley route through the dry, gray hills and didn’t see the ocean until we were past Ventura. Bud sat glumly in the seat next to me, offering no conversational openings, and no remarks came to me that seemed likely to brighten his mood.
A drinking mother and a missing father…. Who’d want me? Sociologists are so concerned with the rise of juvenile delinquency. It was the adult delinquency that gave me the shakes.
The ocean came into view and it had some blue in it for a change. The gray clay cliffs to the right, the flat ocean to the left, and a bleak moodiness in the car.
I said, “Bud, adults aren’t easy to understand. They get all messed up and mess up other lives, too. You have to live your life. Your life is the important one; most of it’s ahead of you.”
“Sure,” he said tonelessly.
“You’re your own best friend,” I went on dumbly. “You’ll find other friends you can trust, but it takes time. Don’t try to hurry it; it takes patience.”
“Sure,” he said once more.
I gave him a few more miles of silence and then asked, “How long since you’ve heard from your dad?”
“A couple weeks. I’d always see him at least three times a week.”
A couple weeks…. The police hadn’t started looking for him until last night, when a man named Johnny Chavez had been found dead in a cabin in the hills high above San Valdesto. Johnny and Lund had supposedly gone on the trip together. Evidently Bud hadn’t seen this morning’s headlines.
He said, “Couldn’t you look for him? I’ve only got thirty-two dollars saved, but Mom would pay you, I’ll bet. She’d do that for me, wouldn’t she?”
“Your dad must pay her money for your support,” I pointed out. “She ought to know where he is.”
Bud shook his head. He seemed embarrassed.
“I don’t think Pop has any money of his own.”
I had made the natural mistaken assumption that a man with three names and a number was wealthy. I had forgotten that many poor but pretentious people had adopted the pattern.
But Bud’s mother was a Christopher and I knew they were wealthy. I said, “When I met your Aunt Glenys I thought she only had that younger brother. Who else is there?”
“Just Aunt Glenys and Uncle Bob and Mom,” he answered. “Mom was married when she was seventeen.”
“I see. And what does your dad do?”
“When we lived in Beverly Hills, he had a filling station. That’s where he met Mom. Dad had this hot rod and Mom had her Mercedes, see, and they used to tease each other, and one day they had this race and Mom tipped over and broke her leg and Pop found out then, see, how much he loved her and — ” He broke off. “It’s just like a story, isn’t it?”
With a detergent commercial, I thought. I thought of the austere, black-haired, composed, and beautiful Glenys Christopher. With a hot-rodder in the family….
I asked, “What did your Aunt Glenys think about the marriage?”
“I guess she wasn’t for it. But Uncle Bob was. Uncle Bob and Pop get along great.”
When I’d known Uncle Bob, he had just been graduated from Beverly Hills High School, a hotshot halfback weighing the football scholarship offers which he didn’t need.
Bud said, “Uncle Bob thinks you’re great, too.”
“I know. He told me. What’s he doing now?”
“He’s a lawyer. In San Francisco.”
From a cynical high-school halfback to a San Francisco lawyer. That was quite a climb. Unlike Callahan, Bobby hadn’t wasted his football reputation.
Silence as we approached Carpinteria. We were past it when Bud said, “I don’t want to go home. Boy, I’ll get it when I come home!”
“You can’t run forever, Bud,” I told him.
Another silence and then, “Couldn’t you stay with us for a while? We’ve got lots of rooms.”
Brother! The father image, Brock (The Rock) Callahan. The hero, the knight with piano legs. What could I say?
I said what I shouldn’t have said. Because I had seventeen hundred in the bank and his aunt had been my first client. Because I’m a sucker for kids, I said, “Maybe it would be better if I got right to work on finding your father.”
