County Kill

by Peter Rabe

  “Crap! You think he can be railroaded with his ex-wife still bleeding for him? You think that Christopher money won’t spring him? Who do you think is going to pay your hundred a day?”

  “I’m not here to argue, Pete,” I said patiently. “Juanita co-operated. She told me enough to put her in trouble if she didn’t trust me. I’m asking for help, not anything about your private life.”

  “Maybe you conned her, but you’re not conning me. How much did she tell you?”

  “All of it, including the source, her father, and her source for the future, her brother. She put herself way out on a limb telling me those things and you act like I’m working for the Federal Bureau of Narcotics.”

  “Right now you ain’t, maybe. But when the chips are down, you guys save your own damned skins. I know your kind.”

  “Do you?” I asked patiently. “How many private investigators are there in San Valdesto?”

  “One’s too many,” he said. “Beat it, Callahan!”

  “All right. Don’t drown yourself in that three-dollar booze.”

  I brushed past him and opened the door. I was just closing it from the other side when I heard him say, “Montevista! Jesus, how dumb can a dame get?”

  For some reason, I didn’t feel like Sherlock Holmes as I walked slowly to the car. I had caught Pete Chavez at a bad time, with his loins groaning, so to speak. That had seriously limited his spirit of co-operation. As had the dousing I had given him this morning.

  But still I should have learned more; a competent operative would have.

  Headquarters wasn’t far from here and I considered going over to talk with Lund. There was no other lead; Juanita had given me what she knew and Pete Chavez had given me nothing. The police would match what Pete had told me.

  The red Porsche was parked not far from the entrance to Headquarters. I decided not to go in right now; I parked about three spaces up the street.

  In a few minutes a big man came out of the wide doorway and down the steps to the walk. It was Joseph Farini. I left the car and got to him before he entered his own car.

  He said wearily, “I should have stayed in my field. Lund’s absolutely no help at all and the chairman of the police commission phoned me this afternoon and read me the riot act.”

  “About what?”

  “About my insolence to some of the officers down here. I certainly lost a lot of hard-won respect in a short time, representing Skip. You learn anything?”

  “Nothing I can reveal and nothing that points a finger. Mrs. Lund is with him now, is she?”

  He nodded. “What do you mean — nothing you can reveal?”

  “Just that. We can’t expect any police co-operation, then?”

  “Very damned little. As a matter of fact, the way this Vogel talks, if they can’t get Lund for murder, they’re determined to get him for something else. Is this ‘something else’ what you’re being secretive about?”

  “It could be, counselor. Vogel makes it seem personal, doesn’t he?”

  Farini nodded, looking at me thoughtfully. “Any theories on why that might be?”

  “He’s a good friend of Jim Ritter’s,” I said, “and Ritter is in love with June Lund.”

  “Oh, Lord,” he said sadly. “Why did I ever get mixed up in this?”

  “Lund’s worth saving,” I soothed him. “Get a good night’s sleep, counselor. Tomorrow might be a brighter day.”

  He went away, and in a little while June Lund came out and drove away in her Porsche. I put on my warmest smile and went in to try my luck with Skip Lund.

  TWELVE

  THERE WAS A different man at the desk, and though he admitted that he was a Ram fan, he hesitated about letting me speak with my client.

  He said, “I’m not trying to be hard-nosed; don’t get me wrong. But, hell, Mrs. Lund has been here three times, and then Farini and that Chavez girl. The chief will have a fit if he comes in and finds you in there.”

  “Has he ever come in at this time on a Saturday night?”

  “Well, no …”

  “I’ll be quiet,” I said. “I’m not on this case just for the money, you know. Lund’s getting a lousy deal, in my opinion.”

  I had guessed right on his personal bias; he nodded. He took a breath and said, “Ten minutes. Long enough?”

  “Plenty,” I agreed. “And thank you very much.”

  I didn’t go into the cell this time; I stood in front of it. Skip Lund was seated on his cot, bent forward, staring gloomily at the floor. He looked up, some hope in his eyes.

  “I’m nowhere,” I told him. “Juanita has been very frank, but I can’t see a lead there. Pete won’t talk at all and he’s angry because Juanita did.”

  He looked worried. “Juanita told you about — about — ”

  “About your nonprofit venture,” I finished for him. “You were a damned fool for getting involved in something like that.”

  He nodded. “I know it now. At the time, hell — it looked almost noble. But after you told me about Johnny and those high-school kids — ” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a stinking, lousy mess, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Maybe your opinion of Johnny Chavez needs re-evaluation. In the light of what you know now, do you think he might have been trying to double-cross Juanita?”

  He shrugged. “My mind won’t work. You mean Johnny might have tried to make a deal with some of the L. A. boys?”

  “Something like that. Have you ever been approached by outsiders?”

  He shook his head thoughtfully. “There was one guy — well, it’s maybe nothing, a guy I heard had L.A. contacts, but that’s all. You know — bar talk.”

  “So a nothing rumor,” I agreed. “What else have we? What’s his name and why did he approach you?”

  “He didn’t approach me,” Lund said. “He was a pal of Johnny’s in high school and just lately Johnny’s been seeing a lot of him again. His name is Pablo Chun. That’s a cutie of a name, huh? He’s half Mexican and half Chinese.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “In Goleta. It’s probably a blind alley. He’s got a patio-furniture store near the airport. He sells a lot of that rattan stuff and those hemp and grass squares for rugs. It’s called Chun’s.”

  “Does he live there, too?”

  “Right behind the store, in a little house. I was only there once, but my memory’s right on that, I’m sure.”

  A nothing rumor — and what else did I have? We talked for a few more minutes, but Chun was the only lead he had. There had been no bail set, he told me; he would have to stay in the clink.

  It was almost nine o’clock now, and unless Chun kept his store open on Saturday nights the chances were better than even that my trip would be futile. But it was only a few miles and there was nowhere else to go.

  • • •

  Most of the new electronics firms in the neighborhood were out here, as was the San Valdesto airport. It was a ragged town, a victim of badly planned growth except near the university section.

  The store called Chun’s was closed. The store-wide sign on the roof informed the potential customer that this was the Tri-County headquarters for raffia and rattan, hemp and grass mats, and kindred importations.

  I drove past and parked in front of two converted frame cottages that were now the offices of a doctor of osteopathy and a chiropractor. There was a gap between the buildings, and I could see the front door of another — even smaller — cottage in the back lot behind Chun’s.

  There was a light showing in this rear house.

  I left the car and started out along the crushed stone path that led from the service door of the store to the rear house. I had no official authority to come here — but neither could Chief Harris prevent me from asking Chun questions. This was not San Valdesto.

  I was two steps past the rear of the store and a good distance from the front door of the cottage when this — this monster came quietly out from the shadow of an oleander bush.
/>   The only light was the reflected light from the house, and in that hazy vision the general outline of the beast resembled a dog. It had to be a dog; no domestic cat was this big and very few horses were this small.

  He didn’t bark; he didn’t growl. He stood calmly in my path, both forefeet planted solidly, his nose pointed in the general direction of my throat.

  I assumed that he was staring at me. I knew damned well that I was staring at him, waiting for my eyes to adjust, praying that the anxiety welling in me wouldn’t emit an odor of fear that would encourage the beast.

  “Hi, doggie,” I said weakly.

  Nothing from him. He stood motionless, and in my growing vision he seemed to be crouched for springing.

  I was afraid to turn my back on him; I didn’t have the will to go forward. He looked like one of the Eskimo breeds, wide, big-jawed, and heavy.

  “Hi,” I said again. “Hello!”

  He took a tentative step forward.

  “Down,” I cautioned quietly. “Heel.” He couldn’t be vicious, I thought. A vicious dog would be tied or penned. The neighbors and the law would see to that.

  But it was his yard, not mine.

  Now he was crouching. I could see him clearly and I listened for the warning growl above the pounding of my heart. Maybe he only wanted to play, I told myself skeptically. Maybe he was crouching for a playful leap.

  At my jugular.

  If he would only make some sound. If he would growl or snarl or wag his tail — anything but crouch there silently, making me sweat.

  I took the chance and shouted, “Hey, Chun! Your dog’s loose!”

  It prompted him into action. He leaped and I side-stepped frenziedly. One of his huge paws scraped my forearm.

  “Down, damn you!” I shouted at the top of my lungs while I covered my face with my arms.

  The light flashed on in the yard and a voice from the direction of the house shouted, “Kong, come here!” And, in a quieter voice, “Don’t panic, mister. He only wants to play. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  I lowered my arms from in front of my face and explained with dignity, “I’m not a fly. What the hell is he?”

  “An Alaskan Malemute. Sled dog. Lousy watchdog. Too friendly.” A pause. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Callahan. Are you Pablo Chun?”

  “I’m not Picasso,” he said wryly. “You selling something?”

  “Nothing. I came for information.”

  A pause, and then, “What kind of information?”

  “Information about the death of Johnny Chavez.”

  A longer pause. His dog was at his side now, his attention still on me. I couldn’t see Chun’s face. I saw only his outline. He was tall and heavy with a rounded look, slope-shouldered, thick-armed, his head big on a thick neck.

  The silence grew and I said, “I’m a private detective hired by Skip Lund.”

  A continuation of the silence for perhaps half a minute. Then he said dully, “All right. Come on in. I can’t help you, though.”

  I came up the two steps that led to his front door and into a small living room furnished in mail-order moderne. Pablo Chun pointed to a square, stuffed chair and I sat in it.

  He continued to stand, facing me. He had a round face, dark and strong, with only a suggestion of oriental cast to his brown eyes.

  He said, “Back in high school, I used to know Johnny. We played basketball together. We haven’t been close since.”

  “I understand you’ve been seeing him more than usual lately.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I think it was a police officer,” I lied.

  His dog came over to lay his massive head on my knee. I rubbed the coarse fur of his neck and scratched him behind the ears. He slobbered on my knee.

  “Kong!” Chun said sharply. He pointed toward a corner of the room. “Down!”

  The beast went slowly over to lie in the corner, his eyes reminiscently on me.

  Chun said doubtfully, “If the police told you that, why haven’t they been to see me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You lied, didn’t you?”

  “I can’t reveal the officer’s name,” I lied further, “but he told me that. Isn’t it true?”

  “It might be. It has no meaning, though.”

  I said, “He’s been eating without working. How did he do that?”

  Chun shrugged.

  “He sat ninety days on a reefer rap,” I went on doggedly. “Maybe he graduated to the Big H.”

  From the direction of the airport came the sound of a plane revving before take-off. Kong’s ears lifted and he turned to stare in the direction of the sound.

  Chun said, “You’re fishing. I don’t know what Johnny’s business was.”

  “You haven’t even an informed guess?”

  Chun was growing annoyed. He asked, “Why are you bothering me? You figure because I’m half Chinese I’m bound to be in the opium racket or something?”

  “Nothing like that,” I said soothingly. “You were right before; I’m fishing. I have a little information and I need a lot more. I’m not accusing you of any complicity.”

  There was emotion in his voice. “If I knew who killed Johnny Chavez, the police would have the killer’s name. I’m a businessman, Mr. Callahan. My books are open. What Johnny did was his business. What I do is sell raffia and rattan and garden furniture.”

  The plane had warmed up now, and its thunder grew as it gained momentum down the runway. Kong’s head lifted as the sound rose; he was still staring into space when there was only a distant drone.

  I stood up. “It looks like I was given a bum lead. I apologize, Mr. Chun, for bothering you this time of night.”

  His voice was calmer now. “No trouble.” He sighed. “Johnny was always in hot water one way or another. If it wasn’t money, it was women. A lot of people didn’t like Johnny Chavez.”

  He came to the door with me as I went out into a night that had turned noticeably colder in the short time I had been inside.

  The car’s engine was still warm; the heater gave me almost instant heat. Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere….

  I am quite often disturbed by my own sense of insufficiency, but tonight was a new low. Chun, Lund, Chavez — none of them had given me even a ghost of a lead. Juanita had been frank, but I had almost guessed what she had told me.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing, nowhere…. I drove back to the motel in a real ugly mood.

  And there behind my rear door the green Pontiac station wagon was parked. James Edward Ritter started to climb out of it as soon as he recognized my car. He was drunk. That much was clear as he walked carefully toward me. He was drunk and I had to assume that he was going to be belligerent. I could only hope that he wouldn’t cause enough of a fuss to bring the police.

  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 turned me with his left hand and his right 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.

  It was on target; he went down and out, as cold as the night.

  THIRTEEN

  ON THE BED he stirred and moaned and then sat up as I came from the bathroom with
a cold, wet washrag.

  “How the hell did I get here?” he asked.

  “I carried you. You all right?”

  He swung his feet around and then thought better of it as a wave of dizziness must have hit him. “Carried me?” he mumbled sickly. “I weigh over two hundred pounds.”

  “I noticed that. You’re not going to vomit, are you?”

  He stared at me in sick indignation. “I haven’t done that, Callahan, since I left high school.”

  Small prides for petty men…. I said, “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I don’t want anything of yours,” he said. “You and I will go around again, Callahan, when I’m sober.”

  “Any time,” I assured him. “I like you, too.”

  He felt his jaw gingerly and tried once more to swing his feet around to the floor. This time he made it and sat on the edge of the bed, his head forward, his hands pressing down hard on the rough-textured spread.

  He said quietly, “You think you can do Lund some good? He’s dead. He’s going to jail, whether he killed Chavez or not. That’s the way it’s going to be and you may as well go home right now.”

  I said, “If that’s the way it’s going to be, why did you come over here tonight?”

  “Because until you came up here, June was through with that bum. Today she couldn’t stay away from him.” He lifted his head to glare at me. “He’s a bum and his friends are rats.”

  “And you love his wife,” I said. “There are always complications, Ritter, when you mess with another man’s wife.”

  “Mess?” he said. “Watch your language.” He rubbed his neck. “I love her. We’re going to be married.”

  I said nothing.

  His voice quieter, he said, “Who’s paying you? And how much?”

  “My client’s paying me the standard rate, a hundred a day.”

  A silence, and then, “How many miles do you get on a gallon in that jalopy of yours?”

  “About fifteen. Why?”

  He stared at me levelly. “I was wondering how far away a thousand dollars would take you.”

  “It wouldn’t get me out of town,” I told him. “I’m for rent, Ritter, but never for sale. I think you’d better leave now.”