by Jon Wilson
The first part of my plan came off without a hitch, but after I’d stripped and showered and fallen atop my unmade bed thinking I’d rest my eyes a moment, I found myself rocking gently in the surf at some beach while a shadowy figure sat beside me trying to feed me grapes. I decided it wouldn’t hurt too much to get a good look at whoever was holding the grapes, so I set the alarm for five-ten and rolled over. But I never made it back to the beach. There was only darkness until the clock started chiming, and I got up.
My phiz required a razor, as it often does in the late afternoon, but I have learned to clean up fast. I was out the door by five-forty, garbed in my best suit and tie. I only have two hats, so while the one I wore that day could also be designated my best, it wasn’t quite up to the level of the rest of my apparel.
I caught another cab, and we made a nearly straight shot up Pacific Avenue. When I climbed out a half block from the address, the meter read thirty-five cents. I handed the cabbie a half dollar. I still had ten minutes to spare. I decided that gave me time to case the joint, as they say in the moving pictures, and I took a slow walk along the sidewalk.
The O’Malleys had a whole block to themselves, all that land surrounded by a high stone wall behind hedges. One gate was on Pacific and another around the corner offering ingress from the Eastern side street. I stopped at that latter location for my first gander at the house itself.
I took it nearly in profile, but it was still a beaut. Mansion doesn’t quite cover it, though I admit castle might be hyperbole. The front was burnt brick decorated with all sorts of trimming around the windows and the door and at the corners of the roof. The porch looked like marble, and it spread out ten feet from the front, with matching columns to support the cover which doubled as a terrace accessed by some French windows on the second floor. Being in San Francisco, there wasn’t much lawn. The yard was mostly taken up with a great sweep of red gravel drive connecting the two gates and swirling around a fountain located about twenty feet from the porch. Assorted trees dotted the periphery in a thin strip of green hugging the wall and a flowerbed along the front of the house. The flora was all highly regimented and fit for photographs in Better Homes and Gardens. The afternoon sunlight transformed the splashing water of the fountain into a cascade of glittering jewels. Thinking it was a trick, I glanced back across the street, where, sure enough, the sky was scattered with wispy clouds and the light seemed dimmer. I decided maybe I was still slightly drunk. If it was a trick, it was a swell one.
The gate from the side street was closed, so I made my way slowly back around the corner and along Pacific to the main gate. It was open and twice the size of the other. Even the big new cars could probably come and go simultaneously and not have to worry about rubbing sides. Passing through, I saw I’d missed out on my opportunity to see my supposition tested; the gravel drive was crowded with vehicles.
I wondered if I was crashing a party. I counted six cars in all, ranging from an aging green pre-war DeSoto to a sporty silver coupe without a lid. In between were a Hillman Minx, a high-end Hudson, a Ford sedan, and a yellow, nearly golden Chrysler Highlander, also without a top, that managed to win my heart the moment I laid eyes on it. It was parked over near the side gate, so I sidled up to the little coupe first, admiring the elaborate triangular grill work adorning the front. Ah, those crazy Italians.
“What’re you doing?”
The voice came from nearer the house, and I looked up to see a man I hadn’t seen before, probably because he’d been hidden in the thick foliage of the flowerbed. His raiment identified him as Chauffeur, though its style and age did not match the prestige of the house. I noted some repair work done to a tunic sleeve and one leg of the trousers. Someone capable of affording a brand new Alfa Romeo probably wouldn’t have tolerated it. I figured he could be matched with the DeSoto all right.
He left the camouflage of the hedge to come toward me, a scowl lining his weathered face. His eyes, saggy and a bit wet, were dwarfed by a nose that looked like it had been pushed in with an unsettling regularity to which it had finally grown accustomed. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped, and his scowl revealed the tips of some seriously stained bridgework. He was shorter and a bit heavier than me, and though his cap covered much of his head, his hair looked to be mainly devoid of any color.
“Just admiring the view,” I told him, doing so. I stood beside the coupe and whistled approvingly at the leather interior.
He stopped about ten feet from me, and his scowl worsened. “You’re the shamus.”
“I am a shamus,” I allowed. “I don’t know about the shamus. I’ve heard tell of others.”
He spat a big wad of something down next to the front wheel of the DeSoto. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Huh.” I checked my watch. “According to this, I’m a few minutes early.”
“Yeah, only I—”
“Hey! What’s this?” Another voice interrupted him, not mine.
A large car shed stood off to my left, separated from the house by the gravel drive. Of its three big double doors, the pair at the near end stood open. A man was coming out, rubbing his hands on a rag that didn’t look any too clean. He was a young fellow in coveralls over a sweaty T-shirt, wearing work boots that looked well-worked. A cigarette dangled from his lips; another unlit one rode behind his ear. He had dark hair, nearly black, cut close, with a remarkably low hairline above his bushy eyebrows. His face was simian, with a sloping honk and jutting jaw. His big protruding ears really added to the illusion of a trained monkey striding toward us.
“I thought you was told to wait in the kitchen,” he said.
I didn’t think he could have been addressing me, but, by the way the old chauffeur ignored him completely, I didn’t suppose he was addressing him either.
Chauffeur said to me, “I want a word with you.”
Monkey boy stopped about ten feet to the side of us, like we were mapping out a triangle in the gravel. He didn’t seem to notice I was there, however, and he squinted angrily at the chauffeur. “What the hell are you doing?”
Chauffeur glanced over at a small office attached to the car shed, passing right by the younger guy like he didn’t even exist. “What do you say we step in there?”
These two characters interested me no little bit, but I said, “I’m expected at the house.”
“Yeah. It’ll just take a minute.” Chauffeur started toward the shed.
“What the hell?” That was from Monkey boy, who I figured, in fairness, was probably some sort of mechanic. He stepped into the chauffeur’s path and reached out toward the old guy’s shoulder.
I barely saw it, even though he must have taken a good swing. There was just a jerk and then a loud smack as the chauffeur’s palm met the side of the mechanic’s face. Both cigarettes went flying. Monkey boy staggered a step to the right, more surprised than hurt I imagine, though the smack echoed around the walled yard. Then I saw him bare his teeth, his heavy brow moving down as he threw a wild fist up at the old guy’s head.
Wild as it was, it might have connected had the old man not weaved. He was smooth and cool. Just as his mangled nose suggested, this was a fellow who had been exposed to his fair share of flying fists. Pivoting with the grace of a Golden Gloves boxer, he snaked his left arm up in a tight arc and grabbed hold of the kid’s T-shirt. He pulled Monkey boy up straight and brought his other hand back across the simian face, offering a taste of hairy knuckles. Then, in quick procession, he doled out three more slaps while the mechanic stood there, either too shocked or too dazed to do anything about it.
Despite being sharp and stinging, the slaps were—like most slaps—more to prove a point than inflict any real damage. The only reason the kid fell was due to his pulling back trying to get clear when the old man let him go. Monkey boy dropped his keister down hard on the gravel and sat there looking up with his mouth open. Chauffeur glared down at him, finally acknowledging his existence with a look of pure disgust, then cocked a leg. The mechan
ic scrambled quickly, getting himself upright and tearing in the opposite direction of the car shed. He disappeared around the side of the house.
Chauffeur turned to me with the disgusted look still lingering on his homely mug. A moment passed as he glared, apparently trying to decide. Finally he started toward the shed again. “Come on.”
I followed him across the yard into the dark little room that was cramped with shelves and workbenches and every sort of automotive tool imaginable, but offered no place to sit down. Another open door in the opposite wall led to what appeared to be a bedroom. The old man closed the door we had entered through, then produced and lit a cigar with trembling hands.
“Christ. I been waiting three years for that.”
“Yeah? What is it, a shakeup at the livery union?”
We were standing a few feet apart in the middle of the dirty floor. After disposing of his match, he squinted at me. From his expression, you’d gather I had some secret code hidden in the lines of my face and he was determined to decipher it. “You know that kid got a waiver?”
I shrugged. “Lots of guys got waivers. You go around offering them all slaps like that, you’ll ruin your hand.”
“Huh.” He seemed to grow even more suspicious. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I inched my shoulders back. I wanted him to make no mistake. If he tried slapping me, he’d be the one on his keister.
At that, he didn’t actually back down. He just offered me the sort of snarl that said we could table the question for the time being. When he thrust out his big hard hand, it was to offer a shake. “Sergeant Wayne Holmsby, ninth infantry.”
Not anymore you’re not, I thought, shaking his hand anyway. Now you’re just a grizzled bird who goes around slapping poor saps who got deferments. What I actually said was, “Declan Colette.” I’d left all the rest of that madness behind, and there it would remain.
Holmsby had a grip, and he tightened it. “Enlisted?”
I’m not one to go in for that tough guy routine, and if you buy that, I have some swamp land we can discuss later. I gave Holmsby back about twice what he offered and watched as he realized his mistake. “Yes, sir.”
I let him go, and he retreated a step, half-turning in an attempt to hide the fact that he was massaging his right hand with his left. “I could see that.”
Bullshit, I thought. I’d seen more than a few pantywaist enlisted men indistinguishable from that monkey boy mechanic outside.
“What I should have said,” Holmsby continued, “is that he bought a waiver, or had a waiver bought for him. Probably on account of the son. Probably they were queer for each other.”
“You don’t say? You see them holding hands?”
He reared up at me. “Do they look like I seen ‘em holding hands?”
I nearly gave him a taste of my palm right then. He needed it. He’d obviously been holding something in and, rather than purging himself, his roughing up the mechanic had merely made it worse. He had spittle on his protruding lower lip.
“What did we need to come in here for?” I asked.
He rubbed a fat finger along his lip, then dried the finger on his tunic. “I don’t like this business. It don’t look right.” He paused to give me another look, or maybe to offer me time to respond, but when I didn’t he told me, “I was wanting a look at you. I took a stab at that other shamus, but he ain’t our type. He snubbed me. I think he might be part of the fix.”
“Whoa, brother, you’re a mile ahead of me. There’s a fix?”
“What are you, smart? Sure there’s a fix. They’re gonna pin it on the colonel, ain’t they? All on account of them letters.”
“You’re still speeding, Sergeant. Which colonel? What letters?”
“Where have I been cooling my heels all day? That’s right, Portsmouth. They had me inside this morning, and they kept the old man most of the day. It ain’t right. Before the war, the coppers never would have dragged the colonel in, but this family…” His voice trailed off as he stepped closer to the single window, which was neither curtained nor shaded but dirty enough that it didn’t need to be. He glanced through the glass, and his scowl came back in force, like he hated the burnt brick of the mansion’s facade. “These bozos get him so tied in knots. I thought we was through with them after the wedding. But no, he had to go on writing to the girl.”
He jerked around to face me again. “Listen you. What’s your part in this? Which one are you for?”
“For?” I let him see that I didn’t follow. “Mrs. O’Malley invited me here.”
He looked down at something, scratching his chin. “Her.” He said the word without a lot of feeling, so I couldn’t tell if he approved or not. “I don’t get her. She was all right when she was Addy’s girl. They used to go out on his boat, y’know? I used to drive ‘em down to the pier.”
I played a hunch. “Yeah, but Addy’s dead now, isn’t he? And she’s—”
He came at me in a surge, with that same fat finger extended toward my chest. “You leave him outta this! He was a fine boy. A good boy. He never—”
He stopped mid-sentence, his words hanging in the air. I let them hang, thinking he should know I noticed. Finally I asked, “What did he never?”
Holmsby shook his head, backing away again. “Look at you. What happened? The fellow who loaned you that suit didn’t want to give you the hat, too?”
“Don’t start in on me, Sarge. I don’t belong to your union.” I got a cigarette going for myself. “What’s eating you?”
“I told you! This whole business! What do they think—”
The outer door opened suddenly. A tall, square-shouldered fellow with wavy brown hair stood there, his hand on the knob. I recognized George Kelly even without the uniform. He looked startled and confused, but that quickly gave way to consternation. “What’s all this?”
Another fellow stood behind him, trying to peer over his shoulder. A youngish Negro I took to be the butler, Fenton. He was dressed the part anyway. George Kelly, having stopped to pose his question, took another step into the room. “What’s going on here?” He looked from Holmsby to me and then back at Holmsby. “Wayne?”
“Just having a chat, Mr. Kelly.”
Kelly turned on me, looking suspicious. I decided I had shortchanged him before; he was handsome even in civilian garb. Maybe more so. His hair was longer and stylish and some of that boyish earnestness was gone from his face. “Who are you?”
I offered my hand. “Declan Colette. I’m here at the request of Mrs. O’Malley. We have an appointment.”
He ignored my hand. Almost. He very nearly looked at it, but he caught himself. “You’re not likely to find her in here.” I could see that he was embarrassed for me.
I kept my hand extended just to spite him. “No, sir. Mr. Holmsby invited me in to ask a question.”
His eyes moved again, darting over at Holmsby and then back to me. “What question?”
I looked at Holmsby myself. He didn’t seem the least bit troubled by George Kelly. One would have thought he ranked the man just a step above a mechanic. I shrugged, finally dropping my snubbed hand. “Just a personal query regarding the last race at Golden Gate today. Major Folly’s Foal by a nose.”
Holmsby was fighting a smile, so Kelly turned on him. “This isn’t like you, Wayne. I thought you were told to wait in the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir. Only I take my instructions from the colonel.”
“Indeed.” It clearly took some effort for Kelly to swallow that one. He stepped back out onto the drive. “This isn’t like you.” He shook his head at the chauffeur and then forgot him, turning to me. “You’d better come along, Mr. Colette. Everyone’s waiting.”
Chapter Seven
“I suppose I should thank you,” George Kelly said. We were walking across the drive toward the marble portcullis. He was a half-step ahead of me. Fenton, the butler, was a few steps behind, and several more steps behind him came Wayne Holmsby, the slapping chauffeur.
“Why’s that?”
“You’ve done something I haven’t been able to do for months—get them all in a room together without sniping.” He offered the statement in a mild tone, without bothering to whisper, so I assumed he didn’t mind the staff overhearing the joke. If it was a joke.
“Happy to oblige,” I said.
He stopped, and so did I, allowing Fenton to move around us and up onto the porch while Holmsby slipped behind along the drive. Kelly had a foot on one of the marble steps, facing me. The corner of his mouth had a certain tilt, and his eyebrows were knitted. “I also suppose I should warn you.” Having said that, he nevertheless took another moment to consider. He massaged his jaw. “They’re pretty much laying in wait.”
“Then I’m afraid they’re in for a disappointment.”
He looked away. He was either watching Holmsby’s back or admiring the half-size Negro lawn jockey who stood about two yards the other side of the porch. It was a proud little monument to old-time bigotry, with a big red smile painted on its coal black face, holding up a large hitching ring like a grand prize trophy. The polished surface sparkled in the sun, and I wondered if they made Fenton shine it.
After a moment Kelly said, with much more volume, “Wayne, won’t you please wait in the kitchen? Have Mrs. Dillon get you some pop or iced tea. It’s hot out here.” His tone was no longer the authoritative one he’d employed in the shed. He sounded like a concerned child beseeching a doddery grandparent. He also sounded quite exhausted by the effort.
Holmsby had stopped another few yards beyond the hitching post, standing with one foot in the flowerbed. I estimated it was the exact spot he’d been standing in when I first laid eyes on him. He showed us his cigar. “She don’t like me smoking in there, Mr. Kelly. I’ll go along shortly.”
Kelly glanced down at the toe of his brogue on the marble step. “Listen, Colette. If you would rather not stay, I can explain to them. I know how to handle them, and, believe me, you don’t want to face them all like this.”
