Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  “My. They might have hung you.”

  “No. The punishment for that is slow roasting over an open fire. They say it feels good once you get used to it.”

  The Ford sped up as it neared us. The driver had a hat pulled low over his eyes and his face turned far enough to the right I couldn’t quite make it out. He didn’t seem to see me at all, even when I waved at him.

  “But you weren’t convicted.”

  “I suppose that’s the official story. Personally I’d prefer to change the subject.”

  I was watching the Ford retreat into the distance in my side mirror, feeling a sort of tickle begin deep in my belly. I put absolutely no stock in hunches as mine are so often wrong, but that time I wasn’t so lucky. About three hundred yards past us, the Ford ducked right, then back into a wide U-turn, swinging around toward us.

  Mrs. O’Malley, apparently completely unaware another car was even in the vicinity, was telling me, “Yes, I can see that you’re not your favorite subject.”

  I sat up in my seat. “I’m dull. But this might be interesting.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they need directions.”

  She looked back as the Ford revved its engine and barreled toward us. It slid past in a blur, and we heard the brakes applied suddenly and with force. The driver must have cranked the steering column. The car’s near wheels came up off the pavement as it cut us off, missing the front of the coupe by about a foot. It stopped with its rear wheels on the pavement and the front wheels on the shoulder. Both the front and back passenger side windows were down, and men leaned out with guns. On the far side, the driver angled his entire torso out his window and leveled his gun toward us across the roof of the car.

  Mrs. O’Malley didn’t scream. She took my arm again, her other hand hovering over the jeweled necklace. All I heard from her was a faint intake of breath.

  The men in the car wore bandanas over the lower halves of their faces, and the driver and the guy in back had hats. The front passenger, the one staring down the barrel of a Luger directly in front of me, had golden blond hair slicked straight back. His eyes looked young and clear and incredibly blue, even in the shade. A scar started in the middle of his forehead and sliced down into his left eyebrow. It had clearly come from a healthy cut, or rather an unhealthy one. It split his eyebrow into two distinct halves. Though I could only see a few inches of his face, I figured if it hadn’t been for that scar he would have been playing a tough guy in pictures rather than on that deserted road.

  For a moment no one spoke. We all just admired the tableau. Then the rear passenger door opened, and the man behind it climbed out. He told us to put our hands up. His barking breath caused his bandana to flap. I complied immediately. Mrs. O’Malley moved much slower. The man made a wide circle around to stand in the road to my left. He told me to get out of the car.

  I did as I was told, keeping my hands high whenever they weren’t absolutely required. The man waved his snub-nosed Colt, explaining I should turn around and put my hands on the side of the car. I did that too, thinking he meant to pat me down, but once I was leaning there, he simply told me to stay put and forgot about me.

  I looked over at Mrs. O’Malley. She was on her knees in her seat, staring at either the Colt or the man wielding it. Her eyes were as wide as I’d ever seen them, her painted lips open in a small circle.

  The driver of the Ford got out next, coming round the front of his car and over along the passenger side of the coupe. He told Mrs. O’Malley to “Stay put, kitten,” at which point I was about ready to give up on those jokers. I figured I could probably take the Colt from the guy next to me without too much fuss, and the driver had pocketed his own gun. But the scarred, blond matinee idol with the Luger struck me as a wild card. He acted cool and composed, but you never knew just how twitchy a man’s fingers might become once the action starts.

  The driver reached out without any more preamble and closed a fist around Mrs. O’Malley’s necklace. He yanked it off with a sudden jerk that elicited another gasp.

  “I bet it had a clasp,” I told him.

  That reminded Mr. Colt that I was there, and he stepped toward me, growling, “No one asked you, buddy.”

  “I ain’t your buddy, slick.” I know it sounds like I was making fun of them, and I was. But the whole setup was ridiculous.

  Colt looked over at the driver, who responded with a single nod and started back around to his place behind the wheel of the Ford. I felt a gun barrel stick me in the back and slide up over my left shoulder blade. The guy holding it was leaning in at me, whispering hoarsely through his bandana, “You ain’t to follow us.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  He laughed, and I sensed his arm angle upward. I managed to pull to the side just in time so that his fist and the handle of his weapon landed mainly atop my left trapezius. I sold it though, sinking down onto the dirt, rolling to my back and cowering against the rear wheel of the coupe. I tried to look frightened and hurt, though mainly I just felt mad as hell and devoted every ounce of willpower to keep myself from blowing out his knee with a well-aimed kick.

  He laughed at me again, saying, “So long, tough guy,” before bouncing back over and climbing onto the Ford. The driver revved the engine, reversed into the road and swerved around to head west, back the way they’d come.

  I let them put a couple of hundred yards between us before bothering to get up. As I dusted myself off, frowning, I heard Mrs. O’Malley ask me in a breathless voice if I was all right.

  “No,” I told her, mainly because I don’t consider being offended anything like all right. Not to mention my shoulder hurt some.

  She caressed her chest just below the neck. “They stole my necklace.”

  “Yeah, I saw that.” I lowered myself back into the coupe. “We should file a police report.”

  Her reaction told me that would make about as much sense as going sailing. “A police report? But…” She changed her tune. “Why didn’t you do something?”

  I smirked, using just a corner of my mouth. “Lady, you could see my hat sitting here on the dash. What was I supposed to catch the bullets in, my pockets?”

  “But who were they?”

  “How should I know?”

  She showed me a shiver, not holding back at all. “Take me home.”

  “With pleasure.”

  I started the coupe and turned it around, heading back the way we’d come, in the opposite direction the Ford had taken. We passed Marty Velasco’s place again, but neither of us bothered to glance at it. A few miles later, I turned south, not desiring another tour of Sausalito. A few miles north of the bridge, Mrs. O’Malley told me, “I recognized one of them. The one that hit you. He works for Marty Velasco.”

  I flexed my fingers around the steering wheel, and my jaw tried to crack a few molars. I drew some air in through my nose and let it out slowly, telling her, “Sure. Why not?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I pulled into the red gravel drive and parked next to the fountain. The police scientists had taken their van and departed. Morgan O’Malley’s Highlander was also gone. The other cars were lined up neatly near the car sheds. I killed the engine, then broke the silence which had dominated our return trip by asking, “Can you get yourself inside all right?”

  Her scarf was tied around her hair again and the shades back in place over her eyes. She continued to stare at something on the bonnet of the coupe. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Who would believe it?” I took my hat from her and climbed out. “Good afternoon, Mrs. O’Malley.” I started toward the main gate.

  She was still sitting there, stiff as a statue, when I turned onto Pacific. By the time I made it around the corner and passed by the side gate, however, she’d disappeared. I tried not to think about it. For one thing, she had offered me a ride an hour earlier, and there I was hoofing it with an aching shoulder and half a day wasted. Not that a little exercise wouldn’t do
me good. For one thing, it would allow me ample time to not ruminate and to not try and figure out what the hell she’d thought she might accomplish with that trick. I muttered to myself and scowled at things, earning quite a few appropriate looks from passersby.

  At the office, I checked my messages—nothing—and called the client—no answer. So I smoked a cigarette. I avoided some more ruminating. I went to the window and sat on the sill, staring morosely down at the alley and not seeing anything. I called up Gig Barton at the Clipper and was told he’d call me back. I laid on the couch and had another cigarette, wondering what about that particular piece of furniture had so appealed to the client. I’d acquired it for two bucks at a used chattel shop down in the Mission District.

  Gig called me back. “How goes the investigation?”

  I settled into the chair behind my desk and flattened my tie. “I solved that yesterday. Just waiting for someone to offer a reward.”

  “I heard you were working for the O’Malleys.” To Gig, that apparently meant Miranda O’Malley because he immediately followed up with, “Can you get me an introduction? I sat two tables down from her one night at the Storkey. Never managed to work up enough nerve to ask her to dance.”

  “Forget dancing, my man. You need to see her shiver. She has it down to an art.”

  “Oh yeah?” But I gathered my line confused him. He said, “Did you call for a reason? You got a quote for me?”

  Having consulted a specific volume on my bookshelves the night before, I did have a quote ready: “Our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous: allow not nature more than nature needs, man’s life is cheap as beast’s.”

  “Christ. What is that, Keats?”

  “Barbarian.” I went to put my feet up onto the corner of my desk but stalled when a sudden pain pinched my thigh, right about the spot O’Malley’s mechanic had landed his wrench. Between that, my forearm and my shoulder, I figured I’d need a vacation soon. I sat forward, propping my elbows on the desk and taking a long drag on my cigarette. “Listen, how are the various players set for alibis? No one tells me nothing.”

  “They exist,” he said, a certain lilt to his voice. “Was there anyone in particular you were interested in?”

  “Bad puppy. I’m just generally interested.”

  He sighed. “Miss Lana O’Malley had a late lunch at Saks with a name you might recognize.”

  “Yeah, don’t say it.”

  He laughed. “They parted, and she met a girlfriend for shopping and then several others joined her at the aforementioned Storkey for dinner and dancing. So, she’s out of it by most reckonings. As for your friend…”

  “He is not my friend. And please tell me he is open.”

  “He claims to have spent the afternoon at the office of his employer, Walter Cobb. That has apparently been verified, though sketchily. Amazing how an office full of private detectives can’t supply a concrete alibi.”

  “Well, if Cobb gives him the nod, the cops will go along.”

  “That seems to be the consensus. And what would his motive be?”

  “You haven’t seen her shiver. What about Morgan O’Malley?”

  “He’s even sketchier. He says he took a drive, then attended a pool party at a friend’s house. But he won’t name the friend. Apparently he doesn’t like cops. Or rather, he likes snubbing his nose at them. How he’s not in jail, I don’t know. You and me, we’d be steaming under a lamp while big burlies caressed our cheeks. The book says some woman’s husband would not approve of her sharing his pool with the O’Malley kid.”

  “Great theory,” I told him. “You newshounds don’t miss a trick. George Kelly?”

  “He maintains an office downtown and was there until noon. Had lunch at his club then swung by the bank and the digs of a business partner. From three o’clock on, he was at his club. Dined there. Meant to drink after but got a call from Mrs. O’Malley about five-thirty alerting him that her niece had not returned from an outing. Now, as to the lady of the house—”

  “Hang on. You heard about the family mechanic? Fellow called Hector.”

  “Sure. Papasomething. Greek kid. He chauffeurs Kelly. In fact, they primarily vouch for one another. He sat in the club staff lounge a while and rolled some dice with two other chauffeurs. Left with Kelly after the call came in. No one wants to swear to it, but no one has contradicted either.”

  “Okay. Mrs. O’Malley?”

  “Home with her secretary, Florence Lange. Preparing to attend an opening at the De Young. Never made it. About five, she started panicking that niece had not returned from regular outing. Called George Kelly at his club as mentioned. Home all day and evening. Never unaccounted for. She is tightest of all.”

  “Well, that sort of thing is simple. Not like staging a roadside heist. That can get complicated.”

  “What?”

  “Just gibberish. Last but by no means least, Jasper Reed.”

  “The retired shyster?” Gig was incredulous.

  “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t know he figured in.”

  “Huh.” I said it with feeling. “I heard the cops had him most of the day yesterday.”

  “Really?” It sounded like Gig was rifling through papers. “How did we miss that?”

  I said it again, “Huh. Maybe he really is a criminal mastermind. All right my boy, you’ve been a wonderful help.”

  “Wait a minute! How does Reed figure into this?”

  “I’m sorry, my stomach is rumbling.”

  “Hang on!”

  “No time. Thanks again.” I sent the telephone receiver back toward its cradle. Along the way Gig’s voice echoed, calling me all manner of names not fit to print, like any newsman worth his salt.

  I sat back and took a breather. My cigarette had burned down to a nub, and I smashed it in the ashtray. I considered lighting another, decided against it, and grabbed up the telephone again to try O’Malley’s number. It rang five times before I heard the click. A soft, feminine voice asked me, “Hello?”

  I pulled my head back, frowned, and glared menacingly at the numbers on the dial. “Mr. Morgan O’Malley, please.”

  “No. Mr. Morgan not here.” Her accent was faint, but she spoke in the halting English of a non-native speaker.

  “Do you expect him?”

  “Yes, yes. They go dinner now. You call back.”

  “No,” I told her. “Me leave message. You can write?”

  She sighed, not exasperated, but rather indulgently like I was a silly child, only she was quite used to dealing with silly children. “Yes, yes. Hold please.”

  I held and listened to assorted sounds. Then she was back. “Message?”

  “Have Mr. O’Malley telephone Declan Colette. At his earliest convenience.” I waited, then inquired, “Did you get that?”

  “No.” She sounded quite honest about it. “You spell.”

  I spelled and also gave her my number. “Have him call me as soon as he gets the message. When do you expect him?”

  “No expect. They go dinner. Be back soon.”

  “And you’ll see he gets the message?”

  “Oh, yes. I see.”

  I sighed, completely exasperated. “Thank you.”

  “Yes. Bye-bye.” She severed the connection.

  I hung up and looked around. Nothing I saw interested me much, so I locked up and went to dinner myself. It was only four-thirty, but I hadn’t had any lunch. I ate half a chili size at Jack’s, then gave up and walked down to the YMCA. I swapped my civvies for some shorts and an undershirt, admiring the twin bruises on my forearm and thigh. Then I spent twenty minutes attacking a heavy bag. I found that by pretending it had Dent’s face on one side and that blond, scarred gangster’s mug on the other, I had no trouble mustering the necessary enthusiasm. The bag never stood a chance. Had I got really creative and envisioned Joe Lovejoy’s phiz somewhere in the middle, the bag probably wouldn’t have survived.

  In the steam room afterward, I enjoyed ab
out five minutes before the place started crowding with the nine-to-fivers. That’s not so bad until you get the fortyish fellows with the dapper haircuts and the trim physiques, advertising their wedding rings while simultaneously giving you the eye. And then sometimes one of them even strikes up a conversation and mentions something about what a great physique you have. At that point, your only options are to hit the showers or cause a scene. Well, maybe not your only options. But I usually take that as my cue to hit the showers, and that day was no exception.

  I was back on the sidewalk by seven o’clock, and I ducked into a drugstore to check my messages. George Kelly had rang at five-forty-seven. That rated a frown but called for no other immediate action. More importantly, O’Malley had returned my call at ten to seven. I hung up and did the same for him.

  He answered after three rings. “Hello.”

  “Mr. O’Malley, Declan Colette. I—”

  “Oh.” It was neither an exclamation of surprise nor joy. He also didn’t sound particularly disappointed. The impression I got was that he had been engaged in some lively and pleasant debate, probably about something rather inconsequential, and my call had reminded him that he had more pressing matters that required his attention. “Hello, Mr. Colette.”

  “Yeah. Hello.” I took a breath. “Listen, I have a question.”

  I didn’t pose it immediately but apparently he expected me to. He didn’t speak, and we listened to the echoing silence of the open line. Finally he asked, “Would you like to come here?”

  “No.” It struck me as a rather ridiculous suggestion. Then I reconsidered and softened my reaction. “No, there’s no need to trouble you. But I need you to—”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  Standing in that dark booth with my back to the glass pane in the door, hearing all the pharmacy customers, the soda counter crowd, even the cars on the street, I wished I had gone back to my office to make the call. My thigh was hurting, and my shoulder was trying to feel worse. The workout and the steam had been only temporary salves.

  “You’re very kind, Mr. O’Malley. But I have an appointment.” I paused again, and again he said nothing. After a moment, I broke the silence. “You dodged this question today, and I need you to be on the level with me. When I mentioned that rumor I’d heard about you and your father’s driver, you assumed I got it from Marty Velasco. I want to know why you thought that.”