Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  “Damn it, Colette, this is a crime scene.” Ackerman bent over to retrieve the discarded cigarette. He stood back up, looking around for some place to put it and then handed it toward me.

  I took it, slipped it into my hip pocket and grinned around the new smoke in my mouth. “Sorry, Inspector, your boys caught me before I got any coffee.”

  “Where have you been all night?”

  I went right on grinning, and hoisted my eyebrows too. “That’s a question. Right here on a crime scene. What am I accused of?”

  He glanced sharply back at me, squinting. We were nearly the same height, with him topping me slightly, though he was quite a bit thinner and a few years older. But not as old nor thin nor tall as his subordinate, my good friend Lieutenant Dent. Neither was he as unreasonable as Dent, though mainly because he had seen my work on the Hopkins and Fletcher murders as aiding in the furtherance of justice. Which, of course, it had. Dent had just seen my meddling as an humiliating exposure of his own lack of talent, which it also was. It helped that Ackerman’s father had come up through the Pinkertons alongside Walter Cobb, and I’d worked both Hopkins and Fletcher under Cobb. I knew for a fact that Ackerman and Cobb had consulted surreptitiously on a few other cases as well.

  The inspector told me, “You aren’t accused of anything. But we’ve been trying to reach you since three a.m., and you’ve been unavailable at home or your office.”

  “Nevertheless, until you give me a compelling reason, my whereabouts and activities are my own business.”

  He shook his head at me. “Tell me about what happened yesterday at the O’Malley place.”

  I looked around at the faces of the men working. “Where is the old dog?”

  Ackerman flinched, a real violent jerk that went right through his entire body, and I swear to God, I think his impulse had been to sock me. Color spread up his cheeks, and his eyes bulged slightly. Only his better nature spared us both. “I’m referring to the incident with Hector Papalia.”

  “Me too.” I made a show of knitting up my brow. “What did you think I was referring to? Again, I’m reluctant to overburden you with useless facts. Perhaps if I knew why I’ve been dragged down here.”

  I tried to make that last part sound nonchalant, but Ackerman reached out anyway, taking hold of the same half of upper arm Stewart had used to lead me around. We relocated about ten feet further back from the Ford’s bumper, and he leaned in toward me, saying, in a harsh whisper, “Why are you being such a pain? I don’t give a damn about any feud between you and Dent. I’m questioning you about an open murder case that I believe you may have information regarding.” He took a breath, rocking back on his heels for a quick look around to see if we had garnered anyone’s particular attention. “You want to know why you’re here? Fine, have a look.”

  He started back toward the Ford and gestured for me to follow with a wave of his hand. We moved over near the open passenger side door, not too close, and Ackerman instructed a lab rat to get out of the way. That offered us an unobstructed view of the entire front bench, which was lightly spattered with blood. The driver’s window was more heavily coated in blood and various other bits. The most noticeable thing, however, was where the blood was not: a roughly human outline behind the steering wheel.

  I peeked in, noted all that I’ve described, stood up, took a drag, exhaled, and squinted at the inspector. “Who was it?”

  He was watching me, a very displeased frown stretching both ends of his mouth halfway down his chin. “Hector Papalia.”

  My lower lip went out, and I nodded like, of course, that made perfect sense. Of course, it made very little sense, but why should Ackerman know how dim I was?

  The inspector put his hand on my arm again, not taking hold, but applying just enough pressure to indicate we should step further back. “Now. Tell me about your run-in with Papalia yesterday.”

  I took a moment to look it over, realized my lip was still sticking out, sucked it in and took another drag on my cigarette. “What do you think happened here?”

  He folded his arms, planting his feet wide enough apart to let me know he was intractable, and stood there breathing through his nose. With Dent, I would have taken it as a dare, but Ackerman outranked the lieutenant in several ways.

  “I went in to question the kid but got absolutely nowhere. He had some vague notion of getting physical, and when that went south, he started squawking. Then your boys broke it up.”

  His frown faded, and one corner of his mouth even hinted it might be coaxed into an upward slant. “You think I’m an idiot. What did you want to question Papalia about?”

  I answered without much hemming or hawing, as that’s usually the best way. “I was questioning anyone I could.” I shrugged to show him how pathetically a lone PI compared to a legion of cops.

  He flared his nostrils. “Tell me what was said. Both of you. Every word.”

  I shrugged, more naturally that time, adding a cavalier toss of my head. “I didn’t take notes. But if you ask questions, specific as to what you’re after, it might could help my memory.”

  He arched a brow at me, not an altogether uncomely affectation considering he was otherwise rather plain. “You’re not working for Cobb on this one. Chances are you’re out of your depth. And you went driving with Mrs. O’Malley yesterday and shook her tail. Did you get yourself in a fix? These types are way above you—me too. Spill it to me now. Better yet, you and me, we’ll go see Walter and the three of us can straighten things out together. I don’t expect you to trust me, but you trust Walter, right?”

  He overplayed it calling Cobb Walter like that. I never referred to the old man as anything but Mr. Cobb. And did I trust the cagey snoop? He’d sent his lady-killer to warn me off, not merely a cheap move but also insulting. So, no. Despite the square deals we’d run in the past, Cobb was not topping my list of trusted consultants.

  Ackerman took a final stab. “You’ve never had a homicide all to yourself.”

  Finished with my cigarette, I glanced around for a place to toss it, remembered we were in the midst of a crime scene, and lifted my left foot to crush the nub out on the sole of my shoe. That required me to stoop slightly, and I looked up at Ackerman with a whipped expression on my face. “I’ll answer any question you want to ask, Inspector.”

  He took a breath as his expression hardened. “You certainly will.”

  He saw a plainclothesman waiting for a word, called to another uniform to locate Stewart and bring him back, told someone else he wanted an update from the scientists, asked another plainclothes to locate ADA Holloway, all of which resulted in a flurry of activity that ended up with me returned to the back seat of a patrol car while the unrileable giant, Stuey, sat in the front, reading a detective manual. I asked him if I couldn’t even roll down my window and lean out with a cigarette. He told me no.

  Though it hadn’t been explicitly stated, I figured the idea was that I’d be taken down to the Hall of Justice and grilled. Only as soon as I got there, the clock would start ticking on such annoying details as my rights as an American citizen, so they were in no hurry, and I could wait for Ackerman to finish up with his crime scene. I still hadn’t had breakfast or even a coffee, so sitting in a hot car with the windows rolled up and a pack of cigarettes singing its siren song from my breast pocket did not appeal to me. I took a few half-hearted jabs at Stuey, telling him how wrong I thought Ackerman had been to dismiss him before hearing the exciting details of my capture, but other than that one word answer to my suggestion about rolling down my window, he ignored me.

  After ten minutes or so of one-sided conversation punctuated by various bouts of desperate silence, the golem’s partner Dan came over to the open passenger side window. “Time for a break,” he said.

  Stuey looked up and out. “Huh?”

  “Yeah, kid. It’s union rules, you know that. Go have a—well, get some coffee.”

  “You know I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Sure. But you nee
d to get up and stretch your legs or something. The point is you can’t stay here on duty. You have to take a break.”

  “The inspector told me to stay with the prisoner.”

  Dan leaned down to glance disparagingly at me through the window. “He’s a prisoner now? Jeez, some guys.” He stood back up. “Well, I’ll keep an eye on him. You run along. Garabaldi found some footprints over yonder and was fixing to make a mold. Bet you’d enjoy seeing that.”

  Dan did indeed know his partner well. The young man tossed his manual up onto the dashboard and climbed out. “You’ll keep here, Dan?”

  “Didn’t I say so?” But he didn’t climb into the car. He pushed the door closed and leaned his back against it as the big kid took off across the lot. A moment later, the rear door across from me right beside Dan opened up, allowing Gig Barton to slide onto the bench next to me.

  “Yeah?” I made no bones about my level of skepticism. “How much did that cost you?”

  Gig grinned, pushing his cheaters up along the sharp ridge of his nose. “Dan’s okay. Aren’t you Dan?”

  “I ain’t listening,” Dan told us, showing nothing but his back.

  “Good man. Why don’t you go not listen around the front, where you also won’t hear?”

  The old copper muttered an entire string of words his partner wouldn’t condone, but stood up straight and shook himself. “You got ten minutes.” He strode casually over to stand with a shoe on the front fender.

  Sighing, Gig slid down in his seat. He looked mighty pleased with himself. He folded up his long legs, pressing his knees into the upholstery of the front seat grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “So spill.”

  “Spill what?” I was myself mildly pleased he’d wormed his way in to see me, and felt more than willing to pump him for any info he might have. But I made sure nothing but disgust showed on my phiz. You need to play these angles right.

  “What first put you on to Papalia?”

  “What makes you think I had any interest in Papalia?”

  Gig looked incredulous. “You went there yesterday and started to rough him up and twelve hours later, he comes to the very spot he dumped the body and blows his brains out. I think—”

  Any pretense I might have wanted to make as to my level of disgust was blown apart by real disgust. I cussed loudly and leaned forward over the seat toward the open window. “Dan!”

  “Wait a minute,” Gig said, confused and pulling at my jacket.

  Dan came running back around the car. “For God’s sake, keep it down! What’s the matter?”

  “Open the door,” I told him. “We’re done. We’re getting out. I need to talk to Ackerman.”

  By then, Dan had leapt over and jerked the rear door open. I hustled out Gig, who continued to sputter and object, probably on account of the dough he’d squandered bribing his way in to the car. As I unfolded out onto the packed dirt, Dan goggled at me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I told you,” I said, getting a cigarette to my lips. “I need to speak to Ackerman. Take me there. Now. There could be a promotion in it.”

  Gig glared at me. “You are a…” What followed was a string of colorful adjectives that went on so long, Dan and I were out of earshot before Gig ever got to the noun.

  As we passed through the line of official vehicles, I lengthened my stride, leaving Dan behind. Ackerman turned at my approach, and I asked him, “Why didn’t you say he’d killed himself?”

  He smirked. “It’s not my job to tell you anything. Have you decided to talk?”

  “Your assumption being that something I said yesterday led him to it?”

  “I said talk, not ask me more questions.”

  I reached his side. He was nearly where I’d left him, and that meant I could see in through the open passenger door of the Ford. I asked him if I could poke my head in, and he told me okay as long as I remembered not to touch anything. I stepped over to the car, probably a model from the middle of the last decade, and stopped with my shins an inch or so from the running board. I put my head in but saw very little there in the way of clues, so I backed out just as carefully and returned to Ackerman.

  “So you never suspected me at all. You just thought you’d play hard?”

  “It troubles me that you were incognito for the better part of twelve hours. But, yeah, this looks like a real suicide, if that’s what you mean. His .22 was in his hand and one shot was still in his skull, hence, the side window was still intact. His temple showed the barrel was close enough.”

  “No note?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what was said yesterday, Colette.”

  I complied, a near verbatim account of the dialogue in the small room next to the car sheds. As a bonus, I added a vague reference to how Mrs. O’Malley’s maid had steered me toward Papalia. As a buffer, I held back the possibly misleading lie I’d told about actually having met Ramona Wyman in the flesh. “So, the conclusion is that he offed himself out of remorse?”

  “Or fear of justice.”

  “Yeah, you say that with a straight face.”

  “Why not? It ties everything up, doesn’t it? He was involved with the girl, and you can draw your own conclusions as to how far. Maybe she wasn’t keen on going further, and he snapped. Then you come after him, and he decides the gig is up. That he comes here to do it says remorse more than fear to me. My oceanographer says this could very well be the spot he put her in the water.”

  A few things bothered me. “Who’s car is this? Not one of the O’Malley’s.”

  “No, it’s his mother’s car. He went there and back-doored his tail. She confirms he was agitated and seemed to be telling her goodbye.”

  “No signs of violence. I mean, other than the obvious.”

  “Sure. Someone banged his head. Right here.” Ackerman touched the middle of his forehead, then shook his head at me. “Nothing else.”

  It was my turn to squint at him, and I did, gazing around the thin pillar of smoke leaking from my cigarette. “But you’ve got more. You like it too much.”

  He nearly grinned, but then remembered who and what I was. “Maybe Cobb is right about you.”

  That deserved no response and got it. Ackerman paused a moment, waiting, then said, “He had her purse in the car.”

  “Sure he did.”

  He squashed any hint of a grin. “The other thing Walter tells me is you never want to buy any story no matter how good it looks. Well, my ears are dry at the back. We’ll go over everything thoroughly. But it might interest you to know that the lipstick you were so keen on was in the purse.”

  I shrugged. “It interests me more that if anyone had been in the car with him, say pointing the gun at his head and pulling the trigger, they would have got blood on them.”

  “Yes, there’s that. And my guys say there isn’t anything to show he wasn’t alone.”

  “People today. The way you talk. So many negatives.” I looked back over toward the city. “I don’t suppose I need a lift back uptown. I can easily walk to, say, Third and Oakdale and catch a cab from there.” It would be quite a walk, but hardly impossible, even after arranging to have yourself roughed up.

  Ackerman was scrutinizing me. After all, he was not only dry behind the ears but a second generation snoop. He knew I was saying something. “You have anything to add?”

  “No, sir,” I told him. “Except for damn, I guess my job is done and I was set to pull in fifty smackeroos a day.”

  “Sorry about that.” He let me know he was lying.

  A breeze rolled in off the water. I puffed a couple more times on my smoke. We stood there, fully aware of one another yet unwilling to acknowledge the fact. We just gazed contemplatively into that blood-spattered front seat.

  “Can I go?”

  He didn’t answer. He looked away, stepping back to join in with the other activity. He neither thanked me for my candor nor apologized for delaying my breakfast. He simply forgot me, which gratified me plenty, and I walked away.


  Chapter Twenty

  I went home to shower, shave, and change my socks. It took about twenty minutes at my apartment, and the telephone spent at least half that time ringing. I ignored it. Collecting three new shirts, a pair of pants, and one of each piece of undergarment, I took a cab back to the office to listen to more non-stop telephone ringing while I restocked the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. I then walked to the garage and got out the Zephyr for the second time in two days, putting me well above my weekly average. With all the street cars and the parking hassles, it makes no sense to cruise around in the city.

  But I was headed out. I needed to clear my head, and one of the ways I do that is to drive. The Zephyr isn’t a convertible, but I rolled down the front windows on both sides, and once I hit the highway, I may as well have been back in Miranda O’Malley’s topless coupe. The wind slammed my face, then ripped around the backseat until more air screaming along behind it forced it back out the open windows. My hair danced in the vortex.

  I grabbed some lunch at a small spot I knew of in Pacifica, then proceeded down toward Half Moon Bay, riding the Devil’s Slide, as they say. The coast is dotted along there with quiet, secluded little stretches of beach. It being a lovely day in August, both sides of the Slide were cluttered with haphazardly perched automobiles. At Pillar Point, I added the Zephyr to the mix and got out. I had replaced the Old Crow in the glovebox during my restocking chores, but didn’t bring it along. The fellow who had introduced me to the Point a few years back had laid down a law that drinking wasn’t to be allowed there. He had offered up some sort of hogwash reasoning for the rule, something about the Ohlone Indians and natural sanctity and maybe even the fact that he thought I drank too much, which I had scoffed at even at the time. I continue to conform. In fact, I consider the rule all the more inviolable now for the fact that he can no longer enforce it.

  It’s a bit of a hike from the roadside to the Point, through some winding trails around the base of a small hill. But on the ocean side of the hill, another secluded beach reaches north, looking out on some jagged rocks. The same guy who introduced me to the place also remarked that over the last two hundred years several ships had sunk in those waters, which is probably what kept me coming back, why I sat high up on the beach, huddled against the base of that hill, scowling out over the dark water toward Iwo Jima.