“Easy enough, Buster. You want the whole rundown just to show you how much I know?”
“Knock it off.” His voice was real uncertain this time.
Buster Lafarge was one of the old-time killers from the roaring ’20s. He was wanted by three states and the Feds and I personally knew five people who would pay 100 grand to have old Buster delivered alive to their private basements for old times’ sake.
I held out my hand. “The heater, friend.”
It was strictly his kind of rod, a big blue Army .45 that could knock a horse down. He laid it in my hand and I could feel him shaking when he touched me. All the toughness has gone out of him long ago. He was old now, too old to fight and just old enough to want to hang on to the last inch life had to give him.
He said, “Pal… look, I… I…”
“What’re you doing here, Buster?”
“Pal.…”
“I can make money on you, you know that,” I said. “I could drop you now and take a payoff or bring you in still kicking.”
This time his voice came out in a dry rasp. “Jeez, pal, what’d I do? I don’t know you. Look, pal…”
“What’re you doing here?” I repeated.
Buster’s shoulders sagged with the weight of the load he carried. “Rhino… he gimme the job here. They got to keep me on here. It’s in his will. Jeez, pal.…”
“What do you do?”
“Nothing. What the hell can I do? I can’t go no place. So I sweep up and paint some and keep the yard clean and make sure Rhino’s grave is okay and that’s all.”
“Where’s this grave you take care of?”
“West. About a quarter of a mile. By the palm grove.”
“Good. Get a couple of shovels, Buster.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to dig old Rhino up, that’s what for.”
Very slowly he backed away from me, his eyes wide. “Man, you’re plain crazy. Nuts. You got bats!”
“Out,” I said. “Shovels.”
A thick cluster of palms smothered the grave with a protective apron, screening it from casual eyes. The ground was flat, like a putting green and, instead of the ornate headstone I expected, a small bronze plaque on a marble backing nestled in the grass. The inscription was as simple as the setting. From overhead the light of night filtered through the gently moving fronds of the palms giving the place a peculiar life of its own.
I made Lafarge spread-eagle himself on the ground while I dug so I could keep him in sight, and when I was halfway down I threw him the shovel and made him get into the hole. He was caught between me on top and Rhino below and with every shovel full of dirt he tossed up came a whining moan broken with an occasional sob. He was a miserable slob, but in his time he had put enough people into the same kind of hole he was in now, and I wasn’t wasting any sympathy on him at all.
He was completely out of sight, handing me the shovel with every stroke to throw the dirt up, when he hit the coffin. Even in the darkness I could sense what came over him, a sudden terror too great to call out, too big to run away from. He turned his head up slowly, the whites of his eyes almost fluorescent in the black pit of the grave. I said, “Scrape it clean.”
Mechanically, he went to clearing off the box-like affair that covered the casket, each motion forced, each moment bringing Lafarge closer to that one second of supreme terror.
In a way it was laughable. Lafarge who had been afraid of no man and who had killed many with his own hand was shaking with fear of meeting one who could do nothing to him at all. Nothing.
I had to jump in the hole to help him tear the boards off to expose the coffin. They were pulpy rotten with time, smelling of mold, and came up easily. Then there was old Rhino Massley’s last bed and I had the point of the shovel banging into the edge until it broke loose.
And now I’d know the answer.
I carved a niche into the wall and made Lafarge stand in it while I climbed out. He looked like a shrunken-up gnome standing there, shivering silently at the thought of what I was going to make him do.
“Open it,” I said.
His voice was barely audible. “No. Please, Mac… no.”
He heard the hammer of the .45 come back and it was enough. His whine turned into jerky sobs and he reached for the lid of the coffin. Twice it slipped from his fingers, then with a convulsive heave he had it open and when I struck the match he took one look at what was inside, gagged with sheer fright, and collapsed in a faint that jammed the lid wide open.
Rhino Massley’s body was a bag of sand.
It was a heady feeling knowing I had been right. The excitement was pounding in my chest and head, making my ears ring. I laughed out loud right where I stood and the sound of it was just enough to cover up the sudden rush of feet until it was too late.
The first one got me across the back of the neck, then struck again across the skull. I yelled, tried to get up, but there were others on me then. I was half over the edge of the open grave when a gun roared in my ears and below me somebody let out a pitiful wail. Then it was my head again and I was falling into the pit myself, the one I helped dig with my own hands.
I hit across the thing in the bottom without feeling, a strange and new sensation like being dead, I thought. I could still hear sounds, the yells of men, and twice the hollow reverberations like far off thunder. Then as suddenly as it happened the numbness of that brief half life was swept away on a sea of pain.
Above me somebody said, “Rocca… hey, Roc-ca…” and a shaft of light flooded the grave.
It hurt, but I propped an arm under me and pushed up.
“He’s okay. Can you take care of those two, Johnny?”
Another voice said, “They’re not going any place.”
There was a scrambling into the hole, a long drawn-out whistle as the person realized what was there, then hands hooked under my armpits and dragged me to my feet.
“You all right?”
The light swept over me and in its beam I saw Joe Stack, the front of him covered with dirt and blood trickling down one side of his face.
I nodded. “I’m okay.” I spit out the taste of mold and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Lafarge?”
Joe turned the light on the open end of the coffin. It was partially filled now by a sandbag and a man, and there was no difference between either because all both were, was dirt. A bullet had nearly taken the top of Lafarge’s head off and the cycle for him was complete.
The .45 was half covered by dirt and I didn’t leave it there. I picked it up, and without bothering to clean it, shoved it under my belt out of sight.
Joe said, “Ready to go up?”
“Sure.”
He gave me a hoist and I sprawled on the mound of dirt we had thrown up, the sudden, stunning pain in the back of my head tearing down the muscles of my back and into my legs. Another light was going over me, taking in every detail, the reflection of it bouncing off the one who held it, a tall, heavyset guy with blood on his face.
“This is the one?”
I heard Joe answer, “That’s him.”
“He’s got plenty to talk about.”
My head was clearing again. I managed to get to my knees, then on my feet. I felt myself grinning foolishly at the big guy. “Who’re you?”
“Police. You were lucky, mister.”
He flashed the light down beside him. The two motionless shadows I had assumed to be mounds of dirt turned into men, handcuffed back to back.
“There was another one,” the cop said. “He got away.”
“Put your light back on them.”
The beam of the flash traced a path to their heads. “Know them?”
I nodded. “One. He’s a hood named Joe Coon who works for Mannie Waller in New York. The other one is new to me.”
“He’s local. Been here for a couple of years. Tough punk who has a small record but a big reputation. We’ve always pegged him for a hired gun for the L.A. bunch.”
&nbs
p; “What about the other one?”
I felt the cop shrug. “We heard his car. He took off.”
“That’s great.”
“Why sweat. These two will talk. We’ll pick him up.”
Joe Stack said, “Let’s not make it easy for him. Suppose I get back to town with Rocca here and get your office to work.”
The cop hesitated and I saw him scowl. “I don’t like it.”
“Listen, Johnny, you wouldn’t have tied into this one at all if I didn’t steer you to it. I tried to tell you this was different and you should have seen enough to know this is hot. Now throw it through channels and you’ll blow the ass right off the bit. Either play it the way I suggested or lose it and look like a fool. I know what Rocca’s bumping. Don’t louse him up or he won’t be telling you or anybody else anything and, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t blame him.”
“Damn it, Stack, he’ll talk too, if I want him to!”
Joe’s breath came in with a hiss. “Don’t rub me, Johnny. I’m from the Fourth Estate, remember?”
“He’s not.”
“Like hell. He is as of right now. If he wants, I’m putting him on my staff. How do you like them apples?”
The cop grunted, shook his head, and scowled. “Okay, Chief Bigheart, I’ll go along. Sometimes it’s better this way. Take the car and send out Aldridge and Garcia. How much time are you going to need?”
Stack glanced in my direction. I said, “What time is it?”
“Almost 10:30.”
“We’ll have something in the morning.”
“It better be something for me, friend.”
“You aren’t alone,” I told him. “This isn’t local.”
“Okay, I’m a sucker. I’m lucky I have 20 years in without any strikes. This could cost me.”
Stack took my arm. “Let’s go. Can you make it to the house?”
“If we don’t run.”
“Jokes yet he tells,” the cop said.
Stack made the call to Aldridge and Garcia from his own office.
When he hung up I put down the almost-finished highball he made up for me and took the towel off my head.
“Fine. Now cut me in,” I said. “You were there at the grave like gangbusters.”
“I gave you the Mermak and the Blue Sky Motel so I could stay with you. Man, I was on your tail ever since you left the building here. Now let’s hear your side. Where did the boys come from?”
“I thought about it all the way back. Before I left New York I got creamed in the men’s room of the airfield. I thought it was for some loot, but that was a cover. Somebody sapped me, took a look at my airline ticket in time to get on the same plane. That was buddy Joe Coon. He was the one I told you about.”
“That Mannie Waller deal?”
I nodded.
“Back in New York the word is going out fast. Rhino Massley isn’t dead at all. His grave is empty. Ten to one the lad who got away put in a fast phone call to the office.”
“So what’s the next step?”
I pointed to his desk. “Can I use the phone?”
“Be my guest.”
I picked up the receiver, dialed the operator and gave her the number of the Enfield Hotel, person-to-person to Terry. The hotel PBX rang for a full minute, then gave me a DA. Nobody answered. I cancelled the call and put in another to Dan Litvak, at Rooney’s.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Phoenix.”
“Oh? What’s with Rhino Massley?”
“Rhino’s grave was empty. He’s not dead.”
“It’s your deal, kid. Go on.”
“Swell! Now do you think you can influence Cal Porter to start some action on this thing?”
“Like how?”
I told him what happened back at Rhino’s old place and listened to him let out a long low hiss. I said, “Give it to Porter straight, but don’t let him start blowing any whistles. First have him check the State Department and steamship lines for anything on Elena Harris, Rhino’s former nurse. The date would be shortly after he supposedly died. Okay. Then see if you can run down the Harris dame wherever she is. The paper ought to foot the phone calls.”
“That’s it then?”
“Maybe you can lean on Porter a little bit. Make sure he has somebody on Waller from here on in. If there’s a political rub, he might want to play it cool.”
I hung up. Stack was looking at me with a little grin. “Don’t be giving anything away, friend. You’re on the staff now, remember?” He handed me a fresh drink across the table and I took it mechanically. Without realizing it I held it in my hand a long minute before raising it to my mouth and when I did it was the full realization that the old compulsion was gone completely.
I said, “Joe, this story has two ends. One in New York and one here. It’s an old story and I’ve been in it since the beginning. I want in on it at the end. The story is big enough for a couple of papers, but I’m not doing it for the sake of a news scoop. I’ve been a patsy long enough. There are a lot of eyes I’d like to have look my way again. Until now I haven’t realized how much I’d like to have my integrity restored and proven.”
“I have something to show you.” He slid a folder across the desk. “File on Massley. Most of it’s local. What was this thing he had about dames?”
“Beats me. He didn’t take to anybody except his nurse.”
“You’re not kidding. You know he had three assault charges brought against him by three different housekeepers?”
“When he was in the lung?”
“On two occasions, when he was out of it for the few minutes necessary, he took the time to belt one woman with an ash tray and hit the other with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. After all the verbal abuse they took from Rhino that finished it. Both of them dropped the charges after an out-of-court settlement.”
“Who was the third?”
“A newspaper woman. She was outside his window with a camera and he fired right through the window at her.”
“What’s your point?”
“It’s an old story. He’s had charges like these flung at him a dozen times. Anything there?”
I shrugged, took another small pull at the drink and pushed it away from me. It was no trouble to do it at all. “Nothing I can touch at the moment. It’s a peculiar facet of his personality I found out about back home. Why this interest?”
“Because on everything else he was clean. Massley apparently went to every extent to keep in the background. He was legal, at least on the surface. He ran a neat, efficient organization and let as little trouble touch him as possible. Then this stuff pops up. He’s gone after more dames with his hands or anything available than you can count. Each time he has to go out of his way to clear the deal with a handful of dough.”
“So he hates dames.”
“Not his nurse.”
“There is always the exception,” I said. I stood up and pushed the phone at him. “Call the airport and see who you know. I want a flight out.”
He made a tight face. “The cops are going to want to talk to you.”
“You talk for me.”
“You’re the one with the story. What can I say?”
“Maybe something about how peculiar it was that the doctor who signed Massley’s death certificate and the mortician who embalmed him died in a supposed accident together right after the funeral that was held for a bag of sand. Hell, they ought to be glad they got the two who creamed Lafarge.”
“That’s one story they’ll want everything on.”
“Guardian of a buried sandbag,” I told him. “As long as nobody dug the coffin up, Rhino was safe some place. Those hoods who jumped me got the idea real fast and didn’t want the information spread around. If you didn’t show up, Lafarge and I would have filled that hole and if they handled it right nobody would have been wised up.”
The DC-8B landed short, slowed up on its brakes and turned into the first taxi strip. As it swung onto the apron I saw them, the unmistak
ables, men stamped by their jobs. The pair of two-tone patrol cars would not have been the giveaway, if they hadn’t backed up the black sedan with the small mid-roof antenna.
Cops. Liaison between Phoenix and New York must have been excellent.
Cal Porter wasn’t taking any chances on me running off with a hatful of information that could make him governor. At least I should have expected it. You don’t keep murder quiet. At least not too inexpensively.
The cop met me at the foot of the ramp, took my arm, and tried to steer me. I said, “Lay off.”
For a second it looked like he was going to have fun, then Cal Porter was there, smiling pleasantly just in case, another plainclothesman behind him. “Phoenix called, Rocca.”
“It’s what I expected, Porter.”
The cop nudged me. “Say mister.”
I gave him the old two words and turned to the D.A. “Lay off me, Porter. Treat me like a slob and it’s going to look like you fell through the crapper. I’m past being pushed, especially by you. From now on you stay on the safe side, not me. You pulled the cork eight years ago, but it won’t happen now.” I looked around at the nice assemblage, well-trained and efficient, all there to do it the way the book said, no matter what it cost anybody else.
I said, “You got one stinking chance to play it smart, Porter. I won’t give you two at all. If you spoke to Phoenix, you know there’s a press working on my side this time without a publisher like Gates who let his men get thrown to the dogs.
“Maybe you know that I got time working for me and, if I don’t talk, then you’ll look like the most stupid idiot that ever faced a court and, brother, will I call the names out. In fact, come to think of it, you haven’t got a damn thing to say at all. Not a god damn thing. So toss me in the slammer and I’ll wait it out. I’ll wait until it’s over with, then shove it into you and break it off.”
The plainclothesman said, “Want me to calm him down, Mr. Porter?”
Cal was white. His nostrils were pinched and turning green from pressure, but he shook his head. He waved his hand absently at the cops. “You men go back. Mr. Rocca here will go with me.” He let the rage seep out of his face slowly. “That all right with you, Mr. Rocca?”
The Tough Guys Page 11
