The Third Figure

by Collin Wilcox

  “Well …” She hesitated. “Most of it’s in real estate, but the lawyers figure it’ll be around three hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Three hundred—that’s a lot of money.”

  “Dominic worked hard,” she replied, defensive-sounding. “And he saved his money. All our life, we only had one car. Things like that.”

  I thought about it, visualizing life with one Cadillac and three hundred thousand dollars in real estate.

  “Were your children on good terms with their father, Mrs. Vennezio?”

  A brief silence followed. Then she said, “What difference does it make, about Dominic and the kids? Do you think they know something about Dom’s murder?”

  “No, no,” I answered hastily. “It’s not that. It’s just that I want to know everything I can about your husband. I have to—to fill in the picture. I have to feel that I know him. For example, I’m very interested in talking to your daughter, just to get her impressions.”

  “You want to talk to the kids, is that it?” Her voice had the same flat, resigned quality I remembered from our conversation in San Francisco.

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  A moment of silence followed. Then, reluctantly, she said, “Charlene’s in the Los Angeles phone book. If you want to find out about Charlene, you’d better ask her yourself. We—Charlene and I never hit it off. Not for a long while, anyhow.”

  “I see.” I paused, phrasing my next question.

  “Has your son been out to California lately, Mrs. Vennezio?”

  “Just for the funeral. But he went right back to Phoenix.

  The jet time was less than two hours, I was thinking, from Phoenix to Los Angeles. An easy commute.

  “Did your husband favor one child over another?” I asked.

  “Dom always liked Charlene better’n Angelo,” she answered with regretful gravity. “But Angelo was a better son than Charlene was a daughter. At least, that’s the way it was at first. Dom would always be spoiling Charlene, and Angelo would always be trying to do things that’d get Dom’s attention. At first, when Angelo was a kid, it was just mischief. Later, when he started to grow up, it was different things. You know, teen-age things. But whatever Angelo did, right or wrong, Dom never paid much attention. So, pretty soon, Angelo didn’t seem to care anymore what Dom thought. At least, that’s the way it always seemed to me.”

  “And what about Charlene? How did she treat her father?”

  “Charlene could always get anything she wanted from Dom, right from the time she was two years old. By the time she was a teen-ager, she was running wild. Everyone could see it but Dom. Whatever Charlene told Dom, he’d believe. And as long as she hung around with kids whose folks had money, anything she did was all right. And all the time she was getting into—into the kind of trouble that girls can get into, Angelo was getting into real trouble.”

  “Was Angelo ever actually arrested?” I asked.

  She snorted, bitterly mocking humor. “Angelo finally had to leave town. He was getting arrested so often that Dom just couldn’t have it.”

  “Was he working for the Outfit, you mean? Or did he …?”

  “Angelo was supposed to be going to school. College. Dom had it in his head that both kids had to go to college, no matter what. He’d threaten them, and he’d bribe them. One time he offered Angelo a thousand dollars, just to get through one college semester. But it didn’t do any good. The very next week, Angelo was arrested for stealing a sports car out in Beverly Hills. It got so Dom’s lawyers were spending as much time on Angelo’s problems as they were on Dom’s.”

  “What about Charlene? Did she finish college?”

  “She got to be a junior, and then she quit. Just quit. And Charlene’s smart, too. I remember one of her teachers saying that Charlene was about the smartest girl she’d ever taught.”

  I found myself holding the phone slackly. There was no more to ask—no more I wanted to hear. Mrs. Vennezio’s story, I was thinking, was a timeless one. In Greek tragedy it had been the story of Oedipus, or Electra. In modern America the protagonists were anonymous, but the plot remained the same—the tragedy of two generations blindly seeking a nameless fulfillment, savagely destroying each other as they searched. In ancient times the conventions of combat were traditional and often bloody. In modern times the techniques were more refined: the silent, indifferent stare, the exclusion of turned-up transistors and TVs—and the long, gleaming cars, roaring away.

  I promised to let Mrs. Vennezio know if anything developed. She thanked me, and we hung up. I rose to my feet, switched on the TV and went to the medicine cabinet for my pint of bourbon, already half-finished. I was adding a splash of water when a knock sounded. Frowning, I turned down the TV and opened the inside door, leading to the hallway.

  “Mr. Drake?” He was a large, gross man with a very bald head, a big nose and the practiced smile of a petty salesman. He was wearing a sweater and slippers, and as he extended his hand he said, “I’m Walter Carrigan.” Apologetically he looked up and down the hallway before lowering his voice to say, “I’m from the CIIB.” He nodded over my shoulder, into the room. “Could I …?”

  “Yes, certainly.” I stepped back, then locked the door behind me. Carrigan was standing close beside me. He nodded to the windows. “Maybe you’d better …”

  “Yes.” Quickly I crossed to the window, drawing the blinds. As I did, Carrigan sat in the same chair Reggie Fay had recently vacated.

  “Sorry to just drop in on you like this.” He glanced around the room, completely at his ease. “But I’m just down the hall, so there didn’t seem much point in phoning for an appointment.” He smiled, as if pleased with the figure of speech.

  “But how did you—I mean—”

  “How’d we find out about you? Is that what you’re asking?” He scrubbed his shaven head with a reflective hand. I noticed the thick growth of black hair on the back of his hand. Something in the contrast of the hair-matted hand and the completely smooth skin of the skull seemed almost obscene. If this was a representative of California’s home-grown FBI, I was thinking, appearance could not have been a recruitment factor.

  “Was it Larsen who told you?” I asked, aware of a quick indignation.

  “Larsen? Who’s Larsen?” Carrigan’s eyes, I noticed, protruded slightly. His close scrutiny was therefore doubly distasteful.

  “Never mind.” I was looking at my bourbon and water, which I’d placed on the dresser. I wanted the rest of the drink, but I didn’t want to offer one to my unwelcome visitor. The TV screen, mute, was announcing a panel show.

  “Who’s Larsen?” he repeated.

  “Chief of Homicide in San Francisco,” I answered shortly, remembering that Larsen had emphatically warned me to stay clear of both the CIIB and the FBI. The warning had left a graphic vision in my mind: the image of myself face down on the floor of Frank Russo’s car.

  “Oh, yeah,” came the answer. “I think I’ve heard about him. Supposed to be a good man.”

  I nodded, trying to decide how best to get rid of him. If he were known to the Outfit …

  “I came down from Sacramento,” he said, as if to answer my unspoken question. “Our L.A. office thought it would be best if they didn’t contact you.”

  “Well, that …” I shifted in my chair, glancing at the drawn blinds. “That’s very considerate of you. And wise, too,” I added. “I’ve been told that there’d be, ah, considerable risk if …” I didn’t know how to finish it. Among law enforcement officers, I realized, the Outfit was seldom referred to directly. Correct form was to officially ignore the existence of organized crime when speaking for the record—or when speaking to the representative of another official organization.

  Stirring the flabby folds of his face into an unconvincing smile, Carrigan raised a foot from the floor. “That’s why I’m wearing these slippers. To minimize the risk to you.”

  “Yes, but …” Involuntarily I glanced at the outside door, through which Reggie Fay
had disappeared less than ten minutes before.

  “Does Russo know you’re staying here at the Prescott?” His tone had now flattened to a brusk, official note.

  “Yes, he does. That’s why I—”

  “Have you had a chance to talk with Russo yet?”

  “Yes. Today. This morning.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Listen, Mr. Carrigan.” I leaned toward him, lowering my voice. “One of the things Russo said was that I was to stay away from the police. Or it’d be my neck, he implied. Now, I talked to Larsen about all this before I ever left San Francisco. He advised me not to come to Los Angeles, and I can see now that he was right. But I’m here now, and I don’t have much choice but to—”

  “I disagree with Larsen. I don’t see anything wrong with you being here. Just be sure you keep us posted, that’s all. You’re a crime reporter. You should know we protect our informers from—”

  “Look, let me call you on the phone. Give me a number, and I promise I’ll report once a day, at least. But, for God’s sake, I don’t think you should—”

  “Now, listen, Drake. The way I understand this deal, you’re being paid a bundle of money to find out who killed Dominic Vennezio. Then …” He held up two spread fingers. “Then, second, you’re being paid not to tell anyone about it. Any of the authorities, I mean. Now—” He shook his head, in ponderous burlesque of a regretful reproach. “Now, that just isn’t the way we want to see it happen, Drake. We don’t mind if you give the information to Russo. He’s paying for the information, and he’s got a right to get it. However, if you uncover any information relative to the murder of Dominic Vennezio, you’re going to be in real hot water with the law if you don’t—”

  “But Russo’s not paying me. It’s Mrs. Vennezio. She’s the one I’m working for. She—”

  “She’s a front for Russo. You know it, and so do I.” His protuberant eyes were chilled; his voice was barbed with a policeman’s cynical, bored contempt. As a reporter, I’d often heard that note of contempt in a cop’s voice, questioning a suspect.

  “She’s not a front,” I protested. “She’s—”

  “You’re reporting to Russo, though.”

  “Well, yes. But—”

  “He says ‘no,’ it’s no.”

  I sighed. “Listen, Carrigan, what you’re saying is right. But don’t forget this: the whole La Palada police department is jumping to Russo’s tune. It’s not just me. In fact, I’m a lot more independent than—”

  “All right, Drake. There’s no point in arguing. You can talk all you want to, but I’m telling you what’s going to happen. Now, if you want to phone in once a day, that’s fine. I’ll give you a number you can use, downtown. However, I’m also going to keep an eye on you. For one thing, assuming you really do turn up something, you might need some help. For another, still assuming you turn up something, there’s a little matter of what constitutes evidence. You might tell the jury, for instance, that you talked with Frankie Russo or Larry Sabella. But Russo and Sabella might say you didn’t. If you had a witness, though—a well-concealed witness, who was also a law officer—things might turn out a lot different in court. Of course,” he added in a patronizing tone, faintly contemptuous, “we wouldn’t expect you to testify in court. As I said, we protect our sources.”

  “Thanks for that, anyhow.” I made no effort to conceal the hostile irony in my voice. Informers, like certain lower insects, could not sustain themselves in the full light of day.

  Yet, in the next moment, I realized I’d never have the courage to testify against the Outfit. Score one, I thought, for Carrigan—and another for Larsen.

  He shrugged and got ponderously to his feet.

  “You’re the one who decided to play with the big boys, Drake. Nobody forced you.” He took a small notebook from his pocket, scribbled and tore out a slip of perforated paper. “Here’s the phone number. Ask for me, then identify yourself as my …” He paused. “… my friend from Portland. Don’t mention your name or any other names connected with the case, and always use a pay phone. We’ll call Russo the first subject and Sabella the second subject. Any questions?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good.” He moved briskly to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the corridor, softly closing the door behind him.

  I slipped the perforated slip of paper into my billfold, snapped off the TV and absently reached for my drink. Then I crossed the room and drew open the blinds. Propping a foot on the low windowsill, I stared morosely out into the night. The lights of Los Angeles were diffused by the city’s inevitable smog, reducing the harsh neon brightness of sign shapes to the softness of pastel abstractions, disembodied in the darkness.

  What could I do?

  The question seemed almost academic, because the problem was so impossibly complex. I remembered the difficulty I’d had learning chess. To each thrust there was a possible counterthrust—then an answering thrust to the counterthrust, and so on and on. This problem was the same. Russo could check Carrigan, but Carrigan could checkmate Russo—provided Carrigan himself could escape from check. And both men could eliminate me upon the merest whim, because both represented vast forces within society, just as did bishops and knights and kings and queens on the chessboard. By comparison, I was a pawn—a vassal, indentured for the most menial work. I sought merely money—eight thousand dollars more.

  Eight thousand dollars—more than some people saved in a lifetime.

  I sighed, straightened and blinked my eyes into focus. I must think. I must analyze the problem, clearly and concisely—once and for all.

  Probably because I had a college diploma, Frank Russo liked me. Yet Russo was a businessman. He was responsible for the efficient functioning of a large, complicated enterprise engaged in the very serious business of narcotics, prostitution and gambling. Therefore, Russo could not permit a personal whim to alter company policy or to compromise company discipline. He must …

  Beyond the window, the pastel tints of faded neon dissolved into the velvet darkness of a deeper night. Stars shown brilliantly in the sky; beneath the stars curved the surf, a phosphorescent tracery along the dark, deserted beach. The structure stood stark against the sky—the house with the lighted door. In the doorway stood the stocky, stolid silhouette of a man, staring sightlessly out into the night, listening.

  Nearby stood the woman, silent and watching. She was draped in a coarsely woven cloak, falling in long Gothic folds to the sand at her feet. She stood motionless, her face concealed by the cowl of her cloak. They were alone in the night: the man in the doorway, listening—and the still figure on the beach, waiting.

  Then, slowly, a third figure approached, emerging from the surrounding night like a silent, furtive actor leaving the darkened wings to take his place on a dimly lit stage. The third figure stealthily drew closer to the man in the doorway. Now the woman on the beach raised her arm in some slow, imperious command. The third figure suddenly tensed, crouching—scrabbling for a close-by concealment. The man in the doorway was turning, seeking escape—slowly, dreamily lifting first one leg, then the other—running in the agonized suspension of a nightmare, helplessly. One stride, two. The man was smaller now in the orange rectangle of the doorway light, escaping. But now the third figure stepped again quickly into full view, and in that instant the running man halted in midstride, frozen. Then he fell, stricken. The movement was surrealistically slow, as if his lifeless body were suspended by invisible strings, gently collapsing.

  As the body finally lay inert, the orange rectangle of light faded into the surrounding darkness.

  6

  ALL THROUGH THAT SUNDAY night the vision of the three tortured figures writhed in my twisted dreams, leaving me sleepless and exhausted when morning finally came. It was a sensation I’d often experienced during the past few years. What had I actually seen? What had I imagined? What did it all mean? If the one lifeless figure was Dominic, who were the other two—the faceless woman and th
e furtive assassin? Was it all a meaningless fantasy, signifying nothing? It had happened before.

  Was it a fantasy? Pure imagination?

  Until I either identified the two figures, or proved them false, I would never know.

  Wearily I got out of bed, showered, dressed and had breakfast. I had decided to phone Charlene Vennezio, and at nine thirty I dialed her number. From her manner I was sure she’d already heard of my arrival in Los Angeles, and as we talked I felt as if I were an especially unwelcome salesman, begging a reluctant prospect for an appointment. Finally, in a brusk voice, almost rudely, she said I could come to her apartment just after lunchtime.

  The apartment building was a new stone-and-glass structure, and as I entered the lobby I decided that the rent for one of the larger apartments would probably exceed my monthly reporter’s salary. Her apartment was on the tenth floor, and as I pressed the button marked “C. Vennezio” I could hear a voice inside. Then, abruptly, the door came open. A tall, dark-haired girl dressed in slim-tapered slacks and a man’s white shirt stared at me appraisingly as I introduced myself. Then she turned back into the room.

  “Come in,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m on the phone. Sit down.”

  I closed the hallway door behind me, and followed her into the living room. She stood in front of a huge plate glass window, holding the phone in her hand, trailing a long cord. Even though her back was turned to me, exasperation was plain in her stance as she listened for a moment before saying into the phone:

  “I’ll tell you one more time, Mr. Leonard: That car was promised for ten o’clock this morning, and it’s now one o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll also remind you that the car is still on warranty. Now, I’m leaving this afternoon for a trip. I either want that car ready, or I want one just like it. And I don’t mean a used car, either. If you can’t get my car fixed, I want a demonstrator. And I—What?”

  She listened impatiently, then said, “I don’t know anything about vapor locks, Mr. Leonard. I just know about warranties, and the Better Business Bureau.” She dropped the receiver into the phone’s cradle, pivoted and deposited the phone on a small side table. For a long moment she stood in the center of the room, looking down at me as I sat on her sofa. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.