Martinelli looked surprised, said mildly: “He’s on time for once in his life!”
The man bobbed his head. His face was blank.
Martinelli went through the door, up two short flights of stairs to a narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway he knocked at a heavy steel-sheathed fire-door.
After a little while the door opened and a voice said: “Come in.”
Doolin stood on his toes and tried to make out the number above the door but the figures were too faded by weather, time; the electric light was too dim.
He walked down the dark street a half block and then walked back and pressed the button beside the door; the door clicked open and he went through the short passageway into the long barroom.
A bartender wiped off the stained wood in front of him, questioned with his eyes.
Doolin said: “Rye.”
He glanced idly at the men at the bar, at the tables, at the heavily built bald man who sat on a stool at the far end of the bar. The little bald man was stooped over a wide-spread newspaper.
The bartender put a glass on the bar in front of Doolin, put a flat brightly labeled flask beside it.
Doolin said: “Seen Martinelli tonight?”
The bartender watched Doolin pour his drink, picked up the bottle and put it under the bar, said: “Yeah. He came in a little while ago. He’s upstairs.”
Doolin nodded, tasted the rye. It wasn’t too bad. He finished it and put a quarter on the bar, sauntered towards the door at the back of the room.
The little bald man looked up from his paper.
Doolin said: “Martinelli’s expecting me. He’s upstairs—ain’t he?”
The little man looked at Doolin. He began at his face and went down to his feet and then back up, slowly. “He didn’t say anything about you.” He spat with the admirable precision of age and confidence into a cuspidor in the corner.
Doolin said: “He forgot.” He put his hand on the doorknob.
The little man looked at him, through him, blankly.
Doolin turned the knob and opened the door, went through, closed the door behind him.
The stairs were dimly lighted by a sputtering gas-jet. He went up slowly. There was one door at the top of the first flight; it was dark; there was no light under it, no sound beyond it. Doolin went up another flight very quietly. He put his ear against the steel-sheathed door; he could hear no sound, but a little light filtered through under the door. He doubled up his fist, knocked with the heel of his hand.
Martinelli opened the door. He stood a moment staring questioningly at Doolin and then he glanced over his shoulder, smiled, said: “Come in.”
Doolin put his hands in his overcoat pockets, his right hand holding the revolver tightly, went forward into the room.
Martinelli closed the door behind him, slid the heavy bolt.
The room was large, bare; somewhere around thirty-five by forty. It was lighted by a single green-shaded droplight over a very large round table in the center; there were other tables and chairs stacked in the dusk of the corner. There were no windows, no other doors.
Halloran sat in one of the four chairs at the table. He was leaning slightly forward with his elbows on the table, his long waxen hands framing his face. His face was entirely cold, white, expressionless.
Martinelli stood with his back against the door, his hands behind him.
Doolin glanced over his shoulder at Martinelli, looked back at Halloran. His eyebrows were lifted to the wide V, his mouth hung a little open.
Halloran said: “Well, well—this is a surprise.”
He moved his eyes to Martinelli, said: “Angelo. Meet Mr. Doolin—my bodyguard….” For an instant his wide thin mouth flickered a fraction of an inch upward; then his face became a blank, white mask again. “Mr. Doolin—Mr. Martinelli….”
Martinelli had silently come up behind Doolin, suddenly thrust his hands into Doolin’s pockets, hard, grabbed Doolin’s hands. Doolin bent sharply forward. They struggled for possibly half a minute, silently except for the tearing sound of their breath; then Martinelli brought his knee up suddenly, savagely; Doolin groaned, sank to his knees, the nickel-plated revolver clattered to the floor, slid halfway across the room.
Martinelli darted after it.
Halloran had not appeared to move. He said: “Wait a minute, baby….” The blunt Luger that Doolin had experienced in the afternoon glittered on the table between his two hands.
Martinelli made an impatient gesture, stooped to pick up Doolin’s gun.
“Wait a minute, baby.” Halloran’s voice was like a cold swift scythe.
Martinelli stood up very straight.
Doolin got to his feet slowly. He bent over and held the middle of his body, rolled his head towards Martinelli, his eyes narrow, malevolent. He said very quietly, as if to himself: “Dirty son of a bitch—dirty, dirty son of a bitch!”
Martinelli grinned, stood very straight. His hands, cupped close to his thighs, trembled rigidly.
Halloran said slowly: “Don’t do it, baby. I’ll shoot both your eyes out before you get that shiv of yours into the air—and never touch your nose.”
Martinelli looked like a clothing store dummy. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands trembling at his sides; his grin artificial, empty.
Doolin laughed suddenly. He stood up straight and looked at Martinelli and laughed.
Halloran moved his eyes to Doolin, smiled faintly. He said: “Gentlemen—sit down.”
Martinelli tottered forward, sank into one of the chairs.
Halloran said: “Put your hands on the table, please.”
Martinelli obediently put his hands on the table. The empty grin seemed to have congealed on his face.
Halloran turned his eyes towards Doolin. Doolin smiled, walked gingerly to the other chair and sat down.
Halloran said: “Now….” He put one hand up to his face; the other held the Luger loosely on the table.
Doolin cleared his throat, said: “What’s it all about, Mr. Halloran?”
Martinelli laughed suddenly. The empty grin exploded into loud high-pitched mirth. “What’s it all about! Dear God—what’s it all about! …”
Halloran was watching Doolin, his shadowed sunken eyes half-closed.
Martinelli leaned forward, lifted his hands and pointed two fingers at Doolin. “Listen—wise guy…. You’ve got minutes to live—if you’re lucky. That’s what it’s all about!”
Doolin regarded Martinelli with faint amusement.
Martinelli laughed again. He moved his hand slowly until the two fingers pointed at Halloran. “He killed Coleman,” he said. “He shot Coleman an’ I drove the car. An’ he killed Winfield himself. An’ his outfit killed Riccio an’ Conroy….”
Doolin glanced at Halloran, turned back to smile dimly, dumbly at Martinelli.
“He propositioned me into killing the dance-hall dame,” Martinelli went on—“an’ now he’s going to kill you an’ me….”
Doolin grinned broadly but it was all done with his mouth. He didn’t look like he felt it very much. He looked at Halloran. Halloran’s face was white and immovable as plaster.
“Listen—wise guy!” Martinelli leaned forward, moved his hand back to point at Doolin. He was suddenly very intense; his dark eyes burned into Doolin’s. “I came out here for Riccio to make connections to peddle M——a lot of it—an’ I met Mr. Halloran.” Martinelli moved his head an eighth of an inch towards Halloran. “Mr. Halloran runs the drug racket out here—did you know that?”
Doolin glanced swiftly at Halloran, looked back at Martinelli’s tense face.
“Mr. Halloran aced me into double-crossing Frankie Riccio an’ Conroy,” Martinelli went on. “Mr. Halloran’s men rubbed Riccio an’ Conroy, an’ would’ve taken care of me if Riccio hadn’t almost beat ’em to it….”
Halloran said coldly, amusedly: “Oh—come, come, Angelo….” Martinelli did not look at Halloran. He said: “I met Riccio an’ Conroy at the train that ni
ght an’ took them to that joint in Culver City to talk business to Mr. Halloran—only I didn’t know the kind of business Mr. Halloran was going to talk….”
“Is it quite necessary to go into all this?” Halloran spoke sidewise to Martinelli, smiled at Doolin. It was his first definite change of expression since Doolin had come into the room.
Martinelli said: “Yes,” emphatically. He scowled at Halloran, his eyes thin black slits. “Bright-boy here” he indicated Doolin with his hand—“wants to know what it’s all about. I’d like to have somebody know—besides me. One of us might leave here alive—if I get this all out of my system it’s a cinch it won’t be Bright-boy.”
Halloran’s smile was very cheerful. He said: “Go on.”
“One of the men the Law picked up for the Hotspot shooting was a good guess—he’s on Mr. Halloran’s payroll,” Martinelli went on. He was accenting the “Mr.” a little unnecessarily, a little too much. “When I got out of the hospital Mr. Halloran suggested we clean things up—move Coleman an’ Decker an’ Winfield—anybody who might identify his man or testify that Riccio shot me—out of the way. He hated Winfield anyway, for beating his time with the Darmond gal—an’ he hated her….”
Halloran was beaming at Doolin, his hand tight and steady on the Luger. Doolin thought about the distance across the big table to Halloran, the distance to the light.
Martinelli was leaning forward, talking swiftly, eagerly: “I brought eighty-five grand worth of morphine out with me, an’ I turned it over to his nibs here when we threw in together. I ain’t had a nickel out of it. That’s the reason I went for all this finagling—I wanted my dough. I was supposed to get it tonight, but I found out about ten minutes ago I ain’t going to get it at all….”
Martinelli smiled at Halloran, finished: “Mr. Halloran says it was hijacked.” He stood up slowly.
Halloran asked: “All through, baby?”
Martinelli was standing very stiff and straight, his hands cupped at his sides.
Doolin ducked suddenly, exerted all his strength to upset the table. For a moment he was protected by the edge, could see neither Martinelli nor Halloran; then the big round table-top slid off its metal base, crashed to the floor.
Halloran was holding Martinelli very much in the way a great ape would hold a smaller animal. One long arm was out stiff, the long white hand at Martinelli’s throat, almost encircling it. Halloran’s other hand held Martinelli’s wrist, waved it back and forth slowly. The blade of a short curved knife glistened in Martinelli’s hand. Except for the slow waving of their two hands they were as if frozen, entirely still. There was nothing human in their position, nothing human in their faces.
Doolin felt in that instant that Halloran was not human. He was mad, insane; but it was not the madness of a man, it was the cold murderous lust of an animal.
The Luger and Doolin’s revolver were on the floor near their feet. Doolin circled until he was behind Halloran, moved slowly towards them.
As he dived for one of the guns Halloran swung Martinelli around swiftly, kicked viciously at Doolin’s head. He missed once, but the second caught Doolin’s hand as it closed over the Luger, sent the Luger spinning to a corner.
As Doolin half rose, Halloran’s long leg lashed out again, his heavy shoe struck the side of Doolin’s head. Doolin grunted, fell sidewise to the floor.
Doolin lay on his back and the room went around him. Later, in remembering what followed, it was like short strips of motion-picture film, separated by strips of darkness.
Halloran backed Martinelli slowly to the wall. It was as if they were performing some strange ritualistic dance; their steps were measured; Halloran’s face was composed, his expression almost tender. Martinelli’s face was darkening from the pressure on his throat. Halloran waved the hand holding the knife slowly back and forth.
The next time the darkness in Doolin’s head cleared, they were against the wall, his head high, at a curious twisted angle above Halloran’s white relentless hand, his face purpling. Halloran’s other hand had slipped down over Martinelli’s chest.
Martinelli’s eyes bulged. His face was the face of a man who saw death coming, and was afraid. Doolin could no longer see Halloran’s face. He watched the knife near Martinelli’s chest, slowly. Martinelli, some way, made a high piercing sound in his throat as the knife went into him. And again as Halloran withdrew the knife, pressed it in again slowly. Halloran did not stab mercifully on the left side, but on the right puncturing the lung again and again, slowly.
Doolin rolled over on his side. The revolver lay on the floor midway between him and Halloran. He shook his head sharply, crawled towards it.
Halloran suddenly released Martinelli, stepped back a pace. Martinelli’s knees buckled, he sank slowly down, sat on the floor with his back against the wall, his legs out straight. He sucked in air in great rattling gasps, held both hands tightly against his chest, tightly against the shaft of the knife.
He lifted his head and there was blood on his mouth. He laughed; and Doolin forgot the gun, stopped, stared fascinated at Martinelli.
Martinelli laughed and the sound was as if everything inside him was breaking. His head rolled back and he grinned upward with glazing eyes at Halloran, held his hands tightly against his chest, spoke: “Tell Lola we can’t go away now….” He paused, sucked in air. “She’s waiting for me…. Tell her Angelo sends his regrets….” His voice was thick, high-pitched, but his words were telling, deadly, took deadly effect.
Halloran seemed to grow taller, his great shoulders seemed to widen as Doolin watched.
Martinelli laughed again. He said: “So long—sucker….”
Halloran kicked him savagely in the chest. He drew his long leg back and as Martinelli slumped sidewise he kicked his face, hard, repeatedly.
Doolin scrambled swiftly forward, picked up the revolver, raised it.
Halloran turned slowly.
Doolin held the revolver unsteadily in his right hand, aimed at Halloran’s chest while the muzzle described little circles, pulled the trigger twice.
Halloran came towards him. Doolin made a harsh sound in his throat, scuttled backwards a few feet, held the revolver out limply and fired again.
Halloran’s face was cold, impassive; his eyes were great black holes in his skull. He came towards Doolin slowly.
Doolin tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat, and then Halloran was above him and there was a terribly crushing weight against Doolin’s forehead and it was suddenly dark.
Slowly, Doolin came to, lay a little while with his eyes closed. There were sharp twisting wires of pain in his head; he put his hand up, took it away wet, sticky.
He opened his eyes. It was entirely dark, a cold penetrating darkness; entirely still.
Suddenly he laughed, a curious hysterical sound in the quiet room; and as suddenly, panic seized him. He struggled to his knees, almost fell down again as the pain in his head throbbed to the swift movement. He got to his feet slowly, fumbled in his pockets and found a match, lighted it.
Martinelli’s body was slumped in the angle of floor and wall at one side of the room. There was no one else. Doolin’s revolver shone dimly on the floor in the flare of the match. The door was ajar.
Doolin lighted another match and picked up his revolver, his hat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and the handkerchief was wet, dark. He walked, unsteadily, to the door, down the dark stairs.
One faint globe burned above the deserted bar. Doolin felt his way along the wall, lifted the heavy bar across the outside door and went out, closed the door behind him. It was raining lightly a thin cold drizzle.
He took air into his lungs in great gulps, soaked the handkerchief in a little puddle of rainwater and tried to clean his face. Then he went down the dark street swiftly towards Broadway.
The druggist looked at him through thick spectacles, gestured towards the back of the store.
Doolin said: “Fix me up some peroxide an’ b
andages an’ stuff—I had an accident.” He went back to the telephone booth, found the number of the Fontenoy, called it, asked for Mrs. Sare.
The operator said Mrs. Sare didn’t answer.
Doolin hung up and went out and cleaned the blood from his face in front of a mirror. A little girl stared at him wide-eyed from the soda fountain; the druggist said: “Automobile …?”
Doolin nodded.
The druggist asked: “How much bandage do you want?”
Doolin said: “Let it go—it’s not as bad as I thought it was.”
He put his hat on the back of his head and went out and got into a cab, said: “Fontenoy Apartments—Hollywood. An’ make it snappy.”
Lola Sare’s voice said: “Yes,” with rising inflection.
Doolin opened the door, went in.
She was sitting in a long low chair beneath a crimson-shaded bridge lamp. It was the only light in the room. Her arms were bare, straight on the arms of the chair, her hands hanging limply downward. Her dark head was against the back of the chair and her face was taut, her eyes wide, vacant.
Doolin took off his hat, said: “Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?”
She did not speak, nor move.
“You’d better get out of here—quick.” Doolin went towards her. “Halloran killed Martinelli—an’ Martinelli opened up about you before he died. Halloran will be coming to see you….”
Her blank eyes moved slowly from his face to some place in the dusk behind him. He followed her gaze, turned slowly.
Halloran was standing against the wall near the door. The door had covered him when Doolin entered; he put out one hand and pushed it gently, it swung closed with a sharp click.
As Doolin’s eyes became used to the dimness of the room he saw Halloran clearly. He was leaning against the wall and the right shoulder and breast of his light gray suit was dark, sodden. He held the short blunt Luger in his left hand.
He said: “You’re a little late….”
The Luger roared.
Lola Sare put her hands up to the middle of her breast, low; her head came forward slowly. She started to get up and the Luger leaped in Halloran’s hand, roared again.
At the same instant Doolin shot, holding the revolver low. The two explosions were simultaneous, thundered in the dark and narrow room.
Los Angeles Noir 2 Page 4
