Channing said, “Kids go that way sometimes. Know anything about him, Budge?”
The reporter said, “Nuh-uh. He’s never been picked up for anything, and as far as anybody knows even Flavin is straight. He owns a haberdashery and pays his taxes.”
“Well,” said Channing, “I guess that’s all for now.”
“No.” Marge Krist stopped and faced him. He could see her eyes in the pale reflection of the water, dark and intense. The wind blew her hair, pressed her light coat against the long lifting planes of her body. “I want to warn you. Maybe you’re a brilliant, nervy man and you know what you’re doing, and if you do it’s all right. But if you really are what you acted like in there, you’d better go home and forget about it. Surfside is a bad town. You can’t insult people and get away with it.” She paused. “For Hank’s sake, I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m in the phone book if you want me. Good night.”
“Good night.” Channing watched her go. She had a lovely way of moving. Absently, he began to wipe the blood off his face. His lip had begun to swell.
Budge Hanna said, “Chan.”
“Yeah.”
“I want to say thanks, and I’m with you. I’ll give you the biggest break I can in the paper.”
“We used to work pretty well together, before I got mine and you found yours, in a bottle.”
“Yeah. And now I’m in Surfside with the rest of the scrap. If this turns out a big enough story, I might—oh, well.” He paused, rubbing a pudgy cheek with his forefinger.
Channing said, “Go ahead, Budge. Say it.”
“All right. Every crook in the western states knows that the Padway mob took you to the wall. They know what was done to you, with fire. They know you broke. The minute they find out you’re back, even unofficially, you know what’ll happen. You sent up a lot of guys in your time. You sent a lot of ’em down, too—down to the morgue. You were a tough dick, Chan, and a square one, and you know how they love you.”
“I guess I know all that, Budge.”
“Chan—” he looked up, squinting earnestly through the gloom, his spectacles shining—“how is it? I mean, can you—”
Channing put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him around slightly. “You watch your step, kid, and try to stay sober. I don’t know what I may be getting into. If you want out—”
“Hell, no. Just—well, good luck, Chan.”
“Thanks.”
The blonde said, “Ain’t you going to ask me something?”
“Sure,” said Channing. “What do you know?”
“I know who killed your brother.”
2
Badge of Carnage
The blood swelled and thickened in Channing’s veins. It made a hard pain over his eyes and pressed against the stiff scar tissue on his neck. No one spoke. No one moved.
The wind blew sand in riffles across the empty beach. The waves rushed and broke their backs in thunder and slipped out again, sighing. Up ahead Sunset Pier thrust its black bulk against the night. Beyond it was the huge amusement pier. Here and there a single light was burning, swaying with the wind, and the reaching skeletons of the roller coaster and the giant slide were desolate in the pre-season quiet. Vacant lots and a single unlighted house were as deserted as the moon.
Paul Channing looked at the woman with eyes as dark and lonely as the night. “We’re not playing a game,” he said. “This is murder.”
The blonde’s teeth glittered white between moist lips.
Budge Hanna whispered, “She’s crazy. She couldn’t know.”
“Oh, couldn’t I!” The blonde’s whisper was throatily venomous. “Young Channing was thrown off the pier about midnight, wasn’t he? Okay. Well, you stood me up on a date that evening, remember, Budgie dear? And my room is on the same floor as yours, remember? And I can hear every pair of hoofs clumping up and down those damn stairs right outside, remember?”
“Listen,” Budge said, “I told you I got stewed and—”
“And got in a fight. I know. Sure, you told me. But how can you prove it? I heard your fairy footsteps. They didn’t sound very stewed to me. So I looked out, and you were hitting it for your room like your pants were on fire. Your shirt was torn, and so was your coat, and you didn’t look so good other ways. I could hear you heaving clear out in the hall. And it was just nineteen minutes after twelve.”
Budge Hanna’s voice had risen to a squeak. “Damn you, Millie, I—Chan, she’s crazy! She’s just trying—”
“Sure,” said Millie. She thrust her face close to his. “I been shoved around enough. I been called enough funny names. I been stood up enough times. I loaned you enough money I’ll never get back. And I ain’t so dumb I don’t know you got dirt on your hands from somewhere. Me, I’m quitting you right now and—”
“Shut up. Shut up!”
“And I got a few things to say that’ll interest some people!” Millie was screeching now. “You killed that Channing kid, or you know who did!”
Budge Hanna slapped her hard across the mouth.
Millie reeled back. Then she screamed like a cat. Her hands flashed up, curved and wicked, long red nails gleaming. She went for Budge Hanna.
Channing stepped between them. He was instantly involved in a whirlwind of angry flailing hands. While he was trying to quiet them the men came up behind him.
There were four of them. They had come quietly from the shadows beside the vacant house. They worked quickly, with deadly efficiency. Channing got his hand inside his coat, and after that he didn’t know anything for a long time.
Things came back to Channing in disconnected pieces. His head hurt. He was in something that moved. He was hot. He was covered with something, lying flat on his back, and he could hardly breathe. There was another person jammed against him. There were somebody’s feet on his chest, and somebody else’s feet on his thighs. Presently he found that his mouth was covered with adhesive, that his eyes were taped shut, and that his hands and feet were bound, probably also with tape. The moving thing was an automobile, taking its time.
The stale, stifling air under the blanket covering him was heavy with the scent of powder and cheap perfume. He guessed that the woman was Millie. From time to time she stirred and whimpered.
A man’s voice said, “Here is okay.”
The car stopped. Doors were opened. The blanket was pulled away. Cold salt air rushed over Channing, mixed with the heavy sulphurous reek of sewage. He knew they were somewhere on the road above Hyperion, where there was nothing but miles of empty dunes.
Hands grabbed him, hauled him bodily out of the car. Somebody said, “Got the Thompson ready?”
“Yeah.” The speaker laughed gleefully, like a child with a bass voice. “Just like old times, ain’t it? Good ole Dolly. She ain’t had a chansta sing in a long time. Come on, honey. Loosen up the pipes.”
A rattling staccato burst out, and was silent.
“For cripesake, Joe! That stuff ain’t so plentiful. Doncha know there’s a war on? We gotta conserve. C’mon, help me with this guy.” He kicked Channing. “On your feet, you.”
He was hauled erect and leaned against a post. Joe said, “What about the dame?”
The other man laughed. “Her turn comes later. Much later.”
A fourth voice, one that had not spoken before, said, “Okay, boys. Get away from him now.” It was a slow, inflectionless and yet strangely forceful voice, with a hint of a lisp. The lisp was not in the least effeminate or funny. It had the effect of a knife blade whetted on oilstone. The man who owned it put his hands on Channing’s shoulders.
“You know me,” he said.
Channing nodded. The uncovered parts of his face were greasy with sweat. It had soaked loose the corners of the adhesive. The man said, “You knew I’d catch up with you some day.”
The man struck him, deliberately and with force, twice across the face with his open palms.
“I’m sorry you lost your guts, Channing. This makes me feel like I’m shooting a kitten. Why d
idn’t you do the Dutch years ago, like your brother?”
Channing brought his bound fists up, slammed them into the man’s face, striking at the sound of his voice. The man grunted and fell, making a heavy soft thump in the sand. Somebody yelled, “Hey!” and the man with the quiet lisping voice said, “Shut up. Let him alone.”
Channing heard him scramble up and the voice came near again. “Do that again.”
Channing did.
The man avoided his blow this time. He laughed softly. “So you still have insides, Chan. That makes it better. Much better.”
Joe said, “Look, somebody may come along—”
“Shut up.” The man brought something from his pocket, held his hand close to Channing’s ear, and shook it. “You know what that is?”
Channing stiffened. He nodded.
There was a light thin rattling sound, and then a scratching of emery and the quick spitting of a match-head rubbed to flame.
The man said softly, “How are your guts now?”
The little sharp tongue of heat touched Channing’s chin. He drew his head back. His mouth worked under the adhesive. Cords stood out in his throat. The flame followed. Channing began to shake. His knees gave. He braced them, braced his body against the post. Sweat ran down his face and the scar on his neck turned dark and livid.
The man laughed. He threw the match down and stepped away. He said, “Okay, Joe.”
Somebody said, sharply, “There’s a car coming. Two cars.”
The man swore. “Bunch of sailors up from Long Beach. Okay, we’ll get out of here. Back in the car, Joe. Can’t use the chopper, they’d hear it.” Joe cursed unhappily. Feet scruffed hurriedly in the sand. Leather squeaked, the small familiar sound of metal clearing a shoulder clip. The safety snicked open.
The man said, “So long, Channing.”
Channing was already falling sideways when the shot came. There was a second one close behind it. Channing dropped into the ditch and lay perfectly still, hidden from the road. The car roared off. Presently the two other cars shot by, loaded with sailors. They were singing and shouting and not worrying about what somebody might have left at the side of the road.
Sometime later Channing began to move, at first in uncoordinated jerks and then with reasonable steadiness. He was conscious that he had been hit in two places. The right side of his head was stiff and numb clear down to his neck. Somebody had shoved a redhot spike through the flesh over his heart-ribs and forgotten to take it out. He could feel blood oozing, sticky with sand.
He rolled over slowly and started to peel the adhesive from his face, fumbling awkwardly with his bound hands. When that was done he used his teeth on his wrist bonds. It took a long time. After that the ankles were easy.
It was no use trying to see how much damage had been done. He decided it couldn’t be as bad as it felt. He smiled, a crooked and humorless grimace, and swore and laughed shortly. He wadded the clean handkerchief from his hip pocket into the gash under his arm and tightened the holster strap to hold it there. The display handkerchief in his breast pocket went around his head. He found that after he got started he could walk quite well. His gun had not been removed. Channing laughed again, quietly. He did not touch nor in any way notice the burn on his chin.
It took him nearly three hours to get back to Surfside, crouching in the ditch twice to let cars go by.
He passed Gandara’s street, and the one beyond where Marge and Rudy Krist lived. He came to the ocean front and the dark loom of the pier and the vacant house from behind which the men had come. He found Budge Hanna doubled up under a clump of Monterey cypress. The cold spring wind blew sand into Hanna’s wide-open eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind it. He had bled from the nose and ears—not much.
Channing went through Hanna’s pockets, examining things swiftly by the light of a tiny pocket flash shielded in his hand. There was just the usual clutter of articles. Channing took the key ring. Then, tucked into the watch pocket, he found a receipt from Flavin’s Men’s Shop for three pairs of socks. The date was April 22. Channing frowned. April 21 was the day on which Hank Channing’s death had been declared a suicide. April 21 was a Saturday.
Channing rose slowly and walked on down the front to Surfside Avenue. It was hours past midnight. The bars were closed. The only lights on the street were those of the police station and the lobby of the Surfside Hotel, which was locked and deserted. Channing let himself in with Budge Hanna’s key and walked up dirty marble steps to the second floor and found Budge Hanna’s number. He leaned against the jamb, his knees sagging, managed to force the key around and get inside. He switched on the lights, locked the door again, and braced his back against it. The first thing he saw was a bottle on the bedside table.
He drank straight from the neck. It was scotch, good scotch. In a few minutes he felt much better. He stared at the label, turning the bottle around in his hands, frowning at it. Then, very quietly, he began to search the room.
He found nothing until, in the bottom drawer of the dresser, he discovered a brand new shirt wrapped in cheap green paper. The receipt was from Flavin’s Men’s Shop. Channing looked at the date. It was for the day which had just begun, Monday.
Channing studied the shirt, poking his fingers into the folds. Between the tail and the cardboard he found an envelope. It was unaddressed, unsealed, and contained six one hundred—dollar bills.
Channing’s mouth twisted. He replaced the money and the shirt and sat down on the bed. He scowled at the wall, not seeing it, and drank some more of Budge Hanna’s scotch. He thought Budge wouldn’t mind. It would take more even than good scotch to warm him now.
A picture on the wall impressed itself gradually upon Channing’s mind.
He looked at it more closely. It was a professional photograph of a beautiful woman in a white evening gown. She had a magnificent figure and a strong, provocative, heart-shaped face. Her gown and hairdress were of the late twenties. The picture was autographed in faded ink, Lots of Luck, Skinny, from your pal Dorothy Balf.
Skinny had been crossed out and Budge written above.
Channing took the frame down and slid the picture out. It had been wiped off, but both frame and picture showed the ravages of time, dust and stains and faded places, as though they had hung a long time with only each other for company. On the back of the picture was stamped:
SKINNY CRAIL’S
Surfside at Culver
“Between the Devil and the Deep”
Memories came back to Channing. Skinny Crail, that badluck boy of Hollywood, plunging his last dime on a nightclub that flurried into success and then faded gradually to a pathetically mediocre doom, a white elephant rotting hugely in the empty flats between Culver City and the beach. Dorothy Balf had been the leading feminine star of that day, and Budge Hanna’s idol. Channing glanced again at the scrawled Budge. He sighed and replaced the picture carefully. Then he turned out the lights and sat a long while in the dark, thinking.
Presently he sighed again and ran his hand over his face, wincing. He rose and went out, locking the door carefully behind him. He moved slowly, his limp accentuated by weakness and a slight unsteadiness from the scotch. His expression was that of a man who hopes for nothing and is therefore immune to blows.
There was a phone booth in the lobby. Channing called Max Gandara. He talked for a long time. When he came out his face was chalk-colored and damp, utterly without expression. He left the hotel and walked slowly down the beach.
The shapeless, colorless little house was dark and silent, with two empty lots to seaward and a cheap brick apartment house on its right. No lights showed anywhere. Channing set his finger on the rusted bell.
He could hear it buzzing somewhere inside. After a long time lights went on behind heavy crash draperies, drawn close. Channing turned suddenly sick. Sweat came out on his wrists and his ears rang. Through the ringing he heard Marge Krist’s clear voice asking who was there.
He told her. “I’m hurt,” he sai
d. “Let me in.”
The door opened. Channing walked through it. He seemed to be walking through dark water that swirled around him, very cold, very heavy. He decided not to fight it.
When he opened his eyes again he was stretched out on a studio couch. Apparently he had been out only a moment or two. Marge and Rudy Krist were arguing fiercely.
“I tell you he’s got to have a doctor!”
“All right, tell him to go get one. You don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Trouble? Why would I get in trouble?”
“The guy’s been shot. That means cops. They’ll be trampling all over, asking you why he should have come here. How do you know what the little rat’s been doing? If he’s square, why didn’t he go to the cops himself? Maybe it’s a frame, or maybe he shot himself.”
“Maybe,” said Marge slowly, “you’re afraid to be questioned.”
Rudy swore. He looked almost as white and hollow as Channing felt. Channing laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
He said, “Sure he’s scared. Start an investigation now and that messes up everything for tonight.”
Marge and Rudy both started at the sound of his voice. Rudy’s face went hard and blank as a pine slab. He walked over toward the couch.
“What does that crack mean?”
“It means you better call Flavin quick and tell him to get his new shirt out of Budge Hanna’s room. Budge Hanna won’t be needing it now, and the cops are going to be very interested in the accessories.”
Rudy’s lips had a curious stiffness. “What’s wrong with Hanna?”
“Nothing much. Only one of Dave’s boys hit him a little too hard. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Rudy shaped the word carefully and studied it as though he had never heard it before. Then he said, “Who’s Dave? What are you talking about?”
Channing studied him. “Flavin’s still keeping you in the nursery, is he?”
“That kind of talk don’t go with me, Channing.”
“That’s tough, because it’ll go with the cops. You’ll sound kind of silly, won’t you, bleating how you didn’t know what was going on because Papa never told you.”
Los Angeles Noir 2 Page 6
