Los Angeles Noir 2

by Hamilton, Denise.

  Halloran clicked the nail of his forefinger against his teeth, said: “I wonder.”

  Mrs. Sare had paused to listen. She went to Halloran and refilled his glass and put the bottles on the floor, sat down on the arm of Halloran’s chair.

  “Winfield and I went to The Hotspot alone,” Halloran went on. “We had some business to talk over with a couple girls in the show.” He grinned faintly, crookedly at Mrs. Sare. “Riccio and Conroy and this third man—I think his name was Martini or something dry like that—and the three girls on your list, passed our table on their way to the private room….”

  Doolin was leaning forward, chewing his cigar, his eyes bright with interest.

  Halloran blew smoke up into the wedge of sun. “Winfield knew Conroy casually—had met him in the East. They fell on one another’s necks, and Conroy invited us to join their party. Winfield went for that—he was doing a gangster picture and Conroy was a big shot in the East—Winfield figured he could get a lot of angles….”

  Doolin said: “That was on the level, then?”

  “Yes,” Halloran nodded emphatically. “Winfield even talked of making Conroy technical expert on the picture—before the fireworks started.”

  “What did this third man—this Martini—look like?”

  Halloran looked a little annoyed. He said: “I’ll get to that. There were eight of us in the private room—the three men and the three girls and Winfield and I. Riccio was pretty drunk, and one of the girls was practically under the table. We were all pretty high.”

  Halloran picked up his glass, leaned forward. “Riccio and Martini were all tangled up in some kind of drunken argument and I got the idea it had something to do with drugs—morphine. Riccio was pretty loud. Winfield and I were talking to Conroy, and the girls were amusing themselves gargling champagne, when the four men—I guess there were four—crashed in and opened up on Riccio and Conroy….”

  “What about Martini?” Doolin’s unlighted cigar was growing rapidly shorter.

  Halloran looked annoyed again. “That’s the point,” he said. “They didn’t pay any attention to Martini—they wanted Riccio and Conroy. And it wasn’t machine-guns—that was newspaper color. It was automatics….”

  Doolin said: “What about Martini?”

  “For Christ’s sake—shut up!” Halloran grinned cheerlessly, finished his drink. “Riccio shot Martini.”

  Doolin stood up slowly, said: “Can I use the phone?”

  Halloran smiled at Mrs. Sare, nodded.

  Doolin called several numbers, asked questions, said “Yes” and “No” monotonously.

  Halloran and Mrs. Sare talked quietly. Between two calls, Halloran spoke to Doolin: “You’ve connections—haven’t you.” It was an observation, not a question.

  Doolin said: “If I had as much money as I have connections, I’d retire.”

  He finished after a while, hung up and put the phone back on the low round table.

  “Martinelli,” he said, “not Martini. Supposed to have been Riccio and Conroy’s partner in the East. They had the drug business pretty well cornered. He showed up out here around the last of November, and Riccio and Conroy came in December 10th, were killed the night they got in….”

  Halloran said: “I remember that—they were talking about the trip.”

  Doolin took the cigar out of his mouth long enough to take a drink. “Martinelli was discharged from St. Vincent’s Hospital January 16th—day before yesterday. He’s plenty bad—beat four or five murder raps in the East and was figured for a half dozen others. They called him The Executioner. Angelo Martinelli—The Executioner.”

  Mrs. Sare said: “Come and get it.”

  Doolin and Halloran got up and went into the little dining room. They sat down at the table and Mrs. Sare brought in a steaming platter of bacon and scrambled eggs, a huge double-globe of bubbling coffee.

  Doolin said: “Here’s the way it looks to me: If Martinelli figured you an’ Winfield an’ whoever else was in the private room had seen Riccio shoot him, he’d want to shut you up; it was a cinch he’d double-crossed Riccio and if it came out at the trial, the Detroit boys would be on his tail.”

  Halloran nodded, poured a large rosette of chili-sauce on the plate beside his scrambled eggs.

  “But what did he want to rub Coleman an’ Decker for?”

  Halloran started to speak with his mouth full, but Doolin interrupted him: “The answer to that is that Martinelli had hooked up with the outfit out here, the outfit that Riccio and Conroy figured on moving in on….”

  Halloran said: “Martinelli probably came out to organize things for a narcotic combination between here and Detroit, in opposition to our local talent. He liked the combination here the way it was and threw in with them—and when Riccio and Conroy arrived Martinelli put the finger on them, for the local boys….”

  Doolin swallowed a huge mouthful of bacon and eggs, said: “Swell,” out of the corner of his mouth to Mrs. Sare.

  He picked up his cigar and pointed it at Halloran. “That’s the reason he wanted all of you—you an’ Winfield because you’d get the Detroit outfit on his neck if you testified; Decker an’ Coleman because they could spot the L.A. boys. He didn’t try to proposition any of you—he’s the kind of guy who would figure killing was simpler.”

  Halloran said: “He’s got to protect himself against the two men who are in jail too. They’re liable to spill their guts. If everybody who was in on it was bumped there wouldn’t be a chance of those two guys being identified—everything would be rosy.”

  They finished their bacon and eggs in silence.

  With the coffee, Doolin said: “Funny he didn’t make a pass at you last night—before or after he got Winfield. The same building an’ all….”

  “Maybe he did.” Halloran put his arm around Mrs. Sare who was standing beside his chair. “I didn’t get home till around three—he was probably here, missed me.”

  Doolin said: “We better go downtown an’ talk to the DA. That poor gal of Winfield’s is probably on the grill. We can clear that up an’ have Martinelli picked up….”

  Halloran said: “No.” He said it very emphatically.

  Doolin opened his eyes wide, slowly. He finished his coffee, waited.

  Halloran smiled faintly, said: “In the first place, I hate coppers.” He tightened his arm around Mrs. Sare. “In the second place, I don’t particularly care for Miss Darmond—she can goddamned well fry on the griddle from now on, so far as I’m concerned. In the third place—I like it….”

  Doolin glanced at Mrs. Sare, turned his head slowly back towards Halloran.

  “I’ve got three months to live,” Halloran went on—“at the outside.” His voice was cold, entirely unemotional. “I was shellshocked and gassed and kicked around pretty generally in France in ’eighteen. They stuck me together and sent me back and I’ve lasted rather well. But my heart is shot, and my lungs are bad, and so on—the doctors are getting pretty sore because I’m still on my feet….”

  He grinned widely. “I’m going to have all the fun I can in whatever time is left. We’re not going to call copper, and we’re going to play this for everything we can get out of it. You’re my bodyguard and your salary is five hundred a week, but your job isn’t to guard me—it’s to see that there’s plenty of excitement. And instead of waiting for Martinelli to come to us, we’re going to Martinelli.”

  Doolin looked blankly at Mrs. Sare. She was smiling in a very curious way.

  Halloran said: “Are you working?”

  Doolin smiled slowly with all his face. He said: “Sure.”

  Doolin dried his hands and smoothed his hair, whistling tunelessly, went through the small cheaply furnished living room of his apartment to the door of the kitchenette. He picked up a newspaper from a table near the door, unfolded it and glanced at the headlines, said: “They’re calling the Winfield kill ‘Murder in Blue’ because it happened in a blue bathtub. Is that a laugh!”

  A rather pretty fr
esh-faced girl was stirring something in a white sauce-pan on the little gas stove. She looked up and smiled and said: “Dinner’ll be ready in a minute,” wiped her hands on her apron and began setting the table.

  Doolin leaned against the wall and skimmed through the rest of the paper. The Coleman case was limited to a quarter column—the police had been unable to trace the car. There was even less about Mazie Decker. The police were “working on a theory….”

  The police were working on a theory, too, on the Winfield killing. Miss Darmond had been found near the door of Winfield’s apartment with a great bruise on her head, the night of the murder; she said the last she remembered was opening the door and struggling with someone. The “best minds” of the Force believed her story up to that point; they were working on the angle that she had an accomplice.

  Doolin rolled up the paper and threw it on a chair. He said: “Five hundred a week—an’ expenses! Gee—is that swell!” He was grinning broadly.

  The girl said: “I’m awfully glad about the money, darling—if you’re sure you’ll be safe. God knows it’s about time we had a break.” She hesitated a moment. “I hope it’s all right….”

  She was twenty-three or -four, a honey-blonde pink-cheeked girl with wide gray eyes, a slender well-curved figure.

  Doolin went to her and kissed the back of her neck.

  “Sure, it’s all right, Mollie,” he said. “Anything is all right when you get paid enough for it. The point is to make it last—five hundred is a lot of money, but a thousand will buy twice as many lamb chops.”

  She became very interested in a tiny speck on one of the cheap white plates, rubbed it industriously with a towel. She spoke without looking up: “I keep thinking about that Darmond girl—in jail. What do you suppose Halloran has against her?”

  “I don’t know.” Doolin sat down at the table. “Anyway—she’s okay. We can spring her any time, only we can’t do it now because we’d have to let the Law in on the Martinelli angle an’ they’d pick him up—an’ Halloran couldn’t have his fun.”

  “It’s a funny kind of fun.” The girl smiled with her mouth.

  Doolin said: “He’s a funny guy. Used to be a police reporter in Chi—maybe that has something to do with it. Anyway, the poor bastard’s only got a little while to go—let him have any kind of fun he wants. He can afford it….”

  They were silent while the girl cut bread and got the butter out of the Frigidaire and finished setting the table.

  Doolin was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. “As far as the Darmond gal is concerned, a little of that beef stew they dish up at the County will be good for her. These broads need a little of that—to give them perspective.”

  The girl was heaping mashed potatoes into a big bowl. She did not speak.

  “The way I figure it,” Doolin went on—“Halloran hasn’t got the guts to bump himself off. He’s all washed up, an’ he knows it—an’ the idea has made him a little batty. Then along comes Martinelli—a chance for him to go out dramatically—the way he’s lived—an’ he goes for it. Jesus! so would I if I was as near the edge as he is. He doesn’t give a goddamn about anything—he doesn’t have to….”

  The girl finished putting food on the table, sat down. Doolin heaped their plates with chops and potatoes and cauliflower while she served salad. They began to eat.

  Doolin got up and filled two glasses with water and put them on the table.

  The girl said: “I’m sorry I forgot the water….”

  Doolin bent over and kissed her, sat down.

  “As far as Halloran is concerned,” he went on—“I’m just another actor in his show. Instead of sitting and waiting for Martinelli to come to get him—we go after Martinelli. That’s Halloran’s idea of fun—that’s the kind of sense of humor he’s got. What the hell!—he’s got nothing to lose….”

  The girl said: “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

  They were silent a while.

  Finally she said: “What if Martinelli shoots first?”

  Doolin laughed. “Martinelli isn’t going to shoot at all. Neither am I—an’ neither is Mr. Halloran.”

  The girl lighted a cigarette, sipped her coffee. She stared expressionlessly at Doolin, waited.

  “Halloran is having dinner with Mrs. Sare,” Doolin went on. “Then they’re going to a show an’ I’m picking them up afterwards—at the theatre. Then Halloran an’ I are going to have a look around for Martinelli.”

  He finished his coffee, refilled both their cups. “In the meantime I’m supposed to be finding out where we’re most likely to find him—Halloran is a great believer in my ‘connections.’”

  Doolin grinned, went on with a softly satisfied expression, as if he were taking a rabbit out of a hat: “I’ve already found Martinelli—not only where he hangs out, but where he lives. It was a cinch. He hasn’t any reason to think he’s pegged for anything—he’s not hiding out.”

  The girl said: “So what?”

  He stood up, stretched luxuriously. “So I’m going to Martinelli right now.” He paused dramatically. “An’ I’m going to tell him what kind of a spot he’s in—with half a dozen murder raps hanging over his head, and all. I’m going to tell him that plenty people besides myself know about it an’ that the stuff’s on the way to the DA’s office an’ that he’d better scram toot sweet….”

  The girl said: “You’re crazy.”

  Doolin laughed extravagantly. “Like a fox,” he said. “Like a fox. I’m doing Martinelli a big favor—so I’m set with him. I’m keeping Halloran from running a chance of being killed—an’ he’ll think he’s still running the chance, an’ get his throb out of it. I’m keeping five hundred smackers coming into the cash register every week as long as Halloran lives, or as long as I can give him a good show. An’ everybody’s happy. What more do you want?”

  “Sense.” The girl mashed her cigarette out, stood up. “I never heard such a crazy idea in all my life! …”

  Doolin looked disgusted. He walked into the living room, came back to the doorway. “Sure, it’s crazy,” he said. “Sure, it’s crazy. So is Halloran—an’ you—an’ me. So is Martinelli—probably. It’s the crazy ideas that work—an’ this one is going to work like a charm.”

  The girl said: “What about Darmond? If Martinelli gets away she’ll be holding the bag for Winfield’s murder.”

  “Oh, no, she won’t! As soon as the Halloran angle washes up I’ll turn my evidence over to the DA an’ tell him it took a few weeks to get it together—an’ be sure about it. It’s as plain as the nose on your face that Martinelli killed all three of them. Those chumps downtown are too sappy to see it now but they won’t be when I point it out to them. It’s a setup case against Martinelli!”

  The girl smiled coldly. She said: “You’re the most conceited, bull-headed Mick that ever lived. You’ve been in one jam after another ever since we were married. This is one time I’m not going to let you make a fool of yourself—an’ probably get killed….”

  Doolin’s expression was stubborn, annoyed. He turned and strode across the living room, squirmed into his coat, put on his hat and jerked it down over his eyes.

  She stood in the doorway. Her face was very white and her eyes were wide, round.

  She said: “Please. Johnny….”

  He didn’t look at her. He went to the desk against one wall and opened a drawer, took a nickel-plated revolver out of the drawer and dropped it into his coat pocket.

  She said: “If you do this insane thing—I’m leaving.” Her voice was cold, brittle.

  Doolin went to the outer-door, went out, slammed the door.

  She stood there a little while looking at the door.

  Angelo Martinelli stuck two fingers of his left hand into the little jar, took them out pale, green, sticky with Smoothcomb Hair Dressing. He dabbed it on his head, held his hands stiff with the fingers bent backwards and rubbed it vigorously into his hair. Then he wiped his hands and pic
ked up a comb, bent towards the mirror.

  Martinelli was very young—perhaps twenty-four or -five. His face was pale, unlined; pallor shading to blue towards his long angular jaw; his eyes red-brown, his nose straight and delicately cut. He was of medium height but the high padded shoulders of his coat made him appear taller.

  The room was small, garishly furnished. A low bed and two or three chairs in the worst modern manner were made a little more objectionable by orange and pink batik throws; there was an elaborately wrought iron floor lamp, its shade made of whiskey labels pasted on imitation parchment.

  Martinelli finished combing his hair, spoke over his shoulder to a woman who lounged across the foot of the bed: “Tonight does it….”

  Lola Sare said: “Tonight does it—if you’re careful….”

  Martinelli glanced at his wrist-watch. “I better get going—it’s nearly eight. He said he’d be there at eight.”

  Lola Sare leaned forward and dropped her cigarette into a half-full glass on the floor.

  “I’ll be home from about eight-thirty on,” she said. “Call as soon as you can.”

  Martinelli nodded. He put on a lightweight black felt hat, tilted it to the required angle in front of the mirror. He helped her into her coat, and then he put his arms around her, kissed her mouth lingeringly.

  She clung to him, whispered: “Make it as fast as you can, darling.”

  They went to the door and Martinelli snapped off the light and they went out.

  Martinelli said: “Turn right at the next corner.”

  The cab driver nodded; they turned off North Broadway into a dimly lighted street, went several blocks over bad pavement.

  Martinelli pounded on the glass, said: “Oke.”

  The cab slid to an abrupt stop and Martinelli got out and paid the driver, stood at the curb until the cab had turned around in the narrow street, disappeared.

  He went to a door above which one pale electric globe glittered, felt in the darkness for the button, pressed it. The door clicked open; Martinelli went in and slammed it shut behind him.

  There were a half dozen or so men strung out along the bar in the long dim room. A few more sat at tables against the wall.