Los Angeles Noir 2

by Hamilton, Denise.

  “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.”

  Rudy moved toward Channing. Marge yelled and caught him. Channing grinned and drew his gun. His head was propped fairly high on pillows, so he could see what he was doing without making any disastrous attempt to sit up.

  “Fine hood you are, Rudy. Didn’t even frisk me. Listen, punk. Budge Hanna’s dead, murdered. His Millie is dead, too, by now. I’m supposed to be dead, in a ditch above Hyperion, but Dave Padway always was a lousy shot. Where do you think you come in on this?”

  Rudy’s skin had a sickly greenish tinge, but his jaw was hard. “You’re a liar, Channing. I never heard of Dave Padway. I don’t know anything about Budge Hanna or that dame. I don’t know anything about you. Now get the hell out.”

  “You make a good Charlie McCarthy, Rudy. Maybe Flavin will hold you on his knee in the death-chair at San Quentin.”

  Marge stopped Rudy again. She said quietly, “What happened, Mr. Channing?”

  Channing told her, keeping his eyes on Rudy. “Flavin’s heading a racket,” he said finally. “His store is just a front, useful for background and a way to make pay-offs and pass on information. He doesn’t keep the store open on Sunday, does he, Rudy?”

  Rudy didn’t answer. Marge said, “No.”

  “Okay. Budge Hanna worked for Flavin. I’ll make a guess. I’ll say Flavin is engineering liquor robberies, hijacking, and so forth. Budge Hanna was a well-known lush. He could go into any bar and make a deal for bootleg whiskey, and nobody would suspect him. Trouble with Budge was, he couldn’t handle his women. Millie got sore, and suspicious, and began to yell out loud. I guess Dave Padway’s boys overheard her. Dave never did trust women and drunks.”

  Channing stared narrow-eyed at Rudy. His blood-caked face was twisted into a cruel grin. “Dave never liked punks, either. There’s going to be trouble between Dave and your pal Flavin, and I don’t see where you’re going to come in, except maybe on a morgue slab, like the others. Like Hank.”

  “Oh, cripes,” said Rudy, “we’re back to Hank again.”

  “Yeah. Always back to Hank. You know what happened, Rudy. You kind of liked Hank. You’re a smart kid, Rudy. You’ve probably got a better brain than Flavin, and if you’re going to be a successful crook these days you need brains. So Flavin pushed Hank off the pier and called it suicide, so you’d think he was yellow.”

  Rudy laughed. “That’s good. That’s very good. Marge was out with Jack Flavin that night.” His green eyes were dangerous.

  Marge nodded, dropping her gaze. “I was.”

  Channing shrugged. “So what? He hired it done. Just like he hired this tonight. Only Dave Padway isn’t a boy you can hire for long. He used to be big time, and ten years in clink won’t slow him up too much. You better call Flavin, Rudy. They’re liable to find Budge Hanna any time and start searching his room.” He laughed. “Flavin wasn’t so smart to pay off on Saturday, too late for the banks.”

  Marge said, “Why haven’t you called the police?”

  “With what I have to tell them I’d only scare off the birds. Let ’em find out for themselves.”

  She looked at him with level, calculating eyes. “Then you’re planning to do it all by yourself?”

  “I’ve got the whip hand right now. Only you two know I’m alive. But I know about Budge Hanna’s shirt, and the cops will too, pretty soon. Somebody’s got to get busy, and the minute he does I’ll know for sure who’s who in this little tinpot crime combine.”

  Marge rose. “That’s ridiculous. You’re in no condition to handle anyone. And even if you were—” She left that hanging and crossed to the telephone.

  Channing said, “Even if I were, I’m still yellow, is that it? Sure. Stand still, Rudy. I’m not too yellow or too weak to shoot your ankle off.” His face was gray, gaunt, infinitely tired. He touched the burn on his chin. His cheek muscles tightened.

  He lay still and listened to Marge Krist talking to Max Gandara.

  When she was through she went out into the kitchen. Rudy sat down, glowering sullenly at Channing. He began to tremble, a shallow nervous vibration. Channing laughed.

  “How do you like crime now, kiddie? Fun, isn’t it?”

  Rudy gave him a lurid and prophetic direction.

  Marge came back with hot water and a clean cloth. She wiped Channing’s face, not touching the handkerchief. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the gash in his side was still oozing. The pad had slipped. Marge took his coat off, waiting while he changed hands with the gun, and then his shoulder clip and shirt. When she saw his body she let the shirt drop and put her hand to her mouth. Channing, sitting up now on the couch, glanced from her to Rudy’s slack pale face, and said quietly, “You see why I don’t like fire.”

  Marge was working gently on his side when the bell rang. “That’s the police,” she said, and went to the front door. Channing held Rudy with the gun.

  He heard nothing behind him, but quite suddenly there was a cold object pressing the back of his neck and a voice said quietly, “Drop it, bud.”

  It was Joe’s voice. He had come in through the kitchen. Channing dropped his gun. The men coming in the front door were not policemen. They were Dave Padway and Jack Flavin.

  Flavin closed the door and locked it. Channing nodded, smiling faintly. Dave Padway nodded back. He was a tall, shambling man with white eyes and a long face, like a pinto horse.

  “I see I’m still a bum shot,” he said.

  “Ten years in the can doesn’t help your eye, Dave.” Channing seemed relaxed and unemotional. “Well, now we’re all here we can talk. We can talk about murder.”

  Marge and Ruby were both staring at Padway. Flavin grinned. “My new business partner, Dave Padway. Dave, meet Marge Krist and Rudy.”

  Padway glanced at them briefly. His pale eyes were empty of expression. He said, in his soft way, “It’s Channing that interests me right now. How much has he told, and who has he told it to?”

  Channing laughed, with insolent mockery.

  “Fine time to worry about that,” Flavin grunted. “Who was it messed up the kill in the first place?”

  Padway’s eyelids drooped. “Everyone makes mistakes, Jack,” he said mildly. Flavin struck a match. The flame trembled slightly.

  Rudy said, “Jack. Listen, Jack, this guy says Budge Hanna and his girl were killed. Did you—”

  “No. That was Dave’s idea.”

  Padway said, “Any objections to it?”

  “Hanna was a good man. He was my contact with all the bars.”

  “He was a bum. Him and that floozie between them were laying the whole thing in Channing’s lap. I heard ’em.”

  “Okay, okay! I’m just sorry, that’s all.”

  Rudy said, “Jack, honest to God, I don’t want to be messed up in killing. I don’t mind slugging a watchman, that’s okay, and if you had to shoot it out with the cops, well, that’s okay too, I guess. But murder, Jack!” He glanced at Channing’s scarred body. “Murder, and things like that—” He shook.

  Padway muttered, “My God, he’s still in diapers.”

  “Take it easy, kid,” Flavin said. “You’re in big time now. It’s worth getting sick at your stomach a couple times.” He looked at Channing, grinning his hard white grin. “You were right when you said Surfside was either an end or a beginning. Dave and I both needed a place to begin again. Start small and grow, like any other business.”

  Channing nodded. He looked at Rudy. “Hank told you it would be like this, didn’t he? You believe him now?”

  Rudy repeated h
is suggestion. His skin was greenish. He sat down and lighted a cigarette. Marge leaned against the wall, watching with bright, narrow-lidded eyes. She was pale. She had said nothing.

  Channing said, “Flavin, you were out with Marge the night Hank was killed.”

  “So what?”

  “Did you leave her at all?”

  “A couple of times. Not long enough to get out on the pier to kill your brother.”

  Marge said quietly, “He’s right, Mr. Channing.”

  Channing said, “Where did you go?”

  “Ship Cafe, a bunch of bars, dancing. So what?” Flavin gestured impatiently.

  Channing said, “How about you, Dave? Did you kill Hank to pay for your brother, and then wait for me to come?”

  “If I had,” Padway said, “I’d have told you. I’d have made sure you’d come.” He stepped closer, looking down. “You don’t seem very surprised to see us.”

  “I’m not surprised at anything anymore.”

  “Yeah.” Padway’s gun came smoothly into his hand. “At this range I ought to be able to hit you, Chan.” Marge Krist caught her breath sharply. Padway said, “No, not here, unless he makes me. Go ahead, Joe.”

  Joe got busy with the adhesive tape again. This time he did a better job. They wrapped his trussed body in a blanket. Joe picked up the feet. Flavin motioned Rudy to take hold. Rudy hesitated. Padway flicked the muzzle of his gun. Rudy picked up Channing’s shoulders. They turned out the lights and carried Channing out to a waiting car. Marge and Rudy Krist walked ahead of Padway, who had forgotten to put away his gun.

  3

  “I Feel Bad Killin’ You …”

  The room was enormous in the flashlight beams. There were still recognizable signs of its former occupation—dust-blackened, tawdry bunting dangling ragged from the ceiling, a floor worn by the scraping of many feet, a few forgotten tables and chairs, the curling fly-specked photographs of bygone celebrities autographed to Dear Skinny, an empty, dusty band platform.

  One of Padway’s men lighted a coal-oil lamp. The boarded windows were carefully reinforced with tarpaper. In one end of the ballroom were stacks of liquor cases built into a huge square mountain. Doors opened into other rooms, black and disused. The place was utterly silent, odorous with the dust and rot of years.

  Padway said, “Put him over there.” He indicated a camp cot beside a table and a group of chairs. The men carrying Channing dropped him there. The rest straggled in and sat down, lighting cigarettes. Padway said, “Joe, take the Thompson and go upstairs. Yell if anybody looks this way.”

  Jack Flavin swore briefly. “I told you we weren’t tailed, Dave. Cripes, we’ve driven all over this goddam town to make sure. Can’t you relax?”

  “Sure, when I’m ready to. You may have hair on your chest, Jack, but it’s no bulletproof vest.” He went over to the cot and pulled the blanket off Channing. Channing looked up at him, his eyes sunk deep under hooded lids. He was naked to the waist. Padway inspected the two gashes.

  “I didn’t miss you by much, Chan,” he said slowly.

  “Enough.”

  “Yeah.” Padway pulled a cigarette slowly out of the pack. “Who did you talk to, Chan, besides Marge Krist? What did you say?”

  Channing bared his teeth. It might have been meant for a smile. It was undoubtedly malicious.

  Padway put the cigarette in his mouth and got a match out. It was a large kitchen match with a blue head. “You got me puzzled, Chan. You sure have. And it worries me. I can smell copper, but I can’t see any. I don’t like that, Channing.”

  “That’s tough,” Channing said.

  “Yeah. It may be.” Padway struck the match.

  Rudy Krist rose abruptly and went off into the shadows. No one else moved. Marge Krist was hunched up on a blanket near Flavin. Her eyes were brilliant green under her tumbled red hair.

  Dave Padway held the match low over Channing’s eyes. There was no draft, no tremor in his hand. The flame was a perfect triangle, gold and blue. Padway said somberly, “I don’t trust you, Chan. You were a good cop. You were good enough to take me once, and you were good enough to take my brother, and he was a better man than me. I don’t trust this setup, Chan. I don’t trust you.”

  Flavin said impatiently, “Why didn’t you for godsake kill him the first time? You’re to blame for this mess, Dave. If you hadn’t loused it up—okay, okay! The guy’s crazy afraid of fire. Look at him now. Put it to him, Dave. He’ll talk.”

  “Will he?” said Padway. “Will he?” He lowered the match. Channing screamed. Padway lighted his cigarette and blew out the match. “Will you talk, Chan?”

  Channing said hoarsely, “Offer me the right coin, Dave. Give me the man who killed my brother, and I’ll tell you where you stand.”

  Padway stared at him with blank light eyes, and then he began to laugh, quietly, with a terrible humor.

  “Tie him down, Mack,” he said, “and bring the matches over here.”

  The room was quiet, except for Channing’s breathing. Rudy Krist sat apart from the others, smoking steadily, his hands never still. The three gunsels bent with scowling concentration over a game of blackjack. Marge Krist had not moved since she sat down. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed. Channing’s corded body was spotted with small vicious marks.

  Dave Padway dropped the empty matchbox. He sighed and leaned over, slapping Channing lightly on the cheek. Channing opened his eyes.

  “You going to talk, Chan?”

  Channing’s head moved, not much, from right to left.

  Jack Flavin swore. “Dave, the guy’s crazy afraid of fire. If he’d had anything to tell he’d have told it.” His shirt was open, the space around his feet littered with cigarette ends. His harsh terrier face had no laughter in it now. He watched Padway obliquely, his lids hooded.

  “Maybe,” said Padway. “Maybe not. We got a big deal on tonight, Jack. It’s our first step toward the top. Channing read your receipt, remember. He knows about that. He knows a lot of people out here. Maybe he has a deal on, and maybe it isn’t with the cops. Maybe it isn’t supposed to break until tonight. Maybe it’ll break us when it does.”

  Channing laughed, a dry husky mockery.

  Flavin got up, scraping his chair angrily. “Listen, Dave, you getting chicken or something? Looks to me like you’ve got a fixation on this bird.”

  “Look to me, Jack, like nobody ever taught you manners.”

  The room became perfectly still. The men at the table put their cards down slowly, like men playing cards in a dream. Marge Krist rose silently and moved toward the cot.

  Channing whispered, “Take it easy, boys. There’s no percentage in a shroud.” He watched them, his eyes holding a deep, cruel glint. It was something new, something born within the last quarter of an hour. It changed, subtly, his whole face, the lines of it, the shape of it. “You’ve got a business here, a going concern. Or maybe you haven’t. Maybe you’re bait for the meat wagon. I talked, boys, oh yes, I talked. Give me Hank’s killer, and I’ll tell you who.”

  Flavin said, “Can’t you forget that? The guy jumped.”

  Channing shook his head.

  Padway said softly, “Suppose you’re right, Chan. Suppose you get the killer. What good does that do you?”

  “I’m not a cop anymore. I don’t care how much booze you run. All I want is the guy that killed Hank.”

  Jack Flavin laughed. It was not a nice sound.

  “Dave knows I keep a promise. Besides, you can always shoot me in the back.”

  Flavin said, “This is crazy. You haven’t really hurt the guy, Dave. Put it to him. He’ll talk.”

  “His heart would quit first.” Padway smiled almost fondly at Channing. “He’s got his guts back in. That’s good to know, huh, Chan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But bad, too. For both of us.”

  “Go ahead and kill me, Dave, if you think it would help any.”

  Flavin said, with elaborate patience, “Dave, the man is cra
zy. Maybe he wants publicity. Maybe he’s trying to chisel himself back on the force. Maybe he’s a masochist. But he’s nuts. I don’t believe he talked to anybody. Either make him talk, or shoot him. Or I will.”

  “Will you, now?” Padway asked.

  Channing said, “What are you so scared of, Flavin?”

  Flavin snarled and swung his hand. Padway caught it, pulling Flavin around. He said, “Seems to me whoever killed Hank has made us all a lot of trouble. He’s maybe busted us wide open. I’d kind of like to know who did it, and why. We were working together then, Jack, remember? And nobody told me about any cop named Channing.”

  Flavin shook him off. “The kid committed suicide. And don’t try manhandling me, Dave. It was my racket, remember. I let you in.”

  “Why,” said Padway mildly, “that’s so, ain’t it?” He hit Flavin in the mouth so quickly that his fist made a blur in the air. Flavin fell, clawing automatically at his armpit. Padway’s men rose from the table and covered him. Flavin dropped his hand. He lay still, his eyes slitted and deadly.

  Marge Krist slid down silently beside Channing’s cot. She might have been fainting, leaning forward against it, her hands out of sight. She was not fainting. Channing felt her working at his wrists.

  Flavin said, “Rudy. Come here.”

  Rudy Krist came into the circle of lamplight. He looked like a small boy dreaming a nightmare and knowing he can’t wake up.

  Flavin said, “All right, Dave. You’re boss. Go ahead and give Channing his killer.” He looked at Rudy, and everybody else looked, too, except the men covering Flavin.

  Rudy Krist’s eyes widened, until white showed all around the green. He stopped, staring at the hard, impassive faces turned toward him.

  Flavin said contemptuously, “He turned you soft, Rudy. You spilled over and then you didn’t have the nerve to go through with it. You knew what would happen to you. So you shoved Hank off the pier to save your own hide.”

  Rudy made a stifled, catlike noise. He leaped suddenly down onto Flavin. Padway motioned to his boys to hold it. Channing cried out desperately, “Don’t do anything. Wait! Dave, drag him off.”

  Rudy had Flavin by the throat. He was frothing slightly. Flavin writhed, jerking his heels against the floor. Suddenly there was a sharp slamming noise from underneath Rudy’s body. Rudy bent his back, as though he were trying to double over backwards. He let go of Flavin. He relaxed, his head falling sleepily against Flavin’s shoulder.