The Long Goodbye pm-6

by Raymond Chandler

  Policemen don’t drive Cadillacs. Cadillacs with red spotlights belong to the big boys, mayors and police commissioners, perhaps District Attorneys. Perhaps hoodlums. The spotlight traversed. I went down flat, but it found me just the same. It held on me. Nothing else. Still the car door didn’t open, still the house was silent and without light.

  Then a siren growled in low pitch just for a second or two and stopped. And then at last the house was full of lights and a man in a white dinner jacket came out to the head of the steps and looked sideways along the wall and the shrubbery.

  “Come on in, cheapie,” Menendez said with a chuckle, “You’ve got company.”

  I could have shot him with no trouble at all. Then he stepped back and it was too late—even if I could have done it. Then a window went down at the back of the car and I could hear the thud as it opened. Then a machine pistol went off and fired a short burst into the slope of the bank thirty feet away from me. “Come on in, cheapie,” Menendez said again from the doorway. “There just ain’t anywhere else to go.”

  So I straightened up and went and the spotlight followed me accurately. I put the gun back in the holster on my belt. I stepped up onto the small redwood landing and went in through the door and stopped just inside. A man was sitting across the room with his legs crossed and a gun resting sideways on his thigh. He looked rangy and tough and his skin had that dried-out look of people who live in sun-bleached climates. He was wearing a dark brown gabardine-type windbreaker and the zipper was open almost to his waist. He was looking at me and neither his eyes nor the gun moved. He was as calm as an adobe wall in the moonlight.

  48

  I looked at him too long. There was a brief half-seen move at my side and a numbing pain in the point of my shoulder. My whole arm went dead to the fingertips. I turned and looked at a big mean-looking Mexican. He wasn’t grinning, he was just watching me. The .45 in his brown hand dropped to his side. He had a mustache and his head bulged with oily black hair brushed up and back and over and down. There was a dirty sombrero on the back of his head and the leather chin strap hung loose in two strands down the front of a stitched shirt that smelled of sweat. There is nothing tougher than a tough Mexican, just as there is nothing gentler than a gentle Mexican, nothing more honest than an honest Mexican, and above all nothing sadder than a sad Mexican. This guy was one of the hard boys. They don’t come any harder anywhere.

  I rubbed my arm. It tingled a little but the ache was still there and the numbness. If I had tried to pull a gun I should probably have dropped it.

  Menendez held his hand out towards the slugger. Without seeming to look he tossed the gun and Menendez caught it. He stood in front of me now and his face glistened. “Where would you like it, cheapie?” His black eyes danced.

  I just looked at him. There is no answer to a question like that.

  “I asked you a question, cheapie.”

  I wet my lips and asked one back. “What happened to Agostino? I thought he was your gun handler.”

  “Chick went soft,” he said gently.

  “He was always soft—like his boss.”

  The man in the chair flicked his eyes. He almost but not quite smiled. The tough boy who had paralyzed my arm neither moved nor spoke. I knew he was breathing. I could smell that.

  “Somebody bump into your arm, cheapie?”

  “I tripped over an enchilada.”

  Negligently, not quite looking at me even, he slashed me across the face with the gun barrel.

  “Don’t get gay with me, cheapie. You’re out of time for all that. You got told and you got told nice. When I take the trouble to call around personally and tell a character to lay off—he lays off, Or else he lays down and don’t get up.”

  I could feel a trickle of blood down my cheek. I could feel the full numbing ache of the blow in my cheekbone. It spread until my whole head ached. It hadn’t been a hard blow, but the thing he used was hard. I could still talk, and nobody tried to stop me.

  “How come you do your own slugging, Mendy? I thought that was coolie labor for the sort of boys that beat up Big Willie Magoon.”

  “It’s the personal touch,” he said softly, “on account of I had personal reasons for telling you. The Magoon job was strictly business. He got to thinking he could push me around—me that bought his clothes and his cars and stocked his safe deposit box and paid off the trust deed on his house. These vice squad babies are all the same. I even paid school bills for his kid. You’d think the bastard would have some gratitude. So what does he do? He walks into my private office and slaps me around in front of the help.”

  “On account of why?” I asked him, in the vague hope of getting him mad at somebody else.

  “On account of some lacquered chippie said we used loaded dice. Seems like the bim was one of his sleepy-time gals. I had her put out of the club—with every dime she brought in with her.”

  “Seems understandable,” I said. “Magoon ought to know no professional gambler plays crooked games. He doesn’t have to. But what have I done to you?”

  He hit me again, thoughtfully. “You made me look bad. In my racket you don’t tell a guy twice. Not even a hard number. He goes out and does it, or you ain’t got control. You ain’t got control, you ain’t in business.”

  “I’ve got a hunch that there’s a little more to it than that,” I said. “Excuse me if I reach for a handkerchief.”

  The gun watched me while I got one out and touched the blood on my face.

  “A two-bit peeper,” Menendez said slowly, “figures he can make a monkey out of Mendy Menendez. He can get me laughed at. He can get me the big razzoo—me, Menendez. I ought to use a knife on you, cheapie. I ought to cut you into slices of raw meat.”

  “Lennox was your pal,” I said, and watched his eyes, “He got dead. He got buried like a dog without even a name over the dirt where they put his body. And I had a little something to do with proving him innocent. So that makes you look bad, huh? He saved your life and he lost his, and that didn’t mean a thing to you. All that means anything to you is playing the big shot. You didn’t give a hoot in hell for anybody but yourself. You’re not big, you’re just loud.”

  His face froze and he swung his arm back to slug me a third time and this time with the power behind it. His arm was still going back when I took a half step forward and kicked him in the pit of the stomach.

  I didn’t think, I didn’t plan, I didn’t figure my chances or whether I had any. I just got enough of his yap and I ached and bled and maybe I was just a little punch drunk by this time.

  He jackknifed, gasping, and the gun fell out of his hand. He groped for it wildly making strained sounds deep in his throat. I put a knee into his face. He screeched.

  The man in the chair laughed. That staggered me. Then he stood up and the gun in his hand came up with him.

  “Don’t kill him,” he said mildly. “We want to use him for live bait.”

  Then there was movement in the shadows of the hall and Ohls came through the door, blank-eyed, expressionless and utterly calm. He looked down at Menendez. Menendez was kneeling with his head on the floor.

  “Soft,” Ohls said. “Soft as mush.”

  “He’s not soft,” I said. “He’s hurt. Any man can be hurt. Was Big Willie Magoon soft?”

  Ohls looked at me. The other man looked at me. The tough Mex at the door hadn’t made a sound.

  “Take that goddamn cigarette out of your face,” I snarled at Ohls. “Either smoke it or leave it alone. I’m sick of watching you. I’m sick of you, period. I’m sick of cops.”

  He looked surprised. Then he grinned.

  “That was a plant, kiddo,” he said cheerfully. “You hurt bad? Did the nasty mans hit your facey-wacey? Well for my money you had it coming and it was damn useful that you had.” He looked down at Mendy. Mendy had his knees under him. He was climbing out of a well, a few inches at a time. He breathed gaspingly.

  “What a talkative lad he is,” Ohls said, “when he do
esn’t have three shysters with him to button his lip.”

  He jerked Menendez to his feet. Mendy’s nose was bleeding. He fumbled the handkerchief out of his white dinner jacket and held it to his nose. He said no word.

  “You got crossed up, sweetheart,” Ohls told him carefully. “I ain’t grieving a whole lot over Magoon. He had it coming. But he was a cop and punks like you lay off cops—always and forever.”

  Menendez lowered the handkerchief and looked at Ohls. He looked at me. He looked at the man who had been sitting in the chair. He turned slowly and looked at the tough Mex by the door. They all looked at him. There was nothing in their faces. Then a knife shot into view from nowhere and Mendy lunged for Ohls. Ohls side-stepped and took him by the throat with one hand and chopped the knife out of his hand with ease, almost indifferently. Ohls spread his feet and straightened his back and bent his legs slightly and lifted Menendez clear off the floor with one hand holding his neck. He walked him across the floor and pinned him against the wall. He let him down, but didn’t let go of his throat.

  “Touch me with one finger and I’ll kill you,” Ohls said. “One finger.” Then he dropped his hands.

  Mendy smiled at him scornfully, looked at his handkerchief, and refolded it to hide the blood. He held it to his nose again. He looked down at the gun he had used to hit me. The man from the chair said loosely: “Not loaded, even if you could grab it.”

  “A cross,” Mendy said to Ohls. “I heard you the first time.”

  “You ordered three muscles,” Ohls said. “What you got was three deputies from Nevada. Somebody in Vegas don’t like the way you forget to clear with them. The somebody wants to talk to you. You can go along with the deputies or you can go downtown with me and get hung on the back of the door by a pair of handcuffs. There’s a couple of boys down there would like to see you close up.”

  “God help Nevada,” Mendy said quietly, looking around again at the tough Mex by the door. Then he crossed himself quickly and walked out of the front door. The tough Mex followed him. Then the other one, the dried out desert type, picked up the gun and the knife and went out too. He shut the door. Ohls waited motionless. There was a sound of doors banging shut, then a car went off into the night.

  “You sure those mugs were deputies?” I asked Ohls.

  He turned as if surprised to see me there. “They had stars,” he said shortly.

  “Nice work. Bernie. Very nice. Think he’ll get to Vegas alive, you coldhearted son of a bitch?”

  I went to the bathroom and ran cold water and held a soaked towel against my throbbing cheek. I looked at myself in the glass. The cheek was puffed out of shape and bluish and there were jagged wounds on it from the force of the gun barrel hitting against the cheekbone. There was a discoloration under my left eye too. I wasn’t going to be beautiful for a few days.

  Then Ohls’ reflection showed behind me in the mirror. He was rolling his damn unlighted cigarette along his lips, like a cat teasing a half-dead mouse, trying to get it to run away just once more.

  “Next time don’t try to outguess the cops,” he said gruffly. “You think we let you steal that photostat just for laughs? We had a hunch Mendy would come gunning for you. We put it up to Starr cold. We told him we couldn’t stop gambling in the county, but we could make it tough enough to cut way into the take. No mobster beats up a cop, not even a bad cop, and gets away with it in our territory. Starr convinced us he had nothing to do with it, that the outfit was sore about it and Menendez was going to get told. So when Mendy called for a squad of out of town hard boys to come and give you the treatment, Starr sent him three guys he knew, in one of his own cars, at his own expense. Starr is a police commissioner in Vegas.”

  I turned around and looked at Ohls. “The coyotes out in the desert will get fed tonight. Congratulations. Cop business is wonderful uplifting idealistic work. Bernie. The only thing wrong with cop business is the cops that are in it.”

  “Too bad for you, hero,” he said with a sudden cold savagery. “I could hardly help laughing when you walked into your own parlor to take your beating. I got a rise out of that, kiddo. It was a dirty job and it had to be done dirty. To make these characters talk you got to give them a sense of power. You ain’t hurt bad, but we had to let them hurt you some.”

  “So sorry,” I said. “So very sorry you had to suffer like that.”

  He shoved his taut face at me. “I hate gamblers,” he said in a rough voice. “I hate them the way I hate dope pushers. They pander to a disease that is every bit as corrupting as dope. You think those palaces in Reno and Vegas are just for harmless fun? Nuts, they’re there for the little guy, the something-for-nothing sucker, the lad that stops off with his pay envelope in his pocket and loses the week-end grocery money. The rich gambler loses forty grand and laughs it off and comes back for more. But the rich gambler don’t make the big racket, pal. The big steal is in dimes and quarters and half dollars and once in a while a buck or even a five-spot. The big racket money comes in like water from the pipe in your bathroom, a steady stream that never stops flowing. Any time anybody wants to knock off a professional gambler, that’s for me. I like it. And any time a state government takes money from gambling and calls it taxes, that government is helping to keep the mobs in business. The barber or the beauty parlor girl puts two bucks on the nose. That’s for the Syndicate, that’s what really makes the profits. The people want an honest police force, do they? What for? To protect the guys with courtesy cards? We got legal horse tracks in this state, we got them all year round. They operate honest and the state gets its cut, and for every dollar laid at the track there’s fifty laid with the bookies. There’s eight or nine races on a card and in half of them, the little ones nobody notices, the fix can be in any time somebody says so. There’s only one way a jock can win a race, but there’s twenty ways he can lose one, with a steward at every eighth pole watching, and not able to do a damn thing about it if the jock knows his stuff. That’s legal gambling, pal, clean honest business, state approved. So it’s right, is it? Not by my book, it ain’t. Because it’s gambling and it breeds gamblers and when you add it up there’s one kind of gambling—the wrong kind.”

  “Feel better?” I asked him, putting some white iodine on my wounds.

  “I’m an old tired beat-up cop. All I feel is sore.”

  I turned around and stared at him. “You’re a damp good cop. Bernie, but just the same you’re all wet. In one way cops are all the same. They all blame the wrong things. If a guy loses his pay check at a crap table, stop gambling. If he gets drunk, stop liquor. If he kills somebody in a car crash, stop making automobiles. If he gets pinched with a girl in a hotel room, stop sexual intercourse. If he falls downstairs, stop building houses.”

  “Aw shut up!”

  “Sure, shut me up. I’m just a private citizen. Get off it. Bernie. We don’t have mobs and crime syndicates and goon squads because we have crooked politicians and their stooges in the City Hall and the legislatures. Crime isn’t a disease, it’s a symptom. Cops are like a doctor that gives you aspirin for a brain tumor, except that the cop would rather cure it with a blackjack. We’re a big rough rich wild people and crime is the price we pay for it, and organized crime is the price we pay for organization. We’ll have it with us a long time. Organized crime is just the dirty side of the sharp dollar.”

  “What’s the clean side?”

  “I never saw it. Maybe Harlan Potter could tell you. Let’s have a drink.”

  “You looked pretty good walking in that door,” Ohls said.

  “You looked better when Mendy pulled the knife on you.”

  “Shake,” he said, and put his hand out.

  We had the drink and he left by the back door, which he had jimmied to get in, having dropped by the night before for scouting purposes. Back doors are a soft touch if they open out and are old enough for the wood to have dried and shrunk. You knock the pins out of the hinges and the rest is easy. Ohls showed me a dent in the frame whe
n he left to go back over the hill to where he had left his car on the next street. He could have opened the front door almost as easily but that would have broken the lock. It would have showed up too much.

  I watched him climb through the trees with the beam of a torch in front of him and disappear over the rise. I locked the door and mixed another mild drink and went back to the living room and sat down. I looked at my watch. It was still early. It only seemed a long time since I had come home.

  I went to the phone and dialed the operator and gave her the Lorings’ phone number. The butler asked who was calling, then went to see if Mrs. Loring was in. She was.

  “I was the goat all right,” I said, “but they caught the tiger alive. I’m bruised up a little.”

  “You must tell me about it sometime.” She sounded about as far away as if she had got to Paris already.

  “I could tell you over a drink—if you had time.”

  “Tonight? Oh, I’m packing my things to move out. I’m afraid that would be impossible.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Well, I just thought you might like to know. It was kind of you to warn me. It had nothing at all to do with your old man.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Oh. Just a minute.” She was gone for a time, then she came back and sounded warmer. “Perhaps I could fit a drink in. Where?”

  “Anywhere you say. I haven’t a car tonight, but I can get a cab.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll pick you up, but it will be an hour or longer. What is the address there?”

  I told her and she hung up and I put the porch light on and then stood in the open door inhaling the night. It had got much cooler.