Dead Game

by Michael Avallone

  A business card that advertised that great character and sterling antique dealer, C. C. ARONGIO.

  I grinned, put my feet up on the desk, and played around with Mimi Tango’s .32 until I had taken the rest of the teeth out of it. I yanked open the middle drawer of the desk and dropped the extra shells in. Then I reached for the phone. I still wasn’t feeling too good but some light had started to seep through. At least things weren’t that black anymore.

  I dialed the number I wanted and waited. Mimi Tango started to moan softly behind me. I swiveled around in the swivel where I could keep an eye on her.

  I was rubbing the lump on my head gingerly when I got my connection.

  “Hello? Is this the super of this benighted building? This is Ed Noon. Room three-oh-five.”

  “Yah, Mr. Noon.” Olaf, the superintendent, was a nice old guy but enough was enough.

  “Olaf, the service in this building is terrible. Guns go boom-boom, offices have their furniture moved around, plaster comes down. And not one person comes to take a look. What the hell, are we all deaf? Anybody report a disturbance on this floor at all?”

  “Nah, Mr. Noon. You make joke—yes?”

  “Yeah, Olaf. I make joke. Forget it.” I shook my head in silent wonder. “See you around.”

  I hung up, mentally damning every other tenant on the floor to Siberia. All three of them. Nobody ever heard anything. Well, it was my life. I picked it. I could have been a home-run king.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Mimi Tango was sitting up and taking notice. One thin hand was cupped to her smooth white chin and rubbing it.

  “Never pull a gun, Miss Tango. In the face of hardware, gentlemen have to stop being gentlemen to keep from being corpses. That was a bonehead play. You’re no killer.”

  She stared down at her hands.

  “What am I then?” Her cocksure attitude had fallen away to a husky undertone.

  “I can’t guarantee anything,” I said. “But I can guess. I’d say you were working for a Mr. Arongio. Secretary, sort of. Sort of is right, because you never typed a letter for him in your life. Those fingernails of yours are too long and too well cared for. And you can’t be anybody he just hired to soft-soap a private dick. The gun gives that the lie. You have to be a person who risks everything for something or somebody to carry a gun. Please interrupt me if I’m wrong.”

  “You’re doing fine. Can I have a smoke? I know I don’t rate one but …”

  I tossed her my pack of Camels, taking one myself first. I let her light her own.

  She exhaled a cloud and stared at me through the haze. Her eyes were like saucers but not as hard.

  “Your boss,” I went on, “is running around this town like crazy looking for something a ball player named Lake had hold of. Lake is dead. The trail should have stopped with him, but Mr. Arongio has been doing the Santini act with the furniture in several different parts of town all day still looking for the certain something. From the condition of my office when I got here, it’s safe to assume he thought I had it. Not finding it, he planted you here with your bull fable to get my guard down. What was your plan? A little lovemaking and then a mickey in my drink? And then the frisk while I was out cold on the floor? Sure. It figures.”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “You’re repeating yourself. And I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’m a sucker for questionnaires these days. You want to fill one out while we wait?”

  She smiled her quick smile and it froze like ice on her oval face.

  “You can’t keep me here forever, Noon.”

  “No, I can’t,” I admitted. “But the police have jails. Nice big ones. And their time limit far exceeds my capacity for waiting.”

  I stared her down while she bit her lips. I let her bite them all she wanted to. Time was all I had right now. Just like the rookie cop, Walsh. Only in a different way.

  “Look, Mimi. Your boss or your lover or whatever the hell he is, killed a cop today. A real live one. The bulls are plenty sore at him. They wouldn’t go easy on an accomplice.”

  I let that sink in. From the way her cheeks took on whiteness, it nearly drowned her.

  “Oh, no …” It leaped out of her before she could think about it.

  “Oh, yes. Hell, yes. So if you have any brains under that hairdo at all, you’ll ’fess up.”

  She took a long time deciding. Her lips set in a thin line that made her big mouth several sizes smaller.

  “Go ahead with your questions,” she said. She made it sound like she had nothing to lose.

  “I was right about this pitch, wasn’t I? You and Arongio rigged me for a setup.”

  “Yes. I—work—for him. Like you said. Only it isn’t that way at all. We were going to be married after he got his divorce.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four. Why?”

  “Skip it. Did he tell you what to look for?”

  “No.” She drew a deep breath. “I was to take you to my apartment. Then I’d call him when you were—unconscious.”

  “Sounds cozy. Why the gun?”

  “Carl—Mr. Arongio said you being in the sort of business you are, well, you might be dangerous.”

  “I am. I eat small children raw sometimes. Did you know anything at all about this Lake?”

  She showed some heat again.

  “I certainly did. Everyone knew about her affair with him. Down at the shop, I mean. Poor Carl. I mean Mr. Arongio. That’s how we sort of drifted together. She never understood him. His love of antiques, historical bric-a-brac. And his Poe collection. Carl—I mean Mr. Arongio—has a whole den at home complete with Poe’s works and things …”

  “Call him Carl,” I cut in. She was beginning to run on like a catalogue. “Go on.”

  “Well, last week he acted strangely. He acted moody and miserable for days. Then when the team was scheduled to come in, Carl seemed to blow up in anticipation. You know what I mean? When he couldn’t hold it in any more, he confided in me, naturally.”

  “Naturally. But he didn’t tell you anything else?”

  “I got the impression he was excited at the chance of a showdown with them face to face. You know, red-handed.”

  I almost laughed. “Yeah, sure. Real triangle scene. Look, Mimi, you can level with me. Is Carl your first man?”

  Her cheeks showed some red.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing except I think I’ve got you pegged now. Carl is a big Continental lover to you. And from your shift of personalities in the last half-hour or so, you’ve had just enough little theater work to go all-out dramatic for him. Okay, you pick your own boy friends. But this is a murder rap. Lake is dead. And your Carl is willing to kill, lie, cheat, and smash things for something he thought Lake had. Now come on, if you two are as close as you’d have me believe, you must have a glimmer of an idea what the something is.”

  “Honest, I haven’t. It’s like I’ve told you. Carl said …”

  “Sure. Carl said and you listened. Sister, you’re drier behind the ears than a kid who hates to wash. Okay, we’ll drop that for a while. How did Arongio know about Ed Noon? We never met before today.”

  “He found your number in Mrs. Arongio’s apartment. They had a long talk …”

  “That’s his story.” This time I did laugh. “Well, they had a long talk all right and Mrs. Arongio is so talked out she’ll never look the same again.”

  Her eyes got frightened. Mr. Arongio must have been some charm prince.

  “Don’t tell me …”

  “I’m telling you he beat her within the proverbial inch of her life. He half killed her.”

  “That’s a dirty lie!” She bounced off the couch and bounded toward me. “He’s not like that—he’s gentle and sweet and kind … and … you’re a bastard!”

  I looked up at her. She was in a towering rage and her eyes were trying to burn holes in me.

  “Sure I am,” I said. “But you’re just k
idding yourself. He’s not gentle and sweet and kind. Maybe he was once. But he’s not any more. Stop dreaming, Mimi. Wake up. Go back to Massachusetts or wherever it is and marry the college boy. Arongio isn’t your type. He’s a monster.”

  “Why, you—you …” She reached down and slapped me before I could stop her. I rolled with the slap, swung around on the swivel chair, shoveled up her empty gun, and braked to a halt facing her again. I handed it to her. It was a fast change of pace but I had to find out what league she was swinging in.

  Her fingers closed around it. Automatically. Her finger started to work on the trigger.

  Then her face went stone dead, her tongue stuck in her mouth, and the gun suddenly dangled from her fingers. She stared in bewilderment down at it. Her eyes closed and she turned away, letting it fall to the desk with a soft spat of sound.

  I had pegged her right. I had made her mad enough to kill me and she nearly had, and now the mere thought of it was hopping up and down inside of her, scaring the hell out of what good sense she had left.

  Before I could get to her, there was a knock on the door.

  I spun around in the swivel chair again, gathering up the .32 from the desk and pocketing it.

  “Come on in,” I called. “It’s open house.”

  I wasn’t ready for this one. Monks was standing in the doorway looking official. Captain Michael Monks of Homicide who had given me the kiss of death.

  His big mitts were out of sight in his coat pockets as usual and his seamy, strong face was grimmer than death or taxes. As usual.

  But he was alone. And that had to mean something.

  NINE

  Monks came in, his face suddenly relaxing. I watched his eyes take in the office mess in one rapid survey. His eyebrows came apart when he saw Mimi Tango. A faint smile made his mouth more human.

  “You’re busy,” he rumbled. “I’ll come back later.”

  “No, you won’t,” I said. “Miss Tango was just leaving.”

  She nodded, half dazed, and started for the door. I reloaded the square black handbag and gave it to her. Monks grunted and stood to one side as I led her out into the hallway.

  “What do you want me to do?” She stared at me helplessly.

  “Stay put until I call you. Got a phone?”

  She nodded dumbly and gave me the number. I penciled it on the cuff of my shirt sleeve. I walked her to the elevator and punched the down button.

  “Look, Mimi,” I whispered. “Think over what I told you. When Mr. A. gets in touch with you, you decide if you want to ring me in or not. It’s a cinch he’ll never go back to the shop now. He’s hotter than a Fourth of July double-header and he knows it.”

  She was biting her lips again when the elevator doors hissed open. I squeezed her hand and kissed her softly on the cheek, nudging her into the car. The doors closed past her surprised face. Men should kiss the women they know more often. It’s amazing how much it evens things out.

  I went back to the office. Monks was at the window staring down into the street.

  “What the hell do you want?” I was still sore at him.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. “Or an explanation for this afternoon.” He had his back to me when he said it.

  “Save it, Mike. You did what you had to do. Protocol or something.”

  He whirled from the window. “Dammit, don’t get noble on me, Ed! You know how cops are about cop killings. You must have expected something like what Dan gave you. I’m just sorry I couldn’t step in for you.”

  “Thanks for that anyway. Drink?”

  “No. I’m still on duty.”

  If he didn’t want a drink, I did. I raided my personal store in the lower desk drawer. I watched him over the glass.

  “What is it?”

  I’ve known Monks a long time. Four, maybe five years. And I’d known him long enough to know he never kidded about anything.

  “The D.A.’s office has just put through an order revoking your P.I. license for ninety days. Or at least until this Walsh thing is cleared up.”

  I took it sitting down.

  “That’s nice. The D.A.’s office suggest how I could earn a living without it? Home Relief isn’t my style.”

  He didn’t smile.

  “Hand it over, Ed. We’re impounding your gun, too.”

  “Oh great.” Hot anger choked my throat. But from the sorry look on Monks’ face I could see it wasn’t his idea. It couldn’t be.

  “I’ll take them now, Ed. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  “Okay, Mike.” I dug out my wallet, pulled my P.I. card and gun permit out of their plastic beds, and pushed them across the desk. I unbuttoned my coat, slid the .45 out of its holster and handed it to him. I felt half naked already.

  Now that he had them, Monks was embarrassed.

  “Christ, Ed, they wanted to send Hadley and a detail over to get these. Hadley begged off. Said you saved his life once and it wouldn’t be right. Then I stepped in. I figured you’d take it better coming from me.”

  “Sure, Mike. I always preferred to have my old man whip me than a perfect stranger.”

  “Easy, Ed.”

  “Easy, hell. I need that license. I need that gun. What the hell am I supposed to do while the Department makes its by-the-numbers investigation of Walsh’s murder? Sit around and wait until they prove what I’ve already told them a dozen times? They still don’t give me a clean bill of health, do they?”

  He looked at me soberly. One thing about Monks. You can believe whatever he tells you. He’s got one of those kinds of faces.

  “No, they don’t. But I do. If that means anything to you at all.”

  It did. I couldn’t look at him just then. I had another drink. He coughed and shuffled his feet suddenly as if he had said something silly. Men are like that when they say nice things to each other. Don’t ask me why.

  I changed the subject.

  “You checked Arongio’s shop?”

  His face brightened almost gratefully. “It’s closed down tighter’n a drum. I got two men staked out to haul him in if he shows up at all. Some dump that shop of his. Everything from hand grenades to spinning wheels.”

  “How about the Polo Grounds kill?”

  “Lake?” He grunted. “Nobody on the team liked him. His roommate, Banjo Brice, doesn’t paint a pretty picture of him. He cheated at cards, had a real filthy mouth, and was as cocky as a little mug can come. Anybody on the Ravens would have killed him with pleasure.”

  “How about anybody on the Giants?”

  He made a face. “Not a wrinkle there. This Raven outfit was pulled in to fill an open day on the exhibition schedule. According to the front office. From what checking we’ve done, nobody on the Giants has ever as much as seen anyone on the Ravens before today. Hell, I couldn’t hold them up. They hit the road tomorrow for their final Western swing before the regular season opens.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense. Even a war couldn’t stop baseball. But from where I sat when Irvin tagged that long drive, four Giants passed pretty close to Lake when he was done in. He was playing third base and Williams, Lockman, Thomson, and Irvin all ran right by him to get home. They had to. That’s the way the game is played.”

  He dug his hands into his pockets. He was exasperated.

  “Christ. A shoemaker’s awl. What a crazy thing to kill a guy with.”

  “It worked in this case. And I guess it must have been the handiest weapon available. I’ll do you a favor, Mike.”

  His eyes slitted. “Get to it.”

  “You can forget about the Giants. That ought to slice your suspect list down by four.”

  “I don’t get you but I’m still listening.”

  I laughed. “How well do you know your baseball, Mike?”

  “Well enough.” He looked insulted. “But hell, it’s been a good twenty years since I followed it what you call religiously. When Gehrig and Ruth were with the Yankees, I saw maybe fifty, sixty games a year.”

&n
bsp; “Don’t apologize. Lawbreakers have kept you busy. Same here. But think a minute—the bases are jammed, it’s the final crucial spot of the game, the guy up at the plate blasts one right on the nose. The ball is going, going—what happens?”

  He stuck a tongue in his cheek but his eyes got shrewd.

  “Well, everybody’s moving, Ed. The fielders are going like sixty. The crowd is on its feet yelling but…”

  “But where is every pair of eyes in the ball park focused when that bat goes crack and a white ball shoots out over that wide playing field?”

  He smiled. “I get it. Following the flight of the ball. Sure. To see if it’s going to be caught or it’s going to fall fair. Sure, even the ball players would all be looking that way.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Everyone except the murderer, that is. And to my mind that lets out the Giant runners. You see, the murderer picked the spot that fate had provided. Something he couldn’t have counted on. His carrying a crazy thing like an awl proves a few points. An awl is small enough to be palmed. Anything else would be conspicuous in a player’s uniform. I mean a gun or a knife. Also, I think it’s a hot-blooded murder. Right away I think of vendettas and long-standing grudges. Think a minute. The crowd on its feet, everybody in the park moving. Including a killer.”

  Monks winced. “Ed, he got jabbed in the small of the back with that thing. That means an up-close job with your body behind the weapon to drive it in far enough to kill. Since this Lake was a third-sacker, the only people near enough to fill the bill are the third-base coach and maybe the shortstop, depending on how he’s playing the batter.”

  “Good brain work, Mike. Irvin bats right, a deep right. And pulls the ball. So the shortstop is closer to third than he normally is. And don’t forget, everyone in the Raven infield will be moving on Irvin’s smash. The catcher moves up for a possible relay from the outfield, the pitcher runs over to third to cover. Even Lake is moving …”

  “I get it.” His face was hopeful as he dug out his battered black memo book. He flicked some pages with one of his zeppelin thumbs. “Shortstop is Banjo Brice, Lake’s roomie. Might be something there. The pitcher was Art Ballen. And the catcher was Mel Trilly. We’ll forget about the third-base coach. With the Giants at bat, that makes him a Giant, too, and I’d be pretty heartbroken if it turned out to be old Freddy Fitzsimmons. Besides, we ruled out the Giants anyway.”