Dead Game

by Michael Avallone

  The cops coming in must have had their own ideas about living to ripe old ages. The riot gun chattered with a long burst and several pounds of lead smacked Kitty Arongio right across her slim middle and slammed her a good two yards back across the room to the window.

  She was dead before she hit the sill. Which was the only decent break she probably ever got out of life.

  She went right through the glass with a rhythmical tinkle of noise that was just like Christmas. Only it wasn’t merry. Far from it. She fell out. All the way. Thirteen floors to the hard, stony pavement in front of the Plato. I get crazy notions at times like that. One of them was how much better off she would have been if she had spent the evening at Radio City seeing that Gene Kelly musical.

  Well, everything was all fouled up after that. A cop pulled me from the window. I raised my mitts. Feeling angry, sore, and dazed. The room was crawling with cops now. Big ones, small ones. Tall ones, short ones. And everybody was yapping away, shooting questions, giving orders. I saw Hadley through a haze. Then Monks came in, Captain Monks, pushing a sulky Mel Trilly ahead of him.

  A guy in civvies and glasses was working over the still-very-much-out Mr. Arongio and Mimi Tango was standing alongside weeping hysterically.

  Monks came toward me, leaving Trilly to one of his uniformed boys. His hands were in his pockets and his expression was grimmer than war headlines.

  I fought against the weariness in my head and looked at him sarcastically.

  “What the hell,” was all I had to offer.

  “You never learn, Ed, do you? Now you’ll never get that gun and license back.” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded just the way I felt.

  “What the hell.” I had said it again.

  “Okay.” He got authoritative. “This rounds up everybody that’s involved. And you’re right where you always are. In the middle.”

  I shook my head. Cobwebs were gathering but the anger in me fought them off.

  He looked at me closely. “What’s the matter? Did you stop one or something? Hey, Doc—take a look at Noon here.”

  “Forget it. I’m sick, that’s all. Sick with wondering. What the hell is all this anyway? The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre? Four crummy citizens in a hotel room and the police take them on like they were the Dillinger gang. Opening up with riot guns—about ninety cops assigned to the job. What happened to the tear gas? Don’t tell me you forgot to bring it. Tsk, tsk.”

  He bit his lips and his eyes got cold.

  “The beat cop was summoned by the elevator operator. He’s a new man on the force. He investigated. Listened outside the door to this torture business and didn’t want to try it alone. He put in a call. From his wild description we got the idea it could be another of these racket factions opening up. We investigated.”

  “You sure did,” I muttered. “And now Mrs. Arongio is no longer with us. Not to mention the fact that we all could have gotten the same treatment. You cops …”

  “What the hell did you expect?” He was real sore now. The Department was his one blind spot. “She opened up with that gun. She could have surrendered quietly but she didn’t. We can’t do her thinking for her. It’s too risky and you don’t get the chance to make the same mistake twice.”

  “Surrender. Words, words. She was hysterical.” I shrugged, too tired to argue any more. “How did you nail Trilly?”

  Monks eyed me closely. “He was just coming in while I was positioning my men. What was he doing here?”

  “First tell me about dear old Lionel.”

  “Who’s Lionel?”

  “My real good friend, the elevator operator. I take it he called you boys to the rescue. I want to thank him. For myself, anyway.”

  Monks signaled with a big thumb. One of his uniforms disappeared for an instant. The cop was back in a jiffy, pushing Lionel ahead of him.

  The worry on Lionel’s black old face vanished when he saw me. Laughter climbed back on board.

  “Glad you all right, friend. ‘Deed I am. Man, things been poppin’ today. Oh, my yes.”

  “Thanks, friend. For calling the Marines in. How did you tumble to my trouble?”

  “Oh, that.” His grin nearly eclipsed his face. “Well, suh. You a real cat. You really dig the talk that counts. That other fellah, he acted too peculiar in the car and when I ’bout to leave and I said ‘What’s life?’ and you didn’t say nothin’ though you heard me right enough, I figgered you was maybe in trouble. So after I dropped you all off and leave, I come back up, listen outside the door of 1305. I heard bad things. Then I go for the law.”

  I grinned. “Life’s a magazine—I get you. Nice going, friend.”

  Monks was getting annoyed so we cut it short and Lionel was hustled out. I made a note to slip him another fiver on the way out.

  “Okay, Ed. I’ve given you time to compose yourself. You got your second wind. Now, let’s have everything. That big guy on the bed is Arongio. The mug who got Walsh. And the girl …”

  “Hold everything. It’s a long story, Monks. Do me a favor first.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I’m sick of this room. Sick of everything in it. For once, I long for good old Headquarters with its carefree bustle and hum of activity. What say we round this whole bunch up and take it all over again in your office?”

  He looked amazed. “That’s how it was going to be anyway. You getting cute again?”

  “No.” I gave it to him straight. “And how about ringing a Mr. Banjo Brice into the party? I’m feeling real William Powell today, Mike. I think I can do a swell imitation.”

  “What are you up to, Ed?”

  “You still don’t know who killed Lake, do you?” I was a bastard for reminding him. His face let me know it. “And you don’t know about Edgar Allan Poe and twenty thousand dollars?”

  “Okay, Ed. Knock it off. The clown stuff won’t go any more. I got work to do.”

  I looked over to the bed where Mimi Tango was still playing Florence Nightingale. And Arongio was reviving with a series of mighty groans. I didn’t care about keeping the cops off the dough any more. I had to square myself with the Department or my whole business life was a dead issue. Nailing a killer for them was my only way out. Kitty Arongio’s messy finish had brought me to my senses as if someone had dashed a pitcher of ice water in my face.

  “I could clear up an awful lot about this case that’s been bothering you, Mike. I want to cooperate. What do you say?”

  His big, seamy face fought with two things. A genuine affection for me and his feeling for his job. He was a cop down to the grass roots. But he was also the last of a long line of patient guys.

  “Okay, Ed. But don’t make me regret it.”

  “You won’t, Mike. Believe me.”

  Captain Monks organized the people in the room and all the official business that goes hand-in-hand with police routine so that we were in his squad car heading downtown in roughly fifteen minutes.

  I was thinking about only one thing. My reunion with my old drinking pal, Banjo Brice. I had a very good question to ask him.

  It was a safe bet that his answer would swing the pointer in the direction of the guy who murdered Larry Lake, third base.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was nearing midnight when we got to Headquarters. Monks piled the whole kit and kaboodle in the anteroom next to his office. Then we both settled down to some coffee and sandwiches that he sent one of his men out for. We had a lot to talk about before we had it out in front of the star suspects.

  Monks munched away at his sandwich and between mouthfuls, I dished out everything I had. It sure was a weird tale to go with a midnight snack. His eyebrows went up and stayed up.

  I didn’t leave anything out either. He got it all from page one right down to the most recent climax. When the rare Poe diary and the twenty grand crept into the tale, he swore under his breath, but he didn’t interrupt until I wrapped it all up for him with the mad moonshines at the Plato Hotel where Kitty Arongio had ha
d her first and last introduction to the machine gun.

  I finished my poor meal, emptied my coffee cup, and dug out a cigarette. Monks grunted. His eyebrows came down to normal.

  “You sure got a genius for the cute ones. Me, you know how I feel about these crazy cases. I like my homicides plain and simple. No tricks, nothing fancy. But this …”

  “Well, I’m calling it the way I saw it. Walsh was just a big accident way back there in the beginning.”

  Monks’ face got grim.

  “That accident will cost this Arongio a manslaughter rap. And they won’t go easy on him because it’s a cop.” He eyed me coolly. “You got any ideas who killed Lake? You’ve been closer to this case than anybody else.”

  “We’ve been over that ground before. That’s why I asked you to pick up Banjo Brice.”

  Monks snorted. “Aside from his being a Raven player, I can’t see what you have on him. What about this Trilly?”

  “A punk. A real punk. He just came around in the middle and got greedy.”

  He stared at me for a long time. I could see his brain turning over behind his bushy eyebrows. I grinned back at him and he reddened. He picked up a mechanical pencil from his desk and fiddled with it.

  “Do you also have any ideas where this twenty grand might be?”

  “Ideas are all I have, Mike. And with your help we might be able to track it down.”

  He snorted. “Thanks for your confidence. Now we’re doing it your way like you wanted. So let’s get rolling, shall we? Everybody’s here and you had your heart set on being William Powell. Although personally I don’t think you fill the bill.”

  I smiled.

  “Now this Arongio,” Monks went on. “I always figured antique dealers were characters. Well, he is one. You know we had to impound a load of junk from his shop? Those grenades he had on display in the window were live ones. Including a land mine from the last war. We got a box full of the junk from his shop in the next room. Now, why would anybody keep that kind of stuff around a store …”

  I put out my cigarette, shrugging. “Okay, Mike. Push some buttons and get them all in here.”

  He did. I sat back and collected some stray thoughts. By the time I had them all rounded up, Monks’ office looked like a conference room. Mimi Tango was sitting next to Mr. Arongio, Banjo Brice and Mel Trilly were a sullen pair in one corner, and Hadley and a pair of wide-shouldered cops were by the door.

  Mr. Arongio was a ludicrous sight with his big mustache and bandaged feet. Unlike the rest of them, shiny handcuffs braceleted his wrists. He looked defeated, dejected, and forlorn. But Mimi Tango was soothing him with low whispers and hand-holding.

  Monks frowned in her direction and she shut up. I winked at her but the sneer she gave me would have made strong men weak. Monks took them all in with a practiced eye.

  “Everybody mind his manners and pay close attention. Mr. Noon has something to say to all of you.”

  Banjo Brice guffawed in a loud voice. I got up and took the center of the floor. I folded my arms and regarded him icily. I let him know just how much I cared.

  “Okay, Banjo. I wanted to start off with you anyway.”

  “I got nothing to say to you, chum.” He made a spitting gesture with his lips.

  “Can that hard talk, mister,” Monks warned him. “He’ll do the talking and you’ll listen. He asks a question and you’ll answer. Unless you want to spend the rest of the week in one of our nice clean cells.”

  Banjo Brice shut up with an effort. I picked up where I left off.

  “Banjo, our informal little meeting earlier this evening left a lasting impression on me. I got the idea that Larry Lake had something on you. You would have loved to pin something on him because you hated him. He was your roommate. Which meant you just had to spend a lot of time together whether you liked it or not. Which in turn suggests one thing to me. You were bound to tumble to the idea that something was going on, that Lake was pulling off something big. Somehow it doesn’t sound bad to suggest that Lake might even have bragged about it to you. According to his rep, Lake was a mean little guy. Showing up guys bigger than him would be a personality trait right up his alley. And that’s the kind of reputation he had on the Raven team, if we can believe half the stories you guys told the cops about him.”

  “What are you driving at, Noon?” Brice demanded. But a scared look jumped into his eyes and stayed there.

  “Just this, Banjo. You knew about that dough. I think Lake might even have flashed it on you just to watch you strangle with envy. With what he had on you, he was cocky and careless. He should have guessed that twenty thousand clams can do a lot of things. Including making a worm turn.”

  Banjo Brice went white. I couldn’t blame him. I sure sounded like I was leading up to just one thing.

  “Hey, now wait a minute. If you’re saying I killed Lake for that dough …”

  I laughed. “Hold on, Banjo. It’s not your turn yet. What I am saying is that twenty thousand dollars was enough to make you take a gamble and try something funny to get back at your old pal Larry.”

  Monks coughed and looked at me warningly. I shook him off and took a sheaf of papers out of my inside pocket. Banjo Brice stared at the sheaf and licked his lips. I pretended to read from the report.

  “The police autopsy is pretty thorough, Banjo. Even though they knew what killed Lake, they check anything. And everything. Shall I read you what they found in Larry Lake’s stomach?”

  Everybody in the room looked from me to Banjo Brice. He got up out of his chair, big, tanned, but not good-looking. The trapped look on his face had changed it to that of a little kid who has been caught doing something he shouldn’t Like reading the Kinsey Report. I in turn looked around at the rest of them. There was utter bewilderment on Mel Trilly’s rough kisser. Mimi Tango was shaking her head at Mr. Arongio, and Buffalo Bill’s tongue was wetting his big mustache. As for Monks and Hadley and the two big cops, they were looking at me as if they were nuts. Or thought I was.

  Banjo Brice’s lips worked. His voice climbed out of his gut, pushing the fear out of the way.

  “Okay—we had a drink in the dugout just before we took the field for the last of the ninth. But it wasn’t poison, I swear it wasn’t—it was just a bad drink. Something Leo the bartender helped me with. I counted on Larry wanting a drink during the game—I always carry a hip flask—but look! Jesus Christ! That didn’t kill him! He was knifed! You said so yourself—we all saw it…”

  From long experience Hadley and the two cops on the door tensed. Something was about to break and they knew it. Monks was staring at me like I had two heads.

  I pretended not to notice and casually drew another cigarette and lit it. I let out some smoke in Banjo Brice’s direction.

  “No, Banjo. It wasn’t poison. I’ll take your word for it. I’ll have to. Since there wasn’t any autopsy to speak of. I kind of figured it all out when I remembered how Lake danced around in pain before he fell. And you and Leo were far too chummy for a ball player who just got to town for one game. Anyway, I think I know what you had in mind. A great, big beautiful tummyache for Larry Lake. Maybe, the great grandfather of all stomach aches. Anything to lay him up for a few hours or maybe even the rest of the night. So you could go through his things. His locker at the ball park, the hotel room you both shared, and all of his personal effects. I was right. He flashed the twenty grand at you or at the very least sounded off about it. So you thought it was worth looking into. And you had to get rid of Lake to give you the necessary time to do it. You weren’t good enough to think of something more subtle. You’re just a slow-minded slob. And Larry did have his drink and his belly ache and it must have been a damn bad one, the way he was staggering around the hot corner, hanging on to his middle like he thought it was coming apart.”

  For some crazy reason Banjo Brice was hysterically pleased that I understood.

  “That’s it—I was watching him—when Irvin clobbered that ball. It came over him all o
f a sudden but—I didn’t kill him! God, I ain’t made that way. Not for dough, not for a dame, not for anything …”

  Monks got up from behind the desk. “We’ll see about that. Get your cuffs on him, Hadley.”

  “You gotta believe me, Captain …”

  “I believe you, Banjo,” I cut in quietly. “You didn’t kill Larry Lake. You haven’t got the guts for the job. It took somebody a helluva lot stronger.”

  I get attention better than an epidemic in a small town. Every set of eyes in the room radared in on me. There was a short, heavy silence broken only by the snap of Hadley’s personal set of cuffs on Banjo Brice’s thick wrists.

  Monks growled. “Okay, you scored a bull’s-eye with some good fast thinking, Ed. But if you got any more ideas, I want to hear them. You’re still squaring yourself with the Department—remember?”

  “I remember, all right.” I inhaled on my butt. “No, Banjo didn’t kill Lake, as much as he would have liked to, and even though he had all the requirements for the kill. He’s a ball player, he was on the same field, in a convenient spot for the job. Shortstop is spitting distance from third on the diamond. He’s even got big strong arms. Exactly the kind that was needed to drive an awl with a three-inch blade into the small of Lake’s back with sufficient force to kill him. No, it wasn’t Banjo. It was somebody else. Just as close and just as big. And even stronger.”

  Mel Trilly was now the center of attention. But he wasn’t any Banjo Brice. He was boiled harder even if he had come out of the same kind of water.

  His laugh was a bark with no mirth in it. And his face was as mean as a lynching party.

  “Go ahead, bright boy. Dig into me, now. Tell me what I did to Larry Lake. Only I’ll tell you this. I’m glad the little sonuvabitch got his. He had it coming.”

  “Sure, Mel,” I admitted. “He had it coming. And you’re a catcher. A real moving catcher. You get up off that well-known dime when a play is going on. I was at that game. Saw every worthwhile second of it. When Irvin tagged that inside-the-parker, you moved halfway up the infield for a possible relay from your outfield. Yes or no?”