by Ralph Dennis
And hardly an hour ago, Hugh Muffin had called. Coleman thought he’d convinced Hugh that he had no intention of going to the police. He’d just been shocked back there at the apartment: it was the first time he’d ever seen anybody killed.
“But that was a lie, wasn’t it?” I said. “You were going to be a good citizen the whole time.”
Coleman nodded. “Hugh’s crazy when he’s like that. You can’t talk to him or reason with him.”
“Emily Campbell,” I said. “What about her?”
“I don’t know. Hugh killed her or he had her killed. It might have been Mullidge.”
Art said, “It wasn’t Hugh himself. He was iron-clad, at a dinner party from eight to around one that night.”
“Mullidge then.” I turned back to Coleman. “What was the tie between Hugh and Mullidge and Lockridge?”
It was a long story. Hugh’s office had been one of those that Mullidge had stolen from while he worked as a janitor for the state. The articles taken hadn’t been especially valuable, but Hugh had nosed around and decided that it had to be the cleaning crew. He waited in his office and confronted Mullidge. Mullidge cracked wide open under pressure. He thought he was headed for jail. Instead, it turned out that Hugh wanted him to continue stealing from selected offices. It was always good to know what was going on in other parts of the building. For a time, it worked well. Mullidge would steal documents and letters and return them the next day, before they were missed. At the same time, against Hugh’s warning, Mullidge continued to steal other things. When the pressure got bad, Hugh advised Mullidge to find another job. That led to the parking lot job. Hugh continued to use Mullidge from time to time, when he needed some small-time strong-arm work. In trouble again, this time at the parking lot, Mullidge came to Hugh and Hugh sent him on to Lockridge. Lockridge fixed the charge by spreading some money around. After that, Lockridge felt that Mullidge owed him, and from time to time, Mullidge did small jobs for Lockridge. Mullidge didn’t contact Lockridge through his office, but through Alice Jarman. That kept Lockridge clear in case anything went bad.
“The numbers in Mullidge’s wallet,” Art said.
“I’ll make book you’ll find Alice Jarman’s number there,” I said.
“Where’s Hugh now?” I asked.
“You’re not going to believe me,” Coleman said.
But I believed him. At least the whorehouse part of it.
We left Ben Coleman in the interrogation room with Lieutenant Bartholome. He had a lot more to tell that we were interested in, but more than anything else, we wanted Hugh Muffin. Coleman could wait. We went down to Art’s office and closed the door behind us.
“I’d need a tank division to get in there,” Art said. “Or a company of paratroops.”
“I’ve never heard of the place before,” I said.
“You, Hump?” Art asked.
“A black I met at a Hawks game said Madame Fiona had girlpussy out there that you wouldn’t believe. That’s all I heard.”
“A whorehouse? Is that all it is?”
“That’s the pleasure part of it,” Art said. “About five or six years ago, four rich guys got together and founded the Royal Hart Hunting Club. They had the idea of importing all kinds of African game and putting it into a preserve. Kill your own lion or rhino without going all the way to Africa. They sold shares and memberships, and they began buying up land. They even built a thirty-room hunting lodge. Very plush. Before trouble hit, they’d put together three hundred acres of land and were dickering for another seven hundred. But the roof fell in. All the groups that love animals got on their backs. The newspapers, the TV, the environmental groups, the humane society. A number of court suits were thrown at them.”
“I remember it now,” I said. “They gave it up, the whole idea.”
“Right. And after a time, all that was left was the lodge and about fifty acres of land. It turned into a sort of rich man’s drinking club. Two years ago, one of the original founders died and the other three lost interest. The lodge and the land went on the block. A go-between bought it for something in the area of a million dollars. That seems like a lot, but the lodge was worth almost that. The real buyer, it turned out, was the Black Mafia.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“That’s what the newspapers call them. We call them the Black Eight. Slim Ed Brownlee of Savannah, Jimmy Freestone of Macon, Bubba White of Augusta, Warden Pike of Atlanta . . . ”
“This Warden Pike of Atlanta, you got a picture of him?”
“An old one.” Art brought a file from a cabinet in the corner of the room and opened it on his desk. “Pike keeps a low profile now. A Journal photographer tried to take his picture a couple of years ago and got a broken camera and a broken arm.” He dug out an arrest photo and passed it to me. “Here he is.”
The photo went back perhaps ten years, but it was unmistakably The Man. Hump looked at it over my shoulder and nodded at me. I returned it to Art. He dropped it back in the file. “That was Pike’s only arrest. He was pimping then, and got in a row with a rival pimp. Why the interest?”
“Just curious.”
“You sure?”
I thought I’d better change the subject. “You got a layout on the club?”
“Yeah.” He returned Pike’s folder to the cabinet and dug around for another. “When Intelligence got the word that the Black Eight bought the lodge, we ran down two of the founders and a number of people who worked there. This is the picture we got. We added to that some info we got from a construction crew that made improvements after the place changed hands.”
Art brought out a rolled-up paper and spread it on his desk. The three of us leaned over it.
“It looks easier than it really is,” Art said. “When the Black Eight took over the place, they decided to use only the area around the lodge. They fenced it off, two fences ten feet high. You might get past the outer one. The inside one has an electric charge, enough to stun a bull. One gate, and that’s the only way in or out. Two headhunters at the gate at all times, well armed. At least one more gun up here at the lodge, on the porch if the weather’s not too bad. A jeep that patrols the inside of the fence, but no way of knowing how regular the rounds are. A driver and a shotgun rider. Besides that, there’s probably some kind of alarm system, but we’re not sure where it is or what it is.”
“So much for going over the fence,” Hump said. “How do you get through the gate?”
“All you need is your name on a list that’s kept at the gate.”
I grinned at Art. “You could storm the place.”
“On Coleman’s say-so? To start a war . . . and that’s what it’d be . . . I need more than that. Right now, all I want to do is talk with Hugh Muffin.” He rolled up the map and slipped a rubber band around it. “No, my best bet is to stake the place out and wait until Hugh comes out. Of course, if he finds out we’ve got Coleman, he might never come out.” He tossed the drawing into the cabinet drawer and slammed it shut. “That’s some client you’ve got there, Jim.”
“Not my client, and you know it”
“Who is?” Art asked.
I pushed that aside, “You’re going to have to trust me one last time, Art. I can’t tell you how I know or why I know. Hump’ll back me in this. By morning the word’ll be out that you want Muffin. I don’t care how quiet you try to keep it, they’ll know. And as soon as they know, Hugh’ll be dead and gone. You won’t even find a tooth of a shirt button. Vanished. Right, Hump?”
“He’ll be dead within minutes.” Hump nodded. “Believe him, Art.”
“I’m not that dumb,” Art said. “It’s a matter of racket ties they wouldn’t want him to talk about. If he’s not tied in, then what the hell’s he doing out there?”
I let him believe that. It was easier than explaining that I was working for Warden Pike, The Man, and that Pike would have Hugh’s hide because of his part in the death of Emily Campbell. It would take all night and part of the d
ay to explain all that.
“Shit,” I said to Hump, “you can’t put anything over on Art.”
“Right,” Hump said.
“I think I’ve got a solution. Hump and I might be able to get him out of there.”
“Don’t volunteer me, white man,” Hump said.
“Part of twenty thousand dollars, for an hour’s work?”
“Half? I’m with you.”
“It’ll be rough, and that’s if we get through the gate in the first place.” I stepped away from the desk. “We need one more man, a black who’s good with a gun.”
Hump shrugged. “I don’t know anybody that dumb. It’s not just the time in there. It’s all that running for years afterwards.”
“I might know one,” Art said. “Jim Winters. He’s a cop.”
“Him along, if it backfires, it could make trouble for the department.”
“If he’ll do it, he goes on leave as of yesterday.”
“Try him,” I said.
“A bit too squeaky-clean looking,” Hump said.
I looked Jim Winters over. He was an inch or so over six feet, broad-shouldered and flat-waisted. His hair was short and his sideburns looked regulation. He seemed cool and tough. Maybe it was the cop uniform that threw us. Still, I could see what Hump meant.
“How do you dress?”
“Super cool.” He was talking to Hump, not to me. “The big man here knows what I mean.”
“Got you.” Hump put a hand on Winters’ shoulder. “Get into your street clothes.”
As soon as Winters left, I told Art I needed to make a private call. Art left reluctantly, pulling the door closed behind him. I explained the con to Hump while I looked up Wenzel Brown’s home number in the phone book. Hump said it sounded like fun, and too bad it wasn’t for real. I got an outside line and dialed. A man with the deep, chesty tones of a preacher answered.
“This is Hardman. I was told I could call you.”
“Yes, Mr. Hardman, what can I do for you?”
“A small favor,” I said.
“Small or large,” Wenzel Brown said, “our mutual friend said I was to give you all the help you needed.”
“This is more on the order of pleasure.”
“Perhaps you’d better explain it,” Brown said.
“You know Hump Evans?”
“The football player?” He laughed. “I’ve heard legendary stories about Mr. Evans.”
“Hump is working with me on that job for our mutual friend. But tonight he’s off. and he asked me for a favor.” I motioned to Hump. “Here he is now. I’ll let him explain what he wants.”
Hump took the phone. “Mr. Brown? Hump Evans here. I know this may be an odd request. But I’ve been hearing a lot about Madame Fiona’s for the last year or so. I wonder if you could fix it so that I could make a visit.” Hump listened. “Me and a friend from out of town. Roy White. He does some gambling up around Detroit.” Hump looked at me and winked. “No, not Hardman. It’s past his bedtime. And me, you know I wouldn’t want to bother those sweetmeat girls.” He stopped and listened. He laughed. “Rumors, Mr. Brown, just rumors. I don’t know why those particular girls would tell lies like that about me.” Hump nodded at me. “Will you be there tonight? That’s too bad. Some other time, then. And they’ll have my name at the gate? Thank you, Mr. Brown.”
I took the phone. “Hardman again. That business for our friend. The next time you’re in touch with him, you can tell him it’ll be finished in the next day or two.”
“I will, Mr. Hardman. Good night.”
On the drive out of town, I talked through the drill with Hump and Jim Winters. It seemed simple enough, almost too simple. “I saw it in a movie once that starred Alan Ladd,” I said.
Hump grinned at me. “Before my time, old man.”
“How does it sound to you, Winters?”
He shrugged. “It’s as good as any on short notice. If it doesn’t work, we won’t have but about thirty seconds to worry about it.”
“That long, you sure?” Hump said, mock-seriously.
“Well,” Winters said, grinning past me, “give or take a second or two.”
Ahead of us, I could see the braking lights on Art’s unmarked police car. I slowed and followed him when he pulled off the highway. We were on a horseshoe turnoff beside a rest stop and picnic area that the state kept up. As soon as we were off the highway, Jim Winters shifted in his seat and looked through the rear window. “I think somebody’s following us. You expecting anybody else?”
“No.” I braked and we waited. A few seconds later, an old clunker went by. It looked like a ’53 Chevy. The headlights could stand adjusting, and it needed a muffler. I wondered how much of a payoff it took to get that one an inspection sticker, if it had one. The Chevy went by without slowing, and Winters laughed and said, “Must not be.”
I pulled in deeper and parked behind Art. To our left, was the dark green building that housed the toilets. To our right, encircled by the road, the horseshoe area dotted with leaf-covered picnic tables. We got out of the car and walked over to meet Art and the two uniformed cops with him. They were shivering and moving around, trying to keep warm. Art looked grim and unhappy, like he didn’t like the whole idea very much. “We’ll wait here. If you get in and out without trouble, head for us. If we hear gunfire, we’ll try to get to the gate, or we’ll barricade the road out and wait for you. I’m not sure what good that’ll do you. Maybe none.”
I patted Art on the shoulder and we left him. I opened the trunk of my car and handed Hump the keys. The trunk looked like a weapons locker. Art had outfitted us from the mass of confiscated guns in one of the storerooms. I’d picked a sawed-off shotgun with a cut-down stock and a handful of shells. Winters chose an Ml carbine and two spare clips. Hump said he’d stay with his handgun. Art warned us that there might be a frisk at the gate. On that chance, both Hump and Winters selected pistols to be found carrying when they reached the gate. Their personal guns, the ones they’d use inside the compound, were in the trunk.
“One last question, Hump?” I pushed the shotgun and the Ml carbine to the forward part of the trunk.
“Yeah?”
“Why’d you change Jim’s name?”
“Roy White’s a real guy. Did some book for me a time or two. If this comes off, it might be better if nobody knows Jim’s real name.”
“How about this Roy White?” Jim asked.
“They go looking for Roy, they’ll find a tombstone in Cleveland.”
“Luck,” I said. I got in and nodded at Hump.
Hump slammed the trunk door closed and I was in the cramped, closed darkness, smelling the exhaust fumes and gun oil. Of all the goddamn silly places to be.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was smooth enough, at first. I guess that was while we were still on the highway. When we turned onto the club’s access road, it was another thing altogether. Bumps and ruts and potholes, so that I had to put a hand on the trunk door and press myself down. I used the arm like a spring, relaxing it so that I rode with the jumps and lurches. The fumes were still bad and my head hurt. For a time, I thought I might throw up my scotch and cognac and single slice of roast beef. I might have, except that I felt the car slowing and easing to a stop, and there were other things to worry about.
I heard voices, muffled through the steel and glass and upholstery. I knew it could blow up now, and I found myself holding my breath and letting it hiss out slowly, careful that there wasn’t a whistle. The maddening part was that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I couldn’t tell if it was an inquisition out there in the cold wind, or sports talk about the point spread in the conference playoffs a couple of days ahead. And to cap it all off, I began to get a cramp in my right leg. It was in the calf and, as it knotted, it felt like polio must feel. I scraped the back of my hand moving it down the length of my body to rub the knot of old muscle. Maybe that was just tension, because it began to relax when I heard a booming laugh that must ha
ve been Hump’s. Two or three others joined him, and I knew that we were past the first hurdle.
Seconds later, the car doors slammed and we were off and moving again. The road we were on now was flat and level, probably paved, and the fact that my weight wasn’t shifting from foot to head meant it was going in a fairly straight line. The parking lot must be ahead and to the left of the lodge. About the time I’d decided that we were never going to make it, I felt Hump slowing and easing to a stop. I reached around behind me and got Hump’s .38 and Winters’ .357. I placed those near my knees and reached up to grip a metal ridge on the trunk door above me. The car doors opened and closed and, a few seconds later, there was a tap on the trunk door.
“Ready, Hardman?”
I tapped back at him. The key scraped in the lock and the lock clicked. I held the door so it wouldn’t swing up, instead letting it open only four or five inches. I passed the guns out to Hump.
“Fans of mine back there,” Hump said. “How you feeling?”
“Half dead.”
“One stud on the porch. Count off a slow three minutes and then come running.”
“Right.”
“From now.”
I started the count. To be safe, I put out a hand and covered the lock catch. Better a banged-up hand than getting locked in again. The cool air blew in on me and I felt my head clearing. The calf of my right leg still felt numb. I hoped that would go away as soon as I put some weight on it I reached one hundred and eighty and gave it another twenty, just to be sure that the confinement wasn’t making me count fast
At two hundred, I let the trunk door swing upward and scrambled over the side. The right leg caught again. I didn’t have time to argue with it, so I reached down and hit it a good lick with my fist. That wouldn’t cure it, but it might stun it. In one hand, I took the M1 carbine with two spare clips taped to the stock. In the other, my sawed-off shotgun with the cut-down stock. Crossing the parking lot, I stayed low, in among the cars as far as they went, and sprinted the last fifty or so yards across in the open to the porch. Jim Winters stepped from behind a column and waved at me.
