One for Hell

by Jada M Davis

  It was a small shop. An old man, stooped and wrinkled and slow, peered through horn-rimmed glasses that threatened to slide off the end of his nose.

  “I need some cards, Pop.”

  The old man pointed at a pencil and paper.

  Willa Ree wrote:

  “WILLA REE Private Investigator Los Angeles, California”

  “How many?” the old man asked.

  “How much for a hundred?”

  “Two dollars.”

  “O.K. If you can get on them right now.”

  “Come back in an hour. Give them a chance to dry.”

  “Make it a nice, classy job.”

  The old man snorted. “For two dollars?”

  “The workman is worthy of his hire.”

  “Come back in an hour.”

  Two hours later, Willa Ree again entered the City Hall. The blonde with the breasts smiled. Ree smiled.

  The chief was not in uniform. He wore gray gabardine slacks and a gray gabardine shirt. He sat in a swivel chair, rancher-type hat, Stetson but not ten gallon, creased expertly, no doubt, between two cans of tomatoes. His feet, booted, were on the desk. His hair was sparse and gray at the temples, his face lined and tired.

  Ree flipped a card on the desk, pulled up a metal folding chair, and sat down. He lit a cigarette.

  “Have a seat,” the chief said. “My name’s Bronson.”

  “I’m Willa Ree.”

  Bronson sighed, pulled his feet off the desk, and looked at the card.

  “Baloney!” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I guess you’ve had experience.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want a job.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re hired.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Halliday said you’d see me.”

  “Halliday?”

  “You know.”

  “I had breakfast with a Halliday. So who does that make me?”

  “That makes you a dectective lieutenant, I reckon. At least, that’s what Halliday said. He gives the orders.” Bronson seemed puzzled.

  “What is he? The mayor?”

  “More. He’s on the council, runs it. Didn’t he tell you anything?”

  “No.”

  “Then, how does he know... you’ll do the work he wants done?”

  “Oh. He wants some work done. Well, maybe he’s a judge of character.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t give you anything to brag about.”

  “That kind of work?”

  “That kind. I wouldn’t touch it.”

  “Well, I’ll touch it for you—if it’s good.”

  “Not for me,” Bronson said. “For Halliday.”

  “You’re not allergic to money?”

  “That kind of money.” Seeing the look on Ree’s face, he said, “Don’t worry. Halliday knows how I feel. I tell him to his face what I say to his back.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Ree said, and meant it.

  Bronson sucked on a toothpick.

  “What is it?” Ree asked. “Tramps on a strike? Pimps won’t pay off? Or is Halliday selling protection?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “That means I should ask Halliday.”

  “That’s right.” Bronson said flatly.

  “Tell me,” Ree said, “tell me why you stay.”

  “It’s a living.”

  Bronson pressed a buzzer, and the fat sergeant appeared.

  “Where’s Swing?” Bronson asked.

  “He comes on this afternoon,” the sergeant said.

  “Is Wesley out there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Send him in.”

  The sergeant left the office. Bronson turned to Ree. “Wesley’s the present captain of police.” He smiled faintly. “The council has been talking about a detective squad or vice squad lately, and Wesley was half promised the job. He’ll love you.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Willa Ree stood up when Wesley entered.

  Wesley looked like a model captain of police. He loved his uniform. Big, brown, and handsome, with squared features and surprising wavy blonde hair.

  “You want me, Chief?”

  “Yeah.” Bronson sighed again. “This is Willa Ree. He’s the new detective lieutenant.” He raised his hand as Wesley started to speak. “It’s not my idea. It’s orders.”

  Wesley flushed, started again to speak, and stared at Willa Ree. Then he turned and left the room.

  “You two will get along fine,” Bronson said wryly.

  “Like brothers.”

  “Well, that’s your funeral.”

  “You’re not very tactful.”

  “Why should I be?” Bronson asked. “He’s a good man. Can’t get rich on a captain’s pay.”

  “Does a detective lieutenant’s job pay better?”

  “Let’s just say a detective lieutenant in charge of vice—and other things—would have more opportunity, than a captain of police.”

  “Well,” Ree said, “I should worry. Things are moving too fast for me, but I’ll ride it and see where I land. What’s the next step?”

  “See Halliday,” Bronson said. “That’s what I’d do. See Halliday.”

  Chapter Nine

  The way Willa Ree figured it, Halliday would get in touch with him, give him the layout.

  The day passed, but Halliday made no effort to make contact.

  Maybe, he decided, it would be best to go see Halliday. But, then again, it might be better to wait for Halliday to make the first move.

  Yes. Better for Halliday to ask him to take over—well, whatever it is Halliday needed taken over.

  Bronson told him of a place to stay. Ma Ferguson’s boardinghouse. It was a big, rambling, two-story frame house, not too far from downtown, and comfortable enough.

  “I’ll call the old lady for you,” Bronson offered. “Tell her you’re coming by.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve got to have a place to stay, and it’s not easy to find anything decent.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Bronson made the call, and one of the patrol cops drove him by. Ma Ferguson was fat, big and jolly and fat, wrinkled and three-chinned fat, with faded blonde hair which lay about her head in tightly plastered curls.

  “Twenty-five a week,” Ma said. “Breakfast at seven, lunch at twelve sharp, and supper at six.”

  “Good enough, Mrs. Ferguson.”

  “Ma to my people, Willie.”

  “It’s Willa. W-i-l-l-a.”

  “O.K. Mine’s M-a, M-a, Ma.”

  “O.K., Ma. I hope you’ll trust me a few days, until I can get an advance on my salary.”

  “I trust everybody,” Ma said, laughing. “Way I look at it, this world can stand a little more trust.”

  “I’ll appreciate it to my dying day.” His eyes laughed.

  In his room, oddly restless, he forced himself to lie down. Once relaxed, he fell asleep, and Ma had to come in and shake him at six.

  “Supper,” she said. “You must be dead.”

  “Deader than I thought, Ma.” He got up and stretched. “And I could use a meal.”

  “You come on out and eat, and then you come back and take a warm bath and go to bed. Best thing in the world for you.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  There were twenty boarders. Some school teachers and some oil company clerks, but they paid him little attention. He ate, smoked, and went back to his room.

  At breakfast it was different. Talk flowed freely, and he realized that now he was accepted as one of the family.

  He walked to the Hall, greeted the girls in the front office, and went in to work.

  Only, there was no work.

  The sergeant ignored him, as did Bronson when he came in, and Ree spent the first day reading tattered magazines.

  On the second day, bored and angry, he went back to the fire house and shot pool.r />
  Wesley was in and out of the office, never speaking, and the uniformed police had little to say.

  Well, what the hell, money’s money, and I’m getting paid for sitting.

  So I’ll sit.

  The days passed, and still Halliday hadn’t made contact.

  Two weeks passed—weeks of boredom. He drew his first pay check, went to the movies to escape the heat, and shot pool in the fire house. And, on Monday of the third week, he bought a hammer and saw.

  It was Friday of the third week that he worked late. The sun had set when he left the Hall.

  Wesley was waiting on the front steps.

  “How about some coffee, Wesley?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Come on. I want to talk to you.”

  “I said no. Thanks.”

  “Listen!” Ree made his words sharp. “No kidding! I want to talk to you.”

  Wesley shrugged his shoulders and followed him across the street to the Aztec.

  “Listen,” Ree said when they had their coffee. “I know you figure you got a dirty deal.”

  Wesley lifted his eyebrows and poured sugar in his coffee, stirred, and reached for a cigarette.

  “Can’t say that I blame you,” Ree said. “If you knew the facts, though, you’d understand.” He pulled one of his cards from his pocket and said, “Look at that.”

  He was thinking. If the chump falls for this, he’s dumber than I think....

  But Wesley looked at the card and handed it back, saying, “If you’re a private detective from California, why do you come here and take the job I’d been promised?”

  “I’ll explain.”

  “Anybody can get cards printed.”

  “Sure, if they wanted them,” Ree admitted, thinking, The guy’s not so dumb, so I’ll have to play smart.

  “You see, Wesley,” he said, “I’ve been working on a case. A big case. Dope, mostly, but some burglary. The trail starts in Los Angeles, but I’ve traced it this far. That’s why I was given your job—so I’d have authority to work in this state and crack down without going through a lot of red tape.”

  Wesley’s laugh was explosive.

  “So why didn’t the Los Angeles force send one of their own men?” he asked. “You must take me for a chump, Ree.”

  “No, but you’re sounding like one.”

  Wesley frowned. “You think I’m sucker enough to believe that a private detective would be put on the job? Hell! The Los Angeles force wouldn’t even know you were alive!”

  Willa Ree sipped his coffee and thought, so I put my foot in it. Why couldn’t I keep my big mouth shut?

  “Listen, Wesley,” he said, “you can take it or leave it.”

  “I leave it. Anyway, why should I worry? I got a raise.”

  “More coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Well, I’ve got to go, then. I’ve got a date.”

  “Anybody I know?” Wesley asked.

  “The blonde over at the Hall.”

  “Arlene?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s my girl, Ree.” Wesley got up and walked out.

  Ree went uptown and stood on the corner, wondering why he’d lied to Wesley about the girl.

  Well, why not call the girl? She’d go a long way, probably.

  He called the girl.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Make it another night. I’ve got a date.”

  “Wesley?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Wesley. Will you tell Wesley I said I’m a great kidder?”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll bring it up, and you just say I’m a great kidder.”

  “If you say so.”

  He went to a show, bought a bag of popcorn, and realized he had a dime left.

  Here he was. Working for peanuts, and time was slipping by.

  The show was a Western, but he forced himself to see it through. Even the comedy.

  It was ten o’clock when he entered his room and switched on the light. Without hurrying, he wrapped the saw and hammer he’d bought in a newspaper, switched off the light and left the room.

  It was ten-thirty when he turned down the alley that passed behind the boardinghouse, but now he had a coiled rubber garden hose over his left arm, taken from Ma Ferguson’s back yard.

  Ten forty-five when he entered the alley leading past the backs of down-town stores, and ten forty-seven when he stopped behind Frady’s Hardware.

  From his pocket he pulled heavy twine, and in a moment he had the hammer and saw hanging from a loop around his neck. He fitted the coiled hose over his left shoulder and began to climb a drain pipe. Without trouble he gained the roof.

  On hands and knees he began to work.

  The roof was covered with tarred paper, and he used the hammer claws to scrape away a patch. He swore, gleefully, when he saw the boards beneath. They were nailed in short lengths, toed-in at the beams, and he had no trouble prying a board loose. He began sawing.

  At eleven, on the dot, he was crouched at the front of the building’s roof, hidden by the stucco parapet, and listening to the footsteps on the sidewalk.

  Two night-walking cops—Johnson and Cowles.

  He couldn’t see them, but he had checked the board carefully and had become familiar with the names and routines of all the cops.

  One of them stopped to light a cigarette, while the other tried the door.

  They walked on down the street slowly, and Willa Ree went back to his sawing.

  It took ten minutes more to finish the hole in the roof, and after that it was easy. He tied the hose around an exposed beam, retied the hammer and saw to the looped twine and hung them around his neck. He slid down the hose, feeling with his feet for ceiling beams, for he knew the ceiling would not support his weight.

  Standing on beams, he felt the ceiling. Sheet rock, as he’d guessed.

  With the hammer, he knocked a hole in the sheet rock, and then began work with the saw. It was a snap.

  He lowered the hose through the second hole, looped his tools around his neck again, and went down hand over hand.

  There was a night light at the front of the building, and for a long minute he lay flat on the floor, peering at the plate glass windows at the front. Satisfied, he got up and walked to the cash register. He hit “no sale.”

  There was money in the register and some checks.

  He laughed aloud.

  For a moment, a short moment, he hesitated over the checks, but then he shrugged and stuck them in his pocket with the money. He didn’t bother to close the register.

  There was a safe in a small private office, but he made no attempt to crack it. But, damn it, he thought, I should have learned about safes.

  He searched the office, but had no luck.

  Glancing at his watch, he stood before the safe, and then sat down in the swivel chair before a desk. He lit a cigarette, leaned back, and smoked it to a short stub.

  Willa Ree snubbed out the cigarette in a tray made in the shape of an auto tire.

  A rack of tools covered the rear wall, and he stuck the saw on a rack with other saws. The hammer he stuck in his pocket with the cord. No use worrying about fingerprints on the saw. He’d looked at those saws, handled them, and had purchased one in this very store.

  There was a window at the rear of the building, but he decided to climb the hose. It would be better to replace the hose in Ma Ferguson’s back yard. She might read a newspaper account of the robbery, miss the hose, and tip the police.

  It was easy. Hand over hand he climbed the hose, found a handhold, and was on the roof again. He pulled the hose up, coiled it, and slung it over his shoulder. A minute later, he was sliding down the drain pipe.

  In his room, the hose back in place near the faucet in the rear yard, he counted the money. Two hundred and thirty-six dollars and a pocket full of change. Easy money.

  With the checks carefully folded and placed in his billfold, he went to bed. He felt good.


  And he slept soundly.

  There was hell to pay at the Hall.

  Chief Bronson, reporting early, wasn’t happy. The night shift took a raking.

  “Any ideas?” Ree asked.

  But Bronson didn’t know where to start. He blustered. A laugh tickled Willa Ree’s throat, showed in his eyes, but he choked it down.

  Bronson saw the beginning of the laugh and turned red. “O.K., Ree,” he said. “You’re the detective around here. Suppose you take over on this thing!”

  “All right.”

  “You’ve been sitting around here for weeks, so now’s as good a time as any to show what you can do!”

  “All right!”

  Bronson went into his office and closed the door.

  Ree took a squad car and drove around town alone.

  It was his first chance to see much of the town, and what he saw wasn’t new.

  The sum and total of all the boom towns in the world, of the past and present and future. Fifty thousand people jammed into space meant for five thousand. Honky-tonks and liquor stores, churches and tin-built night clubs, side by side, or facing across streets. A modern swimming pool across the street from a tent town. Unpaved streets running into fancy boulevards. Families in shacks, with limousines at the door. Derricks edging into the city limits. And, across the tracks, The Flats.

  It was a sun-scorched town, with few trees for protection, and even the trees were alien to the land. In winter, the old timers said, the town was separated from the north pole by nothing but a barbed wire fence, and in summer not even an umbrella protected it from the scorching fires of hell.

  Squat and stark it stood, ugly and scattered and temporary, a shack town of tin buildings with false stuccoed fronts. Its better buildings, in the center, the very center, were of brick, but they were old, square and dirty.

  The town was flanked by honky-tonks, on all roads entering it or leaving it, side by side with junk yards and service stations.

  Pipe, thousands and thousands of lengths of pipe, were stacked in endless stacks in small net-fenced yards, behind honky-tonks and service stations, beside derelict warehouses and shabby trucking firms.

  For this was an oil town.

  One railroad served the town, but it was an east-west link and busy. Highways ribboned four ways, long and undulating, like a snake, wriggling across the flat land that looked flat but was really a land of swells, like the sea. The highways were of asphalt, shiny by day and glistening by carlight at night. Travelers could be fooled by these highways by looking ahead into the distance and seeing water that wasn’t there, or trees that weren’t there, or houses and towns that weren’t there.