Dead Skip

by Joe Gores

  Copyright

  “File #2: Stakeout on Page Street” copyright © 1968 by Joseph N. Gores

  Dead Skip copyright © 1972 by Joseph N. Gores

  All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2019, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by Random House, Inc., New York, in 1972. This edition includes “File #2: Stakeout on Page Street,” which was originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine in January 1968. Readers should be forewarned that the text contains racial and cultural references of the era in which it was written and may be deemed offensive by today’s standards. Minor inconsistencies and other style vagaries derive from the original text and have been retained for the sake of authenticity.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Gores, Joe, 1931–2011, author.

  Title: Dead skip / Joe Gores.

  Description: Mineola, New York : Dover Publications, 2019. | Series: A dka file novel

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018059134 | ISBN 9780486834658 (paperback) | ISBN 0486834654 (paperback)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Hard-Boiled. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3557.O75 D43 2019 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018059134

  Manufactured in the United States by LSC Communications

  834654012019

  www.doverpublications.com

  This one is for

  Dave Kikkert,

  who lives it every day,

  and for

  Tony Boucher and Fred Dannay

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  File #2: Stakeout on Page Street

  ONE

  THE 1969 Plymouth turned into Seventh Avenue from Fulton, away from Golden Gate Park. It was a quiet residential neighborhood in San Francisco’s Richmond District—white turning black, with a sprinkling of Chinese. The Plymouth went slowly; its brights picked out a couple of For Sale signs on narrow two- and three-story buildings. It was just midnight.

  In midblock, the lone man behind the wheel saw a 1972 Mercury Montego hardtop parked directly across from the closed Safeway supermarket. He whistled thinly through his teeth. “Yeah, man,” he said softly, “squatting right on the address.”

  He parked around the corner. From his clipboard he selected a sheet of paper with several pink report carbons stapled to the back of it, folded it into thirds, and slid it into his inside jacket pocket. From beneath the dash he unhinged a magnetic flashlight; from the glove box he took a hot wire, a ring of filed-down keys, and two oddly bent steel hooks.

  The heavy rubber soles of his garage attendant’s shoes made no sound on the sidewalk. By the streetlights he was very black, with a wide flared nose and a thin mustache and an exaggerated breadth of shoulder which made him look much heavier than his 158 pounds.

  The Montego was locked.

  As he shone his flashlight through the window on the driver’s side, a head appeared behind the white lace curtain in the central bay window at 736. If the black man saw it, he gave no indication. The face disappeared abruptly; moments later the recessed front door opened to spill a bulky shadow out across the steps.

  “Hey, you! Get to hell away from that car!”

  When the other man did not comply, he came cautiously down the steps on stockinged feet. He had a round pale face and wavy brown receding hair.

  The black finally looked at him. “Are you the owner of this car, sir?”

  “Yeah, what the hell busi—”

  “Are you Harold J. Willets?” he persisted. He had to refer to his sheet of paper for the name, even though it was not a new assignment. He thought in terms of autos and licenses and addresses, not names.

  “Yeah,” said Willets again, edging closer to see the paper.

  The black man nodded briskly, like a doctor whose diagnosis has just been confirmed by the x-rays. “Yes, sir. My name is Barton Heslip, I have a repossession order for your Mercury.”

  “A repossession order? For my car?”

  “A legal order from the bank, yes, sir. Could I have the keys, please?”

  “No, you can’t have the keys, please,” mimicked Willets. He had gained confidence in talking. “And you can’t have the car. You go tell the bank you couldn’t find it. Wouldn’t have found it if the garage lock hadn’t been busted.”

  Heslip was not surprised; he had broken off a toothpick in the lock earlier that evening, hoping that Willets would leave the car in the street when the garage key would not work. He had been trying to catch the car outside the garage for a week.

  “What is it, Harry?” A woman had appeared at the head of the steps. She wore a faded pink terry-cloth robe and woolly slippers.

  To Heslip, Willets said, “You can go to hell,” to his wife, “This ni—this guy says he’s from the bank, wants to take my car.”

  “What?” Outrage shrilled in her voice. She pattered down the steps, hair in curlers and face cold-creamed. “He can’t do that. Harry, you tell him he can’t do that.” Heslip sighed: wives were a drag. She went on, seeing the repossession order in his hand, “You said the bank. Who’s this Daniel Kearny Associates?”

  “We’re an investigation agency employed by the bank, ma’am.”

  “We never got no notice or anything—”

  “You’re three payments delinquent tomorrow,” he said patiently. “No bank would let an account get that far down without notification. Besides, you knew you hadn’t made the payments.”

  “Well, you can’t have the car,” said Willets. “Mae took the payments into the bank just today.”

  “Then you’ll have the cashier’s stamp in your payment book.”

  Mae cast an angry glance at her husband. “I . . . mailed them in.”

  “Then I’ll look at the check stub.”

  “I—I sent cash,” she said desperately. “Just the cash money.”

  “Uh-huh.” Heslip’s voice became suddenly, savagely scornful. “You just stuck a rubber band around three one-hundred dollar bills and threw them into the mailbox.” He turned to Willets. “Are there any personal possessions you’d like to remove from the car?”

  Willets moved his stockinged feet around on the damp sidewalk as if belatedly realizing they were cold. It was a crisp spring night with just a touch of ocean wind and the vaguest hint of mist. “I lost the keys,” he said complacently.

  Heslip shrugged. He took one of the steel hooks from his pocket, inserted it into the joint between the front and rear side windows, and gave a quick flick of a powerful wrist. The door was open.

  “Hey, you black bastard!” yelped Willets, startled.

  Heslip spun swiftly, skipping sideways to be free of the Montego’s door. His eyes were black coals. Willets backed off hastily from the look on his face, his hands up placatingly.

  “Don’t you dare lay a hand on my husband!” Mae shrilled. “What kind of man are you, preying on decent folks—”

  “I pay my bills,” said Heslip. He was breathing harshly.

  The white man’s mouth was working. “Oh, to hel
l with you,” he said suddenly. “Take the goddamn thing!” He jerked a bunch of keys from his pocket and threw them with all his might at the Mercury. They starred the driver’s window with multiple fine fracture lines.

  Heslip picked them up from the gutter. “What about your possessions?” His voice was even once more.

  “That’s your lookout—and they all better be there when I get that car back, or I’ll sue your dead-beat company . . .”

  His voice trailed off as he stamped up the brick-edged stairs. His wife followed, her back rigid with contempt and indignation. At the head of the stairs, with the front door open, Willets turned back. “Just what you’d expect from a nigger!” he yelled. Then he was inside behind Mae, slamming the door.

  Heslip got into the Mercury, sat with his hands rigid on the wheel like a man in catalepsy. Finally the tension began leaving his features; he shrugged; he even grinned. “No class, baby,” he said aloud.

  It took only four minutes to park around the corner behind his company Plymouth and fasten his tow bar to the Mercury’s front bumper. He left on the parking lights. Before starting off with his tow, he wrote the date and a few scrawled notes to himself on the face of the uppermost pink report carbon. These would form the raw data, later, for his typed report on the Willets assignment.

  At Arguello, he unclipped his radio mike from the dash. “SF-3 calling SF-6. Do you read me, Larry?”

  No response. At USF he took the linked cars over to Golden Gate, one-way inbound to the office, and tried again. This time he was successful. “How you doing, man?” he asked.

  “Not a thing.” The disgust in Larry Ballard’s voice came through the mike clearly. “Haven’t seen a car. You’re having a good night.”

  Which meant Ballard had been by the office, had seen the two repos Heslip already had brought in.

  “Got that Willets Merc on the tow bar right now.”

  “That toothpick in the lock actually work?”

  “Like a charm, man. Willets don’t like culluhed folks, but he gave me the keys. Where you at now?”

  “Way out beyond Twin Peaks, up in those little streets off Ocean.”

  “I’ll be 10-8 at the office, cat,” said Heslip. “Got sixteen cases to type reports on. And I got something funny on one of the files. Probably just a coincidence, but I wanta ask what you think.”

  “10-4,” said Ballard.

  Heslip unlocked the chain-link storage lot under the concrete abutments of the skyway adjacent to the DKA office, unhooked the Mercury, and ran it in, then swiftly made out a condition report on a printed snap-out multiple form. This covered mileage, mechanical condition, lights, glass, body, rubber, power extras such as steering, seats, windows, brakes. He also checked the glove box, trunk, under the seats, on the back ledge, and behind the visors for personal property. Each item was meticulously noted, down to a box of Kleenex.

  His thoroughness was professional and habitual, and owed nothing at all to Willets’ threats. Threats were cheap in Heslip’s business. He had started as a field agent with Daniel Kearny Associates three years before, when he had realized he wasn’t going to be middleweight champ of the world after all; it was the only profession he knew which could give him the same one-on-one excitement he’d found in the ring.

  After relocking the lot, Heslip let himself into the DKA basement and locked himself in. Along the left wall were the field agents’ cubicles, each with a desk, two chairs, typewriter, phone, and a set of trays holding the various forms necessary for the paper work. Along the right was a long bank of meshed cages; into one of them went the personal property he had removed from the Willets car. He patted the fender of the new Jaguar he’d picked up earlier. He’d put it in the garage instead of the lot because a car like that just seemed to attract the vandals.

  When he dialed 553-1235 on the phone, a hard masculine voice came on with “Traffic Detail, Delaney.”

  “I’ve got a repo for you.”

  “Yeah, just a sec.” Sound of paper-shuffling. “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Seventy-two Mercury Montego hardtop, blue in color, license 1-8-0, Baker-Eddie-Baker, motor number 1-9-7-2-M-3-6-9-7-0-8. Repo’d at Seventh Avenue and Cabrillo, registered owner—”

  “Yeah, what time?”

  “Oh.” Heslip checked his watch. “Say . . . thirty-five, forty minutes ago. Make it twelve-twenty. Registered owner is Harold J-as-in-Joseph Willets, 7-3-6 Seventh Avenue. Legal is California Citizens Bank, San Francisco.”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Kearny Associates—Heslip. Busy downtown?”

  “Sitting on our cans drinking coffee. At the moment.”

  “Think I’ll be a cop so I can quit work.”

  “Wait until the bars close and they start running into each other. Them people probably give you the keys and buy you a beer besides.”

  “Sure they do.”

  The policeman laughed and repeated his name, adding his shield number, and hung up. Heslip wrote both on the face of the Willets case sheet so he could include them in his closing report. Sixteen of those mothers to write, take him damned near the rest of the night. That one case, probably just a coincidence, still . . . Maybe Larry would come up with an idea on it. He’d trained Ballard, two years ago; hell of a good man, had all the instincts. Except he got involved.

  Reports, damn ’em. He turned to the typewriter, stopped. He’d left the case sheets folded in thirds up above his car visor; he always put them up there when they were ready for reports.

  Still carrying the Willets case sheet in his hand, he let himself out into the cold night air, now wet and heavy with mist. As he started across Golden Gate toward the Plymouth, a dark shape came out of the recessed entryway from which interior stairs led up to the main-floor clerical offices.

  Heslip whirled around, was bringing up his guard when he was struck sharply above the right temple with a small truncheon. It made a nasty meaty sound against his skull. He went down on his hands and knees, one foot pawing the curb clumsily in a reflex to get upright inside the count. The truncheon swung again with panicky haste, struck an inch above the place it had hit the first time.

  Heslip went down hard, on his face this time, without trying to break the fall in any way. He twitched once and was still.

  TWO

  AT 8:27 A.M. Larry Ballard parked his company Ford in front of the elementary school playground, yawned, and pulled a dozen folded case sheets from above his visor. Report-typing time. Erg.

  Carrying them and the attaché case containing his Current, Hold and Contingent folders, he locked the car and started across Golden Gate Avenue. A screaming phalanx of little black kids burst from the school into the blacktopped playground. His eye caught a fluttering beneath the windshield wiper of Heslip’s Plymouth; grinning, he went back to feed his own meter. Then the grin faded. Odd that it would be parked in the same place it had been the night before, when he had come in at 1:25 and hadn’t been able to find Bart.

  On impulse he checked the basement before going upstairs to Clerical. The Jaguar that Bart had picked up last night was gone. Had it been gone at 1:25? He just hadn’t noticed. Marty Rossman came out of his cubicle, tall and wavy-haired; he had never lived down once yelling “May Day! May Day!” over the car radio when four angry Samoan lads had started tipping over his car in the housing project out off Geneva Avenue.

  “Bart Heslip down here, Marty?”

  Rossman shook his head. “Haven’t seen him. Kearny is taking off heads this morning.”

  “Hell, and I’ve got reports to write.”

  Ballard slipped back outside and then in the adjacent door to climb the narrow creaking stairs to the second floor. In the 1920s this old charcoal Victorian which housed DKA (Head Office, San Francisco, Branch Offices in All Major California Cities) had been a specialty whorehouse; recently it had been designated a California Landmark by the State Historical Society. Such are the uses of fame.

  At the head of the stairs he turned hard left, toward t
he front office which overlooked the avenue through unwashed bay windows. Two new assignments and five memos from the skip-tracers, as well as three close-outs, were in his box on Jane Goldson’s desk.

  “Bart up here, Jane?”

  “No. Should he be?”

  Jane was the setup and switchboard girl, with a marked English accent which Kearny felt lent the place a touch of class. He might even have been right. She also had remarkably good legs under remarkably short skirts; a slight open-faced girl with brown, perfectly straight hair all the way down to the small of her back.

  “He’s not downstairs and his car is outside. And the Jaguar he picked up last night is gone.”

  “Maybe he’s taking it back to the dealer.” She suddenly frowned. “He picked that one up, did he? Bit odd, actually, that he didn’t leave a note on my desk about it.”

  Carrying his attaché case and the In basket contents, Ballard clattered downstairs and back into the basement. The sliding mirrored door to Kearny’s cubbyhole at the far end was shut, but that didn’t mean anything; it was one-way glass so Kearny could see who wanted in. Besides, Ballard was going to have to ask him if he’d seen Bart, no matter what sort of mood he was in.

  Ballard’s intercom rang before he could set down his attaché case. “Larry? Come in here right away.”

  Ballard walked back, pushed the button beside Kearny’s door; when the buzzer sounded, he went in. Standing behind the desk, where she could read over Kearny’s shoulder, was Giselle Marc. She still had on her coat: a tall, wickedly lean blonde with an exquisitely boned face and the sort of brains that traditionally go with thick horn-rims, thick ankles, and a thick personality. She had only the brains.

  “I hear that Kathy’s sick again,” said Ballard, just to say something.

  “She is. It worries me. She’s too young for all the troubles she has.” Kathy Onoda, the Japanese-American office manager, was just twenty-eight. Giselle was two years younger, the same age as Ballard.

  He sat down in the client chair, gingerly, awaiting Kearny’s eruption. All of the signs were there: Giselle, long-faced, unsmiling; the ashtray overflowing with half-smoked butts; Kearny’s coat over the back of his chair; Kearny himself hunched forward in a watching attitude as if the Derby were being run on top of his desk.