Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  A purple foot was taking over the job of a lad born to the purple, I thought. I liked that, and I rolled it over in my mind, and wondered if I wouldn’t have made a good sports writer. I decided to mail it in to Vincent X.

  I was imagining all the offers I would get from the various talent-hungry sports editors and I was turning them all down with high disdain when my phone rang.

  It was Jan. “I’ve just read about that Quirk boy. Is that where you were last night, Brock?”

  “That’s where I was. Why?”

  “We had a sort of half-date, you might remember.”

  Last night had been Thursday night and we usually saw each other on Thursday nights. “I’m sorry. I should have phoned,” I told her.

  “It doesn’t matter. Isn’t it horrible, Brock? Isn’t it sickening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have the police any idea who did it? Have you?”

  “I haven’t. I doubt if the police have.”

  “And that business about Rick Martin being there, that must have seemed very suspicious to the police.”

  “Too suspicious to be true.”

  “I suppose. But I mean with Rick related to that — that Pistachio, or whatever his name is, it must certainly be the most ridiculous coincidence that — ”

  “Slow down,” I interrupted. “I’m not following you. Who do you mean by Pistachio?”

  “You know, the Quirk boy’s substitute? I can never remember his name.”

  “Do you mean Dom Ristucci?”

  “That’s it. Rick told me one time that he’s related to the boy. He seemed very proud of that.”

  “Are you sure? There was nothing in the papers about that.”

  “I’m sure he told me. And I remember he also told me not to mention it, because he didn’t want to hurt the boy’s chances. What do you think he meant by that?”

  “The National Football League takes a very dim view of gamblers, Jan. That’s what Enrico meant.”

  Silence for a second. “He really is a gambler, then? A professional gambler?”

  “That’s right. And before that he was tied up with white slavery. Did you think I was lying to you Sunday?”

  A longer silence. “I — guess. At least I thought you were exaggerating and — being vulgar. You do both of those things quite often, Brock.”

  “All right, all right,” I said impatiently. And then I saw my door open and in a second I saw the man standing there.

  I said to Jan, “I have to hang up now. Your friend just walked in.”

  “What friend?”

  “Enrico Martino,” I said, and hung up.

  He wasn’t smiling this morning. Nor did he look arrogant. He looked like a worried businessman in to see his banker.

  “Miss Bonnet?” he asked me, nodding toward the phone.

  “That’s right. Sit down, Mr. Martin.”

  He looked at me speculatively. “If you intend to go physical on me again, maybe we could run over to my gym for a couple rounds.”

  I shook my head. “Tuesday was a bad day. I apologize. If you’ll apologize for calling me a poor, cheap slob.”

  He came over to sit in my customer’s chair. “I’ll take back the ‘cheap’ and the ‘slob.’ I guess you’re poor enough, though, aren’t you?”

  “I guess. So, now?”

  “Miss Bonnet told you what I was stupid enough to tell her, one time?”

  “About Dom Ristucci?” I nodded. “How close is the relationship?”

  “My mother was his father’s cousin. That was enough for me. I don’t have too much to brag about along those lines.”

  “The reporters will find it out eventually,” I said. “It sure adds another coincidence to the bundle, though, doesn’t it?”

  He looked at me curiously. “Add ‘em up for me. I see you’re in with the police and the Quirk family. Add up the case against me, as far as you have it.”

  “All right. You and Johnny lusted after the same girl, maybe, Jackie Held.”

  Martin nodded. “I’ll give you more; I was paying her rent.”

  “That’s one. You’re on the scene when Johnny dies, that’s two. Johnny got a note from gamblers and you’re a gambler, that’s three. Ristucci is your second cousin, that’s four. Hell, man, I’m surprised you’re walking around outside.”

  His smile was bleak. “Damned strange bunch of coincidences, isn’t it? And there are only two possible answers, aren’t there?” I nodded.

  “If you agree, what are they?” he asked me.

  “Either you’re guilty, or you’ve been jobbed.”

  He nodded and his eyes held mine. “Which theory do you favor, Callahan?”

  I returned his gaze like the heavy in a B picture. “I couldn’t honestly say, Enrico.”

  “Rick, huh? Rick.”

  “Rick.”

  He considered me impersonally. “You still hate my guts, don’t you?”

  “The life you’ve led, maybe. Not you, I suppose. Why did you come to see me, Rick?”

  “I want you to find out who tried to frame me. I could give you some leads.”

  “One thing we overlooked. Johnny phoned you, didn’t he? Your enemies wouldn’t be likely to know that, would they?”

  “How do we know it was Johnny? I didn’t know the kid’s voice.”

  “I see.” I fiddled with a pencil on my desk. “I’ve got a job, right now. I couldn’t work for two clients at the same time.” I looked up at him. “Not on the same job.”

  “You’re working for the Quirks, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Regular day-to-day deal?”

  “And a bonus if I find out who killed Johnny.”

  “How much of a bonus?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  He took out a cigarette and lighted it, trying for the casual touch. Some ham in this bum. He said lightly, “I’ll match it, when you find the killer. And if I give you some leads, it might help to solve it. What can you lose?”

  “What if I prove that you’re the killer, Rick?”

  He stood up. “Then I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars and this arm.” He made a gesture of sawing his right arm off at the shoulder. “And I’d put that in writing and have it notarized.”

  I smiled. “This is important to you, isn’t it?”

  “Very. I’ve got a daughter going to high school in this town.”

  I said nothing.

  “Do you think I’d change my name otherwise? I’m not ashamed of my name.”

  “Assuming it was Johnny who phoned you, did he tell you he’d been contacted by gamblers?”

  Martin nodded. “He said he was in a lot of trouble and he’d heard about me from Jackie Held and that she’d recommended me as a man to be trusted.”

  “Did Jackie admit that?”

  “No, but she’s not the most honest girl in the world. And if it was true, this Quirk never told the law that. Of course, Jackie told me he was a secretive kid.”

  “He didn’t give the law her name, and they must have put on plenty of heat.” I stood up and stretched my neck. “Didn’t you resent Jackie messing around with this kid?”

  Martin smiled and spread both hands out expansively. “I’m getting what I’m paying for. I didn’t buy the girl; I was just renting her.”

  I shook my head. “Are you going to continue to rent her?”

  “Why not? I’ve got a couple more like her, if you’re ever in the mood.”

  “No, thanks.” I went to the window. “I don’t want your money, Rick. But who are the men?”

  He handed me a plain white filing card on which two names and addresses were typed. “This isn’t for the police, you know, Callahan. Not unless you get your case.”

  “I know,” I said. “And it will probably put me in the soup. But I’ve learned I have to work any way I can. I’m surprised a solid citizen like you should hate the law.”

  “I’ll never be respectable enough to like cops,” he said. “Do we shake hands or s
omething?”

  I shook his hand and was glad there were no photographers present. He went out smiling.

  A couple of days ago I’d been moaning about business. Now I had more clients than I could accept.

  I looked at the names on the card. One was a man I had met once and whose name was constantly in print. He had a piece of many local fighters, I’d heard, and the big piece of the state’s leading welterweight.

  Boxing is controlled by hoodlums in Los Angeles, as it is in most of America’s major cities. But so far as I knew this man had no police record. Of convictions, at least.

  I imagined my best bet with him would be to go to him openly. At first, anyway.

  He lived in Brentwood, in one of the estates fronting on San Vicente. His name was Ned Allen.

  I found him in the back yard, where he was putting on a sloping green. The green was better maintained than any of those on the public courses around town. I don’t know about the private courses.

  He was a big man, gone slightly soft, and he had gray hair, a deep tan and very nice white teeth. I saw the teeth when I introduced myself; he smiled cordially.

  “I’ve seen you play,” he told me. “Aren’t you a detective or something now?”

  I nodded. “I’ve an investigation service in Beverly Hills. I’m working with the Beverly Hills police on Johnny Quirk’s death.”

  His face was grave. “Horrible thing.” He frowned. “But what brought you here, Mr. Callahan?”

  “The possibility of gamblers being involved,” I said frankly. “You must know most of them, and I thought you might have heard something. And as one of our solider citizens, I guessed you’d be glad to tell the police anything you’d heard.”

  He smiled wryly and stroked a ball toward one of the holes at the far end of the green. “Start over, Mr. Callahan.”

  “I don’t follow you, Mr. Allen.”

  “Sure you do.” He stroked another ball, watched it all the way to where it stopped short of the hole and then looked at me. “I’ve met some mobsters from time to time. I don’t associate with them. I run a clean stable, Mr. Callahan.”

  “I know that,” I lied, “or I wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t you hate to see football follow boxing’s trail, sir?”

  “There are honest men in boxing. Maybe not many in Los Angeles, but San Francisco’s a clean boxing town. I schedule the important fights there.” He walked over to retrieve the balls.

  I walked along. “Perhaps you could give me a lead, sir, to somebody who could help me.”

  He smiled. “The man you’re probably working for should give you plenty of leads. He probably gave you my name.”

  I waited until he had lined the balls up before asking, “What man, Mr. Allen?”

  “A man from your town, a Beverly Hills hood named Rick Martin.”

  “I’m not working for Rick Martin,” I said.

  “Maybe not. He gave you my name, though, didn’t he?”

  I didn’t answer. He putted a couple of balls toward a hole in the center of the sloping green. The second one dropped. He looked at me.

  “Sorry to intrude,” I said, and started toward the walk.

  “Just a second,” he said.

  I stopped and turned around.

  “Only because you’re Brock Callahan,” he said, “and, remember, I never told you this. But there’s a man in this town who hates Martin more than I do. And for different reasons.”

  I waited.

  “I hate Martin because he’s a crook,” Allen said. “This man is just a rival crook. His name is Lenny Heffner. Know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him.” It was the other name on the card. “Why does he hate Martin?”

  “It started over a girl. Martin was always too lucky with other men’s girls. Go easy with Heffner, though; he’s even bigger than you are.” He tapped another ball. “And considerably meaner.” The ball dropped with a rattle.

  Hams, hams, hams, this area is full of hams. The morning’s gray was lifting and I could see the dark blue edge of the Santa Monica Mountains against the clear sky.

  Ned Allen had said “this town,” but that’s just a phrase. He meant the Los Angeles area — all of the towns roughly identified as “this town” of Los Angeles. It’s really not a town at all, but a collection of attitudes.

  Lenny Heffner had a small gym and bar in the crummy part of Santa Monica, right off Olympic. I didn’t think he could be much, with a dive like that, but a lot of important men like to stay in their old neighborhoods.

  I went into the bar and ordered a bottle of High Life. The bartender wore a clean white T-shirt and Balboa blues and blue suède shoes with crepe soles. He didn’t have any Miller High Life, he told me. I ordered Budweiser.

  He was a fairly young man, with brown eyes and with his dark hair in a crew cut. His skin was olive and healthy looking. He moved with the slight shoulder swagger of a boxer.

  I asked, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere?”

  “At the Olympic, or Ocean Park.” He tried to make his smile modest. “Manny Cardez.”

  A welterweight, a prelim boy. I’d never seen him fight but had probably seen his picture in the papers or on a poster.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “How’s the career going?”

  “It was going all right until I met Jordan.” He shrugged. “There are other ways of making a living.”

  “You’ve quit?”

  “Not exactly. I keep in shape, and I can always fill in a card. It’s money. I don’t figure it’s my career any more.” I smiled. “This is easier, eh?”

  He paused a moment and glanced at me curiously. Then he shrugged again. “It’s steady.” Another pause. “You a salesman?”

  I met his gaze. “Why?”

  “Been a lot of cops around the last couple of days. And too many this morning. You’re big enough to be a cop.”

  “This morning I can figure,” I told him. “But what about the other days?”

  “Some gamblers hang out here. And the cops have been checking all the gamblers in the county since Monday.”

  “I know,” I said. “I couldn’t lay a bet with my regular boy. The heat’s on, I suppose, because of Johnny Quirk.”

  His open face was more guarded. “I suppose.” He went down to the end of the bar and picked up a Racing Form. He gave it his attention.

  From Olympic I heard the blat of a diesel making the slight climb from the runnel that led to the Coast Highway. There was a door with a frosted-glass window in the rear wall. The washroom doors were in the wall opposite the bar.

  I looked at the menu in the middle of the back-bar mirror and asked, “How are the enchiladas?”

  He looked up from his Form. “All right. Want some?”

  I nodded. “You’re a welterweight, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Coffee, milk?”

  “I like ‘em with beer,” I said.

  He went up a narrow hallway at the end of the bar. He had evidently decided not to be sociable. I could sit here, I supposed, like Alan Ladd, giving the place my cold-eyed stare and waiting for some varmint to draw.

  Only there weren’t any varmints in sight. Just a clean and bare barroom, looking slightly old-fashioned with its scrubbed wooden floor, making the gaudy juke box seem out of place. And the clean young Spanish-American in Balboa blues didn’t seem to be hunting trouble.

  He brought the enchiladas and silverware and a paper napkin and went back to his reading.

  No short-order slob had made these; they were delicious. I said, “I’ll bet you’ve got a female cook.”

  He looked up and smiled briefly. “My aunt. More beer?”

  “Please,” I said. “And another order of these. I’m a big boy.”

  He measured me with his eyes and smiled and went up the narrow corridor again. I was finishing what was left of the first bottle of beer when the door opened.

  I glanced over in my casual way and saw a girl standing in the open doorway.

  It was Jackie Held. />
  six

  SHE WORE a black jersey skirt with a white blouse and a short jersey jacket over the blouse. Her young-old face wore a look of consternation as she hesitated in the doorway staring at me.

  “Come on in, Jackie,” I said cordially. “They have the best enchiladas I’ve ever eaten.”

  Some composure came back to her artificial face. “I know. That’s why I stopped. I was just driving by, and …”

  “Me too,” I said, “on the way to the beach. Don’t apologize; I’m not a snob.”

  Her painfully plucked eyebrows lifted. “I wasn’t apologizing, Mr. Callahan. And if I’d known you were here I wouldn’t have dropped in.”

  I smiled at her. “Let’s be friends. We’ll eat together, and I won’t even tell Rick I saw you here.”

  She glared at me. But she came over to take the stool next to mine. “Why should you tell Rick Martin anything?”

  Manny Cardez was back with another plate of enchiladas. He paused at the end of the hallway when he saw Jackie. His glance shifted between us and then he came the rest of the way, his face carefully blank.

  Jackie said, “I’ll have some of those. And some beer, too. Einlicher, please.”

  There wasn’t a public bar in town that had Einlicher. But Manny brought out a bottle. I said, “Make my second bottle that, too.”

  “It’s seventy-five cents a bottle,” he told me. I smiled at him. “I can handle it. I’m on an expense account.”

  Plainly enough for all to hear, Jackie said, “I didn’t know detectives had expense accounts.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t,” I answered. “And I’ll bet Manny here didn’t know I was a detective until this second.”

  The bartender’s face showed nothing. He put the opened bottle of beer on the bar and went back to the hallway.

  “You fixed me real good,” I said. “I’ll have to tell Sergeant Pascal how co-operative you’ve been.”

  Her face was rigid. “I didn’t know you were — snooping. I didn’t mean anything wrong.”

  “Uh-huh. Does Rick Martin know you hang around here?”

  “I don’t hang around here. And why should it be Rick Martin’s business if I did?”