Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  His teammates were giving him protection against the vultures of the press. That’s who the ghouls were waiting for, young Ristucci.

  To my right, one of the photographers jumped up on the hood of a car, to shoot over the heads of the beefy convoy. That made it my business, because it was my car.

  I reached over and got one ankle and slid him off. His head bounced twice as he toppled and his camera went skidding along the asphalt of the drive.

  He got up, full of fight, and the cameras all swung our way. And Dom and his buddies climbed into a big Lincoln while the attention was on me.

  The photographer had drawn a right hand back, and I waited. He wasn’t big enough to make the fist mean anything. He lowered the hand when he saw the size of me.

  “My car,” I explained. “What’s your name?”

  The Lincoln moved away and there was a shout. The photographer glared at me and then a reporter came over. “Oh, Callahan — ” It was the man who’d waited at my car the night of the murder.

  “I thought all vampires had pointed teeth,” I said.

  He looked at me condescendingly. “The brainwashed Dick Tracy. Can’t you stay out of our way? All we’re trying to do is our job.”

  “Douglas is hiring,” I told him. “Don’t cry on my shoulder.”

  He shook his head and his smile was sad. “Where’d we get off on the wrong foot, Brock? What’s eating you this morning?”

  “That piece in the Times.”

  “I don’t work for the Times. And that piece you read isn’t typical of the Times, and you know it. That boy’s no more typical of the Times than Pegler is of the Herald-Express. Now let’s grow up and talk like men.”

  I opened the door of my car. I climbed in and looked at him through the open window. “I’m working with the Beverly Hills Police and we have nothing new to give you. If I get anything, I’ll call you.”

  His gaze was cynical. “You can do better than that.”

  “So help me, that’s the gospel. It’s been a blank wall, so far. Unless there are things the police know that I don’t.”

  His eyes were scornful, “So long, Callahan. I hope you need us some time.”

  I was doing very well, getting the police and the press against me. It seemed reasonable to guess I would never be rich. This morning it didn’t bother me too much. I was alive and so was my girl and it was a beautiful day without a trace of smog.

  I went back to the office to check my mail. There was a check from the father whose daughter’s suitor I had investigated, the fastest pay I’d received in my short career. There was an ad from the Peoria School of Detection and Criminal Investigation, offering the cut-rate special at eight dollars and ninety-eight cents, including the embossed diploma on parchment, framed. It was probably just what I needed, but I mailed the whole thing to Sergeant Gnup of the Beverly Hills Police Department.

  I heard footsteps in the hall and looked up in time to see Deborah Curtis open my door. She was in black; she’d been at the funeral. She paused in the doorway, her dark blue eyes wet.

  I rose, and came over to fuss with my customer’s chair. I couldn’t seem to get a greeting out. She came over wordlessly and sat down. She was the girl who had called on me that first day, just after Johnny had told me about the note on the seat of his car. It was the one who “might” be engaged to him and who wanted to know where he had been the night before.

  Silence, while I went back to my chair. Silence for seconds after that. And then her voice, muffled. “John was with a girl Sunday night, wasn’t he?” It was as if our previous conversation had never been interrupted.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Yes, you do. And he didn’t go to any movie.”

  I waited until she looked at me fully. Then I asked, “Does it matter now?”

  Her young, sensitive face was rigid. “It matters now. The memory of him is still alive.”

  “And you want to kill that?”

  She didn’t answer me. She looked like a girl in shock; her gloved hands were clenched in her lap.

  I asked, “How do you know he didn’t go to a movie?”

  “My brother saw him at the Orleans Room. With some cheap tramp.”

  “And when did your brother tell you this?”

  “Twenty minutes ago.” She glared at me. “He told me some other things, too. John was no angel, was he?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never met any angels. Why didn’t your brother tell you this before today?”

  “Men — ” she said. “They stick together.” She looked away from me. “In high school, when John got into that mess with the teacher, I could forgive him. He was young — ” She took a deep breath. “But I’ll bet there were a hundred repetitions of that I never heard about.”

  “Miss Curtis,” I said quietly, “John Quirk is dead. And you have a life ahead of you. John was too rich to stay completely invulnerable, but he was as good as the rest of us and probably better than most of us. None of that matters now. What matters is that he’s dead and you’re alive and the world is full of worthwhile young men to love. Staining his memory won’t do you a damn bit of good.”

  She glared at me, and stood up. “Men — ” she said again. Her body shook in a convulsive tremor. “Damn you, all of you.” She sent me one more murderous glare before stalking out.

  Men … She was right, and women, too. They weren’t much, but all we had except for kids. And the nasty thing about kids, they grew up into men and women. People are monstrous, but all we have, Deborah Curtis would learn in time. Nevertheless it nagged at me. Did this classy girl who belonged to Johnny’s own Beverly Hills, Ivy League world know anything she wasn’t telling?

  I went down to the drug store for lunch. My fan wasn’t behind the counter, for which I was thankful. I didn’t want to talk about football today. The hippy bleached blonde who waited on me gave me a minimum of dialogue and a maximum of service.

  From there I drove to the Orleans Room. The signs in front informed me that Cornball Thompson and His Cotton Pickers were the present engagement. They were, I knew, a twangy, raucous pick-up gang of local exhibitionists, currently the rave among Dixie adherents.

  The big room was closed, but the smaller barroom was open. The bartender was attired in black trousers and a white jacket. Under the white jacket was a magenta oxford shirt. His tie was black knit “Did you work Sunday night?” I asked him.

  “Are you a cop or something?”

  I showed him my identification. “I’m working with the Beverly Hills Police Department.”

  “I worked Sunday night,” he said. “Is it about Johnny Quirk?”

  I nodded.

  “I already told the cops all I know.”

  “And what was that?”

  “You should know it, if you’re working with them. Private man, are you?”

  “Usually. Not on this. Do you have some beef against private investigators?”

  “That’s right. One of ‘em fixed me real good in the alimony department.”

  “I never handle divorce work.”

  “So long,” he said. “Come back with a cop if you want to talk to me.” He turned away and busied himself with some bottles.

  I said, “Johnny Quirk was a Ram. And so was I, once. His dad hired me to work with the Beverly Hills Department on this. I can come back with a cop, if you insist. Or I can hang you up on that ceiling fan if you get lippy.”

  He turned back to consider me. “A Ram? What’s your name?”

  “Brock Callahan.”

  “The Rock,” he said, and there was some respect in his voice.

  “Have you got any Einlicher?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “Miller, Schlitz, Acme in bottles. Lucky Lager on tap.”

  “I’ll take a bottle of Miller High Life.”

  He put a bottle of it on the bar and the glass next to it He said. “There’s nothing to tell. The police wanted to know if anyone here had seen the guy who put the note in
young Quirk’s car. Nobody had.”

  “I see. Do you get much of that Beverly Hills trade?”

  “I don’t know where all the squares come from. That buddy of young Quirk’s, that Pat Curtis, he’s a Dixie hound, too. But they weren’t together Sunday night”

  “Who was young Curtis with?”

  “One of his own kind, society girl. I don’t know her name.

  Brown hair and brown eyes. A little stocky for my taste.” Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought, recalling Deborah Curtis’ visit.

  “I suppose there are gamblers who like Dixie, too?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t name you any who spend time here.”

  “Do you know Rick Martin?”

  “Only by name. I never saw him.”

  “Who picks up your bets?”

  He looked at me levelly. “We don’t book here.”

  “Do you know Ned Allen?”

  “In the sport pages. I never met him, either.”

  “Lenny Heffner?”

  He shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “Do you know Miss Jacqueline Held very well?” He frowned. “Jackie? That blonde with Quirk?” I nodded.

  He shook his head. “I never saw her without him. She was no Dixie lover. Liberace, that’s her speed.”

  I sipped my beer; he washed glasses. Some seconds went by. I asked, “Did you like Johnny?”

  He didn’t look up. “He was all right. Never ran a tab, never screamed for service. He was a damned good customer.”

  “How did he hit you, personally?”

  The man seemed puzzled. “People don’t hit me much, personally. He looked clean and sensible. It’s too bad he’s dead but I’m not crying.”

  I finished the beer. “I’ll bet you don’t have many friends.”

  He looked at me blandly. “I don’t need many. That’ll be forty cents.”

  I gave him five of it in pennies and the rest in the dirtiest coins I could find. I went out and headed back toward Beverly Hills.

  I went past the gateway to the Quirk estate and on the hill beyond it I saw what looked like a bronze Ferrari. I drove on to the entrance of this second estate. It was the home of Johnny’s Deborah, and I turned in.

  I continued around the house to the parking area in the rear and there was the Ferrari. A boy in white coveralls was bending over the hood. “Beverly Sports Car Club” was stenciled in scarlet script on the back of the coveralls.

  He looked up as I drove into the parking area. He continued to watch me as I left the car and walked over to him.

  His hair was black and short and curly, his eyes the same deep blue as his sister’s. He stood motionless, a wrench in his hand.

  “Pat Curtís?” I asked him, and he nodded.

  I was close enough now to see the alligator upholstery in the Ferrari. I asked, “Johnny’s car?”

  He nodded. “He lent it to me Wednesday. I’m going to try to buy it from his dad. You’re Brock Callahan, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. Your sister was in to see me around noon.”

  “Oh.” He shook his head and expelled his breath. “Don’t mind Sis. She’s really gone over the edge.”

  “You didn’t help her any, telling her about Sunday night.”

  He looked at me worriedly. “Maybe not. But I tried to. Damn it, Johnny’s dead. I don’t want her burning incense all her life.”

  “I see.” I leaned a hip against the Ferrari. “I suppose you know a lot about Johnny that the police don’t know.”

  His sister’s eyes looked out at me from his face. “Nothing that would help. Johnny never told anybody everything. We were about as close as two guys could be, I guess, but I’m not sure I ever really got through to him.”

  Pat Curtis … The name came back dimly, and I asked, “Didn’t you go to Princeton, too?”

  His grin was wry. “That’s right. In the T, I’m the flanker. In the single wing, I’m the blocking back. Beverly Hills High and Princeton, Johnny was always the star. But don’t make anything out of it, Callahan; envy isn’t one of my vices.”

  I looked past him to where some sandbags were piled behind a row of targets behind the garage. I nodded that way. “Rifle range?”

  He seemed to have stopped breathing as he stared at me. “That’s right. We used to have a club. We were always starting clubs, Johnny and I. This was the Beverly Rifle Club and we haven’t used the range for years.”

  I didn’t say anything. I went over to the edge of the hill. Below, I could see the grove of eucalyptus where Johnny’s mother was buried. Why hadn’t Johnny been buried there? Because he had died there, probably. Or because his dad was jealous of his mother’s love? Nice thoughts for such a sunny day.

  Pat Curtis came over to stand next to me. “Easy shot,” he said, “and that was one place where I had it all over Johnny. I could shoot rings around him.”

  I was turning to face him when the maid came screaming across the parking area. She was almost incoherent, but we finally made out that “Miss Deborah locked herself in the bathroom” and hadn’t answered a summons to the phone.

  We both sprinted for the house.

  eight

  FROM THE windows of the den in the Curtis house I could still see the Ferrari, standing with lonely elegance in the afternoon sun. Pat was saying, “… don’t think Johnny was too crazy about Sis. He and I hung around together and Sis got the idea Johnny was coming here mostly to see her, I think. God, she thought he was really special.”

  The doctor came in with his bag. “She’ll be all right. We’ve got her cleaned out now. There wasn’t enough iodine in that bottle to do it, even if we hadn’t got here right away. You can talk to her now, if you like.” He paused. “Be kind, Pat. Be very gentle.”

  Pat Curtis stood up. “I will, sir.”

  The doctor went out, and Pat looked at me. “From seven to eleven on Thursday night, I was at a meeting of the Beverly Sports Car Club. There are a dozen guys who will testify to that.”

  “All right, Pat. I’ll want to check a couple of them. You can understand I have to, can’t you?”

  “I don’t mind.” He started for the door to the living room, and then stopped. “There’s one thing I didn’t tell the police. Johnny had bet a thousand dollars on the Rams last Sunday.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police that?”

  “I didn’t want to dirty his memory. He’s not permitted to bet, is he?”

  “With a friend? It happens all the time, Pat.”

  “This wasn’t a friend. This was at some joint in Santa Monica.”

  “Lenny Heffner’s place?”

  “I don’t know the name. Johnny told me they had the best enchiladas in town; that’s all I know about the spot. See you.”

  He hurried out, and I went directly outside through the sliding glass doors of the den. The view spread in all directions from this knoll; I stood for a moment drinking it in before climbing back into the Ford.

  I checked three of the boys of the Beverly Sports Car Club and they told me Pat had been at the meeting. I didn’t think the boys would lie about it if he hadn’t; Johnny had been a member, too.

  Then I went over to North Crescent Drive.

  Sergeant Gnup was there and looking unhappy, his soft mouth almost petulant. “What’s this bit about the photographer at the funeral?” he wanted to know.

  I gave it to him in detail.

  He looked at me dolefully. “You don’t care much about making friends, do you, Callahan?”

  I admitted that perhaps I didn’t work at it as hard as I should.

  “You’re not a cop, you know, Callahan.”

  I told him I had a license from the Attorney General’s office which gave me the right to act almost like one. And what did he have that I should know?

  “You tell me first,” he said gruffly. “Found out anything?”

  I told him what little I’d learned.

  “Did you check this Curtis boy’s alibi?”


  I nodded. “Seems sound to me.”

  Gnup frowned. “Damned strange he didn’t tell us about the bet, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so. He didn’t want to smear Johnny’s memory. And now, what have you found out?”

  He hesitated, and I didn’t urge him. It was getting to a point where I didn’t care if he co-operated or not.

  Finally he said, “And this Held dame walked into Lenny Heffner’s joint, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “That could be our boy, that Heffner,” he said thoughtfully. “He’s got no alibi for the time. And it figures that young Quirk would phone Martino if he had trouble with Heffner. Martino is a local man and an enemy of Heffner’s.”

  “Do you think Johnny knew they were enemies?”

  “If he knew Heffner or Martino, he did. Neither one of them made any secret of it. Martino, now, has never gone heavy. But Heffner has. He put in four years on an armed assault rap.”

  “But was it Johnny who phoned Martin?”

  “That we don’t know for sure.”

  “No. And if Heffner had set up Martin as the patsy, he’d be damned sure to have an alibi ready, wouldn’t he?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he never figured we’d get around to him. He was out driving that day, he said, seeing some people. He won’t tell us who the people were. He admits he drove along Sunset Boulevard, though he won’t admit it was at that time.”

  “And he never admitted Johnny had booked a bet with him?”

  Gnup shook his head. “That kind of makes Heffner the key, right?”

  “Maybe. I favor Jackie Held, for some reason. She knew Martin, Johnny and Heffner.”

  “And Heffner knows everybody involved, too. And he’s gunned before. I’ll stick with him.”

  “You can have him,” I said. “He’s got a friend I don’t think I could handle the second time. Jackie’s smaller; I’ll stick with her.”

  “All right,” he said, “and keep us informed.” He took a deep breath, and looked uncomfortable. “I guess I wouldn’t have to tell you I’m not the fair-haired boy around here since young Quirk was killed. If you get something and it comes to me first, it isn’t anything I’d be likely to forget. You could use a friend down here, couldn’t you, Callahan?”