Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  I punched Tinv’s arm. “Thanks. I don’t think I could take that man again. How’d Ristucci look to you?”

  Tiny closed his eves in ecstasy. “How about that wop? How about that ginzo? What a sweetheart, huh? What a sweet paisan.”

  I introduced him to Martin and left them there. Jan was still next to the tree near the curb but she had evidently seen it all.

  Because she said, “I thought you didn’t like Rick Martin.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You certainly went rushing to his defense quickly enough.”

  “A principle was involved,” I said. “Rick was minding his own business and Pug Heffner was looking for trouble. You can understand that a principle was involved, can’t you?”

  “No. Because neither of them were concerned with your business.”

  “You’re just jealous because Martin had the blonde with him. How about Milton’s for dinner?”

  She shook her head, saying nothing.

  “You’re not angry?”

  She smiled, and shook her head again.

  Sunday, September eleventh, this was. But following the pattern of Sunday, September fourth, and I had an eerie sense of being involved in a time warp.

  “I wonder who’ll die this Thursday,” I said.

  “Wh-a-a-a-t?” She stared at me.

  “Nothing.” I held the door of the car open for her. “You’ve got a date tonight, have you?”

  “Hmmm-hmmm. Worried?”

  I shook my head and said warmly, “I trust you, Jan.”

  The brown eyes flared for a moment, and then she got into the car and I went around to get in behind the wheel.

  I turned on the radio and waited for the traffic to thin out.

  After about a half-minute, she said, “There’s a limit to how far you can go in the private investigation business, isn’t there, Brock?”

  “I suppose. But there’s no limit in your dodge. And I’m not too proud to live off a woman.”

  “I’m being serious, Brock.”

  “All right. I’m sorry. Continue.”

  “How can I continue? There’s nowhere to go. I wouldn’t be happy married to a man content to wash other people’s dirty linen for day wages.”

  “That’s blunt enough,” I said. “Would you be happy married to any man, Jan?”

  “A man with ambition, yes.”

  I smiled. “You keep telling yourself. I’ve had an offer to coach at one of the valley high schools. Would you be content with that?”

  “I don’t think I could stand the high school faculty social life. And I don’t think you could, either. Isn’t there something you want to do, some profession or business you’d planned on as a kid?”

  “None.”

  She sighed. “So where does that leave us?”

  “Right here, waiting for the traffic to thin out.” Her voice was edged. “To use your words, that’s blunt enough.”

  “Why should we con each other? I’m not ashamed of my work and I’m not particularly interested in getting rich. And neither are you, or you’d have married a rich man. Beverly Hills is full of them, and I’ll bet you’ve had some chances.”

  Silence from her and her eyes were angry, staring out at the cars jammed for blocks.

  “I love you, Jan,” I said, “but nobody has ever owned me. With luck, nobody ever will. You can remake a drab house but not a man who’d be worth the effort.”

  “Save the cornball philosophy,” she said bitterly. “I can do without that.”

  The radio was giving us the scores of the eastern N.F.L. exhibition games now. The Giants had walloped the Browns 42 to 7. The Giants were going big this season, favored in the Eastern Division.

  Traffic throbbed and squealed and roared and hummed. Jan was silent. The radio gave us Thompson and His Cotton Pickers on an obscure label, and I thought of the Orleans Room and Johnny Quirk.

  “I should have been born rich,” I said. “I haven’t enough moral fiber to be a successful poor man.”

  Jan made no comment.

  As a matter of fact, I didn’t get another word out of her all the long and wearisome drive to Beverly Glen. There, as I dropped her off, I asked her, “Shall I call you? Or wait for your call?”

  “It could be a long wait,” she said, and went up the slope without looking around.

  The Doberman next door was wagging his tail at her as I swung around and went back the way I’d come.

  ten

  RICK MARTIN’S Imperial was parked in front of Jackie Held’s domain and I sat in my car for a few moments, wondering if this would be a bad time to go in.

  I decided to take the chance that Enrico Martino was no matinée lover.

  Jackie Held opened the door and her eyes were fearful. “I can keep a secret,” I said quietly. “Busy?”

  “Not exactly. Rick is here.”

  “I know,” I said, and gave her the meaningful look. Her face went blank. “Come in.”

  Rick Martin sat on the flowered davenport near the small, high-hearth fireplace, a drink in his hand. A squat bottle of Scotch was on the coffee table in front of him.

  He grinned at me. “Some hunk of man, that DePaolo. I should hire him for a muscle.”

  “Poor Pug was outweighed, wasn’t he? Is he Lenny’s big threat?”

  Martin nodded. “Drink?”

  “Not unless you’ve got Einlicher,” I said.

  Jackie had gone over to sit near Rick. I saw her pale and the glance she sent me was pleading.

  “Einlicher?” Martin frowned. “What’s that?”

  “A beer I like. Do Lenny and his brother get along?”

  Martin held up two fingers intertwined. “Lenny’s got the head and the ambition and Pug’s got the muscle. What was that remark you made at the game about not being able to take Pug again?”

  Jackie seemed to be holding her breath.

  I told Martin about the incident in Heffner’s bar, omitting only the presence of Jackie Held at the fracas.

  Martin stared. “You knocked Pug Heffner out?”

  I shrugged. “It was a lucky punch. I’m sure he could take me next time.”

  Martin nodded. “And you can be sure there’ll be a next time. He has a considerable reputation to maintain.”

  “Can’t win ‘em all,” I said, and looked at Jackie. “I’ve a feeling you’re not telling me all you know about Johnny Quirk. All you know that would help us, I mean, of course.”

  She said nothing, staring at the coffee table.

  Martin finished his drink. “Well, I’ve a card game I’d hate to miss. Perhaps you’ll do better without me around, Brock.” He stood up and smirked. “Jackie’s kind of maidenly.”

  Resentment flared in her young-old face. “I thought we were going to Ciro’s.”

  He looked down at her blandly. “Not tonight, honey. You’ve got your dates mixed up again.”

  “You’re angry about something,” she said. “Why?”

  He smiled. “Believe me, I’m not angry. This card game is very important, honey.”

  She went to the door with him. There, over her shoulder, he said, “Luck, Brock. Keep in touch, won’t you?”

  I nodded.

  For seconds after the door had closed behind him, she stood with her back to it, staring out at nothing. Dimly we heard the grind of his starter.

  Then she looked at me. “Damn him. Damned dago thinks he’s something, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s achieved a certain eminence. He’s equipped for it, mentally and physically. I mean, equipped to come up the way he did.” I smiled at her. “You’re not, Jackie.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I have some Einlicher he doesn’t know about. Would you like a bottle?”

  “I’d treasure it. Jackie, break down. Have a good cry and tell me all about it.”

  “You’re crazy,” she said, and went through the doorway to the kitchen.

  Lambs who try to be wolves have always hit me where I’m
softest. Jackie was one of these, I felt sure, wheeling and dealing, playing all the angles she could uncover. And losing.

  When she came back in again, she had a frosty bottle of Einlicher and a glass. I was sitting at one end of the davenport; she put the bottle and glass down in front of me and sat at the far end, near the fireplace.

  I thanked her and asked, “What happened after I left Heffner’s last Friday?”

  “Nothing. I finished my enchiladas and left.”

  “You didn’t get any satisfaction from Lenny about that producer he knows?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I said, “What were you going to trade Lenny for the influence?”

  “Nothing. That damned dago — ”

  “Heffner?”

  She lighted a cigarette. “No. I’m talking about Rick Martin, Enrico Martino, Mr. Sex Appeal. He thinks — ”

  I chuckled. “So it’s not all dollars and cents, eh? You lust for him, do you?”

  She turned her head to glare at me. “What’s so damned funny about that?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right; it’s not funny.” I sipped my beer.

  “I’ll show him,” she said softly.

  “Don’t do anything foolish, Jackie. You’re playing with some case-hardened characters.”

  “They don’t scare me.”

  “That’s your error. I weigh a hundred pounds more than you do, Jackie, and they scare the hell out of me. Why don’t you have a drink and relax?”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “Why should I? Why do you want to get me drunk?”

  I shook my head and smiled. “I don’t. I didn’t think one drink would get you drunk. I’ve got a girl, Jackie; I’m not on the make.”

  “All men are on the make,” she said, “all the time. But I’ll have a drink.” She put some ice in Rick’s empty glass and poured Scotch over it. She leaned back and kicked off her shoes.

  “Rick’s handsome enough,” I said. “I know he has a daughter; is he still married?”

  She nodded. “To a tramp he hasn’t seen in three years. She’s in Europe. Rick doesn’t want to divorce her. He says it’s because of his daughter, but he lies. As long as he’s married, nobody else can hook him.”

  “I see.”

  A silence, though I thought I could hear her simmer. I said, “If you got work at Twentieth Century-Fox, you could walk to work, couldn’t you?”

  Interest in her voice. “I certainly could. Do you know somebody there?”

  “No. But I know the man who has the saddle-soap concession at Republic.”

  “You’re so funny.” She leaned forward to put more Scotch into her glass.

  Silence, again, as she leaned back, sipping the drink. Then a chuckle. “That was kind of funny.” She sighed. “I never laugh any more. This is a rotten town, isn’t it?”

  “Most big towns are. Where are you from?”

  “Waukesha. That’s in Wisconsin, in the prettiest part of Wisconsin. I couldn’t take it, though. I couldn’t go back to it.”

  “No Enrico Martinos there, eh?”

  “To hell with Enrico Martino,” she said, and finished her drink. She leaned forward to refill the glass.

  “Easy, honey,” I said. “Control, control, control — you can’t let your emotions take over. This isn’t Waukesha; you’ve got to play it the smart way.”

  “Don’t worry.” She started to sip, changed her mind and looked at me sharply. “Why should you worry about me?”

  “Because you’re a lamb among wolves. And as Mr. Saroyan stated, I’m always for the lambs and against the wolves.”

  “Saroyan? Who’s he? Is he a producer?”

  I sipped the beer and considered her question. “No. He’s a — uh — purple-foot from Fresno who should have stayed there. He’s probably the only new talent in the twentieth century.”

  “An actor?”

  “A writer.”

  “Ugh,” she said, and sipped her Scotch. “Writers, they’re the worst. They buy you a box of toffee and want to move in for the week end.”

  I said nothing.

  “And the ideas they get!” She shook her head and grimaced. Her voice had sounded thick.

  “If you haven’t eaten,” I said, “I wouldn’t go after that Scotch too hard. It could knock you out.”

  “I had a hot dog,” she told me. “Don’t worry; I know when I’ve had enough.” She curled her legs up under her. “Tell me how good I looked on Big Town again.”

  “I will if you’ll tell me about Lenny Heffner. And anything else that’s troubling you. You weren’t with him Thursday afternoon and evening by any chance, were you?”

  She looked at me owlishly. “Thursday I was out of town.

  I’ve got proof. Arrowhead. With a — a friend. Would you like another bottle of beer?”

  “No, thanks. Jackie, can’t you consider me as a friend, trying to help you? I’m very serious about this.”

  She said nothing, looking into her glass.

  “You were home Thursday night. I was here.”

  “I got home at nine-thirty. The police know that.”

  “I see. And did you tell them about the friend you were with?”

  “I did. It was Pug Heffner.” Her chin lifted. “And we were seen together up there at Arrowhead. Is that alibi enough, Mr. Callahan?”

  “That’s alibi enough. For you and Pug. I thought it was Lenny you were interested in.”

  She looked at me coolly. “I’m interested in anybody who can help my career. And not saddle-soap salesmen.” She slurred the triple alliteration.

  I finished my beer and stood up. “All right, Jackie. I won’t crowd you. Be careful, though, won’t you?” I smiled down at her.

  She looked up at me doubtfully and then her face softened. “Don’t go. Have another bottle of beer. Don’t go yet. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Yes, you do. You decided that some time ago, Jackie.”

  She shook her head. “No. Please. Couldn’t we go out and eat? Or I could fix something here?”

  I studied her and said, “I’ll have another bottle of beer. Shall I get it?”

  She nodded. “It’s in the refrigerator, in the crisper drawer, buried under the vegetables.”

  And maybe, I told myself, in the refrigerated Jacqueline Held there were other things hidden and another hooker or two of Scotch would bring them out. That’s why I decided to stay.

  It didn’t work out that way. We talked around the subjects I was most concerned with. Alcohol dulled her mind and thickened her tongue, but it didn’t break down her controlled wariness. Half an hour later she was asleep on the davenport.

  I went back to her bedroom and brought out a quilt to cover her with. I made sure the night latch was on before closing the front door.

  It was just growing dark and it was getting chilly. The huge Twentieth Century lot looked barren and deserted, which it was, today. At the municipal golf course across the street, there were still some cars parked and a foursome was putting on the eighteenth green.

  I drove down to Ted’s Grill in the Santa Monica Canyon. At Ted’s you can get a steak cut and cooked to your own particular specifications, and I ordered a big one, medium rare.

  Jackie, who’d planned on Ciro’s, was at home alone and asleep. All I’d learned from her was that she had gone to Arrowhead with Pug Heffner and that she yearned for Enrico Martino. And that she had originally hailed from Waukesha, Wisconsin.

  That wouldn’t be considered first-class investigative accomplishment, but Jackie wouldn’t be the easiest subject in the world for even an expert interrogator. I had got to her a few years too late. And without a casting couch.

  It was dark now. From where I sat I could see the headlights on the Coast Highway. A moppet in the next booth stuck his head over the partition and considered me gravely. I winked at him.

  I wondered what Jan was doing, right now. Getting ready for her date, or was her date already there? And if he was, what were they doing?
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  I thought about Mr. Quirk and Moira and Johnny and his girl. Deborah and her iodine, Jackie and her Scotch; sisters under the skin. The flavor was similar, too.

  “Anything else, sir?” the waitress wanted to know.

  “Another glass of milk, please,” I said, and wondered how it would mix with the Einlicher.

  • • •

  There was a light glowing in the dome of the portico at the Quirk house. Then a light showed through the glass of the front door and a few seconds later the door opened.

  The butler said sadly, “Mr. Quirk is resting, Mr. Callahan. I’d rather not disturb him.”

  “Is Miss Quirk here?”

  “Miss Moira went out about an hour ago, sir.”

  “Do you know where and with whom?”

  “I don’t, Mr. Callahan. She was going to meet some studio personage, I believe. But I’m not sure of it.”

  “She seems to have recovered from the shock of her brother’s death.”

  He said nothing, his face a sad, black mask.

  I said, “I’d appreciate if you’d let both of them know I was here. I think Miss Quirk would be interested to hear it, too.”

  He nodded gravely. “I’ll see that they are both informed, Mr. Callahan.”

  I went back to the car and sat there for a while before starting the motor. Around and around and around and getting where? It was frustrating and enervating.

  But something would break. Something had to break.

  The headlights on the Ford swung out over the slope as I turned around, illuminating the eucalyptus grove where Johnny had died and where his mother was buried.

  eleven

  IT WAS a troubled sleep, filled with headstones and some other things I don’t remember now. In the wakeful moments, I thought of the women in Johnny Quirk’s life, his mother and Moira, his Deborah and Jackie Held, that overemotional high school teacher. And the others I’d only heard about, names without faces. A Ram he had been, all male.

  I saw the lacquered face of the Waukesha wanton and heard her say, “Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.”

  It was a muggy morning, with a low overcast. Even in Westwood there was a tinge of smog in the damp air. There was nothing new in the Times about the murder and I didn’t feel ready for the sport-page account of yesterday’s game.