—
When the telephone rang, I expected it to be Jamison, but it was Mama D.’s resident cousin. He seemed to think that we had mutual interests to discuss. He wanted to come to my office, but I told him that I only discussed business at Mahoney’s, and he agreed to meet me there in fifteen minutes. Thinking about Nickie, I had forgotten that Mama D.’s cousins were probably going to be interested in what had happened, and they weren’t amateurs. I didn’t think they would want a lot of trouble in a clean town, but I didn’t know what they called trouble. The motel manager wasn’t scared of me, so I thought perhaps I should be of him. And I imagined that organized criminals, like small-town sheriffs who have visions of being John Wayne, probably believed their own myths. That’s why Mahoney’s seemed like a much better place to meet than my office.
I leaned out the window to check the time again and saw the black Cadillac parked at the curb and Mama D.’s cousin, followed by the daytime bartender, walking into the bank’s office entrance. They were early and at the wrong place. I checked the automatic, then locked the office door on my way to hide in the john at the end of the hallway just past the door of my cousin the dentist’s office.
I peeked through a crack in the door and watched them get out of the elevator, the executive-type in front, the bartender flanking him. He had changed out of his uniform and into a leather suit with a short jacket and bell-bottom pants, a floral print shirt and low platform shoes. He looked like a Hollywood bit player looking for work. They didn’t bother to knock on my office door, but the bit player lifted a leather tool case out of his hip pocket.
“Excuse me, fellas,” I said as I stepped out of the john, “but that door is wired into the bank’s alarm system, and if you open it, you’re gonna cause one hell of a fuss, and those nifty tool kits are a mandatory two-year fall.”
They stepped back cautiously, then the older one started toward me, his hand extended, his smile sincerely abashed.
“Mr. Milodragovitch,” he said, “we just thought—”
“You want to stop right there?” I didn’t want to make him angry, but I didn’t want him next to me either.
“Certainly,” he answered, as if he didn’t mind at all. “It isn’t necessary to be quite so nervous.”
“I’m always nervous when plans are suddenly changed without me knowing about it. So let’s just meet in the bar like we planned.”
“Certainly,” he said, nodding pleasantly.
“And leave your associate in the car.”
“Whatever for?” he asked, seeming genuinely perplexed.
“Just leave him outside,” I said. My heart felt like a rabbit running wildly around inside my rib cage. Too much excitement for one day. Or one hit too many of the little white pills. The older guy looked like that was all right with him, but the guy in the leather suit didn’t look too happy about being left out. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, asshole,” I said to him. That was twice in one day. He started to move toward me.
“Arnold,” the older guy said.
“Arnold,” I jeered, and he took another step. “Arnold! Wow!” I mocked, and a wonderfully violent speed rush blew into me. “Come on, creep,” I said as his hand moved toward the pistol under his arm. “Come on! Go for it! It’s just like in the movies, mother, I’m the fastest gun in this shithole town, so go for it!”
Arnold didn’t believe me, but it didn’t matter. His boss didn’t want to be caught in our cross fire. He was reaching out for Arnold’s gun hand just as my cousin the dentist opened his office door on his way to lunch.
That did it. Luckily, the executive had a good hold on Arnold’s arm. Otherwise, he and I would have blown large hunks of my cousin and him all over the hallway.
“At Mahoney’s,” the older guy said, tugging Arnold down the hallway.
“Right,” I said, feeling as wasted as an old, discarded condom.
“What’s happening, Milo?” my cousin said, looking the scene over with round eyes. He was as big as a pro tackle but he had never played football.
“You just stepped right in the middle of a gunfight,” I told him.
“You’re a card,” he said jovially, laughing and slapping me on the arm hard enough to bounce me into the wall. “Listen, let’s go to lunch, okay? And you can tell me if all that crap I read in the newspaper is true.”
“Working,” I muttered as I headed for the backstairs, and he laughed even louder.
—
I went in the back door of Mahoney’s and took my usual booth. The older guy came in the front, moving through the early-afternoon drinkers with a politely restrained force. Arnold was sitting in the Caddy in the loading zone, carefully not looking into the bar.
“Hello,” the older guy said, extending his hand again. This time I took it. “I assume this is your usual table?” I nodded. “Perhaps we might be more comfortable elsewhere, say, at that back table,” he said, then without waiting for my answer, he led the way past Pierre and the shuffleboard machine to a table between the silent jukebox and the shuffleboard.
“Well,” he said, offering me the chair that faced the front door so I could watch Arnold, “I must apologize for the intrusion attempted upon your office. Events have transpired so quickly this morning, and we have never had occasion to do business with you, so at the time it seemed a necessary intrusion. I do hope you will accept my apology.”
“Sure,” I said, still standing.
“And for Arnold’s unforgivable behavior also. He had been in the hinterlands too long, I fear—grown stale. I think perhaps he has much too much spare time to watch television. He is a professional, you know, and quite good, but perhaps he takes his rather limited function too seriously,” he said, his manicured hands moving like those of a well-trained lecturer to make small but significant points that I might have missed in his urbane voice. “Won’t you sit down?”
“After you,” I said. Being around him was like being around somebody who was stoned: contagious. “Please.”
But he waited with his hand on the chair, the index finger of his other hand touching his cheek as if he was trying to think of the best way to say something mildly unpleasant.
“I hope you won’t take this personally,” he said, “but you are a private investigator and as such have access to sophisticated listening and recording devices.”
“When I can afford them, sure. A man has to keep up with technology.”
“Yes, I understand. I hope you will understand my necessary sensitivity about such devices and won’t object to some sort of mechanical noise to cover our conversation—”
“Excuse me,” I said as I caught the bartender’s eye. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Thank you, nothing for me,” he said.
“You were talking about noise,” I said, nodding to the bartender when he held up a beer mug, shaking my head when he held up a shot glass.
“You wouldn’t object if I were to play the jukebox?” he asked, stepping toward it.
“Of course not,” I said.
“Ah, this is rather embarrassing,” he said, turning toward me. “Do you perhaps have some change?”
“Sure,” I said, digging into my pocket, then handing him two quarters. He found the coin slot, fed the quarters into the machine, then touched his soft fingers to the buttons, ranging across them like a piano player, playing songs at random. As he stepped back to the table he cocked his head, checking the noise level.
“That isn’t quite loud enough, is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, then to the bartender as he brought my beer: “Turn up the jukebox.”
“Go to hell, Milo,” he said as he walked away.
The nifty hood raised his eyebrow like an old maid. Nobody ever told him to go to hell.
“You make me wish I was bugged,” I said. “Put some money in that shuffleboard machine there. No bug in the world can get past that sort of interference.” I didn’t know if that was true, but he bought it.
“Really,” he said, walking over to the machine, his hands folded before him like a monk’s.
“Really,” I echoed as I followed him and gave him another quarter. Like most drunks, I had a pocketful of drinking change.
“I feel I must apologize again,” he murmured softly, “for the haphazard nature of these proceedings. Ordinarily, we have more time to plan for electronic countermeasures, but we were completely unprepared for the events of this morning. However, I hope you won’t judge our organization too quickly. We really are quite efficient.” His voice was quiet, but the threat was clear.
“It isn’t necessary to threaten me,” I said, just giving advice, not irritated by the threat.
“I wasn’t,” he said, and that brought a small flash of anger.
“My ass is covered.”
“We assumed that, of course, but please don’t overestimate the seriousness of this affair. We have a very nice business here, but quite limited in terms of our corporate structure, or, as you might say, the larger picture. I happen to be a corporate officer, you see, and I am authorized to deal with you in whatever manner I choose. It was pure chance that I happened to be in Meriwether, a sort of working vacation, you might say. I had a small coronary accident last spring and—”
“Runs in the family?” I interrupted.
“I beg your pardon? Oh, yes. Quite humorous. As I was saying, our business here certainly isn’t of major importance. In fact, our major interest is familial—”
“So I’ve heard.”
“But haven’t understood at all. Please don’t interrupt unless it is absolutely necessary,” he said, chiding me as one would a child. “Our major interest in this affair is to avoid any embarrassment to either Mrs. DeGrumo’s father or uncle, who are large stock-holders in our franchise operation, and if you can assist us in any way and if you are neither too expensive nor too inconvenient, we are quite willing to settle this matter with you. Otherwise, we will seek other means.”
“I’ve had some hard times out of this—”
“I can well imagine, judging by the damage to your face. I understand that a broken nose is quite painful,” he said, but I couldn’t tell if he was commiserating with me or threatening to punch me in the nose.
“My stake in this is personal,” I said, “and I might be willing to be damned inconvenient rather than eat shit.”
“But you can be bought.”
“Rented.”
“Semantics. Quibbling over a word—”
“Don’t condescend to me,” I said.
We looked at each other. His tanned face was impassive, but his hand moved up to touch his wide silk tie as if it were some sort of talisman.
“Of course. Please accept my apology. It is often difficult for those of us from other sections of the country to remember that the West has been quite civilized for some time. I do apologize,” he said, his voice rich with humility, cultured and phony as a tin dollar. I wanted to break his jaw, but that would have brought sweet Arnold a-running and caused more trouble than I wanted. “Would you like to play while we talk?” he asked, holding up the stainless-steel puck.
“No thanks. I like my hands where they are.”
“I see. Arnold isn’t the only victim of the media. It isn’t at all necessary for you to be quite so nervous, but I suppose it is to be expected. Evil times and bad public relations, wouldn’t you say?” he said, an amused smile fluttering about his calm mouth. “Now, how does one operate this machine?”
He put the quarter into the slot, and I hit the button, and the machine clattered into life. Pierre turned his head slowly, like a large stone tilting, cast his glare across me, shaking his fist and grimacing.
“Now what does one do? What is the purpose of all those lights? Oh, I see. These are the strike zones, and one should hit the strike zones as the flashing lights cross, and that elicits the highest score. Am I correct?”
I nodded, and he began playing with some intensity, like a serious amateur golfer, talking to me as he watched the blinking lights stutter across the board and his scores register in anxious clicks, pausing occasionally to dust his hands and the cuffs of his expensive suit coat.
“You might begin by giving me some insight into what might have caused Nickie’s coronary this morning,” he said, his tongue confident as it formed coronary. He wasn’t afraid. But his hand slipped up to touch his tie again. “And to what purpose were you carrying a weapon?”
“I told Nickie that I was going to kill him, but he collapsed before I could do anything about it.”
“Did you really intend to shoot him down right there in the bar?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” I admitted.
“I suppose not. Why did you threaten him?”
“He killed a friend of mine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure before, absolutely certain now.”
“He is dead, yes, so you must have been correct. But how did poor dumb Nickie ever come to kill somebody?”
“This friend of mine found out that Nickie was dealing heroin.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Amazing. We’ve been interested in that problem, of course, because the merchandise was of such a high quality, but we certainly never suspected Nickie. I mean, he was so dumb. But it begins to fit now,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and taking out a page torn from Time. He glanced at it, then shook his head and handed it to me. “We found this in his effects this morning, in a scrapbook of schemes for instant wealth—Brazilian farmland, Alaskan oil, soy bean futures, that sort of thing. He was such a fool,” he added, so much disgust in his voice that I had an odd impulse to defend Nickie.
But the clipping was sad and foolish. It explained how the Mafia was cashing in on the counterculture by cornering the supply of soft drugs and holding them off the market so that the young would move on to harder and more lucrative drugs.
“Pure nonsense, of course. Demand always exceeds supply,” he said, like a man who knew. Then he added casually, “You wouldn’t know where Nickie was getting his merchandise, would you?”
“Police evidence locker somewhere,” I said.
“Unfortunate corruption among law enforcement officers,” he intoned, smiling. “You wouldn’t know where Nickie had his merchandise hidden?”
“I can guess, but the police are going to be very interested in me as soon as they find me, and I have to have something to trade. Nickie’s goods are my ticket.”
“Perhaps we could arrange something with the local authorities.”
“Too much heat right now.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Besides, this was a one-shot deal. Nickie just wanted enough money to split, so he couldn’t have much smack left in his stash.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said sadly. “Do you have any idea what Mrs. DeGrumo had in mind when she went after you with the pistol?”
“She just went berserk, as far as I know. Overcome by grief, you might say.”
“Yes, it certainly seems that way,” he said as he finished the game. “A rather amusing device. Is that a respectable score for a novice?” he asked as the counters clicked merrily toward some mystic number beyond the ken of men.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
“One of these might be just the thing for my family room. Do you know where I might purchase one?”
“Try Meriwether Vending.”
“Of course. Why is that old gentleman glowering at me?” he asked, nodding toward Pierre.
“He isn’t too fond of the machine.”
“I see. Quite an interesting face, isn’t it. And all those on the walls too. I assume those are the faces of the regular clientele?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t seem to see yours among them.”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. And the gold stars indicate those who are deceased?”
>
“That’s right.”
“Very interesting. I wish I had the time to examine them more closely. I’m an amateur photographer myself, you know. But business calls. This wouldn’t be quite so messy if Mrs. DeGrumo hadn’t wounded that chap in the telephone booth— I take it you didn’t know about that.”
“No.”
“Yes. One of her wilder shots hit a tourist in a telephone booth. He is in critical condition. It would be quite inconvenient.”
“Hell, they don’t care if you shoot an occasional tourist out here. Plead her temporarily insane. She’ll spend six months in Duck Valley, then get out,” I said, giving advice again.
“We have a quite competent legal staff,” he said.
“Get a local lawyer.”
“Good point. Interesting. You’re the person who told Nickie that the bar needed a brace of illegal punchboards, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You seem to have a rather sharp mind behind all that tape and damage. What are you going to tell the police when they, as you said, become interested in you?”
“The truth. Nickie put the dope deal together, I stumbled into it, and when I braced him to make sure, he died. Simple. Easy. Assuming Nickie was really in business for himself.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, yes. Perhaps we misjudged him, but certainly we wouldn’t have allowed him to handle anything of this nature. Perhaps we should have given him some sort of added responsibility. But, of course, every time we did, he made such a terrible mess of things. Well, you know Nickie.”
“Knew him.”
“Quite,” he said, holding the puck between his hands. He set it down. “I suppose this is the point in the negotiations where I offer you financial remuneration, a rental fee as you called it, for your cooperation in this matter. To make sure that neither Mrs. DeGrumo nor the business is connected in any way with Nickie’s lurid affairs.”
“I have to tell the truth about this whether you pay me or not.”
The Wrong Case Page 27