Peter Gunn

by Henry, Kane,

  “Who cares about people? I care only for you.”

  “I’m not people?”

  “You’re a doll, a nymph, a dryad, a goddess.”

  “Oh, man, what are you setting me up for?”

  “Your disappearance.”

  “Now what the hell? Now honest! What goes?”

  “I’ve got a date.”

  “Not here. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “As I explained to the waiter who seemed even more horrified than you—it’s a date with a man.”

  “Oh.” Blue eyes narrowed, blinked, smiled. “You’ll pick me up come closing time?”

  “I hope not.”

  Irritation returned, wrinkling her nose but doing it no harm.

  “It’s prettier,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your nose. When it wrinkles.”

  “Let’s get off my nose. What is it with you tonight?”

  “I’m working.”

  “And you won’t be able to pick me up?”

  “I can’t promise. I wish I could. I may be very much involved. I hope I’m very much involved.”

  “Is this still on that Bain thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s turning out to be the bane of my existence.”

  “Okay, you’ve had your pun. Now scram.”

  “All right, I’m going. But we have a date. Breakfast tomorrow.”

  “You? Breakfast?”

  “I’ve got a date downtown to cut a record. It’s early, wee early. I’ll be finished by noon. I’ll come over to your place, wake you, and cook breakfast for both of us.”

  “Dreary but domestic. All right, you’ve got me.”

  “Noontime. You’ll be sleeping. How’ll I get in?”

  “I’ll leave the door open.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “What can anybody steal from me? I’ve got nothing.”

  “Oh, yes, you have.”

  “Cut. People get wrong impressions. Remember?”

  She stood up.

  “Wow, that dress,” he said. “But that dress, sister!”

  “Don’t call me sister, brother. I’m glad you like.”

  “Somehow it reminds me of Alexis McDuff.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A figment of my pornographic imagination. Good-by, please.”

  “Noontime tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “So why wait?”

  “I’m not well. I attend to business.”

  She wriggled off, disappearing into the haze of blue smoke, and he sat alone, lonely, foot-tapping and Scotch-sipping, and then he had company: lank, lean, bobbing and jostling to the music.

  “You Gunn?” said the lean man, bobbing.

  “Gunn,” said Gunn.

  “Benny Maxwell,” said Benny Maxwell. “Barney sent me.” Benny Maxwell was tall and loungy with a big nose, thin lips, black hair, long sideburns, pockmarks, and dark slit-eyes as shifty as a movie-queen’s love-life. Benny Maxwell had a long old-young face; he was about thirty; his attire was as sharp as a meat-ax. Benny sported an Italian-type suit, pin-striped black, short-jacketed, slant-pocketed, and narrow-trousered without cuffs. His white shirt lay upon him like fishskin, tab-collared, and his conservative black knitted tie, tacked by an opal tie-tack, was as wide as a shoelace. Benny kept bouncing to the music.

  “Sit down, won’t you?” said Gunn.

  “Crazy.” Benny sat down.

  The waiter approached.

  “What’s your drink?” said Gunn.

  “Vodka and Seven-Up. Double on the vodka.”

  Gunn nodded to the waiter. The waiter nodded and went away. Benny bounced.

  “Man, that combo sends me,” said Benny.

  “A fine bunch,” said Gunn.

  “Man, but crazy. Barney said like we could do a little business.”

  “Depends,” said Gunn.

  “On what?”

  “On the information you might furnish me.”

  “Dad, lemme state the case,” said Benny, opening the button of his one-button jacket. “You’re a cat with a rep around this town, like you’re a fair and square, on-the-level personality.”

  Gunn smiled. “Thank you, Benny.”

  “Now, like you hung up a picture of a pal of mine. You know that was a real gas, man. I broke up, Willie hanging there in the place of honor. I broke up. It knocked me out.” He laughed. His teeth were surprisingly good, strong, white, gleaming; laughing, he was almost handsome.

  “Don’t you think we ought to get to the point, Benny?”

  “You bet.” Benny stopped laughing. The waiter brought his drink. Benny lifted the glass, said, “Boom to you, man.”

  “Boom,” said Gunn and drank with him.

  Benny put his glass away. He bounced. He drummed spatulate fingers lightly on the table. “Now what I mean about the rep dad, is that you don’t figure to put nobody in the hole. Dig?”

  “No.”

  “Like to put me in the hole. Dig?”

  “No.”

  “Now look, man, you don’t have to play it cool with Benny.”

  “I just don’t understand what you’re driving at, Benny.”

  “Driving at this,” said Benny, opening a tin box of foreign cigarettes. “You got a rep for an on-the-level personality.”

  “You said that, Benny.”

  “I want to feature it on this scene, dad.” He lit the cigarette. “Me, I’m Benny Maxwell. You, you’re Peter Gunn. You, you’re a private operator. Me, I’m just an operator. Now like this. You want information on Willie Koko. Okay. I can give you information on Willie Koko. But if you’re pitching for the coppers and this means a rap for Willie, then it’s no go. Because like that I can get way out on the wrong side of Willie and that can be a big hole for me. Now do you dig?”

  “Yes,” said Gunn.

  “I asked around about you,” said Benny. “When you say the word, you can betcha it’s gospel. So I want the word. You pitching for the fuzz?”

  “No.”

  “Good enough. Now what is the kick?”

  “Something happened to a friend of Willie’s and I’d like to discuss that with him.”

  “Man, you couldn’t get to Willie today, that’s for sure.”

  “I wouldn’t know where,” said Gunn.

  “Yeah,” said Benny. “It’s a good thing I hit this joint, good thing for you.”

  “Good for you too, Benny. Like a hundred dollars’ worth.”

  “Man, you know what a hundred clams means to me?—chicken feed, like number two, nothing.”

  “Then why are you here, Benny?”

  “Because I got to get tided over, that’s why I’m here. I hit a bash last night, went for eleven hundred bananas, and I’m tap-city. The little lady I was here with earlier this evening, right now she’s out hustling to raise some scratch for brother Benny. So right now I need that yard like I need bread, man. Right now I got maybe three pounds to my name. A hundred tides me over, and I get straightened away. That’s why I made it so cheap, dad, for the information. You got the C, I hope.”

  “I have it, if I can get my information.”

  “What do you want about Willie?”

  “All about Willie.”

  “All right, daddy, take off the ear-muffs. Willie Koko. A hood, a muscle, a powerhouse, and not so stupid neither. Always works with the right people.”

  “Who is he working for now, Benny?”

  “Ever hear of Mike York, the union biggie?”

  “Yes.”

  Benny turned his palms up. “Leave it to Willie.” He turned his palms down. “It’s a weird deal, though. This York character is one of them fancy-Dans, you know? Moved up in the brackets, spreads around with like judges, and generals, and scientists, and movie whores, you know, big stuff, big, big. So he keeps the nose clean, keeps the dandruff off his shoulders, plays house like pure, man, dig?”

  “Not quite,” said Gunn.

  “He
don’t clutter up his joint with muscles. He don’t march around with bodyguards like in the old days. He is a bird with fine feathers and no hoods. He’s got the rough stuff on the payroll, but he’s got them stashed, and he calls them when he needs them. Every one of them has got this Answering Service deal and they checks in periodic. You with it now?”

  “I’m with it. Where does Willie live?”

  “Out by Ventura, but he ain’t been answering his Service today, you can bet on that.”

  “What’s wrong with Willie?”

  “Nothing real wrong. Lemme give you first how it breaks down. This York is hipped on union rules, and he even applies it to his muscle guys. He don’t give them an eight-hour day with like social security benefits and pension, but he don’t work them around the clock neither. He’s got like half of them on day-call and half of them on night-call, eight to eight, and eight to eight. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s about another vodka and Seven-Up? I’m running dry.” Benny’s glass was replenished and he continued his discourse on intracellular labor practices. “Now them guys don’t have to stay in their pads the whole twelve hours, but they do got to stay on tap, and when they ain’t home, they call in every half hour.”

  “What about the other twelve hours?”

  “That’s their own time, but they got to play it real clean or they get canned; no carrying a gun, no making like a hard guy in the saloons, no taking a poke out of a broad in public, you know?”

  “Real clean,” said Gunn.

  “Now Willie Koko’s a day man, and every now and then he gets stoned, plastered, crocked up to the gills, and he don’t answer the phone or he’s shacked up somewhere; but Willie’s a good man, and it don’t happen too often, so he gets docked maybe his day’s pay, but he don’t get fired.”

  “And today Willie was stoned?”

  “But laid out, dad, like plaster of Paris. But lemme finish, huh?” He drained his glass and Gunn hurriedly ordered another for him. The man was churning and it was a good idea to keep his parts oiled. “Thanks,” said Benny when the drink arrived. “They told me you was an on-the-level personality.”

  “Koko?” urged Gunn.

  “Yeah, Willie. Now like I said up front don’t never sell Willie for a dope. He’s big, all beef, and he could put a hole in your eye easy as to spit in it, but Willie packs a pretty good load of brains upstairs. I’d say he’s good for two bills a week on this York’s payroll, extra bonus for special jobs. But Willie’s been saving up to go legit, he wants to buy hisself a gas station. He’s a crackerjack mechanic, so he don’t waste them twelve hours of his own, not all the time, that is.”

  “You mean he has an additional job?”

  “Mike York would murder him if he knew.”

  “You mean he wouldn’t let him work at something legitimate?”

  “Who said legitimate?”

  “Oh,” said Gunn.

  “You ever hear of Tony Valero?”

  Gunn sat up straight. “Yes.”

  “Club Valero?”

  “Yes.”

  “A plush little operation, no?”

  “Yes. You a member?”

  “Natch,” said Benny. “Now this Tony Valero is no dummy neither.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “What’s good enough for Mike York is good enough for Tony Valero.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A good muscle is hard to come by, man. Most of them guys are flips, gooks, tough to handle, and you never know how they’ll handle an important customer. Instead of just shushing a guy they may break his arm and the guy turns out to be a Congressman or something and your joint gets the latch. Plenty arms get broken, necks get broken too, but that’s only when Tony gives the word. I repeat, a good muscle is hard to come by.”

  “So?”

  “So Willie works for Tony like three, four nights a week, whenever he wants, and Tony is always damn glad to have him. When Willie works he keeps the joint in order, Willie’s one helluva good man. The pay’s fifty clams a night, and like that Willie picks hisself up another deuce a week. Smart? No?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tony knows York won’t like it but you don’t pass up a valuable man because York won’t like it. If York ever shows in the joint, which he has not, then Willie’s a customer and Tony gets him out of the way fast. All right?”

  “So far,” said Gunn, “all right. It still hasn’t brought me any closer to Willie.”

  “It will. Like don’t rush me, dad. I’m enjoying the music.”

  “You want to just sit and enjoy?” said Gunn.

  “Man, I can enjoy when I talk. That music goes right through.” He sipped vodka and Seven-Up. “Now lemme give a bit about last night.”

  “Does it involve Mr. Koko?”

  Benny’s face creased in disappointment. “Man, like you can kill a story.”

  “I’m not paying a hundred dollars for a story.”

  “It involves Koko.”

  “Well, let’s hear the story, Benny. By all means.”

  Benny brightened. “I made that scene last night. Club Valero. That’s where I got rammed for eleven hundred. Willie was on and Willie was flying. That guy must have lapped up two quarts of bourbon, but minimum, and he was feeding me vodka on the house, and by six o’clock in the morning we were both laid out stiff.”

  “I thought you said he’s a good man. A house muscle that gets drunk can be more trouble than a drunken dealer.”

  “Never happened before,” said Benny. “But Willie was kinda torching.”

  “You mean he broke up with his gal?”

  “No bust-up but like a battle. Seems that yesterday they were out together on a job for York and—”

  “Hold it!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Gunn had to cover. He waved at nobody far off, and smiled at nobody far off. “An old friend,” he said to Benny. “Excuse the interruption.” Then mildly, “What kind of job for York?”

  “Willie didn’t say. He had to go back to York, make some kind of delivery, but first they stopped in for a meal, and Willie popped the question. Willie wants to get married, the sucker. So the chick says no. Says she’d get married when he’s out of the rackets, when he owns that gas station. Well, that’s a long way off, so Willie burns. When he gets on the job last night for Valero he starts hitting the bottle, and we both wind up laid out drunk in an upstairs room, only me broke in the bargain. When I left at eight o’clock tonight, they were waking him up to get him in shape to go back to work.”

  “So he’s there now?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And you don’t think he spoke with York?”

  “He was sleeping, man, all through the day, so he didn’t call, he couldn’t. And he wouldn’t call in the evening, why look for trouble? Tomorrow he’ll call in and say he was out on a bust-out, period. It’s happened before. Okay, dad, what else?”

  “This else.” Gunn produced a hundred dollars and handed it across to Benny.

  “Thank you,” said Benny.

  “How’d you like to double that?”

  “Who’s life story do you want now?”

  “All I want is a small favor.”

  “And you want to pay an extra hundred?”

  “Well, to me it’s a large favor.”

  “Who do you want me to kill?”

  “You said you’re a member of Club Valero.”

  “Well, that’s no big deal.”

  “It’s a big deal to me, Benny.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a member. And I have an itch to gamble tonight.”

  “You mean you want me to bring you?”

  “That’s right. Call up for a car. Tell him to pick us up here.”

  “And that’s worth a hundred clams to you?”

  “There’s one condition.”

  “Who do you want me to kill?”

  “When we get there and you’ve passed me in, I want y
ou to pass yourself right out again. And don’t mention to anyone that you did pass me in because that might mean trouble for you. So the condition is for your own protection, because I’m an on-the-level personality, daddy. Dig?”

  “Man, you talk beat.” Benny grinned.

  “You want my money?”

  “You after Koko?”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Give,” said Benny.

  Gunn gave.

  chapter 18

  Club Valero was in Culver City. Club Valero was a gray-shingled building of four stories with no lights. The windows of Club Valero were tightly shut and painted black, ventilation by virtue of intricate air-conditioning. Club Valero was expensively sound-proofed and no tinkle of sound escaped its confines. Club Valero was on a side road, alone, uncluttered by neighboring houses. Club Valero was a private club offering no public entertainment but diverting a portion of its profits to certain public officials for their own entertainment and consequently had never been raided. No cars screeched up to Club Valero. There was no tell-tale crush of parking about Club Valero. There was no parking about Club Valero. There was external silence and decorum. Every now and then a long black chauffeur-driven limousine would pull to its doors, discreetly deposit its passengers, and discreetly glide away. Its members were not permitted to come in their own cars. A member wishing to partake of the pleasures of Club Valero would telephone, identify himself and state when and where he desired to be accommodated. Such advices were relayed to a Los Angeles garage harboring a fleet of sleek limousines; a car would purr out, pick up, deliver, and purr off. Members in good standing were permitted to bring any number of guests provided the guests brought money. The procedures of Club Valero involved cash exclusively: there was no credit. A covey of credit gentlemen, however, circulated within Club Valero, which gentlemen, bearing the piscatory appellation of loan sharks, a black obloquy upon the comparatively tender fish bearing similar name, engaged in covert transactions with certain select customers but at their own risk and without risk on the part of Club Valero. A member or a guest, upon departing, would again have the services of a chauffeured limousine and, upon request, the services of a competent plug-ugly to perform in the capacity of bodyguard should such member or guest be weighted down by sufficient winnings as to cause apprehension of possible banditry being evoked upon them. There is no record of any of these plug-uglies playing turnabout upon their wards for the probable reason that such natural perfidy would nonetheless result in their being professionally hunted down and murdered.