by Henry, Kane,
“It’s your needs I’m talking about, Mr. Koko.”
“Mac,” said Koko dolefully, “you’re beginning with the needles again.”
“I know more about you, Mr. Koko,” said Gunn and fell silent.
Silent, Gunn gazed upon Koko. Silent, Koko gazed upon Gunn. Silence, now, was Gunn’s ally. Time was his enemy but silence was his ally: he would have to risk the enemy of time against the ally of silence. Koko drank again, smoked again, squinted at Gunn, looked away, squinted again at Gunn, spoke. “You come here to knock off Tony’s joint. In between you’re giving me the needles, like to work a pitch to break out of here. Yes?”
“No.”
“Man, you didn’t come here to talk to me. If you’re doing a scout-bit for Mike, you didn’t have to come here, you could report the bit without coming here.”
“That ought to convince you, Mr. Koko.”
“Convince me how?”
“Convince you that I’m not here on York’s behalf.”
“Then why the hell are you here?”
“Because it was important—for you.”
“What could be so important for me that you figure to risk your life, Mac?”
“Your life, Willie!”
Koko brushed the glass off the table. It fell to the carpet, unbroken, seeping liquid creating a widening stain. He rose and went to Gunn. He inserted a finger into Gunn’s mouth, hooked it beneath Gunn’s upper teeth, yanked Gunn’s head up to face him. “Why should you risk your frigging life to save mine?”
Gunn gurgled. Koko withdrew the finger.
“Because the life of a friend of mine depends on it,” said Gunn.
“Who’s your friend?” said Koko.
“A guy from whom you stole a gun yesterday.”
Once again, almost uncontrollably, Koko slapped backhand at Gunn. It upset the balance and Gunn and the chair went over. Koko righted the chair, rubbed his hand at Gunn’s hair almost affectionately, walked away, had another drink, paced as Valero had paced before him. “You’re throwing riddles at me,” he said. “I’m not the smartest guy in the world. Riddles make me nervous.”
He was ripe.
“Effie’s dead,” said Gunn.
“You’re a liar!”
“You’d be dead too, only you were sleeping all day and he didn’t know where to get to you.”
“Liar! Goddamned liar!” He came to Gunn quickly, this time pulling at Gunn’s hair to bring his face up. “You’re trying to con me to break your way out of here?”
“I’m not conning you, Willie.”
“Talk, you son of a bitch! Talk!”
“Go sit down, Willie. Sit down and have yourself a drink. I’ll talk, I’m here to talk, but I want to be able to look at you. Go have a drink.” Almost automatically Koko complied. He twisted his chair about, sat astraddle, his elbows on the back of the chair. He did not have a drink.
“Talk it up,” he said, his deep voice withered to whisper.
“You don’t know she’s dead because you were sleeping all day. Did you try to call her?”
“Twice tonight. Earlier. She wasn’t home.”
“Because she was at the morgue. Get on the horn, Willie. Call. Call the newspapers, call the cops, call a friend, ask. It’s all over town. You don’t know because you were sleeping all day and people here didn’t tell you because they probably don’t know that you have any interest in Effie Vernon.”
“I met her through Tony.”
“That doesn’t mean he knows you had an interest. Call, Willie.”
Koko went to the phone, dialed a number, waited, said, “Frankie, I been out of the box all day. Somebody told me something about Effie. You know anything?” He listened, his mouth grew tight, a pallor brought a yellow hue to his jaw. He hung up. His fingers went into the side pocket of his neat dinner jacket and came out with a switch-knife that clicked. He advanced upon Gunn with blade gleaming.
“Easy,” breathed Gunn.
He cut the thongs from Gunn’s wrists, cut the thongs from Gunn’s ankles, stood ready, knife in hand. Gunn rubbed at his wrists, kicked his feet as though doing a grotesque dance.
“Talk,” said Koko.
“Sit down,” said Gunn.
“Talk!” said Koko.
“It’s complicated,” said Gunn. “Sit down.”
“I’ll stand. Talk it up, Mac.”
“Mike York,” said Gunn, “out on a big one. This wasn’t the murder of some cheap little hoodlum, this was a big one that needed care and planning. This was Steve Bain, as big as they come. The town would be talking, the country would be talking, the cops would be very anxious.”
“Big. So?” said Koko.
“Needed care and planning,” said Gunn. “This wouldn’t be a shooting in back of the head in the front seat of a car.”
“So?”
“So he knew there was bad action between Bain and a kid that was on the make for his daughter, Sam Lockwood. So he hung it on that. So he had you and Effie steal a gun from Lockwood. So he used that gun on Bain, and left it there like Bain had battled it out of the guy’s hand and the guy had had to run for some reason, and he got a break. The guy showed up there, and was caught with that very gun in hand and standing over Bain’s dead body.”
“So?” said Willie Koko.
“Care and planning,” said Gunn.
“So?” said Willie Koko.
“This was a big one,” said Gunn. “No politician would have enough power to pull it off him, but two little characters stood in his way before the all-clear. One’s name was Effie Vernon and one’s name was Willie Koko, two little nothings. He’d have to do the job on them himself, and then there were no witnesses, nobody to tie him in with the killing of Steve Bain. He took care of Effie at ten o’clock this morning. He cut her throat. And he’s been dying to catch up with Willie but that big slob was laid out drunk, and he didn’t know where so he couldn’t get to him.”
“You sure, man?”
“That’s why I’m here, Willie. I risked my life. Remember?”
“It has nothing to do with Tony Valero?”
“It has only to do with Willie Koko. You didn’t call your Service today, did you, Willie?”
“No.”
“Call. I bet you never had so many calls from your boss.”
Koko went to the phone and called. He listened. He hung up. “Been calling all day,” he said and folded the knife and put it away.
“Willie,” said Gunn, “if you run, you’re dead. You won’t be able to run far enough or fast enough. York has connections. If you run, you’re dead.”
“I’m not going to run,” whispered Willie.
“What then?” said Gunn.
“I’m going to go to him,” said Willie. “I’m going to play it dumb but I’ll be ready. When he makes his move…” and he lifted his immense hands, fingers tense, like enormous talons.
“No good, Willie. You’re smart, but you’re dumb.”
“Just smart enough, just dumb enough…”
“I risked my life with Tony Valero—”
“That you did.”
“Only for you to throw yours away? Like that we’d both be stupid.”
“I don’t read you, Mac.”
“You want Mike York dead, Willie? You do it and then you’d be running from a bigger power than Mike York, you’d be running from the law. I want you smart, Willie.”
“Smart like how, shamus?”
“Like for once in your life having the law work for you. You want him dead? The law will make him dead, legal, and you’ll be clean and clear and nobody will be running after you. I hear you’re a good mechanic, Willie. I hear you’d like to buy yourself a gas station. Give yourself a chance, Willie. For once in your stupid life, be smart.”
“Smart like how, shamus?”
“They’re holding Lockwood but they’re not sure of him. Lockwood saw York running out of Bain’s place right after the murder, identified him. The cops have eyes for York but he
had Alonzo Fitzsimmons throw dust in those eyes. You can cure the whole deal, Willie.”
“And what about me breaking and entering Lockwood’s joint?”
“Mike York is a big fish, Willie—you’re the smallest of minnows, big as you are. If they can pin murder on York, you walk out as a hero. Lieutenant Jacoby will talk to the D.A. The worst that can happen to you is a suspended sentence on the breaking and entering. You’ll be a State’s witness, man, and the State appreciates that. And nobody, none of your cronies, can say you did a rat-job. The guy murdered your girl, man, he murdered Effie. Who can scoff at you for going along with the law on that? Instead of being a murderer and running, you’ll be a hero with a gas station. Ponder, you ponderous man. Think!”
Willie Koko had one last drink, bourbon straight, out of a tumbler. Then he strode to the door and laid fingers upon the key. “Mr. Gunn,” he said with a peculiar dignity, “if you’re giving me the cross, you’ll have me on you, exclusive, till the day I die.”
“Willie,” said Gunn, “if I’m crossing you, I want you on me, exclusive, till the day I die.”
Willie turned the key. “There’s a back way out.”
“What about a car?” said Gunn.
“My car’s in a shed, a little way off.”
“Lead on, McDuff.”
“You know McDuff?”
“Who’s McDuff?”
“Valero’s tomato.”
“Oh. Yes. I know McDuff.”
In the dimness near the shed where was Koko’s car, Peter Gunn said, “Go back and bring Valero.”
“What for?” said Koko.
“A matter,” said Gunn.
“What matter?” said Koko.
“Like a matter of honor,” said Gunn. “Please, Willie. I risked my life, remember?”
“What’ll I tell him?”
“Tell him a man wants to see him. Important.”
Koko grunted and crunched away. Gunn had a few fast puffs of a cigarette, and stepped on it. He waited. He heard returning crunches. Koko reappeared with Tony Valero and Gunn came out of the shadows. “What the hell?” inquired Valero and swung a fist.
Gunn ducked. “This the hell,” he replied and dug a balled-up left to Valero’s diaphragm and as Valero bellowed acknowledgment in a rush of involuntary breath, Gunn’s balled-up right made impact with the point of Valero’s hung-out jaw, and for the second time in one day, Valero did a graceful pivot and fell on his face.
“Just to keep the franchise in,” explained Peter Gunn to Willie Koko as they entered Willie’s shiny, showy, foreign car and backed out and went forward.
chapter 21
Lieutenant Jacoby exchanged a warm bed and a restless sleep for the cold press of business in a suddenly vibrant office. Willie Koko told an explicit story, first with Lieutenant Jacoby, clothed only in hurried-on pants and a tee-shirt, and Peter Gunn, clothed in wilted suit and awry tie. He repeated the story to a crowded office: a stenographer, the D.A. routed out of bed, Harold Smith, routed out of bed, Sam Lockwood, routed out of a comfortable jail cell, Alice Bain, routed out of bed, and a frightening array of police brass, some routed out of bed, some on night duty. Then Jacoby sprayed questions as the stenographer nimble-fingered the colloquy.
“York said he never heard of Lockwood,” said Jacoby.
“That’s a lie,” said Koko.
“How do you know?” said Jacoby.
“I heard about Lockwood,” said Koko.
“So maybe you appreciate guitar,” said Jacoby.
“I’m a long-hair man myself,” said Koko.
“You don’t like jazz?” said Jacoby.
“For the birds,” said Koko.
“So how did you hear about Lockwood?” said Jacoby.
“Out by Bain’s place in Bel Air,” said Koko. “They had like a conference, them two alone. I was driving York. I went in with him, and I was heeled because York thought maybe Bain might pull a quick one. Bain didn’t pull nothing. They had the conference, business. Then Bain started squawking about this guy his daughter was running around with. He was real sad about it. York asked if maybe he wanted that I should give this guy a once over lightly. Bain said no because this daughter would know where it came from. This was a couple weeks ago. York said, ‘Is it love?’ Bain said, ‘Who knows if it’s love but with a jazz musician you can get knocked up and who needs it?’ York said, ‘Yeah, so you want Willie to give him a once over lightly?’ Bain says, ‘No. I have had a couple talks with this little pig, like strenuous, and if he gets meat-grinder action my little Alice will know where it came from and I don’t want no trouble with my own daughter.’ York says, ‘Yeah.’ Bain says, ‘I will work it out my own way and maybe I will convince my own flesh and blood that she has started up with a real crumb like left over in the breadbox.’”
“The sonsabitches,” exclaimed Lockwood.
“Please, Sammy,” exclaimed Alice.
“Shut up,” exclaimed Jacoby happily. “I believe the airtight case against Lockwood has shifted to an airtight case against Mike York, and I like the second airtight case much better than the first airtight case. Now, you, Lockwood.”
“Yes?” said Lockwood.
“We’re holding you temporarily as a material witness, but Mr. Smith will sure get you out tomorrow, so you can go back to your cell with sweet visions of freedom. Good night, now.” Jacoby motioned to one of the many policemen and Lockwood made exit.
“You’re going to bring in York?” asked Harold Smith.
“Mind your business, Counselor,” said Jacoby, “and now, I suggest your business is taking the sweet Miss Bain home. I called you folks in so you could know developments and now that you know developments, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Bain.
“Thank your attorney, and remember his fee,” said Jacoby.
“I thank you,” said Smith.
“I wish I was a crooked cop and could cut in on a hunk of that fee,” said Jacoby. “Good night now. Tomorrow, as has been said, is a new day.”
And out went Smith and Bain.
“And now for Mike York,” said Jacoby. “And when he gets here I want nobody but cops, me, Gunn, Koko, and Mr. District Attorney. But first, Mr. District Attorney, reassure the large Koko.”
“Mr. Koko,” said the sleepy-faced D.A. “In return for your services on behalf of the State, you may rest assured that the State will not forget. You will plead guilty to any charges against you, and the circumstances will be explained to the proper jurist, and I can assure you of a suspended sentence; perhaps, even, a Grand Jury will not indict.”
“I thank you,” said Koko. “For a long time my earnest wish has been to own a gas station.”
“Perhaps your earnest wish shall be granted,” said the D.A., “but,” he added, “that will be one of the best-policed gas stations in this fair city.” And he genuflected, with a graceful politician’s bow, to the quick flurry of assembled laughter.
“So now for York,” said Jacoby, “but please be prepared, everybody, for a concerted onslaught of Alonzo.”
This time when York was disturbed out of the peaceful confines of his aerie of penthouse, he was not disturbed by a lone Peter Gunn—Peter Gunn was, in fact, indulging in small talk with Lieutenant Jacoby—Michael York was disturbed by a small but efficient army of uniformed policemen, much to the disconcert of the silk-pajamaed York, and he considered it a magnanimous favor that the army, before gathering in solid phalanx about him, permitted him a phone call to the poker-lost, nightmare-ridden, similarly silk-clad, slumbering Alonzo Fitzsimmons.
“Frame! Frame! Frame!” cried out Alonzo Fitzsimmons to the accumulated weight of evidence. “Mike York will make headlines for you guys, so you pitch like mad. Sam Lockwood is page five for you guys, so you let his well-planned frame override everything. This is an out-and-out frame and you guys know it. There’s a matter of false arrest, false imprisonment, and I hope you people have enough insurance to carry it.�
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“Are you finished, Mr. Fitzsimmons?” said Jacoby.
“I haven’t even begun,” said Fitzsimmons.
“Are you finished for now?” said Jacoby.
“Only for now,” said Fitzsimmons.
“Then go home and go to sleep,” said Jacoby. “Tomorrow’s a new day.” And he looked at his policeman and pointed a finger at Michael York. “Book this son of a bitch,” he said.
And later alone with Jacoby in his cigarette-strewn office Peter Gunn said, “You can tell O’Brien that he can close out Effie Vernon with Steve Bain.”
“Don’t you ever get tired?” asked Jacoby.
“I’m tired,” said Gunn.
“Don’t you ever get sleepy?” said Jacoby.
“I’m sleepy,” said Gunn.
“Don’t you ever go home?”
“I’m going right now.”
“Thanks,” said Jacoby.
“For going home?” said Gunn.
Succinctly Jacoby said, “For everything.”
“You’re welcome,” said Gunn.
chapter 22
Gunn shed clothes and let them fall where they dropped.
He showered, washed his teeth and went to bed.
He was asleep at once but lurched out of sleep, sleepily awake. There was something to remember but he could not recollect as he lay awake, eyes closed. Then he smiled beatifically flat on his back, eyes closed. He had remembered. He launched tired feet from bed, ambled grumpily to the door, opened it, clicked the clicker to have the door remain unlocked, and less grumpily ambled back to bed. A promise was a promise, a date was a date. He had promised to leave his door open for a cooked breakfast at noon after a recording date. He hoped, fitfully, that the recording date would develop many gremlins and that the promised breakfast would be cooked long after noon. He snorted, snored, and was asleep. The first faint fingers of rosy dawn blemished the soft patina of quiet night.
He was awakened by cool hands at his cheeks.
He was kissed by warm lips on his mouth.
He reached for her but she scrambled away. “Oh, no,” she said. “Get up, get dressed, get decent. I’m going to cook up a storm of breakfast.”