The clown giggled some more. His pupils were as wide as dollar pancakes, his hands shaking with anticipation. His trigger finger started twitching. I ignored the quiet one and turned on the clown. He was sweating. He bounced to my right and aimed straight at my face just as Big Redd moved silently through the door behind him, bowie knife in hand. Before the redhead could get his shot off, Redd said, “Hey.”
The gunman whirled and as he did, Redd’s knife flashed in a downward arc. The astonished gangster saw his own hand, still holding the gun, fall to the floor. Before he could scream, Redd stepped up and jammed the knife in an upward arc under his ribs to the hilt. Air rushed out of the wired freak. Redd slammed his foot into the dying man’s chest and shoved him across the room. He crashed over Lefton’s desk and ended in a heap in the corner. It all happened in the space of four or five seconds.
I swung the gun back on the lean one, who was so startled by the swiftness of Redd’s attack he was rooted on the spot. He stared at the severed hand on the floor, with his mouth half open.
“He was squeezing the trigger on you,” Redd said, nodding toward the dead man. He walked over, cleaned the knife on the dead man’s shirt, and sheathed it. He pointed a forefinger back and forth between his own eyes and then at the corpse in the corner.
“Wired,” he said. “You can’t hesitate.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Call the captain to come on down.” And to Rat Face, “Get rid of your heater or the same thing’ll happen to you.”
He opened his suit jacket, reached under his arm with two fingers, jiggled a .45 loose from its shoulder holster, and dropped it on the floor.
“Turn around and grab that wall.”
Redd’s walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Clear,” he said. “One dead, one under control. They killed Charlie Lefton.”
“What’s your name?” I asked Rat Face.
“Earl,” he blurted, turning and leaning forward on both hands. He knew the drill. I frisked him, lifting his wallet and a push-button knife. I backed up about five feet and reached out with my foot and dragged a chair over, picked up his gun and threw it on the desk. I sat down backward on the chair and let my gun hand rest on the back of the chair while I rifled through his wallet with my left. His license said his name was Earl Hirshman, that he was from Boston, thirty-two years old, five-seven, and weighed a hundred and thirty-five pounds. An ID identified him as a deputy sheriff in Pacifico County. A business card identified him as an “associate” with the law firm of Brophy, Myers, and Ragsdale. An associate, I assumed, was a private eye with a licensed gun. He had two one-hundred-dollar bills and four ones in the money pocket of the wallet.
I replaced the items, dropped the wallet on the table by my elbow, and pressed the button on the knife. A six-inch blade shot out. Both sides of the blade were honed to a razor’s edge and the point was as sharp as a needle’s. I put the point on the table and pressed the blade back into the handle and laid it beside the wallet.
“Okay, Earl, turn around, sit down, and rest your hands on top of your head.”
He did as he was told.
“Very good,” I said. “We’re going to play one question. I’d ask you two but I doubt you and your dead pal there know why you were sent to kill Charlie Lefton. So I’m just going to ask you the one question. Who’s paying the bills for this?”
His answer was a blank stare.
“We’ll pull down the shades and swing that overhead light in your face when the captain gets here,” I said to Earl. “Then he’ll do whatever he does to get the conversation going.”
Nothing. He had about as much expression on his face as a tree trunk.
“I feel compelled to tell you that Culhane and Lefton served in the Marines together,” I said. “They were both wounded, but Lefton managed to carry Culhane back to the medics. Think about that while we wait for him to get here.”
The story was partly true. Lefton had carried my boss, Moriarity, to safety, not Culhane.
Nothing changed in his expression but his tongue sneaked out and dampened his lips.
Outside, the headlights of Culhane’s car flooded the road as he roared up to the fishing camp. A second car pulled in behind him. Culhane jumped out of the car and ran toward us. Then he saw Charlie Lefton lying on the dock. Redd had stopped to pull him out. Culhane’s lips began to twitch with anger. He turned around, said something to Rusty which I couldn’t hear, and Rusty opened the trunk of the Packard and brought him back a blanket. Culhane spread it over Lefton’s body, took one of Lefton’s hands from under the blanket, held it, and said something to Charlie Lefton’s corpse.
He looked up at the office as an insane expression crossed his face. He stood, came up on the motel walk, and slammed through the door. He looked at Hirshman, then at me. Then he saw the severed hand and the body in the corner.
“A little slow, huh?” he said to Redd, who answered him by holding up a thumb and forefinger about a quarter-inch apart.
“Dahlmus?” Culhane asked.
I shrugged. “He’s not here.”
Two other cops joined us. Culhane told one of them to go to one of the rooms and bring back a blanket. He covered the dead man after relieving him of his wallet.
“Name’s Leo Groover,” Culhane said. “Baltimore.”
He threw the wallet on the table with the rest of the assorted weapons and IDs. Then he walked over, grabbed a handful of Hirshman’s shirt, dragged him to his feet, and hit him with a right cross that hurt my jaw. Hirshman flew halfway across the room and ended up on his back. He spit blood and looked up at Culhane with fear in his eyes.
“Back-shooting son of a bitch,” Culhane said, and grabbed him again, dragging him to his feet.
“Easy,” I said. “He’s the only witness we have left.”
“I’m not gonna kill him,” Culhane said. “But I am going to hurt him some more.” He hit Hirshman again, this time an uppercut. Hirshman went down and rolled over on his stomach. Culhane grabbed the back of his suit coat, jerked him up, and slammed him against the wall.
Hirshman stared at him through dazed eyes. His jaw was askew and he was bleeding from the mouth.
“Easy, Brodie,” I said. “He’s got a lot of talking to do.”
“I haven’t heard a peep out of the dirty little coward yet.”
He closed in on Hirshman, his face a foot from the killer’s.
“We’re going outside where there’s more room,” he hissed in Hirshman’s face, spun him around, and shoved him out the door.
We followed Culhane and Hirshman down the walkway, where Culhane kicked him and sent him spinning down the steps.
Rusty, Max, and three or four other policemen watched from twenty feet away and said nothing. Hirshman scrambled to his hands and knees, started to crawl frantically away from Culhane. Culhane turned to me and held out his hand.
“Gimme your piece,” he said.
I looked at him with surprise, and he reached inside my jacket and pulled out the Luger. “I said gimme your damn gun,” he said.
He walked slowly behind Hirshman. The mobster crawled up the embankment. As he reached the top, Culhane fired a shot. I jumped. The ground erupted an inch or two in front of Hirshman, who whirled over on his back.
“Jesus, don’t kill me,” he pleaded.
“Well, how about that,” Culhane said. “It talks.”
Earl looked at me and all he got was a dead stare.
“I’m not going to kill you, you useless little shit,” Culhane said in a low, cold tone. “I’m gonna take off your kneecaps. They’ll have to push you to the gas chamber in a wheelchair.”
Earl was breathing hard but still silent.
“Let me explain something to you,” Culhane said. “I’m old. And the older I get, the more I appreciate time. Right now, you’re wasting mine.”
Culhane looked at me and put the Luger against Hirshman’s knee. “Ask him some questions.”
“How did you get here from Baltimore?” I asked.
“I had to get outta town in a hurry,” Earl blurted. “There was heat on me. I heard about this resort in Mendosa and called Guilfoyle. He said come on out, fifty bucks a day and I’d have to do whatever he told me to do. I took the train out.”
“When?”
“About a month ago.”
“Then what?”
“Guilfoyle says, ‘I got a job for you in a couple of weeks.’ I says, ‘Doin’ what?’ He says, ‘You got some limits I don’t know about?’ I shake my head, ‘No.’ He says, ‘Good. I’ll let you know.’ ”
“Keep going.”
“Yesterday he tells me to get Dahlmus and that crazy freak inside, take the cabin cruiser down to this marina in L.A., and pick up this guy named Riker. Once Riker came aboard, he’d give the orders.”
“Who ran the boat?”
“I dunno. It was called Pretty Maid.”
“When did Riker show up?”
“A little before six. He was in a black limo. I didn’t see who was driving.”
Culhane was irate. His jaw was tight as a fist. He walked back and forth in front of Earl. Finally he said, “Why did you kill my friend?”
“I didn’t shoot him. Leo was walking behind him and when Lefton told us to fuck off, he just swung the shotgun up and shot him.”
Culhane looked down at the gunman. I spoke quickly.
“Who’s paying you for all the dirty work?” I asked.
Earl was sweating. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Who’s paying you?” I repeated
“You’re not doing real well, Earl,” Culhane cut in. “You’re hesitating! One more hesitation and I’ll forget about your kneecaps. I’ll just take off your pecker.”
The gun roared and a geyser of dirt exploded a quarter of an inch from Earl’s crotch. He screamed and scrambled backward.
“Where’s Dahlmus?” I said.
“He’s dead,” Earl stammered. “Riker shot him on the boat.”
“Who else was there?”
“Me, the cuckoo-nut, Dahlmus, and the guy who drove the boat.”
“Okay, go on.”
“We hang around a marina in Santa Monica and this big Lincoln pulls up and out comes Riker. He climbs aboard and says, ‘Haul ass.’ That’s all he said until we’re out about two hours and then Riker asks Leo for his gun. He goes over and caps Dahlmus twice. Dahlmus goes over backward. Then he says to us something like ‘How about that, he fell overboard.’ ”
“You saw him shoot Dahlmus?” I said.
“Hell, I was three feet away. Surprised the hell outta me. Surprised Dahlmus, too.”
“You take my breath away, Earl,” Culhane said. “Keep talkin’.”
“Riker says to me, ‘I want you to call this Bannon and tell him to meet you at Lefton’s fishing camp.’ Then Riker says, ‘Tell him you’ll meet him there and you got plenty of information for him, but you got to make a deal. Tell Bannon if he comes in with anybody, he’ll never see you again.’
“So we pull into Lefton’s. Leo and I scout the place, and we see Lefton goin’ into the office, and Leo follows him in, and he’s on the phone. So Leo goes nuts, slams down the phone, and shoves him outside, and I ask him can he run a couple of us into town, and he’s walkin’ away and says ‘fuck off’ and you know the rest.”
“They stole Charlie’s car, too?” Culhane said.
“Yeah. By now Riker’s getting nervous. He takes the dead guy’s keys, tells us to wait here and call if anybody comes snoopin’ around.”
I asked him, “Where were you staying in Mendosa?”
“At Shuler’s. There’s a building back of the main place there with an indoor swimming pool and a workout room. There’s a big room on the second floor, which is where they keep all the crazies, and there’s four small apartments on the top floor. It’s where I was staying. Dahlmus, too. And Leo the clown.”
“How about the other apartment?”
“Empty.”
“Is that where Riker is now?”
“I dunno, I swear. I never seen Riker until we picked him up at the marina. We sail past Mendosa because there was a Coast Guard cutter snoopin’ around and end up here.”
“What did he pay you?” Culhane asked.
Hirshman hesitated a moment and Culhane aimed the gun at his crotch again.
“Two bills for everybody I hit,” he babbled. “He told me if a cop named Bannon showed up, he’d give me five hundred to hit him.”
“Jesus,” Culhane said, then dragged Hirshman to his feet and called Rusty over.
“Rusty,” Culhane said, “take him into Lefton’s office.”
We followed them. The clown was still lying on the floor, his feet sticking out from under the blanket.
Culhane shoved Earl into a chair near the desk. “Now listen carefully, Earl. You’re going to call Guilfoyle. Tell him that I showed up with Bannon and several men. Tell him there was some shooting and we killed Groover and you’re trapped in Lefton’s office. And you need help now. Tell him you can’t hold out any longer, then hang up. You think you can remember all that?”
Earl nodded.
Culhane got the operator and gave her the number.
“You really think you can get Guilfoyle to come to us?” I asked Culhane.
“Oh, he’ll come alright,” Culhane replied with a smile. “His balls are a lot bigger than his brain.”
“What are you going to do when he gets here?”
“Arrest him for aiding and abetting, conspiracy to commit murder, harboring fugitives, and I’m sure I’ll think of a few other things by then.”
Culhane had his men pull both cars up side by side, blocking the narrow road. He dispersed four of his men into the woods, two on each side of the road leading from Mendosa. Rusty, one-eyed Max, and Redd stood behind him back by the cars, Rusty and Redd with shotguns and Max with the tommy gun.
“Where do you want me?” I asked.
“Out of the line of fire,” he said.
“This is my game, too,” I said. I reached under the dash of my car and retrieved the shotgun, got the .45 from the car pocket and stuck it in my belt. The Luger was back under my arm.
Culhane sighed with exasperation. “Okay,” he replied. “Open the Packard door on the driver’s side and stand behind it with the window rolled down.” And to his crew: “No shooting until it’s necessary. This is between me and Guilfoyle. If the rest of them insist on a fight, we’ve got them in a cross fire.”
Culhane took off his tuxedo jacket, laid it out neatly on the front seat of the car, and rolled his right shirtsleeve up to the elbow. He took the warrant for Riker out of the jacket’s inside pocket and slipped it in his back pocket. He took a wooden box from under the seat, opened it, and took out the six-gun, a Peacemaker in a tanned leather holster. He slid it out of the holster, spun the cylinder and checked the load, then dropped it back in its holster. He hitched the Peacemaker to his hip and tied the holster right against his leg.
“Kill the car lights,” said Culhane, and they blinked off. The only light came from the garish red sign next to the lodge.
Wisps of fog dampened everything.
Culhane stood in front of the Packard, with one foot on the bumper and his forearm resting on his knee.
All eyes were on the road from Mendosa.
A deathly silence fell over the blockade, interrupted occasionally by a cricket fiddling for its mate or night birds talking to each other.
We waited.
But not for long.
CHAPTER 39
Thin and wispy, the fog began to creep in. It swirled knee-deep, pressed against the earth by cool night air. Light from the camp’s red neon sign turned the mist into a red glow that enveloped the cars.
Culhane stared down the road toward Mendosa and smoked quietly. I wondered what was going through his mind. Was his political career ruined by the implications of an old frame-up? Or would it be enhanced by revelations that Riker was a monster who ordered up death the w
ay some people order a steak dinner? Now Riker’s hands were also drenched with the blood of Henry Dahlmus. And we had an eyewitness to prove he had committed that crime himself.
Culhane’s play was to get past Guilfoyle to get to Riker. My play was to bring down Riker for arranging Verna Wilensky’s murder.
In the darkness above the circle of light around the cars, I saw a new slender ridge of light appear. Culhane saw it, too. He straightened slightly and watched it grow, forming silhouettes of the trees as it got closer.
“Heads up,” Culhane said.
The ridge of light grew brighter and reshaped into a pair of haloed orbs. Headlights, which rose over a slight crest in the road.
Culhane said, “Lights!”
The headlights of our cars clashed with the oncoming headlights like knights galloping toward each other full tilt. The lead car coming toward us slammed on its brakes and screeched to a stop thirty feet in front of us. The car following stopped a few feet short of rear-ending it.
Nobody moved. Fog swirled around us and was carried off by the wind.
Culhane split the butt of his cigarette, poured out the residue, balled up the paper, and popped it in his mouth.
“Is Guilfoyle in there?” he barked. “Or doesn’t he have the guts to do his dirty work himself.”
A minute crawled by before the front door on the driver’s side opened and a long leg stepped out, followed by the rest of Guilfoyle’s enormous frame. He stared into the lights. He was wearing a yellow suit with a vest, and a flowered tie. A brown derby was cocked over one eye and a cigar lingered forgotten in the corner of his mouth. He slammed the door behind him and said in a loud voice, “Everybody stay put until I say otherwise.”
He hooked two thumbs in his vest pockets, strolled to the front of the car, and leaned against the front fender of his black Cadillac.
Guilfoyle took the cigar out of his mouth and spit at Culhane’s shoe.
“What are you and yer Boy Scouts doing out tonight?” he sneered. “Do you get a merit badge for learning how to take a leak in the dark?”
“No,” Culhane said, “we get our merit badges for landing two-bit bottom-feeders like you.”
Guilfoyle’s face clouded up. He paced back and forth from one side of the Cadillac to the other and stopped with his right side toward the car and put his right foot on the bumper. An automatic glistened threateningly from under his jacket.
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