Never Cross a Vampire

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Fifty a day and expenses,” I said. “Two days in advance.”

  “Thirty-five,” said Leib. “This is for Jack Warner, not Louis Mayer. I’ll have the money waiting for you at the Wilshire station where our client is being held. I think it best if you get to him immediately. I’ve already begun from my end.”

  “And?” I said, half thinking about the Florentine Gardens.

  “And it doesn’t look promising,” he said. That was all we had to go with, so I finished the business at hand.

  “Client’s name?”

  “Faulkner, William Faulkner.”

  “The writer?”

  “The alleged murderer,” said Leib and hung up.

  Business was booming. A full year like this and I’d be challenging Pinkerton. I picked up my coat and went back into Shelly’s office. He was demonstrating to Mrs. Lee how to rinse her mouth. She had lost all semblance of control and dumbly mocked Shelly’s actions. Her “arrgghh” was down to a slow, low gurgle.

  “I’m going on another case,” I said to Shelly’s back. He waved his cigar to let me know he had heard.

  “Almost forgot,” I added, heading for the door. “Guy named Billings might be getting in touch with you. He has an overbite problem from fangs.”

  That got Shelly, who turned around and squinted in my general direction through the bulletproof lenses of his glasses.

  “He’s a vampire,” I explained.

  Mrs. Lee seemed to hear the word vampire through her confused stupor and looked vaguely in my direction.

  “Vampires are a dental impossibility,” Shelly announced firmly. “At least vampires with fangs. There’s no way the human jaw could support fangs.” He put his finger into Mrs. Lee’s mouth to demonstrate as he spoke. “Throw the whole mouth off. The guy’d look like Andy Gump or Mortimer Snerd, and his jaw … he wouldn’t get a decent night’s sleep or be able to eat.”

  “But vampires don’t eat and they sleep like the dead during the day,” I said.

  Mrs. Lee nodded in agreement, and Shelly frowned at her.

  “Mrs. Van Helsing here,” he said derisively, pointing his thumb at the woman.

  “Not a real vampire,” I explained, opening the door. “Just a guy who wears fake fangs and likes dressing up. A little higher class than some of your patients.”

  “If he calls, I’ll look at him,” Shelly said professionally, turning to Mrs. Lee. His glasses slipped down on his nose and his free thumb came up just in time to keep them from tumbling into Mrs. Lee’s lap.

  The Farraday Building had an elevator, and Jeremy Butler saw to it that the elevator went up and down, but there was nothing he could do to make it go up and down at a rate that most mortals found reasonable. I ran down the stairs, putting on my coat as I went and listening to the echo of my footsteps around me. On the floor below ours, the bookie was fumbling at the lock on his door. The phone was ringing on the other side and he was trying to get in before he missed a bet, but his eyes were bleary and the harder he tried, the more the lock resisted. I didn’t bother to greet him.

  Butler was still going at the wall with his second can of Old Dutch.

  “Perhaps I should just paint the whole wall?” he asked.

  “I think it looks fine,” I said. Interior decoration wasn’t my line, but the irregular patch of white he had worn into the gray wall made the lobby look like the set for a German horror movie.

  A neighborhood derelict was pressing his nose to the window of my car when I hurried into the alley. He pulled his gray-stubble face away when he heard me and plunged his hands deep into his pockets, pretending to admire the scenery of the alley, the piles of garbage, the empty cartons. He tried to look as if he were waiting for a streetcar and succeeded in looking as if he had been caught with his claw in the bird cage.

  I handed the guy a quarter, told him it was a nice day, and pulled out, heading the car up Hoover and across on Wilshire. Leib’s office was in Westwood, even closer to the station than mine. There was a chance the advance would beat me to the door. In my greed, I had neglected to find out who Faulkner had murdered and why.

  As I passed the shivering palms and the occasional people who had come to Los Angeles looking for what they couldn’t find further east and finding what they hadn’t looked for, I thought of the two times I had seen Faulkner. He had been laboring away at some project at Warners a few years earlier when I spotted him through the office window of a producer I was on a job for. Faulkner had looked sad and serious. His typewriter was giving him no fun. He was probably having even less fun today.

  I found a space a few blocks from the station and jogged over. A young balding uniformed cop I knew named Rashkow almost knocked me back down the stone stairs.

  “Hello,” he said seriously.

  “Hi, my brother in today?”

  “He’s in,” Rashkow said, pulling his coat closed. “Just saw him. This is my last day.”

  “Vacation?” I asked.

  “Army,” he said. “I joined a week ago. The papers say things are going good, but I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either,” I said. “Good luck. Win the war fast.”

  “I’ll try,” said Rashkow, adjusting his blue cap as he lumbered down the stairs.

  The damned war kept intruding on my life and profession. It was hard to concentrate on your career when all about you were losing their heads and blaming it on others.

  The desk sergeant, an old timer named Coronet, motioned me over and handed me an envelope.

  “Just came for you,” he said, without taking his eyes off two silent Japanese kids about twenty who were handcuffed together on the bench in a corner.

  “What’d they do?” I asked Coronet, whose hostility to the two took the form of a jutting lower lip and clenched fists.

  “Woman sitting behind them at the Loew’s heard them applauding Pearl Harbor during the newsreel and hissing Roosevelt,” Coronet explained.

  The two young men, both skinny and not sure whether to be scared or defiant, looked at Coronet and then at me.

  “That’s a crime?” I said.

  “Sure it’s a crime,” Coronet said without taking his accusing eyes from the pair. “We’re at war.”

  That didn’t answer my question, but I knew I would get nothing more sensible from Coronet, and I had my envelope of money from Leib, so I went up the twenty creaking brown stairs and through the often-kicked wooden door at the top and into the squad room. The room smelled, as it always did, as all squad rooms always do, of food—old food, new food, hot food, cold food. The smell of food even overpowered the smell of humanity and stale smoke.

  It was a slow day, but detectives were seated at some of the desks. A few were on telephones. One fat detective named Veldu was sitting on the corner of the desk of a new guy I didn’t recognize. Veldu had a sandwich in one hand, coffee in the other, and a mouthful of philosophy for the new guy, whose hair was black and plastered down and parted in the middle as if he were about to try out for a barbershop quartet.

  “So they rank Lem Franklin number two,” Veldu was saying. “Number two. Can you imagine that? Buddy Baer, that schlob could crack him in a minute. There’s maybe six guys who could take Franklin on a bad day.” He chomped on his sandwich and put down his coffee so he could raise his fingers to indicate the six guys. “Bob Pastor, Melio Bettina, Abe Simon, Lou Nova, Roscoe Toles, even Tamy Mauriello. In fact, Pastor should be number one and Conn should be down at the bottom. He’s got no punch. Louis hasn’t got feelings. He’s got to be clubbed to death.” With this, Veldu demonstrated with his fist against the desk how one would have to club Joe Louis. The desk shook and coffee spilled.

  “Shit,” bellowed Veldu around a bite of sandwich. “I’ll have to get another coffee.” He lumbered away, leaving the mess for the new guy, who reached into a drawer for some Kleenex and tried to keep the stain from joining all the other stains. The new guy spotted me.

  “What can I do for you?” he said impatiently, whi
ch was a bad sign in a new detective, at least bad for me and any potential criminals he might meet.

  “My name’s Peters,” I said, reaching out a hand. “I’m a private investigator doing some legwork for a lawyer named Leib on a client you have locked up here, Faulkner. I’d like to see our client.”

  The new guy looked at my hand and went on cleaning his desk. I put my hand back at my side. The new guy didn’t say anything. He just kept scrubbing. I looked over at a woman two desks away talking to another detective. She was well groomed, wearing a little hat with a tall feather and a two-piece suit with the skirt to the knees. Her shoulders were slightly padded, and she looked as if she had just been outfitted at I. Magnin.

  “… my ears,” I heard her say and tried to listen to more, but the new guy was looking up at me with less than friendship and a pile of soggy Kleenex he didn’t know what to do with.

  “I’ll see,” he said, walking toward the office cubbyhole of Lieutenant Philip Pevsner in the corner. He dropped the Kleenex in a wastebasket, and a black kid about fifteen who was waiting to be interrogated inched away from him.

  I tried to pick up more of the well-groomed woman’s conversation. I thought I caught her saying “Sally Rand” to the cop, who listened patiently, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have time to hear more. The new cop motioned to me from Pevsner’s doorway, and I moved through the random array of desks and bodies, stepping over feet and past secrets.

  The new guy stood back with a sour look, and I went into the office giving him a raw “Thanks” over my shoulder.

  “Friendly guy,” I told Pevsner as the door closed.

  “His name’s Cawelti,” Pevsner said without looking up from the file on the desk. “He did five years uniformed in Venice. He had troubles but he did the job. I like people who get the job done.” Then he looked up at me. I knew the look of mild contempt I would get, but it was mixed with a recent touch of tolerance that was at best a sign of temporary peace. Phil was a little taller than me, a little broader, a few years old, and a lot heavier. His close-cut steely hair was a magnet for his thick, strong fingers. He scratched constantly, whether from dandruff, habit, or perplexity I was never sure, and I had seen him doing this for more than thirty years. He was my brother.

  He sighed. That was the friendliest he could be to me. I responded by making no bad jokes. The war had brought us to a truce. I had even lost the chance to give my running rub of asking about his wife Ruth and the kids. I lost it by actually visiting them on December 7 and doing a rotten job of hiding the soft touch I was for his new baby, Lucy, who reduced me to stupid grins. Phil was almost fifty, too old for kids, like Lugosi, but since I didn’t have any, I kept my mouth shut.

  Phil wasn’t too great at dealing with adults. His impulse was usually to use his fists. I had learned that as a kid and bore the nose to prove it. As a cop he had grown no more mellow. Crime was personal with him. Criminals ate into his free time, committed crimes just to make his life difficult, murdered, raped, and went on rampages just to keep him angry and busy. Being a cop wasn’t just a job for Phil; it was a vendetta, a vendetta he could never win. There were a lot more of them than there were of him, and he usually associated me with the criminals, with working for potential and accused criminals. Even if my clients proved to be innocent part of the time, according to Phil it wasn’t worth the effort.

  “You’re working the Faulkner case?” he asked, looking back at his file.

  “Right,” I said.

  “There’s no case to work,” he said, standing up and loosening his already loose tie. He tapped the thin file on the desk. “He did it. Two eyewitnesses, the victim’s wife and the victim himself before he died.”

  “William Faulkner murdered someone?”

  “I just said that,” continued Phil, looking at me with growing impatience.

  “Do you know who he is?” I asked.

  Phil’s face turned red, starting at his neck and going up.

  “I’m busy, but I’m not illiterate,” he said. “I don’t give a crap and a holler if he’s the pope.” Phil pointed at me. “He did in a citizen and he’s going up for it. Leib can pull his strings downtown, and you can pull your tricks, and this whole thing can stay tight for a few days, but it’s going to blow and he is going over.”

  The rage that festered beneath Phil’s uncalm exterior sometimes boiled into the air and threatened the closest person, who was frequently me.

  “Hold it, Phil,” I said soothingly. “I’m just doing a job.”

  “Read the report,” he said with a grunt, “but don’t sit behind my desk. I’m going out for a coffee. Cawelti will bring Faulkner up here.”

  “Thanks,” I said to the closing door. It had been the most civil conversation I had had with my brother in years.

  I picked up the file and pulled the report. The file had a few statements by witnesses and the coroner and a report by the detective in charge, Cawelti. I sat in the chair opposite Phil’s desk and started to put my feet up, then remembered what had happened the last time Phil had caught me with my feet on his desk. I almost wound up two inches shorter, which I could ill afford. The report was good and Faulkner was surely in trouble.

  “Report—Detective Officer John Cawelti, Wilshire.

  “At 9:20 p.m. on January 3, 1942 I was called to 3443 Benedict Canyon in Beverly Hills. I arrived just after the ambulance. Doctor, Bengt Lidstrom of County, said victim, Jacques Shatzkin of that address, was dead. Three bullets in chest. Officer Steven Bowles was on site and said he had been called. Bowles (report attached) arrived before Shatzkin died. Shatzkin identified William Faulkner, writer, as his assailant. Camile Shatzkin, deceased’s wife, also identified Faulkner. Jacques Shatzkin’s identification was positive. Shatzkin was author’s representative and had met previously with Faulkner. Faulkner had been invited for dinner to talk business. He arrived late, according to deceased and his widow, fired point-blank at Shatzkin, and then left. Though victim was unable to do more than identify assailant, the wife said that she knew of no quarrel between the two, though husband had described Faulkner as moody during their one lunch meeting. Faulkner was picked up at the Hollywood Hotel at 10:10 p.m. He denied knowledge of Shatzkin murder or dinner invitation and was singularly uncooperative. He admitted having had lunch with Shatzkin two days earlier (Wednesday). Check with Shatzkin’s office confirmed luncheon meeting on Wednesday with Faulkner. Search of Faulkner’s hotel room, conducted 4:30 a.m. Saturday, January 4, with Sergeant Veldu present and two security officers from Warner’s, Lovell and Hillier, led to discovery of .38 caliber revolver, recently fired. Ballistics run indicates this was weapon used to kill Shatzkin. Faulkner charged with murder 7 a.m. Saturday, January 4, 1942. Asked to call lawyer, Martin R. Leib of Westwood. Made no further statement.”

  I had just finished the report when the door opened and Cawelti of the sleek dark hair ushered William Faulkner into the small office.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Faulkner was a wiry guy about my age and height with a small mustache and a chip on his shoulder the size of Catalina Island. He had a high-bridged, almost Indian nose with heavy-lidded, deep-set brown eyes. His face was tan and he held a blackened pipe in his thin lips. I couldn’t tell what was going on in his head other than that he had a distaste for the room, the situation, me, and possibly life in general. His eyes seemed to show melancholy, calculation, and a private sense of humor at the same time, as if he saw himself as a tragic figure and accepted the role, maybe even welcomed it. I can’t say I liked him immediately. I wondered whether he knew any vampire poems.

  “Your client,” Cawelti said, ushering Faulkner to the chair across from Phil’s desk and backing out with feigned respect. Faulkner didn’t sit. He didn’t offer his hand. He took the pipe out of his mouth and examined me.

  “Forgive my lack of social grace in these surroundings, Mister …”

  “Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters. Private investigator working for Martin Leib and, I guess, Warn
er Brothers on your behalf.”

  Faulkner’s voice was a little deeper than I had expected and distinctly Southern. I was having trouble with my words, trying to be formal and knowing I was unnatural. He had that effect. Faulkner stood behind the chair playing with his pipe, and I walked over to the window behind Phil’s desk and pretended to look out. Since it faced a brick wall four feet away and hadn’t been cleaned for a generation of two, I couldn’t see anything.

  “I don’t think they’re going to give us a lot of time in here,” I said, “so I’d appreciate it if you’d just tell your story.”

  I pulled out my notebook with the worn spirals. It had a few ragged pages left. I could finish up on the back of the letter in my pocket from a hotel in Fresno complaining that I owed them for a night’s lodging from a lifetime or two ago. I turned my eyes to Faulkner, who looked as if he might be deciding to tell me to go to hell. An almost nonexistent move of his shoulder made me think he had chosen possible salvation over dignity. I almost wrote that down, but I didn’t have enough paper and the nub of my pencil might not last long. I also thought I had stolen the line from the one Faulkner novel I had read.

  “There is irony in your request,” Faulkner said, examining his pipe for defects and appreciating the embers. “I’ve just delivered a collection of stories to my publisher, none of which is as bizarre as this. I was going to start by saying—as I told the police—that I have killed no one.”

  “I understand how you feel,” I said, scratching away to visible lead with my grimy thumb so I’d have a pencil to work with.

  “Unfortunately,” Faulkner went on softly, “I don’t need sympathy. I need professional help. My inclination is simply to be irate and insist on my release, but apparently someone has gone through quite an effort to make that impossible.”