Kill Me Tomorrow

by Richard S. Prather

  Tony was silent, frowning, for a few seconds. “Well, let me give you the rest of it. When I was driving back up Claridge on my way home, I saw this big guy again. He was just leaving the house there where Gil had been talking to him, getting into his car, so when he drove off I followed him. He turned on Palma Drive and I saw him pull into a drive-way about half a block down the street, so I turned on Palma myself—”

  “Tony, you mean you tailed this guy?” I knew the man couldn’t really have been Joe Civano—at least, there was only about one chance in a thousand that it could have been—but even the fleeting thought of Brizante tailing that kind of murderous hood gave me shivers.

  “Tailed him, followed, call it anything you want to,” Tony said with apparent unconcern. “Anyhow, I saw him take out a key and open the front door of his house and go in. I was going pretty slow. Way Gil acted, I wanted to know more about the guy, where he lived, and all that.”

  “Uh-huh. Did this chap maybe sort of eyeball you curiously as you crept by?”

  “He didn’t even look around, don’t think he noticed me.”

  “Back up a little. You said you found out, later, Gil did think the man was Joe Civano. Found out how?”

  “Well, Gil was supposed to come over here Tuesday night at eight o’clock—after supper—for some cribbage. We’d play cribbage two, three nights a week. He didn’t show up. So I phoned and talked to his wife. She said all he’d told her was about seeing somebody he thought he recognized from Gardena, and Anna said he seemed upset, like he was puzzling over it. Finally he told her he had to get it settled in his mind, and was going to go talk to the Reverend about it. Only he’d been gone two hours already and she was wondering what was keeping him. Especially since he left before supper.”

  “Reverend?”

  “Yeah, Gil and Anna belong to the Universalist Communion Church. It opened up just a couple months before they moved to the Villas, and when they got here they joined up. That’s Reverend Archie’s church.”

  “The guy I met at the council meeting, huh?”

  Tony nodded. “I went right over to the church and talked to him. Gil had been there, all right, and told Reverend Archie flat out he’d seen Joe Civano here at the Villas. At least he thought he’d seen him. Well, the Reverend got what information he could from Gil, then phoned and asked both the man Gil had talked to and the woman the man had been with to come over to the church. Reverend Archie told me when Gil left he was convinced he’d made a mistake, even apologized for the trouble.”

  “Archibald had these two come to the church, huh? Who were they?”

  “Man’s name was Yarrow. Henry Yarrow. Turns out he’s head of a real estate agency here at Sunrise Villas, been in business here more than three years. Woman’s name is Blessing, she’s a widow. Yarrow was a salesman for her husband’s agency till Mr. Blessing died a year or so back—Mr. Yarrow told me about that himself.”

  “Wait a minute. This guy you saw Gil talking to, then tailed, peeked at when he went into his house—while, I presume, your car was practically parked in the middle of the street—you met him? Talked to him?”

  “Yes, while I was at the church that night.”

  “This was the same guy?”

  “Sure it was the same guy. Hell, I saw him three times.”

  “OK. What’s this about talking to him at the church?”

  “Well, I was pretty much—disturbed, you know. So the Reverend had the man come on over again and I talked to him ten, fifteen minutes. This was just a little while after Gil had talked with him there at the church. Yarrow claimed he didn’t know what in the hell was going on.” Tony shrugged. “Appears Gil just made a plain ordinary mistake, probably this Yarrow looks something like the way Gil remembered Civano. It’d been sixteen years or so since he’d seen Civano, remember. Except—except Gil never came home that night. Hasn’t come home yet.”

  When we’d first come into the den Tony had told me I was hired, he wanted me to take over the job he’d been “working on” himself. I was a bit concerned about the way he’d been “working on” it, so I said, “All right, Tony, there are several things I want to do right away. Tonight. But first I’ve got a couple of questions.”

  “Sure, sure. But …” Tony looked across the room, for the first time appearing ill at ease. “One more thing I’ve got to tell you about,” he said. “All this was Tuesday. But Wednesday night Anna phoned me here and said Gil still hadn’t come home, no word from him, nothing. So I knew something must’ve happened to him.”

  He paused, then went on rapidly, “A little while after talking to Anna, I phoned a friend of mine and he came over. I told him about Gil, and this fellow he’d seen, and the rest of it, Gil just—disappearing. We both figured the only thing made sense was this fellow Yarrow must’ve had something to do with it. My friend worked twenty years in the phone company, knows about telephone equipment and how to listen in on lines, even everything that’s said in a room or a whole house.”

  I was getting an uneasy feeling. It was a feeling that I knew what Brizante was leading up to.

  “We talked a while,” he said. “Drank a little wine, talked, had a little more wine. The way it wound up, Fred—my friend, Fred Jenkins—said it’d be easy to fix it so we’d know anything Yarrow said, who he might talk to. I don’t know much about that sort of thing myself, but Fred—”

  “Are you trying to tell me your friend bugged Yarrow’s home?”

  Brizante seemed relieved. “That’s what he did. Seemed like a good enough idea at the time.”

  “He put a bug in the house? What’d he use, a transmitter? Are you talking about bugging or just wiretapping—”

  “Wait a second. I don’t know for sure. I told him I figured we ought to know about it if this Yarrow did happen to say anything about Gil. But Fred just told me he’d take care of it. So he did. In fact, he’s still got it set up—whatever he’s doing—and getting everything that goes on in Yarrow’s house recorded on tape. But I don’t know how he set it up. All I know is he’ll phone me here if anything important happens.”

  I shook my head. “This Jenkins actually bugged Yarrow’s place Wednesday night? That is, before sunup Thursday morning?”

  “I don’t know exactly when he did it, either. He was here with me till maybe three, four o’clock. Then when Fred and I started figuring we’d listen in on what he said there, I just drove Fred by and showed him the house. He told me he’d watch it till Yarrow left, then do whatever he was planning on. Fred came by early today to tell me everything got set up OK Thursday morning.” Brizante paused. “Struck me he was maybe a little bored with the whole idea.”

  I almost felt like smiling. There are few things in life more unbelievably dull than a stakeout, even an electronic stakeout allowing the eavesdropper to sit around in relative comfort, when nothing’s happening. And if, as I suspected, Henry Yarrow was a decent run-of-the-mill citizen whose idea of excitement was watching old movies on television, I gave Fred Jenkins a maximum of twenty-four more hours at his post before he became totally rigid and had to be carried away.

  “All right, Tony,” I said. “Do you have any more intriguing revelations for me? I mean, while you and Fred were guzzling all this wine, you didn’t decide to investigate organized crime in the entire United States, did you?”

  “Now, goddammit, I told you it struck us as a good idea at the time. Maybe there was some better way to go at it—why in hell you think I want you to take over from here?”

  “Relax, Tony. Now, I know what Joe Civano looks like—I saw him up close three years ago when he was being booked on an ADW rap—which he beat, by the way—at the L.A. Police Building. Let’s start with the sensible assumption that Joe Civano is dead, therefore Gil did not see Civano Tuesday morning, but instead saw some harmless old duck named Henry Yarrow. OK?”

  “OK. So what?”

  “You’ve talked to the guy. Describe him for me.”

  “Well, like I said when I told you abou
t first seeing him with Gil that morning, he’s pretty big, six feet anyway I’d guess, and a good two hundred pounds, maybe more, a lot of stomach on him. Not like a potbelly, just a big chest and stomach kind of running into each other. Brown-haired, little gray, plenty gray at the temples. Fifty years old or so.”

  “Did he have a moustache?”

  “No. Clean-shaven.”

  “You notice any scars or marks? Anything unusual about his face, way he was dressed, the way he moved?”

  Brizante shook his head. “He had on a gray suit, all three times I saw him. Nothing unusual, business suit. And he looked fit, tanned. Real deep tan. I can’t think of anything else.”

  Among other things I knew that Joe Civano had been six feet, two inches tall, weighed between two-ten and two-twenty pounds, and had been a few months shy of his forty-seventh birthday when blown into oblivion Sunday A.M. There’d been a couple of noticeable scars on his face, he’d worn a heavy moustache and let his sideburns grow long, and was very dark-skinned.

  “OK,” I said. “Now, about Jenkins. I take it you don’t know how he’s set up, but unless he’s a pro or had easy access to some pretty good equipment, I’d guess he’s using a little mike, or maybe a short-range radio transmitter. In which case he’s very likely staked out quite near Yarrow’s house. Do you know where Fred’s—listening post is?” Brizante shook his head, looking a bit fierce, and I asked him, “Jenkins married?”

  “Was. Divorced. Lives alone now.”

  I asked Tony if I could use his phone, and called Jenkins’ home, but there wasn’t any answer. So I then phoned the Universalist Communion Church on Palos Verde Drive, caught the Reverend Stanley Archibald there in what he referred to as his “sanctum,” and arranged to visit him in fifteen minutes.

  When I sat down near Brizante again I said, “It looks like we’ll have to wait till you hear from Jenkins to find out where he’s sitting, getting more and more bored. In the meantime I’m going to call on the Reverend, then talk to Yarrow and this widow—what did you say her name was?”

  “Blessing. Mrs. Blessing.”

  The Widow Blessing. It conjured up a picture of a kindly old lady in a faded old gray dress wearing black shoes and stockings, and with knitting needles in her old gray head. Probably she wasn’t like that at all. Names can fool you.

  So I asked Brizante, “What does she look like?”

  “Tell you the truth, I didn’t pay much attention to her. I was thinking about Civano then, you know. What Gil had just said. And after the first minute or so Gil walked out on the lawn with Yarrow, and I was looking at them instead of the woman. She was still standing in front of the door.” He squinted, thinking. “All I remember is she was wearing shorts. And something white on top. Blouse or shirt, maybe, but it was white.”

  “Shorts?”

  He nodded.

  “Like—Bermudas? Or the things gals play tennis in? Those little … short things?”

  “Yeah. Shorts.” He paused. “And she was barefoot.”

  “That’s … interesting.” I got to my feet. “Well, I’ll let you know the results of my careful, scientific investigation.”

  “Goddammit,” he said, “I never claimed to be a goddamn scientific—”

  “Whoa, Tony. I was merely—jesting. Truth is, you’ve done as well as could be expected so far, considering the peculiar circumstances. Hell, I’ll probably do much worse.”

  For a moment I stood there wishing I hadn’t said that. Idle words loosed into the ether sometimes spring back upon you. But then I put such negative ideas out of my head, as Tony and I walked into the front room.

  Tony went into the kitchen, from which were wafted to my nostrils the scents of cheeses, garlic and other spices and seasonings—and, of course, wine—and as I moved toward the door Lucrezia entered the softly lighted living room, rubbing her hands on a pink apron tied around her waist. When she walked up to me I noticed one white smudge of flour on her cheek, another on the back of her right hand.

  “I came out to thank you, Shell,” she said sweetly.

  “I haven’t done anything yet. Ah, don’t flip—all I meant was, the case has only begun—”

  “I know what you meant. I think. But I was talking to Mom while you were in the den. Dad’s a lot more worried than he lets on. He’s been acting … strange. I do hope you can help him, Shell.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot, Lu—Miss Brizante. But I’ve a hunch there’s no real reason for your dad to be so wound up.”

  “I hope you’re right. Where are you going now?”

  “Believe it or not, I’m on my way to see a Reverend.”

  She shook her head. “Well, phone me if you learn anything important, Shell.”

  “Sure. I may phone you even if I don’t.”

  She held out her hand—for a friendly shake, of course—but as I bent forward, and lightly kissed the back of her hand, I got a little flour on my mouth. I got more than that. As my lips brushed her skin, Lucrezia squeezed my fingers gently twice; and that pulsing tightening and relaxation of her fingers against mine, which with most women might have been interesting or even stimulating, was, with Lucrezia, a hell of a thing to happen to me on my way to church.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Universalist Communion Church, plus its large parking lot at the left of the building, occupied half of an attractively landscaped city block on Palos Verde Drive. The sun was setting when I parked the Cad, walked from the lot back a hundred feet to the strip of pebbled cement leading to the massive double doors of the entrance. They were closed against the heat, but unlocked, and I walked on into the cool dim interior of the church, then down a slanting and thickly carpeted aisle between rows of polished benches on my left and right.

  A door in the wall ahead of me and on my left opened, and Reverend Stanley Archibald appeared in it, light behind him spilling out onto the carpeted floor. “Mr. Scott?” he called.

  “Yeah, just got here, Reverend.”

  “Come in, please.”

  He moved back as I walked past him, closed the door, stepped across the small room to a black curving desk and sat behind it, indicating a black leather chair nearby. “How may I help you, Mr. Scott?”

  I told him I was a licensed private investigator—licensed in California—acting as a friend of the Brizantes, and hoping to trace Gil Reyes’ movements. “Mr. Brizante has already told me about his conversation with you Tuesday night, Reverend, but I’d appreciate it if you’d give me your version. Could be you’ll remember something he forgot or left out.”

  He nodded, elbows on the desk before him, fingers pressed together and forming a steeple. “Do you mean Mr. Reyes hasn’t returned home yet?”

  “That’s right. The last place Mr. Brizante and I have been able to place him is at this church, Tuesday night. Which is why I’m starting here.”

  “My word,” he said. “I had no idea. I assumed Mr. Reyes had surely returned home by this time. I was expecting to see Gil and Anna on Sunday.…”

  He let it trail off, clasped his hands and lowered them to the desk’s top. “This is extremely disturbing to me, Mr. Scott. I have come to know Mr. and Mrs. Reyes well in the months they have been attending services here, and this is unquestionably a grave matter if Anna has not seen him since Tuesday evening. Gil is not the kind of man—well, someone else might have become enmeshed in the snares of the flesh, or succumbed to the poison of alcohol, but not Gil, sir.”

  “Maybe he succumbed to something else.”

  The Reverend nodded, then his eyes came to rest on a single rose in a narrow vase on the corner of his desk. He pursed his lips, as if gathering his thoughts. Then he started talking, and I was rather impressed with the way he lined up the facts and delivered them. Maybe he gave a pretty good sermon at that.

  “Mr. Reyes came to the church and spoke to me at about this hour last Tuesday evening. I’m not certain of the time—I wasn’t expecting him, he hadn’t phoned, but it was near sundown. He didn’t appe
ar inordinately upset, but he was definitely troubled by a belief that he had seen a man whom he thought dead. Whom, in fact, he believed to have been killed in his presence.”

  I nodded. “In Tucson last Sunday.”

  “Yes. He spoke of a Joe Civano. The name meant nothing to me then. I elicited all the details I could, learned that Gil had not seen the man under discussion for something like sixteen years—in the city where both then lived—and that for two days prior to his apparent recognition of this person here he had been thinking much of Mr. Civano.”

  Reverend Archie pulled his eyes from the rose and looked at me. “Though at that moment I could only guess, it seemed quite clear to me that Gil’s continued thinking of Mr. Civano’s shocking death in Tucson, and therefore of Mr. Civano, was the immediate cause of his error in mistaking a man who only slightly resembled him as Joe Civano. Unaccountably alive—and at Sunrise Villas.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “When you put it like that.”

  “Mr. Reyes told me the man to whom he referred claimed to be Mr. Henry Yarrow.”

  “Did you know who he meant? I mean, did you know Yarrow?”

  “The name was familiar to me, but I had not met the man. I therefore hesitated to phone him. However, Mr. Reyes had also informed me of the location on Claridge Street where the confrontation occurred, thus I knew the house of which he spoke must be one of at most two or three near the corner at Roadrunner Drive. I know many people on that block, and from Gil’s description of the lady I felt reasonably sure she was Mrs. Blessing, a charming widow who has long been a member of this church. I phoned her, explained the situation, and her comments—somewhat to my surprise, Mr. Scott—corroborated what Gil had told me in every detail.”

  “Why to your surprise?”

  “Simply because Mr. Reyes’ story seemed quite incredible. A dead man, a gangster, this unusual confrontation at dawn, Gil’s manner and concern—surely you understand, Mr. Scott. Quite simply, I found it all very difficult to believe.”