“If they did, they didn’t confide in me.” I opened my wallet Luckily, it was fatter than usual. I gave Snip two tens and a five and asked, “Anything more you know about the meeting?”
He shook his head. He folded the bills quickly and shoved them into the pocket of his shorts, glancing once more at the house.
“Keep your ears open,” I said. I held up the wallet. “It’s not empty yet.”
“Big wheel,” he said scornfully. “I used to pay twenty-five bucks for a dinner.”
Used to — Used to — The town was full of used-to-be’s. I headed right for the West Side Station.
Sergeant Dugan was out working, but Captain Apoyan was in. I gave him the information I’d just received from Snip.
“Who told you this?” he asked me.
I shook my head and said nothing.
He frowned, annoyed. Then he ticked them off on his fingers; “Delamater, Golde, Mueller, Galbini.” He paused. “And Al Martino. Have you run across him yet?”
“No. Has the Department?”
He shook his head. “And we had good reason to believe he’s involved.”
“I heard he handled the bet for Galbini.”
Apoyan looked even more annoyed. “You hear a lot, don’t you? How come we don’t hear it from you?”
“You just did, Captain. But I’d like to ask you why you didn’t tell me Galbini had bet on Mueller? You could have told me that the night Sergeant Dugan dragged me down here.”
“We’re not obligated to tell you anything,” he said coldly.
His annoyance must have been contagious. Because I had it, now. I sat there glaring at him.
He returned the glare for a few seconds and then something close to a smile warmed his broad face. “A paisan and a purple-foot,” he said. “I guess we’re too much alike to get along, aren’t we?”
“I need you,” I said frankly. “But I think you need me, too. I play it a little cuter than the Department man, but you can call any number of officers downtown I’ve worked with successfully.”
“I already have,” he said. “Okay, Joe; you work your way and we’ll work our way. Together. Now, the way I see it, you’re the man to check into this summit meeting in Delamater’s gym.”
“Why?”
“Because none of them are men who are impressed by the law, except maybe Mueller. The chances are they might confide a few things to you. But nothing, I’m sure, to us.”
He had a point. My only quest was for a murderer. The police were almost obligated to pick up principals in a case who were guilty of something less than the murder. I wasn’t.
“Okay,” I agreed. And asked, “You got a file on Martino here?”
“I just phoned downtown,” he said. “I’ll have it soon.”
I hesitated and then said, “He was right outside here, in front of your station, yesterday morning.”
Apoyan looked started. “Who told you that?”
I hesitated once more, and then said, “He was waiting for somebody you were questioning — Mary Loper.”
“Oh?” Then he smiled. “Did she tell you that last night?”
I stared at him.
He continued to smile. “You ought to know her pretty well by now.”
I thought of the Department car I had seen in front of her place. I said quietly, “Am I under suspicion, too, Captain?”
“Of course not, Joe,” he said with false geniality. “We only want to protect you. Think of us as your watchful father.”
“I don’t need ten thousand fathers,” I told him. “I’m a big boy now.”
“You sure as hell are,” he admitted, and waved a dismissal. “Go see Delamater and the others.”
There was no room to park on the street near Barney’s; I turned off Olympic and went around the corner to his parking lot. One of the doors near his office opened onto this lot.
There were about fifteen cars on this lot but only one of special significance. Right next to the double door leading into the gym, a gray Bentley sedan was parked.
I walked over to check the registration slip strapped to the steering shaft housing. Business must be good; the car was Barney’s.
I went past the door that led to the health studio and through the double door that led to the gym. There were no signs of reconstruction work in progress.
In his office, Barney said, “You again?” He didn’t smile.
“The police been here?” I asked.
“Not today. Why?”
“That car of yours out on the lot — that’s the kind that was parked near the apartment where Gus was killed.”
“That’s not only the kind, that’s the car,” he admitted. “But it was gone long before Gus ever got there.”
“How do you know when Gus got there?”
“I don’t,” he said, “but I know it was after the fight. And the poker game I was playing in broke up before the fight. Most of us went to the fight.”
“Was Gus in the game?”
He snorted. “Before a big fight? Of course not!” “Who was?”
“None of your damned business.”
“Al Martino, maybe?”
His eyes were blank. “Who’s he?”
“You know who he is. He was here, at midnight, three nights ago. He was here and so were you. And so were Galbini, Mueller, and Doc Golde.”
Barney was motionless in his chair. His breathing seemed heavier. He said nothing.
“Barney,” I said agreeably, “we used to be sort of harassed friends. When did you get the idea you couldn’t trust me?”
“When you got on my back and into my business. You can’t prove that, about that gang being here. And what if they were?”
“It should make interesting news to the Boxing Commission. Especially with Al Martino here. And a midnight meeting. What was it, a seance?”
“Maybe it was a meeting of the Joe Puma Fan Club,” he answered hoarsely. “And maybe there wasn’t any meeting at all. Funny the cops didn’t ask me about that. Or is this some private information you got?”
“That’s the way I work, privately.” I took a breath. “Do you want me to go? Or have you decided to become a citizen?”
For a second, I thought I saw indecision on his face. But he said, “You can go any time. Why don’t you bother the others, if you think they were here? Why don’t you ask Al Martino if he was here?”
“As soon as he comes out of hiding, I intend to ask him.”
Barney smiled coldly. “I’ll bet. Who the hell do you think he’s hiding from — you?”
“Probably not. But when you see him, you tell him I’m looking for him. My office and my home addresses are in the phone book.”
He looked at his desk top. He looked up and his face was softer. “Joe, your size gives you some strange ideas. Get smart and don’t tangle with Al Martino.”
“I don’t take advice from the gutless, Barney,” I told him. “I’ll leave now and you can crawl back into your hole.” I started for the door.
“Joe — ” he called, and I turned.
“I’m telling you as a friend,” he said quietly, “as a former, half-assed friend — Vegas is getting stronger in this town every day. Don’t mess with those boys. They’ve got national tie-ups.”
“So have we, Barney,” I said. “One’s the Declaration of Independence and the other is the Constitution. And you tell Al I’m taking full advantage of the Second Amendment.”
He frowned. “What’s that about?”
“About the right of the people to keep and bear arms. You tell that two-bit hoodlum my arm is a .38 and I know which end to point.”
“Oh God,” he said, “dear God — ”
It was more prayer than curse and he was right, of course.
I was in one hell of a mood and it didn’t improve. Because, after lunch, I spent one of the most frustrating afternoons of my life.
At the hotel where Mueller and Golde were staying, I was told that Mueller was in Palm Springs for a few days,
but Doc Golde could be reached at his broker’s office. It wasn’t far; I drove over.
He had just left, a girl there told me, but could be found at a bar only a block and a half away. I arrived at the bar in time to learn that Golde had consumed one drink, found no gin rummy players present and gone on to a bar farther downtown.
Enough of that; I never did catch up with him.
From downtown to the Lopez residence above Westwood is a long trip and heavily trafficked. But maybe, if I got them together, and they could be convinced of the discretion of my investigation, I could learn more than either was likely to tell me alone.
I didn’t get them together or separately. Nobody was home.
Barney uncooperative, Galbini dead, Mueller in Palm Springs, Doc Golde elusive, Martino not to be found — where next?
Perhaps, with the new knowledge I had picked up on her late husband, Mrs. Galbini could fill in some gaps. I drove over there.
You guessed it; she wasn’t home.
I drove back to the office to type up the report of this fruitless, maddening day. The same pink clouds filled the Western sky as last evening’s; the hills were just as beautiful.
But my mood was murderous.
In my office, I typed it up, hunt and peck, listening to the sound of Doctor Dale Graves’s drill next door and smelling the carbon monoxide that came through the open window from the street below.
I have a pretty fair twenty-four-hour memory and I managed an almost verbatim transcript of the dialogues. All my conversation with Mary Loper that could be construed as investigation I included but nothing about where I had spent the night. There was no point in making Mrs. Galbini jealous.
I finished, making two carbon copies, one for Apoyan. I sat there, waiting for the sound of Dr. Graves’s drill to stop, sulking and moody.
I heard footsteps in the hall outside and hoped that, if it was another Graves’s patient, he’d need extraction and not drilling. It wasn’t a Graves’s patient; it was a Puma visitor.
Palm Springs tan and Sunset Strip tailoring. Manicured nails, bench-made shoes, glossy black hair, and confident smile. About a hundred and ninety pounds of contemporary hoodlum.
“My name,” he said, “is Al Martino and I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
“I sure as hell have,” I told him. “Sit down.”
He stood a few feet from the far side of the desk, still smiling. “I’m comfortable the way I am, thank you. What did you want?”
The faint odor of his cologne drifted over. I said, “I want the answers to some questions.”
His beautifully lashed brown eyes surveyed me sleepily. “And who the hell are you to ask me questions?”
“I’m a citizen, Martino,” I explained, “a citizen licensed by the state to ask questions. One of the questions concerns a meeting you and some others attended in Barney Delamater’s gym a few midnights ago.”
“Who told you about that?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter. I — ”
He held up a hand. “I asked you a question, peeper.”
The redness in my mind. I kept my voice low. “I answered it. I’ll ask the questions.”
Wonder in his voice. “I heard about you, but I didn’t believe it. Paisan, you’ve got to be kidding. Even a moron like you must realize I’m not bush league.”
“Would you get downwind from me?” I asked him. “Your perfume is making me excited.”
Color in his face and then it drained. He stood like a statue. Adrenalin moved into my blood stream as I held his glare.
He said, “Some guys won’t learn the bright way, will they?” His hand started to move.
I said, “If you’re going for a gun, don’t. Because there’s a .38 in my hand, complete with hollow point bullets. It’s aimed at your belly.”
There wasn’t any gun in my hand, but my hands were below the top of the desk and his body was in line with the kneehole in the desk.
“I don’t carry a gun,” he said. “I’m big enough so I don’t need to carry a gun.”
I put my empty hands on the desk. “Just a little bluff. Scared you, though, didn’t it?”
He shook his head. “Listen carefully. You’ve already learned too damned much. Forget what you’ve learned. I suppose you think that little tramp Sal used to shack with can give you the picture on me. Both of you are on damned thin ice and — ”
I stood up. I came around the desk and put a hand on his shoulder. “What little tramp?”
He tensed, but his voice was calm. “That Loper broad.”
I tightened the grip of my left hand on his shoulder and threw the right hand into his belly. He jackknifed, grunting sickly, and went down to both knees on the floor.
He managed to whisper, “You won’t live twenty-four hours, now.”
I shifted my left-hand grip to his throat and pulled him to his feet. I backhanded him, and said, “You didn’t mean ‘tramp,’ did you? It was a slip of the tongue.”
“Twenty-four hours,” he repeated.
I tightened my grip on his throat, and he clawed at me, choking and whimpering. I dragged him over to the desk and picked up the phone. I asked the operator downstairs to get me the West Side Station as Martino’s knees began to sag and his struggling grew weaker.
I reached Apoyan and told him, “I’m holding Al Martino in my office for you. You can pick him up or maybe they’d send a man over from Headquarters here.”
Headquarters here was Beverly Hills, a separate municipality, surrounded by L.A.
Apoyan said, “Hang on, Puma. Somebody will come damned quick.”
Martino was limp, now. I dropped him and went over to get a pitcher of water to throw in his face.
chapter six
IT WAS A CATHOLIC HOSPITAL AND THE SISTER AT THE DESK IN the lobby told me softly that Captain Apoyan was in the small room visible to my right.
Apoyan was in there alone. He asked, “Who do you think you are, the Avenger? What happened?”
“I hit him in the belly,” I answered. “That shouldn’t put him into the hospital.”
“It should if he had ulcers,” Apoyan said. “And he had ulcers.” He paused. “And no gun. You’re in trouble, Puma, and I’m not sure I want to go to bat for you.”
I said nothing, though many words came to my mind.
“He can hardly whisper,” Apoyan went on. “Did you hit him in the Adam’s apple, too?”
“I held him by the throat,” I said. “I was holding him for you. Jeepers, I had to hold him by something, didn’t I?”
“Cut it out,” he said. “Cut out the stinking whimsy!”
“Who’s up there with him?” I asked.
“Dugan and Ellerbe. It’s — wasted time. His attorney’s on the way, one of the biggest in town.”
“Natch. And when he gets through double-talking you, you’ll be glad I got my licks in early. And as for you going to bat for me, when did you ever?”
“Easy, now,” he warned me.
“Easy, hell! You give me enough rope so I can stir up some action and get the rats out of hiding. And then when I’ve accomplished what you hoped I would, your cunning Armenian mind goes to work and you start playing politics.”
“A bigot, too, eh?” he said quietly.
“Why not? Everybody else is. Let’s be honest with each other, just for ten seconds. Captain, I don’t give a damn if you go to bat for me or not. Your batting average doesn’t impress me. I’ll call Mrs. Galbini right now, from here, and tell her I don’t want the case.”
“Sure you will. And throw away a hundred a day? That, I want to see.”
There was a phone in the room and a phone book. I looked up Mrs. Galbini’s number, picked up the phone — and Apoyan said wearily, “Put it down, hothead. Nobody’s impressed.”
I replaced the phone in its cradle and looked at him.
“Damn you,” he said. “You can’t do anything with dignity. You can’t ever operate like an officer of the law, can you?”
“No,” I said. “How many officers did you have out looking for Martino?”
A moment’s silence, and then a tall and dignified man came into the room, with a very impressive manner and a sonorous voice.
“Captain Apoyan?”
Apoyan nodded.
“My name is Sylvester Thornton. I’m here to represent Albert Martino.”
Apoyan nodded again.
Thornton frowned, took a breath and looked at me. “Mr. Puma, I believe?” “Right.”
“You — attacked my client.”
“Not really, Mr. Thornton. I tried to — I mean — Oh hell, I don’t know how to say it.” I put on my embarrassed face and stared moodily at the floor.
“Perhaps,” he said coldly, “you’ll know how to say it in court.”
“I suppose,” I said sadly. “Gosh, I hope there won’t be any reporters around.” I looked up humbly to meet his stare.
“Reporters? What are you talking about, Mr. Puma?”
“It would embarrass me, Mr. Thornton, explaining in front of all those people how Al Martino came into my office, smelling of cheap perfume, and made me an indecent proposal. And then, when I tried to repel his advances — ”
“That’s absurd!” he interrupted. “Are you telling me, Mr. Puma, that you’re going into court and perjure yourself?”
“Why, Mr. Thornton,” I said, in shock, “I would no more think of committing perjury than you would of accepting blood money from hoodlums.”
Silence all around while I stared at Thornton, he at me, and Captain Apoyan at both of us.
And then I said, “You know damned well, you cheap shyster, that Al Martino wouldn’t dream of taking me to court. He’s got his own court, his jury, and his judge. And he’s got you.”
Thornton said, “You can take back that shyster remark or I’ll guarantee you’ll go into court.” “You can go to hell,” I said. Apoyan said, “Joe, be reasonable.”
I shook my head without looking at him, holding Sylvester Thornton’s glare. “I’m calling this shyster’s bluff. I don’t think he’s ever been investigated by a first-class operator.”
Thornton said to me, “You’ll live to regret this.” He looked at Apoyan. “May I see my client now?”
The Hundred Dollar Girl Page 5