The Hundred Dollar Girl

by William Campbell Gault

  Apoyan nodded and Thornton went out.

  Apoyan said, “You’re absolutely crazy, 100 per cent.”

  “About 98 per cent,” I answered. I sat on a chintz upholstered wicker love seat and lighted a cigarette. “I hate hoodlums, Captain, even when they get their law degrees at Harvard.”

  “Hate, hate, hate — ” he said impatiently. “Is that all that ever motivates you?”

  I smiled at him. “Of course not. Basically, I’m a lover. I hate the nonlovers.” I sighed. “And there are so damned many of them.”

  “And you’re a bigot,” he said.

  I smiled again. “Only around you. You’re so sensitive about it, it brings out my worst.”

  “Your best is bad enough,” he said. “I’d better go up and see how the boys are making out.”

  A pointless trip — The boys would get just exactly as many answers out of Albert Martino as they would get out of the bed he was lying in. But they had to make the effort.

  Apoyan hadn’t asked me to wait though he probably expected I would. Hospitals made me nervous; I went out and down the dark street to my car.

  And where now? Patagonia might be a good choice as soon as Al’s friends heard the bad news. Tibet, Tasmania? I headed for the home of Mrs. Gus Galbini, widow.

  I was still embarrassed by my adolescent display of violence in the office. Martino had caught me at the end of a bad day and said the wrong thing. The remark about Mary Loper had been the last straw, and why should I value her virtue so highly? I couldn’t rationalize it; the beast in me had won because I hated hoodlums.

  My pa had always told me it was all right to hate anything but people. You should never hate people, my pa had told me, only the evil in them. And in me. He was probably right but I still hated hoodlums. I didn’t think of them as people.

  It was after my dinnertime and I was hungry but I continued toward my destination.

  The Galbini house was on one of those wandering streets that twist back on themselves in the Riviera section of the Palisades.

  Mrs. Galbini opened the door and the smell of cooking came out to make my stomach rumble.

  “Close the door,” I said. “The smell of that pizza is killing me.”

  She smiled. “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s my second greatest weakness.”

  “Come in,” she said. “Come in and report and then we’ll eat.”

  I came into a dim entry hall, through a dark living room to a brightly lighted family room in view of the open kitchen. I sat at a glass and wrought iron table in there and she brought me a can of beer and sat down across from me.

  I gave her the story of my day and watched the uneasiness grow in her face and the fright come finally to her eyes.

  When I had finished, she said quietly, “It’s funny, but I never thought of Al Martino as a — a threat. But he must know the same people Bugsy did.”

  “Probably. Did you know about that midnight meeting in Delamater’s gym?”

  She shook her head and stood up slowly. “That pizza is about ready. Another can of beer?”

  “With the pizza, please,” I said. “If I had the beer first, I’d get drunk.”

  She smiled suddenly as though considering the potential of a drunken Puma (a defenseless Puma?) and then went to get the pizza and more beer.

  Into my cavernous stomach the pizza went, lulling the angry juices, bringing back my strength, brightening the world. It was first-class pizza.

  “Are you Italian?” I asked her.

  “Lithuanian,” she answered. “I learned to cook all these things for Gus. He loved to eat, that man.” A tear moved down her cheek.

  In my office, she had been poised and adjusted; this new melancholy surprised me.

  “I gave him a base,” she explained. “I gave him a base to operate from and let him have his freedom and he was never cheap with me. He wasn’t such a bad guy as you might be thinking.”

  I made no comment.

  Silence for a few moments, and then she said, “That business about Terry not being home, that phony alibi his wife gave the police — are you going to tell them?”

  “Not yet.”

  She looked at me thoughtfully. “Why not?”

  “I — try to protect all the people I question unless I’m sure their secrets impede the investigation. It’s just a general rule I follow in order to encourage their confidence in me.”

  “Especially with women?” she asked.

  “With anyone,” I said. “Women seem to need protection more than men.”

  Another period of vocal quiet while we attacked the pizza, the crisp, cold lettuce and the nutritious beer.

  As she was pouring my coffee, she said, “You know who I keep thinking of? Terry Lopez. He had a juvenile police record, a real nasty one. But I suppose that’s not open to investigation?”

  “I might be able to get it. Violence, you mean? Gang fights?”

  “He put a boy into the hospital for two months. Cut him up with a knife. Twice, he was caught with marijuana on him. Of course, that was some time ago.”

  “Did he and Gus quarrel much?”

  “Enough.” She sipped her coffee and stared at me doubtfully. “Do you think it’s wise to continue the investigation, after what happened in your office?”

  “It’s not wise, maybe, but it’s profitable. For me.” I smiled at her. “I’ve already got Al as mad at me as he’s likely to get. And I’d hate to think a puke like that could make me back down.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of him,” she said. “I was thinking of his — his friends.”

  “We can’t be sure he has any,” I argued. “Bugsy did, we know, but maybe Al’s a lone wolf.”

  She shook her head gravely. “I doubt it.”

  “So do I. But I hope he is. I can’t fight everybody.” I finished my coffee. “Thanks for the meal. Could I help with the dishes?”

  “I have a dishwasher, thank you. Do you — have to go?”

  I met her gaze steadily and lied evenly. “I do. I have to meet a stoolie in about half an hour and it’s quite a ways from here. Anything else you can tell me before I go?”

  “Nothing.” She looked at the tablecloth. “Good luck.” I went out feeling like a semi-heel. There had been some invitation in her voice and I had no appointment with a stoolie. Perhaps, if last night hadn’t happened…. I was no superman.

  It was eight-thirty, too early to go home. I had learned a few things since this morning, but none of them fitted into a pattern that made any significant picture.

  The moon was high and yellow, the night breeze warm. I turned onto Sunset above the golf course and rode with the traffic heading toward town.

  By chance, perhaps, or maybe by subconscious design, the capricious Plymouth turned off on the fringe of Brentwood and headed into an apartment area.

  Here was the six-unit apartment house Gus had owned; in one of those units he had died. And right in front of the building the gray Bentley sedan was parked.

  Did Barney have another poker game going or was it romance? I parked the Plymouth around the corner and walked back.

  It was a two-story building, U-shaped, an apartment on each side of the court and one at the rear on both floors. The only apartment that didn’t have a name in the mail slot downstairs was Apartment D. I walked up to see which one that was and came back down to see if there were any lights on there.

  It was dark. Romance? It had to be; who plays poker in the dark?

  And then it occurred to me, as it often does, that I was overlooking the obvious. There were five apartments in the building that weren’t vacant.

  I ran over the names slowly but nothing registered. I ran over them again and one name rang a small bell. Veller, now where had I heard that before? Marie Veller….

  It came to me, then, Snip lying on the grass that first time I’d gone to see him. I could hear him saying, “Galbini? He’s the bastard that ruined Joey Veller. Joey should have been featherweight champ —
”

  Joey Veller, who had beat the champ in Mexico, and where was he now? It came to me, he was dead, killed in a car crash. He had been driving and he had been drunk.

  And what was Marie to him?

  I knocked on her door.

  She was dark and small (Filipino?) but not shapeless. She looked at my unimpressive (to her) bulk and up to my face. “Yes?”

  “Is Barney here?” I asked.

  “Barney?”

  “Mr. Delamater.”

  “Oh — Yes. Come in.” She held the door wide.

  Barney Delamater sat on a turquoise davenport in the small living room, his bald head glistening under the table lamp next to him, a drink in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. There was no other glass in sight; evidently Marie Veller had not been drinking.

  Barney sighed but said nothing.

  “I found Al Martino,” I told him. “He’s in the hospital now.”

  “So I heard,” Barney said. “What do you want with me?” “Some answers.”

  He shook his head and sipped his drink.

  I looked at Marie Veller, standing quietly near the door. “Was Joey Veller a relative of yours?” I asked her.

  “My brother,” she said quietly. “What is your name? Who are you?”

  “My name is Joe Puma, Miss Veller. I’m investigating the death of Gus Galbini.” Then, for Barney to overhear. “He was Joey’s manager, wasn’t he?”

  I turned, as I said that, and saw the surprise in Barney’s eyes. Was this a line of inquiry he feared?

  Marie Veller said, “Yes, he was. I kept house for Joey. He didn’t leave much. So Mr. Galbini let me have this apartment.” She paused. “Free. No rent.”

  I turned my back on Barney to face her. “Mr. Galbini has been good to you, hasn’t he?”

  She nodded.

  “Did the police question you about what happened?” She nodded again.

  “And did you tell them about the free rent,” I asked, “and about being Joey Veller’s sister?”

  She shook her head. “They didn’t ask.” She looked past me, at Barney, and back. “Should I have told them?”

  “It might help. I’m sure you want the police to find Mr. Galbini’s killer.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I want that very much.”

  I took a breath. “But Mr. Delamater doesn’t. So be very careful about what you tell him.”

  From behind me, Barney said quickly, “That’s a lie, Puma. You know it’s a lie.”

  I turned to face him. I looked at him but didn’t comment.

  “I’m here for the same reason you are,” he said. “I want to know who killed Gus, too.”

  “That’s hard to believe, Barney. It’s too much of a change.”

  “What the hell do I care about what you believe?” he said. “You’re not my keeper.”

  “I could be an ally,” I told him quietly. “You could tell me about the midnight meeting and I could tell you what I’ve learned and maybe we’d each have more of the picture.”

  “I don’t want any friends,” he said, “who put Al Martino into the hospital. I want to stay as far from you as I can, Joe.” His smile was purely facial. “Nothing personal. I just don’t want to be so close your blood could splash on me.”

  I stared at him until he looked away. I turned to Miss Veller and said, “If you remember something you think the police should know, the man to see is Captain Apoyan at the West Los Angeles Station. It would be in your best interests to talk to no one but a police officer. Thank you and good night.”

  I nodded in my courtly way and left without looking again at Barney Delamater. I went out to the Plymouth and waited.

  In about half an hour, the lights of the Bentley around the corner went on. When the gray car passed the intersection where I was parked, I swung in a U-turn and let him get a two-block lead.

  It isn’t much of a trip from Brentwood to Westwood. Both of them are simply realtors’ designations; they are part of the municipality called Los Angeles. Barney drove the sleek gray sedan to the small, expensive home in the hills above Westwood, the home of the Lopezes.

  He was there for about thirty-five minutes, while I listened to the radio in my car and tried to guess at Barney’s real motivation for his sudden interest in the murder.

  In his office, I’d received the impression that he didn’t even want to think about Galbini’s death. He still appeared to be as frightened of Al Martino as he was when I first mentioned Al’s name. That would indicate he wasn’t honestly investigating a murder that would implicate Al. And Martino had been at the midnight meeting in Barney’s gym.

  When he came out again, I followed once more, all the way to Santa Monica, all the way to his home. The garage door went up automatically as the Bentley broke the beam; it was closing again as I drove past.

  The Plymouth seemed to steer herself again. This time, she headed home.

  I thought of the dead, Galbini, Veller, and Bugsy Martin — one murder, one accident, one legal execution, all of them equally dead, however. We are all dying, some of us slower than others.

  The old prescience again…. Driving into my block, an uneasiness moved through me and my weariness went away as I looked up toward my apartment.

  Nothing suspicious there; my eyes searched the street for a strange car. There was none on the street in front of the apartment.

  But on the nearest cross street, close enough to the corner to command a view of my street, a dark Cad De Ville was parked. Two men sat in the front seat. From there, they could watch the front entrance to my apartment building and the garages in the rear.

  I drove past and turned at the next corner. I thought of going back to get the license number, but decided it was too risky. I drove wearily on, to the nearest motel with the vacancy sign glowing. I had forgotten to wear my gun.

  chapter seven

  IN THE WESTERN VISTA MOTEL A TOILET GROWLED IN THE unit north of me and the occupant of the cell to the south was watching TV, a Western, without the benefit of his obviously needed hearing aid. Outside, car doors slammed and from beyond the parking area came the buzz of Wilshire traffic.

  On the hard bed I tossed and called myself a fool. My temper and my trade were not compatible; I was constantly alienating the wrong people. When would I get wise? Hoodlums owned the world; why couldn’t I join them?

  And then a thought came to me, the first thought that should come to any solid citizen but it hadn’t occurred to me until now.

  I rose and went to the phone and got the West Side Station. Apoyan or Marty Dugan weren’t working tonight, but I talked with a sergeant I knew and who knew my status on this case.

  I told him, “It looked to me like a couple of hoods were waiting for me to come home, tonight, so I’m at a motel. Maybe the prowl car could roust ‘em a little.” I told him which corner to check. “A dark Cadillac, black or blue.”

  “I’m going over that way, myself,” he said, “and they’d better have a reason for being there.”

  I went back to bed feeling more like a citizen.

  The morning was overcast, with a tinge of smog. The morning Times, courtesy of the management, had a lot of words on the murder, but no new information.

  Before going out for breakfast, I phoned the West Side Station.

  Apoyan said maliciously, “The boys tell me you came crying for help, last night.”

  “I asked for the protection that all citizens are entitled to. Who were the mugs?”

  “I haven’t seen the report. I’ll get it and phone you back. Are you home or at the office?”

  “I’m at the Western Vista Motel,” I told him. “I didn’t think it was sensible to go home last night.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, boy! Puma hiding! I’ll call you right back.”

  Wise guy. He had his badge and ten thousand brothers; why should he know fear? A hoodlum would need to be demented to attack a cop in this town. Up to now.

  Outside, the car doors slammed and starters whined as the
tourists got ready for the road and the philanderers for their offices. An active hot-pillow trade in these Los Angeles motels. A town of emotional, rootless, adulterous citizens.

  I went to the window and watched them leave. Across the court, lonely and elegant, a dark blue Cadillac was parked. It was a replica of the car I had seen last night.

  The ring of my phone startled me. I picked it up shakily and it was Apoyan. He said, “Their names are Manny and Jack. They’re cousins. Their last name is Lefkowics. They told the officer they were counting traffic on that corner last night. They plan to buy that corner, for a restaurant, if the traffic warrants it.”

  “Who counts traffic for a restaurant? For a filling station, yes. But a restaurant?”

  “The Lefkowicses do, apparently.”

  “Any record?”

  “On Manny, assault. But no convictions. On Jack, for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. No conviction.” “They must have a good lawyer.”

  “The best — your friend and mine, and Al Martino’s — Sylvester Thornton.” A pause. “Joe, you’re wearing a gun, aren’t you?”

  “Not right now. If I had been, last night, I wouldn’t have had to sleep in this bowling alley. Do you think these mugs have a syndicate tie-up?”

  “I doubt it. Joe, you wear a gun from now on.”

  “I promise. How about the license number on that Cad?”

  He gave it to me, and I looked out the window at the car parked across the court. I couldn’t make out the digits, but I didn’t need to. A fat man and his fatter wife were now putting their expensive luggage into the back of the car.

  I went home to shave and strap on the .38. From there, I went to the office.

  It could have been my sleepless night, but I doubted it. It was probably the remembrance of the Lefkowics cousins in their big car. Whatever the reason, I was jittery and depressed as I climbed the stairs to my second-floor office.

  There was no indication of my office door having been jimmied; some evil person either had a key or a talent for lock-picking.

  Because there was evidence in that quiet room that a threatening visitor had come and gone, leaving his ugly, furry calling card behind.

  A dead rat was lying in the exact center of my desk.