“You’re being cynical, Captain. You believe her, don’t you?”
“Almost. I checked the motel before I almost believed her, though. Terry Lopez still isn’t completely off the hook, not to my way of thinking.”
I said nothing.
“And neither is your client, Mrs. Galbini,” he said.
“Why would she hire me, if she was guilty, Captain?”
“To find out if we were getting on her trail. She asked me to recommend a man, didn’t she? That could mean she wanted a man who had access to our records and our lines of investigation.”
Again, I said nothing.
“What are you so quiet about?” he asked.
“Captain, I’ve been sitting here, realizing how inefficient I am. It’s comforting to learn that the Department, with all those men, is just as frustrated.”
He used a vulgar word and stared at the floor.
“Where next?” I asked him quietly. “We’re nowhere, aren’t we?”
He rubbed his neck and didn’t answer. He would never admit defeat, not Captain Apoyan.
“That restaurant where the poker was played,” I said, “do you know the address offhand?”
He told it to me, and asked, “What can you do there?”
“Have a cup of coffee and dawdle. See if somebody gets nervous and makes a move.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand you. Among people like that your life is not important. You haven’t any badge to protect you and you’ve got the kind of insolence that makes enemies. You sure love to live dangerously, don’t you?”
“That must be it,” I answered. “I think you’ve hit it, Captain.”
“Hit what?”
“The reason why I stay in this ridiculous business; the danger adds spice to a dull life.”
“It’s the women that adds the spice for you, not the danger,” he corrected me. “Are you really going out there?”
I nodded.
“If you get in a jam, use my name,” he said. “If anyone wants to question your authority, you have them call me.”
“Friends again,” I said. “How sweet!”
He looked at me sourly and stood up. “And try not to get lippy, for a change. Your mouth is your worst enemy.”
I nodded and smiled and he went out. It was now three o’clock and I remembered my promise to Mary. I phoned her and let it ring ten times, but there was no answer.
Back to my busy two-door; back to the road.
It was a big restaurant, a low building with a shake roof and enormous parking lot on the Coast Highway, near Malibu. Strange that I hadn’t heard the sound of the waves when I’d been brought here. If I’d been brought here.
I didn’t drive onto the lot; I drove along the asphalt road that serviced the shopping center adjoining the restaurant and found another road leading behind the restaurant. I parked.
This was my dead-end street. This was the place, I felt sure. I got out of the car and walked up the alley. The garbage cans were there and so was the lattice-hidden steel door.
I left the car where it was, on the shopping center parking lot, and walked around the restaurant to the front door.
There was a stack of racing forms on the tobacco counter next to the cashier’s register; I bought one and went to a corner booth where I had a view of every table and the entrance.
It is difficult to read a racing form thoughtfully, but I tried.
The waitress came; I ordered coffee without looking up. She muttered something that sounded like “horses, horses, horses” and went to get my coffee.
She brought it; I took out a pencil and paper and began handicapping. Simply protective coverage. In my sly way, I was casing the joint.
There was no face in sight I recognized. About half of them looked like tourists, most of them drinking, not eating. Through the front windows, I could see a few whitecaps and some charter boats coming in from their day’s fishing.
Quiet and peaceful in the place as I made meaningless figures on clean paper and drank the excellent coffee.
The first face I knew was a rather distinguished one. A tall man in a highly garish sport coat (for him) came in with a blonde — the good Samaritan who had ministered to me in my office.
It was a revealing combination because the tall man was the attorney I had tangled with at the hospital, the eminent Sylvester Thornton. He paused for a moment to exchange pleasantries with the cashier, which would indicate he was no stranger here.
The blonde was obviously bored with this dialogue; her glance moved around the room, settled on me, moved on, and came back.
I waved at her.
She paused for a second and then doubtfully returned my wave.
Sylvester caught her wave, glanced my way, stared at me for two full seconds and then said something to her. She shrugged.
They walked over toward a booth; I gave my attention to the racing form.
In less than a minute, a shadow fell across my digits and I looked up into the grave face of the barrister.
“You know Miss Chapman, do you?” he asked me.
“Never met her,” I answered. “Not that I remember.”
He flexed a jaw muscle. “Your first visit here?”
“Only to this part of it. I spent some time upstairs yesterday.”
He looked at the racing form and back at the booth, where the blonde was ordering. Then, frowning, “Could I sit down for a minute?”
“Be my guest.”
He sat down and took a few seconds to compose his thoughts. Then, “According to your own statement, and other information I have, you are currently engaged in investigating the death of a Mr. Gus Galbini.”
I nodded.
“Al Martino had nothing to do with that, believe me,” he said earnestly.
“Then he has nothing to fear from me,” I said. “So why are you concerned?”
“Because,” he answered, “your investigation constantly turns his way. Last night is a case in point. Mr. Delamater told me a little while ago that you knew he played poker here last night.”
“That doesn’t mean I was investigating Martino. It could mean I was investigating Barney.”
“I don’t think that’s the way it is. Mr. Puma, you have an unusually successful record for a private investigator. You enjoy exceptional police cooperation. Frankly, Mr. Martino wants no trouble with you. But if you pursue the unreasonable course you have followed lately, you are going to run into — resistance. And there is no need to. Albert Martino had nothing to do with the death of Galbini.”
“Counselor,” I said reasonably, “look at it my way for a second. The woman who could have been the key witness in the murder of Galbini was threatened by a pair of Martino stooges. That same night, the woman, Marie Veller, is killed. Some time ago, another witness was killed by Al’s brother and the brother was executed for it. How can you sit there and expect me to take your word on the innocence of Bugsy Martino’s hoodlum brother?”
“Hoodlum?” he said. “And shyster — You use strong language, Mr. Puma. What has Mr. Martino ever been convicted of?”
“Thanks to you — nothing.”
He was silent. I looked past him and saw the blonde digging into a double martini. Her eyes met mine over the rim of the glass. I winked.
Sylvester Thornton said heavily, “You are being extremely stupid, even for a man of your limited mental capability.
You are wasting your client’s money and plunging foolishly toward disaster.”
I shook my head. “All I’m doing at the moment, barrister, is figuring a horse for tomorrow. The rest is your imagination. Or maybe it’s your conscience kicking back to life.”
He stood up. “You are doing yourself and your client a serious disservice by not taking my advice.”
“Possibly. Give my regards to Miss Chapman.”
“Her name is not Chapman,” he said. He nodded and went back to her.
Tricky Sylvester Thornton, using a false name, trying to make a
tricked witness out of me. I was glad I hadn’t told him I knew her when he’d asked.
The waitress came back to ask, “More coffee?”
I shook my head. “I think I’ll have a drink of something stronger. How about a Scotch mist?”
She nodded, paused, and said, “You know that’s yesterday’s racing form, don’t you?”
“Sure. I’m not really a horse player.”
“I figured you might not be,” she admitted. “You look too well fed. Scotch mist coming up.”
When she came back, I asked her, “Do you know the blonde with Mr. Thornton?”
“I don’t even know Mr. Thornton,” she answered. “Who’s he?”
“The one with the loud sport coat sitting across from the blonde in the white dress.”
She turned and looked at them and back at me. “He comes in quite a lot, but I didn’t know his name. That blonde gets a hundred a night, more if you’re drunk. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m a decent young man. I simply wanted to know her name.”
“Everybody calls her Mike,” she said. “I don’t know any other name for her. She in trouble? You a cop?”
“She’s not in trouble, so far as I know. I’m a world-famous movie producer and I’m looking for new faces, that’s all.”
“You’re a cop,” she said, and went away.
It was restful, sitting here: I didn’t want to leave. I thought back to yesterday’s blind trip and realized how wrong I had been in assuming they had brought me back to Brentwood by traveling west. Those Lefkowics cousins were pros. And so was that Sylvester Thornton.
How long would they stay under the dominance of a bumbler like Al Martino? Was there a crack in that relationship I could widen?
I finished the Scotch mist and ordered another.
The blonde was nibbling her second double martini and listening with what looked like boredom to the monologue of Sylvester Thornton.
Another familiar face came through the entrance doorway. It was the pock-marked cousin, Manny. He talked for a few seconds with the cashier and headed for Thornton’s booth.
He stood next to the table a few seconds there, talking with Thornton, and then must have been told about me. Because he glanced quickly my way, looked back at Thornton and nodded.
I sipped my drink and put away the paper I’d been scribbling on. I was lighting a cigarette when he came to my table.
“You,” he said, and sat down across from me. “What now?”
“It’s a public place, isn’t it? I stopped in for a drink.”
He shook his head. “You’re crowding me, Puma. Thanks for keeping your promise, but you’re getting pushy again.”
“Nerves?” I asked him. “What harm can I do, sitting here, drinking?”
He expelled his breath and stared at me. The waitress came over; he ordered a bottle of eastern beer and continued to stare at me.
Then, “One question — did the police learn about the game here last night from you?”
I hesitated, and shook my head.
“I figured they didn’t,” he admitted. “They followed Lopez, right? That’s how they learned about the game?”
“You said ‘one question,’ “ I reminded him. “That makes three.”
“Okay.” He looked at my glass. “What the hell’s that?”
“Scotch and crushed ice. I’ve got high-class tastes.”
He chuckled. “Puma, I should really knock you off, but it would bother me. What makes you so ornery?”
“I’m not. I’m stubborn and single-minded, but I get along with most people, most decent people.”
“You sure get along with the cops,” he said. “That’s unusual in your racket.”
“One question,” I said. “Does Martino really think he can build a nothing like Lopez into a contender?”
His face stiffened. “Who told you that?”
“I answered your one question. It’s your turn.”
“All right, all right. Yeh, he does. And he can.”
“Is that why he had Gus killed, so he could get Lopez away from him?”
“He didn’t have Gus killed. He don’t know who did. He could have bought Lopez’ contract from Galbini for five hundred bucks. He wouldn’t have a man killed for a lousy five hundred.”
“Okay. Where’s Jack this afternoon?”
Manny sighed. “Fishing. He’s crazy for that deep-sea fishing. I don’t see it, do you?”
I shook my head. “Who’s the blonde with Thornton?”
His shrug was too casual. I thought his voice was too casual, also. “Some broad. He’s got a different one every night. He’s a quiff-hound.”
“He gave me quite a lecture,” I said, “about the innocence of Al Martino and my wasting my client’s money and my time. He’s stuffy, isn’t he?”
“All lawyers are,” Manny said. “He’s sharp, though, like a needle. Puma, you’re pushing your way into a blind alley. What’s boxing to you?”
“Less than nothing,” I said. “This time, though, it’s tied up with murder. Maybe you don’t know it, Manny, but some of your friends know it and that’s why I keep getting involved with you. I don’t look forward to our meetings.”
He chuckled again.
He finished his beer and signaled the waitress. He ordered for both of us. When the waitress was out of hearing, he said, “Al didn’t kill Gus. I didn’t. Jack didn’t. Why don’t you start looking somewhere else?”
“Maybe Lopez did,” I said, “or Barney Delamater. Or Doc Golde or even old double-talk Thornton. Or maybe you’re lying about the others. Or even yourself. I have no other leads, Manny.”
“I’ll give you one,” he said. “The widow. Mrs. Galbini.”
I said nothing.
“You in there?” he asked me. “You getting some of that?” I shook my head.
“She’s paying you though, isn’t she?” I didn’t answer.
“Because she hates Al,” he said. “Because Gus and Lopez didn’t have a contract she could peddle. She’s paying you to railroad somebody, Puma.”
I shook my head.
“Figure it out,” he said. “Who comes out of it with the loot? Mrs. Gus Galbini. Who else makes a dime out of it?”
The Scotch was getting to me. I have a low threshold for hard liquor. Manny’s features blurred and his voice seemed to be coming through a tunnel from far off.
At some time in the haze, I must have agreed with Manny, because he became more jovial and insisted on buying another drink. What number it was, I will never know.
And then in my blurred vision, the tall figure of Sylvester Thornton loomed. He looked down on us like Zeus, god of moral law and order.
And clearly I heard this god say, “Al want to see us, upstairs.”
“Sure,” Manny said. “You wait here, Joe. I’ll be back.” They went away.
Now whether the blonde had come to our booth with Thornton or whether she came after he left, I don’t know. I do know I smelled her before I saw her. It was expensive perfume but there was just too damned much of it.
And suddenly she was sitting in the seat still warm from Manny and her cleavage came to my attention and I looked up from there into her blank face.
“All by our lonesies, they left us, didn’t they?” she said coyly. “That’s all right with me, handsome.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Have a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink,” she said. “I want to get out of here. I don’t know what’s in that Sylvester’s mind, but I don’t like it. He wants me to say some nasty things about somebody, and I don’t like it. Could we get out of here?”
“Hell, yes,” I told her. “My car is on the supermarket parking lot next door. You go there and I’ll meet you.”
“They’ll be mad,” she warned me. “Sylvester said I could get into a lot of trouble if I didn’t cooperate.”
I gave her my keys. “To hell with Sylvester. My license number’s on that key
ring. We’ll go one at a time.”
She slid out and moved toward the doorway and I watched her twinkling rump in the white dress shift right, left, right, left, right, left….
I rose with what dignity I could dredge up and carefully followed the path she had set. I doubted that anyone watched my rump.
chapter thirteen
A LOT OF TIME MUST HAVE PASSED WHILE I HAD BEEN gabbing with Manny. Because it was dark out now and the traffic on the far side of the road was heavy, the late sun-worshipers coming back from the beaches.
I walked between the parked cars of the restaurant lot to the larger lot near the supermarket and there was the blonde, behind the wheel of my humble car. At a hundred a night, she probably didn’t ride in many cars as old as mine.
“I thought I’d better drive,” she said. “You’re a little drunko.”
“I’m more hungry-o,” I said. “Is there another restaurant around here?”
“Not a good one,” she told me, “but I know a place where we can eat.”
A puzzling answer, but I didn’t pursue it. The car was warmer than the night air and my haziness was returning. I relaxed in the seat while she steered my battle-wagon down the service road that led to the highway.
If I had eaten, I wouldn’t have been this drunk, I knew. I need food like most people need air.
The blonde turned the car north and said cheerfully, “Sylvester will be furious. I don’t care, though. I don’t like him. Do you like him?”
“No. Who is the person he wanted you to say the nasty things about?”
“Ugh!” she said. “Let’s not talk about it. I’m hungry. Do you like fillet?”
“Love it,” I said, and the haziness came back stronger.
Deep in me, suspicion stirred briefly. What if Manny and Thornton had planned this, leaving me alone with the blonde, so she could lure me to my destruction? They knew my lures, food and women.
“Why so quiet?” she asked me. “What are you thinking about?”
“Food,” I said.
“Soon, soon.” A pause. “You’re not — going to get sick, are you? This is a new dress.”
“Not actively sick,” I assured her. “From hunger, only.”
The house was on the beach side of the road, on piles that kept it above high tide, a trim little cottage of marine-varnished redwood, set into a sheltering cove.
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