Bailey glanced at his wristwatch; Carr realized it was something he did frequently.
"I've got another meeting with the informant set up for tonight," Bailey said. "I wanna make sure there are no last-minute changes."
"Have you notified Hartmann that he's on somebody's list?" Carr said.
"Finally reached him by phone an hour ago," Bailey said. "He's on vacation in Palm Springs. He said no one knows he is there. I told him to stay there until I called. He agreed. I'm planning to be inside the house when the hit man comes in to do the job...arrest him for attempted murder. I'd appreciate it if you fellas could help me on the stakeout. We're shorthanded."
Carr didn't answer. He lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke. "How do you know that the hit man is going to do the job at Hartmann's house?"
"My informant is right in with these people. I really can't tell you any more at this point without revealing the snitch's identity...but I will tell you again that the information is solid. You can bank on it. I mean really bank on it. I'm telling you that the hit man will make his move tomorrow." He looked at his watch again. "I've really gotta run," he said. "Should I count you gents in or out?"
"What's the hit man's name?" Kelly asked, pressing him.
Bailey eased himself off the barstool. "That's unknown at this time," he said, turning to Carr. "I can sure use the help tomorrow...and I'm sure you're interested in protecting your witness."
Carr looked at Kelly. Kelly nodded. "Count us in," Carr said.
Bailey winked. "I'll give you a ring tomorrow morning. We'll go for it." He looked at his watch again and hurried out the door.
Kelly stared at the door. "I wonder what he's up to?"
"I don't know," Carr said, "but we have to go with it. Hartmann is a federal witness. Good info or bad, we have to protect him."
Because of the late hour, it took Travis Bailey less than twenty minutes to drive from Chinatown to Beverly Hills. He steered off the freeway and onto a deserted Wilshire Boulevard. As he passed a Beverly Hills City Limits sign, he stopped at a service station. He stepped into a telephone booth and dialed Lee Sheboygan's number. The phone rang seven times.
Lee Sheboygan yawned into the phone before he said hello.
"I need to meet," Bailey said.
"Now?"
"I'll see you at the same place as last time." Bailey hung up the receiver. He returned to his car and climbed in. Having cruised a few blocks, he turned into an alley that paralleled some small stores facing Wilshire Boulevard. He parked under an awning at the rear of a pizza shop that was closed for business and turned off the engine. He leaned back in the seat. Less than fifteen minutes later, Lee Sheboygan pulled up behind him in a Mercedes-Benz coupe. The diminutive man, attired in a green jump suit, climbed out of the sports car. His Greek fisherman's hat and neatly trimmed black beard gave him a Middle Eastern appearance. Sheboygan looked both ways in the alley before he climbed in next to Bailey.
"Hi, guy," Bailey said as he slid into the seat.
Sheboygan's face made its usual twitch to the left. "You woke me up."
Bailey took out a pad and pen. "When I tell you about the goodies, you'll thank me for waking you up." He drew a square on the blank paper and made X's on three sides of the square. "Three entrances," he said. He drew an oval. "...A swimming pool in the backyard." He pointed to the X between the pool and the square. "Sliding glass doors. This is where you should go in."
"What kind of goodies are we talking about?" Sheboygan asked. His face went through two full twitch cycles.
"Gold Krugerrands," Bailey said smugly. "At least a hundred grand's worth and a stamp collection that is probably worth about that much. The man doesn't trust banks and keeps his goodies in a cabinet under an aquarium." He pointed to the diagram. "The aquarium is next to the sliding glass doors, across from a bar."
Sheboygan's eyes were riveted on the diagram. "I love it," he said. "What about servants?" He dug a pack of filter tips out of a pouch in his jump suit and lit up.
"No servants," Bailey said. "That's definite...and the owner will be in Palm Springs. This has been verified."
Sheboygan's face twitched again. "Dogs?"
"No dogs."
"Alarms?"
"I saw tape on the windows, but nothing on the sliding glass doors," Bailey said.
"Guard service?"
"I checked the records at the department," Bailey said. "There's no guard service listed."
Sheboygan twitched as he puffed smoke, then waved his hand through it. "Sounds like a piece of cake."
"Go for it, baby," Bailey said. He gave Sheboygan's beard a playful tug.
"Do you want to see the goodies afterward?"
Travis Bailey shook his head. "I trust you. Just take everything to Emil. He'll have buyers lined up."
"I don't know what Emil has told you," Sheboygan said, "but there was no fucking Picasso ink drawing inside that place I did last week. The Rolex and the furs were there. There was silver that he hadn't even told me about. I got it all and took it straight to him. He looked at me like I was an asshole or something. 'Where's the Picasso?' he says, like I got it in the trunk of my car or something. He accused me of holding out and I don't like it. As far as I'm concerned he's nothing but a goddamn punk...a red-assed punk. I swear to God there was no Picasso anywhere in that house. I went through every room."
"I trust you," Bailey said with a tone of confidence, "and don't let Emil Kreuzer get to you. He's just a little money- hungry. After you turn the goodies to cash, give me one ring at my apartment and well meet. Make sure you bring me small bills. It looks funny for a cop to carry hundreds." He smiled.
Sheboygan grinned. "You ain't a cop," he said. "You're just a crazy low-class motherfucker who carries a badge."
"You didn't talk to me like that when I caught you red-handed peddling silverware," Bailey said. "You used to talk real nice to Detective Bailey. You used to say yes, sir, and no, sir."
Sheboygan twitched. "Now I say three bags full, sir."
Both men chuckled.
It was 2:00 A.m. The freeway was almost empty.
It took Carr less than twenty minutes to get from Ling's to his Santa Monica apartment.
He trudged up the steps, unlocked the door and headed for the refrigerator. Inside, a milk carton, a head of lettuce that he knew had been there for ages and one pickle left in ajar. He ate the pickle and tossed everything else in a trashcan. His stomach growled. He dismissed the thought of going for a hamburger and staggered wearily into the bedroom. Having tossed his clothes in a pile, he crawled into the unmade bed and closed his eyes.
The telephone rang. Carr grabbed it off the nightstand.
"I'm sorry if I woke you up," Sally said. "I really am. But I can't sleep. I want to come over."
Carr ran a hand through his hair. "Right now?"
"You have someone else there, don't you?"
"No," Carr said.
"If you do, please tell me and I'll just hang up. It's that Korean cocktail waitress, isn't it?...I'm sorry. It's none of my business..."
"There's no one here," Carr said.
"I'm sorry I called. I really am. I hope you won't have trouble going back to sleep." The phone clicked.
Carr hung up and fell back onto the pillow.
A short time later the doorbell rang. Carr awakened, but didn't move. It rang again. He crawled out of bed and stumbled to the door.
"It's me," Sally said, hearing him move across the living room floor.
He opened the door. Sally was dressed in a jogging suit. Her auburn hair was pulled back and he could tell that, despite the hour, she had put makeup on. He smelled something perfumy as she walked past him into the bedroom. He followed and got back into bed.
She stood at the window. "I suppose now that I've made a fool out of myself and come over here in the middle of the night you're just going to go back to sleep and leave me standing here," she said wistfully. Carr didn't say anything. Sally waited a few minutes befo
re she moved closer to the bed. "You don't care enough even to talk to me for a few minutes."
He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the bed. They kissed. His hands tore at her clothing. They made love for what must have been an hour. Afterward Sally lay next to him, rubbing her hand lightly across the hair of his chest.
"You live as if there's no future," Sally said softly. "You don't save money. You hate to make plans. I have to force you to buy new clothes. You're driving the same car you had when I met you nine years ago. You could probably get a loan, but you won't buy property. You might as well be a corporal living out of a duffel bag. Your television didn't work almost all of last year. Are you aware of that? Are you aware that it took you a year to have your television fixed?"
"I don't like television."
"That's not the point," Sally said. "The point is that you're living as if there's no tomorrow. Our relationship is an endless succession of one-night stands." With this, Sally rolled away from him. "I've never tried to change you," she said after a while. "Not that I wouldn't have liked to, it's just that you're probably the most stubborn and unchangeable person I've ever met. It's because you've been in an all-male environment since you were seventeen years old...the army, Korea, your career with the Treasury Department...you're in a paramilitary organization. Are you aware of that?"
"I guess you're right," Carr muttered. His eyelids were heavy. In the darkness, he felt Sally stir. She rested her head on his shoulder.
"I love you," she said in an almost inaudible whisper.
"I love you too," he said. Sleepily, he wrapped his arms around her. He thought of their first date years before. Sitting at a table in a restaurant Carr couldn't afford, they had treated each other with deference.
"It's as if our whole relationship is déjà vu," she said.
Her skin was soft and he could feel the outline of her breasts against him. In the darkness, he thought she wiped her eyes. He considered asking her if she was crying, but didn't.
When Carr woke up the next morning Sally was gone.
He daydreamed about walking along the beach with her, and their frequent Sunday-afternoon routine of dinner at her place. She always cooked too much. Finally he forced himself out of bed.
In the bathroom, he realized he'd forgotten to buy shaving cream again, so he shaved with bar soap. Having showered and dressed (thank God he had one clean white shirt left), he went into the kitchen.
He boiled water and poured it into a cup. Dug through the cupboard and found the instant coffee container. There was less than a teaspoon in the jar. Regardless, he emptied the jar's contents into the boiling water. He mixed the water with a spoon; it turned barely brown. Having forgotten his search for something to eat the night before, he went to the refrigerator and saw that he was out of milk for the coffee. "Damn," he said out loud. He slammed the door shut. Fed up, he tossed the semi-coffee in the sink and rinsed out the cup, tore off a piece of brown paper bag. With a broken pencil he found in a drawer he wrote a shopping list.
Having checked the stove, he returned to the bedroom and slipped a holster and bullet pouch on his belt. He shoved his revolver into the holster and shrugged on a suit coat on his way out the door.
As he reached the freeway, he realized that he'd left the shopping list on the sink.
Travis Bailey, carrying a pump shotgun on his shoulder in duck-hunter fashion, led Carr and Kelly, who carried a black lunch pail, through the two-story Beverly Hills home. Carr figured that the living room alone was as big as his entire apartment. In it, pastel sofas had been picked to match the abstract art originals that covered the walls (or vice versa?). In the corner, an enormous aquarium built into the wall. It was equipped with fluorescent rocks and multicolored lights. In front of the facing wall, a bar with an inlaid-tile counter top.
Bailey spoke as if he were in a library. "Kelly, you've got the front door. Carr, you cover the bedroom window and the side of the house. I'll handle the rear. I've got a little stool so I can sit below counter level behind the bar...'areas of responsibility', so to speak. Agreed?"
The T-men nodded. Bailey stepped behind the bar next to the sliding glass door.
Carr and Kelly sauntered down the long hallway. Kelly took his post at the front door. "I don't like the whole operation, he whispered.
"Neither do I," Carr said.
Kelly pulled off his suit coat and hung it on a coat rack next to the front door. He adjusted the volume of the Treasury radio which was clipped to his belt, pinned his gold Treasury badge to his shirt pocket and rolled up his sleeves.
"We're here now," Carr said. "Might as well wait and see what happens."
"It all counts towards retirement," Kelly said. He unsnapped the latches on his lunch pail. It was filled with sandwiches. He offered one to Carr. "Help yourself. Meat loaf with lots of onion and green chiles. My favorite."
"Thanks anyway," Carr said. He strolled into the bedroom and sat down in a chair in the corner of the room. He checked his revolver and shoved it back in the holster. During the next two hours, Carr heard Kelly open and close his lunch pail three times.
The doorbell rang.
Carr jumped out of his chair and pulled his gun. He heard the sound of footsteps outside.
"He's heading for the rear," Kelly whispered from down the hall. Carr ducked below window level. Someone walked along the side of the house, turned right and continued toward the rear entrance. There was the sound of the sliding glass door opening.
"Police!" Bailey yelled. An explosion.
Carr ran toward the living room. There was another reverberating blast. As he entered the hallway, he saw Kelly slumped at the entrance to the living room. He was holding his chest. Carr stepped over him. Holding his revolver with both hands, he sprang into the living room.
Travis Bailey stood behind the bar aiming the shotgun at a bearded man lying in the middle of the room in a puddle of water, broken glass and flopping tropical fish. The man's left arm and half of his head were gone. The body convulsed. Pointing the weapon at the intruder, Bailey racked another round into the chamber of the shotgun.
Carr ran across the room. He snatched the shotgun out of the cop's hands. He flicked the safety on and tossed the weapon on the sofa. "He's dead," Carr said angrily.
He ran back to Kelly. The Irishman had pushed himself up so that his back rested against the wall. His left hand clutched his bloody chest. In his right he held his.38, barrel pointed toward the living room. His eyes were wide, his jaw set.
Carr dropped to his knees. Gently, he extricated the gun from Kelly's grasp. "He's dead," Carr said. "Everything's okay." He tore the Handie-Talkie radio off Kelly's belt and pressed the transmit button. "Stakeout Foxtrot Four. Shots fired. Agent down. Gimme an ambulance!"
An excited voice said, "Ten-four, Foxtrot." The radio beeped loudly three times.
Carr tossed the radio down. He grabbed Kelly's shirt with both hands and ripped it open. Using a penknife, he sliced Kelly's bloody undershirt up the middle. There were three holes on the left side of the chest. One made a sucking sound. Kelly coughed and gagged. He spit blood. Carr glanced around. Kelly's lunch pail. He tore it open and ripped the clear plastic wrap off a sandwich. He placed the material directly over the sucking wound. On top of it, he pressed a handkerchief.
Kelly gulped air. He coughed more blood. "Charlie," he said, his voice no louder than a whisper.
"Shut up, goddammit," Carr said.
"Tell Rose I love her," Kelly gasped. "Take care of my boys." Then his eyes rolled back in his head.
Without releasing pressure on the wound, Carr unfastened Kelly's belt. He yanked it off,
Bailey, breathing hard, knelt next to Carr. "Jesus," he said," he musta caught some of the spray."
Violently Carr shoved Bailey out of his way. Bailey fell backward. Carr fastened the belt around Kelly's chest in order to seal the wound. Carr put his ear to Kelly's nose. He was still breathing. "I'm not gonna wait," Carr said determinedly. He lifted Kell
y's arm and placed it over his shoulder. "Help me," he said, looking at Bailey.
"But the ambulance..." Bailey said dumbly, struggling to his feet.
"No time..." Carr snapped. "Help me carry him to the car.
Bailey stood frozen.
"Now!"
Bailey hurried to lift Kelly's other arm. Half trotting, they carried him to Carr's sedan. Carr arranged him on his side in the backseat with the wound down. "Call Cedars of Lebanon," Carr said as he started the engine. "Tell 'em I'm coming in with a cop...a sucking chest wound. I want them to meet me outside." He sped off. As Carr rounded corners like a sports car driver, the Treasury radio operator barked instructions to various agents.
The trip to the hospital took less than five minutes.
Attendants were waiting outside as Carr arrived. They swung open the rear doors of the sedan and lifted Jack Kelly onto a hospital cart. Carr climbed out of the sedan and followed the wheeled cart through the emergency entrance and down a corridor. In a trauma room, Kelly was immediately surrounded by a team of nurses and doctors. Someone asked Carr to leave the room.
As he stepped out into the corridor, his mind flashed to the scene of a field hospital in Korea. He remembered the smell and taste of carbide being overwhelmed by the powerful scent of rubbing alcohol. Soldiers, some of whom were dead, were carried about on stretchers. Charles Carr rubbed his eyes for a moment before he headed for a telephone.
It was midnight.
Carr sat on a sofa in the hospital visitor's room with Rose Kelly, a red-haired woman who wore her hair in a long braid. The lines of her dress were plain and she wore a cardigan sweater. She sat with her hands folded, staring at the wall. During the entire day, she had neither shed tears, sobbed nor sought refuge. Her demeanor was as usual-demure, polite, composed. Other than her constant wringing of hands and an occasional quiver of her chin, she had shown no signs of breaking down. Hours earlier she had kissed her husband on the forehead, and as a young priest had administered the last rites, she had knelt next to the bed and prayed. Before the priest left, she thanked him effusively, as if he had done a favor rather than perform a duty. She told him that Jack's brother was a priest in Chicago.
To Die in Beverly Hills Page 3