by Roy Chaney
“We don’t have guns, Mister Hagen,” Cosette said now. “That’s not what this is about. I saw what happened to you at the hotel. Those men—they weren’t friends of yours. I was just on my way to see you and I saw them take you away. So I followed. I thought you might be in trouble and I was right about that. I thought maybe I could help you. I still think I can help you.”
“What kind of help were you going to give me? Or was it your Legionnaire friends who were going to help me? The Hand of Danjou—do you still not recall that name, Suzanne? It’s a wooden hand and it didn’t come from a Russian statue. Some people say it’s a fake. I’m beginning to wonder.”
“That’s not true, Mister Hagen. I’ve told you who I work for and what I want. I can put you in touch with Mister Amarantos right now. He can answer the questions you have. Let us go someplace where I can make the phone call. Let’s settle this misunderstanding. It will be profitable for you. More profitable than perhaps I have led you to believe.”
“Who killed Jack Gubbs, Suzanne?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hagen nodded to the swarthy man. “I say you killed him. You went to his place looking for the hand, just like you tossed my hotel room the other night. But Gubbs got in the way and you killed him. Right? Or did you two try to work out some kind of deal with Gubbs first, but he wouldn’t play on your terms so you had to get him out of the way.”
“I’ve killed no one,” the swarthy man said.
“Are you with the Legion too?”
“My friend, you’re speaking in riddles.” The man glanced at Cosette before he went on. “My name is Yves Gilleron. I also work for Mister Amarantos. If you will agree to speak to him right now then he will vouch for both of us. We know nothing about Legionnaires or your dead man.”
A truck horn sounded on the busy street at the end of the alley behind Cosette and her partner. Hagen could see the crisscross of the evening headlights. Somewhere out on the streets, within a few block radius of where Hagen stood now in the alley, the men who’d broken into the warehouse were out looking for him. And Marty Ray and his men might be looking too—if they were still in any condition to look for anything. Hagen motioned toward the far end of the alley with the automatic. “Tell Amarantos he’s going to have to wait. But you can do one thing for me right now. Turn around and start walking.”
“What do you plan to do with us?” Cosette said. The nervous edge in her voice was sharper now.
“I don’t plan on doing anything with you,” Hagen said. “But I do have plans for your car. And since you’re going to be doing some walking tonight, you might as well get started.”
Hagen motioned with the barrel of the automatic for the two to get moving. Cosette and her partner looked at each other, then turned slowly, began walking down the alley, still holding their arms out and their hands up. Their footsteps were slow and hesitant. They moved like two people who expected at any second to hear a loud noise behind them—the sound of the other shoe dropping. But the only noise in the alley was the pounding of the tortilla machine pouring out of the open window. Hagen wondered if either of them truly believed he might shoot them in the back as they walked away. Then he wondered why he cared what they believed.
Cosette and her partner had almost reached the end of the alley when Hagen holstered the Beretta and motioned to Peach. Peach emerged from the shadows of the doorway and got into the passenger seat of the Lincoln. Hagen got in behind the wheel. Moved the gearshift lever to the drive position. Stepped on the accelerator, hard. They sped off down the alley toward the dark quiet street at the other end.
“You’re a real fun date, Bodo.”
“That’s what the girls all tell me, Peach.”
13.
LEGIONNAIRES—HOW MANY OF THEM were out there? Must’ve been at least four or five at the warehouse. Maybe more. They’d been following Hagen since he’d left the cemetery after Ronnie’s funeral. If they were looking for this artifact—this wooden hand—they’d had any number of chances to corner Hagen and question him about it. But they hadn’t. They’d held back. Waiting. Following him. Until tonight. Why did they wait? To see where Hagen led them?
And where had he led them?
To Gubbs, for one. And Gubbs was dead now. Was Marty Ray dead, lying in a pool of blood back at the warehouse? Or Winnie the Poof? Or Harry Needles? Hagen had led the Legionnaires to all of them.
And Ronnie—had they killed him too?
Martinez said the hand was a fake. Martinez had to be wrong. Three dead men said so. Somehow Ronnie had gotten hold of the real thing. And the real thing had killed him.
Hagen dropped Peach off at a taxi stand outside of a small Henderson casino. Exacted a promise from her not to call the police. Told her to go home and stay there, he had things under control and he’d be in touch later. When he’d taken care of some business. Peach didn’t argue. Then Hagen drove out to the highway and headed north. In the distance the lights of Las Vegas burned bright—a city of jewels.
Hagen had started out twice today to go see Harry Needles. McGrath’s detectives got in his way the first time. The second time it was Marty Ray and his boys. He’d make it this time though. He had to get to Harry before the Legionnaires did.
If they hadn’t already gotten to him.
Hagen hoped that Harry Needles was still alive.
As Hagen drove on something tugged at his memory. He found himself thinking of his father. The Waffen-SS soldier. The Legionnaire. And of the photograph his father had once shown him. Rows of Legionnaires standing at attention under the hot sun, saluting as an honor guard of stone-faced soldiers passed in front of them, the soldier in the lead carrying a glass reliquary with something inside.
The wooden hand—Hagen was sure of it.
The Hand of Danjou . . .
Suddenly Hagen understood in a way that he hadn’t before what the wooden hand truly was and what it meant. And why a small band of Legionnaires wanted it so badly.
Badly enough to kill for it.
Hagen parked the Lincoln in a far corner of the parking lot outside of the Venus Lounge. Using a thin cotton sweater he found lying on the backseat he wiped down the steering wheel and the gearshift lever and anything else he or Peach might’ve touched—for what it was worth. He found a small black leather purse wedged between the passenger seat and the console. He opened it. It was Cosette’s pocketbook—the same one she’d had with her the other night at the Mirage.
There wasn’t much inside. A hundred dollars or so in cash. Two credit cards. A small lipstick. Business cards like the one she’d given Hagen. Nothing that told him anything he didn’t already know. He wiped the surface of the purse down and put it back where he’d found it. He got out of the car with the sweater in his hand and wiped down the outside door handle.
Hagen tossed the cotton sweater into a trash can near the front door of the Venus Lounge.
Inside the club Hagen pushed through the crowd, elbowed his way up to the bar. The colored stage lights flashed and the mirror balls on the ceiling sparkled. The faces of the people in the crowd changed from red to blue to green with the changing lights. He shouted over the pounding music at a bartender, said he wanted to see Harry Needles. The bartender gave Hagen a dead pan and moved off quickly.
A moment later Theresa Sanchez appeared behind the bar.
Sanchez—whose name he’d found in Gubbs’s address book. She looked harried and disheveled, strands of her black hair hanging loose from the bun at the back of her head. She gave Hagen a sour look but she dutifully picked up the house phone and called upstairs when he asked to speak to Harry. When she hung up the phone she pointed toward the door at the back of the club, then went on about her business.
Hagen walked over to the door and stood there with his hand on the handle. The tiny light on the electronic lock turned green. Hagen opened the door.
The back room was cool and empty.
Hagen ascended the stairs and walked do
wn the hallway. The door to Harry Needles’s office was open a crack.
Hagen pushed on the door and stepped inside.
“Hello, Harry.”
Harry Needles stood at the table beside the wall of one-way glass, a long thin cigar in one hand. Harry Needles’s usual smiling nonchalance was gone. His face was sullen and there was a wary look in his eyes. Behind him, through the glass, the lights of the club seemed to burst and explode in the air above the roiling crowd.
“Gubbs is dead,” Harry Needles said.
Hagen closed the door behind him. “I’ve heard.”
“He got whacked.”
“I heard that too.”
“Fix yourself a drink.”
“Thanks.”
“Word on the street is that maybe you had something to do with it.”
Hagen didn’t answer. He walked over to the liquor trolley that stood beside Harry Needles’s desk. Tossed a few ice cubes into a glass. Poured three fingers of scotch out of a cut glass decanter over the ice. Took a long drink. The scotch flowed down his throat and through his body like a soothing voice that calmed his nerves and cleared his head.
Hagen carried his drink over to where Harry Needles stood.
“What else do you hear, Harry?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Marty Ray tell you?”
Harry Needles stepped back, tapped the ash of his cigar into the ashtray on the table. “Doesn’t matter who told me. Gubbs is dead. People think you killed him. That’s what matters.”
“You think I killed Gubbs?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you did.” Harry Needles gave Hagen a sharp look. “Gubbs had friends, Bodo. You might not think so, but he did. Some of those friends just might want a word with you.”
Hagen set his drink down on the table. “And I’d like to have a word with them.”
Harry Needles didn’t see the punch coming. One second he was raising his cigar to his mouth and glancing out the window, the next second Hagen’s fist hit him squarely under the chin in a fast uppercut.
Harry Needles flew backward. Landed on his back on the carpet. For a second Hagen thought he had knocked Harry out cold. Then Harry opened his eyes and shook his head. A trickle of blood appeared out of the corner of his mouth.
Hagen picked up Harry’s burning cigar, placed it in the ashtray on the table. “Don’t want to burn the carpet, do we, Harry.”
Harry Needles pulled himself up, propped himself on one elbow. He winced in pain as he ran his hand along his jaw.
“I know about the hand,” Hagen said. “Ronnie left it with you. He trusted you, Harry. When he got into town he came right here to see you, and he asked you to keep something for him, isn’t that right? What did he tell you, Harry? I’m betting that he didn’t tell you about the hand, what it was. He trusted you but not that much. So you didn’t know what it was at first. But you found out. Maybe Gubbs told you. Maybe you and Gubbs were in on it together. That’s why you had Gubbs come here last night and tell me about Winnie the Poof. You were trying to send me off in the wrong direction. Meanwhile, you and Gubbs were going to sell this hand elsewhere. That’s the way it was, isn’t it, Harry? That’s the way it played out. Can you talk, Harry? It’s time for you to start talking.”
Harry Needles slowly got to his feet. He stumbled over to the table and leaned against it, dazed and unsteady, working his jaw from one side to the other. He picked up the ashtray and raised it to his mouth and spit blood into it, set the ashtray down.
“You’re wrong, Bodo.” Harry’s voice was a whisper. “So take your bullshit somewhere else. While you still can. In five seconds I’m going to pick up that phone. I’ve got twelve men downstairs who will be happy to tell you all the reasons why you’re wrong. You won’t like it much.”
“You’re not listening to me, Harry.”
Hagen stepped forward and punched Harry Needles in the face. Harry’s arms treaded air as he flew backward and landed hard on his side on the carpet. He moaned and tried to sit up. His head seemed to wobble on his shoulders. Blood was flowing out of his mouth, much more than the trickle it had been a moment before. A trail of blood ran down his chin and onto the front of his shirt. Harry raised his cupped hand to his mouth and spit some of the blood out. A piece of tooth landed in the palm of his hand. He wiped his hand on his shirt. He started to get up.
Hagen grabbed Harry Needles under his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, then threw him against the table. Hagen pulled the Englishman’s Beretta from his shoulder holster. Pressed the barrel of it between Harry Needles’s eyebrows. Harry Needles stared wide-eyed at Hagen.
“Now that I have your attention, Harry, you’re going to tell me who killed Ronnie. Maybe I did kill Gubbs. And if I killed Gubbs there’s no reason why I shouldn’t kill you. They can only hang me once. So let’s get on with it.”
Harry Needles started to choke on the blood in his mouth. Hagen let him turn his head and spit. After a moment Harry Needles found his voice.
“I don’t know who killed Ronnie—I swear I don’t.”
“So what have you and Gubbs been up to?”
Harry Needles’s breath came in gasps. “It’s like you said. When Ronnie got into town, he asked if he could leave some of his luggage with me. He didn’t want to drag it around. He just said it was some of his stuff. Couple of suitcases. I didn’t know what was in them.” Harry Needles swallowed hard. “After he was killed, Gubbs came to see me. He told me that Ronnie had something that was worth big money. Maybe a million. Maybe more. He wanted to know if I knew where this thing was. Some kind of wooden hand. He said he knew where he could sell it. He’d split it with me if I could find the hand.”
“What did you tell him?”
“It sounded crazy at first. I told Gubbs I didn’t know what he was talking about. But I started thinking. Ronnie was dead, the hand wasn’t any good to him. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t sell it. So I called Gubbs back yesterday morning. I told him I might know where it was. But I wasn’t going to give it to him. I told him to set up a sale, then we’d talk again. I told him I’d turn over the hand when the cash was on the table.”
“How did Gubbs know you had it?”
“He didn’t. He was guessing. He knew Ronnie had been here so he thought it might be here too.”
“Who was he going to sell it to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Winnie the Poof?”
“No. He was looking for an out-of-town fence. He couldn’t sell it to Winnie. Winnie already knew about the hand. I guess Ronnie went to see him. After Ronnie was killed Winnie asked Gubbs about it. That’s when Gubbs knew that the hand was worth something. But Gubbs didn’t want to sell it to Winnie. Winnie would think that Gubbs killed Ronnie for it. Gubbs was going take the action out of town—some people up in Reno. He said he could sell it up there.”
“Did Gubbs kill Ronnie?”
“I wouldn’t have done business with him if I thought he killed Ronnie.”
Hagen slammed his fist into the side of Harry’s face. The impact sent Harry Needles sliding toward the end of the table. Hagen pushed him the rest of the way off. Harry Needles landed on the floor.
Hagen kicked Harry to get him moving. “Get up.”
Harry got up on his hands and knees. Moaning and spitting. Shaking his head, like a dog trying to shake off a collar. Hagen knelt down on one knee, grabbed Harry Needles by the hair and pulled his head back. Pressed the barrel of the automatic against Harry’s ear.
“Think harder, Harry. Did Gubbs kill Ronnie?”
“That’s not the way it was.” Harry Needles spit more blood out. Bloody saliva hung from his chin.
“Then you killed Ronnie. Isn’t that right, Harry? Gubbs told you about the hand and you killed Ronnie.”
“No.” Harry Needles shook his head. His voice rose in pitch. “No.” He said it again and again, his voice becoming a sharp cry. Harry Needles sounded like a man trying to crawl out from under the black end o
f a delirium.
But Hagen believed him.
Hagen stood up, slipped the pistol back into the shoulder holster.
“Where’s the hand now?”
“My place.”
“In Laughlin?”
“Yeah.”
Hagen walked into the bathroom that adjoined the office, pulled a hand towel off a towel rack, came back out. Harry Needles was crawling the few feet to the couch on his hands and knees. Harry Needles sat down on the floor with his back against the couch, wiping his bloody mouth with the back of his hand, gingerly feeling his cheeks and jaw with the tips of his fingers.
Hagen dropped the towel into his lap.
“Clean yourself up, Harry.”
Harry Needles’s Cadillac Allante was parked outside the back door of the Venus Lounge. That was helpful. It saved them a walk through the club, where awkward questions might be raised—a bouncer wondering why his boss was holding a bloody towel to his swollen mouth, with more blood down his shirtfront. And if the Legionnaires were watching the club, they’d be out front, but maybe not in back.
Harry Needles and Hagen departed unobserved. Or so Hagen hoped.
They drove out of Las Vegas on Highway 95. Soon they were out in the rugged landscape of the Mojave Desert, heading south. The desert sky was clear and full of stars and the road to Laughlin was narrow and dark. Harry Needles was silent, one hand on the wheel and the other holding the towel to his mouth. Hagen kept the Beretta out but he didn’t need it.
Harry Needles had no fight left in him.
The Cadillac sped through the night. In the headlights a patch of broken glass on the road ahead looked like sparkling diamonds. Hagen thought of another night. Not so long ago. Another dark road . . .
“Bodo . . .”
It was Vogel, crying for help in the night.
Then Hagen heard the pistol shot out on the road.
Then blackness. Later Hagen wouldn’t at first remember raising his pistol and firing several rounds into the air.