Where Love Has Gone (1962)

by Robbins, Harold

“Don’t do anything to make it worse.”

  “I won’t.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” I said.

  “Nora and Gordon are coming over here. We have to present a plan for Dani to the court. Dr. Bonner and the headmaster of Dani’s school will be here too. I thought you might want to come over.”

  “What time?”

  “Three thirty.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You’ll let me know what happens tonight? Call me no matter how late it is.”

  “Will do.”

  It was another half-hour before Maude Mackenzie came on. By that time a few more suckers had drifted in and now the room was about a third full.

  Maude Mackenzie looked exactly like the pictures outside. She came on in the white glare of the spot, looked around the room, counting the house, then sat down at the piano and declared that this was what she liked—working small intimate parties. At her age she couldn’t take the big things like circuses.

  The audience laughed, but I could see she was disgruntled. She must have been working on percentage and this show was practically for free.

  She immediately launched into a song about the good old days and how she’d worked her way to the Barbary Coast in a covered wagon. I looked at the old bag sweating in the spotlight and thought to myself how much better it would have been if the Indians had got her.

  “Would you like a nice picture of yourself, sir?”

  I turned and in the spill-over from the spot Anna Stradella looked like she’d come out of an Italian movie. The brief costume and the long opera-length black net hose did it. Broad shoulders, deep bosom, narrow waist and wide comfortable hips. La Dolce Vita, Sophia Loren making it the hard way.

  I started to shake my head.

  She smiled. “Let me take your picture.” Then under her breath she whispered quickly, “My boss is watching. I got to have a reason to keep on talking.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But make it a good one.”

  She smiled and did something with the camera. Held it up to her face, fiddled with the viewfinder. She leaned over me. Now I knew what those Italian girls did with all that pasta. “Turn your chair like this,” she said aloud, pushing me to the left. She checked the viewfinder again. “That’s better.”

  She backed away and held the camera up to her face. The flashbulb went off and I blinked the red and green spots out of my eyes. She came back to the table.

  “I’ll write on the back of the picture where you should pick me up,” she whispered.

  “You find him?”

  She nodded and straightened up. I saw her eyes flicker and sensed rather than saw the man walking by. “That’s fine, sir. It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

  She turned and walked away. I watched her for a moment. This would have been the last job I’d have figured her for when I met her in the funeral parlor. But then you never can tell, can you?

  “Another drink, sir?” the waiter asked.

  I looked up and nodded. What the hell, they were half water anyway. The rest of the show was as bad as the opening song. Maude Mackenzie was no Pearl Williams or Belle Barth but she was just as rough. And the customers who were there didn’t seem to mind. They ate it up. At that I guess it was better than TV on an off Wednesday night.

  It was one-forty-five when I pulled the car into the 800 block on Jackson and parked under a street lamp. I cut the engine and looked down at the picture again. It wasn’t a bad picture considering where it had been taken. I turned it over. The writing had been made with a soft pencil, the kind photographers use for retouching. The words scribbled hastily—800 block on Jackson St.

  I put the picture down on the seat beside me and lit a cigarette. She came along about ten minutes later, getting out of a taxi on the corner behind me. I looked in the rear-view mirror when I heard the door slam.

  She spotted my car right away and came toward it. She had a camera case slung over her shoulder on a long leather strap and it flopped against her side as she walked. I leaned over and pushed the door open.

  “What did you find out?” I asked when she was inside.

  Here eyes were troubled. “I don’t like it, Mr. Carey. Renzo isn’t in this alone. Maybe it would be better if we didn’t interfere.”

  “Did you find out where he’s staying?” I asked impatiently.

  She nodded.

  I turned on the motor. “Let’s go, then. Which way?”

  “Renzo has an apartment over a saloon out near the Cliff House.”

  I put the car into gear and we moved out. I glanced at her. Her face still wore the troubled expression. “Why all the mystery?”

  “I told you, my brother isn’t in this alone. There are some very important people involved.”

  “You mean he thought the job was too big for him?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Yes. He went to a friend of his who was also a very good friend of Tony’s.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “Charley Coriano.”

  I glanced at her. Her face was impassive. If she was right, the kid had gone into the big time. Charley Coriano had the reputation of being in on every crooked racket in San Francisco. Of course nobody had ever proved it, anymore than they’d ever pinned anything bigger than a tax rap on Mickey Cohen. But the reputation was still there.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “At work. One of the girls told me.”

  “How would she know?”

  “She’s the girlfriend of one of Coriano’s boys.”

  “So why would she tell you?”

  She looked at me. “She thought I was in on it. Coriano owns the concession company I work for.”

  “Then who has the letters? Coriano or your brother?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

  “I don’t want my brother to get hurt.”

  “That’s up to him,” I said. “I didn’t choose his friends, he did.”

  It had been a long time since I had been out this way. Not since I’d taken Dani out to Sutro’s to see the mechanicals when she was still a baby. I remembered how crazy she used to be about them. I slid into an open parking space and looked around.

  Nothing had changed. The same hot-dog stands and pizza parlors and cheap bars. Only the beer and the hot dogs were a quarter now, instead of a dime.

  She gestured toward a saloon. “We’ll look in there first. He hangs around there a lot.”

  I followed her into the saloon. It was late and the bar wasn’t very busy. A couple of diehards nursing their goodnight shot and some kids drinking beer.

  The bartender came over, swishing the bar with his towel. “Hello, Anna.”

  “Hello, Johnny. Was Renzo in here tonight?”

  His eyes flicked over me briefly and then went back to her. “He was in earlier. But he went out.”

  “Thanks, Johnny.” She turned to leave but he called her back.

  “I’m sorry about Tony. He was a nice guy. I always liked him.”

  “Thanks, Johnny,” she said again.

  I followed her outside. “Where now?”

  “Down this alley and up the stairs at the back of the building.”

  I started for the alley, but her hand on my arm stopped me. “Let’s not go,” she said, looking into my eyes. “That bartender was warning us.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He tipped me off when he talked about Tony like that. I know he hated his guts. They had a fight once and he almost killed Tony.”

  I stared at her. “Coriano own that place too?”

  She nodded. “Maybe we better just let them settle this their own way.” She kept her hand on my arm. “You’re a nice man. I wouldn’t like to see you get hurt.”

  “It’s my daughter’s future they’re playing around with. You don’t have to come up with me, if you don’t want to. You can wait in the car.
”

  “No,” she said nervously, her hand tugging at the strap of the camera case. “I’ll go with you.”

  I looked at her. “Why didn’t you leave that in the car? There’s no sense lugging a heavy camera around.”

  “They steal anything around here,” she said. “This camera cost me two hundred bucks.”

  11

  __________________________________________

  It was a wooden stairway and it went up the outside of the building. Our footsteps echoed hollowly as we climbed to the top. A strip of light seeped through the bottom of a wood door. I knocked on it.

  There was a scuffle of footsteps behind the door. “Who is it?”

  I looked at Anna.

  “It’s me, Anna,” she said. “Let me in, Renzo.”

  I heard a muffled curse and the door started to open. “How the hell did you find out where I was?” he asked harshly. Then he saw me and started to close it.

  I put my foot in the crack and pushed. He reeled back into the room. He stared at me, his dark eyes blinking. He had the same kind of good looks that his sister had, only on him it didn’t fit. It looked too soft. He was wearing dark, tightly fitted continental slacks and a T-shirt.

  “Who’s this guy?”

  “This is Mr. Carey, Renzo,” Ann said. “He came about the letters.”

  A girl’s voice came from a backroom. “Who is it, sweetie?”

  “My sister and a friend.”

  “A friend? I’ll be right out.”

  “Don’t rush yourself,” he said sullenly. He looked at me. “What letters is she talking about?”

  I pushed the door shut behind me with my foot. “The letters in the manila envelope she gave you the night Tony Riccio was killed.”

  “She’s full of crap. I don’t know nothin’ about no letters.”

  I looked over at the table behind him. A copy of the next morning’s Examiner lay open on it. “You know the letters I’m talking about. The same ones you wrote Mrs. Hayden about.” I saw a typewriter in a corner of the room. “You wrote her on that typewriter.”

  A girl came out of the backroom. She had orange-red hair and a blue Grant Street kimono tied around her middle with a bright red sash. “Interduce me to your friends, sweetie.”

  He looked at her, then back at me. “I never wrote no letters on that typewriter.”

  I crossed the room and picked up the typewriter. I stuck it under my arm and started for the door.

  “Hey!” the girl squealed. “Where you going with my typewriter?”

  I looked at Lorenzo. “The police can match up type,” I said. “If I’m right, the penalty for blackmail and extortion is ten to twenty.”

  “I told yuh not to use my typewriter!” the girl yelled at him.

  “Shut up!” He turned back to me. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You buyin’?”

  I put the typewriter down and looked at him. “Maybe,” I said.

  A shrewd look came into his eyes. “The old lady send you?”

  “How would I know about them if she hadn’t?”

  “What’s she willing to pay?”

  “Depends on what you got,” I said. “We’re not buying anything blind.”

  “They’re the McCoy all right.”

  I had a sudden idea. “You’re not the only guy trying for a shakedown.”

  He looked flustered. “You mean there are others?”

  “Your letter was the fourth we’ve received.”

  He began to look worried.

  “How do we know you’re legit?” I asked. “I got to see something first.”

  “You don’t think I’m goofy enough to keep the letters around here? I got partners in this action. We got ’em in a safe place.”

  I picked the typewriter up again. “In that case I’ll talk to your partners when they come up with the goods.”

  “Hold it! I figured something like this might come up. I took a couple of the letters from the envelope just in case.”

  I put the typewriter down. “Now you’re making sense. Let’s see them.”

  Renzo looked at the girl. “Get some clothes on and go downstairs and ask Johnny to give you the envelope I gave him.”

  “You don’t have to bother.” I looked at Anna, who had been standing there silently, watching us. “Would you mind?”

  She shook her head.

  Her brother sneered. “What’s he pay you for running errands, Anna? It better be good money because you ain’t going to be working long.”

  “I’m not paying her anything, you slob. All she wants to do is keep you out of jail.”

  Anna went out the door. Renzo turned to me. “Might as well take a load off your feet. Sit down and have yourself a snort.”

  “No, thanks.”

  He went over to a closet and took out a bottle. “Get some ice, baby,” he called to the girl.

  “Get it yourself,” she said sullenly.

  Renzo shrugged his shoulders. “Dames,” he said disgustedly. He crossed over to the alcove that served as the kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. He tipped some cubes from a tray and put them into a glass. Then he came back and sloshed in some whiskey. He sat down at the table across from me. “That Tony was a real smooth operator.”

  I didn’t answer.

  He drank from his glass. “He had everything going for him. My sister. Your ex-wife. Your daughter. He didn’t have to miss a night if he didn’t want to.”

  I held onto my temper. I was getting used to this kind of talk.

  “Your kid was nuts about him. Wait’ll you glim those letters. They’re so hot the paper sizzles. He must have trained her right, she had a real yen for him. And she wasn’t the least bit bashful about putting it down on paper—what she’d like to do to him when they got together.”

  I gritted my teeth. I hadn’t come here expecting to find the Sonnets from the Portuguese.

  “Your wife wasn’t bad either,” he continued. “Though she didn’t come right out and say it like the kid did. But she was sure jealous. In one of the letters she said she wouldn’t stop at killing him if she caught him cheating on her. But the kid beat her to it, didn’t she?”

  I still didn’t answer.

  “And my stupid sister. Waiting around like a jerk for Tony to come back.” He laughed. “He only came around when he wanted a little spaghetti and some plain old-fashioned Italian humping. Like he got tired of all that fancy stuff he was getting up there on the hill. You gotta have meat and potatoes once in a while, kid, he used to tell me. You can get awful tired of caviar and pâté de foie gras. Man, that Tony was the bending end.”

  I heard footsteps on the outside wooden staircase. Renzo heard them too. He raised his drink to me in a kind of salute. “Here’s luck.”

  I heard the door behind me open, but I didn’t turn around. Then a sharp pain exploded in the back of my head and I pitched head over heels into the blackness coming up at me from the floor.

  Lights kept flashing in my eyes. One after the other and in between I could feel myself being pushed first one way and then the other. I groaned and tried to get up, but the fog was all around me and I couldn’t quite make it. Then some more lights went off and then there weren’t any at all. Just the pain in my head.

  The ice-cold water brought me up sputtering. I shook my head and opened my eyes. Johnny and Lorenzo were standing over me. I looked down at myself. I was sitting on a bed stark naked.

  I heard a rustle of clothing and turned my head, the pain ricocheting around in my skull. The girl with the orange-red hair was just slipping back into her Grant Street kimono.

  I tried to stop the pain from tearing the top of my head off. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and opened them quickly. That seemed to help. It wasn’t until then that I began to realize what had happened. I’d been a setup from the word go.

  “Your clothes are over on the chair,” Renzo said. “We’ll leave while you get dressed.”

  They went out, closing the door behind him. I sat on the
bed, hearing the dull sound of their voices through the closed door. I stretched my neck and moved my head around. It hurt like hell. It didn’t feel at all like in the Mickey Spillanes. No Cloud Nine, no wild erotic dreams. Just plain hurt like hell.

  I staggered off the bed and into the bathroom. I turned on the cold water in the shower and stuck my head under it. The spray was like needles but it did the trick. Slowly the pain began to go away. I put my hand to the back of my head and found a small egg there. It was a good thing I had such a thick skull.

  I turned the water to hot, then back to cold again until the ache in my neck and shoulders went away. I pulled down a dirty towel, which was the only one I could find, and dried myself. Then I got dressed.

  They were sitting around the table having a drink when I came out of the bedroom.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” Renzo said. He poured some whiskey into a glass and pushed it toward me.

  I took it and swallowed it down. The warmth hit my gut and I began to feel better. “Where’s Anna?”

  “I sent her home,” Renzo answered. “She did her bit.” He pushed a photograph toward me. “Nice piece of work, ain’t it?”

  I picked it up and looked at it. It was a Polaroid ten-second print. I remembered now that the camera case Anna had been carrying wasn’t big enough for the Speed Graphic she’d used in the club. The picture was about what you’d expect. I was naked and so was the girl with the orange-red hair. The pose was Oriental classic. I gave the picture back to him. “She’s a little too skinny for my taste.”

  “Keep it,” Renzo said genially. “We shot a whole roll.”

  “Now what?”

  “Sit down and wait. We got some company coming.”

  I stuck the picture in my pocket. “I don’t think so. I’ve had about all the fun and games I can take.”

  I started for the door and Johnny, the bartender, got up quickly. I stepped toward him. “I would if I were you,” Renzo said casually. “He used to be light-heavy champ of the Pacific Coast.”

  I moved forward and Johnny let go with a round-house right that he’s telegraphed all the way from Los Angeles. I went in under it easily. You don’t spend a lot of time out in the field with a construction gang without getting some sort of exercise.