01 The Big Blowdown

by George Pelecanos

  “Glad I could help.”

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  “I got a movie question, Pete. You always knew the pictures inside out, what with you workin’ that usher job at the Hippodrome before the war.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Nothin’, most likely. This street snitch of mine says he saw this fat sonofobitch ordering up a whore the other night from the night tender at the Hi-Hat. Says he ordered a big one, the same night that big hooker got herself sliced. Could be nothin’ at all—”

  “Slow down, Jimmy. What night was that?”

  “Friday.”

  Karras felt his pulse quicken. “You talk to the bartender yet?”

  “I was waitin’ to get somethin’ else straight first. That movie question I wanted to ask you about. Then I was gonna drop by the Hi-Hat tonight, when the tender comes on.”

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  “My snitch said the fat boy looked like a character actor he knew. Guy who always plays a heavy—at least he used to, before he croaked himself on account of he couldn’t live with the way he looked. Anyway, this actor was in a picture where he played a screwball cop, chasing after Victor Mature, who’s falsely accused of murdering some dame.”

  “Who plays the dame?”

  “What’s her name, she’s got this beautiful set of personalities—”

  “Carole Landis.”

  “Landis, right. Okay. Now, Betty Grable was in this picture, too, only not in a singin’ role. And that half-pint, Elisha Cook, always looks like you woke him out of a bad dream. Anyhow, this cop, he’s got a, whatd’ya-call-it, an obsession with Landis—”

  “I Wake Up Screaming.”

  “What?”

  “I Wake Up Screaming. That’s the name of the picture.”

  “And who played the cop?”

  “Laird Cregar,” said Karras, tossing it right off. And then the name came off his lips again, because he saw the man who looked like Cregar in his own head. A dandy, and a fat one—the worst kind. Sitting in his chair, with his hands folded across his fat lap. And at the end of his feet, a pair of two-toned gibsons. Two-tones, brown-and-whites…Laird Cregar…Gearhart.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” said Karras.

  “Come again?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t think of that actor’s name to save my life. Who knows, maybe now I’ll get to the bottom of—”

  “Jimmy, I don’t mean to cut you off. But I really gotta go. Thanks again for the tip with Ray.”

  “Thank you, pal. Take care.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  Karras racked the receiver. He walked back to the kitchen, took a last drag from his smoke, crushed it on the floor. He picked up his topcoat and got himself into it.

  Stefanos cocked an eyebrow. “You hokay? You’re lookin’ a little stenichorimenos.”

  “I’m fine. I gotta get to an appointment.”

  “Go on, then. But you think about what I told you, acous?”

  “Yeah, I hear. Catch you later.”

  Karras limped toward the swinging doors. He turned around.

  “Hey, Nick.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just in case I don’t manage to get off that bus you were yakkin’ about—”

  “Ella, re!”

  “I’m serious. Listen to me—there’s an envelope in my locker, back in the warehouse.”

  “Well?”

  “You’ll know what to do.”

  Stefanos looked in Karras’s eyes. “You’re on the schedule tomorrow. I’m gonna see you, right?”

  “Sure, Nick.”

  “Yasou, Panayoti.”

  “Yasou, Niko. Adio.”

  Karras walked from the kitchen. Stefanos watched him go.

  Chapter 35

  Peter Karras hailed a cab and told the driver to point it downtown. He had no destination in mind but he wanted to get away horn Nick’s and he needed a place to think. He got out around 13th and H and gave the cabbie two bits and walked into a lunch counter called Dag-wood’s situated at the corner there, fronted by an inviting, brightly colored sign. Karras was not awfully hungry, but he was looking to come in from the cold while he sorted things out.

  The gimmick in Dagwood’s was the sandwiches, Dagwood Sandwiches they called them, straight out of the funny pages’ strip. Karras had a seat at the counter and ordered a Cookie’s Delight without looking at the particulars.

  “Anything to drink?” asked a man in a white paper hat.

  “Co-cola,” said Karras.

  A few minutes later the hash jockey brought out a chicken and bacon on white toast trimmed with lettuce, sliced tomatoes, and mayonnaise. The jockey dropped a platter of sweet gherkin chips, slaw, and pickled tomatoes on the side. Karras drank down half the cola at once, asked for a cup of coffee, got it. He sipped the coffee, which he recognized straight off as a product of National, the vendor over on 9th. Nick Stefanos used the same blend in his urns.

  Karras downed the sandwich and got a refill on the coffee and lighted a cigarette. He smoked that one and then another. He stabbed the butt in the ashtray and signaled the guy behind the counter.

  The hash jockey delivered the check. “Let’s see…that’s fifty cents for the sandwich and a nickel on the coffee. Plus your tax.”

  Karras slapped a one onto the counter. “Keep it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You got a phone book back there, chum?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Bring it here.”

  Karras found Recevo’s number and address in the book. He was not surprised that Joey hadn’t moved—he still had that one-bedroom affair off Georgia, up there near Fort Stevens. Karras carried the book over to the in-house booth, closed himself inside it as he settled onto the bench. He dialed Recevo’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Joe?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Pete Karras.”

  And then there was a silence. Karras half-expected it. He reached into his jacket for a cigarette, decided against it, pulled his hand out.

  “Pete, you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. And I’m gonna make it quick. This isn’t a social call.”

  Recevo said, “Go ahead.”

  “You know about those whore murders been goin’ on the last few years?”

  “Sure, I know.”

  “Well, this is gonna sound crazy to you. But the guy who’s been openin’ up those punchboards, he’s in bed with Burke. In fact, he’s been sittin’ on his fat ass right next to you in that office of yours all this time.”

  “What?”

  “I’m tellin’ it to you straight, Joe. The killer is Gearhart.”

  “What the hell…”

  “Yeah.”

  Dead air. And then: “How do you know?”

  “I couldn’t prove it with a gun to my head. But I got more than a real strong hunch. Don’t ask me how it came to me, ‘cause I won’t tell you. You’re just gonna have to trust me. Gearhart is the one.”

  “You got a witness to any of this?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s just say it’s true. What the hell am I supposed to do about it?”

  “You gotta get this Gearhart monster off the street. And I mean all the way off—don’t go sending him out of town or anything cute like that. Because a bolthead like that is just gonna go on and do the same thing somewhere else. And Joey, Goddamnit, you know that’s wrong. You and me, we did some bad things, but this isn’t even in the same ballpark. It’s just all the way wrong.”

  “You tellin’ me I gotta take this to Mr. Burke?”

  “That’s a start.”

  “But I gotta know somethin’, Pete. I gotta know how Gearhart got found out—at least where it started. I can’t go to Burke with this without a source. Otherwise, he’s not gonna believe a word I said. I swear to you, I’m not gonna tell him nothin’ about you—”

  “I don’t give a good go
ddamn what you tell him.”

  “Give me something, then.”

  “The ball started rolling at the Hi-Hat. The night man who works behind the stick there, he’s retailing women.”

  “That’ll help.”

  “Then we’re done.”

  “Listen, Pete—”

  “Forget it. And Joey…”

  “Yeah?”

  “One more thing. I wouldn’t mind if you guys decided to take care of Gearhart your own way. But if you decide to do it the straight way—turn him into the law, I mean—promise me you’ll let Jimmy Boyle take him in.”

  “Boyle still walkin’ that beat?”

  “Uh-huh. And he’s lookin’ to earn his detective’s shield. You and me, Joey, we got the opportunity to do somethin’ right here. You understand?”

  “I get it, Pete. I can reach Boyle at his old address?”

  “Right. That covers it, then.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “I’m curious about somethin’. Burke sent a guy by name of Bender to look for Nick Stefanos and the rest of you.”

  “So?”

  “I was just wonderin’—”

  “He found us.”

  Recevo said, “Nice talkin’ to you, Pete.”

  “Yeah,” said Karras. “You too.”

  Karras cradled the receiver. He stared at the phone, brushed his fingers across the mole on the side of his mouth.

  * * *

  Joe Recevo dialed Burke.

  “Mr. Burke, it’s Joe.”

  “Yes?”

  “You alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gearhart around?”

  “He’s down in the living room with Reed and a couple of the others.”

  “Good. There’s something I gotta tell you.”

  Recevo gave it to Burke straight down the middle. When he was done, Burke sighed audibly into the phone. Recevo could hear the jangle of cubes bouncing off the side of a glass.

  “Who tipped you to this?”

  “A guy I know was in the bar of the Ambassador Hotel the other night.”

  “The Hi-Hat?”

  “Yeah. He saw Gearhart put his order in for a hooker from the barman. The tender there doubles as a middleman pimp. The order fit the description of the woman who got herself chilled. Fit it to a T.”

  “Lot of fat whores around. That doesn’t prove a thing.”

  “No. But suppose there’s something there. The law’s gonna be deep into our business, and quick.”

  “Yes, I see your point. Who was your informant?”

  “Like I say, just a guy. A jamoke who’s seen me around with Gearhart, knows we’re in the same outfit. He was doin’ me a favor, but he doesn’t want any part of it from here on out. He won’t talk to anyone, and he knows what would happen if he did.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Mr. Burke.”

  “Okay, Joe. I’m going to bring Gearhart upstairs, have a little talk with him. Can you come by?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And Joe? Good work.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Recevo cut the line. He put on his topcoat, creased the brim of his fedora, placed it just so on his head. Lois Roman came into the room.

  “Where you off to, Joe?”

  “Business. Come over here and let me give you one.”

  Lois walked to him, smoothing her skirt out against her thighs. He crushed his lips against hers, pulled back, looked thoughtfully into her eyes. Then he kissed her the same way, one more time.

  Lois smiled. “What was the second one for?”

  “It just felt so good, I had to hit it again.”

  “Don’t be too late.”

  “Love you, baby.”

  Recevo patted Lois’s behind, broke away. She watched him march quickly across the room, a cocky spring in his step. “I love you, Joey,” she said. But he was already gone.

  * * *

  Karras took a cab into Southeast, left the driver idling at the curb along the 4500 block of Alabama Avenue. It was a workingman’s afternoon, and a Monday at that, with little activity on the street.

  Karras limped up the concrete steps to the row house door, took the entrance to the common foyer. He knocked on the door marked 1. The force of his knock pushed the unlocked door inward by a foot. Karras stepped inside.

  The landlord owned the furnishings, and they were there, but other than that the place had been stripped. The closet had been left open and empty, its wooden rod holding a row of bent wire hangers. A half-inch of gray water remained in a lipstick-stained glass sitting alone atop the cheap dresser.

  Karras went to the window. He bent forward, picked up the theater ticket fallen between the radiator’s tubes. He rubbed his finger along the dried blood smudged across the word Hamlet. Karras dropped the ticket, watched it float back to the floor.

  He walked from the room and straight out to the street. He settled in the backseat of the cab, fitted a cigarette between his lips.

  “Where to, mac?” said the cabbie.

  Karras said, “Chinatown.”

  * * *

  Recevo passed Face in the grand foyer, saw the Welshman and Medium and a few of the others sitting around in the living room as he hit the stairs. He went up to the landing, cut right. Reed was leaning against the wall, smoking a Fatima outside the closed door of Burke’s office.

  “He’s in there,” said Reed.

  “Who?”

  “Gearhart. He’s in there and he’s bawling like a girl. He spilled it to Mr. Burke straight off. It all came out when Burke asked him. Like he’s been waitin’ for someone to ask him about it: ‘Hey, Gearhart, by the way, I was just wonderin’, was it you who chilled them broads?’ I’m tellin’ you, he couldn’t wait to sing about it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Somethin’ about his mommy. His fat whore mommy, who used to do it for a buck on Sailor’s Row. She never loved him, and like that. Only loved the niggers, and the white niggers, and anybody else who could come up with eight bits. Blah, blah, blah.” Reed dragged on his cigarette, blew a smoke ring across the landing. “You ever horsefuck a fat girl, Joe?”

  “Shut up, Reed.”

  “It ain’t so bad.”

  “I said, shut up.”

  Reed grinned, brushed ash off the lapel of his sharkskin suit. “You’re somethin’, you know it? You lucked out and came through with this Gear-hart thing before the law could step in. A real hero, aren’t you. Let’s put another star on the report card from Mr. Burke.”

  “I’m going inside.”

  “But now we got a problem don’t we? What are we going to do about our fat friend?”

  “I’m going in.”

  “Who tipped you, anyway?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s mine if I say it’s mine.”

  Recevo knocked on the door. Burke yelled for him to enter. Recevo turned the knob, went in, was followed by Reed. Reed leaned himself against the gun case; Recevo had a seat at the big table.

  Gearhart sat in his usual spot, his hands tented over the balloon of his lap. There were tear streaks running down both puffy cheeks. His shoulders were scrunched up, burying what was left of his neck, and he stared straight ahead. All he needed was the dunce cap to complete the picture: a three-hundred-pound boy, humiliated in class.

  “I’m so sorry,” whispered Gearhart.

  Burke reached over his desk for the bottle of bourbon, poured three inches straight. He tasted the whiskey, considered the glass. He turned it in the light.

  “You talked to Reed outside?”

  “Yes,” said Recevo.

  “Then you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll figure this out now. We’ve just got to figure this out.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Burke.”

  “But we’ve got another problem we have to deal with first.”

  “What’s that?�
�

  “A witness to that last one on Friday night. Another working girl who was at the scene. For some reason, Gearhart over here decided to spare her life.”

  “Who is she?” Recevo glanced at Gearhart, still staring ahead. He considered asking the fat man, but Burke seemed to be ignoring his presence. Recevo figured he’d go that route, too.

  “Gearhart doesn’t know.”

  “Go to her pimp, then.”

  “He doesn’t know the pimp. Gearhart was in the habit of ordering his women through middlemen. The cabbies at the hotel hackstands, the bartenders, like that.”

  “So you go ask the night man at the Hi-Hat. It was him that arranged things.”

  Burke said, “That’s right, isn’t it Gearhart?”

  Gearhart nodded one time.

  “Yes,” said Burke. “He’ll know the pimp. Through the pimp we’ll get the girl. And we’ll have to convince the bartender and pimp to keep their mouths shut. Reed.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you like to take this on?”

  Reed smiled, pushed away from the gun case. “It’s my meat, Mr. Burke.”

  “I know it is. Reed.”

  “There’s something else,” said Recevo.

  “What?” said Burke.

  “The murder weapon. Gearhart used a straight razor on those women, right?”

  “Gearhart?”

  “Yes,” said Gearhart. “I’m sorry…”

  “Never mind that. Where’s that razor now?”

  “In my apartment,” said Gearhart. “In my bathroom. Right there in the medicine cabinet—”

  “What’s it look like?”

  Gearhart looked down at his lap. “An ordinary razor. It folds into a brown, tortoiseshell handle.”

  “Okay, Reed. Talk to the tender and find out the name of the pimp. Then get over to Gearhart’s dump and get rid of that razor.”

  Reed said to Gearhart, “Gimme your key.”

  “My key,” mumbled Gearhart. “I keep my key beneath the mat. I always lose my key…”

  “Okay, Reed,” said Burke. “Do it.”

  Reed smiled at Recevo, clipped him roughly on the shoulder on his way out. Recevo listened to the heavy footsteps fade. He removed his hat, brushed back his hair, replaced the fedora neatly on his head.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Burke. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Yes,” said Burke, taking a healthy swallow of bourbon. “I only need to think.”