Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  Kimberly walked over to the stereo and turned the volume up.

  Simon stood there a moment longer, then turned around and went into the bedroom. He undressed and got into bed. The noise of the party only kept him awake for about five minutes.

  Chapter 7

  Campbell came into the squad room and dropped a teletyped message onto Simon’s desk. “You might be interested in that,” he said, sitting down.

  Simon picked up the sheet and read it quickly. “I’ll be damned. That boy of mine never misses, does he?” There was more than a trace of admiration in his voice.

  Campbell gave him a sharp glance. “Doesn’t seem to.”

  The details of the hit were sketchy, but Simon was sure that it was the same killer. He read and reread the terse message, before folding the paper and slipping it thoughtfully into his pocket.

  Campbell was still watching him. “I hope you’re not getting any dumb ideas,” he said.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as taking off on another wild goose chase. Like a trip to Phoenix.”

  Simon ran a hand through his already unruly hair. “Why is that so dumb? Hell, man, this murder is fresh. Could be my boy is still hanging around.”

  “Your boy, huh?” Campbell was quiet for a moment. “Troy would take your star and shove it up your ass,” he said mildly. “And I don’t think your wife would be too thrilled, either.”

  Simon shrugged. “I don’t give a damn what Troy does. He cares more about finding out who’s wasting these damned whores than about busting this killer of mine.” His face twisted in a wry grin. “And my wife hasn’t spoken to me in three weeks anyway.”

  Campbell picked up a pencil and twisted it in his fingers. “Simon, you ever stop to think that maybe everybody else is right about this and you’re wrong?”

  The smile disappeared. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, maybe you’ve gone a little overboard on this case.”

  Simon’s face closed. “I don’t think so.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  Campbell hesitated. “What do you think about at night, just before you go to sleep?”

  Simon was bewildered by the question. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Do you think about Wild Mike? About the old days?”

  “Sometimes,” Simon mumbled.

  “Do you think about your family?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “Do you sometimes think about him?”

  Simon studied the surface of his desk. “Him?”

  “Your mysterious blond killer. Your ‘boy.’ I’ll bet you spend a lot of time thinking about him, don’t you?”

  Simon decided that he didn’t like the questions, didn’t like the searching expression he could see in Campbell’s face, didn’t like the fact that the man was nosing around in his private business. “Cut it out, Campbell,” he said coldly.

  “I’m only trying to help you, man.”

  Simon rubbed at the thin white line that zigzagged across his palm. “When I decide that I want or need your help, I’ll ask for it. All right?”

  Campbell sighed. “All right, Hirsch. Forget it. Come on, we’re supposed to be cruising the dock area anyway, not sitting around here.”

  “Go on down to the car. I gotta take a leak first.”

  When Campbell was gone, Simon reached for the yellow pages and then the phone. He waited on hold, listening to the canned music, until the almost mechanical voice came back on the line. “Yes, sir?”

  “When’s the next flight to Phoenix?”

  A pause. “One hour from now.”

  “Can I get a seat?”

  He could, and with the reservation made, he left the squad-room. Avoiding the garage where Campbell waited, he went out the front door and walked around the corner to his own car.

  He went directly from the airport to the Phoenix police. A couple of questions got him to Homicide, and to the detective in charge of the Tidmore investigation. Red Wing, a massive Indian wearing a lavishly embroidered Western shirt and a string tie, eyed Simon curiously, no doubt wondering if all the inspectors on the S.F.P.D. habitually ran around the country in faded Levis and sweat-patched teeshirts. “So you’re from Frisco,” he drawled, sounding more like John Wayne than Cochise.

  “San Francisco, yeah.” Simon shoved his I.D. across the desk.

  Red Wing barely glanced at it before pushing it back. “I was there once. Still got that bridge?”

  “Last time I looked.”

  “Nice place. What’s your interest in Tidmore?” he asked abruptly.

  Simon closed his I.D. case and tucked it away. “I don’t have any interest in Tidmore at all. I’m only interested in who iced him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think the same guy blew away a couple of people in my town. Including a cop.”

  “Yeah?” Red Wing was studying his fingers, twisting and turning a large turquoise ring. “That surprises me a little. The company usually doesn’t kill outsiders. Unless the cop was on the pad and crossed them.”

  “This cop wasn’t on the pad,” Simon said sharply. “He just got in their way. He died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Oh. Tough luck.”

  “Yeah, tough. About Tidmore?”

  The Indian leaned back in his swivel chair precariously. “Smalltime operator. Numbers, mostly. Maybe a little pushing. Nobody around here will miss him much. A punk. The only question being asked is what on earth this insignificant being could have done to get himself killed.”

  Simon looked for a cigarette. “Any leads?”

  “Out-of-town talent.”

  The same old line. “That’s it?”

  “Essentially. It’s not easy to get hard info on what happens inside the company.”

  He found a cigarette and lit it. “Can I see the ballistics report?”

  Red Wing shuffled through the papers on his desk, then tossed a manila envelope toward him. “Be my guest. One bullet, right through the forehead.”

  The office was quiet as Simon read the brief report. He compared the photos included with his pictures of the bullet taken from Mike. Finally he looked up. “Same gun.”

  Red Wing looked. “Could be,” he agreed.

  “It is.” Simon carefully replaced his pictures. “You have any idea who might have wanted Tidmore on ice?”

  Red Wing leaned forward again, pushing the telephone directory toward him. “Start at A’,” he said.

  “That’s not very helpful,” Simon said wearily. “I really hoped . . .” His words dwindled off.

  Red Wing swiveled his chair back and forth slowly.. “You really came here just on the chance of finding something?”

  “Yeah. Guess it was a waste of time and money.” He sighed. “Shit.”

  The detective shoved aside the pile of folders. “Sorry.” He stood, his massive body seeming to fill the room. “You a believer in gossip?”

  “Man, at the moment, I’d put my faith in a frigging Ouija board, if I had one.”

  “Come on, then. I need lunch. We can talk.”

  They walked across the street, stopping at an outdoor snackbar. Red Wing inhaled four onion and cheese-laden chili dogs, washing them down with two large orange sodas. Simon toyed with a plain hot dog and gulped a cup of bitter coffee. With the edge apparently taken off his appetite, Red Wing seemed inclined to talk. “I think everyone ought to have a hobby, don’t you?” he commented, apropos of nothing, as far as Simon could tell.

  “I guess.” Simon was hot, feeling sweat prickling his armpits and running down the backs of his legs beneath the sticky Levis.

  “You have a hobby?”

  “No.”

  “That’s bad. Especially for a cop, buddy. This job’ll drive you crazy real fast.”

  “That’s the truth. I used to play softball,” he offered.

  “Yea
h. Want to know what my hobby is?”

  “What?” Simon asked without much interest.

  “I keep myself informed on the local company, if you follow my drift. I like to be up on all the gossip. In fact, I have a scrapbook at home that could send about half a dozen people to prison for a very long time. If I could prove any of it.” He grinned. ” ‘Course it could also get me very dead.” He reached one large hand into his pocket and extracted a chocolate bar, which he began to eat slowly. “Unofficially, I’d be willing to bet the mortgage on my teepee that the hit on Tidmore was bought and paid for by a guy named Graven. He runs a car leasing agency in town. And he’s connected.”

  “Why would he want Tidmore hit?”

  “My guess is that it was something personal, not company business. I think Tidmore probably crossed him on some deal. Don’t know any specifics, of course.”

  Simon could feel a stirring of excitement, like the kind he used to have when they were closing in on a case. “Have you talked to Graven?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Red Wing shrugged. “No reason to. I don’t have a single piece of hard evidence linking him to Tidmore.” He tapped his forehead. “But I just know he did it. Unfortunately, his lawyer would raise holy hell if I approached his client.”

  “Any objection to me having a few words with the gentleman?”

  “No objections. But watch your step. He doesn’t like people snooping around in his business. Especially cops.”

  “Me, a cop? Do I look like a cop?” Simon grinned. “Man, you never saw Wild Mike in action. When it comes to conning crooks, I had the best damned teacher in the world.”

  “Wild Mike?”

  The smile faded. “My partner.” He looked away. “He’s dead now.”

  “That’s why you’re here?”

  “Uh-huh.” Simon kicked at the wall softly. “Nobody else seems to care, you know?”

  Red Wing took a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled an address. “You can find Graven here. But be careful. I’d hate to have to ship you home on your shield, instead of with it.”

  Simon took the paper. “Thanks. One question—who’s El Supremo in these parts?”

  “Old man Antonelli. He’s been in charge of things for thirty years. A real old time resident.”

  “How close is this Graven crumb to him?”

  “Does the king talk to the peon?” Red Wing smiled. “You know where to reach me.”

  “Yep.” Simon watched the huge Indian move with surprising lightness back across the street. With a sigh, he leaned forward onto the counter and picked up the rest of his hot dog. He began to eat thoughtfully.

  Thank God for credit cards, Simon thought, studying his image in the mirror. Gone was the gritty teeshirt-clad cop with the perpetual five o’clock shadow. Simon Hirsch was now another man. The Italian-made white suit, French cut midnight blue shirt, and glossy black shoes all proclaimed his new persona. A pimp, maybe. A numbers man on the way up. He grinned at himself.

  He studied a city map briefly, before going out to his rented Caddy. When Kimberly saw the bills at the end of the month, she’d hit the roof, but it was too late to worry about that now. And too soon to worry about dealing with Troy and the repercussions of taking off like he had.

  Anyway, none of that mattered. He was getting close, so close that he could almost see the face of the man he was hunting.

  Graven’s office was in a small, discreet building on the fringe of the downtown area. The receptionist, an auburn-haired broad who looked like she belonged in a strip show instead of behind a desk, surveyed Simon carefully and apparently approved of what she saw, favoring him with a smile.

  A few moments later, she ushered him into Graven’s office, leaving him with a cup of coffee and a lingering glance. He settled back in the chair and fixed Graven with what Mike used to call his Al Caponestein stare. “So, Mr. Graven,” he said mildly.

  The plump, greying man nodded, his face looking a little worried. “Yes, uh, Mr. Hirsch, is it?”

  “Right.”

  Graven occupied himself with selecting and lighting a thin black cigar. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. This is more or less in the nature of a follow-up visit.”

  “Follow-up?”

  “Yes. Mr. Antonelli sent me.”

  Some of the color faded from Graven’s face. “Yes, sir?” he said, straightening a little, perhaps unconsciously. “Always a pleasure to meet one of Mr. Antonelli’s representatives.”

  Simon reached for his cigarettes and shook one into his hand. “Oh, we’ve met before.”

  “Have we?”

  His brows lifted. “You don’t remember?”

  Graven thought hard. “Oh,” he said finally, hopefully. “At the, uh, Olympic Club, wasn’t it?”

  Simon allowed himself to smile. “Right. The Olympic Club.”

  “Sure, I remember now. Nice to see you again, uh, Hirsch.”

  “Uh-hmmm.” He lit the cigarette, then looked for an ashtray. Graven shoved one toward him. Simon tossed the match in negligently and then sat back. “In the matter of the late Mr. Tidmore,” he began.

  Graven’s pigmentation lost several more degrees of color. “I, uh, don’t know . . .”

  Simon raised a hand. “No problem. Mr. Antonelli understands perfectly. He just wanted you to know that.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Graven relaxed a little.

  “In fact, as you know, Mr. Antonelli admires initiative. And Tidmore . . . well, frankly, Mr. Tidmore had become something of an annoyance.” They were quiet for a moment, each apparently reflecting on the short-comings of the late Mr. Tidmore. Simon grinned, buddy-style, deciding it was time to plunge right in. He sent a little prayer for help. You listening, Mike? “That blond son of a bitch can really do a job, huh?” Crooks, he told himself, were usually stupid.

  Graven looked puzzled. “Blond guy? Oh, you must be talking about the trigger man.”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, he did a good job.”

  Simon hitched forward a little. Time for a little confidentiality. “Can I ask you something? Just between you and me?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’d you think of the guy? Personally? Mr. Antonelli would maybe like to engage his services, but he wants to sound out some people first, people whose opinion he respects, and get a reading on him first.”

  Graven looked appropriately flattered, then disappointed. “Well, to tell the truth, Hirsch, I never actually talked to him.”

  Simon frowned. “What?”

  Graven shrugged. “I never even saw the triggerman. Just this other guy, the contact. Mac.”

  A name. Simon kept his face blank and took a long drag on the cigarette. “So all your dealings were with Mac?”

  Graven nodded.

  “Good man. Haven’t seen him in a couple of years. How is he?”

  “Fine, I guess. Only saw him once. We met in the park for about five minutes, and that was it. A real pro.”

  “He always was. Mac still fat?”

  Graven looked at him curiously. “No. As a matter of fact, he was real thin. Not skinny, but lean.”

  “Yeah? Well, good. He used to be too damned fat.” Simon crushed out the cigarette. Time to move. Never overstay your welcome was a rule they always followed carefully. At least he wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

  The good-byes were brief and business-like as they promised to get together for lunch at the Olympic Club real soon, and a few minutes later he was back in the Caddy. So, he thought as he fiddled with the controls of the air conditioner. It was a team, huh? The mechanic, his mysterious blond, and the other guy, the business manager. Mac.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something. More than anyone else had. “I’m gonna get you, boy,” he said aloud, pulling into traffic. “I’m gonna get you good, kid.”

  Now, however, it was time to get himself out of town, before Antonelli discovered that someone was dropping his name ra
ther freely. Simon was grinning as he drove toward the motel.

  Kimberly was sitting at the kitchen table with a Bloody Mary and the new Redbook magazine when he came in. He dropped the car keys onto the counter and went to the refrigerator for the milk. “Hi,” he said. When she didn’t answer, he shrugged and took a long gulp straight from the carton.

  “I’ve asked you a million times not to do that,” Kimberly said without looking up. “It’s disgusting for the rest of us who have to drink the milk.”

  “Sorry.” He snapped the carton closed and replaced it, then came to sit at the table with her. “I guess you know I went to Phoenix.”

  “Doug Campbell told me. He assumed that’s where you were anyway.”

  “I tried to call you last night, but there wasn’t any answer.”

  “I heard the phone.”

  “Why didn’t you answer it?”

  She closed the magazine carefully. “Because I didn’t want to talk to you.”

  He looked at her. “Well, that’s clear enough.”

  “Good.”

  His hands moved restlessly on top of the table, rearranging salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowl, napkin holder. “Okay, you’re pissed. I can understand that. I should’ve let you know I was going, but it just all happened so damned fast. But, Kim, I found something. A name. Not the actual killer, but his upfront man. Mac.” He slapped the table. “A real name. It’s just a matter of time now, honey.”

  “Lieutenant Troy called.”

  Simon grimaced. “Did he sound upset?”

  “He sounded as angry as he has a right to be.” She lifted the drink and took a sip.

  “Well, it’ll be okay when I give him my news. It was beautiful, Kim. What a job I did on that damned son of a bitch.”

  Something like pity moved fleetingly across Kim’s face. “You really don’t understand what’s going on here, do you?”

  He was puzzled. “What?”

  She shook her head in obvious weariness. “Never mind, Simon.”

  He stood, trying to smooth some of the wrinkles out of the white suit. “I better get down to the office.” He pulled the blue tie out of his pocket and draped it around his neck, planning to knot it later.

  “Yes, you better.”